Bernadette strode past Dunn, who watched Dr. Kep Woodhead through the open chapel door, and took out her cell phone. It took a moment, but the No service warning disappeared, replaced by four bars. She tapped the screen.
It went right to Sophie’s voicemail. Probably on the phone with her dad or a friend from school. She paused, staring around the frigid quad with its leafless trees, everything gray, brown, and white. Her puffy purple coat was the only pop of color. She ended the call without leaving a message; she didn’t want to sound desperate to talk.
She closed her eyes, then walked back, shoes crunching in the snow. She stopped next to Dunn, still watching the scene unfold inside the chapel. “Did I miss anything?”
“He’s been standing like that since we left.”
Woodhead stood still under the altar archway, eyes closed, like he was expecting the Muse to strike. Perhaps he was waiting for the perfume and the salmon smell to dissipate. Then, in one fluid motion, he stretched himself to full height, and inhaled, eyes wide open.
Bernadette had never seen such a dramatic intake of breath before.
Dr. Woodhead began to tread carefully around the room, using his hands to waft air in front of his face. He stopped for a long time in front of a table in the apse. Perhaps he was trying to figure out the specific incense in the golden thurible.
She got closer, stopping at the edge of the nave.
Woodhead, not noticing her, stared at the floor as he walked down the center aisle of the nave and came upon the small removable flags that marked where the body had been found. He closed his eyes, crouched, and breathed slowly in.
“It’s cold here,” he said.
“Part of the magic of the chapel,” Dunn said from outside the open door.
He cocked his head, a thoughtful look on his face, pushed his glasses up, and inhaled again.
His eyes opened, and he shook his head. “You’re throwing me off, Bernie.”
Bernadette tensed at the nickname.
“You and your salmon,” Woodhead continued. “I can still smell the trimethylamine from your—”
Then he closed his eyes again. A faint sniff.
“Wait,” he said softly.
Then he crouched again, sniffed again.
“Definitely trimethylamine.”
He stood and inhaled.
“Huh.”
“What?”
“It’s not you.”
Bernadette chuckled. “Great. I don’t smell like pee.”
He closed his eyes again. “It’s the wrong smell. It isn’t the oxidation of the fatty acids in salmon, but it’s still trimethylamine.”
Bernadette rolled her eyes. “Our victim worked at the freshwater science lab at the university. You’re probably smelling his job. Not my dinner from last night.”
“The Freshie,” Dunn offered.
“Oh, yes, the laboratory,” Dr. Woodhead said. “I saw that in the report, but I assumed it was your typical university chemistry lab.”
“Nope. It’s hands-on. One of the best freshwater science labs in the country,” Dunn said.
Dr. Woodhead set his folder down on a pew, got on his hands and knees on the stone floor, and stretched his long, lean torso over the area where Kymer Thompson’s body had been a few hours earlier.
“It’s not any species of fish I’m familiar with. Trout and salmon are common in Lake Michigan. Those are easy distinctions to make.”
Bernadette turned to the detective. “Do you know what kind of fish they study at the Freshie?”
Dunn shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t. Maybe he didn’t even work with fish—he might have been a computer guy or a kelp farmer for all I know.”
“Has anyone been to the laboratory?” Woodhead asked.
“You mean have the Milwaukee police started their interviews?” Detective Dunn scratched her temple. “Yeah. We interviewed Professor Lightman.”
Woodhead grunted. “Thompson’s supervisor?”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t think to ask him what Thompson worked on?”
Dunn put her hands on her hips. “I didn’t conduct the interview.”
“Did you see evidence of a struggle? Had anything been broken? Had any fish been killed under mysterious circumstances?”
“Your nose works great, but your ears need improvement, Doctor. I told you, I didn’t conduct the interview.”
Woodhead put his nose an inch from the stone floor and inhaled loudly.
Bernadette and Detective Dunn looked at each other but didn’t say anything.
“Has anyone interviewed the protestors?” Woodhead asked. “A simple search on news-related items related to the laboratory revealed several articles reporting protests of their scientific research.” Woodhead sighed heavily, as if he were explaining to children why they couldn’t draw on the wall. “Have any of the protestors been interviewed?”
Dunn shifted her weight from foot to foot. “We started looking into it.”
Woodhead’s glasses slipped down his nose again as he looked up at Dunn. “What does that mean?”
Detective Dunn exhaled in a grunt. “Just what I said. We started looking into it.”
“I saw two groups mentioned in the articles. Justice for Oceans and the Lake Shore Piscary Association.”
Bernadette smirked. “Justice for Oceans? Are they aware that Lake Michigan isn’t an ocean?”
“It’s a national organization,” Dunn said, pursing her lips.
“A save-the-fish group, and a catch-the-fish group,” Bernadette mused. “One of them is upset that the lab is hurting the fish, and the other is upset that the lab has dibs on hurting the fish?”
The corners of Detective Dunn’s mouth turned up slightly.
Woodhead, still lying down in the aisle, had his nose close to the stone floor. “I assume,” he said, “that the medical examiner has attempted to minimize the disturbance to the potential evidence in this building.”
Detective Dunn rubbed her chin and nodded.
“I also assume no one has walked through the area where the body lay.” Woodhead turned his face back toward the stone floor, staring and sniffing, occasionally tilting his head to the side. The seconds ticked by. The snow was quiet as it fell, a hush descending inside the chapel. Bernadette leaned against the stone archway at the entrance and shivered.
“We can be fairly certain,” Woodhead said finally, “that the body was moved here after Thompson was killed.”
Detective Dunn stared at Woodhead. “We already knew that. Look at the position he was in. Someone obviously placed him with his arms up and wrists out.”
“Yes,” Woodhead said, “but they could have killed him in the chapel and then arranged his body.”
Dunn narrowed her eyes. “We were never thinking that. Kymer Thompson didn’t have a jacket.”
Woodhead looked up. “Was that in the report?”
“The photos of the body,” Dunn said.
Woodhead harrumphed. “He could have taken his jacket off, draped it over a pew, left it on the floor—I can think of any number of possibilities. It’s also conceivable that he came dressed in a jacket to meet his killer here, and the killer absconded with the jacket.”
“I thought you said—”
“I know that he wasn’t killed here. Not enough of his smell was transferred to the stones when his body temperature was above thirty-five degrees.”
“Thirty-five degrees?” Dunn had a confused look on her face.
“Celsius,” Bernadette said. “I don’t know if I agree with the conclusion that no jacket means he wasn’t killed here. I’ve seen football games in the winter where people have their shirts off, wearing green-and-gold body paint. These are Wisconsinites. Don’t you all see heavy coats as a sign of moral turpitude?”
Detective Dunn laughed. “Those football fans are jammed in with fifty thousand of their closest friends—and they’re all drunk as skunks anyway.” She shook her head. “Nope. You live here, you’ll see. People like Kymer Thompson get sober, put on a coat, and complain that they’ve had enough of the snow. He wouldn’t have walked in without a jacket.”
“Did you search for Mr. Thompson’s coat at the lab?” Bernadette asked.
Dunn sighed. “Is your hearing as bad as his? I didn’t do the interviews. I didn’t visit the lab. Once my bosses made the call to CSAB, I staked out the chapel and waited for you. I spoke on the phone to your people when they were on their way here.” Dunn pulled her notebook out. “Lieutenant Stevenson and your tech specialist—Janek, is it?” Dunn pronounced the beginning of Curtis’s last name with a J sound, and not a Y sound.
“Yann-ek,” Woodhead corrected, getting to his feet.
“Yes, Maura and Curtis briefed me,” Bernadette said. “I meant the plural you. Your team.”
“Not to my knowledge. I gave Lieutenant Stevenson the names of our forensic investigators. Janek”—Dunn emphasized the Y sound now—“said he wanted to look at the victim’s bank accounts and cell phone records. I noticed the two of them didn’t seem anxious to stick around.”
“They would have contaminated the crime scene,” Woodhead said, with a faraway tone in his voice.
Bernadette lifted her chin. “Dr. Woodhead? Is something the matter?”
He stared down at the floor, but his eyes were closed. “My nose doesn’t lie,” he muttered.
“What?”
“According to the file,” Dr. Woodhead said, “Mr. Thompson was killed with an injection of a foreign substance the medical examiner believes to be ibogaine. That’s not usually lethal unless Thompson had a sensitivity—or they used a high dose. And I can’t detect the scent of any ibogaine in the aisle—which by itself may not be surprising.” He pointed to the area behind the pulpit. “But the smell of iboga bark, on the other hand, is quite strong, particularly near that table.”
“Iboga bark?” Dunn said, incredulous. “You can tell the difference between ibogaine and iboga bark?”
“That’s correct.” Woodhead set his mouth in a line.
“Wait,” Bernadette said, closing her eyes. “Iboga bark—that’s not a Schedule 1 narcotic. It’s a mild hallucinogen, isn’t it? Originated in Central Africa, I think, from the tabarnanthe iboga plant. Still used in some religions.” She rubbed her forehead.
“But it’s not just that. I also detect the smell of iron.”
“Iron?” Bernadette said. “Like an iron capsule? The dietary supplement?”
He shook his head adamantly. “No, no—it’s not the smell of ferrous sulfate. It may be ferritin.”
“Ferritin?” Detective Dunn asked. “What’s that?”
“It’s a blood protein that contains iron,” Bernadette said.
“A blood protein? You’re saying someone bled in here, but the killer cleaned it up? I thought you said you were sure the body had been moved.”
“No,” he said. “This is a specific kind of ferritin. One from—if I’m not mistaken—fish.” He frowned. “That must be related to the trimethylamine. But there’s something I can’t quite identify about the fish. I’m not sure how much the smell overlaps—if the trimethylamine and the ferritin are bound up together. But then, that might not make a difference.”
“Why not?” Dunn asked.
“My working theory is that the corpse was moved. If Mr. Thompson worked at the Freshwater Science laboratory, that likely explains the fish smell.”
“Why would the body be moved?” Bernadette mused.
“To throw us off the trail,” Dunn said, a note of exasperation in her voice.
“Of course, of course,” Bernadette said, “but what is it about the chapel specifically? Did the killer want us to view this as a religiously motivated killing?”
“It’s possible that it was religiously motivated,” Dunn said. “After all, Thompson was an elder. And the position of the body was unusual. If you’re killed and you go down, your arms and legs spread out. Not Thompson. He was found on his back, with his arms straight up above his head.”
“The docent noticed that too,” said Bernadette. “It makes sense if they had two people move the body. One grabs the arms, one grabs the feet.”
Woodhead shook his head. “Even so—the pictures in the file look like his body wasn’t placed there haphazardly. It could have personal or religious significance. Perhaps someone didn’t feel that Agios Delphi deserved to share this chapel.”
Dunn shot him a look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Woodhead cocked his head. “You’ve implied it several times—you view the church as a cult. It seems like that’s an opinion shared by many. Someone may have taken it too far.”
Bernadette grimaced and turned to Dunn. “He wasn’t trying to accuse you of anything.” She shot a withering look at Woodhead, but he was walking through the narrow rows of wooden pews, back and forth, like ascending the switchbacks of a mountain trail. His glasses had slipped down his nose again.
She turned her attention back to Dunn. “Has your team identified any suspects?”
“No, but we’ve been delayed,” Dunn admitted. “It took us a while to figure out jurisdiction. This isn’t technically on campus, so it’s the city’s problem. But they use university resources, so coordination took a few hours longer than usual.”
Bernadette nodded. “So the body’s location created enough jurisdictional red tape to give the killer some extra time?”
Detective Dunn shook her head. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I think putting the body in the chapel had more to do with making it look like a religious ceremony. I don’t think they cared about any jurisdictional issue.”
Woodhead stared up at the ceiling. “We’ll keep all avenues of inquiry open.”
“If many of the avenues of inquiry are pointing back to fish, we should visit the lab,” Bernadette said. “Do our own interview of Professor Lightman.”
Woodhead turned back to the altar. “I’ll work on the incense next.” He shook his head. “I wish you had taken pains to make sure no one had burned incense before I arrived.”
Bernadette frowned. “No one has burned incense since I got here, Dr. Woodhead.”
“I prefer to work alone. Perhaps I can meet you and the team back at the university’s administration building.” Woodhead lifted his arm and gave another shooing motion.
“How soon?”
“Forty-five minutes. Perhaps sixty.” Woodhead scrunched up his nose. “Maybe in an hour I’ll forget how disappointed I am that you let the detective in the chapel when her perfume was so strong. I thought they would have given you better training than this when dealing with me.”
Bernadette crossed her arms, debating. She was supposed to be Woodhead’s case analyst: she had the badge for access to crime scenes, interviews, and police resources, while he steered the investigation. She’d been assigned to work with him for anything he needed. And now he needed her to leave.
She could wait for him outside, even in the cold. Bernadette walked over the threshold into the chilly late afternoon, closing the front door behind her.
A tall, lanky figure crossed the quad, coming toward the chapel. As he came closer, she saw that he was taller than Dr. Woodhead and young—not as young as an undergraduate, but young. The man wore glasses with thick black plastic frames, a bushy light brown beard, a Kilbourn Tech wool hat, and a navy blue jacket. Dunn stepped around Bernadette.
“Are you the IT guy?” Dunn asked.
“Uh—yeah,” the man said. “Nick LaSalle. Campus security told me what happened. My boss asked me to come out here and meet with you.”
“I’m sorry,” Bernadette said, “what’s your role here?”
“Oh—I’m in charge of IT for everything outside the main campus.”
Bernadette cocked her head. “Is the chapel not on the main campus?”
“Not technically, no.”
Dunn nodded. “It’s a whole political thing. I’ll tell you later.”
“So should I get to work?” LaSalle asked.
Bernadette could smell pastrami on his breath, heavy on the spices. Dr. Woodhead would be angry if LaSalle’s garlic breath contaminated the scene. Cell service or no, she couldn’t let him inside.
“Cell signals are weak inside the chapel,” LaSalle continued. “Administration thought I could install signal boosters or a Wi-Fi repeater. Better upload times to your network.”
“Thanks, Mr. LaSalle,” Dunn said. “Yeah, you can come through.”
“Actually—” Bernadette began, shooting Dunn a warning glance.
“Oh,” Dunn said, stopping in her tracks. “Maybe that’s not what the federal team wants.”
A confused look washed over LaSalle’s face. “Federal team?”
“They’re with CSAB,” Dunn said.
“See—what?”
“The Controlled Substance Analysis Bureau,” Bernadette said.
“Oh,” LaSalle said, “I’ve heard of you. You think the dead guy died of some weird drug overdose?”
Bernadette smiled. “We’re gathering evidence.” She turned to Detective Dunn and wrinkled her nose; Dunn gave her a barely perceptible nod.
“I wouldn’t be surprised, you know,” LaSalle said. “There’s a crazy church group that meets here on Tuesdays. I can’t remember their name.”
“Agios Delphi,” Dunn said.
“Right. One of the research scientists at the Freshie—sorry, the College of Freshwater Sciences—he kept inviting me to their services. He was always talking about how the church has a way to get you closer to God. Took me a while before I figured out it was because of some drug—like, a tree root or something that’s supposed to give you visions.” He shook his head. “I’m not into that.”
Interesting. Ibogaine came from iboga bark—maybe that’s what LaSalle was referring to.
Bernadette glanced at Dunn. “Mr. LaSalle, we’ll need you to make a statement. Anything you might know about this researcher and this hallucinogen he might have had. Or his ties to Agios Delphi.”
LaSalle put up his hands in front of him. “I don’t know the guy. I don’t know anything about it.”
“Just some background information,” Bernadette said.
LaSalle patted his backpack. “Maybe after I install the Wi-Fi repeater.”
“Perhaps in an hour or two,” Dunn said, blocking the entry with her body. “After the federal team has a thorough analysis of the crime scene.”
“I—” LaSalle began.
“In fact, why don’t you come with me to the campus security office?” Bernadette asked. “My colleagues are already there.”
LaSalle frowned. “I just came from the admin building. It’s literally next door to campus security. You had me walk all the way out here in the snow?”
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Bernadette said, “but we’re talking about a dead body in the chapel. I’m afraid this is more important.”
LaSalle slumped his shoulders. “Sure.”
Bernadette pulled Dunn aside. “You can stay with Woodhead?”
“Uh—sure. You don’t want me to walk him to the security office?”
“I want to talk with him on the way.”
Dunn gave Bernadette a wistful smile. “You’re the feds in charge of the investigation. Do what you need to.”
Bernadette turned to LaSalle. “All right, let’s head over there.”
LaSalle grumbled as he turned and walked with Bernadette.
Bernadette had walked from the security office to the chapel but wasn’t entirely confident in the path to get back. Still, she watched LaSalle out of the corner of her eye. “Do you remember who that researcher was?”
LaSalle bit his lip.
“No one is looking to get him in trouble,” Bernadette said gently.
“It’s not that. I—I can’t remember his name. I know he was about my age.”
“Which is?”
“Twenty-six. I think he’s a grad student or something. Everyone called him ‘Tommy,’ but that wasn’t his name.”
Bernadette pursed her lips. “Kymer Thompson?”
LaSalle’s eyes brightened. “That’s it.”
“When did you first meet him?”
LaSalle pointed to the right. “The security office is this way.”
“Sure,” Bernadette said. “Sorry. First time on campus. Do you remember when Thompson first made the offer to you?”
“What—to join him at his church? I don’t know. Probably after the school year started.”
“How about the first time he told you about the hallucinogens?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
Bernadette stopped and cocked her head. “I told you, he won’t get in trouble.”
LaSalle frowned.
“And neither will you,” she quickly added.
LaSalle kept walking. “Am I under arrest?”
“For what?” Bernadette said. “You haven’t done anything, have you?” A large brick building loomed in front of them. A door to the left had lettering stenciled on the window: Security Office.
“I’m not comfortable with this,” LaSalle said.
“What’s uncomfortable about it? I’m asking you a few questions about your relationship with Kymer Thompson.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. A few questions about Kymer Thompson—not about “your relationship” with Kymer Thompson. That sounds like he’s a suspect.
Sure enough, LaSalle cocked his head and turned toward the administration building. “I’m free to go, right?”
Bernadette sighed, kicking herself mentally. “Yes. I’m sorry. That was a poor choice of words. You’re not a suspect. We’re trying to get the full picture of what happened.”
“How about you try some of the other people in the church?” LaSalle said as he backed away. “Or his co-workers? I’m just the guy who set up his work PC.” He turned, then looked over his shoulder. “He offered me drugs, not the other way around. I don’t appreciate being treated like a criminal.”
Great. The first afternoon working a case in her new role and Bernadette couldn’t even get a simple statement. She hoped LaSalle wasn’t the person to go to for records of Kymer Thompson’s computer use.
She paused at the door to the security office, then took her phone out of her purse. Bernadette tapped the screen.
This time, Sophie picked up on the first ring. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, Sophie. Did Dad pick you up from school?”
“He called me and said you’d gotten called out of town.” Sophie paused, and Bernadette heard the unspoken, accusatory again at the end of the sentence. “Olivia’s mom picked me up. I’m studying at her house.”
“Oh, okay.” Bernadette cleared her throat. Olivia wasn’t a good student. “Dad agreed that you’d stay with him until I get back.”
“He told me. He’ll pick me up when he gets off work. I thought I was staying with you all week.”
“This is new for both of us, Sophie. We’re trying to figure it out.”
Through the window of the security office, she could see a faint reflection of herself: her eyes, far apart but always a little squinty; dark eyebrows close to her browline; a strong, Roman nose; a large mouth with lips that she thought were too thin; a jaw that had her father’s squareness. Her puffy purple winter coat didn’t do her any favors: she was strong, with big, muscular arms, but she looked boxy and awkward in winter clothes. Under the faint reflection through the window, her co-workers, Maura Stevenson and Curtis Janek, were visible, in the middle of a conversation with each other. Maura, elegant in her earth tones, her dress and jacket flawlessly tailored, was talking with her hands. Curtis turned to her, his fair freckled face serious, in his signature dark brown leather jacket, his attention completely on her.
That used to be Bernadette bonding with Maura during the early days of a case. Even after Maura’s promotion to lieutenant.
There was silence on the phone, and Bernadette realized Sophie was waiting for her response. “Sorry, Sophie. What did you say?”
“I asked when you were coming home.”
“Hopefully in just a few days. But this is my first case in my new job. It might be a little longer.”
A sigh. “Fine. I have enough stuff at Dad’s to get me through the weekend.”
“Thank you, Soph. I know this is sudden.”
“I’m used to it.” Sophie’s voice was icy.
Bernadette licked her lips, thinking of how to stay calm. “I know. And it wasn’t as big of a deal when Dad and I were together. But it’ll get easier. I promise.”
Silence.
“Anyway,” Bernadette said, “I love you. I’ll call you later.” She glanced up; Maura and Curtis were still in serious conversation.
“I gotta go,” Sophie said. “See you when you get home.”
Three fast beeps told Bernadette that Sophie had hung up.
When she was younger—even two or three years ago—Sophie would end long-distance conversations with her mother by saying, “Hope you catch the bad guys.” Bernadette supposed the advent of junior high made Sophie too cool to say things like that now.
Sophie was angry about the breakup—although Bernadette wasn’t quite sure who Sophie blamed. She took a deep breath and entered the security office to brief Maura and Curtis.