Book of Shadows by Alexandra Sokoloff

question mark.
    Landauer leaned forward. “The kid is definitely into this shit. His room is black everything. Bedspread, curtains—”
    “—candles,” Garrett finished. “Black candles. And the lab found black candle wax on Erin Carmody’s body.”
    “We’ve also got semen from Erin’s body,” Landauer supplied. “All we need is a DNA test and a match—”
    Carolyn tapped her Cross pen on her pad. “There’s definitely enough here to hold him and get a semen sample.”
    “We need a search warrant for the room, and his car.” Garrett heard impatience and sleeplessness grating in his own voice. “I’d like to get a look at the books on his shelf.” The others looked at him. “I think we’re going to find some of this 333 stuff, the triangles, in those books. The titles came up on my Internet search.”
    “So you need a search warrant for his room and car, and you need a court order for samples for DNA testing,” Carolyn summed up, writing as she spoke. When she looked up, her eyes were bright and predatory, a quality Garrett had found sexy when he first met her, and now . . . was not entirely sure how he felt.
    “Preferably before someone ponies up bail.” Landauer agreed, and Garrett nodded.
    “I can do that,” Carolyn said, and closed her file. She leaned back in her chair, pen balanced between two fingers, taking control of the room. “Moncrief’s got a public defender for the moment. His father’s in the military, a colonel; Moncrief specifically didn’t want him called. His mother’s apparently in Europe, on vacation with the current husband: number four.” Garrett and Landauer raised eyebrows at each other at that as she continued. “I’m going to move on this before the family can be reached.”
    She slipped her pen and pad into her Coach briefcase and stood. The men all rose automatically, something Garrett knew they would never have done for any other woman in the building. Carolyn gave them all a ghost of a smile, as if acknowledging the fact. “Gentlemen.”
    As the door closed behind her, Dr. Frazer cleared his throat and glanced to the lieutenant. “Before the detectives called me this morning I was putting together a preliminary profile on Erin Carmody’skiller. I think it’s of use for you to hear what I had compiled before my intake examination of Jason Moncrief.”
    Malloy nodded for him to proceed. Frazer removed several files from his briefcase and opened one, passing photocopies of a report around the table to the other men.
    “As we all know, true satanic crime is extremely rare. The ‘satanic’ crimes that have been identified have never involved organized or official covens. There are two types of these satanists identified by forensic profilers: ‘self-styled’ satanists, and ‘youth subculture’ satanists.”
    The psychiatrist passed another set of photocopies around the table: a collection of mug shots and some instantly recognizable newspaper photos. “The most well-known ‘self-styled’ satanic serial killer is Richard Ramirez, a.k.a. the ‘Night Stalker,’ who was convicted in Los Angeles in 1989 of thirteen counts of murder.”
    Garrett stared down at the famous photograph of Ramirez in court, with his black hair, flat eyes, and vulpine cheekbones, holding up his left hand to flash a pentagram inked on his palm.
    “Ramirez identified himself as a satanist, and was indeed involved briefly with the Church of Satan; he boasted of having felt ‘the icy touch of Satan’ during a ritual conducted by Church of Satan founder Anton LaVey. But in actual fact Ramirez was a lone practitioner and used the concept of satanism to justify his fantasies of rape and murder. The murders he committed were not part of any ceremony or tradition. He was taking the minimal knowledge he’d picked up about satanic practice and using it for his own purposes.”
    Frazer opened the next file, and passed around another photo. Garrett looked down on a black-and-white of a