Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  “What do they promise?”

  “You name it. Not all cults are religious. The public has that idea because back in the sixties and seventies a lot of groups registered as churches for the tax break. Cults come in all shapes and sizes and promise all kinds of benefits. Health. Overthrow of the government. A trip to outer space. Immortality.”

  “I still don’t see why anyone but a nutcase would fall for such crap.”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head. “It’s not just marginal people who get sucked in. In some studies approximately two thirds of the respondents came from normal families and were demonstrating age-appropriate behavior when they entered a cult.”

  I looked at the tiny Navajo rug beneath my feet. The mental itch was back. What was it? Why couldn’t I bring it to the surface?

  “Has your research shed light on why people seek out these movements?”

  “Often they don’t. These groups seek you. And as I’ve said, these leaders can be incredibly charming and persuasive.”

  Dom Owens fit that description. Who was he? An ideologue forcing his whims on malleable followers? Or just a health-fad prophet trying to grow organic butter beans?

  Again I thought of Daisy Jeannotte. Was she right? Had the public become overly fearful of Satan worshipers and doomsday prophets?

  “How many cults exist in the U.S.?” I asked.

  “Depending on your definition”—he gave a wry smile and spread his hands—“anywhere from three to five thousand.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “One of my colleagues estimates that over the past two decades as many as twenty million people have had some involvement with a cult. She believes that at any given time the number is two to five million people.”

  “Do you agree?” I was astounded.

  “It’s awfully hard to know. Some groups inflate their numbers by counting as a member anyone who ever attended a meeting or requested information. Others are very secretive, and keep as low a profile as possible. The police discover some groups only indirectly, if there’s a problem, or if a member leaves and files a complaint. The small ones are particularly hard to track.”

  “Ever hear of Dom Owens?”

  He shook his head. “What’s the name of his group?”

  “They don’t use one.”

  Down the hall a printer whirred to life.

  “Are there any organizations in the Carolinas that the police are monitoring?”

  “Not my area, Tempe. I’m a sociologist. I can tell you how these groups work, but not necessarily who’s at the plate at any given time. I can try to find out if it’s important.”

  “I just don’t get it, Red. How can people be so gullible?”

  “It’s seductive to think that you’re elite. Chosen. Most cults teach their members that only they are enlightened and everyone else in the world is left out. Lesser in some way. It’s powerful stuff.”

  “Red, are these groups violent?”

  “Most aren’t, but there are the exceptions. There was Jonestown, Waco, Heaven’s Gate, and the Solar Temple. Obviously their members didn’t fare too well. Remember the Rajneesh cult? They attempted to poison the water supply in some town in Oregon, and made threatening moves toward the county officials. And Synanon? Those fine citizens placed a diamondback in the mailbox of a lawyer who brought suit against them. The guy barely survived.”

  I vaguely recalled the incident.

  “What about small groups, the ones with less profile?”

  “Most are harmless, but some are sophisticated and potentially dangerous. I can think of only a few that have crossed the line in recent years. Does this have to do with a case?”

  “Yeah. No. I’m not sure.” I picked at a hangnail on my thumb.

  He hesitated. “Is it Katy?”

  “What?”

  “Is Katy involved with . . .”

  “Oh no, nothing like that. Really. It’s related to a case. I came across this commune in Beaufort and they got me thinking.”

  The border of my nail began to bleed.

  “Dom Owens.”

  I nodded.

  “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “No.”

  “I can make a few calls if you’d like.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Do you want a Band-Aid?”

  I dropped my hands and stood.

  “No, thanks. I really won’t keep you any longer. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Any more questions, you know where I am.”

  * * *

  Back in my office, I sat and watched shadows lengthen across the room, the feeling of an unformed thought still teasing my mind. The building was heavy with after-hours quiet.

  Was it Daisy Jeannotte? I’d forgotten to ask Red if he knew her. Was that it?

  No.

  What was it that kept calling from the labyrinth of my neural wiring? Why couldn’t I drag it into consciousness? What link did my id see that I did not?

  My eyes fell on the small collection of mystery writers I keep on campus for exchange with colleagues. What did these authors call it? The “Had-I-But-Known” technique. Was that it? Was tragedy approaching because of a subconscious message I couldn’t manage to retrieve?

  What tragedy? Another death in Quebec? More killings in Beaufort? Harm to Kathryn? Another attack on me, with more serious consequences?

  Somewhere a phone rang and rang, then stopped abruptly as the messaging service cut in. Silence.

  I tried Pete’s number again. No answer. He was probably off on another deposition trip. It didn’t matter. I knew Birdie wasn’t there.

  I got up and started filing papers, sorted through a stack of reprints, then switched to shelving books. I knew it was avoidance, but couldn’t help myself. The thought of going home was unbearable.

  Ten minutes of restless activity. Don’t think. Then,

  “Oh hell, Birdie!”

  I slammed a copy of Baboon Ecology onto the desk and slumped into my chair.

  “Why did you have to be there? I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry, Bird.”

  I lay my head on the blotter and sobbed.

  THURSDAY WAS DECEPTIVELY PLEASANT.

  In the morning I had two small surprises. The call to my insurance carrier went well. Both repairmen I phoned were available and would start work immediately.

  During the day I taught my classes and revised the CAT scan paper for the physical anthropology conference. Late in the afternoon Ron Gillman reported that the Crime Scene Recovery unit had found nothing useful in the debris from my kitchen. No surprise there. He’d asked patrol to keep an eye on my place.

  I also heard from Sam. He had no news, but was becoming increasingly convinced the bodies had been dropped on his island by dope dealers. He was taking it as a personal challenge and had dug out an old twelve gauge and stashed it under a bunk in the field station.

  On the way home from the university I stopped at the Harris Teeter superstore across from the Southpark Shopping Center and bought all of my favorite foods. I worked out at the Harris YMCA and arrived at the Annex around six-thirty. The window had been fixed and a workman was just finishing sanding the floor. Every surface in the kitchen was coated in fine white dust.

  I cleaned the stove and counters, then fixed crab cakes and a goat cheese salad and ate them while watching a rerun of “Murphy Brown.” The Murph was tough. I resolved to be more like her.

  During the evening I revised the CAT scan paper again, watched a Hornets’ game, and thought about my taxes. I resolved to do that, too. But not this week. At eleven I fell asleep with the copies of Louis-Philippe’s journal spread across the bed.

  Friday was scripted by Satan. It was then I got my first inkling of the horror about to unfold.

  * * *

  The Murtry victims arrived from Charleston early in the morning. By nine-thirty I was gloved and goggled and had the cases spread out in my lab. One table held the skull and bone samples
Hardaway had removed during his autopsy of the lower corpse. The other held a full skeleton. The technicians at the medical university had done an excellent job. All the bones looked clean and undamaged.

  I started with the body from the bottom of the pit. Though putrefied, it had retained enough soft tissue to allow a full autopsy. Sex and race were evident, so Hardaway wanted my help only in assessing age. I left the pathologist’s report and photos until later since I didn’t want to bias my conclusions by knowing his.

  I popped the X-rays onto the light box. Nothing unusual. In the cranial views I could see that all thirty-two teeth were erupted, their roots fully formed. There were no restorations or missing teeth. I noted this on a case form.

  I walked to the first table and looked at the skull. The gap at the cranial base was fused. This was not an adolescent.

  I studied the rib ends and the surfaces where the halves of the pelvis join in front, the pubic symphyses. The ribs had moderately deep indentations where cartilage had connected them to the breastbone. Wavy ridges ran across the pubic symphyseal faces, and I could see tiny nodules of bone along the outer border of each.

  The throat end of each collarbone was fused. The upper edge of each hip blade retained a thin line of separation.

  I checked my models and histograms, and wrote down my estimate. The woman was twenty to twenty-eight years of age when she died.

  Hardaway wanted a full analysis on the subsurface burial. Again I started with the X-rays. Again they were unremarkable, except for the perfect dentition.

  I already suspected this victim was also female, as I’d told Ryan. As I’d laid out the bones, I’d noted the smooth skull and delicate facial architecture. The broad, short pelvis with its distinctly feminine pubic area confirmed my initial impression.

  This woman’s age indicators were similar to those of the first victim, though her pubic symphyses showed deep ridges across their entire surfaces and lacked the little nodes.

  I estimated this victim had died slightly younger, probably in her late teens or early twenties.

  For the question of ancestry, I returned to the cranium. The mid-face region was classic, especially the nasal features: high bridge between the eyes, narrow opening, prominent lower border and spine.

  I took measurements that I would analyze statistically, but I knew the woman was white.

  I measured the long bones, fed the data into the computer, and ran the regression equations. I was entering a height estimate into the case form when the phone rang.

  “If I stay here one more day I’m going to need complete linguistic retraining,” Ryan said, then added, “y’all.”

  “Catch a bus north.”

  “I thought it was just you, but now I see it’s not your fault.”

  “It’s hard to overcome one’s roots.”

  “Yo.”

  “Have you learned anything new?”

  “I saw a great bumper sticker this morning.”

  I waited.

  “Jesus loves you. Everyone else thinks you’re an asshole.”

  “Is that what you called to tell me?”

  “That was the bumper sticker.”

  “We are a religious people.”

  I looked at the clock. Two-fifteen. I realized I was famished and reached for the banana and Moon Pie I’d brought from home.

  “I’ve spent some time observing Dom’s little ashram. Not very useful. Thursday morning three of the faithful piled into a van and drove off. Other than that I saw no traffic in or out.”

  “Kathryn?”

  “Didn’t see her.”

  “Did you run the plates?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Both vans are registered to Dom Owens at the Adler Lyons address.”

  “Does he have a driver’s license?”

  “Issued by the great Palmetto State in 1988. No record of a previous license. Apparently the reverend just walked in and took the exam. He pays his insurance right on time. In cash. No record of claims. No record of traffic arrests or citations.”

  “Utilities?” I tried not to crinkle the cellophane.

  “Phone, electric, and water. Owens pays cash.”

  “Does he have a Social Security number?”

  “Issued in 1987. But there’s no record of any activity. Never paid in, never requested benefits of any kind.”

  “Eighty-seven? Where was he before that?”

  “An insightful question, Dr. Brennan.”

  “Mail?”

  “These folks are not great correspondents. They get the usual personal greetings addressed to ‘Occupant,’ and the utility bills, of course, but that’s it. Owens has no box, but there could be a drop under another name. I staked the post office briefly, but didn’t recognize any of the flock.”

  A student appeared in the doorway and I shook my head.

  “Were there prints on your key chain?”

  “Three beauties, but no hits. Apparently Dom Owens is a choirboy.”

  Silence stretched between us.

  “There are kids living at that place. What about Social Services?”

  “You’re not half bad, Brennan.”

  “I watch a lot of television.”

  “I checked with Social Services. A neighbor called about a year and a half ago, worried about the kids. Mrs. Joseph Espinoza. So they sent a caseworker out to investigate. I read the report. She found a clean home with smiling, well-nourished young’uns, none of which was of school age. She saw no cause for action, but recommended a follow-up visit in six months. That was not done.”

  “Did you talk to the neighbor?”

  “Deceased.”

  “How about the property?”

  “Well, there is one thing.”

  Several seconds passed.

  “Yes?”

  “I spent Wednesday afternoon going through property deeds and tax records.”

  He went quiet again.

  “Are you trying to annoy me?” I prompted.

  “That piece of land has a colorful history. Did you know there was a school out there from the early 1860s until the turn of the century? One of the first public schools in North America established exclusively for black students.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I opened a Diet Coke.

  “And Baker was right. The property was used as a fishing camp from the thirties until the mid-seventies. When the owner died it passed to her relatives in Georgia. I guess they weren’t big on seafood. Or maybe they got fed up with the property taxes. Anyway, they sold the place in 1988.”

  This time I waited him out.

  “The purchaser was one J. R. Guillion.”

  It took a nanosecond for the name to register.

  “Jacques Guillion?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  “The same Jacques Guillion?” I said it so loudly a student turned in the corridor to peer in at me.

  “Presumably. The taxes are paid . . .”

  “With an official check from Citicorp in New York.”

  “You got it.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Well put.”

  I was unnerved by the information. The owner of the Adler Lyons property also held title to the burned-out house in St-Jovite.

  “Have you talked to Guillion?”

  “Monsieur Guillion is still in seclusion.”

  “What?”

  “He hasn’t been located.”

  “I’ll be damned. There really is a link.”

  “Looks that way.”

  A bell rang.

  “One other thing.”

  The hall filled with the commotion of students passing between classes.

  “Just to be perverse I sent the names out to Texas. Came up empty on the Right Reverend Owens, but guess who’s a rancher?”

  “No!”

  “Monsieur J. R. Guillion. Two acres in Fort Bend County. Pays his taxes . . .”

  “With official bank checks!”

  “Eventually I’ll head out that way, but for now I’m l
etting the local sheriff snoop around. And the gendarmerie can flush Guillion. I’m going to hang here a few more days and turn the heat up on Owens.”

  “Locate Kathryn. She called here, but I missed her again. I’m sure she knows something.”

  “If she’s here, I’ll find her.”

  “She could be in danger.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  I thought of describing my recent conversation about cults, but since I’d only been fishing I wasn’t sure if I’d learned anything relevant. Even if Dom Owens was leading some type of cult, he was not Jim Jones or David Koresh, of that I was certain.

  “I don’t know. Just a feeling. She sounded so edgy when she called.”

  “My impression of Miss Kathryn is that all her lobes may not be firing.”

  “She is different.”

  “And her friend El doesn’t look like a candidate for Mensa. Are you keeping busy?”

  I hesitated, then told him about my own attack.

  “Sonofabitch. I’m sorry, Brennan. I liked that cat. Any idea who did it?”

  “No.”

  “Have they put a unit on your place?”

  “They’re doing drive-bys. I’m fine.”

  “Stay out of dark alleys.”

  “The cases from Murtry arrived this morning. I’m pretty tied up in the lab.”

  “If those deaths are drug-related, you could be pissing off some heavy characters.”

  “That’s breaking news, Ryan.” I tossed the banana peel and Moon Pie wrapper into the trash. “The victims are both young, white, and female, just as I thought.”

  “Not your typical trafficker profile.”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t rule it out. Some of these guys use women like condoms. The ladies might have been at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “I haven’t finished yet.”

  “Go get ’em, tiger. But remember, we’re going to need you on the St-Jovite cases when I nail these bastards.”

  “What bastards?”

  “Don’t know yet, but I will.”

  When we disconnected I stared at my report. Then I got up and paced the lab. Then I sat. Then I paced some more.