“Information easily obtained on the internet,” Woodhead said dismissively, stirring his drink. “How many murder cases have you investigated?”
Bernadette shifted in her seat. “I spent most of my career working on money laundering cases. This is my first homicide investigation.”
Dr. Woodhead’s face was impassive. “Interesting. It must be hard to get good handlers. Murder is certainly not money laundering.”
Bernadette felt her face grow hot. “I never said it was.”
Woodhead straightened up. “I don’t know anywhere ibogaine is used for treatment in the U.S.”
“Officially, nowhere,” Bernadette said. “In practice—that’s another matter.”
“How might the church procure iboga bark, then?”
Bernadette leaned back and ran her fingers through her hair. “I worked on taking down a string of clinics in Florida a couple of years ago that ran Norco and OxyContin. They distributed other substances, too, including iboga bark. You can order the seeds online for ten bucks, and it’s not technically a schedule 1 narcotic until you extract the ibogaine from the bark. The church could have ordered the bark from a clinic like that, or ordered the seeds online to grow in a greenhouse here. And it would all be above board.”
Woodhead plucked a piece of bacon out of his Bloody Mary. “An interesting line of inquiry. We’ll tell Curtis to track the church’s finances. We can examine property records to ascertain if any church members have greenhouses on their land.” He bit a piece off the bacon. “Of course,” he said with his mouth full, “you and I shall interrogate the Agios Delphi priest.”
Bernadette hoped the interview wouldn’t be another opportunity for Woodhead to insult her. She pulled her phone out of her purse and tapped on her email. “Oh—the M.E.’s email came through while we were in the chapel.” She tapped and scrolled, then nodded. “Here we go. Cause of death: sudden cardiac event. Not a heart attack.” She scrolled and grunted. “And nothing congenital.”
“I seem to recall case reports where ibogaine resulted in cardiac arrest.”
“It’s not common, but patients have reported serious heart problems with ibogaine.”
Dr. Woodhead nodded. “But surely the person who prepared this couldn’t be aware of the effect it would have on the victim. It affects such a low percentage of people—”
Bernadette drew in her breath through her teeth.
“What is it?”
“It says here the remaining ibogaine in the syringe was at fifty times the usual concentration.” She frowned. “That would be enough to kill our victim. It would be enough to kill anyone.”
“What is the report referring to with the term ‘the usual concentration’?”
“I think it means the ibogaine strength of shredded iboga bark. The kind I saw at the Florida clinic.” She scrolled again. “Yes, that’s the baseline—just under two percent. Wow. That syringe was full of almost pure ibogaine.”
He cocked his head. “What reason would anyone have to create ibogaine that concentrated?”
Bernadette put her phone back in her purse. “I don’t know. I think a church would use the bark in its natural form. They wouldn’t try to extract ibogaine from the iboga bark at all.”
Woodhead took a drink of the Bloody Mary, set it down on the table, stared at it for a moment, then pulled a sweet pickle off the skewer. “An ugly pickle if I’ve ever seen one,” he murmured.
“Most pickles are ugly,” Bernadette said. “Okay, for that concentration of ib—”
“You are a pickle of a particularly grotesque countenance,” Dr. Woodhead interrupted, holding the pickle in front of his face. “Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle.”
Another King Lear reference. The letter from Martin was instructive, that was certain. “People are eating, Dr. Woodhead.”
He bit half the pickle off and dropped the rest of it into his drink, then raised his eyes to Bernadette. “There must be another source for the ibogaine,” Woodhead said.
“Then let’s find it.” Bernadette leafed through the file. “Okay—Thompson left a message with the campus police the night before he died.”
“Yes.” Woodhead blinked. “I read that. He said he suspected that a theft would occur in the lab.”
Bernadette nodded. “But he didn’t specify when, and the recording was cut short.” She continued to read. “It doesn’t say whether or not he mentioned it at work the next day.”
“If he feared for his life, surely we would have heard about it.”
“That’s a recording I’d like to listen to.” Bernadette turned the page. “I don’t have any interview notes with people from the lab.”
“We’ll ask Detective Dunn for them tomorrow.” Woodhead opened the folder again and stared at the photo, a blowup of the discoloration of Kymer Thompson’s arm. He muttered to himself.
“I missed that, Doctor.”
“I said, I need to further research Agios Delphi. See if the religion advocates the use of ibogaine in addition to iboga bark—or for that matter, the use of any injected hallucinogens. Detective Dunn seems convinced of their deceit and trickery.” He shook his head. “It’s not a common belief system. I’d be surprised if much academic documentation exists on Agios Delphi at all, never mind their use of ibogaine.”
Bernadette sipped her soda. “I’d never heard of the religion before.”
Woodhead took his phone out of his pocket and tapped a few times, then handed the phone across the table. “This is all I was able to find.”
Bernadette read the article stub.
Agios Delphi is a religion of unknown but probably North American origin, first appearing in records in the late 1990s. It is characterized by belief in God, delivered through the testimony and teachings of the Protestant martyr Anne Askew. The concept of spiritual enlightenment, known as the Anchor of Delphi, can be achieved through an “enhanced meditation process.” Some members use substances to attempt to enhance their meditation, though those substances vary greatly from church to church, with some locations eschewing hallucinogens and some going without enhancement altogether.
Practitioners of the religion call themselves and each other Delphinians.
The highest concentration of Delphinians is in Baja California, Mexico; and in Minnesota and New Mexico, United States. Social anthropologists estimate roughly 10,000 practitioners worldwide, with about 75% of those residing in the United States.
“Only ten thousand practitioners, yet we come across one of the dead ones.” Woodhead stirred his Bloody Mary with the skewer of pickled vegetables then took three noisy, large gulps.
Bernadette frowned as Woodhead set his drink down. “It’s almost five, Doctor. We’ve still got a full day’s work ahead of us. We should go.”
Woodhead winked. “It’s fine, Bernie. Three grams of protein in the bacon, and a full two servings of vegetables—four with the tomato juice.”
“Bernadette,” Bernadette said. She took another sip of her soda to stop herself from commenting on his drinking during the workday. Instead: “Should we go see the professor?”
Woodhead took the vegetable skewer out of his Bloody Mary, a chunk of jicama on the end. He grabbed it between his teeth and pulled it off, then chewed it with his mouth open. He pointed the skewer at Bernadette. “We must take the time to gather our wits about us. A few moments of respite can freshen the mind.”
“We have a murder to solve.” She turned the soda glass around and around. “I know there aren’t cameras in the chapel,” she said, “but we should see if there are cameras at the Freshie.”
“Your demeanor surprises me.” Woodhead returned the skewer to his drink. “Usually, my handlers try to establish a rapport with me.”
“I’d rather see if we can get footage from ATMs or any CCTV recordings from businesses in the ten blocks between the Freshie and the chapel from Monday night.”
Woodhead waved his hand over the table. “For example, previous handlers would use
social situations like this to inform me how important trust is between us.”
“First of all,” Bernadette said, “I’m an—” She bit her tongue; she almost said agent. “A case analyst, not a handler. Second of all, trust might be important between us, but you need to know that I’m committed to solving this case and that I have your back. Discussing ways to find the killer will build a better relationship than making small talk over cocktails.”
“Ah—I see where you’re going with this. Next you’ll tell me I’m a valuable part of the CSAB team.”
“You don’t need me to tell you that.”
There was silence between them for a moment.
Woodhead took a long drink and set the empty glass down. “So,” Woodhead finally said, “what do you want to talk about next? My TV show? My reputation for burning through handlers?”
Bernadette weighed her options. She wanted to interview the people from Thompson’s life, but Woodhead obviously had a point he wanted to make first. “You have been through quite a few case analysts in the last five years.”
Woodhead put his elbows on the table. “My solve rate is high. I’m sure it’s easy for my handlers to get promoted once they’ve worked a few cases with me.” He nodded. “Take Marty, for example. To what position did he get promoted?”
“Martin quit CSAB. Walked into Maura’s office after your last assignment together and resigned on the spot.” In fact, Martin had given Maura Stevenson an ultimatum: either fire Woodhead or accept Martin’s resignation. But she wouldn’t tell Woodhead that.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Woodhead said, sitting back. “I can, admittedly, be demanding, but these cases are unusual, and therefore I have high expectations of my handlers.” He clicked his tongue. “Though I must say, I’d told Lieutenant Stevenson that I prefer not to work with women.”
Bernadette blinked. “You told Maura what?”
“You might as well know now. I find women—distracting.”
She bristled. “Listen, Doctor, I don’t know what year you think this is—”
Woodhead pointed to his nose. “Distracting. Your perfume is Grace de Champagne, though why the Delicéuse Perfumery named it that, I have no idea. It’s clearly got stronger hints of vanilla and oak than of good champagne—it should smell like limestone and freshly-baked bread, or even pears or apples.”
“I’m not wearing perfume today.” Bernadette was flummoxed; Grace de Champagne was her usual scent.
Woodhead waved his hand dismissively. “The residual oils have embedded into your clothing. Besides, that Kebble Proust Coconut Moisturizer you apply to your face has a strong cocoa butter scent, which conflicts with the oak. Further, the Dark Sun liquid soap you used this morning is all citrus and clove, which combats the other scents.”
“Are you finished?”
“Dark Sun, by the way, has the same chemical makeup and almost the exact scent profile as Barker’s Fresh Spring, which is ten dollars cheaper per bottle. It’s lighter on the clove, too, which won’t browbeat your perfume.”
“Maybe I like the clove.”
The doctor sniffed. “You can’t tell the difference. The soap I can forgive, especially if you’re traveling, but you should never pair a perfume like Grace de Champagne with that moisturizer to begin with. The patchouli alcohol and the alpha-bulnesene in the—”
Bernadette held up her hands. “Men can use cologne and aftershave and deodorant soap and hair products. I bet many of them are equally… distracting.”
“Some men,” Dr. Woodhead said. “But not the ones who have been my handlers. And when I’ve told them to leave off their cologne or aftershave, they’re happy to comply. My nose is, after all, why CSAB values me as highly as they do.”
This was it. They’d been working together less than half a day, and already he was pushing her buttons, insulting women, insulting her. Staying just close enough to the line for her to think maybe pushing back wouldn’t be worth it. “Duly noted,” Bernadette said evenly.
She took another sip of her soda and had to force it down. No. This wouldn’t do. She had to push back, or at least draw a line in the sand. “Dr. Woodhead?”
“Yes?”
“Have you asked the women who disrupt your olfactory senses to leave off their perfume?”
“I have. It insults them.”
Bernadette leaned forward. “It’s possible that your tone and your attitude are the problem, not what you’re asking them to do.”
Woodhead scowled. “My attitude?”
“You’ve already made it very clear to me that you think I’ll be confrontational if you ask me to stop using scented items in my morning routine.”
“I haven’t said anything of the sort.”
“You’ve made the comment about women in general. You’re assuming I’ll be insulted.”
“You won’t be?”
She sat back and crossed her arms, mirroring him.
“You have to ask me nicely. Not condescendingly. And use my name correctly.”
Woodhead’s brow wrinkled.
“You know exactly what I mean. My name is Bernadette. You haven’t called me that once.”
“I prefer calling you ‘Bernie.’”
“‘Bernie’ is a corpse from a terrible 1980s buddy comedy,” said Bernadette. “I had to go through that humiliation in school. I don’t want to hear any quotes from that movie under anyone’s breath when investigating cases.”
Woodhead’s upper lip curled slightly. “I had a horrific ex-girlfriend at university named Bernadette. I don’t wish to remember her every time I speak your name.”
“Then call me ‘Becker.’ I don’t call you ‘Kep’ and I certainly don’t call you ‘Woody.’”
Dr. Woodhead winced.
“We can keep this investigation professional,” Bernadette continued. “Professional and unscented. Otherwise, I’ll be making a lot of Toy Story jokes at your expense.”
Woodhead shifted in his seat. “Ms. Becker,” he said, as if chewing the words, “I’d greatly appreciate it if you would eliminate scented soaps, skin care products, and perfumes when we are working together.”
Bernadette stared at him. The seconds ticked by.
“Please,” Woodhead finished.
“As long as I can expense unscented items, I’m fine with making changes during our investigations.”
Woodhead’s jaw dropped open, then snapped shut as he reached for his Bloody Mary. “Marty never gave me problems like this.” He brought the drink to his lips before he realized it was empty.
He should have. He could have avoided a nervous breakdown.
Bernadette’s phone rang in her purse. The screen said Barlow Finnegan. She rolled her eyes. “It’s my ex. I’ve got to take this. Be right back.”
Bernadette rose from the table, answering the call as she walked out of the restaurant onto the frigid sidewalk. “Hi, Barlow.”
“Hi, Bernadette. Sophie needed me to pick up her purple pullover and her—uh, Dominic Mannequin flats. I’m in her bedroom, and I have no idea where they are.”
“The pullover is on the top shelf of her closet with her other sweaters. And it’s Dominic Milano. Those are the gray two-tone shoes that look a little like the ballet flats she wore last year.” Bernadette gathered her long hair and draped it over the front of her left shoulder; the ends were cold. “I’d suggest trying her shoe rack, but she doesn’t put them away.”
The sound of rustling. “Okay, I’ve got the pullover. And—” The soft thump of a closet door ending its slide against the closet jamb. “Well, well, Ms. Becker, you don’t know your daughter as well as you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Dominic Milano shoes are in the shoe rack. She put them away.”
Bernadette said nothing.
Barlow’s voice was gentle. “I’m not attacking you, Bernadette.”
She snorted. “You’re certainly—” The words caught in her throat. She was angry. She had every right
to be angry. The CSAB training instructor—her trainer for the last year—was now Barlow’s new girlfriend. The worst of it was, Bernadette was stronger and more fit; she could take Lisa in a fight.
But sometimes youthful exuberance matters a lot more. And, she supposed, giving him the attention that she hadn’t. Not for a while.
The silence stretched between them, Bernadette on the defensive as if Barlow was daring her to finish the sentence.
“I’m sorry.” Bernadette cleared her throat. “It’s five o’clock. When are you picking up Sophie?”
“It’s six o’clock.”
Right. Time zones.
“And Sophie’s having dinner over at Olivia’s.”
“Give you and Lisa a chance to have a romantic evening.” The words were out of her mouth before Bernadette could stop them.
“I talked to Olivia’s mother,” Barlow said, as if Bernadette hadn’t said anything. “Picking her up at seven thirty tonight. And I can drop her at school, no problem.”
“You don’t have an early class?”
“Not this semester.” The sound of a zipper—a tote bag or small suitcase, maybe. “Thanks for helping me find those things. I’ll have Sophie call you before bed.”
Bernadette blinked. “Uh—thanks.”
Barlow ended the call. She stared at her phone for a moment, then looked up, getting her bearings—
And saw the IT person—the one who she’d met in front of the chapel—walk quickly down the sidewalk on the other side of the street.
What was his name? Nick something. He carried a large black tote in each hand; they looked heavy.
Maybe he could answer her questions about security cameras at the Freshie—save her some time in the morning. And she could get things back on track with him. Apologize if she had to.
She glanced up and down Ninth Street, then hurried across, glimpsing Nick as he turned the corner onto Highland Avenue. He was more than a block ahead of her.
He was heading toward the river—maybe toward the Freshie? Or was there another off-campus facility he needed to service?
“Nick!” she called, but he quickened his pace.
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