Ceremony
Murders of Substance · Book One
Paul Austin Ardoin
CEREMONY
Copyright © 2021 by Paul Austin Ardoin
Published by Pax Ardsen Books
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
ISBN 978-1-949082-34-0
First Edition: August 2021
* * *
For information please visit:
www.paulaustinardoin.com
Cover design, an homage to the cover of the 1987 album Substance by New Order, designed by Peter Saville Associates, was refined by Ziad Ezzat of Feral Creative Colony
feralcreativecolony.com
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Cast of Characters
More by Paul Austin Ardoin
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter One
The caretaker was also a docent. She expertly delivered her patter about the history of the dark old building, but her breaths came quick and short. It made sense, given that she’d come into her chapel the night before and found a dead body in the center aisle.
“Anne Askew,” the woman continued, “who gave her name to this chapel—that’s her depicted in the left part of the stained glass behind the altar—was tortured before she was burned at the stake.” She took a deep breath. “I appreciate you letting me tell you this, Agent Baker.”
Bernadette’s last name was Becker, not Baker, and she hadn’t been an agent since her demotion two months ago. She kept her mouth shut, though. After ten minutes of monosyllables the docent was finally talking, and Bernadette wasn’t about to stop her now.
“The police asked me a hundred questions last night, but every time I tried to answer, they cut me off. As if the chapel’s history didn’t matter.”
“You think it’s relevant to this case?” prodded Bernadette.
“Look at that shape,” said the docent, pointing to the small wooden flags laid out on the outline of where the body had been. “Murder victims are supposed to sprawl, aren’t they?”
The woman was right: the posture was odd. Murder victims were most often sprawled or curled up. Here, the flags on the floor agreed with the crime scene photos that CSI had texted to Bernadette’s phone: this man had been stretched at full length, either before or after death, arms straight out over his head. It had suggested foul play to the local police. But what did the victim’s position have to do with the chapel’s namesake martyr?
“You see,” said the docent, “Anne Askew was tortured on the rack.”
Bernadette nodded slowly, following the docent’s train of thought.
“She’s the only woman who’s ever been tortured in the Tower of London,” the docent continued. “Maybe I watch too many true-crime shows, but I think someone’s trying to make a point.”
“A point?” Bernadette’s thoughts went in several directions—torture, heresy, apostasy. “What point do you think that is?”
The docent hesitated. “It’s not just because of the position of the body,” she said carefully. “It’s the placement. The body’s lying on the Winterstone.”
Bernadette thought back through her notes about the Anne Askew Chapel but didn’t recall anything by that name. “I’m sorry—the Winterstone?”
The docent, a glint in her eyes, walked toward the wooden flags on the floor, next to where Kymer Thompson’s feet had been half a day earlier. “Come here and I’ll show you.”
“Don’t get too close to the flags,” Bernadette said, walking from her position next to the rear pew to the other side of the flags, near the arms. Dr. Woodhead wouldn’t want anything corrupting the scents where the body was found.
“You can feel it without touching the floor,” the docent said.
“Feel what?”
“You see the large stone there, in the center of the aisle? In the center of the flags?”
“The big one.”
“Notice it’s a lighter gray than the stones around it?”
Bernadette nodded.
The docent beckoned her with one hand and held the other about six inches above the light gray stone. “Put your hand there.”
Bernadette crouched—ugh, she was sore from squats this morning. She pushed her long brown hair out of her face but looked at the docent and furrowed her brow.
“I’m serious,” the docent insisted.
Tentatively, Bernadette reached out a hand.
The chapel was relatively warm for a snowy winter day in March—but as soon as Bernadette’s hand hit the air above the stone, she felt the chill.
“The Winterstone,” the docent said. “It’s colder there than anywhere else in the chapel. It was like that in London, too, though not until Anne Askew was martyred.”
“Right,” Bernadette said. That hadn’t been in the materials. “And that’s where you discovered the body. Stretched out like Anne Askew on the rack.” She took her phone out of her purse and snapped a picture of the Winterstone.
“Makes me think that someone was drawing a parallel between Mr. Thompson and Anne Askew,” the woman said, a dreamlike tone to her voice. She turned to the altar and gestured to the two stained-glass windows, each about three feet tall, in the back wall. “In the fifteenth century, when this chapel was originally built, the two windows were much smaller. And”—the woman’s voice lilted with tour-guide precision—“of course back then the stained glass didn’t have an image of Anne Askew.”
Bernadette’s phone gave a buzz in her hand. Oh—maybe that was Dr. Woodhead calling her back. Finally. She looked at the screen—it was just a reminder. 2:45 p.m. Call Sophie. Right—she’d be home from school now. It would have to wait, as much as that pained her. She put the phone back in her purse.
“You’ll notice the archway above the altar is a segmented three-pointed arch,” the docent began, and launched into a speech that sounded lovingly rehearsed. Bernadette followed the docent’s eyes and hands as she talked. The chapel was dark and cramped, not at all like the European cathedrals Bernadette had seen; the walls felt too close despite the high ceiling. The putty-colored stone arch—the segmented three-pointed arch, as the docent called it—separated the altar from the dozen wooden pews, six on each side of the aisle where the Winterstone lay. The simpler windows on the side of the building did little to let in the gray afternoon light.
“This building was transported stone by stone from London in the 1870s. The Winterstone was the first piece of cargo to cross the Milwaukee River Bridge.”
Bernadette, sensing the end of the visitors’ sc
ript, nodded. “This is truly a fascinating building.”
“It is, isn’t it?” The docent gazed happily at the archway above the altar. “Some people think this building is eerie, but I don’t. I love it.” Her face darkened. “And to think that someone used this gorgeous chapel to…” Her voice trailed off.
Bernadette hesitated, then reached out and put a hand on the docent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.” It felt right—not I’m sorry for your loss, but almost. It’s like the loss was of the sanctity of the building, sullied with the victim’s body.
Assuming, of course, that it was murder.
Bernadette took her hand gently from the woman’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I have to ask you a few more questions.”
The docent nodded.
“What time did you check on the chapel last night?”
“It must have been around eleven-thirty. I had a council meeting that ran long, and I went home first before I remembered I hadn’t prepared the chapel properly.” She closed her eyes. “If I’d set the incense up before the council meeting…”
Then she would have found the body this morning instead of last night. Bernadette smiled with a touch of sadness and as much sympathy as she could muster. The docent was used to a gentle life, Bernadette decided. Eggshell sweater, graying hair pulled back into a messy bun, cat’s-eye glasses. Bernadette’s files said she’d been the chapel docent for thirteen years.
“Did you enter through the front door?”
The woman’s head snapped up. “Oh—uh, yes. The front door.”
“And did you see the body as soon as you entered?”
“No, it was still dark. I walked behind the pews to turn the lights on. This is a fifteenth-century building. There was no light switch installed next to the door when it was constructed.” Her eyes lost focus. “I turned the lights on—the switch is back there, behind the curtain—and when I turned around, I noticed Mr. Thompson, lying there on the Winterstone.”
“Did you touch the body at all?”
The woman recoiled. “Why would I do that?”
Bernadette gathered her hair, as if putting it in a ponytail, then draped it over the front of her left shoulder. “Check for a pulse. Administer CPR. Anything like that?”
The docent shook her head. “I saw him lying there, and I knew he was dead.”
“Why?”
“I—I don’t know. I just felt it. No soul in the vessel.”
“You saw a syringe next to the body?”
“Yes. Resting on the floor near Mr. Thompson’s right arm.”
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Did you hear anything? See anything?”
“A kind of a blue-green residue in the syringe. I thought that was a little strange.”
So did the M.E. That’s why she called us. Bernadette looked up from her folder. “What about on your way from the parking lot to the chapel? Did anyone appear to be coming from the church?”
The docent shook her head. “The campus was pretty deserted. At 11:30 on a Monday night, especially when it’s this cold, no one’s out.”
“Did you know Mr. Thompson?”
“I knew who he was, but not much more than a wave of the hand as we passed each other. I knew he was active in Agios Delphi. I was the one who gave him the key to the chapel.”
“Ah,” Bernadette said. “Agios Delphi holds services here.”
“Well, with Anne Askew so central to their religion, of course they do.” The woman’s gaze returned to the stained-glass window.
Bernadette opened the file folder she was carrying, past the photos of the young man on the stone floor, lying on his back, his arms stretched awkwardly above his head. She had to be careful with the phrasing. “In my research,” she said, “I assumed that Agios Delphi was—well, a little outside the requirements of the kind of religious organization that would be allowed to have services here.”
The woman shook her head. “The Anne Askew Chapel is administered by Kilbourn Technical University,” she said. “As we get our budget from public funds, we’re not allowed to discriminate.” She put her hands on her hips. “Who did you say you were with?”
“CSAB.”
The woman’s eyes went wide. “Hang on—see-sab.” She repeated it exactly as Bernadette pronounced it, but with confusion in her voice.
“The Controlled Substance Analysis Bureau.”
The docent’s face relaxed. “Oh—See Ess Ay Bee.” She paused. “Didn’t I read that Dr. Kep Woodhead came to work with you after his TV show finished?”
“He’s an investigative consultant.” Bernadette smiled widely. And he won’t return my calls.
“What does that mean?”
“He lends his skills and knowledge to the team, but he doesn’t have a badge. He’s paired with a case analyst who’s a law enforcement officer.” Lucky me.
“I bet he’s great at that,” the docent gushed. “I loved him on Cases That Won’t Die. Such a shame he was only on for the first two seasons. The new guy who replaced him is so bland.” She sighed, seeming to forget, for the first time in the interview, that she was standing in the middle of a murder scene. “Of course, it would be hard to get another investigator with a—well, superpower.” She tittered.
“So,” Bernadette said carefully, “I have some good news and some bad news.”
The docent blinked. “Don’t tell me—he’s working on this case?”
“He is,” Bernadette said, nodding firmly, but keeping a serious look on her face.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” The docent took a breath. “Do you—do you think it would be possible to meet him?”
“Well,” Bernadette said, “do you remember the episode in Jacksonville? At the barbecue restaurant?”
The docent laughed. “How could I forget? All the smells of the pork, and the ovens, and that sauce, and those spicy peppers, yet Dr. Woodhead yelled at the cashier for wearing strong cologne and tainting the evidence collection!” She chuckled, a hand over her mouth—this time in modesty—then her laughter abruptly stopped. “Wait—you said bad news?”
“I’m afraid it’s your perfume,” Bernadette said. Then hastened to add, “It’s a lovely scent. And it’s perfect on you. But—well, this is a crime scene.” Bernadette tapped her nose. “You know, his, uh, superpower.”
“Oh,” the woman said, realization dawning on her face.
“I don’t want him to treat you like that cashier in Jacksonville,” Bernadette said quickly. “I know you’d love to meet him, but while he’s working, it would be best if you left the chapel.”
“I’m the caretaker of this building,” she said, a note of indignation in her voice.
Bernadette nodded. “If you’d like to discuss the matter with my boss, Lieutenant Stevenson is in the campus security office coordinating plans with the local police.”
The woman stared at Bernadette, unblinking, then dropped her shoulders. “No, that won’t be necessary.” She stepped around the flags, and walked slowly toward the front door, stopping to pick up her coat from the back bench. She put on the coat, looking wistfully at the altar, then turned and pulled the door open.
The docent almost ran into another woman in a black police uniform and a Milwaukee Police wool cap who was standing next to the front door, talking on her cell phone. It was police detective Kerrigan Dunn, her cheeks flushed light pink from the cold. She ended the call and took a step into the chapel as the docent walked away into the snowy afternoon.
“The IT guy is coming in a few minutes,” Dunn said.
“You mean Curtis?”
“What—the skinny guy in the leather jacket? No—not your tech guy. The one who works for the university.” Dunn consulted her notebook. “Nick LaSalle. He should be able to get us some cell service inside the chapel.”
“Good.” Bernadette wondered if she had time to step outside and talk to Sophie before Dr. Woodhead arrived. But she looked around the chapel. Was everything arranged the way it shou
ld be? Were there any scents that would put him off? She didn’t have the sensitive nose he did, but she slowly paced around the chapel once more, searching for anything that would distract him from his job.
She remembered the letter she’d received—a handwritten letter, of all things—when she first was assigned to Dr. Woodhead. It was from the previous case analyst.
Bernadette—
You drew the short straw, I see. I don’t have much advice, except if you let him get under your skin, that’ll be the beginning of the end. Figure out how to get the best out of him. He’ll try to run off, so keep him close.
Why did I leave? Let’s just say he never insulted me enough that I could make a formal complaint, but always enough that I felt it. And he disappeared on me once too often.
If you can survive Woodhead, getting back to being a field agent will be a piece of cake. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell his way to Dover.
Best of luck,
Martin
She’d been puzzling over the letter for a few weeks now, especially that last line. Martin had always been a fan of the sports page, not Shakespeare, but when Bernadette had looked up that last line, it turned out to be a quote from King Lear. A particularly nasty passage of the play, at that. The letter did not soothe her anxiety about her demotion.
The front door opened again, and a tall white man peered inside. He was in his fifties and wore black slacks with a sportscoat, a white oxford shirt, and a blue-and-yellow striped tie. He had a folder under one arm and a determined gaze in his intense brown eyes.
Ceremony Page 1