The Mephisto Club (12 page)

“How do you know about all this?”

Oliver glanced at Edwina. “They really think we’re clueless, don’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter how we learned the details,” said Edwina. “The fact is, we do know about the case.”

“Then what do you think about this symbol?” asked Frost, pointing to the photograph. “The one that looks like an eye? Is that satanic as well?”

“It depends,” said Oliver. “First, let’s consider what you saw at the Christmas Eve death scene. There was a red chalk circle where he’d placed the victim’s severed head. And there were five candles burned at the perimeter.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, circles in and of themselves are quite primitive symbols, and they are universal. They can mean all sorts of things. The sun, the moon. Protection. Eternity. Rebirth, the cycle of life. And yes, it’s also used by satanic cults to represent the female sexual organ. We don’t really know what it meant to the person who drew it that night.”

“But it could have a satanic meaning,” said Frost.

“Of course. And the five candles may represent the five points of a pentagram. Now, let’s look at what was drawn last night, on Anthony’s garden door.” He pointed to the photograph. “What do you see?”

“An eye.”

“Tell me more about this eye.”

“It’s got, like, a teardrop. And an eyelash sticking out below it.”

Oliver took a pen from his shirt pocket and flipped the sheet of stationery to its blank side. “Let me draw it more clearly, so you’ll see exactly what the different elements are in this symbol.” On the sheet of paper, he reproduced the drawing:

“It still looks like an eye,” said Frost.

“Yes, but all these features—the eyelash, the teardrop—that makes it a very specific eye. This symbol is called Udjat. Experts on satanic cults will tell you this is a symbol for Lucifer’s all-seeing eye. The teardrop is because he mourns for those souls outside his influence. Some conspiracy theorists claim it’s the same eye printed on U.S. currency.”

“You mean on the top of the pyramid?”

“Right. Their so-called proof that the world’s finances are run by worshippers of Satan.”

“So we’re back to satanic symbols,” said Jane.

“That’s one interpretation.”

“What others are there?”

“This is also a symbol used by the ancient fraternity of Freemasons. In which case it has quite a benign meaning. For them, it symbolizes enlightenment, illumination.”

“The seeking of knowledge,” said Edwina. “It’s about learning the secrets of their craft.”

Jane said, “You’re saying this murder was done by a Freemason?”

“Good grief, no!” said Oliver. “That’s not at all what I’m saying. The poor Freemasons have been the target of so many malicious accusations, I’m not even going to repeat them. I’m just giving you a quick history lesson. This is my field, you know, the interpretation of symbols. I’m trying to explain that this symbol, Udjat, is quite an old one. It’s been used throughout history for various purposes. For some people, its meaning is sacred. For others, it’s terrifying, a symbol of evil. But its original meaning, in the time of ancient Egypt, was quite a bit less threatening. And rather practical.”

“What did it mean then?”

“It represented the eye of Horus, the sun god. Horus is usually depicted in paintings or sculptures as a falcon’s head on a man’s body. He was personified on earth by the Pharaoh.”

Jane sighed. “So it could be a satanic symbol, or a symbol for illumination. Or the eye of some Egyptian god with a bird’s head.”

“There’s yet another possibility.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

Oliver picked up the pen again and drew another variation of the eye. “This symbol,” he said, “came into use in Egypt around 1200
B.C.
It’s found in hieratic script.”

“Is that still the eye of Horus?” asked Frost.

“Yes, but notice how the eye is now made up of separate sections. The iris is represented by this circle, between two halves of the sclera. Then there’s the teardrop and the curling lash, as you called it. It looks like just a stylized version of Udjat, but it actually had a very practical use, as a mathematical symbol. Each part of the eye represents a fraction.” He wrote numbers on the sketch now:

“These fractions arise by dividing subsequent numbers in half. The entire eye represents the whole number, one. The left half of the sclera represents the fraction one half. The eyelash is one thirty-second.

“Are we getting around to some kind of point here?” asked Jane.

“Of course.”

“And that would be?”

“That maybe there’s a specific
message
in this eye. In the first death scene, the severed head was enclosed by a circle. In the second scene, there’s a drawing of Udjat on the door. What if they’re connected, those two symbols? What if one symbol was supposed to be the
key
to interpreting the other?”

“A mathematical key, you mean?”

“Yes. And the circle, at the first killing, represented an element of Udjat.”

Jane frowned at Oliver’s sketches, at the numbers he had jotted in the various sections of the all-seeing eye. “You’re saying that the circle at the first killing is really supposed to be the iris.”

“Yes. And it has a value.”

“You mean it represents a number? A fraction.” She looked up at Oliver and saw that he was leaning toward her, a flush of excitement in his cheeks.

“Exactly,” he said. “And that fraction would be?”

“One fourth,” she said.

“Right.” He smiled.
“Right.”

“One fourth of what?” asked Frost.

“Oh, that we don’t know yet. It could mean a quarter moon. Or one of the four seasons.”

“Or it could mean he’s completed only a quarter of his task,” said Edwina.

“Yes,” said Oliver. “Maybe he’s telling us there are more kills to come. That he’s planning a total of four.”

Jane looked at Frost. “There were four place settings at the dining table.”

In the pause that followed, the ringing of Jane’s cell phone sounded startlingly loud. She recognized the number for the crime-scene lab and answered it at once.

“Rizzoli.”

“Hi, Detective. It’s Erin in Trace Evidence. You know that red circle that was drawn on the kitchen floor?”

“Yeah. We’re talking about it right now.”

“I’ve compared that pigment with the symbols from the Beacon Hill crime scene. The drawings on the door. The pigments do match.”

“So our perp used the same red chalk at both scenes.”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling. It’s not red chalk.”

“What is it?”

“It’s something a lot more interesting.”

SIXTEEN

The crime lab was in the south wing of Boston PD’s Schroeder Plaza, right down the hallway from the homicide unit offices. The walk took Jane and Frost past windows that looked out over the tired and broken neighborhood of Roxbury. Today, under a cloak of snow, all was purified and white; even the sky had been cleansed, the air crystalline. But that sparkling view of skyline drew only a glance from Jane; her focus was on Room S269, the trace evidence lab.

Criminalist Erin Volchko was waiting for them. As soon as Jane and Frost walked into the room, she swiveled around from the microscope that she’d been hunched over and swept up a file that was sitting on the countertop. “You two owe me a stiff drink,” she said, “after all the work I put into this one.”

“You always say that,” said Frost.

“This time I mean it. Out of all the trace evidence that came in from that first scene, I thought this would be the one we’d have the least trouble with. Instead, I had to chase all over the place to find out what that circle was drawn with.”

“And it’s not plain old chalk,” said Jane.

“Nope.” Erin handed her the folder. “Take a look.”

Jane opened the file. On top was a photographic sheet with a series of images. Red blobs on a blurred background.

“I started with high-magnification light microscopy,” said Erin. “About 600X to 1000X. Those blobs you see there are pigment particles, collected from the red circle drawn on the kitchen floor.”

“So what does this mean?”

“A few things. You can see there are varying degrees of color. The particles aren’t uniform. The refractive index also varied, from 2.5 to 3.01, and many of those particles are birefringent.”

“Meaning?”

“Those are anhydrous iron oxide particles. A quite common substance found around the world. It’s what gives clay its distinctive hues. It’s used in artists’ pigments to produce the colors red, yellow, and brown.”

“That doesn’t sound like anything special.”

“That’s what I thought, until I dug deeper into the subject. I assumed it came from a piece of chalk or a pastel crayon, so I ran comparisons against samples we obtained from two local artists’ supply stores.”

“Any matches?”

“None. The difference was immediately apparent under the microscope. First, the red pigment granules in the pastel crayons showed far less variability in color and refractive index. That’s because most anhydrous iron oxide used in pigments today is synthetic—manufactured, not mined from the earth. They commonly use a compound called Mars Red, a mixture of iron and aluminum oxides.”

“So these pigment granules here, in this photo, aren’t synthetic?”

“No, this is naturally occurring anhydrous iron oxide. It’s also called hematite, derived from the Greek word for blood. Because it’s sometimes red.”

“Do they use the natural stuff in art supplies?”

“We did find a few specialty chalks and pastel crayons that use natural hematite as a pigment. But chalks contain calcium carbonate. And manufactured pastel crayons usually use a natural glue to bind the pigment. Some kind of starch, like methyl cellulose or gum tragacanth. It’s all mixed together into a paste, which is then extruded through a mold to make crayons. We found no traces of gum tragacanth or any binding starch in the crime-scene samples. Nor did we find enough calcium carbonate to indicate that this came from colored chalk.”

“Then we’re not dealing with something you’d find at an art supply store.”

“Not locally.”

“So where
did
this red stuff come from?”

“Well, let’s talk about this red stuff first. What it is, exactly.”

“You called it hematite.”

“Right. Anhydrous iron oxide. But when it’s found in tinted clay, it has another name as well: ocher.”

Frost said, “Isn’t that, like, what American Indians used to paint their faces?”

“Ocher has been used by mankind for at least three hundred thousand years. It’s even been found in Neanderthal graves. Red ocher in particular seems to have been universally valued in death ceremonies, probably because of its similarity to blood. It’s found in Stone Age cave paintings and on walls in Pompeii. It was used by the ancients to color their bodies as decoration or war paint. And it was used in magical rituals.”

“Including satanic ceremonies?”

“It’s the color of blood. Whatever your religion, that color has symbolic power.” Erin paused. “This killer makes quite unusual choices.”

“I think we already know that,” said Jane.

“What I mean is, he’s in touch with history. He doesn’t use common chalk for his ritual drawings. Instead he uses the same primitive pigment that was used in the Paleolithic era. And he didn’t just dig it up in his own backyard.”

“But you said that red ocher is found in common clay,” said Frost. “So maybe he did dig it up.”

“Not if his backyard is anywhere around here.” Erin nodded at the file folder Jane was holding. “Check out the chemical analysis. What we found on gas chromatography and Raman spectroscopy.”

Jane flipped to the next page and saw a computer printout. A graph with multiple spikes. “You want to interpret this for us?”

“Sure. First, the Raman spectroscopy.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s an archaeologist’s technique for analysis of historic artifacts. It uses the light spectrum of a substance to determine its properties. The big advantage for archaeologists is that it doesn’t destroy the artifact itself. You can analyze the pigments on everything from mummy wrappings to the Shroud of Turin and not damage the article in any way. I asked Dr. Ian MacAvoy, from the Harvard archaeology department, to analyze the Raman spectra results, and he confirmed that the sample contains iron oxide plus clay plus silica.”

“That’s red ocher?”

“Yes. Red ocher.”

“But you already knew that.”

“Still, it was nice to have him confirm it. Then Dr. MacAvoy offered to help me track down its source. Where in the world this particular red ocher came from.”

“You can actually do that?”

“The technique’s still in its research stages. It probably wouldn’t hold up in court as evidence. But he was curious enough to run a comparison against a library of ocher profiles he’s compiled from around the world. He determines the concentrations of eleven other elements in the samples, such as magnesium, titanium, and thorium. The theory is, a particular geographic source will have a distinctive trace element profile. It’s like looking at soil samples from a car tire and knowing that it has the lead-zinc profile of a mining district in Missouri. In this case, with this ocher, we’re checking the sample against eleven separate variables.”

“Those other trace elements.”

“Right. And archaeologists have compiled a library of ocher sources.”

“Why?”

“Because it helps determine the provenance of an artifact. For instance, where did the pigment on the Shroud of Turin come from? Was it France or Israel? The answer may establish the shroud’s origins. Or an ancient cave painting—where did the artist get his ocher? If it came from a thousand miles away, it tells you that either he’s traveled that distance himself, or that there was some form of prehistoric trade. That’s why the ocher source library is so valuable. It gives us a window into the lives of the ancients.”

“What do we know about our pigment sample?” asked Frost.

“Well.” Erin smiled. “First, it has rather a large proportion of manganese dioxide—fifteen percent, giving it a deeper, richer tone. It’s the same proportion found in red ochers that were used in medieval Italy.”

“It’s Italian?”

“No. The Venetians imported it from elsewhere. When Dr. MacAvoy compared the entire elemental profile, he found that it matched one location in particular, a place where they’re still mining red ocher even today. The island of Cyprus.”

Jane said, “I need to see a world map.”

Erin pointed to the file. “It just so happens that I pulled one off the Internet.”

Jane flipped to the page. “Okay, I see. It’s in the Mediterranean, just south of Turkey.”

“It seems to me that red chalk would’ve been a lot easier to use,” said Frost.

“And far cheaper. Your killer chose an unusual pigment, from an obscure source. Maybe he has ties to Cyprus.”

“Or he could just be playing games with us,” said Frost. “Drawing weird symbols. Using weird pigments. It’s like he wants to screw around with our heads.”

Jane was still studying the map. She thought of the symbol drawn on the door in Anthony Sansone’s garden. Udjat, the all-seeing eye. She looked at Frost. “Egypt is directly south of Cyprus.”

“You’re thinking of the eye of Horus?”

“What’s that?” Erin asked.

“That symbol left at the Beacon Hill crime scene,” said Jane. “Horus is the Egyptian sun god.”

“Is that a satanic symbol?”

“We don’t know what it means to this perp,” said Frost. “Everyone’s got a theory. He’s a Satanist. He’s a history buff. Or it could just be plain old-fashioned insanity.”

Erin nodded. “Like Son of Sam. I remember the police wasted a lot of time wondering who the mysterious Sam was. It turned out to be nothing more than the killer’s auditory hallucination. A talking dog.”

Jane closed the folder. “You know, I kind of hope our perp is crazy, too.”

“Why?” asked Erin.

“Because I’m a lot more scared of the alternative. That this killer is perfectly sane.”

Jane and Frost sat in the car as the engine warmed and the defroster melted the fog from the windshield. If only it was so easy to clear the mist cloaking the killer. She couldn’t form a picture of him; she couldn’t begin to imagine what he looked like. A mystic? An artist? An historian?
All I do know is that he’s a butcher.

Frost shifted into gear, and they pulled into traffic, which was moving far more slowly than usual, on roads slick with ice. Under clear skies, the temperature was dropping, and tonight the cold would be the bitterest so far this winter. It was a night to stay home and eat a hearty stew, a night, she hoped, when evil would stay off the streets.

Frost drove east on Columbus Avenue, then headed toward Beacon Hill, where they planned to take another look at the crime scene. The car at last had warmed, and she dreaded stepping out again, into that wind, into Sansone’s courtyard, still stained with frozen blood.

She noticed they were approaching Massachusetts Avenue and she said, suddenly, “Could you turn right?”

“Aren’t we going to Sansone’s place?”

“Just turn here.”

“If you say so.” He made a right.

“Keep going. Toward Albany Street.”

“We going to the M.E.’s?”

“No.”

“So where we headed?”

“It’s right down here. Another few blocks.” She watched the addresses go by, and said, “Stop. Right here.” She stared across the street.

Frost pulled over to the curb and frowned at her. “Kinko’s?”

“My dad works there.” She glanced at her watch. “And it’s just about noon.”

“What are we doing?”

“Waiting.”

“Aw geez, Rizzoli. This isn’t about your mom, is it?”

“It’s screwing up my whole life right now.”

“Your parents are having a tiff. It happens.”

“Wait till your mother moves in with
you.
See how Alice likes it.”

“I’m sure this’ll blow over and your mom’ll go home.”

“Not if there’s another woman involved.” She sat up straight. “There he is.”

Frank Rizzoli stepped out the front door of Kinko’s and zipped up his jacket. He glanced at the sky, gave a visible shiver, and exhaled a breath that swirled white in the cold.

“Looks like he’s going on his lunch break,” said Frost. “What’s the big deal?”

“That,” said Jane softly. “
That’s
the big deal.”

A woman had just stepped out the door as well, a big-haired blond wearing a black leather jacket over skin-tight blue jeans. Frank grinned and slipped his arm around her waist. They began to walk down the street, away from Jane and Frost, arms wrapped around each other.

“What the fuck,” said Jane. “It’s true.”

“You know, I think we should probably just move on.”

“Look at them.
Look
at them!”

Frost started the engine. “I could really use some lunch. How about we go to—”

Jane shoved open the door and stepped out.

“Aw, Rizzoli! Come on.”

She darted across the street and stalked up the sidewalk, right behind her father. “Hey,” she yelled.
“Hey!”

Frank halted, his arm dropping from around the woman’s waist. He turned to stare, slack-jawed, as his daughter approached. The blond had not yet released her grip and she continued to cling to Frank, even as he made futile attempts to extricate himself. From a distance, the woman had looked like a real eye-catcher, but as Jane drew closer she saw, fanning out from the woman’s eyes, deep creases that even thick makeup couldn’t conceal, and she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.
This
was the piece of ass Frank had traded up to, a bimbo with big hair? This human equivalent of a golden retriever?

“Janie,” said Frank. “This isn’t the time to—”

“When
is
the time?”

“I’ll call you, okay? We’ll talk about it tonight.”

“Frankie honey, what’s going on?” the blond asked.

Don’t you call him Frankie!
Jane glared at the woman. “And what’s
your
name?”

The woman’s chin jutted up. “Who wants to know?”

“Just answer the fucking question.”

“Yeah, make me!” The blond looked at Frank. “Who the hell is this?”

Frank lifted a hand to his head and gave a moan, as though in pain. “Oh, man.”

“Boston PD,” said Jane. She pulled out her ID and thrust it in the woman’s face. “Now tell me your name.”

The blond didn’t even look at the ID; her startled gaze was on Jane. “Sandie,” she murmured.

“Sandie what?”

“Huffington.”

“ID,” ordered Jane.

“Janie,” said her dad. “That’s enough.”

Sandie obediently pulled out her wallet to show her driver’s license. “What did we do wrong?” She shot a suspicious look at Frank. “What’d
you
do?”