Ceremony

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  Kep slowly shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you have something else on your mind?”

  Kep nodded. “There’s a second room down on the aquarium level.”

  “Did you break in?”

  “It was unnecessary. The second room is behind another metal door marked Research Room 12. Inside, I discovered additional tanks with more ammocoetes.”

  “Did you find anything besides baby lampreys?”

  “I found evidence strongly suggesting Research Room 12 is the murder scene.”

  Bernadette shuffled back a step. “The murder scene?”

  “I detected a faint odor of bleach last night. Today, I arranged myself on the floor to better ascertain where the scene was strongest.”

  “And?”

  “There was an area on the floor in front of Tank 15, about two meters long by one meter wide, where I detected bleach more strongly than anywhere else.”

  “I imagine they have lamprey accidents once in a while. Fish blood everywhere.”

  Kep nodded. “Yes, and I smelled bleach in a few other places in the room, but those spots were older—at least a couple of weeks if not longer. This one, though, is only one or two days old—and there’s a slight undercurrent of ibogaine.”

  Bernadette pursed her lips. “This is a facility with a lot of ibogaine. Supposedly under lock and key, but still.”

  “No ibogaine is stored in the aquarium rooms.” He set down the notebook. “There are other explanations why someone may have carried a small measure of ibogaine into the aquarium rooms.”

  “Right. But even so, we need to get CSI to check the room out now. If there’s physical evidence of the murder, the team needs to find it.”

  “Hence, we should call our friends in forensics and immediately secure the scene.”

  They passed Lightman’s office, crossed the bullpen area, and reached the top of the stairwell.

  A door opened behind them, and Bernadette turned to see Lightman sprinting across the office toward them.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he shouted, his face turning red.

  “We believe that Kymer Thompson was killed in your second aquarium on the first floor—”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, seething. “We’re not risking our research—”

  “This is a murder investigation,” Bernadette said evenly, “and Research Room 12 is a possible murder scene.” She turned away.

  “How dare you go down there without a warrant,” Lightman said. “We’ve given you access to Tommy’s PC, and this is how you repay our cooperation?”

  Kep took out his phone, dialing. “I’m confident the facts will show that the burden of probable cause has been met.”

  “I strongly disagree. Maybe it’s time to get our lawyers involved.” Lightman puffed out his chest as he pulled his own phone out.

  Kep was silent as he held the phone to his ear. The gears in Bernadette’s head were turning, but she couldn’t come up with anything to say to stop Lightman from calling his attorney.

  Lightman dialed. “Jude Lightman for Wanda Salesi,” Lightman said into the phone. “It’s urgent.” He paused.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Kep said into the phone. “I believe we’ve discovered the location where Kymer Thompson was killed. We’d like a CSI team to come out right away.”

  “Ms. Salesi, hello. I’m sorry to inform you that federal agents are attempting to shut down one of our research labs. That could jeopardize the entire project.”

  “Research Room 12 on the first floor of the Kilbourn Tech Freshwater Sciences lab building,” Kep said.

  “I think we’ll need an injunction as soon as possible,” Lightman said. “No, I don’t know what their evidence is.” He looked at Bernadette. “Would you care to tell me why you believe Kymer Thompson was killed in Research Room 12?”

  Bernadette breathed in through her teeth. “Evidence suggests the presence of blood, the murder weapon, and attempts at cleanup.”

  “Did you hear that, Ms. Salesi?” He paused again. “The murder weapon being—what? A knife? A gun?”

  Bernadette wanted to punch the smug look off his face—it was the same look Barlow had after he’d told her about his late-night work conference. But she stretched her fingers instead and said, “A syringe full of ibogaine.”

  “A syringe full of ibogaine,” Lightman said. “Like the kind we inject into literally dozens of iron-rich lamprey livers every day. In a research lab. In an aquarium room where lamprey blood gets on the floor frequently. A room which we clean top to bottom several times a week. If there’s been a particularly rowdy bunch of lampreys, even more often.” He paused again. “No, Ms. Salesi, it doesn’t sound to me like they have much of a case either.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Contact me when we can expect the CSI team’s arrival.” He hung up. “We were obligated to call this in,” Kep said to Lightman. “I suspect a man was killed in that room. It’s my duty to report that.”

  “Good luck,” Lightman said. “We’ll have the injunction signed before your boss hangs up with CSI.”

  Bernadette stepped forward. “We’ll wait for CSI to get here. Or the injunction.”

  Lightman, phone still against his face, stomped back into his office and slammed the door.

  She turned to Kep. “What now?”

  “Now we wait.”

  “I don’t understand why he’s so upset,” Bernadette said in a low voice. “If you’re sure that the murder happened here, Lightman might as well be off our list of suspects. It’s much less likely that he was here when Thompson was killed.” She folded her arms.

  “It’s not about his guilt or innocence of Thompson’s murder,” Kep said. “He’s upset about the funding for the research project. That sizeable grant is obviously from a pharmaceutical company, and the more the laboratory is involved with the murder investigation, the higher the chance that the funding will get pulled.”

  “Ah. Follow the money.”

  “Exactly,” Kep said. “The concentrated ibogaine and the maturity of those silver lampreys are the most important two things in this lab. Both might be worth killing over.”

  “With Kymer Thompson murdered and Eddie Taysatch shot, I believe Lightman fears for his life.” Although it’s hilarious that his employees think he’s incompetent. “Think we should put a protective detail on him?”

  “At the very least, an officer should be stationed at his house. Perhaps we can ask Detective Dunn if the police have implemented additional precautions.”

  “Right.” Bernadette motioned toward Thompson’s desk with her head. “Come on. Let’s see if Curtis is done playing hacker for the day.”

  Curtis was finished when they arrived at Thompson’s old desk. Nick LaSalle refused to meet Bernadette’s eyes and mumbled something about getting back to the university. Curtis shook his head as LaSalle headed for the elevator.

  “Sorry for all the drama with the IT guy,” Bernadette said in a low voice. “I was trying to catch him off guard. He’s not being candid about where he was last night—and I don’t think he’s being honest about the keylogger program, either.”

  Curtis nodded. “Yeah, well, he got really nervous after you yelled at him. Didn’t know which way was up.”

  The elevator arrived, LaSalle got on, and the doors shut behind him. A weight lifted from Bernadette’s shoulders, though she wasn’t sure why. She cleared her throat. “He answered a couple of questions strangely. I think he’s involved.”

  “Do you believe he was instrumental in installing getting te keylogging program onto the victim’s PC?” Kep asked. “Or are you suggesting he was involved in Mr. Thompson’s murder?”

  “I mean—” Bernadette stopped, then put her chin in her hand.

  “What?” Curtis asked.

  “I meant with the keylogging program. But after seeing him avoid me last night and deny it today, maybe he was more involved than that.”

  “What—you think he’s a suspect?” Cu
rtis knit his brow. “That’s a stretch. There’s nothing suggesting that LaSalle and Thompson were more than passing acquaintances.”

  “But he’s responsible for security on the PCs,” Bernadette pointed out. “And if the keylogger ended up on Thompson’s machine—and on his home machine too—that would suggest that LaSalle is at least a suspect for installing the malware.”

  Curtis shook his head. “LaSalle set all the machines up at the beginning of the school year—at least for the grad students and the interns. There were a couple who started in June, but most started in August.”

  “And there was only one machine here at the lab with the keylogger? Not Jude Lightman’s? Not Eddie Taysatch’s?”

  “No, only Thompson’s PC. And I was right: it was infected in August, as soon as Thompson started here. It infected a USB drive the Friday before Labor Day. Someone targeted Kymer Thompson.”

  “What was the attacker looking for?”

  Curtis squinted and shook his head slightly. “I’d be guessing. Thompson had access to almost all the research in the lab. And he had more access to the lampreys than anyone else.”

  “But the murderer killed him. The lampreys weren’t touched.”

  Kep’s phone buzzed. He looked at his screen, then shook his head. “Maura hasn’t even put the request into CSI yet, and the judge signed the injunction. Now they have to set a date for a hearing, They have successful blocked our access to Research Room 12.”

  Bernadette tapped her foot. “Did they give you any idea when the hearing will be?”

  “The clerk gave me the impression it could be later today. However, I suspect she was being overly optimistic, as it’s already quite late. Personally, I’m hopeful we can access the room first thing tomorrow. However, the scene could be even more contaminated at that point, and we run the risk that nothing we find would hold up in court.”

  Curtis hoisted his laptop bag up to his shoulder, pulling the collar of his leather jacket flat underneath the strap. “So you’re done here as well? You two need a ride back to the station?”

  “Yes.” Bernadette shot a look at Kep, who nodded. “And let’s get out of here before Lightman has a chance to gloat.”

  The three of them were silent in the elevator on the way down to the ground floor. Kep climbed into the back seat of Maura’s rented black SUV, lost in thought. Bernadette took the front passenger seat as Curtis started the engine.

  Curtis snapped his fingers. “Oh—I got some information on that priest. The one who lives out in Whitefish Bay.”

  “Vivian Roundhouse? Great.”

  “Divorced. Her ex-husband is the CEO of Jefferson Systems. Lives up in Mequon in an equally nice house.”

  “Is his name Allan?”

  “No—that’s her son. He’s a civil rights attorney in Chicago.”

  Bernadette tapped her foot. “What about her van? What about her whereabouts on Monday night?” She shook her head. “Background’s nice, but we need confirmation of her movements.”

  “She’s a priest,” Curtis said. “Ugh. I hate the optics on that.”

  “If we’re lucky,” Bernadette responded, “the media will treat her like the head of a cult, not like a priest.”

  “She’s not our only suspect,” Kep said from the back seat. “Let’s not forget your suspicion of Nick LaSalle.”

  “Nor yours of Annika Nakrivo, who won’t even cry.”

  Kep gave her a tight smile. “We haven’t talked to Cecilia Carter yet.”

  “The woman whose car you jumped on at the Freshie last night?” Curtis asked.

  Bernadette grunted.

  “Maura and I wanted to bring her in, but her address is in California,” Curtis said. “She’s apparently in Milwaukee on a long-term assignment, but we haven’t discovered where she’s staying yet.”

  Bernadette set her mouth in a line. “Cellphone records? Financials? Credit card payments?”

  “I’ll put that at the top of my list.”

  They arrived at the District 5 station five minutes later. The handsome Officer Chesapeake had been replaced by an older policeman with a scowl evident in spite of his walrus-like mustache.

  They walked into the warm, stuffy back room. Detective Dunn was on the phone talking animatedly.

  Maura was standing at the printer as it spit out a stack of pages. She glanced up at them. “Oh, good, you’re all back. Any luck at the Freshie?”

  “We confirmed how the keylogger got onto Thompson’s machine,” Curtis said. “Remotely installed at work using an anonymized IP address. Then Thompson brought home a USB stick and infected his home PC.”

  “Any idea who installed it?”

  Curtis glanced at Bernadette. “Go ahead.”

  Bernadette nodded. “Nick LaSalle oversees the computers at the Freshie. He’s acting overly defensive.”

  “Overly defensive? How?”

  “Some odd statements. I called him incompetent to see his reaction.”

  “Which was?”

  “Instead of telling me how well he did his job, he denied that he’d installed the keyloggers on purpose. I never accused him of wrongdoing.”

  Maura rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Not necessarily indicative of anything.”

  “The other thing is that we only found a keylogger on Thompson’s work machine. But LaSalle said ‘keyloggers’—plural. I think he knows that it was installed on his home machine, too.”

  Maura clicked her tongue. “Anyone who works in computer security would assume that a piece of malware found its way onto multiple machines. Or it could just be a slip of the tongue.”

  Bernadette was silent.

  Maura sighed. “But we can dig deeper.” She turned to Curtis. “Any chance of getting past the anonymizer?”

  “I’m on it.” Curtis said, as Dunn hung up the phone and looked up at them.

  “In the meantime,” Maura said, “let’s get a forensic accountant to look at Nick LaSalle’s bank accounts. Any big payments, expenditures, deposits.”

  Dunn stood up. “I’ll ask Lesley to help out. She’s the best forensic accountant we’ve got.” She paused. “And one more thing. We got a hit on the van.”

  “The Agios Delphi van?” Bernadette asked.

  “On camera Monday at 5:37 p.m. going into the Galena Street Garage.”

  Right after trying to mow me over on Sixth Street. “Where’s the Galena Street Garage?”

  “About three blocks north of the Anne Askew Chapel.”

  “And when did it leave?”

  “Tuesday morning, ten fifteen.”

  “Payment?”

  “Kymer Thompson’s credit card at the exit gate. The camera got a great shot of the driver’s-side door.”

  “So,” Maura said, “whoever drove the van may have killed Kymer Thompson and taken his credit card. Did we look at the robbery angle?”

  Dunn shook her head. “Wallet was still on him. Forty dollars in cash. No indication that anyone took anything.”

  “So who drove the van?” Bernadette said. “You had uniforms go to the old salt warehouse?”

  “Nothing,” Dunn said. “Gate was open. No vehicles. No sign of forced entry, but no tire tracks either—but it’s been snowing. And no cameras in the area. We have no way of knowing if that van was ever there, never mind figuring out who drove it.”

  Maura smacked the table with her hand. “I want your forensic accountant to look at Agios Delphi as well. Something’s not right here. The reverend had opportunity for both the Thompson murder and the Eddie Taysatch shooting. She’s got shaky alibis for both. And she’s the main person with access to the van.”

  “Motive?” Bernadette asked.

  Maura screwed up her mouth before she spoke. “Both Thompson and Taysatch had access to enough ibogaine to keep her congregation high for the next decade. Let’s push on the ibogaine angle and hope something shakes loose.”

  Dunn shook her head. “I’m sorry, folks. I know it’s technically possible that Reverend Roundhouse
could have left her van at the Galena Street Garage and killed Thompson back at the lab, but it was twenty degrees below freezing that night. I don’t see how anyone could drag a body ten city blocks—from the river to the chapel—without arousing suspicion.”

  “Maybe she Weekend at Bernie’d it,” Kep said, casting a quick glance at Bernadette, who gritted her teeth.

  “She did what?” Curtis asked.

  “Oh, you poor child, Weekend at Bernie’s was before your time,” Kep said, chuckling. “It’s a piece of cinematic drivel from the late 1980s about a murdered CEO and the two entry-level employees who pretend he isn’t dead. The two of them carry the corpse around and pose him like he’s still alive. Several slapstick moments are considered classic by those who appreciate the medium.”

  “And the garage doesn’t have the van leaving until Tuesday morning?” Bernadette asked, ignoring the second knowing glance from Kep.

  “That’s right,” Dunn said. “Of course, if she had an accomplice, maybe they took the accomplice’s car to move the body.”

  “Is there anything else they could have used?” Bernadette said. “It’s a fairly straight shot from campus to the Freshie. Is there—I don’t know, a bicycle, or some sort of rickshaw, or maybe a free streetcar that could have gotten them from Point A to Point B?”

  “The streetcar is on the other side of the river, and it doesn’t go close to the chapel. You’d have better luck with a shopping cart.” Dunn chuckled. “Two winters ago, someone pushed a shopping cart off the roof of the shopping center next to the Freshie, and it landed in the ice in the river. Sort of got half-submerged, and it stayed there until spring. The YouTube video went viral.”

  “Hmm,” Curtis said. “Is it easy to filch a shopping cart from a local grocery store or from the shopping center?”

  “I was joking about the shopping cart. Mostly homeless people who have them—like Rhonda. We saw her on one of the security cameras the night of Thompson’s murder. She walks with her shopping cart down the Riverwalk every night.”

  Curtis’s phone dinged, and he read the screen. “Oh—wow.”

  “What?”