by Kathy Reichs
By the time I got home it was almost ten. Katy had already left a message on my voice mail, a reiteration of the conversation we’d had post-Charlie. Don’t be mad. Give him a chance. He’s cool.
Charlie Hunt might be a prince, but I wasn’t going to date him. A fix-up by my offspring was humiliation I didn’t need.
There were two other messages. Pete. Phone me. A landscaping company. Buy our yard service.
Disappointment. Then the usual mental sparring.
You really thought Ryan would call?
No.
Right.
Whatever.
He’s living with another woman.
They’re not married.
He could have rung from his cell.
Cell.
Grabbing my purse, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.
Let him go.
I miss talking with him.
Talk to the cat.
We’re still friends.
Move on.
Settling in bed, I clicked on the news.
A fifty-seven-year-old teacher was suing the school district, alleging age discrimination as the reason for her firing. An unemployed trucker had won fifteen million dollars in the Powerball lottery.
Bird hopped up and curled at my knee.
“Good for the trucker,” I said, stroking his head.
The cat looked at me.
“The man has five kids and no job.”
Still no feline opinion.
A couple had been arrested for stealing copper wiring from a Tuck-aseegee Road business. In addition to larceny, the resourceful pair were being charged with contributing to the delinquency of minors. Mom and Dad had brought the kids along on the break-ins.
Authorities were investigating the shooting death of a sixty-four-year-old man in his Pineville home. Though police had found no evidence of foul play, the death had been ruled suspicious. The medical examiner would be performing an autopsy.
I drifted off.
“—worship of Satan right here in the cellars and back rooms of our city. Pagan idolatry. Sacrifice. Bloodletting.”
The voice was baritone, the vowels thicker than sap.
My eyes flew open.
The clip was just ending. Overweight and red-faced, Boyce Lingo was delivering one of his media-grab rants.
“Those who follow Lucifer must be dealt with swiftly and harshly. Their evil must be stopped before it seeps into our playgrounds and schools. Before it threatens the very fabric of our society.”
Preacher turned county commissioner, Lingo was a case study of extremist ideology, pseudo-Christianity, pseudo-patriotism, and thinly veiled white-male supremacy. His was a constituency that wanted the economy unregulated, the welfare state small, the military strong, and the citizenry white, native born, and strictly New Testament.
“You moron!” Had I been holding the remote, it would have gone sailing.
Birdie shot from the bed.
“You boneheaded twit!” My palms smacked the mattress.
I heard soft padding, assumed Birdie was increasing his distance. I didn’t care. Tonight’s grandstanding was typical Lingo. The man had a pattern of attaching himself to anything of media interest for a minute of air time or a half inch of print.
Killing the TV and lamp, I lay in the dark, tense and angry. I tossed, kicked the covers, punched the pillow, thoughts and images kaleidoscoping in my brain. The cauldrons. The putrefied chicken. The human cranium and femora.
The school portrait.
Who was she? Had Skinny’s decision been wise? Or should we be broadcasting the girl’s image?
Had the photo already flashed on TV screens somewhere far away, in a market disconnected from the coverage that entered Charlotte homes? Had some anchor reported a missing teen, vanished while on her way home from a ball game, from having pizza with friends? When? Had it been before the advent of centers for missing children and Amber alerts?
Had her parents made pleas to the camera, Mom crying, Dad steely-voiced? Had neighbors and townsfolk offered solace, inwardly thankful that their own children were safe? That, this time, tragedy had not selected them?
How had the picture ended up in that cauldron? The skull? Was it her skull?
And what about the leg bones? Did both come from a single individual?
Did the skull, the femora, and the photo represent one person? Two? Three? More?
My clock radio said 11:40. Twelve twenty. One ten. Out in the garden, a million tree frogs croaked. Erratic gusts scratched leaves across my bedroom window screen.
Why so warm this deep into the fall? It would be cold in Quebec by now. Montreal might even be sporting a dusting of snow.
I thought about Andrew Ryan. I did miss him. But the pragmatist brain cells were definitely right. I had to move on.
I smiled recalling Katy’s postprandial “coincidence.” Her matchmaking had started several years back, intensified with the arrival of Summer. Judd the pharmacist. Donald the veterinarian. Barry the entrepreneur. Sam the what? I never was sure. I refused all offers.
My daughter, the yenta of Dixie.
Now it was Charlie, the public defender.
Katy did have a point. Charlie Hunt was smart, good-looking, available, and interested. Why not give it a try?
Charlie was a 9/11 widower. That meant he carried baggage. Was he ready for a relationship? Was I? I also toted a satchel or two.
Puh-leeze. The man offered coffee.
Lyrics popped into my head. England Dan and John Ford Coley.
I’m not talking ’bout moving in,
And I don’t want to change your life…
There you go.
Moving in. Moving on.
Good old Pete was moving on.
Pete and Summer.
What was Summer’s last name? Glotsky? Grumsky? I made a note to ask.
Again and again, my thoughts veered back to the cellar.
I remembered the doll with the miniature sword piercing her chest. The knife.
The chicken had been decapitated. Had the goat been slaughtered in a similar fashion?
Had there really been a human sacrifice? Like Mark Kilroy, the college student killed in Matamoros. Lingo insinuated as much, but he was just yapping. He had no information. But then, neither did I.
I resolved to find some.
9
THOUGH I’D SLEPT LITTLE, I AGAIN ROSE AT DAWN. COFFEE AND a muffin, and I was on my way to the MCME.
By eight thirty both femora lay on the counter. So did three other sections of long bone. The latter were sawn, and came from a small mammal. Or mammals. Since no anatomical landmarks remained, the osteology text was of no use. I’d need histology to determine species and numbers.
By ten I’d emptied the large cauldron. The remaining soil produced three more red beads, a segment of antler, probably deer, and a small plastic skeleton.
After photographing the collection, I turned to the human femora.
The two leg bones were similar in size and robusticity. Both were slender and lacked prominent muscle attachment sites. One was a left, the other a right. Both were straight, with little shaft concavity, an African-American more than European trait.
As with the skull, I took measurements. Maximum length. Bicondylar breadth. Midshaft circumference. When I’d completed two sets of nine, I ran the numbers through Fordisc 3.0.
Both bones classified as female. Both classified as black.
I turned my attention to age.
As with the cranium, long bones come with some assembly required. Here’s how it works.
As the tubular part, or shaft, elongates throughout childhood, caps, condyles, crests, and tuberosities form around it. It is the joining together of these fiddly bits to the straight bit, sometime in mid to late adolescence, that gives each bone its characteristic shape.
Union occurs in set sequence, at roughly predictable ages. Elbow. Hip. Ankle. Knee. Wrist. Shoulder.
Both femora exhibited identical pattern
s. The hip ends were fully adult, meaning full fusion of the heads to the necks, and of the lesser and greater trochanters to the shafts. At the other end, squiggly lines above the joint surface indicated the articular condyles were still wrapping things up at the knee. The picture suggested death sometime in the late teens.
The leg bones came from a young black female. So did the skull.
I felt, what? Relieved? Resigned? I wasn’t sure.
I flashed on the girl in the photo. The very modern photo.
I surveyed the cauldrons and the artifacts they had held. Thought of the chicken, the goat, the statue, the dolls, the carved wooden effigy.
The human remains.
Deep down, I had a strong hunch what it all meant.
Time for research.
Ninety minutes later I’d learned the following:
A belief system that combines two or more cultural and spiritual ideologies into a single new faith is called a syncretic religion.
In the Americas, most syncretic religions are of Afro-Caribbean origin, having developed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as a result of the slave trade. Forbidden the right to follow their traditional beliefs, African slaves disguised their practices by assigning images of Catholic saints to their gods.
In the United States, the best-known syncretic religions are Santería, voodoo, and brujería. Most followers live in Florida, New Jersey, New York, and California.
Santería, originally called Lucumi, emerged in Cuba and evolved from the southwestern Nigerian Yoruba culture. In Brazil it’s known as Candomble; in Trinidad, as Shango.
Santería recognizes multiple gods, called orishas. The seven big dogs are Eleggua, Obatalla, Chango, Oshun, Yemaya, Babalu Aye, and Oggun. Each has his or her own function or power, weapon or symbol, color, number, feast day, and favorite form of offering.
Each deity has a corresponding Catholic syncretism. Eleggua: Saint Anthony of Padua, the Holy Guardian Angel, or the Christ Child; Obatalla: Our Lady of Las Mercedes, the Holy Eucharist, Christ Resurrected; Chango: Saint Barbara; Oshun: Our Lady of Charity; Yemaya: Our Lady of Regla; Babalu Aye: Saint Lazarus; Oggun: Saint Peter.
The deceased rank with the orishas in Santería, thus ancestor worship is a central tenet. Both the gods and the dead must be honored and appeased. The concepts of ashe and ebbo are fundamental.
Ashe is the energy that permeates the universe. It’s in everything—people, animals, plants, rocks. The orishas are mega-repositories. Spells, ceremonies, and invocations are all conducted to acquire ashe. Ashe gives the power to change things—to solve problems, subdue enemies, win love, acquire money.
Ebbo is the concept of sacrifice. It’s what you do to get ashe. Ebbo can be an offering of fruit, flowers, candles, or food, or it can involve animal sacrifice.
Priests and priestesses are known as santeros and santeras. The priestly hierarchy is complex, the highest rank being babalawo. As with the papacy, girls need not apply. They can be powerful priestesses, but the top job is closed to them.
Except for the extra gods, and the barnyard animals, the setup sounded pretty Catholic to me.
Voodoo originated in Dahomey, now the Republic of Benin, among the Nagos, Ibos, Aradas, Dahomean, and other cultural groups, and evolved in Haiti during the time of slavery.
Voodoo has many deities, known collectively as loa, each corresponding to a Catholic saint. Dambala is Patrick, Legba is Peter or Anthony, Azaka is Isidor, and so on. Like the orishas, each has his or her own icon, realm of responsibility, and preferred offering.
Voodoo altars are kept in small rooms known as badji. Rituals are similar to those performed in Santería. The priesthood is loosely organized, with men called houngan, women mambo. As with Santería, the focus is on white, or positive, magic.
But voodoo has its dark side, the bokors. Hollywood’s portrayal of these specialists in left-handed, or black, magic has given rise to the image of the evil sorcerer casting spells to cause calamity, or to raise zombie slaves from the grave. It is this stereotype that taints the public perception of voodoo.
Brujería, which combines Aztec myth, European witchcraft, and Cuban Santería, has Mexican cultural and religious roots. In the sixteenth century, when Spanish priests declared the pagan goddess Toantzin to be a Roman Catholic, Toantzin’s priestesses went underground and became brujas. Theology evolved to center on Our Lady of Guadalupe, an omniscient and all-powerful goddess who grants human wishes when appropriately propitiated.
Each bruja keeps her spells in a libreta, similar to a Book of Shadows in traditional witchcraft. Most practice solo, but occasionally several organize into groups similar to covens.
I was taking notes from an article in the Journal of Forensic Sciences when Mrs. Flowers rang. Slidell and Rinaldi were in the house.
The wind had been frisky when I’d left home, tickling leaves from trees and swirling them across lawns and walks. Slidell looked like he’d traveled through a wind tunnel. His tie was shoulder-tossed and his hair was doing Grace Jones on one side.
“What’s breaking, doc?” Slidell righted his neckwear and ran a palm across his crown. It helped some.
“Two human leg bones, both from a teenaged black female.”
“The same person as the skull?” Rinaldi was impeccable, with each thin gray strand aligned on his skull.
“Probably. Any luck with the photography studios?”
Rinaldi shook his head.
“I took samples for DNA testing.” I gave him my artifact sheet. “That lists the contents of both cauldrons.”
Opening his briefcase, Rinaldi handed me a brown envelope marked CMPD Crime Lab. While he and Slidell scanned my inventory, I flipped through the photos.
Save for better lighting and more detail, the objects were as I recalled from the cellar. Based on my research, I now recognized the statue as Saint Barbara.
“You catch Lingo last night?” Slidell’s question was directed at me.
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“Any truth there?”
“Look at this.”
I singled out a close-up of the plywood with the Magic Marker glyphs. Slidell picked it up. Rinaldi moved to his side.
“See any pentagrams or inverted crosses?”
“No.”
“I doubt this is Satanism.”
“Great. We know what it ain’t.” Slidell raised theatrical palms. “What the hell is it, voodoo?”
“More like Santería.”
“That some occult herb-doctor thing?”
“Yes and no.”
I explained the basics. Syncretism. Orishas. Ashe and ebbo.
Rinaldi took notes with a Mont Blanc pen.
When I’d finished, I pulled a second photo from the stack and indicated the statue. “Saint Barbara is the cover image for Chango.” I chose another shot and, one by one, tapped the necklaces. “Alternating red and black beads, Eleggua. Alternating red and white, Chango. Yellow and white, Oshun. All white, Obatalla.”
I selected a photo showing the two-faced effigy. “Eleggua, the trickster god.”
“Describe these deities.” Rinaldi poised pen over paper.
I took a minute to compose my thoughts.
“They’re not unlike Catholic saints. Or Greek gods. Each has a function or power. Chango controls thunder, lightning, and fire. Babalu Aye is the patron of the sick, especially skin diseases. Each can help with certain things and inflict certain punishments. For example, Obatalla can cause blindness, paralysis, and birth deformities.”
“Piss off Babalu and you break out in boils?”
“Leprosy or gangrene.” Curt. I was not appreciating Slidell’s sarcasm.
“Ashe is parallel to the Christian concept of grace,” Rinaldi said.
“In a way,” I agreed. “Or mana. Believers strive to acquire ashe because it provides the power to change things. Ebbo is like penance, or kneeling on ashes.”
“Give-ups during Lent.”
I smiled at Rinaldi’s
comparison. “Catholic?”
“With a name like Rinaldi?”
“Every year, mine was chocolate.”
“Comics.”
“These synthetic religions, they roll with offing animals?” Slidell asked.
“Syncretic. Yes. Since different types of sacrifice suit different problems, a serious difficulty or a tough request may require a blood offering.”
Slidell threw up his hands. “Santería, voodoo, who gives a shit? They’re all crazoids.”
“The doc’s saying there are important differences.” Rinaldi, the voice of reason. “Santería evolved in Cuba, that’s Spanish. Voodoo evolved in Haiti, that’s French.”
“Ex-cuse-ay-moi. How many of these wing nuts we got floating around? A handful?”
“Santería, probably several million. Voodoo, maybe as many as sixty million worldwide.”
“Yeah?” Slidell considered, then, “But we’re talking win me the lottery, cure my kid’s bellyache, help get my pecker up, right?”
“Most followers of voodoo and Santería cause no harm, but there is a dark side. Ever hear of Palo Mayombe?”
Two negative head wags.
“Palo Mayombe combines the belief systems of the Congo with those of the Yoruba and Catholicism. Practitioners are known as paleros or mayomberos. Rituals center not on orishas, but on the dead. Paleros use magic to manipulate, captivate, and control, often for their own malevolent purposes.”
“Go on.” Slidell’s voice was now devoid of humor.
“The paleros’s source of power is his cauldron, or nganga. It’s there that the spirits of the dead reside. Human skulls or long bones are often placed in the nganga.”
“Obtained how?” Rinaldi asked.
“Most are purchased from biological supply houses. Occasionally, remains are stolen from cemeteries.”
“So how’s this kid fit in?” Slidell was looking at the skull.
“I don’t know.”
“How’s the animal snuffing fit in?”
“A palero makes a request. Cause sickness, an accident, death. When the spirit of the nganga delivers, blood is offered as an expression of gratitude.”
“Human blood?” Rinaldi asked.
“Usually goat or bird.”
“But human sacrifice is not unheard of.”
