Witchcraft and nasty little murders

Chapter Twelve Triskelion

"Tell me, what have you found?"

"As I wrote in the autopsy report, the scenario was the same for all the victims," she began, but for the sake of Ophelia's stomach, she did not open the lockers to present on the victims what she had said.

"So they were drugged, made the victim drink a jimsonweed tea and then neatly cut out their internal organs to execute the sacrifice."

"Exactly," she nodded, "I found needle marks on all of them, indicating that they were drawn blood. Miss Morrison had bad veins and the first attempt failed, so I found needle marks on both arms. But that's not why I called you."

"Then?" asked the detective, as if she were wasting his time.

"Mrs. Harrison, the mother of the second victim committed suicide. The toxicology results came back, and although we found traces of the drug in her system, it wasn't in sufficient quantity to kill her."

"You think she died from something else?" Lia asked, puzzled.

"The cause of death was cardiac arrest. I also found some alcohol in her blood, but it was not significant."

"Can I take a look?" Lia asked as the doctor opened the report on her computer. Ophelia had a lump in her throat, her whole body tensing as the images of Alpha's death flooded her mind. She felt dizzy.

The detective grabbed her and sat her on a chair. Ophelia could feel her breath becoming agitated, so she had to force herself to remain calm.

"Just a bad memory," she shooed the thought away, and after the pain, anger welled up in her as Alpha made her remembered Chris. "Let's go, Detective! We're going to miss your next date," she groaned.

Kendra poured her a glass of water, just in case, and promised to be in touch if she found any more clues.

Ophelia was relieved when she stepped out into the grey, rainy, slightly smoggy street. Somehow the dark basement hadn't helped her mood. The Chrysler had never been as comfortable as it was at that moment.

She looked at the detective's expression and knew he was thinking about something.

"You think Claire's the murderer?"

"We'll soon find out," he said. "After all, it would be brave of her to carry out another murder in a town where everyone is looking for her."

"And Timothy?"

"We'll see tonight. I hope you have no plans," said the man, and Ophelia shook her head. She was delighted when they arrived at the other hospital, which served as a drug rehab center.

They were greeted by a beautiful garden and a homely atmosphere inside, where patients were rushing to appointments or leaving the building to start a new life. Dorothy was smoking her cigarette by the wide, grey gate. She looked poorly, one could tell she was in withdrawal, but perhaps she needed to hold on a little longer to say goodbye to drugs for good.

"Good afternoon," the detective greeted her. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit, but proud. Mom's glad I'm doing rehab. I'm going to support groups, and they can probably offer me a job I can do while I'm at university."

"I'm pleased everything's OK," Ophelia tried to put on a kind face, because she really felt that way. It would have been a pity about Dorothy, and they all knew it. The brown-haired woman looked at him and asked:

"How can I help you, Detective?"

"I'd like to know about your necklace. You said you had bought it at a fair because you liked it," recalled Detective Harper.