didn't seem to notice. He said, 'Tell me how you ended up here.'
She motioned toward Rafferty's front door. 'I told the detectives--'
'Tell me.'
She debated a moment, then nodded. 'All right.'
Scoop kept quiet, watching and listening as she spoke. She was precise, detailed and objective in her description of events. He could picture her in front of a university classroom or at an archaeological excavation-- smart, professional--but he could sense her underlying emotions. Shock, revulsion, fear--and just the slightest hint, again, not so much of lies and deception but of incompleteness.
She was leaving out something.
'The skulls,' Bob said. 'What do they mean?'
'I can only tell you what I know, in general, about their significance to prehistoric Celts. They believed the head was the source of a person's strength and power. Warriors would decapitate enemies in battle and string the heads on their belts and around the necks of their horses.'
'Okay. What about nailing skulls to a door?'
'The same. Heads tacked to the entry of homes were a status symbol. There was probably a ritualistic, magical purpose. The scene upstairs seems to be an attempt to create a sacred space, with the skulls marking the border between the physical and the spiritual world.'
'Why?'
She shook her head. 'I don't know what whoever tacked up those skulls had in mind. The supernatural was an ever-present force in the lives of the Celts. They made little distinction between gods and ordinary humans, the living and the dead. Gods could become men and men become gods.'
Bob scratched the side of his mouth for a second, digesting Sophie's explanation. 'What about the disassembled gun in the pot?'
'The broken weapon of the warrior.'
'A police officer,' Scoop interjected.
Sophie glanced at him, and he saw the strain in her eyes. But she stayed focused as she turned back to Bob. 'Placing the pieces of the gun in the pot could be the killer's way of symbolically appropriating the power of the owner.'
'We don't know yet Cliff was killed,' Bob said. 'He was retired. He didn't have any power.'
'He had a gun. He had decades of experience as a police officer. He was a private security guard for a wealthy couple.'
'Fair enough. The glass beads?'
'Glass beads are often found in Celtic graves. Torcs are, too, but in this case, the broken torc could identify a vanquished enemy. Then there's the manner of death.' She took a breath and looked out at the street, as if just needing to see something normal. 'Hanging and strangulation were used in conducting ritualistic human sacrifice.'
Bob glanced at Scoop, then back at Sophie. 'Great,' he said without enthusiasm.
'Human remains aren't my area of expertise, but remarkably intact corpses have been discovered in the bogs of Europe. The anaerobic conditions preserve organic material. As it happens, the Celts often made votive offerings in wet places. I have colleagues who specialize in peatland archaeology.'
'So bogs were a natural choice to dump a body?' Bob made a face. 'What, you've examined murder victims from 300 B.C.?'
She gave him a small smile. 'Not me personally. We now know there was never a pan-European Celtic culture with a central government. The Celts were a collection of warring tribes who shared a similar culture and language. We have only limited understanding of the practices I'm describing. The Celts didn't leave us with a written record. Theirs was an oral tradition.'
'What do you go on, then?'
'The archaeological record and descriptions of contemporary Classical writers.'
'The Romans?'
She nodded. 'Ireland was never conquered by Rome, but the Celts of mainland Europe and Great Britain were. Obviously they were enemies, which undoubtedly colors Roman perceptions of the Celts. We also have ancient epic pagan tales written down by Early Medieval Irish monks. They're an important source, but, of course, they're a mix of fantasy, mythology, legend--'
'And a lot of BS, too, probably. I get it,' Bob said. 'One of the crime lab technicians is a pagan. Nicest, happiest person you'd ever want to meet.'
'What I just witnessed has nothing to do with modern pagans or Celtic revivalists.'
Bob nodded. 'I get your point.'
'Am I free to leave?' Sophie asked.
'Yeah, go on. We'll find you if we have more questions.'
She glanced at Scoop, then headed straight for her car.
'Hell, Scoop,' Bob said on a breath. 'That's one creepy scene up there. So what
'I wasn't thinking I'd find Rafferty dead.'
Just as Sophie reached the street, a car screeched to a stop. Frank Acosta, a robbery detective and Rafferty's former partner, jumped out, ducked under the crime-scene tape and charged in front of her, blocking her path to her sister's Mini.
'I figured he'd show up,' Bob muttered next to Scoop.
In his late thirties, Acosta was known as one of the better-looking detectives in the department with his dark hair, dark eyes and what Abigail, an otherwise hard-driving, sensible woman, had tried to explain to both Bob and Scoop was a crooked, sexy smile. She'd never had any interest in Acosta, she'd said. She was just explaining.
That was last spring, when Frank Acosta had come to the attention of internal affairs for sexual indiscretions. He had treaded the line but hadn't crossed it, and he'd been warned to clean up his act. But he was no fan of internal affairs.
He was clearly emotional as he inserted himself between Sophie and her car. 'You're the archaeologist who found Cliff?' He choked out the words. 'What happened? I just saw him yesterday afternoon. We had coffee. He was fine.'
'Hold on, Frank,' Bob called to him.
Acosta pretended not to hear him. 'Then you show up, and now he's dead.'
'I saw him this morning,' Sophie said softly, 'and he was fine then, too. I'm so sorry. I can see he was--'
'We worked together for two years. I've known him since I was a rookie.' Acosta glared at Rafferty's house as if somehow it had betrayed him. He was grim, covering his grief with anger and aggression 'I hear you're just in from Ireland. You're an expert in Celtic Iron Age art.'
'That's right.'
'You can recognize real artifacts from fakes?'
Scoop resisted any urge to jump in. Acosta was deliberately trying to catch Sophie off guard. 'It depends,' she said, cool and controlled--more the academic at work than someone who'd just walked in on her first hanging victim. 'What kind of artifacts are we talking about?'
'I don't know. Hypothetical artifacts. Celtic, say.'
''Celtic' is a general term. Even scholars argue about its meaning. Celtic can describe an Iron Age brooch from France, or an Early Medieval Christian chalice from Ireland--or a shawl in a Harvard Square gift shop.'
It was just the sort of response that Acosta would take as smart-ass. He inhaled sharply, and Scoop found himself moving toward Sophie. Bob stayed back and watched, undoubtedly missing nothing.
Acosta didn't let up. 'Let's say we're talking about hypothetical Irish Celtic Iron Age artifacts. Would you know if they were authentic?'
'It depends,' she said, guarded. 'I certainly can recognize an authentic Celtic design, but unprovenanced pieces can be difficult to date with any certainty. It's problematic when archaeological evidence has been moved from its original site--whether it happened a hundred years ago or a few months ago.'
'Same in our line of work,' Acosta said, less combative.
Bob unwrapped a stick of gum. 'What's going on, Frank?'
