Ceremony Page 6

  Roundhouse closed the folder, looked up at Woodhead, and blinked. “I don’t understand what you’re implying.”

  “Have other Delphinians died like this? Or been buried in this position?”

  Roundhouse shook her head. “It’s not a position for burial.”

  “But,” Woodhead pressed, “whoever did this knew how significant Anne Askew is for Agios Delphi. This cannot be coincidence.”

  Suzanne Thao stepped to the island and opened the folder to the photos.

  After a moment, she shook her head. “I don’t know who would do this. We discuss the torture that Anne Askew went through in our services, but we don’t put anyone in that position in life or death.”

  “Is it possible,” Bernadette mused, “that the killer was from another religion and was calling Mr. Thompson a heretic?”

  Thao and Roundhouse glanced at each other nervously.

  “I don’t think so,” Roundhouse said. “Delphinians find this position worthy of Anne Askew. While I haven’t seen it before, I believe this would tell the world that Agios Delphi is true and that this man was a deserving soul. This wouldn’t be a mark of heresy.”

  “Let’s turn our attention to the injection site in Mr. Thompson’s arm,” Woodhead said. “Does this needle spot have significance?”

  “We don’t do any of that,” Thao said icily.

  “Someone did,” Woodhead said. “Our preliminary reports suggest that the poison that killed him was ibogaine.”

  Roundhouse wrinkled her brow.

  “The hallucinogenic ingredient in iboga bark,” Bernadette said. “Quite concentrated, in fact.”

  “Concentrated?”

  “That’s right,” Woodhead said. “Are you familiar with any type of iboga bark concentrate?”

  Roundhouse’s eyes went wide. “We—there are some—”

  “Stop talking,” Suzanne Thao murmured to Roundhouse, then turned to Woodhead. “I don’t think Vivian will be answering that question.”

  “We don’t care about the religious uses of—” Bernadette began.

  “Planting the seeds of tabarnanthe iboga is legal,” Thao said. “Owning and cultivating the plants are legal. But the legal gray area comes from extracting ibogaine from the bark. Ibogaine is an illegal drug.”

  “That’s correct,” Bernadette said.

  “Chewing on the bark isn’t against the law,” Thao said, “at least according to the way we interpret Gilman v. Minnesota. Technically, there’s never a time where any illegal drug is in our possession.”

  Bernadette nodded. That’s how CSAB interpreted the Gilman decision too. “You know your law on iboga bark.”

  “Which means I also know that extracted ibogaine has no waivers for religious use.” Thao laid a hand on Roundhouse’s shoulder. “Vivian believes strongly in getting closer to God, but she hasn’t used anything illegal in our religious ceremonies.”

  Roundhouse scowled.

  “I realize that you both are from the Controlled Substance Analysis Bureau.” Thao emphasized the words Controlled Substance and squeezed Roundhouse’s shoulder when she did so. “And these substances are most certainly what you’re interested in.”

  “We’re investigating a homicide,” Bernadette said.

  “Vivian and I can both assure you that we had nothing to do with his murder.”

  “Surely,” Dr. Woodhead said, “you must have some iboga bark—”

  “Again, that’s not illegal, and unless you have a warrant, you won’t be able to confirm or deny.”

  Bernadette nodded. She was willing to bet money that her original assessment when she pulled up was correct: there was a greenhouse in the backyard full of tabarnanthe iboga plants.

  “This news has come as a great shock to Vivian,” Thao continued. “Mr. Thompson was a valued elder, and now Vivian is emotional and fatigued. I think it’s time we concluded this interview.”

  Roundhouse turned her face to Thao, who nodded. “Right,” she said, “it’s hit me hard. I need to pray for Mr. Thompson, and I respectfully ask that you—uh…”

  “Leave,” Thao finished.

  “Thank you for your time,” Bernadette said, walking to the island and picking up the folder.

  “One more thing,” Woodhead piped up. “Where were you last night between midnight and three a.m.?”

  “Here,” Thao said evenly, as she crossed her arms.

  “I was directing my question to Reverend Roundhouse.”

  “I was with her,” Thao said. “All night.”

  Woodhead looked from Thao’s determined face to Roundhouse’s resigned eyes. “Have a good evening, ladies.”

  Bernadette nudged him with her shoulder, and they walked out the door.

  Chapter Six

  Bernadette slid behind the wheel of the SUV, and Woodhead got in on the passenger’s side. They both kicked the snow off their boots, closed their doors, and stared into space.

  Bernadette glanced at him. “Is everything all right?”

  “Organizing my thoughts,” Woodhead mumbled.

  “Do you think the priest did it?”

  “I’m withholding judgment until I have more facts.” Woodhead put his seat belt on. “I suspect the reverend and her companion wish to avoid the police confiscating their stores of ceremonial iboga bark. Beyond that, I haven’t formed an opinion.”

  “Were you able to, uh, find any clues in the house?”

  Woodhead folded his arms and was silent.

  Bernadette rolled her eyes as she started the engine. “Smells. Did anything smell strange?”

  “I didn’t smell the unusual freshwater fish smell that I recognized in the chapel, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

  “What about iboga bark?”

  “Yes. But faintly—like the smell of marijuana when someone returns from a concert, not from when someone is growing the plant in the next room.”

  “I think she’s got a greenhouse in the back.”

  “It’s possible. I didn’t smell tabarnanthe iboga at the front of the house or inside, but it’s possible.” Woodhead shifted in his seat. “If she had killed Thompson, I’m confident I would have detected trimethylamine oxide in the entryway.”

  “The fish smell?”

  He set his mouth in a line. “In layman’s terms, yes.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “No.”

  Bernadette drove out of the parking spot. “Suzanne Thao said she was with her. But what if they were at Thao’s place and not Roundhouse’s? She could have cleaned up and changed clothes there. That might have gotten rid of the smell.”

  Woodhead nodded. “Perhaps.” He sank down into his seat and rubbed his chin, his eyes focused on the road.

  Bernadette glanced at him, then turned her attention to the road as they drove back toward downtown. The minutes ticked by; the evening had turned dark, and the sky threatened snow. “Anything jumping out at you yet?”

  “Why move Thompson’s body to the chapel and arrange it in that fashion?”

  “There must be significance to the body placement.” Bernadette rested her hand on the gearshift. “We need to look at both of those women—Roundhouse and Thao. They’re each other’s alibi, and they know enough about Anne Askew and the church to put Thompson’s body in that position.”

  “You’re making a bold assumption that they’re lying,” Woodhead said. “You’re also focused on a single issue at the murder scene, ignoring others.”

  “Like what?”

  “The murder weapon placed next to Mr. Thompson, for example. A syringe wouldn’t stay in his arm. Why not leave it where he was killed, or better yet, dispose of it? Why place it next to the body?”

  Of course. “Because the killer wanted the ibogaine to be found.”

  Woodhead nodded. “There’s no other explanation that makes sense so far. It occurs to me that the killer may be throwing the blame onto someone else.”

  “Or maybe they’re trying to send a message to Agios Delph
i,” Bernadette said. “After all, the M.E. found traces of ibogaine in the hub and barrel. Since that’s technically the same ingredient that causes hallucinations in iboga root, it could be a warning.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like… I don’t know. Stay out of our iboga bark supply chain, maybe.”

  “Iboga bark supply chain? Are you suggesting the existence of an organized ibogaine distribution organization powerful enough to kill someone—yet so small as to be threatened by a fifty-member church in Milwaukee?”

  Bernadette was silent.

  “Ridiculous,” Woodhead said. “Besides, didn’t you say that Roundhouse likely had a greenhouse to grow the tabarnanthe iboga herself?”

  Bernadette pressed her lips together and tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “It’s one possibility.”

  “Turn back toward the river,” Woodhead said. “Mr. Thompson spent much of his time at the laboratory. We should visit there again. This time, we may be able to search Mr. Thompson’s desk.”

  “We can go to the Freshie tomorrow.”

  “I believe we would gain an advantage by going this evening.”

  “This evening? It’s after seven, and I haven’t had dinner yet.”

  “You heard Detective Dunn. The police haven’t yet cordoned off the laboratory. If anyone there has evidence to conceal, don’t you think they’d be working late or erasing files?”

  Bernadette hesitated, then nodded.

  The Freshie was off campus, directly to the east on the bank of the Milwaukee River. The SUV turned onto Highland Avenue. The street was nearly deserted, and snow began to fall.

  “Looks beautiful,” Bernadette said.

  Woodhead grunted. “The beauty is only temporary. Within a fortnight, the snow will melt, then freeze again. Then some sodden-witted fool will be late to meet their compatriots for a night of debauchery; he shall tumble to the sidewalk and break a limb, then litigate against the city for two million dollars.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes.

  “This scenario is not hyperbole.” Woodhead folded his arms. “It’s happened before. Why do you suppose all the medium-sized American cities are going bankrupt?”

  “Do you believe the moon landing was faked, too?”

  “My scenario is not a conspiracy theory. It’s a loophole in American law designed to fleece the American taxpayer.”

  Bernadette turned left on Old World Third Street, next to a large brick building with the Kilbourn Tech Freshwater Sciences logo. She pulled into the parking lot, with only a few cars parked at the edges, and a black sedan parked close to the entrance.

  Dr. Woodhead got out of the SUV and stared at the sedan, snow piled on the hood and roof. “This car hasn’t moved in a while; I’d wager it’s been in this very spot all day. I believe it belongs to Professor Jude Lightman.”

  Bernadette nodded. Thompson’s boss was on their interview list, and Woodhead’s intuition might very well save them time. She turned her back on the building and looked across Old World Third. The Wurst of Milwaukee, with a neon sign of an anthropomorphic bratwurst, beckoned to her. Her stomach grumbled; she hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. She looked up; light streamed from all the Freshie’s second-floor windows.

  They walked to the building entrance. The sign next to the double glass doors gave no clue as to what was done on each floor. Bernadette pulled with an ungloved hand; the metal door handle was freezing to the touch, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Closed,” Woodhead said.

  “We could get Lightman’s number from the university directory,” Bernadette said. “Maybe he’d let us upstairs.”

  “I obtained the professor’s contact information while we were en route,” said Woodhead. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear.

  “Yes, Professor Lightman, good evening. This is Dr. Kep Woodhead, a special investigator with the Controlled Substances Analysis Bureau.” His tone, unlike his dealings with the detective or with Bernadette, was jocular, friendly, fun—as if he were asking Lightman to go out for a beer rather than interview him for a murder that had been committed the night before.

  He paused, listening.

  “Ah, yes, I’m aware that you’ve already spoken to the Milwaukee Major Crimes Unit, but we’re now leading the investigation. We’d like to talk with you, but it appears the downstairs door is locked.”

  Another pause.

  “I realize it’s late.” Another pause. “Certainly. We can come to campus tomorrow during one of your classes.” A beat or two. “I understand. We’ll meet you here, tomorrow afternoon, in front of your co-workers. They’ll see you’ve been visited by two law enforcement groups on two separate occasions, but I’ll explain it to them so they won’t get the wrong idea.”

  A short hesitation.

  “Of course. Uh huh. Thanks. Yes, the front entrance. See you shortly.”

  He ended the call and put his phone back in his pocket, and immediately his smile fell away from his face.

  “That was—” Bernadette struggled to find the right word. Masterful sprang to mind, but given the cautious state of affairs between the two of them, she didn’t want to use anything that would sound like she was mocking him. “Very effective,” she finished weakly.

  He nodded curtly and put his hands in his coat pockets. “I left my scarf in my suitcase in the hotel,” he grumbled. “Don’t let me forget it tomorrow.”

  “Oh—uh, sure. Will do.”

  They stood there in silence, the snow floating down on them. It was getting late in D.C. and Bernadette wondered if Sophie had done all her homework, or if Olivia had been a bad influence. Sophia was supposed to call before bedtime, too.

  It felt strange. This was supposed to be Bernadette’s week with her daughter.

  Bernadette stared at the fading trails of footprints between the front door and the parking lot, and the two fresh tracks she and Woodhead had made. A faint humming from inside the building might have been the elevator. Then from inside the hallway, a man emerged, tall and slender, but with somewhat broad shoulders. Late thirties—a little younger than Bernadette. He had olive skin, as well as curly black hair, ruffled and artfully unkempt, as if he couldn’t be bothered to get a haircut.

  Ah, one of those. He tries too hard to look like he doesn’t try too hard.

  As they introduced themselves, Lightman’s eyes raked over Bernadette from her boots to her face. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses, his pullover half-zipped over an Oxford shirt. His khakis weren’t pressed, but neither were they unbearably wrinkled.

  The whole package: handsome, intelligent. And from the way he carried himself and smiled coyly at Bernadette, he was aware of what his package could offer.

  He pushed the door open with one hand. “I don’t know where the time went,” he said. “I called my wife and said I would be home by six o’clock, and here it is, past seven, and I’m still working.”

  Dr. Woodhead gave the professor a wide, fake smile. “If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life—am I right?” As the two men shook hands, Woodhead clapped Lightman solidly on the left shoulder, as if they were old friends.

  “That’s the truth,” Lightman said, nodding.

  “Shall we go up to your lab?”

  “Oh—well, it’s not exactly in a great state for you to see it.”

  “I’m sure,” Woodhead said, “with all the work you do, getting it cleaned up for company isn’t at the top of the list. But I’m afraid we’ll need to see Kymer Thompson’s work area.”

  “I don’t know,” Lightman stuttered. “I’m not sure the university would be okay with that.”

  “Our lieutenant has coordinated everything with the campus police,” Bernadette said. She wondered if Maura had, in fact, okayed this visit, but Lightman seemed like he was stalling.

  Woodhead’s grin broadened. “Again, we can come back tomorrow—with a proper warrant. Your staff can stay out of the way while we search, c
an’t they?”

  Lightman hesitated. “I’ll be happy to talk with you down here.”

  “We’re looking into the death of your grad student, Mr. Lightman,” Bernadette said. “Dr. Woodhead might be too polite to say this, but I don’t want to wake up a judge.”

  “Give me a second.” Lightman turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket. After speaking on the phone in hushed tones, he turned back around. “I suppose we can do this without a warrant.”

  “There you go.” Woodhead clapped Lightman on the shoulder again. “That’s my preference, too; I hate disrupting people’s workdays. It’s much easier when we can be ourselves around each other, am I right?”

  “Are you the only one in the lab tonight, Professor?” Bernadette asked.

  Lightman turned, a touch of uncertainty in his gait, and pushed the button for the elevator. “The boss always has to be the last employee to go home, right?” The elevator doors opened, and the three of them stepped inside.

  The professor leaned over and pushed “2,” and the doors slid closed. The elevator crackled to life, jerking, then whined as the elevator lifted them to the second floor.

  “Holy mackerel,” Woodhead said. “This elevator sounds like it’ll drop us all into the fiery pits of hell.” He laughed loudly and turned to Lightman. “Is it always this noisy?”

  “Yeah,” Lightman said, “this is the way it’s always been. I admit, I noticed it too at first, but I guess I’m used to it.”

  “I tell ya, it sounds like something out of a horror movie.” The elevator stopped, the “2” illuminating. The doors opened.

  Woodhead screamed at the top of his lungs.

  Lightman jumped sideways and banged into the elevator wall.

  There was nothing outside the elevator.

  Woodhead erupted into peals of laughter.

  “Aw man, I’m sorry,” Woodhead said, wiping his eyes and catching his breath as his laughter devolved into chuckles, “but the way that elevator creaked and moaned, I would’ve sworn there’d be an axe murderer standing at the door when it opened.”

  Lightman stared at Woodhead, unsure how to proceed. Woodhead looked at Bernadette, angling his head toward Lightman.