It dawned on me as we stood there that Ben had been inordinately quiet ever since making his comment to Mandalay about her memory for facts and statistics. I looked over to find him staring blankly in my direction as he slowly massaged his neck. His face was creased with an unmistakable look of consternation, and his eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into space. I couldn’t tell for certain if he was looking at me, past me, or through me, and for a moment I wondered if he had even been paying attention. Of course, I knew better. He didn’t miss much, and his next words were a testament to that fact.
“So we’re lookin’ for some kinda seriously sick psycho-bitch who just became a serial killer,” he mumbled before I could say a word; his dark eyes were still glazed and unblinking. “Given what she did to ‘im, that’s kinda obvious though. Ya’ got anything else, Row? Anything at all?”
“No, Ben,” I replied. “Sorry. I know it’s not much help.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t matter. That ain’t what I asked you ta’ come here for anyway.”
“Why then?”
“There’s somethin’ else I want ya’ to look at.”
“What?”
“Remember that design that was carved into Wentworth?” he asked.
“You mean the heart shape?” I asked. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, Felicity and I had a theory about that. We were thinking maybe it’s a tattoo of some sort.”
“That a Twilight Zone thing?”
“Yes and no. I did have a quick flash of a similar symbol, but actually the tattoo idea is just a mundane theory.”
“Yeah, well I think you might be able to mark that one off the list. Let’s see what you make of this,” my friend said, then finally blinked, turned his head slightly and called out, “Yo, Marty, you done with the table?”
“Yeah,” the photographer replied. “Just be careful, it’s touchy.”
Ben turned his gaze back on me then pointed across the room. I followed his finger to a round table positioned in the corner. The horrific centerpiece on the bed had been the immediate focal point upon entering the room, and I hadn’t even noticed the table until just now when he pointed it out.
Two straight-backed chairs, one of which was still neatly tucked beneath, flanked the piece of furniture. The other seat, however, was pulled out as if someone had been sitting there. A glowing swag lamp was suspended only a few feet above the center of the table’s surface to cast illumination downward on that specific section of the room. It wasn’t the brightest light in the place by any means, but it was more than enough to highlight a yellowish substance that appeared to have been poured onto the table.
“Go have a look,” my friend instructed. “Just don’t touch it.”
I turned and gave him a puzzled glance then walked the twenty or so feet across to the corner. Agent Drew was already well ahead of me.
After only a pair of steps, what had at first appeared to be a random spill began to reveal a pattern. After another few steps, that pattern looked deliberate. A short moment later when I found myself standing next to the table, I was staring down at a tangle of yellow lines that were clearly so intricate as to be considered artful.
More than that, however, what the lines formed was eerily familiar.
On one third of the table had been drawn a cross. It wasn’t your typical cross however, instead being a pair of intersecting lines that were exactly the same length. At each of the vertices formed by the four ninety-degree angles of the intersection were scribed smaller crosses. At each end of the vertical line resided yet another cross. These, however, were encompassed in small circles. Starbursts adorned the ends of the horizontal bar, flanked inwardly by ornate, leaf-like designs. A complex filigree of both thick and thin lines slashed across the arms of the cross in both perpendicular and diagonal swaths then sprouted outward, through, and around the base design.
Positioned near the center of the artwork was a cigar-judging from the size, a petit corona. The band, however, told a more intriguing story. If the words could be believed, the stogie was contraband-a real-deal Cuban cigar.
Opposite the roll of tobacco was a bone that appeared like it might have once belonged to a chicken drumstick. At least that is the animal I suspected it had come from, even though it had obviously been stripped, bleached and well dried. Still, considering that I had seen this symbol before and knew what it was meant to represent, I was fairly confident that my identification was correct.
Gracing the next third of the table, next to the cross, was another complex drawing. The basis for this one instantly struck a nerve, as it was a heart pierced by a dagger. Within the confines of the outline, carefully spaced and curved gridlines created an almost three-dimensional quilted look to the heart itself. Around the outside, an intricate frill decorated the border, and splaying out from it was yet another purposefully twisting filigree.
Planned within the branching design were two blank patches. One of which held a filterless cigarette. The other, a glass filled with a translucent, brown liquid, which I had an inkling would prove to be rum.
By sight, this second drawing was as equally familiar as the first, if not more so considering my recent vision. Unfortunately, that was where my experience with it ended, and I did not know its inherent meaning. However, I knew all too well the significance of the cross, and that just told me that I now knew where to look in order to find the other.
And, it wasn’t in a tattoo artist’s design book.
Below the two symbols, filling the last third of the surface was an even more recognizable depiction of a circle divided into thirds by curving lines. It too was intricately filigreed but still obvious in its design. Positioned within its borders was what appeared to be a tube of lipstick and a small bottle of perfume.
“I don’t believe this,” I muttered under my breath.
Apparently, Ben could still hear me because he replied with, “Yeah, fuckin’ weird, huh? The bone is what made me call ya’. That, and the heart, obviously. Either way, when I saw the bone the frickin’ hair on my neck stood up.”
“What?…” I shook my head for a second before what he said registered then I began to stammer, “Oh, yeah… Yeah, that’s… And…” I finally stopped myself before I could look any more the fool and asked, “Does anyone know where the victim is originally from?”
“Why?”
“Because this doesn’t make any sense.”
“So it’s just crap?” he asked hopefully. “It’s not what I was thinkin’ it might be?”
I shook my head vigorously. “That depends on what you were thinking.”
“What is it?” Constance asked.
I shot her a quick glance. “Do you remember a little while ago asking me if there was an occult element to Wentworth’s murder?”
“Yes,” she replied. “You never really gave me a firm answer on that.”
“Well I am now.”
“Jeezus… Fuck me…” Ben muttered. “I just knew you were gonna say that. I just knew it.”
“Well, it’s why you wanted me to come here, isn’t it?”
“Fuck no,” he spat. “What I wanted was for ya’ ta’ come in here and say ‘what the hell is that?’ then get mad at me for draggin’ your ass down here. What I didn’t want was for you ta’ actually tell me it’s some kinda hocus-pocus shit.”
“Why are you getting so wound up about it?” I asked.
“‘Cause the last time you told me the crap was the real deal it got way too weird.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is the real thing,” I told him. “Most of it, anyway.”
“Whaddaya mean most of it?”
“Well, it has all the elements, but given the scene it’s definitely been bastardized to fit an agenda.” I pointed to the table and moved my finger slowly about. “These designs are what’s called veve. They’re ritual symbols used to represent godlike spirits known as Lwa. This one…”
“So, you’re saying this is some kind of WitchCraft?” Agent Drew interrupted, his tone still overtly skeptical but somewhat less confrontational than before.
“No, not WitchCraft, it’s…”
“What then?” he demanded, once again cutting me off before I could complete the sentence.
“Stop interrupting the man, Agent Drew,” Mandalay ordered.
“…Voodoo,” I finished. “Or like I was saying, a bastardized form of it.”
“Come on,” he groaned. “Voodoo isn’t real. It’s all just a bunch of Hollywood crap.”
“No, Agent Drew, it’s very real,” I replied. “Whether you want to believe it or not. Don’t they teach you anything about alternative religions at the FBI academy?”
“They teach us about cults.”
“Well, this isn’t a cult. It’s an actual religion.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
I ignored his rebuke and pointed to the designs on the table once again, indicating toward the ornate cross with my index finger. “This veve here I’ve seen before. It represents Papa Legba. He’s what you would pretty much call the head Lwa. He stands at the crossroads between the material world and the spiritual world and facilitates communication between the living and the dead.
“The cigar and chicken bone are offerings to him… Gifts given in order to persuade him to open the gate between the worlds so that the practitioner can speak to the spirit of a departed loved one, or even another Lwa.”
“Well, whatever the reason, whoever did this is a hell of an artist,” Mandalay observed.
“That’s actually part of what marks this as real,” I told her. “The ability to properly and accurately draw veve is a basic but very important part of the religious practice.”
“You’re trying to tell us Voodoo is a religion?” Drew piped up.
“What did you think it was?” I asked.
“Like I said, bullshit,” he replied.
“Yeah, well, ya’ learn somethin’ new every day, don’tcha’,” Ben jibed.
“These had to take quite a bit of time,” Mandalay murmured as she continued scanning the tabletop with her eyes.
“Probably less than you would think for a skilled practitioner,” I offered. “But, yeah, they still took a little bit of time to make.”
“What is that? Sand?” she asked.
“Crime scene guys took a sample for the lab,” Ben offered.
“I think they’ll probably tell you it’s just plain cornmeal,” I explained. “That’s what is commonly used for this.”
“Cornmeal,” my friend repeated then paused.
I looked over and noticed that he was taking notes.
“Sometimes flour, ashes, chalk or some other such thing,” I added. “But, this definitely looks like cornmeal.”
“Okay,” he said, looking up from his notebook and nodding toward the table. “Does that mean anything?”
“It’s just another indicator that this was at least done by someone who is either a practitioner or has deeply studied Voodoo.”
“Okay, so you say the top one is for Poppa Whosits. What about the other two?”
“Papa Legba,” I corrected him then shrugged and pointed to the circle that had been divided into thirds. “This one looks for all the world like a triskele, which is a Celtic symbol that is commonly used in various forms of WitchCraft. But, given the nature of the ritual done here, I would guess that’s not what it’s meant to be. The other one, I don’t know. But, it definitely makes the connection with Wentworth.”
“Okay, so whaddaya mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean exactly that. I don’t know. We’ll have to look it up.”
“Why don’t you know it?” Drew asked, a hint of smugness returning to his voice. “I thought you were some kind of expert.”
“I never claimed to be an expert, and I’m also not a Voodoo practitioner. I’ve just read up on it a bit.” I replied. “Look, I’m perfectly willing to admit that I don’t know everything.”
“Okay, so then how do you know that you’re right about the other one?” he pressed.
“Because I’ve actually seen it pictured in a ritual context before. Like I said, I’ve read up on it some.”
“Apparently not enough.”
Mandalay opened her mouth to admonish him, and I immediately laid my hand on her forearm and shook my head.
“You’re Catholic, correct, Agent Drew?” I asked.
He cast a suspicious eye toward me. “Yeah, how did you know?”
“Nothing particularly esoteric on my part,” I replied. “Just your exclamation earlier, ‘ Holy Mary Mother of God ’. I’ve only heard that from Catholics.”
He relaxed noticeably then gave me a curt nod. “Yeah, okay. So what’s that got to do with anything?”
“I assume you went to a Catholic school?”
“Yeah.”
I continued. “Attended your religion classes like you were supposed to?”
“I still don’t see what this has to do with anything.”
“I’m just establishing that you are well educated in your faith.”
“Okay. So?”
“So, can you name the original seven archangels for me?”
“Michael, Gabriel, Raphael…” he began confidently but almost immediately tapered off into silence.
I waited a moment then finished the list for him. “Anael, Samael, Sachiel, and Caffiel.”
“Yeah.” He nodded in agreement. “It’s been awhile. So, how do you know them?”
“I’ve studied Judeo-Christian practices a little deeper than some other religions. In particular, Catholicism.”
“Why?”
“Self-preservation… Anyway, back to the archangels. I suppose that asking you to draw their sigils for me would be out of the question?”
“Their what?”
“The symbols that represent each of them,” I said then pointed at the table. “Like the veve for the Lwa.”
“Okay, fine,” he conceded. “I think I get your point.”
“If you wanna win an argument with Row, pick somethin’ he doesn’t know anything about,” Ben offered, taking pity on the younger man.
“I get it.” Drew nodded. “Don’t argue religion with Gant.”
“I’m still not claiming to be an expert,” I reminded them. “Voodoo definitely isn’t my area.”
“But, you’re sure this is Voodoo?” Ben asked, turning his attention to me and ignoring his own advice. “I mean, shouldn’t there be a doll with some pins in it or somethin’?”
“No. That would be a poppet, and then we’d be talking WitchCraft not Voodoo.”
“Fuck me,” he muttered as he shook his head. “I thought… No… Forget it… I don’t even wanna know.”
An urgent but muffled trill began warbling up the audible scale, and we all looked at one another out of reflex.
“Not mine,” Constance offered.
Ben’s voice fell in behind hers, “Me neither.”
The escalating tune ended on a high note, only to start anew a good measure louder.
“It sounds like mine,” I said aloud.
Out of reflex I reached into my jacket pocket at just about the same instant Agent Drew was announcing that it wasn’t his either; however, I found that the pocket was empty. At that moment the trilling tones started anew and were far louder.
“Crap,” Ben muttered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’ve still got your phone.”
Pulling out one cell and glancing at it quickly, he shook his head; he reached back in and withdrew another and then handed it to me. I instantly thumbed the annoying gadget to life and placed it to my ear as I said a quick hello.
Instead of a similar salutation, I was greeted immediately by my wife’s stilted voice-her audible annoyance reigned in only by a forced, but obviously wavering, patience. “Rowan, would you please have Ben come outside and tell this young officer that I am supposed to be here.”