The lobby of the Aberdeen police station was surprisingly uninteresting. She had expected to see several colorful characters loitering about, drug addicts and prostitutes and lost children, together with tough looking police officers and maybe even a K-9 dog—all crossing the hallways in multiple directions. Instead she was greeted by a small empty room with a rather plain looking woman in a police uniform behind a bullet proof glass shield. There were three uncomfortable looking plastic chairs off to one side and what appeared to be dozens of different postings regarding the various regulations which apparently needed to be posted in police station lobbies. Since there wasn't anywhere else to go, she walked up to the window. She felt an urge to make a withdrawal.
"May I help you, ma'am?" the officer asked.
Maggie pulled Sgt. Warwick's card from her pocket. The sergeant had given it to her when they'd spoken so many weeks ago. Before the third murder. When Kelly was still alive.
"Um, is Sgt. Warwick available?" Or does one need an appointment to speak with a police officer?
"One moment, ma'am," was the reply. "Let me see if I can find her."
The policewoman picked up her phone and started pressing buttons. Maggie couldn't hear her voice through the glass and so she turned to glance around the lobby. It had not gotten any more interesting. The nearest posting explained that it was a felony to carry a firearm into a police station. Maggie supposed that if someone were actually bold enough to try that, they probably wouldn't be deterred by a piece of goldenrod photocopy paper. Oh well.
"Ma'am?"
Maggie wondered when she had turned from a 'miss' to a 'ma'am'—she was only 26. "Yes?"
"I'm afraid Sgt. Warwick is out today. She won't be available until Thursday."
Maggie's face must have shown her disappointment.
"Is there someone else you could talk to?"
Maggie thought for a moment. She didn't feel that comfortable with Inspector What's-his-name. And she didn't know any other Aberdeen police officers. A good thing, actually, she supposed. And this was too ... strange to speak with just anyone.
"No, thanks," she replied and started to try to think of her explanation for why she wouldn't talk to any other officer.
"All right, then," the officer accepted Maggie's reply without comment and quickly returned to some paperwork, turning her attention completely from Maggie.
Maggie smiled and nodded to herself, then turned toward the door.
"Damn," she said softly.
35. A Likely Story
Tuesday had proved unfruitful. Unable to speak with Sgt. Warwick, Maggie had instead resolved to find some samples from Fionna's murder scene. She didn't know where that was exactly, but it was small work to find a two week old newspaper in the college library. The paper said the murder had taken place 'at the victim's residence.' How horrible, Maggie had thought. Somehow being attacked out in the open seemed preferable to the same fate in one's own home. Maybe because a home is supposed to be a refuge. In any event, Maggie then had to look Fionna up in the college directory; she had never been to her apartment. All her work proved to be in vain, however. When she arrived at the apartment building, she found no ready access inside. And she couldn't think of any possible excuse she could give the landlord as to why she needed to be let into the dead girl's apartment, then left alone for a while. So after several minutes of discouraging thoughts, she shoved her hands into her pockets and walked away.
Wednesday wasn't much better. She had decided there wasn't any more to be done about the murders until she could talk to Sgt. Warwick. She knew she needed more information about the murders if the visions were to be helpful. Perhaps the police officer would allow her to help with the investigation and share information with her. Maybe even take her to Fionna's apartment? But in the meantime, she needed some distraction. So she spent the day at the library trying to think of a new research topic. Obviously the spell book was not going to be her thesis. If she ever chose to share its secrets it wouldn't be via some dry academic journal. But that didn't alleviate the need to produce some sort of tangible research for her thesis. She still had her day job.
With a lack of new samples and no one to talk to about what she had learned, Maggie passed the days without using the magic. She also slept soundly and peacefully for the first time since the candle had floated before her face. By the time Thursday rolled around, she felt rested and more than ready to get back in the hunt.
"Can I help you?" It was a different officer behind the teller glass. A man this time.
"Yes. I'd like to speak with Sgt. Warwick," Maggie replied. Then, just in time, she added, "Please."
"Do you have an appointment?"
Okay, maybe you do need an appointment to see a police officer.
"Er, no, but—" But what? But I'm using magic to solve the recent serial killings? "Could you tell her that Maggie Devereaux is here? Alex and Lucy MacTary's niece from America? It's about the murders."
The policeman looked Maggie over for a moment, then finally picked up the phone. After a moment, he hung up again and turned back to Maggie.
"Have a seat," he pointed to the plastic chairs.
"Thanks."
There were no magazines to read, and so Maggie's eyes fell onto the postings nearest her. She resisted the urge to pull the spell book out and practice her levitation spell. Within a few minutes, a large, ugly door on the other side of the lobby shook with a solid metallic thunk and creaked open on tired hinges. Pushing the door open was Sgt. Warwick. Somehow, she looked different than Maggie had remembered. Not as pretty.
"Maggie?" the policewoman said in the soft tone Maggie remembered.
"Sgt. Warwick?" Maggie gladly stood up from the uncomfortable chair.
The sergeant smiled, "It's pronounced 'Warrick.' Like the— Oh nevermind. Come on back." And the two of them disappeared behind the steel door.
The sergeant's office was smaller than Maggie had expected. But at least it had a window. Sort of. In the wall behind the desk chair was a frosted glass plane which let in light but permitted no actual view outside. Sgt. Warwick sat down at her desk and bid Maggie to sit in one of the two government-issue chairs opposite her. The walls were off-white and bare, save a large map of what Maggie assumed was Aberdeen. She thought that looked like the waterfront on the right. As Maggie returned her attention to Sgt. Warwick she noticed the officer discretely close the files on her desk and slide them to one side. 'King's College Murders,' read one label.
"You wanted to talk about the murders?" Warwick asked, getting right to the point.
That suited Maggie fine. She was anxious to proceed and wouldn't have suffered small talk well.
"Yes, I—" Maggie stopped. I what? Oh God, what do I say? 'I have a magic spell book I found in the library?' 'It let's me see magical things?' I'll sound completely insane. But I can't just say nothing. I'm here now. Oops. "Er, I'd like to help with the investigation."
A genuine smile crossed Warwick's face. "Well, that's splendid. Do you have some additional information?"
"Well," Maggie grimaced. "Sort of."
Warwick's smile twisted away. "What do you mean? Either you do or you don't."
"Well, I—" Oh God, you'd better think of something, Devereaux.
"Come on, Maggie," Warwick leaned forward. "What is it, then?"
"Well, it's just, er—" Maybe this will work: "I—I can see things."
Warwick's expression was completely blank.
"Like a psychic," Maggie continued.
Warwick leaned back and crossed her arms. "You're a psychic?"
"Um. Sure."
Warwick rubbed her chin and mouth as she considered this information. Finally, she folded her hands on the desk before her.
"Miss Devereaux," she started, "I'm sure you can understand when I say—"
"I know things," Maggie interrupted. "About the murders. Things no one else knows." The sergeant eyed her critically. "They're related for one thing."
Warwick fro
wned. "Not a difficult surmise. Especially if you've been near a newspaper or television in the last few months."
"The victims were strangled first."
Warwick's eyes widened noticeably. Maggie had her attention.
"With a cord," Maggie added.
The sergeant's fingers drummed on the desk. Her eyes encouraged the young woman across it.
"Then their bodies were cut open, very carefully," Maggie continued. "Their organs were removed and placed around the bodies in a very specific pattern."
Sgt. Warwick leaned back in her chair again, hands folded together, fingertips to her lips. She was obviously considering this display. Maggie really wanted to help. She could hear Iain's words in her ears and she could almost taste the opportunity to do the right thing. But the sergeant's continued silence was making her nervous. Indeed, the silence in the room was becoming deafening. She was losing her. She could sense that the next words out of the officer's mouth would be, 'Thank you, but...'
"I know where the murder weapons are!" Maggie blurted out.
Warwick half stood, pushing her chair out behind her. "Where?" she demanded.
"Will you let me help?"
Warwick's eyes flared. "You're lucky I don't arrest you right now as an accessory to murder. And if you don't tell me where they are, I will arrest you for obstructing a police investigation. Now: Where are the murder weapons?"
Maggie swallowed hard. "Um—" she stammered. "They're in a tree."
Maggie wasn't sure what to expect. Warwick stared at her for a moment, then closed her eyes and raised her face to the ceiling. She took two steps toward the window then stopped and crossed her arms, her back turned to Maggie.
"What?" She didn't turn around.
"Um. In a tree," Maggie repeated. "Actually, they're not in the tree. The key is. The key's in the tree."
Warwick turned around slowly. She'd come this far. "How's that?"
Maggie took a deep breath. She knew she wasn't making a lot of sense. She calmed herself and explained as best she could. "The murder weapons are a cord for strangling the victims and a large knife for the, well, the dissection. The killer, whoever he is, cleans them off, puts them in a black bag, together with a coat and gloves, and then puts the bag in a locker at the train station. I think it's locker number 99—that's what's on the key anyway. Then he hides the key in the knothole of a tree near the station." Maggie frowned. "At least it feels nearby."
"It feels nearby?" The sergeant didn't seem impressed by this level of certainty.
"I can find out more. If you let me help." Maggie's voice dripped with eagerness.
Warwick looked at Maggie for a long moment. Her face showed the conflict within her.
"Two of the girls who were murdered were my friends," Maggie said simply. "The third was a relative. Let me help."
Warwick paused. She knew the absolutely most important thing was to catch the killer. Standard police measures were not getting them very far. But she could hear Inspector Cameron's voice: 'You'll have my job someday, but not if you start doing foolish things.' This idea was definitely foolish. Still ...
"Wait here," she said at last and crossed to the door.
Maggie half-smiled. Maybe she would get to help after all.
Warwick turned back as she reached the door. "And don't touch anything."
Maggie looked at the file folders sitting so temptingly in front of her. She turned to the sergeant and smiled sweetly. "I promise."
Maggie listened as Sgt. Warwick's footsteps faded down the linoleum hallway.
"I promise," she repeated, "I won't touch anything."
She raised her right hand slightly as she spoke the spell. The top folder lifted gently off the desktop. Lowering her hand again, the folder came to a rest in front of her. With a wave of her wrist the folder opened and revealed the first of several photographs. It was Kelly's murder scene; Maggie recognized it. Quickly raising the photographs in turn, she scanned the photos of each of the three murder scenes, all taken from various angles. This confirmed what Maggie already had seen in her visions: each murder scene had been arranged as methodically as Kelly's, with a single stone on the woman's face, and the organs circling the body like the stones at Clava Cairns. Then Maggie noticed something else. The organs appeared to be rotating around the victims, like a clock face. The distinctive lung-heart-lung combination was at Kelly's feet, but to Fionna's side and above Annette's head. Then she noticed something even more interesting. The King's Tower was clearly visible over the buildings behind Annette Graham's head. But in the photographs of Kelly Anderson, whose body was also found north of the Tower, the distinctive stone crown was visible past her feet. Although she couldn't orient Fionna's body from the photographs inside her apartment, Maggie knew it wasn't the organs that were moving. The bodies were rotating in relation to the organs, the heart-lung combination always to the south.
Seeing the photographs of her friends, lifeless and gutted, evoked an unfamiliar emotion in Maggie. She couldn't name it. She had expected to feel shock, sadness, anger maybe. But the feeling in her stomach defied recognition. And Maggie wasn't sure she liked it.
Having looked at each photograph in this first file, she lowered the images again and closed the folder. She stopped for a moment and strained to hear, but there were no footsteps in the hall yet. So she repeated the spell in a low voice, and the second file folder opened. Maggie had expected to find typewritten reports, maybe more photographs, something like that. Instead she was surprised to find herself peering at yellowed newspaper clippings. They were upside down for her, but she could make out the headline:
Occult Murder in Glenninver
Occult murder? she thought. Weren't those the exact words she had overheard the police use to describe the current murders?
Deftly raising the article into the air revealed another newspaper clipping. This headline read:
Third Murder Shocks Glenninver — Police Baffled
The print was a bit larger and Maggie could make out the first few words of the upside-down article:
Glenninver, Ross-shire — This small fishing town on the West Coast was rocked again by the news of yet another murder, this time a fourteen year old girl found strangled and butchered in the basement of her own home. Police have no immediate leads but believe this killing is related to two previous occult-like slayings....
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. She only had a few moments. Lifting the rest of the newspaper articles quickly to check for anything else helpful, she saw something that genuinely frightened her. A photograph. A mugshot. Even upside-down she could recognize the man in it, and seeing his face in these files, connected with the murders of her friends, chilled her blood.
No stylish goatee. Hair disheveled. But it was him.
Devan Sinclair.
The footsteps were just outside. Damn, she thought and quickly lowered the newspaper clippings back into their folder. As she did so she tried to see how old the articles were. Just as the folder closed on the clippings she caught a glimpse of the date of the article. With a final "
"Hello, Miss Devereaux," he said, not extending a hand in greeting. She only half heard him, though, her mind processing the date she had seen. It was upside down, so maybe she read it wrong. But if not, those murders happened almost twenty years ago. Sinclair's mugshot was much more recent than that, though. Wasn't it?
"Um, hello," she replied at last. Hardly the way to instill confidence, not being able to respond promptly to a simple greeting. She wondered if the Scots used the word 'flake.'
"Miss Devereaux," the inspector repeated. "Sgt. Warwick tells me you may have information which could assist our investigation of the recent murders at the College?"
"Yes," Maggie replied eagerly. "Well, maybe. I think I can help. Like I told Sgt. Warwick, I can see things. If I could just have access to some of the evidence
. I think I may be able to ... do a reading."
Cameron's eyebrows shot up at the phrase, 'access to some of the evidence.' He straightened up to his full height and sniffled thoughtfully. Turning to Warwick he stared at her silently for a long moment. Finally he turned back to Maggie.
"Miss Devereaux," he said for the third time. "The police in Scotland have not yet sunk to the level of desperation apparent in United States law enforcement. So despite your," he sought a polite phrase, "generous offer, we will not be needing your services."
"Good day." He added and turned to leave, but as he reached the doorframe Maggie could hear him whisper, "What were you thinking, Elizabeth?"
Warwick stood silently, arms crossed, as her supervisor left her office and walked down the corridor again. Finally she turned again to her guest.
"Sorry, Maggie," she offered. "I tried."
"Oh, I know," Maggie replied, forcing a smile. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's okay. Really."
And actually maybe it was okay. She had at least learned a few things. She'd confirmed her visions were correct. She'd gotten to see photographs of each of the victims. And she had a new lead to follow: Glenninver. And Sinclair.
"I appreciate your trying," Maggie added standing up. "If you change your mind..."
Warwick just nodded and stepped aside to let Maggie walk out of the office. Then she escorted Maggie to the security door through which they had entered and opened it for her. As Maggie passed through into the lobby, Warwick called after her.
"Maggie, this gift you claim to have." Warwick frowned as she sought the right words. "For seeing things, I mean. Be careful. I think it might well end up consuming you. Maybe—"
Maggie cocked her head, listening.
"Maybe it might be better to turn away from it?" Warwick finished.
Maggie could feel the blood rush to her face.
"Why don't you—" The loudness of her voice surprised Maggie and she caught herself before she finished with the 'mind your own business!' She took a deep breath and let the anger subside.
Scottish Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 1) Page 27
