In the photo in Bernadette’s folder, still out in the car, he’d looked younger, with a full head of dark brown hair and a clean-shaven face. This man’s hair and beard were salt-and-pepper—a similar look to the gray houndstooth design of his sportscoat. His silver-rimmed glasses sat down too far on his nose.
There was no doubt. He was her new assignment: Dr. Kep Woodhead.
Chapter Two
He ducked through the doorway, pushed his glasses up, then raised his nose and sniffed.
“Dr. Woodhead, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Bernadette stuck out her hand in greeting.
He closed his eyes and held up an index finger. Bernadette lowered her hand. Detective Dunn looked over her shoulder at Bernadette, who gave a slight shrug.
Bernadette could almost hear the seconds tick by in her head.
Finally, Dr. Woodhead opened his eyes and pointed to the table on the altar holding a brass censer, a sphere resting on a stand with notches in the top half and an ornate cross on the lid. “Did the CSI team say how long ago that incense was burned?”
The detective followed his gaze. “No. Not since the body was found, anyway. I don’t think.” She hesitated, then spoke quickly. “And I’m Detective Kerrigan Dunn, Milwaukee Police.” She didn’t offer her hand.
“Most of the incense had already been burned, judging from the smell. Benzoin was used.” Woodhead sniffed again, ignoring Dunn. “I’m getting other styrax scents as well; perhaps a touch of frankincense. Is incense used in the services? Are there even services held here?”
Kerrigan Dunn nodded. “The Anglicans have their service Sunday mornings, of course.” Detective Dunn took out her notebook and consulted it. “We’ve got a group of Seventh-Day Adventists Saturdays, and a small Presbyterian group Sunday evenings. Tuesdays, of course, it’s the Agios Delphi people.”
“I only found out a little about them,” Bernadette said. “It’s an odd name for a church. Delphi was the name of the oracle from Oedipus Rex. Is it Greek Orthodox?”
The detective scoffed. “It’s no kind of orthodox. More like a pyramid scheme dressed in religious clothing.”
“I know it’s not a mainstream denomination,” Bernadette said.
“If I recall correctly, our victim was a member.” Dr. Woodhead opened his folder. “Yes, here it is: ‘Mr. Thompson was a member of a local church called Agios Delphi.’” He turned a page. “Agios Delphi of Greater Milwaukee. Kymer Thompson was an elder.” Woodhead glanced up at the detective. “Twenty-five and an elder. That’s humorous.” He did not smile.
Woodhead had a point: he was young to have such an elevated position in the church. “Detective,” Bernadette said, “the Agios Delphi group meets here on Tuesdays, correct? But last night was Monday.”
“Right,” Dunn affirmed.
“So why was Mr. Thompson inside the chapel yesterday?”
“Perhaps he was trying to, I don’t know, cleanse the bad juju from the chapel for tonight’s service. Maybe that’s one of the things the elders have to do for the, uh, church.” Dunn landed on the last word harder than necessary.
“Detective Dunn,” Dr. Woodhead said absently, reading the report from the folder, “are you able to maintain impartiality, or will your opinion of the victim’s religion color your investigation?”
Dunn formed her hands into a steeple. “I haven’t said anything that isn’t relevant to the investigation, Dr. Woodhead. This organization is known to use methods to separate their congregation from their money. I have a thick folder back at the District 5 station full of fraud allegations. Widens the net we need to cast for suspects.”
Woodhead raised his head, a smile touching the corners of his mouth—the smile looked friendly, but his eyes flashed behind his glasses. “You haven’t answered my question. Will your dislike of Agios Delphi affect your ability to investigate this crime?”
“I believe I’m more familiar with Agios Delphi than you are.” Dunn crossed her arms. “And like I said, I haven’t mentioned anything irrelevant.”
“CSAB was called,” Bernadette broke in, “because your M.E. strongly suspects that ibogaine caused Mr. Thompson’s death. That requires investigation—ibogaine is a class 1 controlled substance. We need to work together.” But she couldn’t catch Woodhead’s eye when she said it.
Dunn pressed her lips together and was silent.
Woodhead looked up at the vaulted ceiling. “So Agios Delphi uses this space for their services on Tuesday nights?”
“Yes,” Dunn answered.
“How did Mr. Thompson gain access to the chapel?”
“According to the docent, he was one of the two people from the Delphi group who had a key. He was an elder in the organization, and he lived in university-owned housing, so he was close.”
“Who’s the other member with a key?” Woodhead asked.
“Vivian Roundhouse.”
Bernadette remembered the name from her conversation with the docent. “Ms. Roundhouse is the Agios Delphi priest.”
Woodhead flipped back a page. “Ah. Yes.” He turned to face the back wall, stepping closer until his nose was only an inch or two from the stones. Pushing his glasses up again, he took a long whiff and kept sniffing.
After the third sniff, the muscles around Woodhead’s eyes tightened.
Uh oh. That wasn’t a good sign.
He opened his eyes and looked at Detective Dunn.
“Is something wrong?” the detective said.
And then Bernadette caught the faintest whiff of it—perfume. And not the same scent the docent wore.
“You—” Woodhead began.
Then Bernadette caught his eye. She set her mouth in a line. He had already upset Detective Dunn by questioning her ability to stay neutral. They needed Dunn on their side—and if he insulted her again, she might not be cooperative. “I tried to reach you several times, Dr. Woodhead.”
“Yes, I know.”
That wasn’t a response she’d expected. “I’d hoped you would give me some direction on clearing the crime scene for you so this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”
Woodhead looked at Bernadette impassively. “It wouldn’t have helped. You wouldn’t have been able to prepare it to my satisfaction.”
Oof. Martin’s letter was prescient.
“Does someone want to tell me what’s going on?” Dunn asked.
Woodhead turned to face her. “You’re contaminating the crime scene.”
Dunn narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me? I haven’t touched anything.”
“It’s not—”
Bernadette steeled herself and interrupted. “Dr. Woodhead, as I’m sure you saw on TV, has a gift for identifying subtle scents. It’s what makes his expertise in poisoning cases such as this so invaluable. But”—she gave Woodhead a questioning look, then spoke haltingly—“perfumes, strong deodorant soaps—those can mask the scents he’s trying to find at crime scenes.”
“Oh,” Detective Dunn said.
“Theme Music,” Woodhead muttered. “Obviously.”
“What?” Bernadette said. “Did you say Theme Music?”
Dunn glanced at Bernadette. “He’s right. The name of my perfume—Theme Music.”
“That’s correct,” Woodhead said tersely. “Would you step outside?”
“Outside the crime scene?”
“Yes.” Woodhead lifted a hand, palm in, fingers down, and made a shooing motion.
Bernadette winced.
Dunn scoffed. “Sure. Wouldn’t want to disturb the famous TV star with my overpowering stench.” She walked out, not quite stomping, into the snowy day, but left the front door open.
“We haven’t been properly introduced, Dr. Woodhead,” Bernadette said, keeping her hands down. “I’m your new case analyst, Bernadette Becker.”
“Salmon will mask scents too,” Woodhead said.
Bernadette cocked her head.
“What?”
“Salmon. You must have had some earlier.”
“Not since last night, and
I showered and brushed my teeth twice since then. Surely I don’t—”
“You smell like urine.”
Bernadette took a step back.
“The trimethylamine oxide in the salmon breaks down into ammonia. Very similar scent profile to urea. It’s extremely distracting.”
Bernadette shook her head and followed the detective out the front door.
“He’s a real charmer,” Dunn said under her breath.
Bernadette grunted. “Yeah. We’re getting along like a house on fire.”
Chapter Three
Bernadette strode past Dunn, who watched Dr. Kep Woodhead through the open chapel door, and took out her cell phone. It took a moment, but the No service warning disappeared, replaced by four bars. She tapped the screen.
It went right to Sophie’s voicemail. Probably on the phone with her dad or a friend from school. She paused, staring around the frigid quad with its leafless trees, everything gray, brown, and white. Her puffy purple coat was the only pop of color. She ended the call without leaving a message; she didn’t want to sound desperate to talk.
She closed her eyes, then walked back, shoes crunching in the snow. She stopped next to Dunn, still watching the scene unfold inside the chapel. “Did I miss anything?”
“He’s been standing like that since we left.”
Woodhead stood still under the altar archway, eyes closed, like he was expecting the Muse to strike. Perhaps he was waiting for the perfume and the salmon smell to dissipate. Then, in one fluid motion, he stretched himself to full height, and inhaled, eyes wide open.
Bernadette had never seen such a dramatic intake of breath before.
Dr. Woodhead began to tread carefully around the room, using his hands to waft air in front of his face. He stopped for a long time in front of a table in the apse. Perhaps he was trying to figure out the specific incense in the golden thurible.
She got closer, stopping at the edge of the nave.
Woodhead, not noticing her, stared at the floor as he walked down the center aisle of the nave and came upon the small removable flags that marked where the body had been found. He closed his eyes, crouched, and breathed slowly in.
“It’s cold here,” he said.
“Part of the magic of the chapel,” Dunn said from outside the open door.
He cocked his head, a thoughtful look on his face, pushed his glasses up, and inhaled again.
His eyes opened, and he shook his head. “You’re throwing me off, Bernie.”
Bernadette tensed at the nickname.
“You and your salmon,” Woodhead continued. “I can still smell the trimethylamine from your—”
Then he closed his eyes again. A faint sniff.
“Wait,” he said softly.
Then he crouched again, sniffed again.
“Definitely trimethylamine.”
He stood and inhaled.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“It’s not you.”
Bernadette chuckled. “Great. I don’t smell like pee.”
He closed his eyes again. “It’s the wrong smell. It isn’t the oxidation of the fatty acids in salmon, but it’s still trimethylamine.”
Bernadette rolled her eyes. “Our victim worked at the freshwater science lab at the university. You’re probably smelling his job. Not my dinner from last night.”
“The Freshie,” Dunn offered.
“Oh, yes, the laboratory,” Dr. Woodhead said. “I saw that in the report, but I assumed it was your typical university chemistry lab.”
“Nope. It’s hands-on. One of the best freshwater science labs in the country,” Dunn said.
Dr. Woodhead set his folder down on a pew, got on his hands and knees on the stone floor, and stretched his long, lean torso over the area where Kymer Thompson’s body had been a few hours earlier.
“It’s not any species of fish I’m familiar with. Trout and salmon are common in Lake Michigan. Those are easy distinctions to make.”
Bernadette turned to the detective. “Do you know what kind of fish they study at the Freshie?”
Dunn shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t. Maybe he didn’t even work with fish—he might have been a computer guy or a kelp farmer for all I know.”
“Has anyone been to the laboratory?” Woodhead asked.
“You mean have the Milwaukee police started their interviews?” Detective Dunn scratched her temple. “Yeah. We interviewed Professor Lightman.”
Woodhead grunted. “Thompson’s supervisor?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t think to ask him what Thompson worked on?”
Dunn put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t conduct the interview.”
“Did you see evidence of a struggle? Had anything been broken? Had any fish been killed under mysterious circumstances?”
“Your nose works great, but your ears need improvement, Doctor. I told you, I didn’t conduct the interview.”
Woodhead put his nose an inch from the stone floor and inhaled loudly.
Bernadette and Detective Dunn looked at each other but didn’t say anything.
“Has anyone interviewed the protestors?” Woodhead asked. “A simple search on news-related items related to the laboratory revealed several articles reporting protests of their scientific research.” Woodhead sighed heavily, as if he were explaining to children why they couldn’t draw on the wall. “Have any of the protestors been interviewed?”
Dunn shifted her weight from foot to foot. “We started looking into it.”
Woodhead’s glasses slipped down his nose again as he looked up at Dunn. “What does that mean?”
Detective Dunn exhaled in a grunt. “Just what I said. We started looking into it.”
“I saw two groups mentioned in the articles. Justice for Oceans and the Lake Shore Piscary Association.”
Bernadette smirked. “Justice for Oceans? Are they aware that Lake Michigan isn’t an ocean?”
“It’s a national organization,” Dunn said, pursing her lips.
“A save-the-fish group, and a catch-the-fish group,” Bernadette mused. “One of them is upset that the lab is hurting the fish, and the other is upset that the lab has dibs on hurting the fish?”
The corners of Detective Dunn’s mouth turned up slightly.
Woodhead, still lying down in the aisle, had his nose close to the stone floor. “I assume,” he said, “that the medical examiner has attempted to minimize the disturbance to the potential evidence in this building.”
Detective Dunn rubbed her chin and nodded.
“I also assume no one has walked through the area where the body lay.” Woodhead turned his face back toward the stone floor, staring and sniffing, occasionally tilting his head to the side. The seconds ticked by. The snow was quiet as it fell, a hush descending inside the chapel. Bernadette leaned against the stone archway at the entrance and shivered.
“We can be fairly certain,” Woodhead said finally, “that the body was moved here after Thompson was killed.”
Detective Dunn stared at Woodhead. “We already knew that. Look at the position he was in. Someone obviously placed him with his arms up and wrists out.”
“Yes,” Woodhead said, “but they could have killed him in the chapel and then arranged his body.”
Dunn narrowed her eyes. “We were never thinking that. Kymer Thompson didn’t have a jacket.”
Woodhead looked up. “Was that in the report?”
“The photos of the body,” Dunn said.
Woodhead harrumphed. “He could have taken his jacket off, draped it over a pew, left it on the floor—I can think of any number of possibilities. It’s also conceivable that he came dressed in a jacket to meet his killer here, and the killer absconded with the jacket.”
“I thought you said—”
“I know that he wasn’t killed here. Not enough of his smell was transferred to the stones when his body temperature was above thirty-five degrees.”
“Thirty-five degrees?”
Dunn had a confused look on her face.
“Celsius,” Bernadette said. “I don’t know if I agree with the conclusion that no jacket means he wasn’t killed here. I’ve seen football games in the winter where people have their shirts off, wearing green-and-gold body paint. These are Wisconsinites. Don’t you all see heavy coats as a sign of moral turpitude?”
Detective Dunn laughed. “Those football fans are jammed in with fifty thousand of their closest friends—and they’re all drunk as skunks anyway.” She shook her head. “Nope. You live here, you’ll see. People like Kymer Thompson get sober, put on a coat, and complain that they’ve had enough of the snow. He wouldn’t have walked in without a jacket.”
“Did you search for Mr. Thompson’s coat at the lab?” Bernadette asked.
Dunn sighed. “Is your hearing as bad as his? I didn’t do the interviews. I didn’t visit the lab. Once my bosses made the call to CSAB, I staked out the chapel and waited for you. I spoke on the phone to your people when they were on their way here.” Dunn pulled her notebook out. “Lieutenant Stevenson and your tech specialist—Janek, is it?” Dunn pronounced the beginning of Curtis’s last name with a J sound, and not a Y sound.
“Yann-ek,” Woodhead corrected, getting to his feet.
“Yes, Maura and Curtis briefed me,” Bernadette said. “I meant the plural you. Your team.”
“Not to my knowledge. I gave Lieutenant Stevenson the names of our forensic investigators. Janek”—Dunn emphasized the Y sound now—“said he wanted to look at the victim’s bank accounts and cell phone records. I noticed the two of them didn’t seem anxious to stick around.”
“They would have contaminated the crime scene,” Woodhead said, with a faraway tone in his voice.
Bernadette lifted her chin. “Dr. Woodhead? Is something the matter?”
He stared down at the floor, but his eyes were closed. “My nose doesn’t lie,” he muttered.
“What?”
“According to the file,” Dr. Woodhead said, “Mr. Thompson was killed with an injection of a foreign substance the medical examiner believes to be ibogaine. That’s not usually lethal unless Thompson had a sensitivity—or they used a high dose. And I can’t detect the scent of any ibogaine in the aisle—which by itself may not be surprising.” He pointed to the area behind the pulpit. “But the smell of iboga bark, on the other hand, is quite strong, particularly near that table.”
Ceremony Page 2