Authors: Kathy Reichs
Both bones classified as female. Both classified as black.
I turned my attention to age.
As with the cranium, long bones come with some assembly required. Here’s how it works.
As the tubular part, or shaft, elongates throughout childhood, caps, condyles, crests, and tuberosities form around it. It is the joining together of these fiddly bits to the straight bit, sometime in mid to late adolescence, that gives each bone its characteristic shape.
Union occurs in set sequence, at roughly predictable ages. Elbow. Hip. Ankle. Knee. Wrist. Shoulder.
Both femora exhibited identical patterns. The hip ends were fuly adult, meaning ful fusion of the heads to the necks, and of the lesser and greater trochanters to the shafts. At the other end, squiggly lines above the joint surface indicated the articular condyles were stil wrapping things up at the knee. The picture suggested death sometime in the late teens.
The leg bones came from a young black female. So did the skul.
I felt, what? Relieved? Resigned? I wasn’t sure.
I flashed on the girl in the photo. The very modern photo.
I surveyed the cauldrons and the artifacts they had held. Thought of the chicken, the goat, the statue, the dols, the carved wooden effigy.
The human remains.
Deep down, I had a strong hunch what it al meant.
Time for research.
Ninety minutes later I’d learned the folowing:
A belief system that combines two or more cultural and spiritual ideologies into a single new faith is caled a syncretic religion.
In the Americas, most syncretic religions are of Afro-Caribbean origin, having developed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as a result of the slave trade. Forbidden the right to folow their traditional beliefs, African slaves disguised their practices by assigning images of Catholic saints to their gods.
In the United States, the best-known syncretic religions are Santería, voodoo, and brujería. Most folowers live in Florida, New Jersey, New York, and California.
Santería, originaly caled Lucumi, emerged in Cuba and evolved from the southwestern Nigerian Yoruba culture. In Brazil it’s known as Candomble; in Trinidad, as Shango.
Santería recognizes multiple gods, caled
orishas.
The seven big dogs are Eleggua, Obatala, Chango, Oshun, Yemaya, Babalu Aye, and Oggun. Each has his or her own function or power, weapon or symbol, color, number, feast day, and favorite form of offering.
Each deity has a corresponding Catholic syncretism. Eleggua: Saint Anthony of Padua, the Holy Guardian Angel, or the Christ Child; Obatala: Our Lady of Las Mercedes, the Holy Eucharist, Christ Resurrected; Chango: Saint Barbara; Oshun: Our Lady of Charity; Yemaya: Our Lady of Regla; Babalu Aye: Saint Lazarus; Oggun: Saint Peter.
The deceased rank with the
orishas
in Santería, thus ancestor worship is a central tenet. Both the gods and the dead must be honored and appeased. The concepts of
ashe
and
ebbo
are fundamental.
Ashe
is the energy that permeates the universe. It’s in everything — people, animals, plants, rocks. The
orishas
are mega-repositories. Spels, ceremonies, and invocations are al conducted to acquire
ashe. Ashe
gives the power to change things — to solve problems, subdue enemies, win love, acquire money.
Ebbo
is the concept of sacrifice. It’s what you do to get
ashe. Ebbo
can be an offering of fruit, flowers, candles, or food, or it can involve animal sacrifice.
Priests and priestesses are known as
santeros
and
santeras.
The priestly hierarchy is complex, the highest rank being
babalawo.
As with the papacy, girls need not apply.
They can be powerful priestesses, but the top job is closed to them.
Except for the extra gods, and the barnyard animals, the setup sounded pretty Catholic to me.
Voodoo originated in Dahomey, now the Republic of Benin, among the Nagos, Ibos, Aradas, Dahomean, and other cultural groups, and evolved in Haiti during the time of slavery.
Voodoo has many deities, known colectively as
loa,
each corresponding to a Catholic saint. Dambala is Patrick, Legba is Peter or Anthony, Azaka is Isidor, and so on. Like the
orishas,
each has his or her own icon, realm of responsibility, and preferred offering.
Voodoo altars are kept in smal rooms known as
badji.
Rituals are similar to those performed in Santería. The priesthood is loosely organized, with men caled
houngan,
women
mambo.
As with Santería, the focus is on white, or positive, magic.
But voodoo has its dark side, the
bokors.
Holywood’s portrayal of these specialists in left-handed, or black, magic has given rise to the image of the evil sorcerer casting spels to cause calamity, or to raise zombie slaves from the grave. It is this stereotype that taints the public perception of voodoo.
Brujería, which combines Aztec myth, European witchcraft, and Cuban Santería, has Mexican cultural and religious roots. In the sixteenth century, when Spanish priests declared the pagan goddess Toantzin to be a Roman Catholic, Toantzin’s priestesses went underground and became
brujas.
Theology evolved to center on Our Lady of Guadalupe, an omniscient and al-powerful goddess who grants human wishes when appropriately propitiated.
Each
bruja
keeps her spels in a
libreta,
similar to a Book of Shadows in traditional witchcraft. Most practice solo, but occasionaly several organize into groups similar to covens.
I was taking notes from an article in the
Journal of Forensic Sciences
when Mrs. Flowers rang. Slidel and Rinaldi were in the house.
The wind had been frisky when I’d left home, tickling leaves from trees and swirling them across lawns and walks. Slidel looked like he’d traveled through a wind tunnel. His tie was shoulder-tossed and his hair was doing Grace Jones on one side.
“What’s breaking, doc?” Slidel righted his neckwear and ran a palm across his crown. It helped some.
“Two human leg bones, both from a teenaged black female.”
“The same person as the skul?” Rinaldi was impeccable, with each thin gray strand aligned on his skul.
“Probably. Any luck with the photography studios?”
Rinaldi shook his head.
“I took samples for DNA testing.” I gave him my artifact sheet. “That lists the contents of both cauldrons.”
Opening his briefcase, Rinaldi handed me a brown envelope marked
CMPD Crime Lab.
While he and Slidel scanned my inventory, I flipped through the photos.
Save for better lighting and more detail, the objects were as I recaled from the celar. Based on my research, I now recognized the statue as Saint Barbara.
“You catch Lingo last night?” Slidel’s question was directed at me.
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“Any truth there?”
“Look at this.”
I singled out a close-up of the plywood with the Magic Marker glyphs. Slidel picked it up. Rinaldi moved to his side.
“See any pentagrams or inverted crosses?”
“No.”
“I doubt this is Satanism.”
“Great. We know what it ain’t.” Slidel raised theatrical palms. “What the hel is it, voodoo?”
“More like Santería.”
“That some occult herb-doctor thing?”
“Yes and no.”
I explained the basics. Syncretism.
Orishas. Ashe
and
ebbo.
Rinaldi took notes with a Mont Blanc pen.
When I’d finished, I puled a second photo from the stack and indicated the statue. “Saint Barbara is the cover image for Chango.” I chose another shot and, one by one, tapped the necklaces. “Alternating red and black beads, Eleggua. Alternating red and white, Chango. Yelow and white, Oshun. Al white, Obatala.”
I selected a photo showing the two-faced effigy. “Eleggua, the trickster god.”
“Describe these deities.” Rinaldi poised pen over paper.
I took a minute to compose my thoughts.
“They’re not unlike Catholic saints. Or Greek gods. Each has a function or power. Chango controls thunder, lightning, and fire. Babalu Aye is the patron of the sick, especialy skin diseases. Each can help with certain things and inflict certain punishments. For example, Obatala can cause blindness, paralysis, and birth deformities.”
“Piss off Babalu and you break out in boils?”
“Leprosy or gangrene.” Curt. I was not appreciating Slidel’s sarcasm.
“
Ashe
is paralel to the Christian concept of grace,” Rinaldi said.
“In a way,” I agreed. “Or mana. Believers strive to acquire
ashe
because it provides the power to change things.
Ebbo
is like penance, or kneeling on ashes.”
“Give-ups during Lent.”
I smiled at Rinaldi’s comparison. “Catholic?”
“With a name like Rinaldi?”
“Every year, mine was chocolate.”
“Comics.”
“These synthetic religions, they rol with offing animals?” Slidel asked.
“Syncretic. Yes. Since different types of sacrifice suit different problems, a serious difficulty or a tough request may require a blood offering.”
Slidel threw up his hands. “Santería, voodoo, who gives a shit? They’re al crazoids.”
“The doc’s saying there are important differences.” Rinaldi, the voice of reason. “Santería evolved in Cuba, that’s Spanish. Voodoo evolved in Haiti, that’s French.”
“
Ex-cuse-ay-moi.
How many of these wing nuts we got floating around? A handful?”
“Santería, probably several milion. Voodoo, maybe as many as sixty milion worldwide.”
“Yeah?” Slidel considered, then, “But we’re talking win me the lottery, cure my kid’s belyache, help get my pecker up, right?”
“Most folowers of voodoo and Santería cause no harm, but there is a dark side. Ever hear of Palo Mayombe?”
Two negative head wags.
“Palo Mayombe combines the belief systems of the Congo with those of the Yoruba and Catholicism. Practitioners are known as
paleros
or
mayomberos.
Rituals center not on
orishas,
but on the dead.
Paleros
use magic to manipulate, captivate, and control, often for their own malevolent purposes.”
“Go on.” Slidel’s voice was now devoid of humor.
“The
paleros
’s source of power is his cauldron, or
nganga.
It’s there that the spirits of the dead reside. Human skuls or long bones are often placed in the
nganga.
”
“Obtained how?” Rinaldi asked.
“Most are purchased from biological supply houses. Occasionaly, remains are stolen from cemeteries.”
“So how’s this kid fit in?” Slidel was looking at the skul.
“I don’t know.”
“How’s the animal snuffing fit in?”
“A
palero
makes a request. Cause sickness, an accident, death. When the spirit of the
nganga
delivers, blood is offered as an expression of gratitude.”
“Human blood?” Rinaldi asked.
“Usualy goat or bird.”
“But human sacrifice is not unheard of.”
“No.”
Slidel jabbed a finger. “The kid in Matamoros.”
I nodded. “Mark Kilroy.”
Rinaldi underlined something in his notebook. Underlined it again.
Slidel opened his mouth to speak. His phone rang. Clamping his jaw, he clicked on.
“Talk.”
Slidel was moving through the door when Larabee appeared in it, face so tense it looked molded to the bone.
“What’s happened?” I asked Larabee.
“When?” Slidel’s voice floated in from the hal.
“Just got a cal about a body at Lake Wylie,” Larabee said to me. “I may need your help.”
“Sonovabitch.” Slidel sounded agitated.
“Why?” I asked.
“We’re on it.” Slidel’s phone snapped shut.
“Vic’s missing his head,” Larabee said.
10
LARABEE RODE IN THE VAN WITH HAWKINS. THOUGH SLIDELL offered a lift, I was familiar with his auto hygiene. Less tolerant than Rinaldi, I took my own car.
Twenty minutes after departing the MCME, I was exiting I-485 onto Steele Creek Road. Folowing Hawkins’s directions, I forked southwest onto Shopton Road, crossed Amohr Creek, then made a series of turns through a pocket of forest that had temporarily escaped the developer’s ax. Though vague on my exact position, I had a sense the McDowel Nature Preserve lay roughly to the south, the Gaston County line somewhere to the west.
One more left and I spotted a CMPD patrol unit backlit by an expanse of choppy blue water. A uniformed cop was half sitting, half leaning against a rear quarter panel. Puling to the shoulder, I got out and walked toward him.
Stretching from Mountain Island Dam in the north to Wylie Dam in the south, Wylie is one of eleven lakes in Duke Power’s Catawba River chain. On maps, the thing resembles a furry vein snaking from the Tar Heel into the Palmetto State.
Despite the nuclear power plant humming on its southwestern shore, Lake Wylie is ringed by a number of upmarket developments — River Hils, the Palisades, the Sanctuary.
Palisaded against whom? I often wondered. Sanctuary from what? Day-Glo bass and eight-legged toads?
Whatever the threat, there were no fortified mansions on this piece of the lakeshore. The few homes I’d passed were strictly vinyl siding, aluminum awnings, and rusting carports. Some were little more than shacks, remnants of a time when Charlotteans went to “the river” to escape the press of urban living. Little did they know.
On spotting me, the cop pushed upright and assumed a wary stance. His face and body were lean, his shades straight out of
The Matrix.
At five yards out I could read the name
Radke
on a smal brass plaque on his right breast.
I flicked a wave. It was not returned.
Behind Radke, a plastic-tangled lump lay on the shore.
I gave my name and explained who I was. Relaxing a hair, Radke chin-cocked the lump.
“Body’s over there. This cove’s a magnet for crap.”
My face must have registered something. Surprise? Reproach?