The meeting with Benoit left me uneasy, and on the drive back to Houston, I called Sam Houston Park to speak to the curator, asking the woman if she knew a Professor Alex Benoit.
“Of course,” she said. “He’s been working with us for the past two years, helping us pull together our restoration of slaves quarters to be moved to the park. Why do you ask?”
“Can you describe him to me?” I said, wondering if there could be any possibility of a mistake.
“He’s tall, rather good-looking, with brownish hair and I’m not sure what color eyes,” she said. “He has just a little Louisiana drawl. Have you met him? Is this because he can seem a little odd?”
“Actually, yes,” I said. “Tell me what you mean by odd, just to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Rather a flat affect, I guess,” she said, uncertain. “It put us off at first, but as we’ve gotten to know him, it’s just the way Alex is.”
“And you’ve checked him out?”
“No need to, we knew of him before he knocked on our door,” she said. “Benoit is famous when it comes to African cultural studies. He hasn’t published much in the past twenty years or so, but his work in the field is highly respected.”
“Why did he stop publishing?” I said.
“We were curious, too. We asked why, and his answer was that he’s reached a point in his life when instead of writing about the culture, he’s trying to preserve it.”
“That all makes sense,” I said, yet still feeling vaguely uneasy about the encounter.
“We’re grateful for his help,” she insisted. “It’s unusual for someone of his stature to volunteer his services. The slaves quarters project is very exciting, and none of this would be happening without his involvement. I know he’s a little strange, but, Lieutenant, you’ll get used to him.”
After thanking the woman, I hung up, deciding the hurricane’s threat had to be getting to me as well. Benoit had said nothing overtly odd, nothing even close to threatening.
That issue settled, I called Buckshot and went over what I’d learned from Benoit, explaining the symbols. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the pants,” the sergeant mused. “You mean to tell me that somebody’s out there shooting bulls through the head to write African symbols threatening some kind of war?”
“It appears that way,” I agreed, struck by Buckshot’s bare-bones interpretation and how bizarre it made the entire case sound. “At least, as far as I can tell, that’s the most likely explanation.”
“Damn,” he hissed. “So, who the hell is this asshole declaring war against, and why? I gotta tell you, Sarah, this sounds downright peculiar to me.” Others may search for deeper meaning, but the sergeant routinely called them the way he saw them, in this case twisted.
“I agree, but the symbols mean something significant to the guy we’re looking for, so maybe they can give us a clue to help us figure out who he is,” I said. “But at least at this point, I can’t answer your questions. I don’t know who’s behind this or why he’s doing it.”
“Geez,” he said. “This world gets stranger all the time.”
I laughed and then explained, “Buckshot, I’m heading home, and I’ll be there about five. I’m planning to work on my computer, see if I can dig anything up in old cases with similar MO, including maybe these or other African symbols, plus e-mail a few of the other agencies in the area, ask if they’ve seen anything like this case. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“You got it, Lieutenant,” he said. “Glad you found that Benoit guy to help us out. At least we’ve got a direction to take this thing.”
“You bet,” I said, momentarily thinking back to those awkward moments with the professor and feeling silly for reacting as I had. At that, my call waiting buzzed. “Gotta go. See you in the morning.” I clicked the phone off and on, heard David’s voice, and in an instant changed my plans.