Quinton, and one very expensive horse. Other bodies may have been liquefied at the shed behind the residence of Cale Nowell, though T. Laine has stated categorically that there are no death magics nor any death and decay inside Cale Nowell’s home, which in her mind is proof that Nowell is not our suspect.”
T. Laine pursed her lips at the words “in her mind,” but she didn’t argue. I wanted to know who else but the suspect would have been making people-soap in the shed behind his house, but I kept my mouth shut because the boss was still talking.
“Infected but recuperating in hospital are Thomas Langer and four others. The rest have been released from hospital. The doctors agree that time in the null rooms is the reason there are survivors at all.
“We have a mountain of trace evidence being worked up at PsyCSI in Richmond and at the military’s PHMT. I have directed that we be updated straightaway on anything they find, even basic preliminary reports. But it will be days before we have final reports, and there is a great deal of pressure from up-line to discover something actionable. So far, we are treating as evidence: the box of T-shirts, the witch trigger that set off the working, the death and decay–treated soil of the plants in the basement studio, the liquid goo in the kettle at the shed behind Nowell’s trailer, the melted remains of the victims—” FireWind stopped abruptly and added, more slowly, “And not much else. Talk to me, people. Brainstorm. Guess.”
“I’m looking at the poly marriage,” T. Laine said. “Out of the original seven that lived together at the commune, four are dead. Connelly Darrow, Stella, Erica Lynn Quinton, Cale Nowell. All four were also in the band. Surviving the commune is Donald Murray Hampstead, who moved to New York City, and who, when interviewed, was able to offer nothing substantive. Also Thomas Langer and Racine Alcock. Per all surviving members of the poly marriage, Alcock left the commune early, for reasons no one knew, and was not in the band. I haven’t been able to find her and neither has Jones.”
I looked at JoJo, who didn’t glance up at me. If JoJo couldn’t find someone, they didn’t exist.
“She has no social media presence,” T. Laine said. “For all intents and legal purposes, she vanished.”
“What if Racine Alcock wasn’t her real name at all?” I said.
“I thought about that and we asked Hampstead about that possibility several times. He has no idea where she is or if she was using her real name in the marriage. He has not been part of Stella’s life since he left the commune.”
“Bad feelings?” FireWind asked.
“He says no,” Tandy said. “I was listening on the call and I believe he was speaking the truth as he knows it.”
“What about the photo albums FireWind and I collected from Stella Mae’s closet?” I asked. “They were old. Did anyone go through them?”
“The albums.” FireWind stood fast and left the room, returning in minutes with a cardboard box, sealed with evidence tape. He filled out the COC—chain-of-custody—paper with today’s date, time, location, and his name, and slit open the evidence tape. “I brought them back and entered them into evidence, but I’ve been here so seldom I never got around to going through them.” He passed around the albums, three of them fancy decorated leather books, the pages adorned with cutouts made from colored paper and cut pieces of metal. There were also loose photos in the bottom of the cardboard box, which FireWind handed to me.
“I didn’t know people printed out photos anymore,” Occam said, “let alone made albums of them.”
“It’s a thing,” T. Laine said. “There’s an entire craft market devoted to people creating albums like this one.” The album she was paging through was devoted to Stella’s school years, with photos of her family. “We got Christmases and Thanksgivings and teenaged parties Stella attended. There are a lot of photos from Stella’s youth, from middle school through high school, but nothing that looks as if it might help us.”
“I have the early years of the band,” Occam said. “Lots of faces. Nothing jumps out as incriminating or worthy of a death and decay.”
“I have the commune years,” Tandy said. “And we may have photos here of the missing woman, Racine Alcock.” He turned through the book, eyes flicking up and down each page. “Unfortunately, her name has been removed from every single photo so I can’t prove