Alexandra Sokoloff - Book of Shadows

Garrett handed the cell phone to a patiently waiting Lingg to enter into evidence. Landauer drifted back to the closet while Garrett stepped to the bookshelf to look at the books, scanning over the odd names: Magick in Theory and Practice. The Vision and the Voice. He turned to Lingg and pointed at the books. “These are going with me. This shelf. I’ll sign for them.”

“Sure,” the criminalist said, nodding.

While Landauer busied himself with the closet drawers, Garrett tried the computer, a Dell laptop. The screen saver dissolved up, a field of black with a single line of white text:

There is no grace, there is no guilt. This is the Law: DO WHAT THOU WILT!

Garrett stared at the rhyme, recognizing “Do what thou wilt” as something Jason had said to them last night. The phrase was no less disturbing in the daylight. After a moment he tried clicking into the My Documents files, but the files were password protected, as were Moncrief’s online accounts.

He motioned to Jerri-Jenni-whoever-the-fuck to take the laptop, then stopped and looked into the young woman’s fresh face, and it clicked. “Jenna,” he said.

“Yes?” She cocked her head toward him, surprised.

“What does BOOMS mean in text?” Garrett asked.

“Bored out of my skull,” she answered promptly.

Garrett looked at her. “Would you text that to someone you planned on killing?”

Jenna’s eyes widened slightly. “Um… depends on how bored I was. I kinda doubt it, though.”

Garrett nodded, frowning. “Yeah.” And his thoughts were swirling again, and the knot was back in his stomach.

After a moment Jenna turned away with the laptop. Garrett moved back to the desk and opened the long top drawer to look down on a mad scatter of pens, pencils, club tickets, band postcards, legal pads, batteries, pills, Jolly Rancher candies, Dubble Bubble gum. Nothing eye-catching at first glance, and Garrett was inclined to move on—then he spotted an antique-style metal key. He reached with a gloved hand and picked it up, examining it.

“You find a lockbox in the closet?” He spoke aloud to his partner.

“Nope,” Landauer answered. He’d started on the bureau drawers.

Garrett turned from the desk with the key and scanned the room. His eyes stopped on the black-quilted bed. He crossed the room and crouched beside it, picking up the black comforter to look below. In the dark space under the bed, amid an unnerving collection of dust mice, was a battered, antique-looking box. “Hey. Land.”

Landauer stepped over from the dresser while Garrett lifted the box onto the bed and unlocked it, opened the lid. They looked down on a startling collection of objects: black candles, a tarnished silver hand mirror, an oil lamp, a cup, a bell, a jar of salt, a vial of oil, a hexagonal metal container with punched-out holes that Garrett recognized from his altar-boy days as a censer, for burning incense—and a thick book of photo album size covered in bloodred leather. Garrett lifted the book, curious… but his attention was immediately drawn to the two long, thin objects wrapped in black silk, lying beneath the volume. He picked one up and unwrapped it. In the folds of the silk lay an intricately carved red hardwood wand with a large cloudy crystal at the tip. Garret rewrapped the wand and replaced it in the box, then picked up the other black-wrapped object. He could tell what it was instantly. He lay it carefully down on the bed and folded back the silk. The detectives looked down on a gleaming silver dagger.

Landauer exhaled above him and Garrett realized he’d been holding his breath as well. There was a quiet thrill in Land’s voice as he spoke.

“Now we’re cooking with gas.”

They drew the curtains and Lingg moved in with the Luminol. The UV light revealed no obvious traces of blood on the dagger. There were more sensitive tests to be done in the lab, but suddenly Landauer looked up at Garrett in the purplish dark.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Garrett nodded slowly. “We’ve got it.”

There were still dozens of witnesses to question—dorm residents, professors, advisers—and countless personal belongings to sort through, not to mention e-mails, phone records, and Jason’s car to be processed. But with the semen and blood on the jeans, if the DNA matched Erin’s, and the presence of a dagger in Jason’s room, plus the CD case with its symbols corresponding to the carvings in Erin’s body, and the testimony of the roommate and the DJ at the club, they likely had more than enough circumstantial evidence to charge Jason.

“I’m thinking we want to get home and try to talk to this kid before he’s lawyered up to the gills,” Landauer said, his voice faraway. “We’ve got a shitload here, G-man. If our luck holds he might just cop to it all.”

“Okay,” Garrett said, feeling both electrified and hazy from lack of sleep. They could go through Moncrief’s personal effects back at Schroeder, while they waited for results of lab tests, and their IT expert could get into Moncrief’s and Erin’s laptops. “Let’s think. What do we still need to get done, here?”

“Moncrief’s car. Check with Jeffs if there’s any student interviews we should know about. And we’re out of here.”

Garrett nodded. “I want to talk to the other members of the band, too,” he said abruptly. But they were not Amherst students; he’d already run DMV checks.

He turned to survey the room again. The red leather-bound book was still lying on the bed beside it, unopened, and he made another move to reach for it—

“Detectives.” Both of them turned toward the terse voice behind them.

Sergeant Jeffs was standing in the doorway, an intent look on his face. “I’ve got someone you’re going to want to talk to.”

Garrett recognized the round-faced, curly-haired hall coordinator from the night before ( God… just the night before… ). The partners sat in Kurt Fugate’s one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor, his perk for managing the building and all its student residents. Jeffs stood against the wall, watching.

Fugate was a senior, older than their other interviewees, but so far the most nervous; he was mature enough to be suitably shaken by Erin’s death. He sat in an armchair, relating what he’d told Jeffs. “All these rooms are supposed to be double occupancy. Jason only had a single because his roommate requested a transfer. Urgently.”

Seated uncomfortably on the futon couch, Garrett had a sudden flash of Jason’s stretched-out face, the wolfishly lolling tongue…

Fugate swallowed coffee from a school mug and continued. “Bryce came to me to request the transfer. He wouldn’t give any specific reason—he really didn’t want to talk about it at all. But he said he didn’t want to stay another night.” He glanced at Jeffs, back to Garrett. “If you ask me, he was scared.”

“Scared how?” Garrett pressed.

Fugate looked at him straight on. “He had a suitcase with him when he talked to me. He really wasn’t going back up there.”

Garrett glanced at Landauer. “But he wouldn’t give any details.”

The hall coordinator shook his head. “No. Sorry. He didn’t want to talk about it.”

“No problem. We’ll be speaking to him.” Garrett made a note, then looked up. “Did you know Jason yourself?”

“Only by sight. There are 120 kids in the hall, it’s a new school year… I just hadn’t gotten to know everyone.”

“Did Erin Carmody ever complain to you about being stalked?”

The young man looked horrified. “God, no. I would have—done something.”

Garrett nodded thoughtfully, and met Landauer’s eyes, while he said aloud to Fugate, “Thanks. You’ve been a huge help.”