Cheyenne’s turn. She stood.
“The fourth story obviously relates to Sebastian Taylor and Bri-gitte Marcello: a woman is dismembered before her lover’s eyes, then dropped into the sea, or in this case, Cherry Creek Reservoir. In the end, her lover gets beheaded.”
“So,” Jake said reflectively, “the UNSUB dumps bodies where they can be found quickly, calls in tips, leaves notes.” He paused, looked around the room. “He’s a storyteller. He wants an audience; needs to tell someone of others’ tears.”
“That fits,” Cheyenne said. “Story five is about the pot of basil.”
Something didn’t click. The timing of the crimes was off. “Hang on,” I said. “Heather and Chris disappeared on Monday, but they were found on Thursday. If the killer is reenacting the crimes in order, they should have been found first… Wait…”
“What is it?” Jake asked.
“Remember the temperature in the mine? Forensics measured it at 42 degrees Fahrenheit when they tested the candles. The cooler temperature preserved the body and the heart.”
“So they might have been killed on Monday,” Cheyenne said.
“Yes. For now, let’s call the killer John. If he really is retelling the stories in order and if the priest isn’t supposed to die in the second story-”
“He might still be alive.” Kurt finished my thought.
“Right.”
I felt a small thrill.
Kurt stood. “I’ll put this into play right now; see if we have anything unusual-anything at all-involving priests this week.” He left the room.
“Hang on, Pat.” It was Jake. “The first anonymous tip came in on Thursday; if John killed Heather and Chris on Monday, why wait three days before calling our attention to the crime?”
“Who knows,” I said. “Maybe he waited to give himself a head start. Let’s not worry about reading his mind, let’s just focus on catching him. The first crime occurred on Monday; today is Saturday. That means he’s going to be reenacting story number six today.”
Jake and I shifted our attention back to Cheyenne.
She began to circle the table. “That one’s about a man named Gabriotto who dies of what Boccaccio calls a ‘pus-filled abscess’ bursting near his heart. But remember, this was in the 1300s, so I’m guessing maybe a heart attack; it’s hard to know what Boccaccio might have been referring to.”
“A heart attack?” I shook my head. “Not good.”
“Why’s that?” she asked.
“Given the number of heart attack victims in the Denver metro-plex, it’ll be almost impossible to track. It’s too vague.”
I thought for a moment. “This killer, he’s into spectacle, right? What did you say, Jake?-that he’s a storyteller, that he wants an audience?”
He nodded.
“Then he’d do something more dramatic than just let a man die of a heart attack. Cheyenne, is there anything else in the story he might use? Anything more unusual? More shocking?”
She’d stopped walking and now I noticed her face turning pale. “Before the man dies, he has a dream that a black greyhound attacks him and eats out his heart while it’s still beating in his chest.”
40
A chill.
All three of us were quiet.
For a moment we let the impact of her words settle in, and finally, I asked Cheyenne, “What about the man’s lover?”
She consulted her notes. “She survives. After laying his body on a silk sheet covered with rose petals, she joins a convent. So, I’m not sure that helps us as much. The greyhound connection, though, I think that’s solid.”
I nodded. “So do I. Before we go any further, we need to get some officers on this-greyhound owners, vets, kennels, tracks. Let’s see if anyone’s missing a dog, or if there have been any recent dog attacks. If we’re right, John is going to commit this crime today…” Then I paused. I didn’t want to add the next four words, but I felt like I needed to. “Maybe he already has.”
“All right,” Cheyenne said. “I’ll talk with Kurt and Captain Terrell.” She headed for the door.
I offered to join her, but she called over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back. Give me five minutes.”
After Cheyenne left the room, Jake headed for the snack machines at the end of the hall. I took a moment to jot down the names of the victims and the story details from the crimes we knew about so far, then I tugged out my phone, checked my voicemails, found none, but then remembered I’d promised to call Calvin today.
I tried his number.
No answer. I left a message for him to return my call.
The facts of the case kept tumbling through my mind: the dismemberments, the poisonings, the beheadings, the progression of stories one through five, the pot of basil. The timing and progression I still hadn’t spoken with Tessa since she’d left with Dora. I speed-dialed her.
“Yeah?” she said.
“It’s me. How are-”
“So, was it in there?”
“What do you mean?”
“The pot. Was it in the pot?”
“You said you didn’t want me to tell you.”
“I know, but I’m just wondering, like, was it or-wait. Don’t tell me, OK?”
“OK,” I said.
“But it was there, though, right? The head?”
“We’re not talking about that.”
“Yeah, no, I know. But-”
“Tessa, enough. Is Dora still there?”
“We’re reading through my mom’s shoe box stuff. It’s pretty cool.” A pause, and then, “It’d be better if I had the diary.”
“We’ll discuss that later. How long is Dora staying?”
“She’s gotta leave in an hour or so, but I think we’re gonna hang out later tonight, I guess. Grab supper. See a movie, something like that.”
“Well, if I don’t see you this afternoon, have fun. And I want you back by midnight.”
Another pause. “Yeah.”
“OK, talk to you soon.”
“So are you gonna give me the diary?”
“Not if you keep asking me about it.”
“That’s not even fair. How am I supposed to make my case if I can’t ever talk about it?”
“Good-bye, Raven.”
Silence.
“I said, ‘good-bye,’” I repeated.
No answer. I waited, and finally I realized she’d hung up.
Great.
I was pocketing my cell when Kurt appeared at the door.
41
His face was drawn tight and traced with a weary sadness. “You OK?” I asked.
He nodded and told me that he was fine, and that he had officers following up on all the leads, but I could tell there was something else weighing on his mind.
“It’s not just the case, is it?” I said.
After an awkward pause he said, “It’s Cheryl… but it’s gonna work out. Things are just, you know, a little tense right now.”
Watching his marriage disintegrate had been one of the most painful things for me over the last five months. “Maybe you should take a little time off, work things through,” I said.
He shook off the suggestion. “It’ll be all right.”
“If there’s anything I can do-” But then Cheyenne and Jake stepped into the room, and I thought it best not to elaborate any further.
“Thanks,” Kurt said. “I appreciate it.”
As everyone took their seats, I said, “Before we go on, let’s take a minute to look at what we have so far. Summarize the progression of the crimes.”
I borrowed Jake’s computer, which was still hooked up to the wall monitor, and typed,
Victims:
Monday-Heather Fain and Chris Arlington (found on Thursday)
Tuesday-Unknown. A priest? Still alive?
Wednesday-Tatum Maroukas and Ahmed Mohammed Shokr
Thursday-Sebastian Taylor and Brigitte Marcello Friday- Kelsey Nash (survived) and Travis Nash Saturday-?
We all stared at the list.
“It’s a little overwhelming when you lay it all out like that,” Cheyenne said, mirroring my thoughts.
No one said anything, and I sensed a focused urgency descend on the room.
After taking a few minutes to review the means of death outlined in each of Boccaccio’s stories so far, our eyes fell on Kurt. “Well,” he said, “let me give you the nutshell version: in story seven, two lovers die from rubbing poison-from poisonous toads-against their gums, and in the eighth story two ex-lovers die of grief. The man dies when he realizes the woman he loves is happily married to someone else; the woman, when she attends his funeral.”