It looked like blood.
Lieutenant Horton looked down at the remains of Ron Fowler.
Remains.
It was an appropriate word. For the tangled mess of red muscle and bone which lay on the stone floor before him was barely recognizable as human. It looked like leftover food, something which had been chewed and rejected by the mouth of some gigantic creature.
He looked away, unable to stomach the sight except in short bursts. A
flash went off as the photographer snapped another picture. Horton stepped back, grateful for the battery of fans that were keeping the stench somewhat at bay. He turned toward the coroner. "How long would you estimate he's been dead?"
"Hard to determine without tests, but I'd guestimate two days. Three tops."
Jack Hammond, the detective assigned to assist Horton with the investigation, continued to quiz Jauvert Pauling, the winery owner. "How can you not have discovered this for two or three days?"
"What do you mean 'how?' We just didn't."
"Fowler's car was still in the parking lot."
"What do you want me to say?" The small man's face was getting red.
"This is a busy time of year for us. Ron wasn't there when we arrived in the morning, so we assumed he left. When he didn't show up that night, we found our daytime security assistant to take the watch, and when we discovered that he was missing, we called you."
"And no one noticed the body? Not even with all of your cameras and monitors?"
"The monitor to the cave was out; we were in the process of getting someone out here to repair it. And at this time of the season we don't check the cave but once a week. The wine ferments without us."
Horton tuned out the Q & A, looked again at the remains, turned away. He closed his eyes for a second, attempting to push back with willpower the major mother of a headache that was brewing behind his brows and that he knew could only be quelled by a double dose of industrial-strength aspirin.
He was getting too old for this shit.
Footsteps sounded on the concrete floor, and he looked up to see Chief Goodridge, Captain Furnier, and a group of flunkies striding across the concrete floor of the distilling room. The captain nodded at him, as did the chief.
"Capsule review," the captain said, taking the clipboard from his hand.
Horton gave him a shorthand version of the events as currently understood. Both Goodridge and Furnier listened without asking questions, their hardened eyes taking in the bloody scene.
It was the chief who spoke first. "Any theories?"
Horton shrugged. "From the nature of the crime, we're operating on the assumption that it was a cult of some sort, involved in animal and human sacrifice, although as you can see the scene seems more chaotic and unstructured than a ritual would indicate. I'll be checking the computer for the names and practices of our local wier dies when I get back to the station. Hammond'll be interviewing winery workers."
The chief nodded. "I want you to keep this as quiet as possible," he said. "If the media gets a hold of this, they'll blow it all out of proportion--"
"Blow what out of proportion?" Pauling asked, walking over. "What will they blow out of proportion? The fact that satanists snuck into my winery and drank my wine and sacrificed animals in my fermenting room?
Or the fact that they killed and tore apart my security guard?"
"It's a story that could easily be sensationalized--" the chief began.
"Because it's a sensational story! Jesus, what do you want to do? Hush all this up, pretend it didn't happen? It did happen!
It happened at my winery! My goddamn shoes are stuck to the goddamn floor with goddamn blood!" He pointed a finger in the chief's face. "I
don't give a fuck whether the media knows about this or not. I just want you to catch the bastards."
"You don't care?" the chief said. "What do you think it's going to do to sales of your wine when consumers find out that satanic rituals were performed on your premises?"
"Gentlemen," Horton said, sensing the tension building and stepping between the two men. 'There's no reason for us to argue. We're on the same side. We both want to catch whoever did this, and I think we'll have a better chance of that if we cooperate."
The chief looked at him coldly. "I don't need your advice, Lieutenant. I
know how to conduct myself in an investigation," Horton backed off, nodding in acquiescence, swallowing the retort which rose naturally in his throat and which concerned the species of the chief's mother. He was blinded for a second as he accidentally looked into the flash of the photographer, and he quickly glanced down. When the glare cleared, he saw again the security guard's gruesome remains, a shred of tattered shirt glued with blood to bone, fluttering in the fan wind. He turned away.
He was getting too old for this shit.
"Ariadne," Mr. Holbrook said professorially, pacing in front of the class, "was the princess of Thebes and--"
"Crete," Dion said.
The teacher stopped talking, stopped walking, looked at him. The eyes of the other students followed those of their instructor. "What?" Mr.
Holbrook asked.
"Crete," Dion repeated timidly. "Ariadne was the princess of Crete. You said Thebes." He looked down at his desk, at his hands, embarrassed that he had spoken up, not sure why he had mentioned the misstatement, not sure how he had known that it was incorrect.
The teacher nodded. "You're quite right, Dion. Thank you."
The lecture continued.
Twenty minutes later the bell rang, and though the teacher was writing on the board, still speaking, in the middle of a sentence, books were immediately slammed shut, pencils pocketed, as students stood and rushed toward the door. Mr. Holbrook turned around, wiping the chalk dust from his fingers. "Dion," he said. "I'd like to speak to you a moment."
There was a chorus of onimous "oohs" from the departing students. "I'll wait outside," Kevin said, passing by. Dion caught Penelope's eye and was gratified to see that she was looking at him.
The teacher walked to his desk as the class emptied and sat down in the swivel chair behind it. He leaned back in the chair and looked up at Dion, fingers steepled together. "It's obvious," he said, "that you have an extensive knowledge of classical mythology."
Dion shifted uneasily from one foot to another. "Not really," he said.
"Yes, you do. And I just wanted you to know that I can arrange for you to take independent study. Clearly you're just spinning your wheels in this class. This is basically a mythology primer, an overview for beginners. I think you would benefit greatly from accelerated coursework."
"No," Dion said quickly.
"Don't be so hasty. Think about it. I don't know what your future academic plans are, but I can assure you that such a move would look very impressive on your transcripts."
Outside the classroom, the hall was filled with talking, shouting, slamming lockers: the sounds of lunch. Dion glanced anxiously toward the open door, then turned his attention back to the teacher. "Okay," he said. "I'll think about it."
"Discuss it with your parents. I really feel that you'd just be wasting your time in this course."
"I will," Dion said, backing up. He picked up his book and notebook from the top of his desk.
Mr. Holbrook smiled. "I know. It's lunch. Go. Get out of here. But promise me you'll consider this option, okay? We'll talk more about it later."
"Okay," Dion said. "Uh, thanks. Bye." He walked out of the room. In the hall, Kevin, Penelope, and her friend Vella were standing togedier next to one of the lockers. Dion knew that he was the subject of their conversation, and for some reason the knowledge made him absurdly, unreasonably happy. He walked purposefully toward them, but Penelope, seeing him, waved a quick good-bye to Kevin, and she and her friend disappeared into the stream of people rushing through the building toward the outside lunch area. "What was that about?" he asked Kevin.