I watched Finney for signs of evasiveness. Saw only resentment.
“Got cauldrons and dead chickens.”
“Wiccans do not practice animal sacrifice.”
“And human skulls.”
“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 really 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 still for your bullying. I know my rights. Dettmer versus Landon. 1985. A district court in Virginia ruled that Wicca is a legally recognized religion to be afforded all 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 cell chirped. The caller 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 really, really 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, Slidell’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 wall. 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 doll. Hearing soft clacking, I looked up.
A miniature wind chime swayed from a hook screwed into the top outer frame of the bookcase. The shells 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 partially erupted. All dentition showed minimal wear. The bone was solid and stained tea brown.
Every detail was consistent with the jawless Greenleaf skull.
Back in the kitchen, Finney was explaining the creation of script for video gaming. Slidell looked as though he’d swallowed 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 collar.
“You have a warrant to search my belongings?”
“It was in plain view on the bookshelf,” I said.
“You invited us in,” Slidell snapped. “We don’t need no warrant.”
“Those your books?” Slidell demanded.
“I strive to understand different perspectives.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“I’ll do a full exam,” I said. “But I’m certain this jaw belongs to the skull found in T-Bird Cuervo’s cellar.”
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 Slidell’s glare coming his way.
“Know what I’m thinking?” Slidell didn’t wait for an answer to his question. “I’m thinking you and your pals killed some kid at one of your freakfests, then stashed her skull and leg bones to play your sick little games.”
“What? No.”
Striding to the table, Slidell 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, Slidell spun and cuffed him. “Don’t you worry. This town’s got more lawyers than a bayou’s got gators.”
“This is harassment.”
Slidell read Finney his rights.
Driving into the city, Finney sat with head down, shoulders slumped, cuffed hands clasped behind his back.
Slidell called 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 follow-up.
I asked Slidell to drop me at my car on his way to headquarters. An unpleasant sight greeted us at Cuervo’s shop. Allison Stallings stood with face pressed to the glass, digital Nikon clasped in one hand.
“Well, isn’t that just finger-lickin’ brilliant.”
Shoulder-ramming the door, Slidell heaved from behind the wheel and lumbered across the asphalt. I lowered my window. Finney raised his head and watched with interest.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Research.” Grinning, Stallings framed Slidell in her LCD screen and clicked the shutter.
Slidell made a grab for the camera. Stallings raised it, snapped the Taurus, then dropped the Nikon into her backpack.
“Stay the hell away from my car and my prisoner,” Slidell blustered.
“Let’s go,” I shouted, knowing it was too late.
Stallings beelined to the Taurus, bent, and peered into the backseat. Slidell 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, Slidell threw his girth into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Shut the fuck up!”
Finney went mute.
Slidell jammed the gearshift. We shot backward. He jammed again and we flew from the lot, tires spitting up rainwater.
While Slidell booked Finney, I went to the MCME to determine if the jaw was, in fact, consistent with the cauldron skull. 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 skull. 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 call. Slidell 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 Slidell, then to me.
We shook hands crisply.
Slidell read the charge, illegal possession of human remains. He then described the evidence and explained the link between Finney and Cuervo’s cellar. 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,” Slidell offered.
“So’s Emo,” Charlie answered. “That doesn’t make him a killer.”
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.”
Slidell shrugged.
Charlie entered the room. Slidell 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 willing to share.” As before, Charlie addressed both of us. I liked that.
“Coming to his senses,” Slidell said.
“In exchange for full immunity covering any and all statements.”
“This douche bag may have killed a kid.”
“He swears he’s harmed no one.”
“Don’t they all.”
“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?” Slidell asked.
“He’s willing 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.
Slidell shot me a questioning look.
“No voting in a monarchy.”
Charlie ran a hand over his mouth.
“Hardy-friggin’-har-har.” Slidell turned back to Charlie. “Your boy flips, he gets a pass on the jaw, and only the jaw. He testifies truthfully 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. Slidell and I sat facing them.
Slidell told Finney the interview was being recorded.
Finney looked at his lawyer. Charlie nodded, told him to begin.
“High school was pure hell 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. Basically, you run around a cemetery digging up graves and trying to avoid being killed by zombies.”
“What was Donna’s plan?” I asked.
“That we steal something from a grave. I didn’t think we’d pull 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 spiritually connected.”
“What graveyard?” Slidell.
“Elmwood Cemetery.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago. August.”
“Talk about it.”
“Donna picked Elmwood because some old cowboy movie star is supposed to be buried there.”
“Randolph Scott?” I guessed.
“Yeah. Since her name was Scott she thought it would be cool to get something from him.”
Randolph Scott was male, white, and eighty-nine at the time of his death. That didn’t track with my profile of a young black female.
“Did you succeed?” I asked.
“No. We met for a midnight showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show, then went over to Elmwood. The gate was open. Donna brought flashlights. I brought a crowbar.”
Finney’s eyes slid to his lawyer. Charlie nodded.
“We looked around for Scott’s grave, but couldn’t find it. Eventually, we stumbled onto an aboveground crypt, back in a different section, where there weren’t so many big, fancy tombstones. Seemed like a place we wouldn’t be spotted. The hinges were rusty. It took only a couple of shoves with the crowbar.”
“Was a name engraved on a marker?” I asked.
“I don’t remember. It was dark. Anyway, we went in, pried open a casket, grabbed a skull and a jaw and a couple of other bones, and ran. To be honest, I was pretty freaked by then, just wanted to be gone. Donna said I was being a candyass. She was psyched.”
“Let me be sure I got this straight. You’re saying you kept the jaw and Donna kept the rest?”
Finney nodded in answer to Slidell’s question.
“How’d Cuervo get the bones?”
“I don’t know.”
“You got contact information for Donna?”
“No. Her family moved right after that. She said she’d write or call, but she never did.”
“You never saw or talked to her again?”
Finney shook his head glumly.
“Who’s her old man?”
“Birch. Birch Alexander Scott.”
Slidell scribbled the name. Underlined it twice.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Silence crammed the small space. Finney broke it.
“Look. I was a messed-up kid. Four years ago, I discovered Wicca. For the first time, I’m accepted. People like me for who I am. I’m different now.”
“Sure,” Slidell said. “You’re Billy Friggin’ Graham.”
“Wicca is an Earth-oriented religion dedicated to a goddess and god.”
“Lucifer part of the lineup?”
“Because we embrace a belief system different from traditional Judeo-Christian theology, the ignorant believe we must also worship Satan. That if God is the sum of all good, there must be an equally negative being who is the embodiment of evil. Satan. Wiccans don’t buy into that.”
“You saying there’s no devil?”
Finney hesitated, choosing his words.
“Wiccans acknowledge that all nature is composed of opposites, and that this polarity is a part of everyone. Good and evil are locked within the unconsciousness of every person. We believe it’s the ability to rise above destructive urges, to channel negative energies into positive thoughts and actions, that
separates normal people from rapists and mass murderers and other sociopaths.”
“You use magic to do all this rising above?” There was menace in Slidell’s voice.
“In Wicca, magic is viewed as a religious practice.”
“This religious practice involve carving up corpses?”
“I’ve already told you. Wiccans perform no destructive or exploitive magic. We hurt no one. Why would you ask such a question?”
Slidell described Jimmy Klapec’s corpse.
“You think I killed this boy?”
Slidell impaled Finney with a glare.
“I robbed a grave when I was seventeen. Got picked up once for relieving myself in public. Two stupid pranks. That’s it.”
The glare held.
Finney’s eyes sliced from Slidell to Charlie to me. “You’ve got to believe me.”
“Frankly, kid, I don’t believe a thing you’re telling me.”
“Check it out.” Finney was almost in tears. “Find Donna. Talk with her.”
“You can bank on it.”
20
WE CAUGHT A BREAK. OR FINNEY DID. SINCE THE ALLEGED grave grab had taken place after 1999, the incident was on the CMPD computer. Using the year of occurrence and Elmwood as identifiers, we pulled the report in minutes.
On the night of 3 August, an unknown suspect/suspects unlawfully entered crypt 109 located at Elmwood Cemetery. The reporting officer spoke with Mr. Allen Burkhead, cemetery administrator. Mr. Burkhead stated that upon arriving at the cemetery at 0720 hours on 4 August he discovered crypt 109 had been pried open. Mr. Burkhead did not believe the crypt was damaged when he left work at 1800 hours on 3 August. Once inside the crypt the suspect/suspects opened a coffin and violated the remains of Susan Clover Redmon by removing the skull. The Medical Examiner was notified, but declined to visit the site or to examine the body to determine if other bones were removed from the coffin. At the time of the incident the cemetery was closed and there are no witnesses. A record search revealed that Marshall J. Redmon (deceased) holds deed to the tomb. A Redmon family member, Thomas Lawrence Redmon, was located in Springfield, Ohio. Thomas Redmon has been notified and will be kept abreast of developments. I request this case remain open for further investigation.
I skimmed the rest of the information: Reporting officer: Wade J. Hewlett. Incident address: 600 E. 4th St. Victims: Elmwood Cemetery; Marshall J. Redmon. Stolen property: human skull and jaw.