The Bones Will Speak (18 page)

“I'm sure you did,” Dave said.

Beth tapped the papers. “This movement roughly originated in the British-Israel doctrines from the nineteenth century. The core foundation is that the ten lost tribes of Israel are the Anglo-Saxons.”

“Not the Jews,” Aynslee added.

Dave nodded.

“The concept moved from Britain to America where racial and anti-Semitic beliefs were added,” Beth said.

“You won't believe this part.” Aynslee leaned forward.

“At their most extreme end,” Beth said, “they teach that Adam and Eve begat the white race, Eve and Satan begat the Jews, and people of color were subhuman ‘mud people,' created before Adam and Eve and are without redemption. Basically, the idea is that race, not grace, defines salvation.”

“I get the background and history. I'm hoping that somewhere in here you're going to tell me how all this relates to Gwen, a dead cat, and a girl killed by a wolf.”

“We're getting there.” Gwen waved her hand impatiently.

“What makes this group different,” Beth said, “is that they have no structure, no meetings, no leadership. You don't join. You
become
a Phineas priest by your actions, which include bank robbery, bombings, murder, and arson—”

“And mauled cats and wolf attacks?” Dave grinned.

“You're interrupting.” Gwen cleared her throat. “All that is directed at the government, people of color, Jews, homosexuals, and abortion clinics.”

“You said they were after you. But you don't work for the government, you're white, Protestant, heterosexual, and not pregnant.”

Gwen narrowed her eyes at him.

“If I may continue.” Beth stood straighter. “The movement lost ground for a time, but two events happened in the 1990s that fueled their resurgence.”

Gwen leaned on his desk. “The siege at Ruby Ridge in Idaho, and the standoff with the Branch Davidians at Waco, Texas—both involving the US government.”

“Off the desk,” Dave said.

Gwen straightened. “Louise needs to make you some anti-grumpy tea.”

“I'm waiting for you to get to the point.” Dave tapped a finger on his desk.

“Now we get to the good part,” Beth said. “After the two events, the Christian Identity and militias increased in members. You just mentioned one example of this, the Militia of Montana.”

Dave nodded.

“This little book”—she held up a tattered volume—“was one of the triggers for additional incidents.”

“It's
The Turner Diaries
,” Aynslee said.

“I see that,” Dave said.

“But did you
read
it?” Beth asked. “It's a work of fiction about a future war between a small group of white people and the Jewish-controlled government. The book describes how a man filled a delivery truck with about five thousand pounds of ammonium-nitrate fertilizer and fuel oil, drove to a government building, and blew it up.”

“Timothy McVeigh used that book as a template for the Oklahoma City bombing,” Gwen whispered. “And the book was presented as evidence at McVeigh's trial.”

“Yes, and the date of the bombing was April 19, the same date as the final assault at Waco.”

Dave stood and looked closer at the display. “April 19. Tomorrow. The day before Hitler's birthday. And the day of the torchlight parade.” He swallowed hard.

“Something big's going down, Dave,” Gwen said.

“What really scares me,” Beth said, “is a somewhat obscure fact. April 19 has another connotation to the Christian Identity. It's considered the martyrs' day. A sacred day connected to acts of resistance and sacrificial death.” Her face flushed with emotion.

“Law enforcement has associated the actions of such people as McVeigh, the Unabomber, and Eric Rudolph—the Atlanta Olympic Park bomber—with the Phineas priests,” Gwen said.

The room seemed smaller, and Dave tugged his collar open to get more air. He sat, took out a yellow legal pad, and looked at Gwen. “So how are you connected to all this?”

“I did some composites that resulted in the arrest of one of them and the death of two more,” Gwen said. “Some of the material I read indicated there was a fourth member of the Spokane Phineas Priesthood cell. He's . . . targeting me.”

“Do you have any idea who this Phineas priest is?” he asked.

“No. Not yet. But I intend to find out—”

“No. I want you to steer clear of this whole group.” Dave put down his pen. “Go stay with Beth. At least until after the twentieth. I don't have the manpower to protect you until after this torchlight parade.”

Her expression said he was wasting his breath. “Right. That's what I thought. You're not going to listen to me.” He looked at the foam board again. “At least connect a Montana serial killer, a Phineas Priesthood cell, and a girl killed by a rogue wolf.”

“We left out that part,” Gwen said. “I don't know how he did it, but do you know what the Phineas Priesthood calls their strategy?”

“What?”

“Lone Wolf.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“HERE.” DAVE GRABBED SOME PAPERS OUT OF
his in-box. “Since you're determined to work on this.” He handed the papers to Gwen. “You asked about the Spokane serial killings when we were at the McCandless farm. They faxed over what they had. Please leave it to me to look into the Phineas Priesthood angle.”

I took the materials from him and started for the door.

“I mean it, Gwen. You need to stay clear and stay safe,” Dave called after me.

Once we reached the sidewalk outside, Beth grabbed my arm. “Are you going to do what Dave said?”

“Half of it. Stay safe.”

“Are you sure—”

“Whose side are you on?”

“How can you ask me that? I'm your partner, sidekick, Friday to your Robinson Crusoe.”

I strolled toward my parked car. “Okay, Friday, let's go to work.”

Dave leaned back in his chair and studied the display propped against the wall. The murmuring of the dispatch operator into her headphone in the other room and the buzzing florescent light overhead provided background noise. He picked up the phone. “Yeah, FBI? I need to speak to an agent. This is Sheriff Dave Moore.”

The phone clicked. “How can we help you, Sheriff?”

“I was wondering if you guys were tracking any Phineas Priesthood activities in this area or know anything about a church called, uh, just a minute . . .” Dave found the brochure. “The American Christian Covenant Church?”

“We haven't heard of any Phineas Priesthood members around here. Do you have something for us?”

“I might.”

“We'll have someone contact you in the morning. On that church, I assume you're calling about their torchlight parade.”

“You know about it?”

The agent chuckled. “Yeah. We've been keeping an eye on them. We have no creditable threat at this time, but if previous parades are any indication, you'll need a lot of police presence to keep the peace.”

“Yeah. I already figured that out. Thanks.” Dave hung up.

His gaze lingered on the Phineas Priesthood symbol. “What are you planning?”

“What are you going to do, Gwen?” Beth slipped into the passenger seat.

“Fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. I still have one more drawing I can finish.” I started the car.

“The skull Winston found?” Beth asked.

“Right.”

We didn't speak as we drove through wisps of fog floating near the ground, like tattered sails in the still air. The sullen clouds blocked the tops of the mountains and crowded the scenery. Headlights from the few passing cars dimly glowed like jaundiced eyes through the mist.

“This is interesting.” Beth looked up from the papers in her lap.

“What is?”

“The materials Dave handed you. The police reports on the Spokane serial killings.”

“Would you follow up on it?”

Beth's eyes lighted up. “Absolutely. Will we work at your studio? Do I need additional files? Are we going undercover? Do I need a gun?”

“Yes. Maybe. No. You can borrow mine if you bring your own bullets.”

“Gwen!” Her face flushed. “Why do you answer me like that? I can't follow what you're saying.”

“I'm teaching you how to ask questions one at a time and wait for the answer. A good interview technique. And besides, I couldn't resist.”

We arrived home, unlocked the door, and moved to the studio. Stagnant air greeted us, and I cracked open a window. The room soon filled with the scent of wet grass and flowering bushes.

Aynslee paused in the doorway.

“Homework,” I said.

“Oh, Mom—”

“Don't ‘oh, Mom' me. I want it done. Remember, you're going to a movie with Beth this afternoon.”

“We'll make it dinner and a movie,” Beth said. “You'll dine at my house.”

“Mom said I could spend the night.”

“Yes, it's all worked out,” Beth said. “What's the movie?”

“
Beverly Hills Chihuahua 2
.”

I tried not to look at my friend. Beth sniffed once, then settled at the computer.

“This is what I need you to do,” I said. “We've linked the Phineas Priesthood to these murders here in Copper Creek.”

“The symbol and Numbers 25:6. Right.”

“Now I want you to find a connection between Spokane's Phineas Priesthood case and here.”

“That missing fourth member. That makes sense.”

“Also, see if there's any link with that old Spokane serial killing and the present murders here.”

Beth nodded.

“But before you start your research, could you print out some digitals for me?” I pointed to the images, and Beth soon had them ready. I took the photos of the cranium and mandible and scaled them to the same size. Placing the cranium on my light table, I cut out the mandible and arranged it in the correct location, then placed a piece of velum over the top and taped everything down. Normally I would have prepared for a two-dimensional reconstruction by applying tissue depth markers—erasers from an electric erasing machine cut to precise lengths. They would then be glued to the skull, but I no longer had the skull. Jeannie had whisked it away before I'd had a chance to do anything with
it. Now I'd have to rely on the metric ruler I'd placed in the photo and the measurements I'd noted.

The printer clacked into life and soon churned out a mound of papers.

“Are you printing out a manuscript?”

“You did ask for research.” She collected the pile of papers, sat at my desk, and tapped them into an orderly stack. “This all was most interesting.”

“Yes?”

Beth pulled her purse closer and rummaged through the depths before tugging out a lavender-and-white cube of Post-it Notes.

“Beth?”

She continued to look in her purse, placed it on the floor, then pulled out the top drawer of my desk. “Do you have a highlighter?”

“On your left.”

“That's yellow. Do you have a purple or—”

“No. I'm waiting.”

She ruffled through the stack, pausing to apply a lavender tab or highlight a line.

“I'm growing old here. Could you share your results in my lifetime?”

“
Hmm.
Almost done.”

I gave up and went back to my sketch.

“Okay, okay, okay.” She again tapped the heap of paper into order. “The only thing everything has in common is you.”

“Define ‘everything.' ”

“First of all, there's the serial killer here in Copper Creek. You were lured to Mattie Banks and found the grave. You return
and find a piece of paper with a Phineas Priesthood symbol under a dead cat. The two events
could
be unrelated, but Mattie told you the numbers and you found the symbol on the map someone took from your show. I don't know yet if the church pamphlets and the torchlight parade are part of this or not.”

“Okay.”

“You drew three composites on the Phineas Priesthood case in Spokane several years ago, and you tried to draw a composite on the Spokane serial killings.”

“Not so surprising. I work on a lot of cases. Make that past tense.” Opening the book
Forensic Guide to Facial Reconstruction
, I found the charts for an average weight, European-Caucasian female.

“There is an interesting connection I didn't expect to find.” She selected a lavender tab and peered at the page. “The son of the lead detective on the Phineas Priesthood case was a victim of the Spokane serial killer.”

I paused in my drawing. “That's what the clerk said on the phone, but I hadn't really thought about it.”
Coincidence?
“Remind me, you said I
tried
to do a composite on the Spokane serial killings.”

Beth shuffled the papers for a moment. “This report doesn't say why. Just that you were called in but no composite was drawn.” She marked something with the highlighter.

The phone rang. “Hello?” I said.

“Is this Gwen Marcey, the forensic artist?” a male voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Ms. Marcey, you don't know me, but I have some information you need.”

“Oh? What information?”

Who is it?
Beth mouthed.

I shrugged at her.

“Not over the phone.” The man cleared his throat. “I need to meet with you. In person.”

Yeah. Right, Mr. Serial Killer
. I resisted the urge to laugh at him. “You'll need to tell me what this is in reference to.”

The man didn't speak for a few moments. “Did you recently get a subpoena on a case out of Spokane? A case involving the Phineas Priesthood?”

Goose pimples prickled my neck. “Who is this?”

“My name is Scott Thomas. I was supposed to prosecute the case.”

“The clerk I spoke to on the phone mentioned a prosecutor. You're the one who left town?”