He crossed Eighth into a sea of parking garages. The basketball arena loomed ahead. Was that where he was headed?
“Nick!” Bernadette considered breaking into a run. She was sure she could catch up with him in a moment or two, but she’d already scared him off earlier.
No response. Nick moved both bags to one hand, then pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it to his ear.
“Nick!” Louder this time.
He was nearly running now, and Bernadette jogged to keep him in her sights. She hadn’t taken her puffy coat when she took the call from Barlow, and her fingers were starting to lose feeling. Bernadette glanced up—Nick began to run across Sixth Street as the flashing red hand warned pedestrians not to enter the crosswalk.
“Nick!”
She stopped at the corner at the red light and watched, heart sinking, as Nick was swallowed up by a mass of people walking by the arena. She craned her neck but couldn’t see—
An engine revved hard.
She turned her head—a light blue van bore down on her. Coming fast.
Onto the sidewalk.
She dove out of the way and landed in a slushy pile of snow.
Tires squealed as the van jumped the corner—almost taking out the bus stop sign—right where she’d been standing, then squealed down Highland Avenue.
Chapter Five
Bernadette, heart pounding, scrambled to her feet, the salt on the concrete crackling under her boots.
License plate? Could she see the license plate?
No. Too far away.
She looked around, brushing the snow from her trousers. Other pedestrians stood on the sidewalk, but they’d been at least twenty feet away.
“Did anyone get the plate number?” she shouted.
No answer.
Her breaths came in short, quick bursts. She took a few steps down the sidewalk, back and forth, until she got herself back under control. Another deep breath.
Only four blocks back to the restaurant.
She was aware of everything: her shoes clomping on the ground, her breaths tinny and hollow in the cold early evening air, the people passing, laughing—or hands deep in the pockets of their jackets, their faces wrapped in scarves.
She was sweating lightly when she opened the door to the restaurant and took her seat.
Woodhead took another bite from the vegetable skewer. “That was your ex-husband?”
Bernadette felt the blood rush back into her fingers. “Well—soon-to-be ex-husband, anyway.”
“Did you have a fight?”
Bernadette glared at him.
“It’s none of my business. You were gone a long time. I thought we were trying to establish a rapport.”
“And I thought we were trying to solve a case.” She glanced across the table. “I saw the IT guy walking toward the river. He was carrying a couple of tote bags.”
“What IT guy? Curtis?”
“No, no, the IT worker from Kilbourn Tech. The one who’s in charge of all the facilities that aren’t part of the main campus.”
Woodhead’s eyes showed no recognition.
“Oh, that’s right. You were still in the chapel. Anyway, I followed him.”
“For what purpose?”
“I thought he could save us some time. Give us some information on the tech situation at the Freshie. Maybe we could get video footage or figure out what physical security systems they have.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. I lost him.” Bernadette opened her mouth to tell Woodhead about the van that almost careened into her, but the words died on her tongue. She cleared her throat. “You’re finished?”
He pushed the empty glass away. “I am.”
“Good.” She picked up her folder. “Who do we interview first? The supervisor at his worldly job, or the leader of his spiritual family?”
“We must prioritize the murder weapon. Let’s follow the iboga bark.”
“That would be the priest. Vivian Roundhouse.” She stood. “Let’s go.”
Bernadette piloted the black SUV through the gentle, dark, snow-covered turns of Lincoln Memorial Highway for fifteen minutes, passing a sign that read Welcome to Whitefish Bay, then turned left into a subdivision. Dr. Woodhead looked out of the window at the large two- and three-story homes lining the streets. “The priest lives out here?” he asked.
“It sure looks like it.”
“I thought religious leaders were supposed to be less ostentatious.”
Bernadette guffawed.
“Does Vivian Roundhouse have some sort of television deal?”
“You had a TV deal, Doctor. Do you live in a house like one of these?”
Woodhead was silent.
“And she’s got a Mercedes in her driveway.” Bernadette slowed in front of a large three-story house with Roman-style pillars adorning the front porch. “Maybe she has a greenhouse in her backyard, too.”
She put the SUV in park and pulled down the visor to check her makeup as Woodhead got out. She hadn’t used much that morning, and her large hazel eyes had bags under them—not too surprising after her long day. Her white skin was paler than usual—she hadn’t seen the sun most of the winter—and her freckles had even faded. Her dark brown hair was flat from the cold, dry air. She ran her hands through it, trying to get her hair to wake up, then scrunched up her face, pushed up the visor, and got out of the SUV.
Woodhead stepped ankle-deep into a mound of snow at the curb. He shook his boot off and joined Bernadette at the shoveled driveway, where they walked to the large front door between the largest, most elegant of the columns. They stood out of the light yet frigid wind, under the overhang.
Bernadette reached out and rang the doorbell, grabbing her identification out of her purse.
After a moment, the door opened, revealing a woman in her early fifties, about a decade older than Bernadette. The woman had rosy, full cheeks in contrast to her pale skin. She stood about five foot three. Her black hair was pulled back into a casual ponytail, but her tan cashmere sweater and her shiny black trousers looked expensive. She wore light brown sheepskin slippers, and she smiled while her eyes were curious.
“Can I help you?” The woman’s eyes drifted to the identification badge Bernadette was holding.
“Vivian Roundhouse?” Bernadette asked.
“Yes?”
“My name is Bernadette Becker from the Controlled Substance Analysis Bureau. This is my colleague, Dr. Kep Woodhead.”
A look of confusion darkened Roundhouse’s face. “The Controlled Substance—”
“I’m sorry,” Bernadette said carefully, “but have you talked to the police in the last twenty-four hours?”
Her smile fell. “I—I, no. Is it Allan? Did something happen to him?”
Apparently Roundhouse hadn’t heard of Kymer Thompson’s death, and Bernadette hadn’t checked with Detective Dunn before coming. She’d never had to tell an interviewee that someone close to them was dead. Yes, it was a member of her church, and not, for example, this Allan person—a husband or son, if she had to guess—but it might still be difficult. For now, though, Bernadette had the advantage: she could question Roundhouse without telling her about Thompson’s death. Perhaps the priest would slip and let more out than she wanted.
She opened her mouth and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry to inform you that one of the members of your church passed away unexpectedly last night,” Woodhead said, clasping his hands in front of him.
Bernadette shot a withering gaze at Woodhead, who didn’t notice.
He sallied on. “May we come in and ask you some questions?”
“I—” Roundhouse started, then closed her mouth. “No. I’m afraid this isn’t a good time. The church has its service tonight, you see—”
“Ah,” Woodhead said, “that might be a problem. I’m flummoxed, quite frankly, that no one has informed you. The body was found in the chapel, and I’m afraid it’s an active crime scene. You may
not be able to hold your service this evening.”
“What?” Roundhouse raised her voice. “I can’t believe this—under whose authority?”
“The Milwaukee Police Department,” Bernadette said, cutting in. “They haven’t attempted to contact you?”
“I was… out,” Roundhouse said. “I took a walk, as I often do, before I have our service. Clear my head, and all that.”
“I expect,” Dr. Woodhead said, leaning forward on his toes, “that it would have been quite a cold walk.”
“I love the cold,” Roundhouse said. “Invigorating. Gets the blood going.”
“Where did you walk?” Bernadette asked.
“My normal route,” Roundhouse said. “I go out to Big Bay Park then walk along the shore.” She cleared her throat. “I went past the high school and then came home.”
“You neglected to mention the part where you stopped at Donut Monster,” a woman said from the other room, followed by the clicking of heels on tile. “Where are your manners, Viv? Invite the agents in from the cold.”
“Well, I—”
The other woman came into view behind Roundhouse. About five feet tall and Asian, with a wide face and kind, glittering eyes, she pulled the front door open more and motioned for them to enter the house. “I’ve put the kettle on.”
A hot drink might pop the bad attitude out of him. Bernadette entered first, in front of Dr. Woodhead, and the shorter woman turned and led them through an open foyer and into the kitchen.
“I’m Suzanne Thao, by the way.”
“Bernadette Becker. Do you live here?”
Thao chuckled. “Heavens no. Viv and I are friends. I stopped by after Viv finished her afternoon walk.” She smiled.
The kitchen was light and airy, with granite countertops and stainless-steel appliances. On the counter next to the sink, an electric teakettle quietly rumbled.
“We’re a small congregation,” Roundhouse said. “I shudder to think who might have died.”
Bernadette pounced. “Actually, I wondered if you could tell us where you w—"
“Kymer Thompson,” Woodhead said.
“Kymer Thompson what?” Roundhouse asked.
“He was the body found in the chapel.”
Roundhouse gasped and grabbed the counter for support. “No—Tommy?” The shorter woman hurried around the kitchen island and placed a concerned hand on Roundhouse’s back.
Woodhead stared at the large stainless-steel range behind the priest. “We understand he was fairly high up in your church.”
“He was,” Thao said, rubbing Roundhouse’s back gently. “Very devout.”
Woodhead leaned forward. “When was the last time you saw Mr. Thompson?”
“Oh—last week.” Roundhouse’s voice trembled.
“Last week?”
“Yes.” The priest swallowed hard and let go of the counter. “He came to the service last Tuesday, but I haven’t seen him since. He’s quite busy at work and with his graduate classes.”
“I see.” Bernadette turned to look at Dr. Woodhead, who was in the breakfast nook, taking large inhalations through his nose.
“He was committed to the church,” Roundhouse said. “He often helped set up the service. Brought some of the incense from time to time.”
“Was there—” Bernadette stopped herself. No—it wasn’t time to go right into the ibogaine yet. “Is there some significance to Anne Askew?”
“To Delphinians, you mean? Or to Tommy in particular?”
“To Tommy in particular,” Bernadette said, then looked around. “You’re all the way up here in Whitefish Bay, leading one of the few religious—uh—organizations that use the Askew chapel. Did Tommy have a particular affinity for her?”
“Agios Delphi considers Anne Askew to be a prophet,” Roundhouse said, a touch of defiance in her voice. “She sacrificed herself and went through a living hell for what she believed in. The king had her tortured on the rack, which destroyed her body so badly, she couldn’t even sit in a chair. My members all have a particular affinity for her.”
Bernadette rubbed her forehead. If Thompson’s body in the rack position was somehow uniquely significant to Tommy, she would have a hard time getting it out of Roundhouse.
Roundhouse continued, “So strong was her belief in the power of the individual to experience the divine without—”
“Yes—yes, I’ve read the literature,” Woodhead interrupted. “The rack is significant, then? As significant as, say, the cross is in mainstream Christian denominations?”
Roundhouse bristled. “No one wears a miniature rack on a chain around their neck if that’s what you mean. If you insist on insult—”
“I’m sorry,” Bernadette said, holding up her hands. “I assure you—it’s out of ignorance, not malice. Any religious symbolism surrounding Mr. Thompson’s death might help us figure out what happened.”
Roundhouse covered her face with her hands and her shoulders began to shake. Thao draped an arm around her shoulders and the priest turned toward Thao, hiding her face.
Bernadette stood awkwardly for a moment.
Roundhouse sniffled and broke from Thao. “My apologies.”
“I understand.”
“Tommy was a rock,” she said. “He was the connection who brought younger people into the church. We aren’t a large group, but he was the one who found the rule allowing us to have services in the chapel to begin with.” She took a breath and shuddered. “I—I’m not sure what we’ll do without him.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Look, I don’t know what religious significance there could possibly be to Tommy’s death.”
Bernadette chose her words carefully. “Do you perform any ceremonies in the chapel?”
“Certainly.”
“What do those entail?”
Roundhouse sighed. “We have several. One where members join and dedicate themselves to God. A blessing ceremony. We believe Anne Askew liked ritual.”
“Does Agios Delphi perform a death ritual?” Woodhead asked.
Roundhouse put her hands on her hips. “A ceremony not unlike a wake or a memorial service. We call it an anchor ceremony. Calling it a death ritual sounds pagan.”
“What makes Anne Askew such an important prophet?” Bernadette asked.
“She viewed the world as if it were at war with the spirit.” Roundhouse glowered. “Have you not read that Askew had visions of the future?”
“I guess not.”
“Her vision encompassed all the senses. Not merely seeing the future, but getting sounds, smells, tastes as well.”
“Smells?” Bernadette shot a furtive glance at Woodhead, but he was back to wandering the large open kitchen, sniffing.
“That’s correct,” Roundhouse said. “She once smelled burning flesh, thus prophesying her own death when she was burned at the stake.”
“And your group tries to duplicate her visions,” Woodhead said from the kitchen. “Iboga bark, if I’m not mistaken.”
Bernadette shook her head. In money laundering cases, she always let the interviewee take the lead. Not reveal what she already knew or what the evidence was. But Woodhead—a much more experienced investigator of homicides—had ignored all that. Immediately put the cards on the table. Iboga bark. Now Roundhouse knew that CSAB realized drugs were involved.
Suzanne Thao and Vivian Roundhouse stared at each other, then Thao nodded. “Yes. We believe that during her lifetime, divine spirits placed the sacred iboga bark in Askew’s mouth, allowing the visions to come to fruition.”
Roundhouse drew herself to her full height. “I saw a royal throne where Justice should have sit, but in her stead was one of moody cruel wit.”
Bernadette looked Roundhouse in the eyes. “Was that written by Anne Askew?”
“Her ballad, written in prison. We use many parts of her poems and songs in our ceremonies.”
“And you believe that these visions—like Justice on this royal throne—uh, came to fruition due to As
kew’s use of iboga bark?”
Woodhead nodded. “Akin to a reverse eucharist, but with hallucinogens.”
“That’s reductive,” Roundhouse said, her nostrils flaring. “And a little insulting. The iboga bark isn’t magic. Askew had a family in her congregation from West Africa. They brought the sacred iboga bark and Askew used it to grow closer to God.”
Bernadette nodded.
“I’d like to show you some pictures from the crime scene,” Woodhead said.
Bernadette’s head snapped up. “Doctor—that’s not—”
He looked over the top of his glasses at her. “Who better than the Delphinian priest to tell us what the photos might mean?”
“It’s not—” Bernadette started.
“I apologize if these are difficult for you to view,” Woodhead continued, “but the positioning of Mr. Thompson’s body—especially now that we know how Anne Askew was tortured—seems to be symbolic.”
“I can’t let you show Viv those pictures.” Suzanne Thao stepped around the kitchen island between Dr. Woodhead and Vivian Roundhouse. “She’s been through enough as it is.”
“No, no, Suzanne,” Roundhouse said, “if Kymer Thompson’s body was found in the Askew chapel and it has anything to do with Agios Delphi, we need to know. I need to know.”
Dr. Woodhead walked toward the kitchen island, placing the open folder on it. He turned a few sheets, then came upon a paper with a photo array. He looked up grimly at Vivian Roundhouse, nodded almost imperceptibly, then stepped back next to Bernadette.
Roundhouse’s face paled as she turned toward the island. Palms flat on either side of the folder, she leaned forward, her shoulders tense.
“Photos 3A through 3N,” Dr. Woodhead said.
Bernadette nodded—a young man on his back, wrists together above his head, ankles together, straight below his torso.
“That’s the position of the rack,” Roundhouse mumbled.
“The same position in which Anne Askew was tortured,” Woodhead said. “What does it mean?”
“What does it mean?” Roundhouse repeated.
“Forgive me for being crude, but sometimes bodies are found with their tongues cut out because they’ve given the names of their higher-ups to the authorities, for example. Perhaps the position of the rack has similar import.”
Ceremony Page 5