The deeper he looked into the evidence, the more people he found who were implicated. The girls who had died that night had many enemies with motive—angry wives, jilted lovers, righteous moralists. It was as frustrating as having no suspects at all. If there was any information to be found about Leah, the one he’d begun calling the fifth petal, it wasn’t in any of the boxes he’d received. The other missing element was the clothes the girls were killed in, the costumes they’d evidently worn to the party that night, the ones Rose had objected to. The police would have kept the clothing as evidence, checking it for bodily fluids, blood, semen, hair. The costumes were undoubtedly in the missing box. Maybe DNA-testing the existing physical evidence would be enough to satisfy the mob. He made another call to the archives.
He truly detested the idea of the Goddesses’ exhumation. If they dug up those poor girls, and there was enough left of them to test, he’d wager Rose’s DNA would be all over them; they’d lived with her, for God’s sake. Which meant things could easily get serious for Rose, especially since so many people wanted her to be guilty. In the best of all possible worlds, they’d find nothing in the remains. He’d looked it up. The rate of corpse decomposition varied greatly, depending on environmental factors, dampness of the soil being the biggest variable. But if the deterioration was minimal, then they could find DNA.
Just yesterday afternoon, he’d had to send two cruisers to Salem Hospital because a gang of middle school kids were shooting a BB gun at what they believed to be Rose’s window. They’d caused an active shooter lockdown that crippled the surgery center for the rest of the day. Add to that the online posters who enjoyed venting anonymous judgment on a woman they’d never met…He had a real problem on his hands, and it was growing.
Through Towner, who was becoming close to Callie, he’d heard that Rose was having good and bad days. She was in and out of lucidity, sometimes making perfect sense, sometimes ranting about the banshee. For the most part, he’d kept his distance from the hospital unless he had official business there. He’d accompanied Barry Marcus to visit Rose soon after she regained consciousness. Unfortunately, she’d been more out than in that day. The minute Barry was introduced as her lawyer, she’d said: “The banshee jumped into me on the night of the Goddess Murders. It’s taken everything I have to keep her from killing again.”
“You need to get out of here,” Barry had said. Then he’d opened the door and held it for Rafferty to exit.
Truth be told, Rafferty was grateful to be dismissed. He’d heard too much about the banshee and Rose. People were already calling him daily and acting as though the banshee were real. If, as Rose Whelan herself insists, it was a banshee that killed the Goddesses, and that banshee jumped into Rose, then Rose is the killer! Such was the logic of public opinion. He’d waited for the attorney outside that day. “Well, there’s little doubt as to what her defense will be,” Barry had said when he finally exited Rose’s room. “If any defense is needed, considering there’s no evidence of a homicide. Can’t you hurry the kid’s toxicology report along?”
They already had the results of the autopsy, but it hadn’t told them much. Billy Barnes had died of a cerebral hemorrhage. It didn’t point to Rose in any way, but it also did nothing to tamp down the crazy rumors about Rose that were circulating. The banshee’s scream made the kid’s head explode! was the first online post Rafferty encountered. The toxicology report would tell more about what had really happened. But it was going to take a while.
Rafferty wasn’t in as much of a hurry for the reports as Barry was. He knew Rose was protected from the rumors and an inflamed public as long as she was in the hospital. She was off the streets, warm and dry, sleeping in a bed and eating regular meals. And it gave him time.
Rafferty leaned back in his chair and contemplated taking another antacid. He was more worried about Callie at this stage. He’d heard some gossip: She was being touted as a healer, the girl who had awakened Rose from her trance. No one was talking about who Callie Cahill really was—yet. As far as he could tell, the only rumors that were circulating at this point were of the miraculous healing performed with a “magic” bowl. But it was only a matter of time until people started to recognize her and remember. He needed to get further into his reinvestigation of the Goddess case before the damned exhumation could go forward. Finding something that was missed the first time was the only way to keep both Rose and Callie out of the public’s crosshairs.
Rafferty was at his desk when the tox report finally came in. He read it through twice, just to make sure he understood the ramifications.
There had been late season thunderstorms all morning, full-on hail that had dented some of the cars at the station and sent the ubiquitous news crews scrambling. It was the first bit of amusement Rafferty had enjoyed since Rose’s hospitalization and the media circus that followed. Though it was still pouring outside, he pulled on his raincoat and headed to the hospital.
“Hey, Chief!” some reporter yelled from across the parking lot. “You gonna give the okay to dig up those Goddesses?”
“No comment.”
Rafferty shook the rain from his coat on the threshold of Rose’s room. He nodded to the guard, wondering again if one of them was the source of the leaks to the press. He’d grilled them both about it, but neither admitted guilt.
Rafferty opened the door. Rose was sitting up in her bed. Callie, Towner, and Zee were sitting with her. He cleared his throat, and all of the women turned to him. “I’ve got news,” he said. “The autopsy is complete. We knew Billy Barnes died of a cerebral hemorrhage, but the toxicology report indicated there were large amounts of both cocaine and heroin in his body.”
“That’s good news!” said Towner.
Rafferty shot his wife a look, and she quickly tried to redeem herself. “Well—not for him. I mean for you, Rose.”
Rose looked confused.
“You didn’t do it, Rose,” Rafferty said. “You are not responsible for the death of Billy Barnes. The mix of drugs likely caused the hemorrhage.”
Rose started to speak. “But I…”
Rafferty held up his hand. “Don’t say a word. There’s no banshee. You didn’t explode his brain by screaming, and please stop suggesting you might have. He died of a drug overdose. This is over now. Just concentrate on getting better.”
He quickly said his good-byes and excused himself, dismissing the guard at the door on his way out. Then he headed back to the station to deal with the fallout. As the door closed, he heard Towner inviting Callie to the upcoming fund-raiser for the Yellow Dog Island Shelter. Good, he thought. Callie can have my ticket.
Unfortunately, there will be one family in Salem who will not be celebrating Thanksgiving. “There is little to be thankful for this year,” Helen Barnes said. “William’s mother is so grief stricken that she has put her house on the market, a house that has been in the Barnes family for almost three hundred years.”
—The Salem Journal
“You sure this is a good idea?” Callie asked. The color on the L’Oréal box was a very light blond. “Is it even going to take?” She gestured to her dark curls.
“Time will tell,” Towner said, putting the shower cap over Callie’s head and removing her gloves. “You probably should have gone to a colorist.”