Mr. Wistrom again. “We never knew them, never had any contact with them.”
Elliot had one more question, one that loomed at the top of the scale in importance. “Do you know if your son was ever involved with any alternative religious groups, perhaps something with a pagan influence?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Mr. Wistrom said. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Doug never wanted anything to do with church.”
At that moment, the call was dropped. Elliot had the information he needed, so he didn’t bother trying to reconnect, and as he sat alone in the parking lot, the only sound coming from the car’s engine, a sick feeling formed in his stomach. This case was even more not-right than he’d earlier suspected. He could feel that just as surely as he felt the steering wheel against his hands. He kept going over the question as to why any organized religious group might go out of its way to draw attention to itself, especially in the area of murder. The obvious answer to that question was that they would not.
He slid the car into gear and pressed the accelerator. An image of Brighid McAlister sprawled across the parking lot went through his head, and he wondered if she’d been discarded after she’d served her purpose. Brighid had been involved in the death of the John Doe, of that Elliot was certain, but what kind of role she’d played he wasn’t sure. There were a few McAlisters in the phone book, but none of them had claimed any knowledge of Brighid, let alone being related to her.
As Elliot guided the car through the traffic, he noticed he was heading downtown, toward the department. He called Captain Lundsford and told him he needed to search the latest victim’s house again. A few minutes later, he walked out of Lundsford’s office with the key and drove to the home of Brighid McAlister.
The smell of potpourri greeted Elliot as he entered the house, coupled with a renewed wash of guilt, and it seemed he intruded, entering the house to steal something, to take that which wasn’t his and use it to gain knowledge of an all-too-personal nature, the names of those close to the victim. Elliot walked through the living room and the dining area, paying little attention to the antiques and rugs that decorated that part of the house, and entered the only room that seemed out of place: Brighid McAlister’s bedroom.
Elliot pulled on a pair of latex gloves, well aware that the team hadn’t turned up anything, no address books, no photo albums, nothing that would indicate who the victim’s friends and relatives were. He wondered if someone had intentionally removed these things. It was certainly a possibility, though there had been no prints left behind. Then again, those knowing enough to remove evidence of that nature would also know not to leave evidence of their doing so.
The house was too quiet, and as Elliot began his search, he felt like someone was watching him, standing close by and peering over his shoulder. About ten minutes into the venture, when the sensation had grown unbearable, he swung around, half expecting to catch the voyeur in the act. He saw no one.
Unable to shake the feeling, Elliot went into the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn. He edged near, then yanked it open. Again, nothing. He walked back into the bedroom and checked the closet. Moving the clothes aside, he found only that which should be there. Finally he went back into the main part of the house. The living room was empty and quiet, as were the dining room and the kitchen.
Elliot returned to the bedroom, and in a last-ditch effort he crouched and peered beneath the bed. What he saw there was not a spy or an intruder, though it was equally intriguing. He reached up and pulled an envelope from where it had been pinned to the bottom of the box spring.
Elliot stood and backed away from the bed, wondering what he had found, his curiosity heightened by the knowledge that it had been important to the victim, enough so
Elliot had one more question, one that loomed at the top of the scale in importance. “Do you know if your son was ever involved with any alternative religious groups, perhaps something with a pagan influence?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Mr. Wistrom said. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. Doug never wanted anything to do with church.”
At that moment, the call was dropped. Elliot had the information he needed, so he didn’t bother trying to reconnect, and as he sat alone in the parking lot, the only sound coming from the car’s engine, a sick feeling formed in his stomach. This case was even more not-right than he’d earlier suspected. He could feel that just as surely as he felt the steering wheel against his hands. He kept going over the question as to why any organized religious group might go out of its way to draw attention to itself, especially in the area of murder. The obvious answer to that question was that they would not.
He slid the car into gear and pressed the accelerator. An image of Brighid McAlister sprawled across the parking lot went through his head, and he wondered if she’d been discarded after she’d served her purpose. Brighid had been involved in the death of the John Doe, of that Elliot was certain, but what kind of role she’d played he wasn’t sure. There were a few McAlisters in the phone book, but none of them had claimed any knowledge of Brighid, let alone being related to her.
As Elliot guided the car through the traffic, he noticed he was heading downtown, toward the department. He called Captain Lundsford and told him he needed to search the latest victim’s house again. A few minutes later, he walked out of Lundsford’s office with the key and drove to the home of Brighid McAlister.
The smell of potpourri greeted Elliot as he entered the house, coupled with a renewed wash of guilt, and it seemed he intruded, entering the house to steal something, to take that which wasn’t his and use it to gain knowledge of an all-too-personal nature, the names of those close to the victim. Elliot walked through the living room and the dining area, paying little attention to the antiques and rugs that decorated that part of the house, and entered the only room that seemed out of place: Brighid McAlister’s bedroom.
Elliot pulled on a pair of latex gloves, well aware that the team hadn’t turned up anything, no address books, no photo albums, nothing that would indicate who the victim’s friends and relatives were. He wondered if someone had intentionally removed these things. It was certainly a possibility, though there had been no prints left behind. Then again, those knowing enough to remove evidence of that nature would also know not to leave evidence of their doing so.
The house was too quiet, and as Elliot began his search, he felt like someone was watching him, standing close by and peering over his shoulder. About ten minutes into the venture, when the sensation had grown unbearable, he swung around, half expecting to catch the voyeur in the act. He saw no one.
Unable to shake the feeling, Elliot went into the bathroom. The shower curtain was drawn. He edged near, then yanked it open. Again, nothing. He walked back into the bedroom and checked the closet. Moving the clothes aside, he found only that which should be there. Finally he went back into the main part of the house. The living room was empty and quiet, as were the dining room and the kitchen.
Elliot returned to the bedroom, and in a last-ditch effort he crouched and peered beneath the bed. What he saw there was not a spy or an intruder, though it was equally intriguing. He reached up and pulled an envelope from where it had been pinned to the bottom of the box spring.
Elliot stood and backed away from the bed, wondering what he had found, his curiosity heightened by the knowledge that it had been important to the victim, enough so
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