Leona? She’s not a witch, she’s Wiccan.”
“Now I do not understand. What is Wiccan?”
“Wicca. It’s a religion. I think it’s called an ‘earth religion, ’ because its practitioners believe in things like spirits and goddesses. But she doesn’t go around in long black dresses, or ride on a broom, or cook poisons in a cauldron by the light of the moon.”
“But does she cast spells?”
Godwin grimaced. “Well . . . I think so. She believes in magic, I’m sure. But only to make good things happen. She says it’s terribly wrong and dangerous to try to hurt someone with a spell, that it can backfire on you three times over. She makes herbal things, potions and soap, and nice-smelling dried bouquets. But she’s not a wicked person, she’s nice. No one could believe she’s a wicked witch. I mean, she’s a stitcher !”
Rafael laughed softly. “You are amazingly sweet and somewhat naïve, you know that? She is not wicked, but she calls it Wicca.” He leaned closer and said, “Do you know my favorite quote? It is from Shakespeare, from his play Macbeth , and it goes, ‘And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the spirits of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles—to betray us in deepest consequence.’”
Godwin smiled and said, “If you could taste Leona’s beer, you wouldn’t think it an ‘honest trifle.’”
Rafael said, “You are a . . . cheeky person, do you know that? May I give you a nickname?”
Godwin was instantly interested. “All right, what is it?”
“ Gorrión . It means ‘sparrow.’”
Godwin couldn’t keep from looking a little disappointed. “Sparrow?”
“When I was a young man, a sparrow flew near me and I reached out my hand without thinking and caught him. He was a cock sparrow, very small in my hand, and I held him up to my face for a closer look. I could feel him struggling to be freed, but instead of being frightened, he reached around and bit me on the thumb. ‘ ¡Bravo, Gorrión! ’ I said, and released him.”
“You think I’m brave?” Godwin sat up a little straighter.
“I know it, mi pequeño Gorrión .”
Five
S ERGEANT Mike Malloy took brief notes as Dr. Rendelle reported his findings. The doctor, Hennepin County’s assistant medical examiner, was short, and so obese his stiff movements seemed more a result of tight-fitting skin than a natural reflection of his character. He didn’t make eye contact once during the conversation. “After a superficial examination, I could find no cause for Ryan McMurphy’s death,” he said, his speech as stiff as his movements. “He was very intoxicated, point one eight, but that is not a lethal level. An autopsy may disclose more.”
“So speculate for me, what do you think happened?” asked Mike, taking notes.
“I think an autopsy will tell us more,” repeated the doctor, not caring to venture an opinion, looking somewhere over Mike’s left shoulder.
Mike turned to make sure there was no one else in the chilly white room.
The doctor continued, “I’ll know more after I have a look inside him, run some more tests. You did say he was a heavy drinker, right?”
“Yeah, and for Ryan, a BA of point one eight is serious but he’s still up and talking at that level.”
“Prolonged alcohol abuse can damage a person’s organs—heart, liver, stomach—so that a relatively mild binge could put him over the tipping point. Though at that stage, there are generally more signs of it externally.”
“Ah,” said Mike, nodding and writing. “Time of death?”
“Well, I’d estimate time of death at between two-thirty and three-thirty a.m. Monday morning.” Mike looked expectant and so the doctor, searching for something more to contribute, said, “There is what appears to be a cigarette burn on the sole of his left foot.”
“What do you make of that?”
The ME looked slightly exasperated. “That the man, who was barefoot when found, stepped on a lit cigarette.”
“That’s
“Now I do not understand. What is Wiccan?”
“Wicca. It’s a religion. I think it’s called an ‘earth religion, ’ because its practitioners believe in things like spirits and goddesses. But she doesn’t go around in long black dresses, or ride on a broom, or cook poisons in a cauldron by the light of the moon.”
“But does she cast spells?”
Godwin grimaced. “Well . . . I think so. She believes in magic, I’m sure. But only to make good things happen. She says it’s terribly wrong and dangerous to try to hurt someone with a spell, that it can backfire on you three times over. She makes herbal things, potions and soap, and nice-smelling dried bouquets. But she’s not a wicked person, she’s nice. No one could believe she’s a wicked witch. I mean, she’s a stitcher !”
Rafael laughed softly. “You are amazingly sweet and somewhat naïve, you know that? She is not wicked, but she calls it Wicca.” He leaned closer and said, “Do you know my favorite quote? It is from Shakespeare, from his play Macbeth , and it goes, ‘And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, the spirits of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles—to betray us in deepest consequence.’”
Godwin smiled and said, “If you could taste Leona’s beer, you wouldn’t think it an ‘honest trifle.’”
Rafael said, “You are a . . . cheeky person, do you know that? May I give you a nickname?”
Godwin was instantly interested. “All right, what is it?”
“ Gorrión . It means ‘sparrow.’”
Godwin couldn’t keep from looking a little disappointed. “Sparrow?”
“When I was a young man, a sparrow flew near me and I reached out my hand without thinking and caught him. He was a cock sparrow, very small in my hand, and I held him up to my face for a closer look. I could feel him struggling to be freed, but instead of being frightened, he reached around and bit me on the thumb. ‘ ¡Bravo, Gorrión! ’ I said, and released him.”
“You think I’m brave?” Godwin sat up a little straighter.
“I know it, mi pequeño Gorrión .”
Five
S ERGEANT Mike Malloy took brief notes as Dr. Rendelle reported his findings. The doctor, Hennepin County’s assistant medical examiner, was short, and so obese his stiff movements seemed more a result of tight-fitting skin than a natural reflection of his character. He didn’t make eye contact once during the conversation. “After a superficial examination, I could find no cause for Ryan McMurphy’s death,” he said, his speech as stiff as his movements. “He was very intoxicated, point one eight, but that is not a lethal level. An autopsy may disclose more.”
“So speculate for me, what do you think happened?” asked Mike, taking notes.
“I think an autopsy will tell us more,” repeated the doctor, not caring to venture an opinion, looking somewhere over Mike’s left shoulder.
Mike turned to make sure there was no one else in the chilly white room.
The doctor continued, “I’ll know more after I have a look inside him, run some more tests. You did say he was a heavy drinker, right?”
“Yeah, and for Ryan, a BA of point one eight is serious but he’s still up and talking at that level.”
“Prolonged alcohol abuse can damage a person’s organs—heart, liver, stomach—so that a relatively mild binge could put him over the tipping point. Though at that stage, there are generally more signs of it externally.”
“Ah,” said Mike, nodding and writing. “Time of death?”
“Well, I’d estimate time of death at between two-thirty and three-thirty a.m. Monday morning.” Mike looked expectant and so the doctor, searching for something more to contribute, said, “There is what appears to be a cigarette burn on the sole of his left foot.”
“What do you make of that?”
The ME looked slightly exasperated. “That the man, who was barefoot when found, stepped on a lit cigarette.”
“That’s
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