When the Gods Are Away, page 5
“You’re answering the wrong question. What is your problem?”
“Oh.” Virgil blinked. “Depression.”
"I see." The man scribbled something onto his paper. “I’ve never had a male client before. I’m not sure if my normal techniques will work on you.” His eyes traversed the span of Virgil’s body. “Then again, they might. You say Chrysanthe has been telling you for years to see someone, but that you haven’t done so until now. Why did you choose this time, in particular?”
“I... I guess because of work. I thought it might help if I were more... confident?”
“Hm. What is your job?”
“Homicide detective.”
“Good profession. Thinking and evidence over strength and punching.” Perikiades nodded. “Keeps the chiefs honest. I guess you know that some chiefs, instead of finding the real killers, convict their senator’s political opponents. Deplorable.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Was that the right answer? Is he keeping track of how many questions I answer incorrectly?
Perikiades gestured to Virgil. “Now, you made an active choice to enter the detective profession. Why do you think you chose that career among all the other possibilities?”
Virgil frowned and looked at his hands while considering. “Well, my father was killed when I was young.”
“That’s great. That’s something.” More notes. “It’s not great that your father is dead, obviously, unless he died in glorious combat. He didn’t, did he?”
Virgil remembered sitting in the kitchen as his mother explained the circumstances of his father's death. Virgil had been seven years old. Old enough to realize he had lost something precious, but too young to know how to cope. Kids at school used the opportunity to further humiliate him. That first day, when Claudius told him a boy growing up without a father would always be a coward, was the first time Virgil had contemplated suicide.
Reliving that experience... Virgil clutched his wrist and forced himself to concentrate on the therapist. “No. He didn't. Dad was stabbed in a robbery.”
“Right. So that’s unfortunate, but it is good that we have a partial motive for your choice of profession. Note that it's only a partial motive. There is also something deeper about you that made you seek out this type of employment. Some core part of your personality. That means something is capable of giving you purpose. We need to find out what that is and apply it to the rest of your life.”
“Is it really that easy?”
"Ohhh, no." Perikiades shook his head. "It will get worse before it gets better. And you'll likely overestimate how much better you're getting. And you might never recover before you make a terminal decision. Many paths lie before you, and I'm curious which you'll take."
Virgil nodded. "Me, too."
The therapist studied him for several moments, then flipped to the next page in his notes. “When was the last time you laughed? A genuine, happy laugh?”
“I...” At the academy, maybe? He didn’t remember laughing then. Certainly not at his jobs. At home, when I was a kid? Maybe before Dad had died. That was so long ago, and Virgil didn’t really remember. As a baby, before I could form memories?
"Right." The therapist scribbled more notes. "Even worse than my low expectations."
Virgil wanted to slink out the doorway.
Perikiades looked up again. “What drives you, Virgil? What makes you wake up every day?”
Work? Hope that I’ll someday find someone to talk to or some meaning to my life? Maybe only because my alarm clock rang?
“I’m sorry.” Virgil looked at the floor. “I don’t know why I wake up every day. I don’t have a reason to live. I don’t even have a reason to die.”
“And yet, you still go to work. You’re trying to find a murderer. You still eat. You still take care of yourself. To an extent. Obviously, you haven't showered this morning."
Virgil felt his face turn red.
"The point is, something about you hasn't completely given up yet. We'll return to this subject another day. Until then, give it some thought.” Dr. Perikiades leaned back and placed his arms on the chair’s armrests. "Let's delve into the basics. Toward what deity do you feel you have the most affinity?”
Virgil stared at his shoes. He had told no one, other than his sister. Even she had been shocked at his confession years ago. If anyone else knew... He thought of the man Kostas and Collias had arrested, the prisons, the honor killings of family members. “Are my answers confidential? You wouldn’t tell any—"
“They are confidential. Unless I deem you to be a threat to others and...” Perikiades pursed his lips and gestured to Virgil. “I doubt that will be my conclusion. So why are you embarrassed? Is it one of the sex gods?”
No, I can’t trust him to keep it secret. “Um, no. This week, it’s Hebe.”
“Hebe? The goddess of youth?” Perikiades jotted something into his notebook, shaking his head. “Sorry, Virgil, but you’re not that young anymore. How old are you? Late thirties?”
Virgil blinked. “Twenty-three.”
“Oh.” Perikiades’ pen scribbled across the paper. “My apologies. You keep praying to her. Maybe things will work out.”
Virgil’s eyes moved to the door. How many minutes have passed? "I was hoping therapy would let me analyze people better. Suspects and such. And maybe it would give me more confidence and that would help me find out who killed Nicholas Manikas."
"Confidence?" Dr. Perikiades aimed his pen at Virgil. “Look at the way you're sitting. You’re trying to minimize your presence. You’re trying to take up as little room as possible.”
Virgil looked down. His knees touched, his arms lay across his legs, and he had hunched forward. He forced himself to sit straight, spread his legs out. It felt weird.
“Confident people take up as much space as they can. They’re not worried about making space for other people. They want other people to make space for them.”
“I just don’t know if that’s me.”
Dr. Perikiades shrugged. “Do you want to continue being depressed?”
Virgil tried to imagine life without depression. What if I had confidence? What if people liked me? What if I enjoyed going to work or eating or venturing downtown?
The therapist pursed his lips. “You’re uncertain. Not a good sign. Well, let’s continue. I think we have a lot we need to talk about. You’re an interesting challenge, Mr. Glezos. I like that about you.”
To Virgil, it felt as though, with each answered question, he added weeks to the time he would have to spend in therapy. “Do... do you have an express solution? Or maybe something we could do by correspondence? It’s just, I’m busy with a case and I—"
“No!” Perikiades slammed his notebook into his lap.
Virgil blinked and hunched forward. “Sorry! I’ll stop being depressed!”
“Look, Virgil, you can’t solve your case if you’re not confident. You are hunting a murderer. You need to be prepared for what happens when you find that murderer.”
Maybe therapy was the wrong decision. Forcing myself to have confidence would transform me into a different person. If I were confident and likable, what other aspects of me would change?
But those aspects would die, anyway, if he killed himself, and he didn’t know how much longer he could last. Not with the way his thoughts had been going since last night.
Virgil took a breath and faced the therapist. "Okay."
Chapter 06
VIRGIL STARED AT THE client on the lab table. A thick white blanket covered the body, leaving only the head exposed. Despite Manikas’ agonized expression, he still seemed to be having a better morning than Virgil. Isn’t therapy supposed to make you feel better?
“You were an officer.” Virgil leaned over the corpse, keeping his words to a whisper. “I doubt you ever needed therapy.”
“You asked to see me?”
Virgil started and slammed into the white tiled wall behind him, letting out a squeak he would spend the rest of the day trying to forget. Patroklus stood, hands clasped, beside the metal supply shelf on the other side of the table from Virgil.
Virgil collected himself and gathered his thimbleful of pride together. “Yeah, Patroklus, thanks for coming.”
Patroklus remained motionless as a statue. Would someone involved in a murder have such an absence of reaction in the presence of their victim?
“Um,” Virgil continued, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was looking through the catalogue yesterday, the catalogue listing all the spells priests can perform for law enforcement. I found this one, and I think it could work. Also, I’ve got some leads, maybe.”
Virgil decided not to mention that Patroklus was one of the suspects and that this procedure was also a test for him.
“Or,” said Virgil, “I have some people to talk to tomorrow. About the case. I think that counts as having leads. Anyway, I thought this would be a good approach. And it sounded as though a soul is required, and Manikas’ should still be attached since we haven’t coined him yet.”
Patroklus’ expression remained unchanged. “No apology is necessary. Requests such as these are part of my job.”
From within the creases of his voluminous robe, Patroklus removed a thick bundle of cloth, folded with the immaculate precision of a god, and spread it atop the client. Once the cloth had expanded to its full length, the priest lifted the top fold to reveal a large assortment of bone slivers resting on the material in precise rows and columns. The catalogue had not specified the origins of the bones.
“You are correct,” Patroklus said, “that this procedure requires the presence of a soul. However, I am uncertain it will be effective on a corpse.”
“Okay.” Virgil had screwed up again. His professor would have been mortified at the steady stream of failures. “We can still try, though, right?”
Patroklus glanced from Virgil to the bone slivers and back again with an arched eyebrow. Virgil blushed and took a step back.
“You do not believe.” Patroklus studied the slivers.
Virgil glanced to the doorway. No one was listening. He replied in a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“You do not believe in our gods.” Patroklus spoke at normal volume, and Virgil’s stomach tightened. “You do not close your eyes or display proper reverence during these rituals. And yet you ask me to perform this ritual now. Can you explain the contradiction?”
Patroklus must have seen me opening my eyes during the ritual. How much should I say? How would a priest react to hearing that someone questioned the basic premise of his career? What if Patroklus tells others? Are priests required to report unbelievers?
Virgil remembered the alleged atheist that Kostas and Collias had thrown to the floor. “Oh, I do believe.”
That didn’t sound convincing even to him.
Patroklus stared. “You do not. Rather, you are uncertain. You have found no definitive proof either way. Your eyes betray you.”
“I—”
Patroklus raised a hand. “Do not worry. Such evidence is inadmissible for law enforcement. Besides, if the police wanted to convict you of a crime, they need not rely on evidence.”
Despite all Virgil’s precautions, Patroklus knew. “I—"
“I repeat my question. If you have such doubt in the source of my power, why do you trust in my spells?”
“Well." Virgil avoided Patroklus' eyes. “Priests have been performing magic for over two thousand years. There has to be something causing it to work, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be the gods. That’s what I think, anyway.”
“I see.”
“And you performed magic yesterday when the gods are supposed to be unavailable. If the gods are required for magic, why didn’t your spell fail? I mean, it sort of did since you didn’t find anything, but..." Virgil stopped, realizing his words could be interpreted as questioning Patroklus' competence.
“Magic,” said Patroklus, “can be performed by calling upon the essences of the gods. Though the gods are not listening, their essences are everywhere. Not even belief is required.”
Patroklus extended his hand over the bone slivers. He closed his eyes, and his body relaxed.
“Do you have any evidence?” Virgil asked. “I mean, have you met Athena or maybe a nymph or something?”
Patroklus opened his eyes and maintained a placid expression while letting his hand drop. “We do not discuss the Mysteries with those outside the priesthood.” He gestured to the body. “May I?”
Virgil blinked. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Stupid. He had interrupted the ritual and broken Patroklus’ concentration. Maybe he had even contaminated the results. Patroklus probably hated him.
The priest raised his hand over the slivers again. Virgil forced himself to remain still and braced himself for the inevitable special effects induced by the priest’s powers.
“Mighty Apollo, god of truth,” Patroklus said in a deadened voice. The air in the room grew thick, pressing against Virgil’s chest and prickling his skin. “We beseech you to grant us knowledge from these vessels.”
Unnatural warmth flooded Virgil’s feet and traveled through his legs before spreading throughout his body. He shifted and scratched his arms.
Patroklus’ eyelids snapped open to reveal pupils draining to pure white. Without moving his head, the priest gathered the cloth and bones together, folding and pressing the material until it was arranged as neatly as it had been after first emerging from his robe. Taking the cloth in both hands, he shook it with economical motion. Four times, lightly, back and forth, before he paused with the cloth poised above the body like an unresolved chord. Patroklus had performed every motion in the exact manner described by the catalogue.
Patroklus’ voice deepened by two octaves. “Ask your question of the victim.”
Virgil’s mind went blank for several long seconds before he remembered the question he had prepared. “Um, who killed you?”
Upon the last syllable, Patroklus flipped the cloth open and let the bone slivers drop. They spilled across the corpse, popping along Manikas’ chest or bouncing off each other until settling in their final resting places. Virgil pressed against the table and looked down at the slivers, trying to decipher something valuable from the results, but the bones appeared to be distributed at random.
“Is... is it supposed to look like that?”
The priest’s eyes had regained their color. “If meaningful information were available, the slivers would spell words.”
“Oh.” Virgil squinted at them. He pointed at one grouping. “That kind of looks like a delta, right?”
“No.”
Patroklus gathered the bones together and restored them to their precise positions in the cloth. Virgil wracked his brain for another question he could ask of the bones, but Patroklus had already folded the cloth and gathered it into his robe. The priest didn’t speak to or acknowledge Virgil before gliding out of the room and passing from sight.
Watching the priest had revealed nothing. Patroklus' behavior remained as inscrutable as always, with never a slip from his impassive expression. Normally, Virgil would have counted two failed rituals as evidence for Patroklus’ guilt, especially when the spell catalogue described in such florid language how effective the rituals were, but both failures had several potential explanations. Patroklus might have sabotaged the rituals, Manikas might not know who killed him, or this last ritual might not work on corpses.
Or maybe I did something to screw it up.
Virgil sighed and pulled a candy bar from his pocket while leaning over the corpse. He opened the wrapper, and a loose nut dropped onto the sheet. Virgil wiped the nut onto the floor.
Talking to Manikas’ family probably wouldn’t yield anything useful, either. But, given the lack of other leads, Virgil knew he needed to try. Maybe he could also examine the kitchen again.
He cursed himself for not taking photographs of the crime scene last night. He would have to do it next time someone got murdered.
He could also try to determine the exact murder weapon. There were several spear tips from previous murders in the evidence rooms in the basement. He could fetch those and compare them to the wound’s shape...
“What’s up, Super Sleuth?”
“You figure it out? You crack the case?”
Virgil suppressed a curse as Schirra and Stathis swaggered into the room. Stathis crossed his arms and leaned against the metal shelf while Schirra stood at the foot of the examination table and glared at Virgil.
Why do they look so pleased with themselves? Did they hear that the chief is going to remove me from the case soon? “It... It takes a while to solve these things. I have to gather evidence and examine clues and...” Virgil faltered when Schirra smirked.
“Oh, yeah,” she said in her low voice. “Sounds like you’ve got it all under control.” She and Stathis shared a laugh.
Virgil looked at his shoes. “I still have things to try. I’m not done yet. I’m going to compare spear tips to his wound to see if I can determine the shape of the murder weapon.”
Stathis cocked his head. “Couldn’t you just ask the murderer when you catch him? I don’t see why it’s important to know what the weapon looked like, anyway.”
I always do a terrible job of explaining my thoughts to people. “I’m hoping it will help me find the murderer. Have you seen the chief today?”
Schirra shrugged. “Not yet, but we’re meeting him in a few. New crime scene. Another murder. Sounds like you’re really busy with this case, though, and we don’t need you, anyway.”
A new crime could be good practice for Virgil. He could try his new techniques there and maybe not screw it up this time. "I should probably go, too. I’m supposed to be present for cases like that. I—"
“You’re taking a long time with this one,” said Schirra.
“Yeah,” said Stathis. “When you were hired, you were supposed to help us with the investigations, but now that the chief is letting you work on them, all you’re doing is slowing things down.”
