Chapter 23
J ohn and Beth’s return to the fishing camp sent Mutt into a frenzy of joy. “He’s going to drive us nuts if he doesn’t burn off some energy,” John said.
He stayed outside to play fetch the stick. Beth sat down at her computer and emailed Professor Wallace an invitation for their Zoom, then called Max. To her disappointment, she got his voice mail. She left a second message, urging him to call her back.
Again, she considered calling Richard and asking him to track Max down, but she rejected the idea for the same reason as before: She didn’t want to ring an alarm bell before conferring with Max on how to finesse Brady.
John and Mutt came inside. He filled Mutt’s water bowl and took a bottle of water for himself from the fridge. He asked Beth, “Any luck?”
“In reaching Max, no. When he doesn’t want to be found, he accidentally-on-purpose forgets where he left his phone. The Zoom with the professor is at five-fifteen. Will you sit in?”
“I’d like to hear what he has to say about the blood moon mystique.”
“He was in a rush, so I didn’t tell him specifically why I was reaching out, only that I was doing research for a Crisis Point episode.”
While listening, John had also been checking his various phones for messages. “Gayle Morris texted five minutes ago. Said to call.”
“Probably in response to what you told her about Billy.”
He accessed her number. She answered right away. They exchanged cursory greetings; then John said, “I’m putting you on speaker so Beth can listen in. What did you think about Billy Oliver’s faux confession?”
“John, if that was rigged, your department has raised the bar on police corruption.”
“It’s no longer my department, Gayle.”
“Pardon?”
“Barker canned me yesterday. I apologize for not telling you sooner, but you deserve to know. You also need to know that I’m not shrugging this off and quietly slinking away. No hard feelings if you choose to hang up now.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “How high up does it go? Does it start and stop with Barker?”
“To be determined.”
“Have you taken it to Internal Affairs?”
“No, because I wouldn’t know who among them to trust. Barker’s got some enemies, but also people who kowtow to him, either out of fear or for favors.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Try to gather some evidence. So far, I don’t have anyone to back me up. Only three of us were in Billy’s cell within ninety seconds of Isabel Sanchez finding him. Myself, Billy’s lawyer, now deceased, and Barker’s number one heavy who everyone calls the ogre.”
“And Sanchez? Have you taken her temperature on the matter?”
He told her about his attempt to talk to the deputy. “Somebody scared her into silence.”
“God, I hate dirty cops.”
“Me too.”
Morris took a deep breath, then said, “For the time being, I don’t know you’re rogue, okay?”
“Got it. Thanks.”
“Now that that’s settled,” she said, “the reason I called. I told you we hadn’t found anything to indicate that Larissa Whitmore was into the occult, astrology, etcetera.”
“Did you learn different?”
“From Patrick Dobbs.”
John and Beth looked at each other with surprise. Beth asked, “How’d that come about?”
“As we know, Larissa was living loose, but her parents are devout Catholics. They would have considered anything like that taboo. If Larissa was even dabbling in something, she would have kept it secret from them.”
Beth said, “But she would flaunt it to an older, more sophisticated young man she was trying to impress.”
“Exactly my thought,” Morris said. “I called Dobbs’s attorney and got his permission to speak with his client by phone from the prison. His only stipulation was that he would listen in and caution Dobbs not to answer if what he said had the potential of jeopardizing his appeal.”
“Okay,” John said.
“I asked Dobbs if Larissa had talked to him about anything like the occult. No, he said, but she did have a tattoo on her rib cage beneath her left arm. She told him she got it there because it was beneath her bra strap and her parents wouldn’t see it. But in her teeny-weeny bikini top, which he admitted to untying, there it was.”
“Gayle, I’m dying here,” John said. “What was the tattoo?”
“A red crescent moon.”
“Luna,” Beth exclaimed on a soft gasp.
“What? Who?” John said.
“The Roman goddess of the moon,” Beth said. “She’s symbolized by a crescent moon.”
“She’s right, John,” Morris said over the phone. “I looked it up. If you’re into all that, Luna is a big deal.”
“Ah, most definitely,” Professor Victor Wallace proclaimed when they finally got around to talking about Luna, which had taken much longer than John would have preferred.
Their introduction to him had amounted to him establishing himself as an expert on a number of subjects by talking about his book.
“Ms. Collins, the article you read online was an excerpt from it,” he’d said, smiling at them on the monitor. “It focuses more on the occult and its influence on civilizations throughout history, but I touched on folklore, superstitions, the paranormal. All things mystical.” He’d raised his hands to the sides of his head and waggled his fingers. “Including mankind’s fascination with astrological phenomena.”
“That’s what we’re most interested in,” John had told him. “The mystique surrounding blood moons.”
“A fascinating topic to be sure. One that’s held people in thrall for millennia.”
They hadn’t told the professor why they were particularly interested in Luna, but Beth had eased the moon goddess’s name into the conversation by quoting Gayle Morris. “If you’re into all things lunar, I understand that Luna is a big deal.”
Now, after his exclamation of affirmation, the professor continued. “It’s said that a temple to Luna was built by the Romans in the sixth century B.C . But the old girl had been around for a long time before then. She’s held up well and remains very popular. I referenced her in my book on pages…” He picked up a well-worn paperback and began shuffling through the pages.
He wasn’t as musty as John had expected a professor to be, although his office looked like the set of an Indiana Jones movie. The bookcases behind him were weighted down with old-looking books and artifacts made of various materials.
John wasn’t sure what most of them were depictions of, although one was easily identifiable as a penis, no doubt crafted by a wishful-thinking sculptor. Whether male or female was cause for speculation.
To him it looked like a lot of crap, but he figured the razorback on the wall behind him wouldn’t appeal to the professor.
“Here,” he said. “Pages one sixty-two through sixty-four, in a chapter on festivals and observances of ancient Rome. Luna had one in her honor.”
John was afraid he was going to launch into a lecture on Luna’s festival; the man had a tendency to go off on irrelevant tangents. Beth must have sensed his impatience, because before the professor could get too wound up, she interrupted him by saying, “I looked up tattoos relating to Luna.”
“Tattoos?”
“Yes. The one that seems most popular looks like this.” She held up a drawing she’d done for him to see. She’d copied it from images on the internet and had had Gayle Morris confirm that it matched Larissa’s tattoo as described by Patrick Dobbs.
The professor leaned in. “Yes, that’s a common symbol for Luna. And sometimes the crescent has another crescent sitting atop it. I always thought it looked like a pair of horns.” He smiled. “I said that once in a lecture, and one or two devotees in the audience booed me.”
John perked up. “You give lectures on this topic?”
“And related topics, yes.”
“Where do you conduct them? Who attends them?”
“I give them wherever I’m invited. Usually on campuses, and typically in relation to studies in sociology or humanities. My audience is largely comprised of students, but many people attend simply because they have a passionate interest in all things mystical, past and present.”
“There are that many people with a passion for it?”
“I think more than we know, Mr. Bowie. Many afficionados stay closeted because their particular interest might be regarded as satanic. For instance, I did a lecture at a well-known university with an enrollment above twenty thousand. Only sixty people attended.
“But in the weeks following it, I sold more than two hundred downloads of the recording of my talk. I know there are online clubs, chat rooms, things like that, and most of the people in them use a name that’s nothing like their real one. They’re funny or tongue-in-cheek.”
He winked. “I know because I sometimes lurk. I want to know what the current rage is so I can tailor my lectures accordingly. What’s popular this month? Is it dragons? Ghosts? Witchcraft or werewolves? Interests wax and wane like the moon.”
He tilted his head, looking curiously into his camera. “Speaking of, may I ask why you’re interested in all this? Specifically in blood moons? Ms. Collins, you told me you were doing research for your television show.”
“ Crisis Point has produced an episode documenting the disappearance of a young woman.” She gave him an expurgated version of Crissy Mellin’s story.
“I remember when that happened,” he said. “The New Orleans TV stations covered every aspect of it. You’ve made a TV show out of it?”
“Yes. But since it was produced, I’ve learned that there were previous disappearances in this general region of the country, all of which occurred on the night of a blood moon. It seemed too much of a coincidence.”
“I would agree. And you, Mr. Bowie? What’s your connection?”
It was one thing to confide his expulsion from the PD with a fellow cop like Morris, but he didn’t want the professor delving into it. He skirted the question. “Going back to your lectures. Do people just show up or do they register beforehand?”
“They register. I take walk-ins if there’s room. Which there usually is,” he said with chagrin. “But I still ask that they sign in so I can add them to my mailing list.”
“You have a mailing list? Could you share it with us?”
“Of course. I have Ms. Collins’s email. I’ll send it as soon as we conclude.”
John felt a bump of optimism. One never knew when there was going to be a break in a case. The discovery of a minute detail that had previously gone unnoticed would be the wished-for golden key.
“How are the names on your mailing list categorized?” he asked.
“Alphabetically.”
“Great. That’s great.” He didn’t want to wait for the list to be emailed. “Can you access it now?”
“Well…” He began rearranging stacks of papers on his desk and riffling through loose sheets. “I have a printout somewhere.” Then, “Here.”
“Would you please check for these names, see if they’re on there?” The professor slid on a pair of reading glasses. John started with Crissy and then worked backward to the first girl who’d disappeared in Jackson, Mississippi.
The professor checked for all the names, but shook his head after each. “No,” he said, dousing John’s momentary optimism.
“That would have been too easy,” John said, and gave Beth a rueful smile, then noticed that his phone was vibrating on the table. “Sorry. I’m getting a call.” He looked at the readout. “Molly,” he said to Beth. Then to the professor, “Thank you for your time and insight. If you could please send us that list…?”
“Right away.”
“And if it’s not too much to ask, send us links to those chat rooms.”
“No trouble at all.”
“Much obliged, Professor.” As John headed toward his bedroom, he answered his phone. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“You made it home okay?”
“Yes. And joy! He’s here.”
“Are they fighting?”
“No. But Mom is pissed with me because I didn’t go to the table for dinner. I brought my plate to my room.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re in. You didn’t notice anyone following you?”
“No, Dad. And I looked.”
Her annoyed tone annoyed him. “Molly, don’t blow off this heads-up. I didn’t issue it for the fun of it. Don’t take it lightly.”
“I don’t. I promise. I’m sorry. I’m just grumpy.”
“Hang in there.”
“I miss Mutt. How is he?”
“I wore him out this afternoon.”
“Fetching tennis balls?”
“Sticks. Right now he’s sacked.”
“How’s Ms. Collins?”
“Listen, don’t go out again tonight. All right? I’ll check in with you in the morning.”
“She’s there with you, isn’t she?” Then in singsong voice, “I know she is.”
“Good night,” he said singsong. “Sleep tight. ”
Smiling, he hung up and rejoined Beth in the main room. She asked how Molly was.
“Hating life. Roslyn’s boyfriend is there. A familiar refrain.” He sat down in the chair beside her. “What did you think of the professor?”
“Well, he came through with his mailing list. I just opened up the attachment in his email.”
“How many names are on it?”
“Looks like several hundred.”
“Several hundred ? Jesus. Even eliminating the women, that’s a lot of men to check out. We could put fifty people on it immediately, and it could still take weeks. And who’s to say our perp ever attended one of Wallace’s lectures? I wouldn’t if you paid me. And I need the money.” He got up and rounded his chair. “But what else have we got? Nothing.”
“He also sent links to the chat rooms. Maybe we start by searching for names that are on more than one. And names that show up routinely. That would narrow it down.”
Wearily, he said, “I’ll get some of my people on that. I’ll also send the links to Gayle, Roberts, and Cougar, and encourage them to put people on the hunt. But manpower is scarce, and these are cold cases, and I’m no longer a cop. Beth, I’m afraid—”
“Don’t say it.”
He didn’t speak it aloud, but each acknowledged that time was running out. She broke the gloomy silence by asking, “Have we eaten today?”
He gave a soft laugh. “Now that I think about it…”
“Lasagna?”
“You know how to make lasagna?”
“I know how to take it from the freezer and turn on the oven.”
“Fine.”
He sat down at his computer and accessed his file on the Mellin case. Once the frozen entree was in the oven, Beth sat down beside him. “How can I help?”
He explained, “I copied notes taken by every detective and patrol officer who’d interviewed anyone about Crissy. As I find a name, you consult Wallace’s list.”
They’d been at it for about twenty minutes when one of John’s phones rang. He looked at the readout, snatched up the phone, and put it to his ear. He was looking at Beth in wonderment as he answered. “Isabel?”