At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(12)

He finished jotting down the runes and removed his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d need to brush up on his futhorc, the English version of the runic alphabet. For he could tell that much—some of the letters the killer had etched on the wood came from the lesser-used English runic alphabet.

“Futhorc,” he said out loud, as if the corpse could answer. “What made the killer choose that alphabet?”

Behind him, Addie said, “What are you talking about?”

Chicago dropped into place around him like a curtain falling. He straightened and tucked away his glasses.

“They’re runes,” he said. “From the Anglo-Saxon or English version of the rune-row.”

“Rune-row?”

“Or alphabet, if you prefer.”

The mud squelched as she moved closer. “Runes. You mean like those stones for telling the future?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

But she plowed on. “Now that you say it, I did think they looked familiar. My cousin sent me a set of rune stones a couple years ago. Aren’t they some sort of pagan magic?”

“It’s too soon to know if the killer intended anything mystical,” Evan said. “Runes, in and of themselves, aren’t magical any more than, say, the Latin or Greek alphabets.”

Her eyebrows winged together. “I thought runes were mystical symbols. They’re just letters?”

“I wouldn’t say just.” As Addie and Patrick drew closer, Evan warmed to his audience. “Runic writing was invented hundreds of years ago. There are various theories about how it originated, whether it descended from archaic Greek writing or the Etruscan alphabet. But it was most commonly used to inscribe names and prayers on coins and monuments and important objects like jewelry and weapons. This particular version of the runic alphabet, what we see in front of us, was used by the Anglo-Saxons who invaded England in the fifth century.”

Addie’s eyes glowed. “What you’re saying is, this is actual writing we’re looking at.”

Patrick grinned. “The killer left us a message.”

“It’s actual writing, yes,” Evan said. “But I can’t yet tell you if the letters form meaningful words.”

“Oh, come on, Evan.” Addie kicked at the mud. “Give us some idea.”

“I’m not a runologist. I’ll need time to transliterate the letters. And despite what some people claim, it’s not a straightforward process.”

“You said Anglo-Saxons,” Patrick said. “Isn’t that a fancy way of saying Vikings?”

“It’s more complicated than that. But for our purposes, yes.”

“If that’s the case”—Addie pointed at the body—“is this how the Vikings buried their dead?”

“Not at all. The presentation of the body doesn’t fit with the runes. I’m uncertain what to make of this.”

“I thought you were the expert,” Patrick said.

“Not at making snap decisions.”

Patrick tapped a finger to the side of his nose. “So you haven’t seen anything like this before?”

“Certainly not runic inscriptions on a halo around a dead man. As for the positioning of the corpse . . . well.” He wasn’t ready to share his bog body theory. Not without doing some research. “If you will send me pictures of the body and close-ups of the runes, that would be helpful.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to go to my office and confirm a few things. Can you give me a couple hours?”

Addie sighed. “Sure.”

Evan saw the disappointment in her eyes. “It’s a couple hours, Addie.”

“Sure,” she said again, uncheered.

The three of them walked toward the ridge.

Lieutenant Criver stood at the top of the rise, Sergeant Billings nearby.

“So, Professor?” Criver called down. With the fog lifting, his voice echoed sharply over the water. “What do you make of it?”

Evan paused and shook his head. “I’m not prepared to discuss my thoughts quite yet, other than to say that our killer has a strong narrative impulse. Which should prove helpful.”

“Narrative impulse?” Criver tilted his head. “What does that mean?”

“Some killers want to explain their crimes. To document them. They’re compelled to tell their story.”

“Hmm,” Criver said.

“Consider the Zodiac Killer,” Evan said. “Or even better, H. H. Holmes. He of the so-called Murder Castle. In 1895, Holmes confessed to killing twenty-seven people. He described his murders for the newspapers, including the infamous line, ‘I was born with the devil in me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing.’”

The lieutenant’s scowl melted into a carefully neutral expression that showed only the faintest suggestion that he was pleased. He’s hooked, Evan thought. He wants this to be something big.

“You’re suggesting that we have a modern-day H. H. Holmes operating here?” the lieutenant asked. “All that writing—is it a poem?”

“The writing is certainly suggestive of a confession,” Evan said. “As to whether or not it’s poetry, I can’t tell you anything more at this point.”