Book of Shadows

CHAPTER Thirty-nine

This latest crime scene threw the media into a feeding frenzy, especially since no one at the department was talking. On his way back in to Schroeder, Garrett dodged a mob of reporters and bolted up the DNA stairs.
He knew there was something wrong the moment he stepped through the open door of Malloy’s office. Detectives Palmer and Morelli stood in the room in front of the lieutenant’s desk, and the sight gave Garrett’s stomach an uneasy lurch. Granted, the case had suddenly expanded, and with Landauer down Garrett had not been expecting to work the case on his own. But Morelli and Palmer were an ominous sign, especially because Morelli seemed to be in the middle of a verbal report. Garrett stopped in the doorway, watching in disbelief as the older detective spoke. “We’ve put out an APB on McKenna, and a MP report. So far there’s no trace of him. There was no regular mail delivery; he has a post office box that he hasn’t visited since he walked off the job—”
“That’s why McKenna is looking like the prime suspect,” Garrett interrupted, giving Morelli a cold look as he walked into the room. “He disappeared from work without a trace, his basement was being used for rituals, he had access to and knowledge of the landfill where Erin Carmody’s body was dumped. By his stats on his sheet he’s five-eleven, two-thirty, a powerful enough man to have subdued these victims. His car has been identified by a witness to Amber Bright’s abduction—”
Palmer cut in. “A homeless schizophrenic? That ID will never hold up in court.”
Garrett turned on him, barely holding himself back. “Since the two of you have been such good do-bees in my absence, have you found a single witness who has seen McKenna since he disappeared from work? Have you checked his computer for satanic sites?”
Malloy spoke for the detectives. “We’ll be able to get into the house tonight. If you could give me a moment, Detectives . . .” He glanced at Morelli and Palmer.
The two older detectives nodded briefly and filed out of the room, giving Garrett oblique glances. He felt his blood pressure skyrocket, an ominous warning.
Palmer closed the door behind him and Garrett turned to face Malloy, seated in front of his wall of photos of himself with various Boston luminaries.
“Detective Garrett, we are not looking at McKenna as a suspect at this time.”
Garrett stared at him. “What’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is that Jason Moncrief killed McKenna and was using his home for his rituals.”
Garrett shook his head in total disbelief. “Jason Moncrief has been in jail since September twenty-third.”
“And there is no evidence to indicate anyone has been in Mc-Kenna’s house since then,” Malloy said flatly.
“So where’s McKenna’s car?” Garrett demanded. “What about the witness who saw Amber Bright get into a car matching the description of McKenna’s?”
“The witness is not credible. And even if the wit did see the car, Jason Moncrief could have been driving that car.”
“For that matter, so could I have been,” Garrett shot back.
Malloy’s eyes were stone. “That’s not necessary to prove.”
“How does Jason Moncrief end up in McKenna’s house?”
“Jason Moncrief has been placed at the scene.”
Garrett felt a shock of disbelief.
“There were CDs with his prints in an upstairs bedroom of the house,” Malloy said, with grim satisfaction.
Garrett was reeling. “You seriously think Moncrief killed Mc-Kenna and was using his house?”
“I think it’s more likely they were working together,” the lieutenant said.
“A cult?”
“A cult, quite possibly including Tanith Cabarrus.”
Garrett stared at him, and then—he couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh. And as the lieutenant glared up at him in disbelief, Garrett chortled, “That’s beautiful. That is some magnificent detective work, there, L.T. You don’t need me—you’ve solved it.” Malloy was seething, and Garrett stopped, pulled himself together. “I apologize, Lieutenant. It’s been a shitty day. I need some sleep.” He turned toward the door.
“We’re not done here,” Malloy snapped at him.
Garrett turned back.
“Your lab results came back. You have atropine in your bloodstream. Only it’s broken down, which indicates that you ingested it more than thirty-six hours ago.” Malloy stared across the room at him. “What haven’t you been telling me, Detective?”
Garrett felt a hard knot in his stomach. “I accidentally ingested the atropine in the course of the investigation. I didn’t know that . . . some liquid was laced with the drug—”
“Some liquid,” Malloy said contemptuously. Garrett was silent. Malloy shook his head, but Garrett saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “I know about the congress you’ve been having with that—woman.”
Congress? Garrett felt himself bristling. Oh, yeah? What do you know? The rituals? The flying? The f*cking? He forced himself to remain calm as Malloy elaborated.
“The one who identifies herself as a ‘witch.’ Who has a prior relationship with Jason Moncrief—”
Garrett countered, “I’ve found no evidence of a prior—”
“Who has a criminal record for fraud,” Malloy overrode him, and Garrett stopped. “You mentioned none of this in your reports,” the lieutenant finished grimly. “This woman is an occult practitioner. She should have been listed and investigated as a potential suspect or accomplice as soon as you discovered the connection. Why was this not done?”
Garrett used every ounce of will he had to remain calm. “I consulted with her about occult rituals that were relevant to the case—”
“Is that what you call it? Consulting?” Malloy’s outrage had that tone of religious condemnation that Garrett despised. He pressed his hands into the desktop to keep silent as Malloy raged on. “Your conduct has been completely unprofessional, and your partner is now in a coma because of your negligent—”
“Coma?” Garrett interrupted, feeling as if Malloy had just hit him with a two-by-four.
“A drug-induced coma,” Malloy elaborated, and Garrett felt there was a small and sadistic measure of satisfaction for the lieutenant in delivering the news. Too sickened to look at him, Garrett turned on his heel and strode for the door.
“Tell me, Detective,” Malloy shot at him from behind. “Did this Cabarrus woman send you to that house? Is that where you got your tip?”
Garrett stopped in his tracks and turned back to look at him.
The lieutenant stared back, then nodded. “Just as I thought.” His face hardened. “We’re picking her up for questioning. Detectives Palmer and Morelli will be taking over the investigation. You’re relieved of duty pending review. Surrender your weapon—and get out.”
Detectives Palmer and Morelli led the team of uniforms to raid Tanith’s shop. Their warrant was in hand and they wore HazMat gear: suits and huge impenetrable gloves. There was no answer when they rang the bell, then pounded on the door—and then they kicked the door in, bursting into the exotically scented shop.
No cat looked up from the counter; no one answered their shouted summons. They fanned out to search the rooms and the upstairs.
The altar room was empty: no Book of Shadows, no crystals, no daggers, no cards, no candles—just the empty cabinet and shelves and the heavy drapes on the walls and the pentagram on the floor. There was no one upstairs, either, and the closet looked sparse for a woman’s room.
The police finally lowered their weapons and began methodically to tear the house apart.
Unseen by anyone, a mouse watched from a hole in the baseboard.