Maps of Hell by Paul Johnston Page B

expertise.”
    “Meaning it’s mine?” Simmons asked.
    “Well, you are into—”
    “This has nothing to do with voodoo, man. Where is it, then?”
    Pinker handed over a folder. His partner removed a transparent evidence bag that contained a single piece of white, unruled paper. There were small holes in each corner of the page and dried blood on the edges. On it, several squares and rectangles had been drawn by hand.

 

     

 
    “What do you reckon, Clem?”
    Simmons looked up. “Black felt-tip pen, one of the most common brands, according to the CSIs. Same goes for the paper.” He ran a hand over his thick gray hair. “I reckon we might be making a mistake keeping this from the media.”
    “Why?”
    “Because by now we’d have had plenty of experts calling us with their ideas.”
    Pinker laughed ironically. “Self-appointed experts, you mean. With their completely insane ideas. We’ve got enough to do without chasing leads that go nowhere. Besides, it was Chief Owen’s idea to keep a lid on it.”
    “I know. But we didn’t say much to put him off the idea.”
    “Standard Op with murders—to avoid copycats, don’t publicize the details.”
    Simmons glanced at him. “You think D.C.’s packed with people who’ll start skewering ears? And anyway, we didn’t keep that part confidential.”
    “True.” Gerard Pinker stood up and straightened the creases in his navy blue suit trousers.
    Simmons looked at his partner. “You gonna leave those pants alone or am I gonna have to call the Vice Squad?”
    “Pardon me while I scream with laughter.” Pinker frowned. “Who do you reckon’s behind this murder, Clem? Some kind of anti-Nazi group?”
    “Maybe. There’s no shortage of people with justifiable rage about what that gang of assholes did sixty-plus years ago, and just as much rage against fools who idolize them nowadays.”
    Pinker tightened his tie. “So you don’t think some kind of righteous anti-satanist type was involved?”
    Simmons looked at him suspiciously. “You trying to bring my heritage into this again?”
    Pinker smiled mischievously. “Well, maybe one of your voodoo guys stuck the pins in the vic. They do that, don’t they?”
    “Voodoo doesn’t have a beef with Satan,” his partner said, shaking his head. “Besides, it’s a bona fide religion that came from Africa—or an occult science, if you prefer.”
    “No, I surely don’t,” Pinker said, sitting down. “I don’t know—maybe someone had it in for the vic because of his music.”
    “Now you’re talking. That thrash metal is seriously ear-breaking shit. Give me the blues anytime.”
    Gerard Pinker took the file back and stared at the bloodstained sheet of paper. “Come on, Clem. Direct that great brain of yours at these squares and rectangles.”
    “I told you before—they don’t mean anything to me.” Simmons let out a long sigh. “Jesus, Vers, you really have a way of needling people.”
    Pinker said nothing. He knew his partner would come up with something.
    Simmons said, with a sigh, “For what it’s worth, I’d say the fact that the murderer took the trouble to attach the page to his victim’s chest shows it has some pretty major significance. But search me what it is. We need an expert’s advice.”
    “That’s it?” Pinker said, underwhelmed.
    Simmons grinned. “Yeah, Vers. Apart from the fact that satanists and neo-Nazis are notorious for fighting among themselves. Which means we’ll have to check all the members of any group Loki was involved with, as well as their enemies.”
    “Oh, great,” Pinker said, seeing the risk of their workload increasing enormously. “Clement, my man, you just made my day.”

Eight
     
    I dropped down behind a low bank in front of a line of trees. The dog’s howling was getting nearer and I had to make a decision. Assuming the hound had picked up my scent, I wouldn’t have much chance of losing it unless I crossed running water. I hadn’t seen any of