Semmes decided to pursue his lead on the Mystics of Mayhem by himself. His new partner thought she had enough experience in the field to deal with a case as weird as this one was turning out to be, but she didn’t. That was at least what he had told himself. The chief hadn’t authorized his investigation of the society. Since Carol Heinz was from Birmingham and no real connection could be made between her and Marianne, Semmes was ordered that he couldn’t harass anyone over her. Of course that only applied to work hours.
He sat in his own car looking at a building surrounded by a high chain-link fence with razor wire curled around the top. A sign hung on the fence warning that trespassers would be prosecuted. Semmes didn’t worry too much about that. He was sure that no one at the department would try and put him away for investigating a lead to a case even if he wasn’t authorized to do so. Other officers did worse than that almost daily. The radio he kept in his car screeched. The dispatcher announced an officer was needed in Birdville. He wasn’t far from there, but he was off duty.
“Let one of the regular blues handle it,” he said aloud, not taking his eye off the building.
Nothing about the place screamed that a Mardi Gras parading society was using it to make floats. It didn’t look like any kind of office building either. Semmes assumed it had been used by some company that owned factories out at Brookley Field as a storehouse. Headlights flashed in his rearview mirror. He slid down in his seat to keep from being seen. A white-paneled van rolled down the street. It stopped just short of the gate. A large red-haired man got out and walked to the gate. He unlocked it and started to pull it open. Semmes got out of his car. He checked the clamshell holster in the back band of his jeans, pulling his coat over it.
“Excuse me,” he said loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the van’s engine.
The red-haired man looked at him, but kept pulling the gate open in silence. Semmes crossed the road. He pulled his badge out of his pocket and held it in front of him. It didn’t seem to faze the man. Semmes looked into the van as he passed. The driver couldn’t be made out. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, concealing his face.
“My name is Detective Semmes. I’m with the Mobile Police Department. I have a question about this facility.”
“I do not own this establishment.”
“Who does?”
The red-haired man looked at the van. Semmes looked back in enough time to see the van moving toward him. He stepped out of the way as the vehicle drove inside the fence. Once the van passed the gate, the red-haired man stepped to the other side and started closing the gate. Semmes tried to step over the line into the fenced area. The red-haired man pushed him backward with enough force to make him stumble.
“I apologize, but you cannot enter without permission.”
“Can I talk to the driver of the van?”
“No.”
“Who owns this property, and what is it used for?” Semmes asked as the gate clicked closed.
“The Mystics of Mayhem society owns this warehouse. We are constructing our floats for the Mardi Gras. I am afraid that is all I can tell you, Detective Semmes.”
“What about your name?”
The man looked at Semmes. In the light cast down from the overhead security lights, his eyes looked amber. In all his time in police work, Semmes couldn’t remember ever seeing a person with eyes that color.
“Francisco San Roman. I am a member of the society.”
“Mr. San Roman, do you know a woman named Carol Heinz? I think she might be in this society.”
“I do not know a woman by that name.”
“How about Marianne Lenard?”
The driver got out of the van. Semmes eyed him. By the build, the driver was obviously a man. He cleared his throat loud enough for Semmes to hear.
“So?” he prompted San Roman again.
“Do you possess a warrant officer?” San Roman asked.
“No.”
“Then I have said everything I have to say to you.”
“I’m just asking questions. I don’t want to search the place, yet. If you cooperate then I may not even want to do that.”
San Roman pivoted on one foot and turned his back to Semmes. The man then walked away with a stiff gait. Semmes felt like cursing at the guy, but figured anyone that strange wouldn’t care. He shoved his badge into his pocket and crossed the street back to his car. As he started the engine, he noticed that the hooded man still stood outside the building. Semmes turned on his headlights and pulled from his parking place.
“I need a unit to head over to Rivera Apartments on South University Boulevard. There has been a break-in, possibly gang related. The renter, Cybil Fairchild, and her boss, Ashley Shrove, are waiting in the parking lot,” the dispatcher said over the radio to no one in particular.
Semmes grabbed his transmitter. “This is Semmes, number 209. What’s the apartment number?”
“401C.”
“On my way,” he said.
He didn’t have a flasher to put on the roof of his car, but Semmes accelerated his Taurus up to 80 mph on the rough streets on the back side of Government Boulevard. He switched on his emergency flashers as he ran a red light that put him on Michigan Avenue. Keeping to the side streets would get him across town faster than hitting the main drags. The parade traffic would be gone, but folks would start leaving the downtown bars and heading back toward west Mobile.
After about ten minutes, he pulled his car onto Cottage Hill Road. His tires squealed and probably smoked. He didn’t pay attention. Few cars drove westbound. He ran the light at the intersection with University Boulevard, turning right. The blue flashing lights from two cruisers lit up the night as the entryway for the apartment complex came into view. He drove onto the service road and then through the gates. A parking space was available beside a Mobile County cruiser. He parked and hopped out of his car. A sheriff’s deputy hurried to him waving his arms for him to stay back. Semmes dug his badge out and flashed it to him.
“Detective Semmes, Mobile PD.” He brushed past. “I’ve been investigating the disappearance of Dr. Shrove’s fiancée.”
“Semmes,” Ashe said from ahead of him.
He saw the professor step away from the other police car. Ashe didn’t look too well. All the different lights from the cars and the street lamps caught in the hollows of his face, making him look much older than he was and very tired. Semmes shoved his badge back into his pocket.
“What’s going on?” Semmes asked.
“Someone broke into Cybil’s apartment. I brought her home from the parades. She was afraid to walk to her apartment alone so I escorted her, and we found it ransacked.”
“Why was she scared to go by herself? Do you think she knew about the break-in?” Semmes asked.
“I told her about Carol Heinz.”
Anger steeped inside of Semmes like boiling tea. He sucked air through his teeth, making a whistling sound. “I thought we agreed no one would know about that.”
“We did, but she was with me when I met that woman. I figured she had a right to know, just in case there is something bad going on.”
“You might be right, but still, if too many people know, it could compromise the investigation. You know that everyone wants to keep this stuff hush-hush until we know more.” Semmes said. “Who’s working on this from the PD?”
Ashe pointed to an officer standing by a police car with Cybil. He recognized the officer although he’d never worked with him. The officer worked well but always seemed to end up on night duty. He walked toward the officer.
“How is everything?” he asked and looked at the officer’s name badge. “Brewster.”
“Detective Semmes, what brings you to a breaking and entering?” the officer asked. “I figured you’d be after a murder case.”
“I have reason to believe that this might be related to a case I’m working on. Do you think you could walk me through the scene?” he asked.
“Of course. Just let me finish this interview,” Brewster said.
“She can come with us; he can too.” Semmes pointed to Ashe. “They are both well versed in my investigation.”
“Do you think this is related to Marianne?” Cybil asked.
“Possibly,” Semmes said.
Ashe walked to them. “I know it is.”
“Why is that?” Semmes asked.
“I’ll show you when we get to the apartment,” Ashe said.
Semmes let Brewster lead the way. He brought up the rear with Cybil and Ashe between the two. When they entered the apartment, Semmes started to make mental pictures of what was around. He noted all the pictures on the floor in tatters. Everything that would be worth money was still there, but smashed. A smell hung in the air. It reminded him of rotten eggs.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
“We haven’t figured it out yet,” Brewster said.
“Do you guys have any idea?” he asked Ashe and Cybil.
“No, it smells like rotten eggs,” Cybil said, “but I haven’t bought eggs in ages.”
Semmes made a mental note of the smell with a big red mark beside it to keep it fresh in his memory. He walked around the room. It seemed that the burglars left nothing untouched if not destroyed. The door leading to the bedroom was open. He poked his head inside. The same amount of devastation was there. Someone had slashed the mattress and pulled out the stuffing. The fluffy material lay all around the room. Pages from textbooks lay crumpled up on the floor. Even Cybil’s underwear was torn up and strewn across the room.
“Thorough, weren’t they?” Brewster asked.
“Yeah,” Semmes said. “Ashe, is this what you’re basing your assumption on? There’s a lot of damage, but I don’t know how it would relate to Marianne’s disappearance.”
“That tells me it’s related.” Ashe pointed to the note in blood still pinned to the door.
Semmes recoiled from it like a rookie on his first encounter with a decomposing body. He didn’t know how he’d missed it. If it had been the perp, he’d probably have had a bullet in his head. Voodoo stuff freaked him out a bit. Even if the note wasn’t part of that weird religion, it still seemed dangerous. The letters looked normal, but the language perplexed him.
“What is it?” he asked Ashe.
“I believe it’s a note in reverse Latin,” he said.
“Reverse Latin? What does that have to do with anything?” Semmes asked.
“Cybil found an MP3 on Marianne’s computer that had some auditory anomalies on it. I broke it down with some of my equipment and found a message in reverse Latin under the song. A friend of mine who is a parapsychologist and a priest was there. He said that oftentimes reverse Latin phrases are used as incantations in satanic rites,” Ashe said.
“Oh great,” Cybil said. “Now I’ve got Satanists after me.”
“Come on,” Brewster said. “There’s no such thing as satanic cults. Oral Roberts and Pat Robertson made that up to scare kids from listening to heavy metal music.”
“I’m just telling you what Father Smalls said,” Ashe related. “He didn’t seem to believe in that kind of Satanist either.”
“It doesn’t matter if they are in cahoots with the Devil or not. If these guys think they are doing something to please him, they’re likely to do anything,” Semmes said. “But I don’t think there’s enough to put everything together.”
Semmes was disappointed about that. Marianne could have downloaded the song from some pirate site and the whole reverse Latin stuff could just be a coincidence.
“Are we good?” Brewster asked. “I’d like to get back to taking Ms. Fairchild’s statement.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve gotten everything,” Semmes said. He took Ashe aside. “I don’t really see a link right now. I mean it would be nice if a cult was doing this, but I don’t think that’s the case.”
“Would it be okay if I took a picture of the note with my camera so that I can show it to Father Smalls?” Ashe asked. “I think he might have some insight into it.”
“Do it while Brewster is distracted. Otherwise, you might get arrested for tampering with evidence.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll keep you up to date from my end.”
Ashe took his cell phone out of his pocket and aimed it at the note. The machine flashed as he took the picture. “I’ll do the same.”
Voice Mail: Office of Ashley Shrove, PhD, 11:45 p.m. CST
Dr. Shrove, listen to me. You don’t know me, and there is no reason to try and trace this call because you won’t be able to. Let it suffice to say that I am a friend who is looking out for your personal safety.
Quit trying to figure out what happened to your fiancée. You’re going to stir up more trouble than you could ever imagine, not only for yourself, but everyone else you’re around as well. You can already see how it’s affected the life of Ms. Fairchild, and she has very little to do with anything.
There are forces at play here you cannot realize. None of the people you are working with can either. Just let Marianne go. It’s not worth it. I promise that worse things will come if you continue to poke your nose into this.
Dr. Shrove, move on. Resign from Alabama Tech and find another school a long way away. It might be the only thing to save you and everyone around you.
Goodbye.