CHAPTER SIX

They called the university's Division of the Humanities and learned that Professor Cranston was in the middle of a lecture but would meet with them as soon as the lecture was over. They took the bus and picked up their cruiser, then drove to the University.

They reached the hall where Cranston was lecturing just in time to catch his closing remarks. The professor was addressing a crowd of mostly bored students about the importance of symbolism. His piercing blue eyes blazed with passion, and his voice projected far more powerfully than was suggested by his diminutive build.

"You see, humans are unique among animals in that we inhabit both a physical realm—that which is composed of things we can see, touch, taste and feel—and a metaphysical realm composed of our ideas, concepts, understanding, emotions. These symbols help us understand this metaphysical realm by connecting it to the physical realm. Ever since humans developed consciousness, symbolism has been a critical means to understanding those things that exist beyond what our senses can tell us. Indeed, many researchers believe that the first sign of civilization is represented by symbols that prehistoric peoples created to embody such concepts as life, birth, death, and fertility. As you take this class, whether it be out of curiosity, passion, or just because you need to check off the Humanities requirement, I hope that all of you will gain a greater understanding of symbols and their importance in your life and in human society as a whole."

The flame in his eyes died out, and he said in a far more businesslike voice. "If you haven't yet received a syllabus, please take one from the end of this table. If you need an add slip, please come see me. If you have not purchased the textbook, it's Harris, third edition, and yes, it has to be the third edition. Buy it from collegetexts-dot-com unless you like paying the forty percent markup at the bookstore, but please don't tell Dean Winters I said that."

Faith heard Michael chuckle and turned to him. "Reminds me of the good old days," he explained. "Damn, I miss college."

"Really? You never talk about it."

"Well, it's not real life. I only miss it when I happen to be on a campus hearing a professor tell students to remember to pick up a syllabus." He turned to Faith. "You never went to college, did you?"

"Nope. I enlisted the day I turned eighteen."

Before Faith joined the FBI, she was in the Marine Corps. Turk, coincidentally, was also a Marine, though he served many years later than Faith. Their time in the service was done, and soon, Turk's time in the FBI would come to an end.

As for Faith? Well, she still didn't know.

The agents waited until the students filed out of the classroom before approaching Dr. Cranston. When he saw them, he flashed them a brilliant grin and shook their hands with the peculiar energy that seemed reserved for academics and public speakers.

"My office told me you had some questions for me. Am I correct in assuming that this conversation should take place away from listening ears?"

"You are correct," Faith said.

"I thought as much. Follow me."

He led them from the lecture hall into the building. "The lovely thing about tenure is that you get an office located near your lecture hall. That seems like it wouldn't matter, but the older I get, the more I appreciate not having to walk across campus every time I need to teach a class. Did you enjoy the lecture?"

"We only caught the last minute or two," Faith said, "but I'm hoping your expertise with symbolism can help us out."

"I will certainly do my best."

He ushered them into an office that Faith thought was surprisingly cramped for a tenured professor. Then again, she'd never gone to college, so how would she know?

He sat behind a desk, somehow managing to look small in spite of the cramped space. Michael and Faith sat almost cheek to cheek in the two small chairs in front of his desk. Turk looked around for a place to sit and eventually settled for sitting underneath their chairs.

Dr. Cranston folded his hands on top of his desk and asked, "So, how can I help you?"

Michael set the case file on the desk and started to open it, then paused. "I'm going to warn you, these are hard to look at."

Cranston's smile faded slightly. "Ah. I should have guessed. This is in regard to a murder?"

"Two murders," Faith corrected.

His smile faded all the way. "I see. I'm so sorry."

"Maybe you can help us be less sorry," Faith said. She nodded to Michael, and he opened the file.

Cranston glanced at the photos and flinched. "Oh God. Oh…" He put his hand over his mouth and paled a shade. "Oh God."

"Not very pretty, is it?" Michael said. "We need your help figuring out the meaning behind all of this."

"Oh my God," Cranston repeated. "Those poor girls. They're not much older than my graduate students."

"Cassidy Holt was twenty-eight, and Samantha Reynard was thirty-two."

"She looks younger," Cranston said absently. "I'm sorry. That's not an appropriate thing to say."

"Why isn't it appropriate?" Faith asked.

"Oh… I don't know, actually. I guess I… I'm just not used to seeing things like this."

"Count yourself lucky," Michael said. "Doing this for a living gets less and less fun as time goes on."

Faith stepped in to bring the conversation into focus. "Cassidy Holt was killed first. She's the brunette who was folded up like she's going to do a cannonball into a swimming pool."

"And that black stuff on her body," Cranston interrupted. "Is that dirt?"

"Strictly speaking, we don't know yet," Faith replied, "but I don't think so. If it was dirt, I can't imagine the CSIs would send it to a lab for analysis. She was found in a botanical garden, so dirt is pretty commonplace there."

"Ah. And the other woman, Sarah?"

"Samantha," Michael corrected. "Reynard. Killed in her loft apartment two nights ago. Left positioned like that, arms and legs spread. Covered with white powder this time. Well, not covered. Dusted."

"Yes, I see," Cranston said, nodding. "And now I know why you came to me. You read my translation of the Magnum Opus."

"We scanned the pertinent parts," Michael said. "Is that what our killer's doing?"

Cranston nodded slowly. "It appears so. The Magnum Opus involves four shapes, four humors—usually represented with colored liquids or powders—and four elements."

"Is there any significance to posing them naked?" Faith asked.

"Possibly. Some alchemical traditions require that sacrifices be pure. Stripped of clothing, shorn of fur or hair and unblemished with makeup or tattoos. It seems that our killer may subscribe to a portion of that philosophy. I have no doubt that the shapes are intentional, though. Miss Holt was posed in the shape of a circle. I'm guessing the inner circle."

"The inner circle?"

"Yes. Here."

He grabbed a notepad and a pen and drew a circle. Around that circle, he drew a square so that its sides just touched the edges of the circle. He drew an equilateral triangle with the bottom line joined with the bottom of the square and its vertical sides touching the top corners. Then he drew a larger circle around the triangle.

"This is the squared circle," he explained. "Each symbol is paired with an element, and each element with one of the alchemical humors. So the inner circle is paired with earth, represented by the black humor, or nigredo. The square is paired with air and represented by the white humor, or albedo. The triangle is paired with water and represented by the yellow humor, citrinitas. The outer circle with fire and paired with the red humor, rubedo. I suspect that this second victim, Miss Reynard, was posed with each of her limbs terminating at one corner of the square. The white powder, of course, symbolizes albedo , the whitening."

"The whitening?"

"Yes. The names of the humors are also the names of the processes required to complete the Magnum Opus. Nigredo is the blackening, albedo the whitening, and so forth."

He took his glasses off and cleaned them nervously. "I'm afraid that this means that your killer is only halfway done. He or she no doubt intends to complete this process and that means he or she will be looking for two more victims, one for citrinitas and one for rubedo."

Faith sighed. She wasn't surprised to hear that. It was an obvious conclusion, but it still angered Faith to know for sure now that once more, they had a psychopath running loose looking for innocent victims.

"So this guy's killing people to turn lead into gold?" Michael asked incredulously. "I don't get it. Who just carries lead around? And even if he turned it into gold, he'd need a lot of gold to make any substantial amount of money these days."

Cranston replaced his glasses and folded his hands. "He's not looking for gold. Or she."

"Forget the pronouns," Faith said. "If he's not looking for gold, then what is he looking for."

"Eternal life," Cranston replied.

Faith sat speechlessly for a while. After a moment, Cranston continued. "The Magnum Opus refers to the process of turning lead into gold, but that is a euphemism. What the alchemist seeks to create with this work isn't gold, but the philosopher's stone. That stone is said to grant its possessor eternal life. Some believed that the stone was a corporeal object imbued with magical properties. Some consider the philosopher's stone to be a euphemism as well and claimed that there was no physical object and the alchemist would simply feel himself rejuvenated and the hand of death stayed.

"So he's killing girls so that he can live forever?"

"That is my guess, yes."

Faith sighed and leaned back as far as the limited space would allow. "I don't suppose you talk to any alchemists, Doctor?"

Cranston shook his head. "The art is dead. It's a superstition based on ancient spiritualism. I'm sure there are people out there who believe it, but they must be few and far between. And no, I've never met any of them. I find these superstitions fascinating, but in an academic sense. I can't imagine how foolish you would need to be to do something like this."

Faith stood. "Thank you for your time, doctor. You've been very helpful."

"I certainly hope so," he said, standing and shaking their hands. "I hope you find this person before he kills again. It's just so sad how far some people will carry their delusions."

"Yes," Faith agreed, looking at the photos as Michael replaced them in the file. "Very sad."

On the way to their car, they discussed what they'd learned.

"Well, this is good news," Michael said. "We have the why now. All we still need to determine is the who."

"Ironic that the who is the only important question."

"Remember what I said about being pessimistic. We know this guy's preferred target, we know his motive, and we know his M.O. We're in good shape for our second day looking at the case."

"But we still need to figure out who."

Her phone buzzed. Detective Hilary. She answered, and a moment later, said "Thank you. We're on our way," and hung up.

Michael looked at her warily. "Good news or bad news?"

"Good news. Giacomo Medici's back in town. He's on his way to the precinct to talk to us."

"Fingers crossed he can give us a name," Michael said. "I really don't want to find someone positioned like a triangle tomorrow."

The three of them headed for the precinct. Faith thought of what Dr. Cranston had said in his lecture about symbols connecting the physical world to the metaphysical. What had happened to their killer, he wondered, that he would believe that murder would earn him everlasting life? What power did these symbols hold in his mind?

And how many more "symbols" would he create before they stopped him?