“They were having sex when they died?”
“Inconclusive at this point. Monroe had ejaculated minutes prior to his death. I’ll find out about Erickson during the autopsy.”
“Were there any vaginal fluids or cells on their persons?”
“Galion was about to commit felony rape when he was apprehended, but hadn’t penetrated. We have witnesses to his assault. Monroe had his pants down when he was found, and while there was no vaginal evidence, the coroner found female saliva on his penis. They’re processing it for DNA now, but that takes time. The last one, Erickson, is who we’re viewing today.”
“Anything else?”
He didn’t say anything.
Skye asked, “Did they have anything else in common? Where they ate, worked, lived, played?”
“That’s it,” Moira said, watching the detective closely.
Nelson avoided Moira’s eyes and said through clenched teeth, “All three vics have a connection to Velocity, a popular nightclub. Monroe was found dead in the alley, and Erickson had been to the club earlier the night he died.”
“Where was he found?”
“In his bedroom by his wife. The room was set up for a romantic scene, but his wife was out for the night.”
“He was having an affair.”
“They were swingers. The wife was with her ex-husband in his hotel room; he confirmed it, as did the manager and security footage.”
“And did—”
Nelson cut her off. “This is my case, Sheriff.”
“I’m not taking your case. I’m just trying to help—”
“Stay out of it.”
“I—”
“I don’t need your help. You’ll fuck things up if you go pissing around the club and my investigation. I’ll let you observe the autopsy, and if you can provide any further information about this supposed cult—give me something to follow up on—then great. But after we’re done here, I expect you to be heading back up north.” He glared at her pointedly. “I wouldn’t want you to get stuck in rush-hour traffic.”
Rafe could speak, read, and understand Latin, Greek, and Aramaic, but he couldn’t decipher the complex medical conversation between Rod Fielding and the L.A. head pathologist, the tall and appropriately cadaverous Don Takasugi. The smell of formaldehyde didn’t seem to bother the pathologists, but Rafe felt slightly ill—though he wasn’t sure whether his discomfort was from the cloying scent of preservative or the visual of human organs soaking in it.
As soon as Rafe walked into the room he felt uneasy. He tried to convince himself it was the sight of the organs and the smell, but even that stopped bothering him after a few minutes. As his senses adjusted to the overpowering visual and olfactory assault, he accepted that maybe it was something else that disturbed him.
Static was the only way he could describe it. Very faint, as if a radio was tuned to a distant station in the next room, barely audible, the occasional half-heard word more grating than the static itself. When he tried to listen to the sound, his head ached. When he didn’t consciously listen, it was like fingernails on the chalkboard: every skin cell tingled.
He tried to hide his discomfort while half listening to the scientists discuss the anomalies in the two brains that Fielding had brought with him.
One came from Chris Kidd, a high school senior who’d died of a brain aneurism, though Fielding wasn’t confident in that diagnosis. The other belonged to Mrs. Barbara Rucker, the high school secretary who’d pushed a pregnant woman down the stairs, then crashed her car at high speed, seemingly on purpose. Because Fielding was a scientist, and his boss, Sheriff Skye McPherson, believed in evidence, they were both seeking scientific, medical answers for the deaths in Santa Louisa two weeks ago. While they acknowledged on the surface that a demon had been responsible, neither completely accepted that answer. It was as if they wanted, or needed, to know exactly how the demons affected their victims.
As far as Rafe was concerned, he had all the necessary answers. The Seven Deadly Sins had spread far and wide, drawn to people or places that celebrated their vice. Perhaps they were connected to the missing coven, which would mean Fiona and her minions were nearby. Or, if they were free from the bondage of Hell and the witches who’d summoned them, they may have another reason for targeting the areas they did. Either way, the demon touched a victim—physically or simply by proximity—and the individual’s conscience was stripped away, resulting in the deadly sin taking over all thoughts and actions. In Santa Louisa, Envy had created chaos. Looting, riots, and violence. Once the demon was trapped, however, those affected seemed to regain their restraint and were able to withstand the temptations of unrestrained envy.
But the town wasn’t the same as before. Skye wouldn’t admit it, but Rafe saw it. He’d lived there as an outsider for months before the demons came to town, and he saw—and felt—the changes. Before the demons swept through Santa Louisa, the quiet community nestled between the ocean and the Los Padres Mountains had been filled with kindness. Neighbors helping one another. Picnics in the park. Kids playing ball in the parks and riding bikes down the street, carefree. Rafe had been comforted by the small-town normalcy of Santa Louisa, the way everyone knew everyone else.
Now? The violence the demon Envy created had torn families and friendships apart. The jail was full, the court docket nearly exploding as people were held accountable for the crimes they committed after Envy stripped away their conscience. The distrust and lingering sense of envy and the anger it spawned among so many people, even those not directly affected by the demon, cast an invisible shadow over everything.
Rafe felt it, even if Skye was in denial. And it greatly disturbed him.
“Amazing,” Takasugi was saying. “And you didn’t notice this on gross examination? I’ll need to go back and look at the craniums of my other bodies.”
“This first victim had pronounced neovascularization of the brain stem with secondary aneurysm formation. He collapsed two hours after a basketball game, and died approximately thirty minutes later. In the second victim, I didn’t see anything to warrant the same diagnosis, until I did a micro exam two days ago. But both seem to have new blood vessels feeding into the brain stem, and an enlarged amygdala.”
“The brain stem?” Rafe spoke up for the first time.
The scientists seemed to have forgotten he was in the room. “Yes,” Fielding said, eyeing Rafe curiously.
Rafe shook his head. He had a thought, but his training was in psychology, not forensics. He waited for more information.
“The amygdala has a primary role in the processing of memory and emotional reactions,” Fielding explained. “That there are new and extensive blood vessels going from the amygdala to the brain stem is unusual.”
“Highly unusual,” Takasugi concurred.
“And that might make someone act irrationally?” Rafe said, carefully choosing his words. Psychology was an imperfect science—human beings couldn’t be pigeonholed in established boxes—but there was always a cause for human sociopathy. Sometimes hereditary, but usually environmental. Sometimes nature, but mostly nurture. Or lack thereof.
Human conscience helped people overcome their primal urge toward violence, lust, and greed. But without such restraints, there’d be no end to the anarchy. It made the release of the Seven Deadly Sins even more nefarious. Demons on Earth were bad, but what if people acted just like them? There would be violence without remorse, scorched earth, destruction across the globe.
Chaos. End-time.
Takasugi said, “The brain is the most complex organ in the human body and there’s more that we don’t know than we do know. The amygdala is also involved in pheromone production, epinephrine, and other natural chemical responses. A deformed or damaged amygdala could manifest any number of presentations, from headaches to irrational behavior to chemical imbalances—”
“And death?” Rafe said. Chris Kidd, the senior, hadn’t committed any envy-related crimes, but he had the same demon mark as the other victims.
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“Possibly.”
Fielding said, “Mrs. Rucker acted irrational and out of character prior to intentionally crashing her car. Her death was due to the trauma of the crash, so I only did a cursory exam of her brain at the time. But when the other bodies came in with similar marks, I went back and reexamined what I could. One of the victims had already been cremated, another buried, but these two I still had access to.”
Fielding glanced at Rafe. Ned Nichols had been cremated—or, technically, salted and burned in a crematorium—after Nichols manifested as a vengeful spirit. Fielding had never felt right about doing that, not only because it was against the law without next-of-kin authorization, but because he had jeopardized his career and reputation by acting without said authorization.
Takasugi removed Mrs. Rucker’s brain from its container and placed it in a sterile tray. Rafe stepped back, queasy. He didn’t generally have a weak stomach—he’d fought off one big-ass demon that wasn’t pretty—but this was different.
“Amazing,” Takasugi repeated. “I have a brain that looks remarkably similar to this in one of our recent corpses.”
“Do you still have the body?” Fielding asked.
“No, it was released to the family—an ex-wife and his children. They buried him, I believe, but I’ll have to check the files. However, we kept the brain for further research considering the anomaly.”
“Ugh, that’s so gross!”
Rafe turned and saw Moira standing in the doorway behind him, staring distastefully at the brain displayed on the exam table.
“Almost as gross as the crypt,” she added.
Moira didn’t look like herself. Sarcastic, sure, but her eyes were troubled and her skin was pale. Rafe caught her eye, but her expression was unreadable.
Fielding introduced Moira to Takasugi. “Where’s Sheriff McPherson?”
“I bailed before the autopsy,” Moira said. “Main room, if you want to watch the festivities. Can I borrow Rafe?”
“What’s wrong?” Rafe asked.
“Nothing.” She smiled at the two scientists. “Dr. Fielding, don’t leave without Skye, okay? She gave me the keys to her truck.” She held them up.
Rafe snatched them from her hand. “You don’t have a license.”
“Yes I do. Just not in the States.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, so it’s expired, but I know how to drive better than you.”
“I’m driving. Skye doesn’t need any more trouble.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
Rafe thanked the men and left them to science. He had the information he needed—only he wasn’t quite sure what it meant yet. He walked out of the room with Moira. “Learn anything?” he asked.
“Plenty. I’ll fill you in on the way. You?”
“I think I know how the demon is operating.”
She stopped walking as they reached the main doors. “That’s huge! How?”
“The brain stem is the most primitive part of our brain. The most basic part, and the most important. The amygdala is bigger than it’s supposed to be in the victims, and it’s feeding off an increase of blood to the brain stem. The amygdala is responsible for human emotional responses. What if the demon takes away something—a barrier of some sort, a biological or spiritual control valve? That explains why these people have no restraint. And it explains the basketball player in Santa Louisa.”
“Chris Kidd? How?”
“He didn’t act on his impulses.”
“We don’t know that he had them. He was marked, but maybe it hadn’t manifested yet.”
“What if he was fighting the impulse? What if the process was somehow incomplete or imperfect and Kidd was resisting? What if his conscience was stronger than the others, and he fought back? His blood vessels ruptured. That didn’t happen to the others.”
“So what does that mean, Rafe? If someone doesn’t fight the urge to act on envy or lust or pride, they kill someone and then die? If they do fight the urge, they still die? Where does that leave us? Tilting at windmills?”
Rafe didn’t have the answers. “I don’t know.”
“Well, Don Quixote, that certainly makes me sleep better at night,” Moira said as she walked out of the morgue.
“Moira—wait.”
She stopped but didn’t turn around. Rafe put his hands on her shoulders. “What had you so freaked when you saw me in there?”
“Freaked? Not me.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“Okay, fine. The corpses were creeping me out. Satisfied?”
“That just means you’re human.”
“Oh, joy.”
Rafe turned her to face him. “Give yourself a break. You’re not superhuman.”
She mocked surprise. “What? You mean I have to give back the cape and golden lasso?”
He smiled and touched her chin. “I didn’t say you weren’t a superhero.”
He’d said it to make her feel better, but she turned away. “I’m not.”
“Moira—”
“Dammit, Rafe! Look what we’re up against. I don’t see this ever ending.” She shook her head, then looked at the blue sky. “I hate this! If God wanted to help us in this battle, He’d leave clearer instructions.”
“We just need to figure them out,” Rafe said.
“I’d rather have a rule book, thank you very much.” She glanced back at him. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Velocity. It’s a club in West L.A., and so far, it’s the only connection between all the victims. Maybe we’ll get lucky and catch the demon before anyone else dies.”
SEVEN
“There’s nothing for you here,” Detective Grant Nelson told Skye after the autopsy was complete. “If we learn anything more, we’ll let you know.”
Skye bit back her anger. Antagonizing this homicide cop wasn’t going to win her friends. She needed him on her side. Or at a minimum, to not stand in her way. “I’d appreciate it,” she said, keeping her voice calm.
“Where’s your cult expert?” he asked, shooting his partner a sly grin.
“Getting air,” Skye said. “She’ll be back shortly.”
“I have to get back to work,” he said, glancing at his BlackBerry with a frown. “But I’ll call.”
I get your point. He wanted Skye out of town. Cops didn’t like others invading their territory, and as far as Grant Nelson was concerned, she was a small-town sheriff and he was a big-city detective. He showed her the common courtesy between colleagues, but nothing more.
Jeff Johnston, his rookie partner, gave her a warmer goodbye and said in a low voice out of Grant’s earshot, “His bark is worse than his bite. I’ll make sure he lets you know what’s up with these deaths.”
“Thanks.”
When she was certain the detectives were gone, Skye went back to where the pathologist Fern Archer was sewing up the body of George Erickson, the swinger.
“Nelson made it clear I couldn’t talk to you without him in the room,” Fern grumbled.
“That’s fine; I don’t want to talk to you about his case.”
Fern smiled widely. “What can I do for you, then?”
“A favor? If you get another body with a similar mark on it, would you call me?” Skye put her card down on the stainless-steel table behind Fern.
“Sure.” Fern bit her lip. “You think this really is a cult?”
“Of a sort. These deaths are somehow connected to the bodies in Santa Louisa.”
“My boss is signing the death certificate as a cardiac arrest.”
“But you said there were no signs of heart failure.”
“I said heart disease. But there’s no other explanation. His heart just stopped.”
“But you don’t have the toxicology reports back.”
“We have the prelims. We have a lab right here, can run standard screens 24/7. No drugs, low alcohol, no common poisons. And there’re no signs of trauma, aneurysms, anyth
ing that could be a contributing cause. But then I heard that my boss is talking to your coroner about the dead guy’s brain. Want to clue me in?”
Fern had been more than helpful, so Skye told her, “Dr. Fielding found something unusual about the brain stem, and wanted a second opinion. Dr. Takasugi was very kind to help.”
“And?”
“And they’re not done.”
“Don can be tight-lipped sometimes,” Fern grumbled.
“I’ll let you know if anything interesting pops up.”
She grinned. “Thanks.”
Skye resisted the urge to smile. She liked the petite black girl—she was spunky and held her own against the arrogant Detective Grant Nelson. “If you ever want to move out of a big city into small-town America, let me know.”
Fern beamed.
Skye added, “Seems that the victims have only one thing in common: they were horny men.”
“Oh, maybe a scorned woman or stalker?” Fern grinned. “I like that. Female stalkers aren’t that common.”
Skye raised an eyebrow, and Fern said, “I read crime novels, what can I say?”
“Maybe you should have been a cop,” Skye said.
The intercom system beeped. “Fern, you still back there?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“You got to come to Receiving. You’ll never believe this. Bring your camera.”
Skye raised an eyebrow.
Fern said, “Let’s see what’s going on. Should be fun.” For a young woman who worked in the morgue, Fern seemed almost happy-go-lucky.
Skye followed her to the receiving room. A City of Glendale crime-scene van had backed up to the main double-door entrance. One of the investigators was signing paperwork at the desk while five people stood around a white freezer with a police seal on it.
Fern said, “There’s a body in there, isn’t there?”
“Bingo,” the investigator said without looking up from his paperwork.
“Amazing,” Fern said. “What’s the story?”
“Found by the housekeepers when they were cleaning out Kent Galion’s place. We don’t know for sure he killed her, but she’s been missing more than a week. It’s just a matter of putting together the evidence. If she was frozen right after death, the evidence should be well-preserved.”
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