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“So this guy’s killing people to turn lead into gold?” Michael asked incredulously. “I don’t get it. Who just carries lead around? And even if he turned it into gold, he’d need a lot of gold to make any substantial amount of money these days.”
Cranston replaced his glasses and folded his hands. “He’s not looking for gold. Or she.”
“Forget the pronouns,” Faith said. “If he’s not looking for gold, then whatishe looking for.”
“Eternal life,” Cranston replied.
Faith sat speechlessly for a while. After a moment, Cranston continued. “The Magnum Opus refers to the process of turning lead into gold, but that is a euphemism. What the alchemist seeks to create with this work isn’t gold, but the philosopher’s stone. That stone is said to grant its possessor eternal life. Some believed that the stone was a corporeal object imbued with magical properties. Some consider the philosopher’s stone to be a euphemism as well and claimed that there was no physical object and the alchemist would simply feel himself rejuvenated and the hand of death stayed.
“So he’s killing girls so that he can live forever?”
“That is my guess, yes.”
Faith sighed and leaned back as far as the limited space would allow. “I don’t suppose you talk to any alchemists, Doctor?”
Cranston shook his head. “The art is dead. It’s a superstition based on ancient spiritualism. I’m sure there are people out there who believe it, but they must be few and far between. And no, I’ve never met any of them. I find these superstitions fascinating, but in an academic sense. I can’t imagine how foolish you would need to be to do something like this.”
Faith stood. “Thank you for your time, doctor. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I certainly hope so,” he said, standing and shaking their hands. “I hope you find this person before he kills again. It’s just so sad how far some people will carry their delusions.”
“Yes,” Faith agreed, looking at the photos as Michael replaced them in the file. “Very sad.”
On the way to their car, they discussed what they’d learned.
“Well, this is good news,” Michael said. “We have the why now. All we still need to determine is the who.”
“Ironic that the who is the only important question.”
"Remember what I said about being pessimistic. We know this guy's preferred target, we know his motive, and we know his M.O. We're in good shape for our second day looking at the case."
“But we still need to figure out who.”
Her phone buzzed. Detective Hilary. She answered, and a moment later, said “Thank you. We’re on our way,” and hung up.
Michael looked at her warily. “Good news or bad news?”
“Good news. Giacomo Medici’s back in town. He’s on his way to the precinct to talk to us.”
“Fingers crossed he can give us a name,” Michael said. “I really don’t want to find someone positioned like a triangle tomorrow.”
The three of them headed for the precinct. Faith thought of what Dr. Cranston had said in his lecture about symbols connecting the physical world to the metaphysical. What had happened to their killer, he wondered, that he would believe that murder would earn him everlasting life? What power did these symbols hold in his mind?
And how many more “symbols” would he create before they stopped him?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The killer used to despise the ancients for their love of obscurity. Things could never be explained simply. If the killer wished to bake a cupcake, then it was effortless to find a recipe that listed the exact quantities of the exact ingredients and provide them alongside explicit instructions about how to combine and bake the ingredients to get exactly the dessert one wanted.
But if the killer wanted to know how to summon the favor of an archdemon or manipulate the hearts and minds of others, the killer would come across such gems as ‘the heart of a virgin whose eyes have never seen the sunrise’ or ‘the bones of a dog fed honey and milk and slain over an altar of hickory.’
As the killer matured, however, it became obvious that obscurity wasn't what was truly frustrating. It was difficult. The ancients were just as specific with their alchemic recipes and thaumaturgic spells as were bakers and cooks. It's just much easier to find three eggs than it is to find the tears of a mother whose only son has died of cholic.
Of course, not all formulas require such garish substances. One would be surprised how much could be done with ordinary household spices.
But this recipe… this Magnum Opus… required more than just ingredients. It had taken the killer so long to understand, but to obtain eternal life, one needed much more than powder.
Ironically, it was the powder that had taken the killer the longest to understand. The elements were easy enough. Hell, everyone knew about them. All one had to do was read a children’s book about magic to know the four elements.
