Devil Bones (17 page)

“He is the essence of the masculine aspect of the balance of nature. In that depiction the god is surrounded by a stag, a bul, and a snake, symbols of fertility, power, and masculinity.”

“You get off on those things?”

Finney’s gaze swung back to Slidel. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sex. Power.”

Finney began picking at one of his cheeks. “What are you implying?”

“You live by yourself, Asa?” Interrogation tactic: subject switch.

“Yes.”

“Nice house.”

Finney said nothing.

“Must cost some bucks, a crib like this.”

“I have my own business.” Finney’s scratching had created a flaming red patch among the pits. “I design video games. Manage some Web sites.”

“Word is you got a dandy of your own.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“You tel me.”

Finney’s nostrils narrowed, expanded. “The same old ignorant bigotry.”

Slidel tipped his head.

“Look, it’s no secret. I’m Wiccan.”

“Wiccan?” Heavy with disdain. “Like witches and devil worshippers?”

“We consider ourselves witches, yes. But we are not Satanists.”

“Ain’t that a relief.”

“Wicca is a neopagan religion whose roots predate Christianity by centuries. We worship a god and a goddess. We observe the eight sabbats of the year and the ful-moon esbats. We live by a strict code of ethics.”

“Those ethics include murder?”

Finney’s brows dipped. “Wicca incorporates specific ritual forms, the casting of spels, herbalism, divination. Wiccans employ witchcraft exclusively for the accomplishment of good.”

Slidel made one of his uninterpretable noises.

“Like many folowers of minority belief systems, we Wiccans are continualy harassed. Verbal and physical abuse, shootings, even lynchings. Is that what this is, Detective?

More persecution?”

“I’m asking the questions.” Slidel’s drawl was pure ice. “What do you know about a celar on Greenleaf Avenue?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I watched Finney for signs of evasiveness. Saw only resentment.

“Got cauldrons and dead chickens.”

“Wiccans do not practice animal sacrifice.”

“And human skuls.”

“Never.”

“How ’bout a guy named T-Bird Cuervo?”

There was a subtle tensing around Finney’s eyes.

“He is not one of us.”

“Ain’t what I asked.”

“I may have heard the name.”

“In what context?”

“Cuervo is a
santero.
A healer.”

“You two dance in the moonlight together?”

Finney’s chin hiked up a notch. “Santería and Wicca are realy quite different.”

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t know the man.”

Again, a crimping of the lower lids?

“You wouldn’t be lying to me, now would you, Asa?”

“I don’t have to sit stil for your bulying. I know my rights.
Dettmer versus Landon.
1985. A district court in Virginia ruled that Wicca is a legaly recognized religion to be afforded al benefits accorded by law. Affirmed in 1986 by the Federal Appeals Court for the Fourth Circuit. Get used to it, Detective. We’re legal and we’re here to stay.”

At that moment my cel chirped. The caler ID showed Katy’s number. I rose and walked to the living room, closing the door behind me.

“Hey, Katy.”

“Mom. I know what you’re going to say. I’m always dumping you. And, yes, I’ve probably bailed way too many times. But I’ve been invited to this awesome picnic, and if you don’t mind, I’d realy, realy like to go.”

I was lost. Then I remembered. Saturday. Shopping.

“It’s not a problem.” I was speaking softly, trying not to be overheard.

“Where are you?”

“You go, enjoy.”

Through the door I heard the cadence of voices, Slidel’s harsh, Finney’s affronted.

“You’re sure?”

Oh, yeah.

“Absolutely.”

As we spoke, I perused book titles on a set of wooden shelves pushed up against one wal.
Coming to the Edge of the Circle: A Wiccan Initiation Ritual; Living Wicca;
The Virtual Pagan; Pagan Paths; Earthly Bodies Magical Selves: Contemporary Pagans and the Search for Community; Living Witchcraft: A Contemporary
American Coven; Book of Magical Talismans; An Alphabet of Spells.

On a lower shelf, two books caught my attention.
Satanic Bible
and
Satanic Witch,
both by Anton LaVey. How did those fit in?

“Charlie said you rocked the other night.”

“Mm.”

My eyes roved to a statue of a goddess with upraised arms, a stone bowl of crystals, a cornhusk dol. Hearing soft clacking, I looked up.

A miniature wind chime swayed from a hook screwed into the top outer frame of the bookcase. The shels hung on strings attached to a pink ceramic bird.

Katy said something that my brain failed to take in. My gaze was locked on an object barely visible behind the dangling cowries.

“Bye, sweetie. Have fun.”

Pocket-jamming the phone, I dragged a chair to the bookcase, climbed up, and reached for the top shelf.

19

BARELY BREATHING, I RAN A MENTAL CHECKLIST.

The mandible retained no incisors or canines. The wisdom teeth were partialy erupted. Al dentition showed minimal wear. The bone was solid and stained tea brown.

Every detail was consistent with the jawless Greenleaf skul.

Back in the kitchen, Finney was explaining the creation of script for video gaming. Slidel looked as though he’d swalowed raw sewage.

Both turned at the sound of the door.

Wordlessly, I placed the jaw on the table, slapped the LaVey books beside it.

Finney regarded me, a flush creeping up from his colar.

“You have a warrant to search my belongings?”

“It was in plain view on the bookshelf,” I said.

“You invited us in,” Slidel snapped. “We don’t need no warrant.”

“Those your books?” Slidel demanded.

“I strive to understand different perspectives.”

“I’l bet you do.”

“I’l do a ful exam,” I said. “But I’m certain this jaw belongs to the skul found in T-Bird Cuervo’s celar.”

Finney’s eyes dropped from my face. But not before I noted the lower lid tremble.

“So, asshole, you want to explain why this jawbone’s in your crib, given you don’t know Cuervo or his little shop of horrors on Greenleaf?”

Finney looked up and met Slidel’s glare coming his way.

“Know what I’m thinking?” Slidel didn’t wait for an answer to his question. “I’m thinking you and your pals kiled some kid at one of your freakfests, then stashed her skul and leg bones to play your sick little games.”

“What? No.”

Striding to the table, Slidel leaned close to Finney’s ear, as though preparing to share a private moment. “You’re going down, asshole,” he hissed.

“No!” High and whiny, more the wail of a teenaged girl than a grown man. “I want a lawyer.”

Jerking Finney to his feet, Slidel spun and cuffed him. “Don’t you worry. This town’s got more lawyers than a bayou’s got gators.”

“This is harassment.”

Slidel read Finney his rights.

Driving into the city, Finney sat with head down, shoulders slumped, cuffed hands clasped behind his back.

Slidel caled Rinaldi, told him about the jaw and about Finney’s arrest, and pushed back their rendezvous time. Rinaldi reported that his canvass was yielding good folow-up.

I asked Slidel to drop me at my car on his way to headquarters. An unpleasant sight greeted us at Cuervo’s shop. Alison Stalings stood with face pressed to the glass, digital Nikon clasped in one hand.

“Wel, isn’t that just finger-lickin’ briliant.”

Shoulder-ramming the door, Slidel heaved from behind the wheel and lumbered across the asphalt. I lowered my window. Finney raised his head and watched with interest.

“What the hel do you think you’re doing?”

“Research.” Grinning, Stalings framed Slidel in her LCD screen and clicked the shutter.

Slidel made a grab for the camera. Stalings raised it, snapped the Taurus, then dropped the Nikon into her backpack.

“Stay the hel away from my car and my prisoner,” Slidel blustered.

“Let’s go,” I shouted, knowing it was too late.

Stalings beelined to the Taurus, bent, and peered into the backseat. Slidel stormed behind, face cherry pie red.

Before I could react, Finney leaned toward my open window and shouted, “I’m Asa Finney. I’ve done nothing wrong. Let the public know. This is religious persecution.”

I hit the button. Finney kept shouting as my window slid up.

“I’m a victim of police brutality!”

Breathing hard, Slidel threw his girth into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Shut the fuck up!”

Finney went mute.

Slidel jammed the gearshift. We shot backward. He jammed again and we flew from the lot, tires spitting up rainwater.

While Slidel booked Finney, I went to the MCME to determine if the jaw was, in fact, consistent with the cauldron skul. X-rays. Biological profile. State of preservation.

Articulation. Measurements. Fordisc 3.0 assessment. Everything fit.

When finished, I extracted and bagged the mandible’s left second molar. If needed, DNA comparison could be done between the jaw and the skul. Other than satisfying lawyers in court, the procedure was unnecessary. I had no doubt the mandible and cranium came from the same young black female.

Two questions remained. Who was she? How did part of her end up in that cauldron and part of her at Asa Finney’s house?

When I got to police headquarters, Finney was in the interrogation room so enjoyed by Kenneth Roseboro the day before. The accused had made his one phone cal. Slidel and I ate Subway sandwiches while awaiting the arrival of counsel.

That counsel appeared as I was downing my last mouthful of turkey and Cheddar.

Nearly causing me to choke.

Charlie Hunt looked even better than he had Thursday night. Double-breasted merino wool and shiny wingtips now replaced the jeans and loafers. Today, he carried a briefcase. And wore socks.

Charlie introduced himself to Slidel, then to me.

We shook hands crisply.

Slidel read the charge, ilegal possession of human remains. He then described the evidence and explained the link between Finney and Cuervo’s celar. For good measure, he threw in the possibility of a tiein to Jimmy Klapec.

“Based on what?” Charlie asked.

“A fondness for the writings of Anton LaVey.”

“I’d like ten minutes alone with my client.”

“Guy’s a weirdo,” Slidel offered.

“So’s Emo,” Charlie answered. “That doesn’t make him a kiler.”

Together, we walked to interrogation room three.

“I don’t mind you observing.” One by one, Charlie looked us each in the eye. “But no mikes.”

Slidel shrugged.

Charlie entered the room. Slidel and I positioned ourselves by the one-way glass.

Finney was on his feet. The men shook hands then sat. Finney talked, did a lot of gesturing. Charlie did a lot of nodding and scribbling.

Eight minutes after entering the cubicle, Charlie rejoined us.

“My client has information he is wiling to share.” As before, Charlie addressed both of us. I liked that.

“Coming to his senses,” Slidel said.

“In exchange for ful immunity covering any and al statements.”

“This douche bag may have kiled a kid.”

“He swears he’s harmed no one.”

“Don’t they al.”

“Do you believe him?” I asked.

Charlie regarded me for a very long time. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“How’d he get this kid’s jaw?” Slidel asked.

“He’s wiling to explain that.”

“What’s his relationship to Cuervo?”

“He claims they’ve never met.”

“Uh. Huh. And I’m gonna be voted the king of good taste.”

“That would be hereditary,” I said.

Slidel shot me a questioning look.

“No voting in a monarchy.”

Charlie ran a hand over his mouth.

“Hardy-friggin’-har-har.” Slidel turned back to Charlie. “Your boy flips, he gets a pass on the jaw, and only the jaw. He testifies truthfuly and we give him immunity on the possession of human remains charge. I suspect he’s lying, I find out he’s plucked one feather off one lame-butt chicken, the deal’s out the window.”

“Fair enough,” Charlie said.

“We do it with audio and video.”

“Good,” Charlie said.

The three of us trooped into the interrogation room. Charlie took a chair beside Finney. Slidel and I sat facing them.

Slidel told Finney the interview was being recorded.

Finney looked at his lawyer. Charlie nodded, told him to begin.

“High school was pure hel for me. My one friend was a girl named Donna Scott. A loner, like me. A reject. Donna and I connected by default, both having been exiled to the fringe, and because of our common interest in gaming. We both spent a great deal of time online.”

“This Donna Scott live in Charlotte?”

“Her family moved to L.A. the summer before our senior year. That’s when she came up with the plan.” Finney looked down at his hands. They were trembling. “Donna got the idea from GraveGrab. It’s a pretty cheesy game but she liked it, so we played. Basicaly, you run around a cemetery digging up graves and trying to avoid being kiled by zombies.”

“What was Donna’s plan?” I asked.

“That we steal something from a grave. I didn’t think we’d pul it off, but I figured going to a cemetery would be a trip.” Finney drew a deep breath, exhaled through his nose.

It sounded like air being forced through steel wool. “Donna was into the Goth scene. I wasn’t, but I liked spending time with her.”

“Did you carry through with the plan?” I asked.

Finney nodded. “Donna was excited about moving, but knew I was bummed. Her idea was that we’d split whatever we stole; she’d keep one half, and I’d keep the other. You know, the old trick where people write a note, or draw a map, then tear it in two. When you meet years later you match the halves. Donna said that way we’d stay spiritualy connected.”

“What graveyard?” Slidel.

“Elmwood Cemetery.”