At First Light(Dr. Evan Wilding #1)(39)

“I’m curious to know if you’re familiar with Old English poetry. Beowulf. ‘The Wanderer.’ ‘The Battle of Maldon.’ Works of that nature, many of which are about pagans from the Viking Age.”

As if Evan had tipped over an inkwell, darkness spilled into Rhinehart’s eyes. “Try as I might,” he said, biting off his words, “I fail to see your point.”

“No,” Evan agreed. “I don’t expect you would see the point. But a familiarity with those works would certainly clear the air around some of the killer’s word choice, which you have deemed nonsense. Words like brume, which means mist or fog, not a cleaning tool. And lendreg, which you’ve broken into two words. I suspect it’s an anagram for the monster Grendel and not a clumsy reference to military regulations. After all, the Old English poets were fond of word games like anagrams and riddles. The word you’ve interpreted as weird is actually wyrd, w-y-r-d, which means fate. And corse isn’t a misspelling. It’s an archaic form of the word corpse. Thus, we have their water-weighted corpses.”

The flush returned to Rhinehart’s face. His eyes glittered. “You’re a semiotician,” he said, as if Evan’s profession were akin to cleaning outhouses. “Old English poetry doesn’t fall within your area of expertise. You’re overreaching.”

“I am,” Evan agreed. “But perhaps a bit less clumsily than you. A final example. I would argue that the letters you used to form Adam Nedscop don’t stand for a name at all but rather mean dam-ned scop. Scop is the Old English word for poet. We have, not a man named Adam, but a damned poet.”

The room fell silent save for Rhinehart’s thick breathing. Outside, a gust slammed the building, leaving behind a glittering scatter of rain on the glass.

Well done, Evan, Addie thought.

Into the awkward silence, Evan cleared his throat. He sat forward and placed Rhinehart’s pages on the table, lining up their edges with that of the folder already there. “I’m certainly not suggesting that my interpretation is the correct one. Mr. Rhinehart has made several good points. I merely suggest that at this early stage, we need to keep open minds. The motive in some murders is immediately obvious. Robbery gone wrong. A gang dispute. Hate crimes of the type mentioned by Mr. Rhinehart. But in cases such as these two deaths, where the scenes offer numerous and sometimes conflicting signs for us to consider, the truth can be an elusive thing. It would be dangerous for us to take the runes out of context from what the rest of the scene tells us.”

“I see,” Criver said.

“I’d like some time to study the good doctor’s translation,” Evan pressed, “so that I can begin creating a criminal investigative analysis.”

“A profile,” Billings said.

“Yes. That is what a forensic semiotician usually does,” Evan said. “That’s why I’m here, correct?”

Billings blinked. “Correct.”

“Then that’s what I will do. Will tomorrow be soon enough?”

“If you need that time,” Criver said, “then I suppose we’ll make that work.” He pushed back his chair and stood, smoothing down his tie. “Thank you, everyone. I believe we are off to a good start. We’ll reconvene tomorrow at four thirty p.m. Does that work for our two experts?”

Evan and Rhinehart nodded.

“Good,” Criver said. “In the meantime, I suggest we forge ahead with Mr. Rhinehart’s ideas about a military connection. And do a deep dive on any local cults. Finally, let’s not dismiss the possibility that Adam Nedscop is an actual name. Or that this mysterious Mr. X might be linked to our case. I’ll get our computer forensics guys to hop on social media and use that data-mining software they swore would come in handy. Perhaps their time has come. Patrick, I want you full-time on this case. Shift whatever else you’re working on to someone else in the department.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I need a word with you and Adrianne. Sergeant Billings, I’d like you to stay as well. Everyone else is free to go.”

“I’ll be in the hall,” Evan said to Addie.

While the others filed out, Criver hitched his trousers and perched on the edge of the table. He nodded to Billings, who typed on his keyboard, then turned the laptop around so that Addie and Patrick could see the screen, which was filled with the digital version of the Chicago Tribune.

Addie read the headline aloud. “‘Store owner tortured, then tossed in Calumet River.’ How did this get out?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Criver said.

“There’s a tarp over the crime scene,” Patrick said. “And media had to stay on the street. We didn’t release any details. They can’t have known about the torture.”

“And yet they do. There’s talk here about a Black man and a noose. I don’t need any rioting right now. A bunch of people screaming about Black lives.” Criver tucked his head down so that his single chin became two. “What I need is an explanation.”

Addie folded her arms. “We didn’t leak this.”

Criver turned his now-frigid gaze on her, and Addie mentally kicked herself for even opening that particular door.

“It’s got your name in the article,” he said.

“Really?” She leaned in toward the computer, but Billings pulled it back toward him.