13

Piper sat in the passenger seat of Lazarus’s car. I-215 was at a standstill because of an accident, and Lazarus turned on some soft bluegrass music.

From her work, she had friends in the police department and had reached out to one, asking about Lazarus. Her friend had texted her back just now and said Lazarus kept to himself, but she knew something had happened that got him kicked out of Homicide, though she wasn’t sure what.

“Do you really believe what you said to him?” she said. “All that about morality and power?”

“It’s not about belief, it’s about truth.”

“Even if the truth makes you miserable?”

“Especially if the truth makes you miserable.” He changed lanes to get off the freeway. “I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

They pulled into a diner meant for people driving through Vegas to California. Truckers and families and residents who drove hours for work because they couldn’t find anything closer.

The diner had a neon sign that didn’t work. Inside was checkerboard linoleum and red vinyl booths. It smelled like frying bacon.

They were seated by a young woman in jeans and a tank top. She kept glancing at Lazarus and asked him if he was doing anything fun today.

“No,” he said flatly without looking at her.

They were by a window that looked out to the dirt and gravel, the dust kicking up in thin puffs as a truck rolled out of the lot and headed back to the freeway.

Lazarus ordered black coffee and fried eggs and bacon. Piper asked for a soda and a tuna sandwich.

“You didn’t seem like a fan of the reverend,” she said.

“The priestly class has always taken advantage of the desperate. I understand why they do it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like ’em.”

“I don’t know, I think he believes in what he preaches.”

“Every priest in history believed what they preached, they just didn’t know why.”

The server brought their drinks.

“I had a ward who ended up taking her own life,” Piper said. “I went to her funeral. Her father wasn’t religious. He was down on his knees crying over the casket. He thought he would never see his daughter again. The mother was still a believer. She sat quietly in her chair with tears running down her cheeks, but she had this grin on her face. Like she just knew she would see her daughter again. You would say that father was accepting truth, but I just saw needless suffering.”

“You drank the Kool-Aid, too, Danes? Why do you assume suffering is bad? Maybe that’s all we’re meant to do?”

“I refuse to believe that.”

“The truth don’t care what you believe.”

The food came. The lettuce was wilted and the mayonnaise on her sandwich looked yellowish. She pushed the plate away from her.

“You get anything from the teachers?” Lazarus said, biting into his greasy bacon.

She shook her head. “Not really. She didn’t seem to interact with them unless she had to.”

“Anybody say or do anything odd?”

“Odd? No. There was one teacher that tried to date Sophie’s mother in high school and got rejected, but that’s about it.”

“Get me his name. I’ll check him out, too.”

Lazarus shoved half an egg in his mouth with a fork and then took a bite of toast and leaned back in the booth as he chewed. He didn’t seem to enjoy the food. It was more like he knew he needed sustenance and took some in.

“So you really think this man might be a cannibal?”

“I don’t know,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Why haven’t you let it out to the public yet?”

He took another large bite of egg and toast before putting his fork down.

“Saying you got a cannibal isn’t like saying you got a murderer. It touches something deep down. Something primitive. The thought of being eaten. People get scared, and when people get scared, they do dumb things.”

“What else do you know about this cannibal-fetish community?”

He took a bite of bacon and then, as though some switch inside him had said he’d had enough nutrition, he placed the rest down.

“The fetish is called vorephilia. Vore from the word ‘carnivore.’ It’s not literal—usually. Most people see it as something new and kinky to try. I talked to a married couple that have a spit in their basement and pretend to roast each other over it, but no one’s hurt.”

He wiped his hands with a napkin and tossed it onto his plate.

“I don’t think he’s worked up to the act yet, but he will.”