She reaches for the folder on the desk.
"There are photographs in there, Ms. McHugh," Dr. Patterson says. "You might not want to ..."
"I can handle it," Fiona says.
She flips though the folder. She flinches a couple of times at what she sees, but remains composed. She puts the folder back on the desk.
Dr. Patterson reaches out and grips Fiona's shoulder, offering solace.
"I realize how difficult this must be," she says. "If there's anything I can do ..."
"There is, actually," Fiona says. "You can tell me about the two other murders."
It catches Dr. Patterson by surprise. She pulls back her hand, looks away.
"I'm not prepared to talk about that," she says.
"Did you perform the autopsies on them?"
Dr. Patterson answers with a reluctant nod.
"Can I see the files?"
Dr. Patterson shakes her head, no.
"Why not?"
"Because the files are no longer in my possession, Ms. McHugh."
"Detective Worley?"
"That's right," says Dr. Patterson.
"If you don't mind me asking, exactly when did you give them to him?"
"It would have been three days ago. Shortly after your brother's body was discovered."
Fiona settles back in her chair, studies the coroner.
"But I'm guessing you reviewed everything that was in those files before you turned them over to Worley. Didn't you? Just to refresh your memory."
Dr. Patterson meets Fiona's stare, holds it.
"I did, yes."
"So maybe you don't need those files to answer my question, do you, Dr. Patterson?"
Dr. Patterson doesn't say anything.
"It's a very simple question: My brother's murder and the murders of those other two men-are they connected?"
Dr. Patterson weighs her response, grappling with how best to proceed.
"I cannot speak as to how the murders might be connected. I can only offer an objective analysis of the forensic evidence in each case and any similarities that might exist between them."
"OK, then," says Fiona. "Are the murders similar?"
"You understand that this is unofficial and off the record?"
"Yes," Fiona says. "I understand."
"You understand that I am only telling you this because I believe that you, as a family member, have the right to know."
"I appreciate that."
Dr. Patterson steps back behind her desk, sits down in her chair.
"In answer to your question, Ms. McHugh, the murders are more than just similar. They are practically identical," Dr. Patterson says. "So much so, that I have little doubt they were all committed by the same person."
Fiona looks at me, then back at Dr. Patterson.
"And did you tell that to Detective Worley?"
Dr. Patterson shakes her head.
"I didn't have to tell him. Those other murders? That was his case, too. I'm sure he knew they were connected the moment he saw your brother's body."
32.
"Let me guess," I say as we leave Dr. Patterson's office. "Next stop is to see Detective Worley, where you will proceed to cut him a brand-new asshole."
"That's if I'm feeling merciful," says Fiona. "Which, right now, I'm not."
We find Worley's office, but he isn't in. No one knows where he is or when he'll return. Fiona leaves Worley a card with her cell number, the number at Cutfoot Estate, and a message: "Call me ASAP."
"So where to now?" I ask her when we step outside.
Fiona pulls out a sheet of paper on which Dr. Patterson has written down the name of a funeral home that can help arrange the burial at sea.
"Guess I might as well get this taken care of," she says.
We head for the visitor's parking lot. The Morris Minor is right where I left it, in the shade of a mahogany tree.
Perched on its hood, smoking a cigarette-Janeen Hill.
She wears a tight blue dress and a pair of blue glasses that match it. Her abundant hair is pulled together on top of her head, spilling out from a beaded scrunchie. With the plume of cigarette smoke wafting skyward, it looks for all the world like a small volcano is erupting from her skull.
Janeen slides off the car, straightens her dress as we approach.
"Heard you got yourself some wheels," she says. "Saw this thing parked here and thought I'd take a chance."
"And I heard you no longer work for the Gazette" I say. "What happened?"
Janeen shrugs.
"Just decided the time was right to move on," she says.
"So what now?"
"Oh, I've got a few ideas," she says. "One thing for sure-I intend to keep following this story."
She looks at Fiona.
"Are you ...?"
"Sorry, I'm forgetting my manners," I say. "Janeen Hill, this is Fiona McHugh. And vice versa."
The two women shake hands. Janeen cuts straight to the chase.
"We need to talk," she says.
Fiona nods.
"I'd be happy to, but I have another matter I really should take care of first."
"Now is better than later," Janeen says. "There are some things you need to know. And there are some things that I could learn from you, as well."
"You mean, about my brother?"
"Yes, mostly, but other things, too. Do you mind?"
"No, I don't mind. It's just that ..." Fiona looks at me. "What about it, Zack?"
"It's your call," I say.
Janeen already has Fiona by the arm, leading her away.
"My apartment is only a few blocks," she says. "We can walk."
33.
We cut down to Front Street, past the cruise ship terminal. The berths are empty, but an incoming arrival is visible on the horizon, a giant wedding cake chugging in from the east.
We tell Janeen about the autopsy reports. She asks Fiona a few questions about Ned McHugh, learning about his background and his studies in marine archaeology.
For Janeen, it all amounts to further proof that the murders are somehow linked by what brought Richard Peach and Martin Boyd to Bermuda-the search for the Reliquarium de Fratres Crucis. She conducts a miniseminar on the topic as we walk along the busy thoroughfare.
"You have to understand, there's no iron-clad evidence that the cross used in Christ's Crucifixion was ever found in Jerusalem," she says. "Everything is based on the accounts of Helena Augusta."
"Sorry," I say. "The name's not ringing any bells."
"The mother of Constantine the Great, who was the first Christian emperor of the Roman Empire. She eventually became Saint Helena. When she was in her seventies and a recent convert to Christianity, this would have been sometime in the early part of the fourth century, Helena left Rome and began a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. Once there, she commanded workers to begin an excavation that eventually is said to have unearthed the True Cross."
Fiona and I share a skeptical look.
"Yeah, right," Fiona says. "Out of all the places to dig and all the crosses the Romans executed people on over the years, an old woman shows up and just happens to find the exact same cross they used to crucify Christ."
"I'm not saying I buy into it," Janeen says. "I'm just throwing it out there, OK? Because, in the end, it doesn't matter if Helena really did find the cross. What matters is that, through the ages, millions upon millions of people have believed that she found it, have believed in the existence of the True Cross. That belief has led them to die for it. Kill for it, too. And even if it's just a myth, it's a powerful one. Powerful enough to make guys like Richard Peach devote their lives to sorting it all out."
We stop at a corner to let a truck wedge into the traffic on Front Street. Janeen takes the opportunity to light another cigarette. Then we're walking again.
"When did you say Helena was supposed to have dug up the cross?" I ask.
"Somewhere around AD 326."
"OK, here's what I don't get," I say. "If the cross was so important, how come the followers of Jesus left it buried for nearly three hundred years after the Crucifixion?"
"Because those early Christians had other things to worry about. Like their own survival. Besides, it took a few hundred years for Christianity to catch on and for its followers to begin seeing the cross in the same way they see it now. Up until then the cross had been an instrument of death, something they would just as soon leave buried.
"Then along came Helena. She was a newbie Christian and, perhaps even more important, she was a shrewd politician. Her son had just taken over the throne of the Roman Empire and was trying his damndest to expand his power, while stamping out the last vestiges of paganism. So dear ol Mom provides him with the perfect symbol to solidify his power, something that would not only rally the troops but add to the divine nature of Constantine's cause. Quite brilliant, really."
Janeen steers us off Front Street and onto a narrow, pedestrian-only walkway that runs between a phalanx of office buildings. We can no longer walk three abreast, so I let the two of them take the lead.
"Let's pretend Helena really did find the True Cross," Fiona says. "What happened to it after she dug it up?"
"That's where things start to get a little fuzzy," Janeen says. "What was left of the cross, after all those pieces were hacked off as holy relics, probably remained in Jerusalem for much of that time. Then, around 1100, the Crusader kings began carrying it into battle. They saw the cross as a talisman, a good luck charm that helped ward off their Muslim enemies. That's how the cross really began its ascendancy as a symbol. It became the Holy of Holies, almost supernatural in its powers, something that had to be defended at all costs. And that's why its capture became the primary objective of Sultan Saladin."
"Someone else I've never heard of," I say.
"He was a Kurd, from the city of Tikrit, in what is now Iraq. Went on to be king of Egypt. His troops slaughtered the Crusaders at the Battle of the Horns of Hattin, sometime around AD 1180. Saladin's army supposedly seized the cross, and after that it was never officially seen again."
"What do you mean, officially?"