Alexandra Sokoloff - Book of Shadows

Landauer insisted that they drive straight back to Boston rather than stop at the campus infirmary, and Garrett was secretly relieved; the sooner they got Moncrief into a cell, the better, as far as he was concerned.

Once shut inside the back of the car, Moncrief dropped instantly into a deep sleep. Landauer turned from the passenger seat to look at their collar. “Look at that,” he said with disgust. “Guilty as they come.” Garrett got what he meant. Any seasoned cop knew that an innocent man falsely accused will not be able to sleep a wink in custody, while a guilty one has not the slightest problem dozing off.

The ride was uneasy, the partners feinting around the real questions while Landauer treated his arm with hydrogen peroxide and Neosporin from the car’s first-aid kit. “Think all that will count as a confession?” he asked, low.

Garrett glanced warily in the rearview mirror, but there was no mistaking the authenticity of the adenoidal snoring coming from their suspect. “I don’t know about confession,” he said, sotto. “But we’ve got probable cause nailed.”

“Lunatic, right?” Landauer said. “Complete fruitcake.” His voice was uneven. Garrett didn’t speak. They were both thinking of what they had seen in that room.

Crazy was the only sane word.

Landauer had managed to reach Dr. Frazer, the BPD’s regular forensic psychiatric consultant, on the drive back, and the pasty, balding doctor was there to meet them in the predawn at the Suffolk County jail intake for an emergency evaluation. The detectives filled out arrest reports while Frazer examined Jason Moncrief.

Moncrief had by then regained at least some consciousness or savvy—or the physical fact of being in jail had snapped him back into reality. As the detectives led him from the car into intake he’d asked for a phone call and an attorney and refused to say anything more. All Dr. Frazer could do was expedite the normal psychological tests, and do the physical exam.

And when that was done, as the guard led their suspect off, Jason Moncrief suddenly turned and looked at Garrett, dark hair and dark eyes and translucent face under the stark glare of the fluorescents. And Garrett felt his heart stop for a fraction of a second.

He was looking at a teenager. A slight, scared, shaking teenage boy.

And then the guard yanked him forward and Jason stumbled on.

With Moncrief safely locked away in a single cell on suicide watch, the detectives and the psychiatrist reconvened around the big table in the conference room back at Schroeder Plaza, joined by Lieutenant Malloy and Carolyn, at 6:00 A.M. looking so fresh and polished that it hurt Garrett’s eyes to look at her. He himself had gone beyond five o’clock shadow to predawn beard and felt his skin would have to be scraped and sterilized even before he could shower and crawl into bed, if that was ever going to happen this century.

The big news was, Moncrief wasn’t crazy.

“No history of psychiatric problems, no dissociative symptoms, response to preliminary testing was normal,” Dr. Frazer reported, his eyes gleaming behind wire-framed glasses that were just a touch too big for his pale, diminutive face. Garrett found the psychiatrist annoying, fastidious to a fault, and prissily condescending—shrink was far too apt a word—but he was the department’s favorite forensic consultant, with a résumé as long as Garrett’s arm. Garrett reached for his coffee mug to avoid looking at the good doctor as Frazer continued his report. “But urine and blood tests showed the presence of atropine in his system.”

Garrett and Landauer looked up from their coffees, which by now were not optional.

Frazer started to elaborate. “Atropine is a hallucinogen found in—”

“Belladonna,” both detectives finished. Frazer looked surprised, possibly annoyed. He nodded stiffly.

“The lab found atropine in Erin Carmody’s system, and partially digested belladonna berries in her stomach,” Garrett briefed the others, sliding copies of the M.E.’s final report across the table. “It’s used as a recreational hallucinogen—and in witchcraft rituals.”

Carolyn’s eyebrows arched. She scribbled quick, neat notes on her legal pad.

Garrett took a moment to focus and started a recap. “Moncrief lives in the same dorm as Erin Carmody. We have a witness who puts them together last night—Friday night—at a Goth club in Kenmore Square called Cauldron. Moncrief plays in a band called Shriek, with a satanic theme going on: inverted crosses, a CD titled Current 333, the same number that was carved into Erin’s torso. The CD cover has the three-triangle symbol as well. I’ve just started researching it, but it looks like 333 is a number used in satanic rituals.”

He looked to Dr. Frazer, who frowned back. “I’m not familiar with it.” The doctor jotted it down.

Across from him, Garrett saw Carolyn write “333” and a question mark.

Landauer leaned forward. “The kid is definitely into this shit. His room is black everything. Bedspread, curtains—”

“—candles,” Garrett finished. “Black candles. And the lab found black candle wax on Erin Carmody’s body.”

“We’ve also got semen from Erin’s body,” Landauer supplied. “All we need is a DNA test and a match—”

Carolyn tapped her Cross pen on her pad. “There’s definitely enough here to hold him and get a semen sample.”

“We need a search warrant for the room, and his car.” Garrett heard impatience and sleeplessness grating in his own voice. “I’d like to get a look at the books on his shelf.” The others looked at him. “I think we’re going to find some of this 333 stuff, the triangles, in those books. The titles came up on my Internet search.”

“So you need a search warrant for his room and car, and you need a court order for samples for DNA testing,” Carolyn summed up, writing as she spoke. When she looked up, her eyes were bright and predatory, a quality Garrett had found sexy when he first met her, and now… was not entirely sure how he felt.

“Preferably before someone ponies up bail.” Landauer agreed, and Garrett nodded.

“I can do that,” Carolyn said, and closed her file. She leaned back in her chair, pen balanced between two fingers, taking control of the room. “Moncrief’s got a public defender for the moment. His father’s in the military, a colonel; Moncrief specifically didn’t want him called. His mother’s apparently in Europe, on vacation with the current husband: number four.” Garrett and Landauer raised eyebrows at each other at that as she continued. “I’m going to move on this before the family can be reached.”

She slipped her pen and pad into her Coach briefcase and stood. The men all rose automatically, something Garrett knew they would never have done for any other woman in the building. Carolyn gave them all a ghost of a smile, as if acknowledging the fact. “Gentlemen.”

As the door closed behind her, Dr. Frazer cleared his throat and glanced to the lieutenant. “Before the detectives called me this morning I was putting together a preliminary profile on Erin Carmody’s killer. I think it’s of use for you to hear what I had compiled before my intake examination of Jason Moncrief.”

Malloy nodded for him to proceed. Frazer removed several files from his briefcase and opened one, passing photocopies of a report around the table to the other men.

“As we all know, true satanic crime is extremely rare. The ‘satanic’ crimes that have been identified have never involved organized or official covens. There are two types of these satanists identified by forensic profilers: ‘self-styled’ satanists, and ‘youth subculture’ satanists.”

The psychiatrist passed another set of photocopies around the table: a collection of mug shots and some instantly recognizable newspaper photos. “The most well-known ‘self-styled’ satanic serial killer is Richard Ramirez, a.k.a. the ‘Night Stalker,’ who was convicted in Los Angeles in 1989 of thirteen counts of murder.”