by B. V. Lawson
Sarg cleared his throat. “Loomis was the son of an abusive preacher. It’s obvious he doesn’t think highly of religion. And Cailan Jaffray was the niece of a religion professor. A possibility.”
“Hmm. And this lab project? Reed Upperman? Doesn’t seem connected.”
“We haven’t found anything concrete yet.” Sarg seemed to be choosing his words carefully. He hadn’t agreed with Drayco’s own belief that the timing of the attack, heading home after a lab session, wasn’t coincidental.
But Sarg appeared to be playing diplomat. “That brings me to something troubling us, sir. Why hasn’t the college put out notices to the students and their parents about Cailan—as a warning and to ask for tips?”
“The students have gotten the word from the bloodthirsty media, Agent. President Thackeray asked us to be discreet. Since it’s likely to be a crime of limited associations, it makes no sense to stir things up with negative publicity. Not with several important funding projects in sensitive stages with wealthy donors.”
Sarg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Phrase it in a general way, then. A reminder for students to go out at night with a buddy, things like that.”
“Washington is a violent city, Agent Sargosian. Crime is big business here whether it’s white collar or no collar. Which is why all incoming Parkhurst students have to sign a code of responsibility that includes an awareness of the campus’ location. And to act accordingly.”
Code or no code, if the victim were anyone other than the niece of one of the college’s professors, a lawsuit might be in the cards. And still could be if any one of those wealthy parents decided to pull their little darling from school and demanded a tuition refund. A romance-murder made things so much easier for Onweller’s golfing buddy. The sour taste in Drayco’s mouth was worse than a vinegar cocktail with a lemon chaser.
He said, “Dr. Gilbow was on the local news last night, speaking about the case. Was he authorized to do that?”
Onweller frowned. “I asked for his input, so technically he’s helping us. Anyone can give their opinion on TV in a free country.”
He riffled through Sarg’s file. “I’m certain you’ll pinpoint the unsub soon. And I must emphasize the soon part. With only eight agents in our unit and new requests for investigation support, we can’t afford to have you tied up on this case, Sargosian.”
Onweller handed the file back to Sarg. “Because of this new music note, and only because of this new music note, I’ll spot you a couple more days. Make sure you use the time wisely.”
After they’d been dismissed, Drayco and Sarg regrouped in Sarg’s office. “I am seriously beginning to regret sending Tara to that college.”
Sarg had a dartboard he pulled out and hung on the wall when he needed to let off steam. He tossed three at the board in rapid succession, missing the center by a wider margin than usual. “And I’m tired of Onweller’s pissy attitude lately.”
Sarg tried three more darts, which were farther off-center. He scowled at the copy of the note sent to Drayco. “Not many people know you’re helping with this case. Just the people we’ve talked to.”
“Unless they’ve told others.”
“Yeah, okay, but how would they know to send it to you? We didn’t tell a soul you were the one to figure that code out.”
“Why don’t we ask one of that small circle, Troy Jaffray?”
Sarg thumped a stack of materials in his inbox. “Sounds better than working on my regular docket.”
Despite the tension and the awkwardness at times, Drayco could tell Sarg was enjoying the chance to get out of the office and pound the pavement. Maybe it was just a case of greener-grass-envy, but Sarg must be getting as frustrated as Drayco had with the shifting of the Bureau’s focus. More counter-terrorism, less of the “ordinary” day-to-day crime often buried in the back pages of newspapers.
Sarg threw one last dart, a bulls-eye, and pushed his inbox aside. “You’re driving, hotdog.”
21
One of the last people Drayco expected to run into on the way to Troy Jaffray’s office building was Shannon Krugh. She walked right past Drayco and Sarg, then stopped and whipped around.
“You,” she pointed first at Sarg and then Drayco, “almost got me fired.”
First Elvis, now Shannon. At this rate, they were going to have to open an unemployment bureau for their suspects. Not that they owed said suspects any particular favors. Drayco pulled out the memory card with the copy of her research paper and handed it to her.
She stared at it with suspicion.
“It contains the paper for your philosophy class, from that laptop computer. Thought you might want a copy.”
She grabbed the card. “Did you read it? The paper?”
“Only the title page.”
“Didn’t you want to dig into my psyche or whatever and see why I killed Cailan? I mean, everyone thinks I did it. Wasn’t like I was Miss Popular before, but now … ”
Her fading Pepto-pink hair, tattoo, and hole-pocked jeans desperately tried their best to mark her as stylish. But they were more timeworn than trendy, from what he’d seen Parkhurst coeds wearing. At any other school, Shannon’s new-found notoriety might be fashionable.
He replied, “We like to keep our minds open.”
She chewed on her lip. “You’re the only one. You and Happy.”
Shannon rolled the memory card around in her hand and stuffed it into her pocket. A slow smile spread across her face. “Maybe I should take this as a sign. Happy says I need to take this whole mess and re-evaluate stuff. Make a few changes.”
Drayco smiled back. “Change can be good.”
“So they say.” She turned to leave, adding in parting, “Tuesdays are law enforcement bowling nights. You should come.”
As she continued on her way, Sarg said, “Call me cynical, but I doubt she’s really changed.”
“People do, you know. Change.”
Sarg shrugged. “More often than not, they turn into more of what they were before.” He looked sideways at Drayco. “It wasn’t wise—and maybe not legal—to give her that copy of her paper.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t ask the title.”
Sarg let out an exasperated sigh. “Okay, what was the title?”
“‘Should Reason Be the Sole Basis for Determining What Actions are Morally Right or Wrong?’“
If Sarg didn’t have both of his hands folded across his chest and stuffed under his armpits, one of those hands would likely be tugging on his ear. As it was, he just shook his head.
They walked the rest of the way to Jaffray’s office in silence, leaving Drayco to examine more of the campus. Was the pristine landscaping some of Elvis’ leftovers?
The air smelled cleaner here, like someone sprayed giant cans of odor neutralizer around. More signs of the carefully controlled Parkhurst image. Send your pampered darlings to Fantasyland College, and we’ll send them back with a riffraff-free degree.
Not so much in Troy Jaffray’s jumbled office, where the professor was smoking a pipe, perfuming the air with an aroma reminiscent of burned chocolate. They’d no sooner walked through the door when he said, “I doubt this meeting will do any good. Unless you have news of the monster who killed Cailan.”
Sarg said, “We received a new music puzzle. Well, Drayco did, it was addressed to him.”
“And this helps us how?”
“Well, sir, it means we’ve hit a nerve with that monster. Makes it more likely he’ll slip up.”
“Likely? Isn’t that the same as saying you’re a little bit pregnant?”
The sight of Cailan’s pale wax-doll body in the morgue popped into Drayco’s mind. How young she’d seemed. No obvious way to tell she’d been a singer or—briefly—a mother. He asked, “Were you aware your niece had been pregnant?”
Jaffray froze and stood there unblinking for several moments. Then he sank into his desk chair. “Had been? Then did she—”
“An abortion. We’re in the proc
ess of contacting area clinics. They won’t be able to tell us who the father was unless he came in with her.”
“How far along?”
“Considering the chemicals found in her system, maybe seven weeks.”
Jaffray gripped the edge of the desk. “What else have you found out about her that I didn’t know?”
Sarg answered. “She had a recent relationship with a thirty-two-year-old by the name of Liam Futino, a violinist. They argued the day she died. He says it was over you.”
“Me?” Jaffray lifted his head.
“You were pressuring your niece to drop the music career and go into psychology, sir. And one of her friends said Cailan was afraid of you.”
“I never threatened, nor hit, nor so much as yelled at that girl. Why in the world would she be afraid of me? If anything, I thought I was too indulgent in trying to compensate for the death of her parents. And from what you just told me, I was right.”
“Cailan had some money coming to her. Was that from her parents, sir?”
“Their estate. The Will outlined that if anything happened to them, their money would be placed in a trust fund for Cailan until she turned twenty-one.”
“How much money are we talking here?”
“My brother was good with finances, Agent Sargosian. Better than I. He encouraged me to invest in an Internet startup years ago. He cashed out at the peak, but I was more timid and got out before the stocks went through the roof. He had over a million saved up. All of that was to go to Cailan.”
“And now that she’s deceased?”
“Is that an accusation, Agent? Are you implying that since the money reverts to me, it’s the reason I murdered my own niece?”
“Just considering all the angles, Professor. And we didn’t know until right now that the money goes to you.”
Red splotches popped out on Jaffray’s neck. “And you wondered why I didn’t have much faith in law enforcement. Accusing me while the real murderer goes free.”
“We’re not accusing anyone right now.” Sarg pulled out his notebook. “Simply trying to get more information. For instance, the knife used to kill Cailan. And how it was heated before it was used.”
Jaffray didn’t appear to hear Sarg at first, then turned to him, distracted. “What? Oh, yes, Andrew alerted me to that. Your Chief—Onweller is it?—wanted his expert opinion.”
“That’s odd, sir. When we asked Professor Gilbow ourselves, he said, and I quote, ‘That’s more Troy’s bailiwick than mine.’”
“If he means religion, yes, there are certain religions that have used heated daggers or knives. Remind me of the type of weapon it was?”
“Double-sided, six inches, possibly longer. We don’t know about a hand guard or any markings or patterns.”
Jaffray reached to the bookshelves on his left and retrieved a book. Just as Gilbow had done, Jaffray opened it and pointed at a page as he pushed the book toward them on the desk. “Examples of ceremonial double-edged knives. One of the most common is the Athame, used in Wiccan and other Neopagan practices. And as for being heated, certain witchcraft traditions associate the Athame with the element of fire.”
“What about Satanism, Troy?”
Jaffray acknowledged Drayco with a flick of his head. “Human sacrifice and knives have been associated with devil worship, but that’s all in the past. Human sacrifice in the Western world is rare these days. The Santerians sacrifice animals, but that’s it. If anything, I’d say this was staged to look as if it had a religious angle. Like that voodoo doll you showed me.”
“Do you have any enemies who’d want revenge? You told the police you weren’t aware of any threats to you or Cailan.”
“That’s what I said, and that’s what I meant. Have I failed some students? Yes, but so has every other professor on the planet. They don’t go around killing family members of professors to get back at them. They’d kill the professor first.”
Drayco pulled out the DA CAPO music note he’d received and indicated the drawing at the bottom. “Does that look familiar?”
Jaffray studied it. “Maybe Cernunnos. A horned deity worshipped by Iron Age Celts across Europe. Until the turn of the first century.”
“What does this Cernunnos represent?”
“Depends upon the context and the culture. It’s sometimes associated with the Druids.”
“Aren’t the Druids mostly myth?”
“Our knowledge of them is. The main source of information is from Caesar, and the Romans weren’t known for being charitable toward other cultures. The Druids are a lost civilization. Modern interpretations of their religion and culture are whatever people want them to be. This Cernunnos fellow here? He’s sometimes regarded as the God of Death or Guardian of the Otherworld. The modern concept of Satan came from him and his horns.”
“So this comes back to Satanism and human sacrifice.”
“If you have someone running around sacrificing people in imitation of Druids, we have no record they used such practices. Although,” Jaffray hesitated. “It’s interesting the early Irish Celts believed the gods are fond of music.”
Sarg said, “There aren’t many people who would know that, are there, sir?” The implication hung in the air, a circling hawk spying its prey in an open field.
The red splotches on Jaffray’s neck had spread to his face, now a single crimson mask. “Your killer is out there, gentlemen. I’ve had pressure from the college, pressure from MPD, and pressure from Campus Security. Now the FBI joins in when all I want is a little peace to grieve.”
Drayco studied a shelf filled with religious icons—Shiva, a small replica of the Pietà with Mary and Jesus, the Buddha. After their last encounter with Jaffray, Drayco researched Buddhism. Gautama Siddhārtha, the Supreme Buddha, was reported to say that you will not be punished for your anger, you will be punished by your anger. Jaffray seemed to have forgotten that.
Jaffray passed a shaking hand over his face. “You didn’t tell me what your new music note said, Mr. Drayco.”
“It said CODA OR DA CAPO, meaning—”
“The end or a repeat. If it’s the latter, that crime will be on your heads, not mine. The only thing I’ve done wrong is to have loved too many people too much. And now, I would like you to leave. Unless it’s to tell me you’ve arrested someone for the murder of my niece, I don’t wish to hear from you further.”
Sarg snapped his notebook shut, hopped up, and didn’t look at Jaffray as he left through the office doorway. Drayco took more time to follow, pausing to peer through the partially open door in time to see Jaffray pull a bottle out a desk drawer and guzzle down a third of it. Framed within his cluttered office, Jaffray blended in with the piles of yellowing print books behind him.
22
He hadn’t come up with a good excuse to get out of Gilbow’s party. Flu? Nope. Sprained ankle? He could make that happen, but probably shouldn’t. Food poisoning? Tempting, but no. It wasn’t as bad as being trapped like the rats in the Parkhurst psych lab cages, but close.
Money and power swarmed into the District each workday morning, then swarmed back at night. Many of those commuters lived in neighborhoods like the one Drayco was currently navigating in North Arlington. Areas within D.C.’s borders—the Harbour, Kalorama, Georgetown—could match the price tags of these mini-castles. But on this side of the river, you got a lot more real estate. And the privacy that went with it.
He continued north on Chain Bridge Road toward the Gilbow residence, through a set of gates, up a snaking driveway, to find—another castle, this one crafted from a light gray stone. Large urns ringed the entrance, with buried evergreens shaped into twisting topiaries circling to nowhere.
Topiaries. Drayco hated topiaries. He shared a moment of sympathy with the evergreens until he remembered they didn’t have to spend a few hours at an ego-fest.
He pulled into a space in the circular drive where a bored attendant motioned him to park. Not much room left, the drive crammed with enough BMWs to
start a dealership, and a few smug hybrids in-between.
A familiar voice called his name, and he turned to greet his former partner. Sarg studied Drayco’s attire, or lack thereof, specifically one article of clothing. “Still allergic to ties, I see. You think they’re going to rise up and strangle you? Attack of the killer ties?”
“They serve no valid purpose. Unless you’re trying to impress people with your Italian-silk designer neckwear.”
Sarg flipped up his own paisley tie. “Nope. Sears.”
“Well, shall we go in and get this over with?”
“God, yes. The only saving grace is Gilbow wants everybody to clear out by ten. Apparently, he’s OCD about watching the local news. Probably hopes he’ll see himself on TV. He’s a regular TV whore.”
They had barely set foot in the foyer when Sarg muttered, “Get a load of this place. Self-help books and TV appearances really do pay well.”
From the marble floor and columns in the entry to the cascading crystal chandelier above, the home was a better status symbol than a mere Italian-silk tie. Drayco pointed out an innocent-looking cherub statue at the top of the stairs. “The work of Panax Security Systems. Smile, you’re on hidden camera.”
“Been doing research for your new job?”
“Potential new job. Panax Security is popular with the wealthy in the Metro area. It’s a competitor to Topol. And I haven’t said yes.”
“Security Cameras, locks, bodyguards. So exciting.”
“You left out the part about rubbing elbows with celebrities.”
“Looks like you can get a head start on that. I’ve spied an ABC anchorman, a D.C. councilwoman, and a man I swear is one of the Washington Capital’s coaches.”
Drayco took a measure of the crowd. How many millions in salary dollars did it represent? Washington, D.C., land of extremes. Where the most privileged and powerful in the world shared geography with the most downtrodden and powerless, all within a few miles.