Page 85 of Blood Moon

“Yes. The one that seems most popular looks like this.” She held up a drawing she’d done for him to see. She’d copied it from images on the internet and had had Gayle Morris confirm that it matched Larissa’s tattoo as described by Patrick Dobbs.

The professor leaned in. “Yes, that’s a common symbol for Luna. And sometimes the crescent has another crescent sitting atop it. I always thought it looked like a pair of horns.” He smiled. “I said that once in a lecture, and one or two devotees in the audience booed me.”

John perked up. “You give lectures on this topic?”

“And related topics, yes.”

“Where do you conduct them? Who attends them?”

“I give them wherever I’m invited. Usually on campuses, and typically in relation to studies in sociology or humanities. My audience is largely comprised of students, but many people attend simply because they have a passionate interest in all things mystical, past and present.”

“There are that many people with a passion for it?”

“I think more than we know, Mr. Bowie. Many afficionados stay closeted because their particular interest might be regarded as satanic. For instance, I did a lecture at a well-known university with an enrollment above twenty thousand. Only sixty people attended.

“But in the weeks following it, I sold more than two hundred downloads of the recording of my talk. I know there are online clubs, chat rooms, things like that, and most of the people in them use a name that’s nothing like their real one. They’re funny or tongue-in-cheek.”

He winked. “I know because I sometimes lurk. I want to know what the current rage is so I can tailor my lectures accordingly. What’s popular this month? Is it dragons? Ghosts? Witchcraft or werewolves? Interests wax and wane like the moon.”

He tilted his head, looking curiously into his camera. “Speaking of, may I ask why you’re interested in all this? Specifically in blood moons? Ms. Collins, you told me you were doing research for your television show.”

“Crisis Pointhas produced an episode documenting the disappearance of a young woman.” She gave him an expurgated version of Crissy Mellin’s story.

“I remember when that happened,” he said. “The New Orleans TV stations covered every aspect of it. You’ve made a TV show out of it?”

“Yes. But since it was produced, I’ve learned that there were previous disappearances in this general region of the country, all of which occurred on the night of a blood moon. It seemed too much of a coincidence.”

“I would agree. And you, Mr. Bowie? What’s your connection?”

It was one thing to confide his expulsion from the PD with a fellow cop like Morris, but he didn’t want the professor delving into it. He skirted the question. “Going back to your lectures. Do people just show up or do they register beforehand?”

“They register. I take walk-ins if there’s room. Which there usually is,” he said with chagrin. “But I still ask that they sign in so I can add them to my mailing list.”

“You have a mailing list? Could you share it with us?”

“Of course. I have Ms. Collins’s email. I’ll send it as soon as we conclude.”

John felt a bump of optimism. One never knew when there was going to be a break in a case. The discovery of a minute detail that had previously gone unnoticed would be the wished-for golden key.

“How are the names on your mailing list categorized?” he asked.

“Alphabetically.”

“Great. That’s great.” He didn’t want to wait for the list to be emailed. “Can you access it now?”

“Well…” He began rearranging stacks of papers on his desk and riffling through loose sheets. “I have a printout somewhere.” Then, “Here.”

“Would you please check for these names, see if they’re on there?” The professor slid on a pair of reading glasses. John started with Crissy and then worked backward to the first girl who’d disappeared in Jackson, Mississippi.

The professor checked for all the names, but shook hishead after each. “No,” he said, dousing John’s momentary optimism.

“That would have been too easy,” John said, and gave Beth a rueful smile, then noticed that his phone was vibrating on the table. “Sorry. I’m getting a call.” He looked at the readout. “Molly,” he said to Beth. Then to the professor, “Thank you for your time and insight. If you could please send us that list…?”

“Right away.”

“And if it’s not too much to ask, send us links to those chat rooms.”

“No trouble at all.”

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