“You think this is for real?”
“What do you mean, for real?”
“Was whoever built this serious about… the whole thing? The ceremony, the offering? Or is it a gag? A stage set?”
A stage set, she thought. Interesting. She cleared her throat. “Some people believe all religion is a gag. A hoax perpetrated on the stupid and gullible. Some call all religious ceremonies a form of theater, with churches, synagogues and altars like these simply places to perform.”
He studied her, eyebrows drawn together. “What about you, Alex? What do you believe?”
She turned her gaze back to the altar and its symbols. “I believe worship is an intrinsic part of the human condition. That it’s as elemental as the need for food and drink.” She glanced back at him. “We’re hardwired for it, Reed. We’re hardwired for worship.”
“You’re saying I don’t even have a choice in that?”
She nodded. “The choice you do have is in what you believe. What or who you choose to worship.”
“And this? A single wacko or a group? Legitimate or not?”
She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets, suddenly cold. “There are cults and sects with only a handful of followers. Look at it this way, if I get the idea I’m the living God, or His chosen prophet, all I have to do is convince one other person it’s true and I have a following. I’m legitimized.”
“And there are people out there willing to believe anything.”
“Aching to,” she corrected. “Because of this basic, hardwired need.”
He seemed to digest that. “And the symbols, the animal sacrifice and black candles?”
“It’s not an assembly line creation, Reed. It’s somebody’s personal doctrine.” She motioned with her flashlight. “They’re incorporating it all.”
“The kitchen sink approach.”
“My opinion only.”
“This doesn’t scare you at all?”
“No. Should it?”
“You’re the expert.”
“And you’re the detective. Does it scare you?”
He smiled slightly. “Me? Scared?”
“There’s a reason you brought me out here.”
“Answers, Alex. And connections. That’s what detectives are always looking for.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Does this scare you?”
His smile widened. The laid-back good-old-boy.
“You’ve got this all wrong. Alex. Detectives ask the questions, they don’t answer them.”
Their gazes held. In that moment, it was there between them. The memory of their lovemaking, the remnants of their passion, still smoldering between them.
He lifted a hand as if to touch her, then dropped it. “Let’s get out of here.”
They climbed into his SUV. He started back down the mountain road. Moments ticked past. The silence felt awkward-elephant in the middle of the room awkward. She wondered if he felt it, too.
And if he was as aware of her as she was of him.
“Maybe we should talk about it?” she offered.
“It?”
“The other night. You don’t have to feel weird about it.”
“I don’t.”
“Good.” Alex laced her fingers together in her lap. “And I don’t expect you to say anything about it.”
“No?”
“That’s the only reason I’m bringing it up. I mean, it just occurred to me that you-” She made a fluttering motion. “It happened. We move on.”
“Very cosmopolitan of you. Nobody gets their knickers in a twist.”
“Exactly.”
His lips lifted slightly. “One problem. I want it to happen again.”
She hadn’t expected that. Had secretly wished for it. Maybe. But certainly not broached in that way. Alex searched for a response that wouldn’t totally blow her cover.
He beat her to it. Again.
“Thanks, by the way. I had a great time.”
She smiled. She couldn’t help herself. “Okay, so if we’re being embarrassingly honest, I did, too.”
A short time later, she stood on her porch, watching him drive off. He had insisted on walking her up, then doing a quick check of her home. They’d closed the windows; he’d helped her light a fire in the fireplace. Then he’d said good night.
So that was that, she thought. No more sex talk. No suggestion of when it might “happen” again. Not even a brush of his mouth against hers.
Frustrated, Alex stepped inside the house and locked the door behind her. She wished she had left the elephant unmentioned in the middle of the room; it’d be a lot easier to deal with now.
She changed into her pajamas, poured a glass of wine and curled up with it in front of the fire. She was emotionally and physically drained. Yet her thoughts raced. So much had happened in such a short span of time. It was overwhelming.
Gazing at the fire, she sipped the wine, holding it a moment on her tongue, enjoying its complex bite. Similar to the Reeds’ Bear Creek Zin, though not quite as good. A log dropped in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks up the flue.
Suddenly, Alex remembered. She straightened, nearly spilling her wine. The Reeds’ trophy room, the scent that hung in the air. It had been familiar.
Woodsy and sweet. The same as the incense in the cave. The same as in her dream.
She set aside her wine and collected her phone. She dialed Reed; he answered immediately, sounding alert.
“It’s Alex,” she said, sounding breathless to her own ears.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. This is going to sound a little nuts, but in your family’s trophy room, what was that scent? It was subtle, but at the same time-”
“Sandalwood,” he answered. “It’s my mother’s favorite. Why?”
“That was the smell, in the cave that night.”
“Sandalwood? In the cave?” He sounded doubting. “I didn’t smell anything, Alex.”
He hadn’t. Nor had she after he found her. And that stuff didn’t dissipate in the blink of an eye. Maybe she had imagined it.
Crazy, crazy girl.
She ignored the quiver of fear the thought sent through her and pressed on. “Did your mother always like it?”
“As long as I can remember. She uses sandalwood-scented soap, too.” He paused. “What are you thinking, Alex?”
“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully. “Good night, Reed.”
She ended the call and sagged against the sofa back. What did it mean? she wondered. Could the memory of the scent have triggered the episode in the cave? And what of her dream? Was some long buried memory trying to emerge? Or was her subconscious simply playing a nasty trick on her?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Tuesday, March 9
9:10 A.M.
The Sonoma County Coroner’s Office was located in Santa Rosa, not far from the Barn. Reed entered the building, called out a hello to the receptionist, then headed to the autopsy viewing room. In addition to the Coroner’s detective, both the lead VCI and the CSI detectives were required to attend the autopsy of every homicide case they worked.
Because of Schwann’s position in the community, the pathologist had pushed him to the front of the line. Reed glanced at his watch. And he was late.
He stepped into the room. It was narrow, joined to the autopsy room by a door and a window that spanned the rest of the wall. In front of the window, a counter and stools. Like a bar.
Step right up, folks. Get yourself some.
His counterparts had already arrived; the autopsy had begun. Bob Ware, the Coroner’s detective, sat on one of the stools, his McDonald’s breakfast on the counter before him. Tanner sat on the adjacent stool, eyeing the McMuffin meal.
She glanced his way. “Can you believe he eats that garbage? If I ate that, I’d be in a grease coma within thirty minutes.”
“You’re just jealous,” Bob responded. “I’m the picture of health.”
“He’s got a
point,” Reed said, crossing to the coffeepot.
“On the outside. I bet his arteries are a fright.”
Bob didn’t argue with that.
Reed poured himself a cup of the hot beverage, then held out the pot. “Anybody else?”
Not surprisingly, the two detectives held out their cups. It was cold in the viewing room, though nothing compared to the chill in the actual examination room. Ditto for the smell, a sort of antiseptic laced with death.
He refilled them, then crossed to the counter and sat. “What’d I miss?”
Like all seasoned cops, they were desensitized to the process. The body on the stainless steel table had ceased being a human being and had become, simply, evidence. The most important piece of evidence they had. No body, no murder.
Bob looked over at him. “External examination of the body,” he said around a mouthful of hash browns. “Other than the neck, no outward signs of trauma. Nails were clean. Nothing unusual.”
“Except for the tattoo,” Tanner corrected.
“Tom had a tatt? That surprises me.”
“On the bottom of his foot.”
Reed crossed to the door that separated the room from the autopsy suite. He opened it and stuck his head in. “Kath, did you get a picture of that tattoo?”
She sent him an irritated glance. “This isn’t my first dance, Detective. In the future, maybe you should try a little harder to be on time?”
Tanner and Bob snickered. Unfazed, Reed grinned. “Anything else you want to share with me?”
“Yeah. Sit down and shut up so I can get this done.”
“Love you, too, Kath.”
An autopsy always followed the same procedure: top to bottom, outside to in, head last. Since Kath had already finished the external examination, she was preparing to open the vic up. She made a series of incisions that formed a Y and opened him from breastbone to groin. Next, she cut through ribs and cartilage to reveal the heart and lungs, which she removed. All organs would be measured and weighed, then sliced into sections to evaluate damage.
Reed glanced at his watch, anxious to move on. The autopsy process took two hours, give or take, and was as tedious as it was exacting. Some were more enlightening than others, but for the most part Reed found them a major time drain.
He stifled a yawn, his mind wandering to the previous night, to the things Alex had said about the altar. A kitchen sink approach, she had called it. He recalled her exact words: “Look… if I get the idea I’m the living God, or His chosen prophet, all I have to do is convince one other person it’s true and I have a following. I’m legitimized.”
Power grew out of the act of being legitimized. That newly crowned wacko could decide God was telling him to commit murder. Or that he must “save” his flock through death. The Jonestown massacre came to mind. As did the Manson Family’s killing spree.
A dead lamb left in Alex’s rental. Who had done it? And why?
Her connection to the past, he thought. Other than it having been completely random, what other reason could there be?
She remembered more than she was letting on.
His cell vibrated; he saw it was HQ. He answered to the buzz of the bone saw cutting open Schwann’s skull. “Reed here.”
“Detective, Officer Trenton, front desk. There are two gentlemen here to speak with you. A Harlan and Treven Sommer. They say it’s about Baby Doe.”
An interesting twist. “It’s going to be about another hour here.”
“They said they would wait as long as necessary. I just wanted to alert you.”
Reed thanked her and hung up. He found Tanner looking at him. “The Sommer brothers want to talk to me about Baby Doe.”
“Sweet. Any idea what’s up?”
“None.”
“How did the altar visit go last night?”
“Productive.” He looked back at the autopsy in progress. The pathologist was weighing Schwann’s brain. He returned his gaze to Tanner’s. “She couldn’t attribute it to a particular group. Called it a kitchen sink approach.” He went on, describing what that meant, then added, “Apparently anybody can start their own religion, all you need is a belief system and somebody who buys into it.”
“Rogue worshippers.”
He smiled at that, gaze on the autopsy. “I asked; she found it nonthreatening and pretty routine.”
“Why am I not surprised by that?” He glanced at her in question and she went on, “She seemed pretty calm when I arrived last night. How was she when she called you?”
He thought back. “Not panicked or crying. Voice wasn’t shaking. Told me what had happened, asked if I could come over.”
“Why you?”
“I’m a cop. She knows me. That’s human nature.”
“Maybe.”
He drained the last of his coffee, though it had grown cold. “I found her composure odd, as well. I asked her about it. She told me that whoever had done this wanted her to be afraid and she refused to give them what they wanted.”
“Good for her,” she said. “That takes some iron-clad cojones.”
It did. Reed knew how Tanner’s mind worked and where it was going. “You think she killed the lamb, stuck it under her bathroom sink to marinate a few days, then called me?”
“It’s possible.”
Anything was possible. They’d both been cops long enough to know that. “Why do it?”
“Attention. Yours. The Sommer family’s. Maybe even police attention.” She turned to meet his eyes. “Maybe she knows more than she’s let on.”
His thought from earlier. But why the charade? Why the Byzantine scenario?
“Or maybe she’s a total whack job?” Bob offered, as if he had heard Reed’s unspoken questions and answered them.
They both looked at him. He shrugged. “Just can’t ignore the obvious.”
Tanner leaned toward Reed. “Has it occurred to you that since she arrived, there’s been some severely weird shit going on? Weird shit she’s well versed in.”
“Yeah, it has.”
“And with this animal, the happenings physically connect to her.”
“Suggestions?”
“Stay close. Be suspicious. If she’s responsible she might be crazy enough to be dangerous, and not just to small animals. And if she’s a target-”
“She may be in danger,” he finished.
They both turned their full attention back to the autopsy, and for the next thirty minutes, Reed struggled to keep focus. The secateur had sliced open Schwann’s throat and the carotid artery and he bled out. It would’ve happened fast: with that injury in that location, about two to three minutes.
“No surprises with this,” Tanner said a short while later as they crossed the parking area. “Poor bastard.”
They reached her vehicle. She unlocked the door and climbed in. “Let me know what the Sommer brothers have to say.”
“Will do. See you back at the Barn.”
Reed crossed to his own vehicle, slid inside and started it up. But instead of heading out, he sat, turning his and Tanner’s conversation over in his head.
Could Alex have killed the lamb and left it for him to find? If she had, she was one seriously twisted chick. One for whom the lines between reality and fantasy had become blurred.
He didn’t peg her that way. She seemed relatively grounded. Like she was rolling with the punches pretty well, considering.
Still, she’d lived through an awful trauma. A brother disappearing. Her life upended. The bizarre excision of that brother from her memory. Her mother’s suicide.
Enough to psychologically tweak even the most stable individual.
His cell phone sounded. “Reed,” he answered.
“Investigator Hwang, SFME. I’ve been meaning to call, about the Owens autopsy. The findings were consistent with suicide. Seroquel in her system. No outward signs of a struggle.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem. There was one odd thing, though.”
<
br /> Reed shifted into drive and eased out of the parking spot. “What’s that?”
“Her right pinkie finger was broken.”
“I’m sorry, did you say her pinkie finger was broken?”
“I did.”
“Could it have happened when she was being transported?”
“Pathologist didn’t think so because of bruising to the area.” He cleared his throat. “From the chaotic state of her home and paintings, she experienced a violent manic state prior to ingesting the Seroquel. Our theory is she broke it then.”
Reed nodded, shifted into drive and headed out of the lot. “Nothing else that might indicate a struggle with an assailant?”
“Nothing.”
Reed thanked the man, hung up and turned his thoughts to Harlan and Treven Sommer waiting for him at HQ.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Tuesday, March 9
11:30 A.M.
Fifteen minutes later, Reed crossed the large lobby to where the brothers stood. Rachel, he saw, had joined them.
“I appreciate you waiting,” Reed said as he reached them. “How can I help you?”
“Is there somewhere more private?” Treven asked tersely.
“Of course. Follow me.”
Reed led them upstairs to one of the interview rooms. He closed the door behind them as they sat. No one spoke.
Harlan broke the heavy silence. “I want to see him,” he said, voice shaking. “The baby.”
“The remains,” Treven corrected.
Reed moved his gaze between the two men, then shifted his attention to Rachel. She looked at her father, her expression naked with pain. In that moment she looked like the teenager whose life had been shattered. Truth be told, she may have been the one hurt most by Dylan’s abduction.
“I can’t bear not knowing.” Harlan’s voice thickened and both his brother and daughter laid a comforting hand on his. “Finding that baby… Seeing Alexandra… it’s brought it all back to me. I can’t stop thinking about him… I can’t stop wondering…”
He lifted his stricken face to Reed’s. “I can’t sleep. I have no appetite. I have to know. Please… I have to.”
Reed cleared his throat. “I understand, Harlan. And I have no problem with you viewing the remains; however, they’ve transferred them to the lab at Sonoma State and I’m not certain where in the process the forensic anthropologist is. In addition, I’m worried you’re expecting more from what we have than you’ll get.”
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