by B. V. Lawson
“Didn’t you notice the bullet points?” The note of disapproval in Sarg’s voice was clear. Sarg was obsessive about his bullet points. He laid some empty evidence bags on a chair and handed over a pair of nitrile gloves. “It’s been dusted, but just in case.”
Drayco wasn’t sure what he’d expected. The room seemed so ordinary, an interchangeable room that could belong to any other college girl. Except most college girls didn’t have posters of tenors with matinee-idol looks like Jonas Kaufmann on the wall. He fingered the blackout drapes as he passed by. Soft velvet.
He picked up framed photos of Cailan posing with friends, including Tara. Another photo had a much-younger Cailan with two adults Drayco recognized from Sarg’s case file. Cailan’s deceased parents. They looked relaxed, happy, no hint of the tragedy to come.
The genes of Cailan’s mother, a native of Guatemala, shone through in the girl’s medium complexion and long black hair. Her pale gray eyes were from her father. Cailan oozed confidence, daring anyone to stand in the way of her dream to sing on the stage of the Met.
Sarg opened the closet door and pulled out a pair of well-used boxing gloves. “Bet you didn’t expect these. Guess they’re from that self-defense class a year ago. Or she took up boxing as a hobby.”
He put them back on the same hanger as if expecting their owner to return. “I’m not feeling the love for this Gilbow fellow, Drayco. Don’t care for self-important, media-whoring psychology gurus?”
“He was the prosecution’s expert witness in a case Baskin and I worked after I left the Bureau.”
“Ah, Benny Baskin, the world’s most diminutive defense attorney. Been a while since I heard anything outta him.”
“The same Benny Baskin who has a near-perfect record of getting his clients off. Save one.”
“Let me guess. The Gilbow case. I’d heard Gilbow was pretty good in court.”
“He can be charming, entertaining. And very convincing. Came up with a piece of psych theater using the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory—”
Sarg snorted. “Not that again.”
Drayco wished those personality tests had never been invented. Lawyers used them as if they were indisputable mathematical proofs. Trait from Column A plus trauma from Column B equals evil. Any psychopath worth his salt could fake them.
He replied, “Gilbow had the jury in the palm of his hand. But Benny won on appeal. Gilbow appeared on a chat show afterward and hinted Benny and I were unethical. He referred to us—half-jokingly—as the shrimp and the pimp.”
One of Sarg’s eyelids twitched, and he covered up a sudden cough. “I think I might have heard about that.”
Drayco stared at Sarg. “How? Onweller?”
Sarg looked up at the ceiling as he tugged on his ear. Of course, it was Onweller.
“I don’t give a damn about the name calling. But after his ‘unethical’ comment, Benny and I had visits from ethics investigators.”
“And Onweller wants us to consult with Gilbow. Goody.”
Drayco continued to prowl around the room, hoping to find something to make meaning of the music puzzles. Not many books. Textbooks and a stack of commercial sheet music—Mozart, Fauré, Brahms, Puccini. He thumbed through each one. No puzzles, just a few notes in the margins. “Practice half-tempo,” and “Work on passaggio here.” He laid the books down and moved on.
Some of the compartment doors in a tall jewelry box on her dresser were open. More signs of the police search. He opened a heart-shaped locket hanging on a side hook.
The small photo inside was of a young man, the pouting mouth and two-toned bangs also familiar from Sarg’s case file. So Cailan threw away the letters she thought were from Gary Zabowski, yet kept his picture in a locket? Talk about love-hate relationships. Or perhaps their breakup was a sham and Shannon found out?
Sarg stood in front of the bed. “What is it with women and pillows? Is it in their DNA? The pillow gene?”
Drayco moved next to him and counted no less than ten pillows of all sizes, shapes and colors. “We should ask Gilbow, the omniscient.”
He sat down on the bed and examined the pillows one by one. He caught a whiff of a strawberry perfume. Hair gel? A sachet? When he picked up a red paisley pillow heavier than the others, he stopped and ran his fingers around the back. The fabric lined up in a way that hid a small, covered zipper.
He unzipped it, then reached in and pulled out two small dolls and a few photos. He held the dolls up to the overhead light. They were made of rough burlap cloth, with long black yarn for hair. In the front of each, over the heart area, someone had stuck tiny straight pins.
Sarg took the dolls from Drayco as he handed them over. “Voodoo? Really?”
Drayco reached into the depths of the pillow pocket for anything that might explain the dolls and eased out a piece of paper with block letters that said, “I’m watching you.”
He next studied the photos, three in all. Possibly printed from a phone camera though the phone Cailan carried with her was never found. It was hard to tell if the photos were taken at the same time. The first showed the dolls and the “watcher” note sitting on her bed. The image in the other two was identical—a mirror with letters written across it in a red substance that spelled BEWARE OF OCHOSI.
He surveyed the room for the mirror in the photos, but not spying one, got up and headed into the bathroom. When he held the pictures to the side of Cailan’s mirror, they were a match. He rejoined Sarg. “Looks like she got some effigy dolls and someone threatened her. I don’t recall this from the bullet points.”
“Can’t believe the MPD didn’t think to look inside those.” Sarg frowned at the pillows.
Drayco handed the photos and dolls to Sarg to put into the evidence bags. “Do you have her uncle’s office schedule? Think we could button him down for a few questions?”
“He’s high on my list. And who better to discuss voodoo with than a religion professor?”
Drayco cast one last survey around the murdered girl’s room. He thought of the boxing gloves on the hangar, waiting. The room had stayed the same since her death and held the air of a life frozen in time. Or an empty vase waiting for a budded flower that would never open.
He’d agreed to help Sarg out of curiosity over the puzzle and concern for Tara. Seeing Cailan’s room, learning more about her, feeling the tendrils of the music connection wrapping around his inner core—he was angry. Angry at whoever did this, angry at Cailan for not being more careful, angry that violence had so much power to silence lives and music.
Gilbow would spout something regarding displaced anger, no doubt. Injustice plus sacrifice equals tragedy. Drayco avoided looking at Sarg as they headed out the door.
5
Walking through the corridor in the Rudolph Arts & Humanities Building, it was obvious the Parkhurst rainmaker riches also watered the classrooms. Drayco peeked into one room and saw large video screens, computers everywhere, comfy padded chairs. The whole place smelled like freshly printed money.
He imagined Cailan here, walking to class, laughing with friends, worried about nothing more than being late, or maybe an exam. Had she had hints of what lay ahead? Was that why her social media postings had taken a darker turn? When he passed a couple of co-eds, he had the urge to shake them. To give them a lecture on situational awareness. Don’t let this happen to you.
Troy Jaffray’s office was at the very end of the hall. Drayco was already forming a picture of the office belonging to the respectable man from Sarg’s file with the tanned face, ruddy cheeks, and thick lionesque mane.
The Troy Jaffray who opened the door resembled a washed-out sepia version of his photo. And the chaotic clutter in the room wasn’t at all what Drayco envisioned. The professor took one look at Sarg’s suit and narrowed his eyes. “Not another detective.”
Sarg pulled out his badge, and Jaffray examined it. “BAU, that’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, right?” Then he turned to Drayco. “And you are?”
&nbs
p; Sarg answered instead. “This is Dr. Scott Drayco. A consultant helping us with your niece’s case, Professor Jaffray. You can speak freely in front of him.”
The expression on Jaffray’s face made it clear he didn’t want to speak to either of them, freely or no. “Doctor Drayco? Psychology, I assume?”
“Criminology. And we just need a few moments of your time.”
Jaffray opened the door wider and motioned toward a couple of chairs in front of his desk. Drayco and Sarg made it to the chairs without tripping, no thanks to the piles of books on every available patch of real estate. Overflowing bookshelves lined the room, with more books filling up the sill, blocking the one window. Peeks of mid-afternoon light vainly tried to peer in. Did all the Jaffray family have something against windows?
The professor sank into his desk chair. “I’d heard the police were calling in the FBI. Guess that means they’re getting nowhere or have given up. Let me save you some time and summarize, shall I? Yes, I have an alibi. No, I haven’t a clue who would want to kill my niece. And I have no faith whatsoever the police will find out who did.”
Sarg cleared his throat. “About that alibi—the police haven’t been able to pin down the taxi you said you used from BWI airport.”
Jaffray grunted. “Maybe they don’t want to.”
Sarg added, “I’d think a religious man would have more faith in justice than that, sir.”
“The Buddha said ‘those who are free of resentful thoughts surely find peace.’ The way I’m feeling right now, it means a lifetime without any peace.”
Jaffray tilted his head and studied Sarg. “Sargosian, that’s Armenian, isn’t it. You must attend the Armenian Apostolic Church.”
“My wife does.”
“Ah, a lapsed sheep. Or one who substitutes civil justice for the religious. But you,” he studied Drayco, “Don’t look Armenian. I detect a little Greek in you. Orthodox?”
Drayco smiled briefly. “Unorthodox, perhaps. I hate labels as a rule, but if a label it must be, try truthseeker.”
“The Talmud says the wisest among men is he who learns from all.” Jaffray stared at Drayco’s eyes. “The Buddha was said to have eyes like yours. One reason the blue lotus has come to symbolize wisdom.”
“I’d feel a lot wiser if I got to the bottom of those music puzzles sent to your niece prior to her death. You told the police you didn’t know anything about them. Have you recalled any details since?”
“They were a mystery then and now.”
Sarg pulled out a pen and notebook from his pocket. “Mr. Jaffray, was your niece involved in any cults? Like voodoo?”
The professor’s eyes widened, and he answered slowly. “None of which I was aware. Why do you mention voodoo in particular?”
Drayco opened the briefcase where he’d placed the items from Cailan’s room for safekeeping and turned it to where Jaffray would see. “Give these a look, if you will.”
Jaffray peered at the figurines through their plastic evidence bags. “These dolls are crude, amateur. More someone’s idea of what a voodoo doll should look like, not something from a true practitioner.”
He studied the pictures. “Beware Ochosi. Ochosi is a figure in religions including Santeria and voodoo. The hunter-magician spirit who represents justice. His symbol is a crossbow.”
Drayco closed the briefcase. “Those items were found hidden in a pillow in your niece’s room. The mirror in those photos is from Cailan’s bathroom. We don’t know if she wrote the message or someone else did. As a warning.”
Jaffray perched his chin on top of his tented fingers. It was a gesture that might easily be taken as a prayer posture. But if prayer, it was the supplication of a wretched man. For the rest of him was slumped and rounded, like a mishandled book, warped and bent.
He sighed. “My niece and I were close, but we had the usual disagreements. Typical teenage rebellion. Cailan was most adamant about getting her own place. So I was increasingly out of the loop about her personal life. That’s why I have no knowledge of her dabbling in voodoo or anything else.”
Jaffray got up to reach for a book and handed it over to Drayco. “Here’s a book on religious practices of the Caribbean. Consider it a loaner. Maybe it can answer your questions.”
Sarg looked up from his notebook. “Gary Zabowski. Cailan ever talk about him?”
Jaffray shook his head. “I found out about Zabowski from the police. More of that personal life she kept from me.”
He rubbed his eyes. “She did tell me she was already making plans for her forty-seventh birthday. To mark the date she outlived her mother.”
Sarg stopped writing and cleared his throat. “Any thoughts on other motivations for her death, sir?”
“I’ve thought about this hundreds of times, Agent Sargosian. Drugs, revenge, cults, insanity.”
“Any unusual motives? Had Cailan been ill, for instance?”
“Ill? Unless you’re talking mental illness and suicide, I’m not sure why that would matter. She knew I’m not a fan of any form of suicide, assisted or not. The Buddha said mercy and killing can never go together.”
“So no mental illness, then?” Sarg’s pen hovered over his notebook.
“As far as I know, Agent Sargosian, she was perfectly healthy, mentally and physically. Sargosian … Sargosian … that sounds familiar. Do you have a daughter at Parkhurst?”
“Tara’s her name.”
“I remember her. A very good student, attentive. And I don’t use idle flattery. She looked familiar. Is your family from the Eastern Shore, by any chance?”
“No sir, Glendale, California, originally.”
“I could have sworn she was an Eastern Shore girl. That’s where I’m from. I do some teaching at Eastern Shore Community College from time to time.”
Drayco knew that tidbit from Sarg’s bullet points. His subconscious had put it out of his mind, no doubt because his own experiences on the shore were less than idyllic thanks to two murder cases. He spoke up. “I’m familiar with the area.”
“Nice place, if you can get past the poverty and smells from the chicken-rendering plants. My mother lives on the shore. I’m the one who broke the news of her granddaughter. And how I broke the deathbed promise to Cailan’s mother I’d take care of her little girl. Keep her safe.” Jaffray passed a hand over his face and closed his eyes.
As Drayco listened to Jaffray, he noticed something missing from this room. He looked again, making sure he hadn’t missed it in all the clutter. Most religious traditions were inexorably linked to music—Gregorian Chant and illuminated manuscripts, Chinese Dongjing scrolls, Indian Vedic works. Yet despite the mountains of religious paraphernalia lying around, he didn’t see a single music-related icon.
“Professor Jaffray, how did Cailan get interested in music?”
“Not from me.” The glare Jaffray directed at the books on his desk was so intense, Drayco half-expected them to catch fire. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a class to get ready for. And I wish you better luck finding her killer than the police did with my brother’s hit-and-run.”
Drayco and Sarg retraced their steps down the same long hallway as before, minus students this time. The only sound was the echo of their footsteps on the parquet floor. In its emptiness, the building’s institutional beigeness was suffocating.
Drayco again took note of the classrooms, how small and intimate they were. No TAs used here. A big selling point, like college Crackerjacks—a prize PhD in every class.
Drayco said, “So Tara had Jaffray as a teacher. What did she think of him?”
“A bit dry, but she learned a lot.”
“Wish I could say the same for us. More dead ends, few leads. No closer to who sent those letters or why.”
Sarg held open the door. “Oh, ye of microscopic faith.” He used his cellphone as they walked to Drayco’s Starfire, and from the fragments Drayco heard of Sarg’s end, he had a good idea of where they were headed next.
So Troy Jaffray had a
bad encounter with musicians? Or did he just hate music? And why was that notion so distressing? Music had meant so much to Cailan. A girl who heard rainbows in music, like Drayco did.
He squinted at the sliver of sun turning water crystals amid bone-colored clouds into the halo of a sundog, like the glass prism he once gave Tara. The brief glimpse of sun disappeared, taking the sundog with it and leaving behind the crisp autumn air and smell of decaying leaf mold.
Sarg ended the call. “You know how to get to Kenilworth Gardens, right? Gotta couple of park police meeting us there.”
Drayco didn’t ask how Sarg explained to Onweller the necessity of visiting Kenilworth to solve the music puzzle. The broader case was their game, not his. His game was the music puzzle and nothing more. Funny thing about games—they often said more about the creator than the creation itself. Something he and Troy Jaffray could probably agree on.
6
Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens was an odd choice to dump a body. Anyone planning such a thing would have few access options, a fact verified by the two park police from the Major Crimes Unit. “Bordered by marsh on three sides. Only way to get in would be the main road leading into the visitor’s center.” Detective Jackson Smith motioned toward the road behind Drayco. “Anacostia Street.”
“What about a canoe?” Drayco surveyed the wetlands, trying to gauge how someone would manage it.
Smith frowned. “It was night, so it was dark. And it was low tide when the marsh often loses up to ninety percent of its water.”
Drayco inhaled the fishy, earthy smell that reminded him of the Eastern Shore. He’d grown to like it. “So how did they get through the locked gate? The fence is too high to climb for most people. Worse if you’re carrying a body.”
“The NPS says no keys have recently gone missing. Someone could have made an impression for a key. Or used burglar’s tools.”
The grass was half-green, half dormant-straw, typical of October. Back in August, the Mid-Atlantic was in the middle of a drought which meant dry, crunchy grass. Sarg’s file noted there’d been no footprint evidence thanks to that and the dozens of tracks from a Girl Scout group the day before Cailan’s body was found.