The windows seemed in perfect harmony with the back wall of the church where a large mural of heaven and hell was painted. It had a medieval quality to it. The top half of the painting replicated heaven, where the blessed and righteous were given eternal life. The bottom half depicted hell. Val winced at the gruesome portrayal of people being beheaded or thrown by pitchforks into flames. Humans can be ruthless and savage, and cunningly veiled. Your closest, your most loved, most loyal, can quickly and silently, in a snap before your eyes, become your most feared. Hence a dead mother and her boy.

Val’s gaze quickly reverted to the altar, and her mind to Gabrielle Morgan. Murder and then suicide? Or double murder?

The sound of the church door opening made Val look up. Finally, she thought as she let out a sigh of relief. Detective Mitchell Gavin entered. He brushed snow from his long black coat as he walked toward Officer Powell. Gavin was a striking man. He stood slightly over six feet and had silver-streaked brown hair. His partner Alexander Warren was right behind him. Warren was a few inches shorter than Gavin. He shaved his head to remove what little hair he had left. Val hadn’t seen him in a while and was surprised that his characteristic goatee had transformed to a tightly cropped beard and mustache, giving him that stubbly, unshaven look.

Though Warren was his partner, Gavin would be in charge of this case. He was in charge of any high-profile case in the county and it wasn’t the first time Val had worked with him.

The detectives spent some time talking to Officer Powell before he turned and pointed at Val. A few minutes later the detectives came towards her. Val limped forward to greet them.

“Just when you think you’ve seen it all, the latest and greatest version of crazy appears,” Warren said.

“Sacrifice?” Gavin asked, pointing to the boy.

“At this point, anything is possible,” Val said.

“She’s certainly dressed for some type of…” Warren hesitated and appeared to be searching for the right words as he spoke of the mother. “Ceremony.”

She certainly was. The mother wore a long white plain satin gown. White satin ballet flat shoes were on her feet. Her long blonde hair was parted in the middle, which hung loosely around her face and shoulders. She held what appeared to be fir tree branches in each hand. These lay at either side of her body and were secured in her grasp with duct tape. Duct tape also covered her mouth. No obvious sign of trauma or cause of death could be seen.

The boy, though, had his throat slashed. Arced blood spatter patterns plastered the ground to the left and right of him and a large pool of blood congealed on the floor beneath his head and neck.