Omens (34 page)

“Because the Druids practiced human sacrifice.”

“Possibly. The jury’s still out on that. The problem is that we have no records from the Druids themselves. Unless you count neo-Druids, and I don’t. They’re as close to real Druids as Tinker Bell is to fairies.”

“
Real
fairies.”

Another flash of a grin, and his voice dropped into a perfect brogue. “Aye, ye dinna believe in the wee folk, lass? That’s trouble. The pixies will sour your milk.”

“I thought it was hobgoblins who soured milk.”

“A dirty lie. Spread by the pixies, no doubt. Nasty buggers. I’ll amend my analogy. Neo-Druids are as close to real ones as Tinker Bell is to the traditional fae of folklore. We have no writings from the Druids because they lacked a writing system. What we have comes from something even worse than pixies. Romans.”

“When the Romans discovered Britain.”

“Discovered? Like Columbus
discovered
America? The Romans were bloody invaders, worse than the Vikings. Spreading their culture on the tips of their lances. They thought the natives were barbarians, led by bloodthirsty Druids.”

“So the accounts we have of human sacrifice all come from the Romans, which means it may have been a public relations smear? Convince everyone back home that all Brits are murderers who need to be annihilated.”

“Or it may have been true.”

I looked over at Patrick.

He shrugged. “I have no love for the Romans, but I’m not convinced the Druids
didn’t
practice human sacrifice. The problem comes in the interpretation. Or the misinterpretation. The Romans saw it as a fundamental disrespect for human life. It wasn’t. Romans understood the core concept—like the Celts, they practiced animal sacrifice. But when you really want—or need—to get the attention of the gods, you offer them your best. Something you value more than the life of an animal.”

“The life of a human.”

“Exactly. So, too, would the Druids, if they did indeed practice human sacrifice. Are you really telling me no one interpreted that mistletoe as Druidic?”

“It was mentioned, but none of the other elements seemed to be Druidic, so it lent credence to the theory that the Larsens were incorporating disparate elements to fake ritual sacrifice.”

“The Larsens. Is that how you think of them?”

“Yes.”

He made a noise in his throat. Not really disapproval. Just a noise.

“I know they’re my biological parents,” I said. “But I don’t think of them as Mom and Dad. I already have those.”

“Fair enough. So what did the Larsens do with the mistletoe? I suspect it wasn’t just lying beside the bodies.”

“It pierced a symbol on the women’s stomachs.”

He frowned. “What kind of symbol?”

I hesitated, then pulled out a drawing of it.

“Pictish v-rod,” he said. Then he shook his head. “Did Gabriel hire these researchers? I’ll have to speak to him. He should demand a refund if they couldn’t identify this one.”

“By Pictish you mean the Picts, right? Iron Age tribe? Northern Scotland?”

“Late Iron Age, early medieval.”

“Any connection to the Druids?”

He nodded. “Before they converted—or were forced to convert—to Christianity.”

“And the v-rod means?”

“No one knows. Again, no records. No reliable ones anyway. It’s believed to have something to do with death. As for piercing it with mistletoe?” He shrugged. “I’ve never heard of that.”

A mishmash of symbols. Someone randomly linking them in a made-up ritual.

I showed him the symbol carved onto the thighs next, but he didn’t recognize it. Nor did he know what a stone in the mouth might signify, further supporting my theory.

As we walked back to the diner, he offered to look into the other symbols. No charge. He liked a challenge, and as long as I kept his coffee cup filled, we could call it even.

After my shift, I did a little more research on my laptop. I was popping over to read an old article on the
Sun-Times
website when a name on the home page caught my attention. James Morgan. There was another name there, too. One I knew well. Eva Talbot.

James always joked about how long it took to catch me. But he left out a few pertinent details that made the story a little less romantic.

At a Christmas party the year before last, James had overheard me make an offhand reference to Chicago history. He’d minored in history in college, so we’d talked about it later, probably the first private conversation we’d ever had.

A few days into the New Year, James had called. His firm wanted to run a white-ribbon campaign and the shelter where I worked seemed a good recipient for donations. That led to long talks on the phone, then over coffee, then over lunch…

James was trying to gauge whether his interest was mutual before he asked me out because … well, there was an obstacle. Eva, a socialite he’d been dating for two years.

In retrospect, I suppose this should have told me that James was never, ever going to chase me out that door when I broke off our engagement. Never going to suggest we fly to Vegas and get married. Never going to say, “To hell with everything—this is what I want.” He had to be sure that the ground was firm before he stepped on it.

When I hadn’t given him the signs he was hoping for—I don’t flirt with unavailable guys—he’d finally asked point-blank. If Eva wasn’t in the picture, would I go to Paris with him?

I should have said, “Get her out of the picture and then ask.” Force him to take a chance. But at the time, the question spoke to me of honesty, not a lack of spontaneity. So I said yes, and Eva Talbot got the breakup talk.

Now I was reading a piece about a charity dinner last night where James and Eva had been spotted together. Complete with a photo of them at the table, James leaning over to whisper something, Eva gazing at him adoringly. Sources confirmed the two were seeing each other again, Eva consoling him. There was even a quote from her, after the dinner, about poor James and all he’d been through.

Bitch.

That was the most vitriol I could work up for Eva, though. Only a little more for James. I stared at that picture and I thought of us, at our last dinner together, how happy we’d been.

I’d given that up. Willfully given it up. And he’d already moved on.

W
ith Gabriel gone, my reluctance to impose on Ida and Walter Clark faded fast. As long as I refilled the gas tank and paid with returned favors, I could justify borrowing their car for my Thursday morning meeting with Dr. Evans.

When I arrived at the house, Mrs. Evans was on the front porch, waiting to be picked up by a friend for brunch.

We chatted before she left. She knew who I was, obviously, but she gave no indication that my parents’ purported actions reflected on me. The tragedy of her son was past.

She told me to go on inside. Her husband was in his office, and he had a tendency to ignore the doorbell, presuming someone else would answer it.

When I walked in, Evans was deep in a client file, scribbling notes. I waited until he was finished writing before clearing my throat.

“Olivia,” he said, smiling as he stood. He checked the clock. “It is that time, isn’t it? My apologies.”

He waved me to the client seat and poured coffee. He didn’t ask what I took, but made it with cream, the way I’d had it the last time.

“I think Gabriel Walsh may have taken a couple of pages from the file,” I began—to explain how Gabriel would know about the file, if he did an end run around me to get to Evans. “I had to stop by his office after our interview. I kept the file in my sights, so I don’t know how he could have gotten it.”

“Oh, I have a good idea,” Evans said as he dropped sugar cubes into his coffee. “Gabriel Walsh’s mother made her living with her light fingers, and I don’t mean she was a pianist.”

“A pickpocket.”

He nodded. “There’s much that’s said about Mr. Walsh, most of it unsubstantiated. That is not. His mother had a record of arrests. None of it stuck. She was very good at her vocation. Her son apparently learned the trade. His juvenile records were sealed, but I have it on good authority that he was charged with pickpocketing himself. Just the once. Which likely only means that he was even more skilled than his mother.”

I remembered the scone the first time we met. Apparently, he still had the touch.

“Well, I am sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what he saw, but I’m going to presume he knows what is in the file. He won’t be able to do anything with it, though. He doesn’t have an excuse to investigate now.”

“You’ve fired him?”

I nodded. “Your warnings already had me concerned. Taking those pages was the last straw.” I sipped my coffee and looked thoughtful, maybe even a little despondent. “I know it was the right move, but I’m not sure how I’ll proceed without him. I don’t think anyone connected to the crimes is going to speak to the Larsens’ daughter.”

He smiled. “I think I can persuade the other families that helping you is the right thing to do.”

“Oh? I’d really appreciate that.”

“And I’m sure you have questions about that file,” Evans said. “Why don’t we start by discussing that.”

There wasn’t much more Evans could tell me. He explained a few things about brother–sister incest. More than I cared to know on the subject.

Evans warned me not to get hung up on the incest angle. I needed to see it as any obsessive relationship. Killing the object of your desire might seem crazy, but it was, sadly, not that unusual with truly obsessed stalkers.

As the meeting seemed to be winding down, I said, “You said I could ask you questions. About the Larsens. About serial killers. Do you have time for that now?”

“Of course.” He leaned back. “From the phrasing of that question, I presume that you haven’t ruled out the possibility your parents did commit murder.”

“I can’t. If Christian—or someone else—killed Jan and Peter, that still means the Larsens could have killed the others. I have to prepare myself in case I really am the daughter of sociopaths. Or psychopaths. Or whatever you’d call them.”

“First, Olivia, I wouldn’t get too tangled in terminology. Even within the field, we can’t agree on it. When we zero in on so-called sociopaths or psychopaths, we’re generally referring to people who seem unable to tell right from wrong.”

“Can’t
tell
right from wrong? Or don’t care? Because from what I know, people like that are very good at fitting in, playing a role, which suggests they know the difference, and they can pretend to abide by the rules when it suits them.”

“That would be the mark of a high-functioning individual with antisocial personality disorder. They know the difference, but they see no reason to follow the rules if it doesn’t suit their needs. Sound familiar?”

Did he mean me? I tried not to react.

“Your former lawyer?” he prompted when I didn’t answer.

“Gabriel?”

Did I think Gabriel was a sociopath? No. As furious as I was with him, I didn’t think that.

“I don’t know him that well,” I said. “But I understand what you’re saying.”

“Good, then you’ll see why he concerns me. Now back to the topic. If your parents did kill these couples, it is highly likely they have some form of antisocial personality disorder. What does that mean for you? First, bear it in mind when you speak to your mother. She may appear to be a loving and kind parent … for a reason.”

“Because it’s what I want to see. Because it will get me on her side, helping her appeal.”

He nodded. “Or she might truly be innocent. You see the conundrum? Just be aware and be wary. More important, though, I think you’re wondering what it means for you. If both your parents did have some form of disorder. Is it hereditary?” He leaned forward. “I wish I could answer that, Olivia. But psychiatry is such an imprecise science. We aren’t diagnosing cancer. Personality is a combination of genetics and learned behavior, and we have no idea how much of each explains why people do what they do.”

“Nature versus nurture.”

“The great debate. I can tell you this, though. There is no evidence of a genetic basis for serial killing.” He eased back. “Now, you wanted to know more about serial killers in general. I think it might help to talk a bit about couples who kill. It’s rare, but your parents’ case is even rarer.”

“Because there were no sexual aspects.”

He smiled. “You’ve done your homework. Yes, in every case I’ve studied—and I’m happy to share my notes on them—couple killings included sexual violation of the victims. These did not.”

“Because they were ritualistic.
That
was the purpose.”

“Perhaps. But I would argue that the killings did
not
deviate entirely from the established pattern for serial killing couples. Just because the Larsens didn’t violate the victims doesn’t mean there wasn’t a sexual motivation. It was just less overt. Less direct.”

I thought about that, then said, “You think they used the violence as a stimulant. Sadistic foreplay.”

“Yes, and I think that explains the ritual aspect. They were acting out a fantasy.” He paused. “Of course, that only applies if the Larsens were actually the killers.”

I nodded.

“I do think you need to pursue Christian, Olivia. There’s a chance he killed Peter and Jan. There might even be a chance he committed all the murders. But if you want to consider motivations for the Larsens, I’d strongly suggest you take a look at that one. I’ll give you my notes. You can draw your own conclusions.”

What did I think of Evans’s theory? I had no idea. Figuring out why my parents might have killed eight people wasn’t my priority right now. I needed to focus on the last two and whether Christian Gunderson could be responsible.

I
had the day shift on Friday and took a five-minute break to call Tim Marlotte. He had little interest in seeing me again … until I told him I’d learned a few things about Jan and Christian’s relationship, and he decided he could find time for me after all. We set up a meeting at his condo.

Our interview was not pretty. I lied, I bullied, and I charmed with an eerie deftness, and in the end he actually thanked me for persuading him to unburden himself.