Ceremony

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “Why didn’t—”

  “Shut up for a minute, Kep.”

  They walked in silence for a moment.

  “I’m sorry, Becker.”

  “No, you’re not. You almost got me fired, but you’re not sorry. Sorry you got beat up, maybe.”

  He shook his head. “All right. Well, then, I promise not to disappear again until we solve the case.”

  Bernadette looked at Kep; he was in profile and the cloud of his breath was visible in front of his face. “The only way we get through this is with each other, Kep. We must have each other’s backs. We can’t afford to work at cross purposes.”

  “Then let’s not.” Kep pulled his hat over his ears a bit more. “From my analysis, we have three main suspects.”

  “I see that too. Reverend Roundhouse, Nick LaSalle, and—well, some combination of Douglas Rheinstaller and Cecilia Carter.”

  “And we don’t have alibis for any of them for the time of Kymer Thompson’s murder.”

  “Suzanne Thao says Roundhouse was with her,” Bernadette said. “Although they could be working together.”

  “But Annika Nakrivo says Roundhouse was in her dorm at the time of the murder,” Kep replied. “And for me, two different alibis are as good as none.”

  “But Thompson’s murder doesn’t exist in a vacuum—it’s related to Eddie Taysatch’s shooting and Curtis’s murder.” She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets. “What could Roundhouse possibly have as a motive to kill all those lampreys?”

  “I’ll give you one possibility. Now that all the ammocoetes are dead, the reverend doesn’t need to be concerned about a potential shortage of ibogaine for the church services. If Eponymous Pharmaceutical shuts down the project, in fact, she could purchase a large quantity of concentrated ibogaine for pennies on the dollar.”

  “From who?”

  “From whom, and from the laboratory, of course, once they lose their funding. It would make sense to sell off their assets.”

  Bernadette wrinkled her nose. “You think a priest committed two murders to get more drugs?”

  “It’s a reasonable motive.”

  Bernadette clicked her tongue in thought as she turned left, back toward Colectivo.

  “I’d also like to point out the publicity she’s getting for holding the anchor ceremony for Kymer Thompson. I’d wager that Agios Delphi brings in thousands, even tens of thousands more during the ceremony than they normally do in donations.”

  They crossed West Hadley.

  “What do you want to do about it?” Bernadette asked.

  “You said you got an invitation to the anchor ceremony?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suggest we attend—if for no other reason than to see if Vivian Roundhouse slips up.”

  “Would your nose be able to tell the difference between ibogaine from say, iboga bark from seeds ordered off the internet, or ibogaine that’s been concentrated then diluted?”

  Kep shook his head. “I expect everyone will be given a share of crushed iboga bark to place under their tongues. Even if cheap and plentiful ibogaine is the motive, Roundhouse won’t use the concentrated ibogaine liquid tonight.”

  “She would if she’s the murderer. The killer had enough ibogaine to inject lethal doses into both Tommy and Curtis.”

  “I meant that she wouldn’t use the liquid as part of the ritual. The chewing of the bark is paramount. What do you propose she’ll do—bake the ibogaine into communion wafers?”

  “Of course not. I think she’ll shred bark from a tree that doesn’t cost a few thousand dollars to grow, and she’ll soak the bark in the ibogaine.”

  Kep blinked. “Intriguing theory, Becker. Its validity depends on the reverend’s current supply of iboga bark.”

  “Sure. At some point, we can get a warrant for her backyard and see how much stuff she’s growing.” She folded her arms. “But there’s one more thing that worries me, Kep.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We don’t yet know why both Thompson and Taysatch were targeted. They were the lead researchers on the project. Maybe it was because they would be notified if an alarm went off at the lab. But it could be what they knew. Or it could be some religious motive, if we’re suspecting the reverend.”

  “Oh, I see,” Kep said. “Ibogaine is a holy substance and shouldn’t have secular usage—something like that?”

  “Yep. I could see someone from Agios Delphi taking their religious fervor about Anne Askew and the significance of iboga bark a little too far.”

  “And that means—”

  “Jude Lightman is still in danger. All the lab employees might be in danger.”

  “Do you think religious fervor has anything to do with Annika’s kidnapping?”

  Bernadette shut her eyes tight and stopped walking. “Intellectually, yeah. There are a lot of things about a religious motive that make sense.” She opened her eyes again. “But somehow it doesn’t feel right. Vivian Roundhouse doesn’t seem like the kind of deluded cult leader who would inspire followers to kill for her. Or who could convince her congregation that killing Tommy and Curtis was for the greater good.”

  Kep tilted his head. “Have you any clue how to identify a deluded cult leader?”

  Bernadette grunted.

  “No. Therefore, I agree we should attend the anchor ceremony tonight.” Kep looked into Bernadette’s face. “We have a few hours to get more information before the ritual.”

  Bernadette bit her lip. “I think we should head to the medical center and see Annika Nakrivo.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I know she’s still there. They kept her overnight for observation. Maybe she remembers something else.”

  Kep tilted his head to the side.

  “And there are a lot of loose ends,” Bernadette continued. “I want to hear why she left Miami. Why she changed her look to duplicate Mariska Sikmo. What her plans are if the project gets cancelled. That kind of thing.”

  “You plan to interrogate a woman who was kidnapped?”

  Did Kep honestly want to break out the kid gloves now? “We’re trying to solve a murder, Kep.”

  “It’s not unusual for a young woman to earn money for college by becoming an ecdysiast.”

  “For the love of all that is good and pure, Kep, if I have to start carrying a dictionary around when I’m with you, I’ll beat you with it.”

  Kep grinned sheepishly. “An ecdysiast is someone who takes their clothes off for money.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes. “Make sure you use that word around her. That’ll get her to really open up.”

  He paused for a moment. “You know, you did tell Maura and Dunn that you would procure some coffee for them.”

  Bernadette nodded. “You’re right.” Bernadette abruptly turned left on Christine Street and Kep almost slipped on a patch of ice trying to follow her. “So—Vivian Roundhouse had means and opportunity. But motive is tricky.”

  “I disagree. Whether the motive is religion or cheaper drugs, people have killed for less.”

  They walked in silence until they arrived at Colectivo, where Kep opened the door for Bernadette. She stood in line, Kep behind her, and didn’t speak until she gave the coffee order to the cashier.

  Bernadette turned, the noise of the espresso machine echoing off the concrete walls of the coffee shop, and took a seat next to the window. Kep took off his wool hat and sat on the stool next to her.

  She looked out; the morning commute was starting to fade on King Street. She saw a couple on the opposite sidewalk. They looked to be in their late twenties, holding hands. Maybe walking to work together.

  Were she and Barlow ever like that, holding hands, walking down a D.C. sidewalk in the winter? Or did they lose that after Sophie was born, when Bernadette was too wrapped up in her work and Barlow drifted away?

  She stared out the window until the couple went around the corner. “This case has been a disaster ever since we got here, Kep.”

 
“I wouldn’t call it a disaster.”

  Bernadette hesitated. She didn’t want to lay all her cards on the table, but nothing she had done had worked so far. No wonder Martin had warned her with the letter.

  Screw it—who cared if Kep knew everything? “We’ve made enemies of all the witnesses. We can’t track our main suspects. I can’t even keep you on task.” She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Nothing has worked out in this investigation.”

  “You haven’t been anyone’s handler for ten years,” Kep said. “It might be similar to riding a bike, but if you haven’t done it in a while, you’re still wobbly. You can’t expect to compete in the Tour de France right away.”

  Bernadette folded her hands on the table. He’d done his research on her—or maybe Maura spoke to him about the past. Maybe Bernadette had gotten through to him—he might be, for the first time, scared that her resignation would be the end of his CSAB career. This was the first time he’d said anything encouraging to her. “If you and I want to turn this case around, Kep, we have work to do. We haven’t uncovered the right clues yet. Sure, we can go through the motions of interviewing Annika Nakrivo in the hospital and attending the anchor ceremony tonight, but—”

  Bernadette stopped mid-sentence.

  “What?”

  “Parr Medical paid Nick LaSalle tens of thousands of dollars to put that keylogging software on Thompson’s PC.”

  “Which we can’t prove yet.”

  “Here’s what doesn’t make sense, Kep. If Vivian Roundhouse is the killer, then the keyloggers don’t have anything to do with the murder.”

  Kep nodded. “I agree, but it doesn’t need to. They can be two separate issues.”

  Bernadette traced an imaginary squiggle on the table with her finger. “Except this result is exactly what Parr Medical wanted. They wanted the lampreys killed. They wanted the research project terminated.”

  “Are you suggesting that Nick LaSalle is a better suspect than Roundhouse? Do you believe he killed both Kymer Thompson and Curtis Janek acting on his own? That doesn’t fit.”

  “I’m saying,” Bernadette said, “that nothing fits yet. Rheinstaller and Carter don’t fit either. Yeah, we can prove their unholy union to poison the lampreys—but I don’t think either of them were in the building the night the fish died. It makes sense for Roundhouse to be involved, up to a point. But then things start to fall apart. Same thing with LaSalle.”

  “In that case,” Kep said, “we must keep pushing.”

  The barista came around the corner, a drink carrier in his left hand.

  Kep took the carrier. “We work the assignment we were given. For most of the investigations on which I consult, I often arrive a minimum of forty-eight hours after the murder was committed. I consider us fortunate that a full day hadn’t passed on this adventure. However, I must caution you that we cannot find justice in every case. We cannot capture every criminal. The scholarship payment was unusual; I grant you that. I believe it lulled us into a false sense that we would unlock the secrets of this murder quickly. Yet that payment, by itself, doesn’t rise to the level of evidence. I can think of no judge who would approve a warrant based solely on Nick LaSalle’s scholarship award.”

  “Well, then, Kep.” She took her coffee. “If Nick LaSalle is innocent, why did he run away?”

  Kep stood up and put his wool hat back on. “You seem confident that LaSalle fled. Have you seen evidence of his escape? Have we even checked at the university to see if he was absent from work? Or missing from his domicile?”

  “No.” Bernadette stood. “But something else is bugging you.”

  Kep hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Yes. It has been bothering me all morning, in fact. I can’t identify my discomfort, however.”

  “When did you first start feeling like this?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re sure. You just don’t want to tell me.”

  Kep pushed his glasses up. “The Camry from last evening. There’s something odd about the smell.”

  “Fast food and perfume?”

  Kep shook his head as if he were clearing cobwebs. “It’s not the scent profile. It’s like something doesn’t fit.”

  “Did you smell something your nose recognized but your brain didn’t?”

  “I don’t know.” He took his drink from the carrier and sipped. “I was hoping it would come to me with a good night’s sleep.”

  Bernadette laughed, a giggle at first, then a throaty, full laugh. “How’d that good night’s sleep work out for you?”

  After leaving the coffees with the lieutenant and the detective, Bernadette and Kep drove toward the hospital.

  Kep looked out the window. “Have you heard anything about what the anchor ceremony entails?”

  “No.”

  Kep tapped his fingers on the armrest. “I wonder if there’s anything to this whole idea that Anne Askew was tortured on a rack—if that position Kymer Thompson was found in reveals anything about the murderer.”

  Bernadette gasped.

  Kep tilted his head. “Are you all right?”

  “Nick LaSalle wasn’t a member of Agios Delphi, Kep.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “So he wouldn’t have known to position Kymer Thompson’s body in that way.”

  Kep squinted, thinking. “That’s not a reasonable conclusion.” He turned toward Bernadette in his seat. “LaSalle’s the one who put the keylogger program on Kymer Thompson’s machine, correct? Therefore, he could read what Thompson was typing. While most attackers try to steal passwords or credit card information, we believe LaSalle was after more than that. Information, probably about the lampreys and about security at the laboratory. Thompson could have been on some sort of Agios Delphi forum and been arguing over the transubstantiation of iboga bark.”

  “Or what position Delphinians are placed in when they die. Stuff like that>”

  “Correct. It’s possible LaSalle read that information—and used it—when he was looking for the lamprey data.”

  Bernadette nodded. “Is the tech team looking through Nick LaSalle’s computer? Maybe his cloud files? Seeing if Kymer Thompson wrote anything that would lead LaSalle to know about the death pose?”

  “We should ask Curt—” Kep snapped his mouth shut.

  Bernadette shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. “Yes. It’s tough to believe he’s gone.”

  “It’s tougher for Maura.”

  “The faster we solve this case, the better for Maura. We can fly back tomorrow or maybe the day after. She can drink a couple of vodka tonics in first class, slip her eye mask on, and not deal with anything or anyone for a few hours. She’ll have the weekend to process it.”

  Kep nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “And we can ask Lesley Gill to go over the computer. Assuming her team has access, anyway.”

  They parked in the hospital lot and stepped out into the bright March morning. It was warming up; Bernadette was sweating in her parka; she took it off and placed it back on the seat. The air was cold with only her blazer protecting her, but the chill nipping at her cheeks and nose was refreshing.

  “Do you know what you’ll ask Annika?” Bernadette asked.

  Kep shook his head. “Maybe you can interrogate her about what she remembers. Try to walk her through it. Take your time; it’s possible something will jog her memory.”

  The hospital lobby was warm, and Bernadette was glad she’d left her parka in the car.

  She strode to the front desk, her CSAB identification badge in her hand. “Good morning,” she said brightly, although she suspected everyone could tell how fake her enthusiasm was. “We’re federal investigators here to see Annika Nakrivo regarding yesterday’s incident.”

  “Certainly,” the woman behind the desk said. She looked to be in her late sixties or early seventies, wearing light blue short-sleeved scrubs and looking down her nose through her glasses at the computer monitor in front of her. “Nakrivo�
��room 275D. Down the main hall to the elevators, up to the second floor, then turn right. It’ll be the nurse’s station after the restrooms.” She glanced up at Bernadette. “Looks like she’s getting discharged this afternoon.”

  They walked down the hall to the elevators and got in.

  “What floor?” Kep asked.

  “Weren’t you paying attention? Two.”

  Kep pushed the button, then his face darkened. “Did we station an officer at her door?”

  “I don’t know. We don’t command those resources. Maura probably made the request—she’d be the one liaising with the Milwaukee Police Department.”

  The lines on Kep’s forehead grew.

  “What?”

  “Maura’s not on her game. Curtis was killed. I don’t know if they were official, or if they were just a fling, but it’s obvious that Maura cared about him. She’s not thinking clearly.”

  The elevator doors opened, and Bernadette stepped out with Kep on her heels. “If you’re saying that she can’t handle this situation because she’s a woman, Kep, I swear to—”

  “I’m saying she can’t handle it because someone she cares about just died,” Kep snapped. “You don’t know what a mess I was when my son was killed. Do you have any idea how many errors in judgment I made? How my marriage unraveled because I made bad decisions? It’s not because she’s a woman, it’s because she’s human.” His upper lip curled. “You couldn’t even handle a Christmas party when you found out your husband cheated on you. Let’s not pretend either one of us is better than Maura.”

  Bernadette was silent for a moment, with only the sound of their footsteps on the smooth floor keeping them company. Finally, she took a deep breath. “That must have been hard.”

  “Yes.”

  The hallway turned to the left, and Bernadette almost tripped over Officer Lamar Chesapeake sitting on a folding chair—in front of room 275D.

  “We meet again,” Chesapeake said, grinning and standing. “Agent Becker?”

  “That’s me. Um—Bernadette. Call me Bernadette.” She motioned to the door number. “Annika Nakrivo’s room, right?”

  “That’s correct. And you can call me Lamar.”