O, Death, Rock Me Asleep
Death, rock me asleep,
Bring me to quiet rest,
Let pass my weary guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Let thy sound my death tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
My pains who can express?
Alas, they are so strong;
My dolour will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong.
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Let thy sound my death tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
Alone in prison strong
I wait my destiny.
Woe worth this cruel hap that I
Should taste this misery!
Toll on, thou passing bell;
Ring out my doleful knell;
Let thy sound my death tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
Farewell, my pleasures past,
Welcome, my present pain!
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.
Cease now, thou passing bell;
Rung is my doleful knell;
For the sound my death doth tell.
Death doth draw nigh;
There is no remedy.
poem by Anne Boleyn, music by John Edmunds
Prologue
It was a strange location for a suicide—isolated, far from town in a godforsaken wood. Nelia Tyler stepped away from the body to get one last set of camera shots. But in her haste, she almost tripped on the slimy leaves under the tree canopy.
Turning to fellow deputy Wesley Giles, she asked, “Got everything bagged and tagged?”
“What I could find. That storm did its best to wash evidence away.”
Nelia looked past the clearing toward what was usually a sleepy creek, now turned into a raging stream. “They’re going to take the body out by boat. Wanna ride?”
Giles snorted. “I hate boats. Even looking at one makes me wanna puke. Think I’ll pick door number one and take the car.”
“It’s over a mile to hike back. And you nearly broke your neck on the way in, falling over that tree root.”
“Killer trees I can handle. Boats, not so much.”
All joking aside, the trek through the woods to the clearing was a challenge. Without a drone and radios guiding their way, it would be easy to get lost. And they’d never hear the last of it if they had to be “rescued.”
Nelia glanced at the young victim’s motorcycle parked against a tree. Before the rains, the trail across the creek would have been a little messy, but passable. But it didn’t explain why he chose this place to end his life. Nowadays, someone his age would be more likely to livestream it on the internet.
Right as the EMT techs swooped in to put the body in the waiting plastic bag, Nelia spied something. “Wait a minute, guys.”
She knelt and used her gloved fingers to flip up a piece of fabric on the deceased’s nylon jacket. “Hidden zipper. I almost missed this.”
She reached inside the pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. Taking great pains to avoid tearing it, she unfolded the paper and read the writing.
Giles asked, “What is it?”
“If it’s a suicide note, it’s the strangest one I’ve ever read.”
He peered over her shoulder. “Looks like a poem. Or a song, I guess.”
Nelia studied the note. Someone had scrawled the words “soul vibration” in the margins and drawn a triangle next to them. Who would doodle on a suicide note? Didn’t make sense.
She said, “Wonder what Scott Drayco would make of this?”
Giles snorted. “He’d take one look at it, tie it in with some obscure ancient Egyptian cult, then tell us exactly what this guy was thinking when he pulled the trigger.”
Nelia went to her kit, pulled out a baggie, and sealed the paper inside. “This might mean something, might not.”
She placed the bagged note on top of the kit, above the gun found beside the victim. Then she watched as the EMTs zipped up the body bag, studying the scene not just from a forensics angle but also from the human one. She might not have known the young male victim personally—but her mother had.
The few flickering rays of sunlight wafting through the dense canopy illuminated the boy’s face like a host of angels kissing that cold, bluish skin. Nelia shook off the fanciful notion and packed up her kit.
As if to emphasize the point, a lone crow settled on a nearby tree and cawed at her. Laughing? Crying? Or was this the same bird that had picked at the corpse’s exposed flesh, now annoyed at the loss of dinner?
She said to the black bird, “Crows only live ten years, you know. You’ll be here, yourself, soon enough.”
Giles, packing up his own kit, looked over at her in bewilderment. “Did you say something?”
“It’s nothing. Places like this give me the creeps.”
She watched as the techs carried the body to the waiting boat and then gave one last look around. Well, the Medical Examiner would do her thing, and she and Giles would do theirs. And this particular suicide would just be another statistic on the CDC books.
But, as she started the walk back with Giles through the woods, Nelia felt a little shiver of something she couldn’t quite identify. It was that damned crow. That must be it. The crow, this setting with its stark loneliness, the tragedy of life cut far too short—this was one of those days she almost wished she’d become an accountant.
She shook it off and continued the trek to the car. It would be followed by a stop at the office with its endless parade of crime scene reports and tedious paperwork. And having to make “that” visit to a worried father telling him his missing son was never coming home.
Chapter 1
“Drayco, where are you?” Scott Drayco couldn’t tell where Nelia Tyler was calling from, but he heard noisy traffic in the background.
He said, “At my townhome in D.C. Where are you?”
“In the District, but I won’t be here long. Have to return to the Eastern Shore tonight.”
“Wish I’d known you were in town earlier. I’d love to catch up.”
She let an emergency vehicle with a screeching siren pass by. “I do have something important I want to ask you. But not over the phone.”
“A mystery quest. Sounds cloak-and-dagger.”
With a nervous laugh, she said, “Hate to disappoint you. No spies. Or CIA or FBI or NSA. Look, if you’re too busy—”
“Not too busy for you. Do you want to stop by my place?”
More nervous laughter. “That’s not necessary. But that coffee shop nearby—what say we meet there. Around five-ish?”
He consulted his watch. “Sure, I think I can make that.”
And he did make it in plenty of time—a little too quickly. No signs of Nelia when he arrived at the café at “five-ish.” He went ahead and grabbed some coffee, tasted it, then sprinkled salt into the cup. Much better.
As he settled in to wait on his too-hard metal chair, he indulged his habit of people-watching. One man caught Drayco’s eye, and he observed as flies landed on the man’s table. The guy snared them one by one in a pool of honey poured on a napkin and squashed them.
Drayco turned his attention from the fly-killer to the other café patrons. Most stayed buried in their phones or laptops, hardly glancing up to enjoy their overpriced lattes and croissants.
Ordinarily, he’d have opted for an outdoor table since it reflected fewer textures, colors, and shapes from sounds bouncing off boxy surfaces. Much more comfortable for a synesthete. The rusty-orange pins of the fly-killer’s voice hadn’t helped, though Drayco wasn’t sure which was worse—that voice or the eggplant-colored scalpels from the coffee bean grinder.
But all of those little dramas paled in comparison to his burning questions from Nelia’s phone call. What could she possibly want? A bullet-point list of scenarios scrolled through his head, some good, some neutral, some indefinable. He drummed his fingers on the table, chiding himself. Mustn’t let his list-obsession take a flight of fancy to parts unknown.
It was a relief when the familiar blonde entered the shop and headed his way. “Hope I’m not late.” Nelia smiled as she walked up to his table and then turned to look at the menu board. “Any recommendations?”
“The Kona brew is pretty good. And the raspberry cheese Danish if you’re into cheesy things.”
“I like cheesy. Just ask Tim. If I want to annoy him, I’ll turn on old Abbott and Costello shows.”
The mention of Nelia’s husband took Drayco’s mood down a few notches. Maybe that was why she’d requested to meet him here—at a café near his townhome rather than at his townhome? When they’d last discussed Tim, she was considering a divorce. Now, she was acting as if afraid to be alone with Drayco.
His thoughts darted back to the barely platonic evening at the marina they’d shared two months ago. Was she as disappointed as he was it ended that way?
Nelia went to the counter to place her order, which gave him a chance to turn his people-watching skills on her. Hair still plaited into a braid, wearing sensible flats and sporting an equally sensible pale blue dress. Must be cooler than her deputy browns on a sticky June day.
When she returned to the table with an aromatic coffee and red-topped Danish, he asked, “How’s Tim doing?” He bit his tongue not to ask, “And has he hit you lately?”
“Still employed, though the MS makes it tricky. But we hired a live-in aide to help around the house. Such a load off my mind to have Melanie there.”
“You’re only in town for the day?”
“Finishing up loose ends from the semester.”
“I wondered what your schedule was this summer.”
She chewed on her lip and looked away. He hadn’t meant his comment as a dig. But she’d not spoken with him since May, answering his phone call attempts with terse text replies. Another clue he’d tried to overlook, perhaps.
“I’m working full time for Sheriff Sailor until fall.” She took a sip of the coffee and said, “You’re right, the Kona’s great.”
“What happened to Regina, the woman job-sharing with you?”
“Her baby had medical problems. But the prognosis is good. Hopefully, she’ll return to work before law school starts in the fall.”
“Benny Baskin will miss your legal research skills this summer.”
“Oh, I doubt I’m that irreplaceable.”
“Benny would beg to differ. But it must be hard living in three places.”
“My tiny apartment here in D.C. is spartan. The Cape Unity apartment is bare bones. And I don’t make it to the house in Baltimore much.”
Drayco didn’t miss the slight gritting of her teeth and the tightened jaw. “Doesn’t it get lonely? Living in scattered homes?”
She took a nibble of the Danish and took her time answering. “Two jobs and law school part-time? I don’t have a microsecond to be lonely.”
Nelia was strong, independent, and direct, traits he found so appealing, but she’d make a terrible actress. He let it slide.
She sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch over the past couple of months.”
“As you said, you’re swamped. I understand.”
“I thought about you. Wanted to call.”
“Why?”
“I was worried how you were taking the end of your mother’s case. Having your Mom charged with murder. And having it end like it did.”
It was Drayco’s turn to take his time answering, letting the salted coffee trickle down his throat. “I had some cases consulting for law enforcement groups. The normal high-stress dance card. But maybe the frenzy of activity wasn’t a bad thing. A distraction.”
She chewed on her lip. “I suppose so.”
He forestalled any further questioning along that line. “So, what’s this big mysterious quest of yours?”
“My mother plays violin in a Virginia Beach orchestra. The son of one of her fellow violinists committed suicide a month ago.”
Drayco’s heart sank. Of all the things he’d imagined she wanted to discuss, this wasn’t on the list. Plus, he’d never liked working suicides, and he knew—dreaded—what was coming. “And the parents can’t believe their son would take his own life.”
She nodded. “The boy’s father, Sebastien Penry. His mother died years ago. But Marty’s suicide was totally out of character. The young man never showed signs of being suicidal.”
“They often don’t.”
“I was skeptical myself, at first.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Mom was a large part of it. She knew Marty Penry, that’s the son, and she swears she believes his father, Sebastien.”
“Marty also lived in Virginia Beach?”
“Both father and son used to live in Cape Unity, but only Marty stayed. Since Marty’s death happened in Prince of Wales County, Sheriff Sailor looked into it. He made a detailed report, and there are inconsistencies in the case. But that was as far as it went. Officially.”
That wasn’t encouraging. If Sailor believed it was a homicide, he’d have pursued it. “What inconsistencies?”
“For one, Marty shot himself with a pistol, a Smith & Wesson Model 39, yet he didn’t own a gun. But it matches the description of one stolen from his best friend’s car.”
“You think this friend staged the theft and used the gun against Marty?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Did you trace it to make sure?”
“A hand-me-down from the friend’s father. Who got it from his father.”
“Not in the supply chain, then.”
She shook her head.
“Fingerprints?”
“Just Marty’s.”
“That detail’s odd. If it belonged to the friend, why would the suicide victim have wiped off the friend’s prints? Was there a note?”
Nelia fished out a paper from her purse. “I found a piece of paper with Marty’s body. And you could interpret it as a suicide note. Or I guess I should say a suicide song.”
Drayco straightened up at that. “Suicide song?”
She handed the paper over. “Here’s a copy of the song with the lyrics. You can keep it.”
Drayco read the text:
I’m lost in confusion and melancholy,
Drowning in heartache and rivers of grief,
The hours are slowing, my dreams are all crushed,
Like trees turn to husks and metal to rust.
I live in the shadows, and alone I shall be,
Gone are the days that were bright and carefree,
The flowers are fading, the light becomes dusk,
Ashes turn to ashes and dust turns to dust.
My guilt and betrayal are too much to bear
With nothing to hope for and no one to care,
My time is now fading, like light from the stars,
And peals of the church bells that reach out to Mars
He said, “This isn’t very cheery. In fact, it’s precisely the type of poetry to attract someone who’s depressed. And what does ‘soul vibration’ in the margin mean? And that triangle?”
“The first two stanzas are from the original song. Marty apparently wrote the third. The margin bit, well, I have no idea.”
Drayco concentrated on those last four lines. “I hate to say it, but ‘my guilt and betrayal are too much to bear’ sounds like a suicide confession.”
“Or the victim of that betrayal is at the bottom of this. And staged it as you suggested.”
“I don’t know, Nelia. The vast majority of suicides are just that. As hard as it is for a family to accept, that’s the statistical truth. One reason I hate suicide cases.”
Nelia stared at the remaining third of the Danish for a few moments before pushing it away. “I knew a guy while I was in the reserves. He’d been in a war zone, had PTSD and personal setbacks. Yet, when his wife found him in his car with the engine running and rags crammed into the exhaust, she didn’t believe he’d killed himself.”
She shook her head. “I realize this seems cut-and-dried. I won’t think badly of you if you don’t want to look into it.”
Drayco grabbed the plate with the Danish and pushed it across the table. “Eat, you’re wasting away. And you’ll need your strength if you’re going to help me with this hopeless case of yours.”
A smile crept across her lips. “You’ll get paid for this one. Sebastien Penry has offered to make your fee. My Mom will kick in the rest.”
“With personal ties, evidence will have to be golden to stand up in court.”
“If anyone can do it, you can.”
Her unwavering faith in his abilities should have made him do a song and dance. But he’d agreed to take the case against his better judgment. And it was possible he’d disappoint a lot of people including Nelia, her mother, and Sebastien Penry. If it were anyone other than Nelia asking him to work a suicide case, he’d say no. They were always the same—the grieving wanting to know the unknowable.
§ § §
Drayco waved at Nelia as they parted company. He walked the short distance to his townhome near Capitol Hill, dodging tourists looking at maps on their cellphones. Once inside, he closed the door and leaned against it with his eyes closed.
After a moment, he headed toward the bookcase and pulled out a biography on Chopin. Turning to the title page, he ran his finger along the dedication, “To my favorite student and future superstar, Scott Drayco. All my best, A. Vucasovich.” Touching Vuca’s signature made the man feel so real, so alive.
He could still see it clearly. Vuca sitting in the front row as the twenty-year-old Drayco finished playing Beethoven’s Emperor concerto with the Boston Symphony, leaping to his feet to lead the standing ovation. Then a week later, the devastation on Vuca’s face as he visited Drayco in the hospital after the fateful carjacking, staring at Drayco’s shattered wrist and arm. Three months on, it was Drayco’s turn to stand and look at Vuca, only this time at a cemetery as Vuca’s coffin was lowered into the ground.
Drayco re-read the book’s dedication, wondering as he always did when he thought of his former piano teacher—why did you do it, Vuca? Maybe there were some things no one could ever know. Or ever should know.
He thought of the copy of the “suicide song” Nelia gave him and grabbed his laptop to do a bit of quick research. Not originally a song at all but based on a piano sonata, one mysteriously linked to suicides. Yet that wasn’t what sent a chill up Drayco’s spine. The composer of the sonata was Hungarian—a man who also happened to be Vuca’s friend before the war.
Drayco slid onto his sofa, staring into space, musing on life’s many circles of connection and coincidence. Why this case and why now? The last thing he needed was digging up more emotional graves from his past. But a promise was a promise.
Tired of staring at nothing, he headed for his fridge to grab a bottle of Manhattan Special. Maybe the espresso soda would help? He changed his mind and opened a beer can. He’d need something stronger than a Danish and coffee if this case of Nelia’s turned out to be as hopeless as he suspected it was going to be.
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