Before Conroy could answer, I said, "Look here." Taking a pen from my pocket, I leaned over the vic's left hand. I slipped the pen under his fingers, what was left of them, and gently lifted the hand up. Despite the blood smear, the tattoo of a pentagram was clearly visible on his palm. I'd seen the edge of it from where I was standing.
"Wizard," Karl said.
"There's something else you guys oughta see," Conroy said. "It's in the next room."
We followed him through a connecting door into what was clearly the wizard's bedroom. The ceiling light was burning, along with a two-bulb floor lamp.
I asked Conroy, "Were these lights already on?"
"Yeah, that's why I decided to take a look," he said. "Everything's exactly the way I found it." He sounded defensive, and I wondered why.
The four-poster bed was shoved over against a wall, fresh drag marks clearly visible on the polished hardwood. Where the bed had been standing was a hole in the floor, maybe a foot square. The matching pieces of wood used to conceal it had been pried up and tossed aside.
Inside the hole was a safe with its heavy door open. I looked inside and saw cash, lots of it, although there was plenty of room left. The bills were divided into stacks bound with rubber bands.
Now I knew what had gotten up Conroy's ass: he was afraid we might accuse him of helping himself to some of the dead guy's money.
I straightened up and looked at Karl. "Whoever it was, he didn't come here for money," I said. "The bills haven't been messed with at all." The last part was for Conroy's benefit, although it was also true.
"Unless maybe he was after the money," Karl said, "but got scared off by somebody before he could grab it."
I shook my head. "Anybody who's hard-core enough to do all that-" I pointed with my chin toward the study "he's not gonna be stopped by a surprise visitor."
"Yeah, maybe you're right." Karl turned to Conroy. "We got a name on the vic?"
Conroy checked his notebook. "Kulick, George Lived alone."
"Who called it in?" I asked him.
"There's a housekeeper, Alma Lutinski, comes in once a week. Has her own key. She found the stiff, went all hysterical, and started screaming her lungs out. The neighbors heard her and called 911."
"We'll need to talk to her," Karl said. "Where is she?"
"She really lost her shit, so they took her to Mercy Hospital. The docs'll probably give her a shot, get her calmed down a little."
"I doubt she got a look at the perp," I said. "Otherwise, he would've iced her, too. But we'll find out what she has to say for herself, later. Maybe she knows what the late Mr Kulick's been up to lately. And with who."
There were voices coming from the hallway now. "Sounds like forensics is here," I said. "Finally."
"Wanna start canvassing the neighborhood?" Karl asked.
"Might as well," I said. "Shit, we might even find a witness. That happens every three or four years."
I looked at Conroy. "Make sure the forensics guys pay close attention to that safe, okay? I'd like to know what else was in there besides money."
We went back out through the study, careful not to trip over the forensics techs, who were crawling all over the place like ants on a candy bar. "Guess whatever was in that steel box was real important to somebody, haina?" Karl said.
"Two somebodies."
"Two?" Karl's brow wrinkled. "The perp, for sure…"
"Kulick was the other one." I looked once more at the savaged piece of meat that had once been a human being. "Otherwise, he would have given it up long before all that was done to him."
Our canvass of the neighborhood turned up precisely zip. Richie Masalava, the M.E.'s guy at the crime scene, guesstimated that Kulick had been cold about twenty-four hours, but nobody we talked to remembered seeing or hearing anything unusual the day before.
When Karl and I got to the hospital, the tranquilizers had worn off enough so that Alma Lutinski was more or less coherent. She said she had been George Kulick's housekeeper for about two and a half years.
"I dust, I vacuum, I sweep and mop up. That's all." Her voice sounded husky, like the kind you get with heavy smokers, but I couldn't smell any tobacco on her. I wondered if Alma had screamed herself hoarse inside George Kulick's house.
"Once in a while he leaves a note," she said. "'Dust the venetian blinds,' so I dust them. 'Clean the shower,' two-three times, maybe. He leaves a check on the kitchen table, every week. Never bounces. Not like some."
"You never saw him when you came over to do your cleaning?" Karl asked Alma.
"A few times, he's there. But then he goes into that room, his 'study' and closes the door. It's like I'm there by myself. I like that, nobody bothers me."
"But didn't you have to get into the study to dust?" I said.
"Oh, no." Alma shook her head. "Never the study. 'Stay out,' he says. 'Don't worry about the dust, the dirt,' he says. Why should I argue – I need more work to do?"
Karl gave her his special smile then, the one he once claimed could charm the knickers off a nun. "Bet you went in at least once, though, didn't you? Looked around a little, maybe checked out his desk, all that crazy stuff he had in there. Weren't you curious? Just a little?"
The look she gave him reminded me of a nun, all right, but not the kind who'll slip her knickers off for you. Her expression was right out of Sister Yolanda's playbook, and I was glad for Karl's sake that there wasn't a big wooden ruler handy.
"You little snot," Alma said venomously. "You think I snoop? Look around? You think I steal, maybe, too, huh? He says stay out, I stay out. I'm a good Catholic woman, you German bastard."
Karl and I backed away slowly, the way you do from a Doberman that's slipped its chain. Once we were safely outside, Karl said, "I think maybe she took a dislike to me. He shook his head. "'German bastard.' Talk about old country."
"Maybe you should have tried for her knickers, instead," I said.
Things were quiet among the supe community the next few nights – nothing that the other detectives couldn't handle, anyway. Karl and I spent the time going through George Kulick's personal effects. We were looking for names of friends, associates, relatives, even enemies – anybody who could tell us what Kulick kept in that safe besides money.
We came up empty on all counts. The only letters we found were professional correspondence, like the letter from a magical supply house, saying that the shipment of powdered bat wings he'd ordered would be delayed. Stuff like that. If he had an address book, we didn't find it. No diary, of course. My luck never runs that good. No answering machine for somebody to leave a juicy message or two.
Phone records revealed no incoming calls for the last four months, and only two outgoing. Both of those were made to the local Domino's Pizza place.
Kulick didn't even have a home computer. Guess he did his communicating in ways that Bill Gates had never heard of – although there were news stories that Microsoft was getting ready to release a new product line called Spell Software.
I checked with my contacts in the magical community, but nobody knew George Kulick – or would admit to it, anyway. And no relative ever claimed the body, so it was buried in some land that the city owns in a local cemetery just for that purpose. In the old days, I guess it would have been called the potter's field.
Driving home at the end of the third fruitless night, I found myself wishing that the forensics guys would pull off one of those miracles that you see on TV every week – the kind where they find some microscopic bit of evidence that would give us the perp's name, address, phone number, and astrological sign.
Because what we had right now was shit.
After two more nights of no leads, no evidence, no witnesses and no dice, McGuire was talking about putting this one in the Pending Cases file, the place where unsolved crimes go to die.
I could see his point. The other detectives in the unit were overworked, picking up the slack we'd left to work Kulick's murder. Things were getting busy again – the
supes don't stay quiet for long. But the idea of just letting this one go made my whole face hurt. Nobody should have to die the way George Kulick did. Nobody. Except maybe the bastard who'd killed him.
Near the end of our shift on the fifth night, I closed another cardboard box full of Kulick's stuff and said to Karl, "I guess if we're going to clear this one, we're going to have to go to the source."
He turned and stared at me.
"There's only two people who know for sure who whacked Kulick, right?" I said. "The perp and the victim."
Karl shrugged. "Yeah, so?"
"It's pretty clear that the perp hasn't left us anything to go on," I said. "So I guess it's time to ask the vic."
"But the vic is fucking…" Karl's voice trailed off as his eyes narrowed. "Stan, you're not gonna-"
"Yeah, I'm gonna. I don't see what other choice we have, if we're going to find this motherfucker."
"Necromancy's against the law, for Chrissake!"
"Not if it's conducted as police business, by a duly licensed practitioner of magic. And I know just where to find one."
Rachel Proctor was barely five feet tall, and built lean. She had auburn hair, smart-looking gray eyes and a beautiful smile. The smile put in an appearance when I first walked into her office, but once I'd started talking, it was gone, baby, gone.
She was looking at me as if I'd just suggested that we have three-way sex with a goat some night. A real old, smelly goat.
"Necromancy's against the law, Stan. You of all people ought to know that."
"And you of all people ought to know that it's legal with a court order, Rachel."
"And what do you think your chances are of getting that?"
I pulled the court order out of my inside jacket pocket and laid it gently on her antique oak desk. "Pretty good, I'd say."
She looked at the folded document for a few seconds, then at me for a few more, then she reached out one of her small, delicate hands to pick it up. She unfolded the order and scanned it quickly. "Judge Olszewski. I should have known."
Rachel tossed the paper back on her desk. "Your paisan."
"We prefer homie," I said.
"I suppose you two hang out together at meetings of, what is it? – the Polish Falcons?"
I shrugged. "Man's gotta do something with his free time, and Mom always told me to stay out of pool halls."
She managed to combine amazement and annoyance in one slow shake of her head.
"So," I said. "Can you do it?"
"A better question is will I do it?" She leaned back in her chair, a huge leather thing that made her look like a kid playing on the good furniture. "Explain to me, slowly and carefully, why you want me to do this, and what you're hoping to accomplish by it."
So I laid it out for her. I started by describing what had been done to George Kulick, in as much detail as I could without sounding like some kind of freak sadist who was getting off on it. To her credit, Rachelby, ooking a little queasy when I was done.
She swallowed a couple of times, then said, "And you've exhausted all of the usual means of getting information about this… atrocity."
"Every damn one," I told her. "Witnesses: none. Forensics: none. Associates: none. Friends and family: none. Enemies: none."
"Well, one, anyway," she said grimly.
"Depends on how you define your terms," I said. "Whoever tortured Kulick wanted the location and combination of that safe. Once he got that, I expect he put Kulick out of his misery pretty quick. I don't think it was personal."
"I doubt that it made much difference to Mr Kulick," she said, and made a disgusted face.
"What do you say we ask him and find out?"
She sighed, then there was silence in the room for a while. I'd made my pitch. The rest was up to her. Nobody could order her to perform a necromancy – it was her call.
Rachel was studying her right thumbnail as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Without looking up she asked, "Where was he buried?"
"In one of the city-owned plots at the public graveyard."
"Well, that's something," she said. "No hassles with the Church to worry about. And it's not hallowed ground. When did interment take place?"
"Day before yesterday. But he died a week ago. They kept him on ice at the morgue for a while, in case somebody claimed the body. When nobody did, they planted him."
"And in life he was a wizard, you say."
"Yeah," I said. "He had the mark on him – and about a gazillion books on magic in his library. Why – does it matter?"
"Indeed, it does. It means his spirit will be harder to control, once it's raised. I'll have to take extra precautions."
"So you will do it." I didn't bother keeping the relief out of my voice.
"Against my better judgment, yes, I will," Rachel said, sounding tired. "And I suppose you need this done immediately, if not sooner?"
I shrugged. "Afraid so. The longer we wait, the greater the perp's chances of getting away with it. And a guy who'd do Kulick like that, you gotta figure he won't be squeamish about torturing somebody else to get what he wants."
She gave me a look that said she knew I was trying to manipulate her emotionally, and she didn't like it.
But she didn't tell me that I was wrong.
"As you're aware, Stan, I'm a practitioner of white magic. But what you're asking for here is gray magic."
I knew that one. "Black magic, performed for the purpose of good."
"Exactly right. Normally, necromancy is one of the blackest of the black arts." She sighed deeply. "I'll need to get permission before I can proceed."
I tapped the court order that lay on her desk. "We've already got this. What more do you need?"
The thin smile she gave me didn't look much like the one I'd received walking in. "The kind of permission I need comes from a court you've never heard of, Stan. But it is one that I dare not disobey. I'll let you know, one way or the other, as soon as I find out."
I stood up and slid the court order back in my pocket. "When do you plan to put in the request, or whatever it is you have to do?"
"A few seconds after I see that door close behind you. So, get."
I got.
The next day, I was getting ready for work when "Tubular Bells," the theme from The Exorcist, started playing in my shirt pocket. I touched an icon and brought the phone to my ear. "Markowski."
Rachel Proctor's voice said, "Tomorrow night, at midnight. I'll need a day to prepare. Pick me up at my house about 9:00." She paused a moment. "You're going to be there, you know."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," I said. I might even have been telling the truth.
• • • •
The next night, I brought the car to a stop in front of Rachel's house at 8:59. A few moments later, she was tapping at the passenger-side window.
"Pop your trunk."
I pulled the lever. She disappeared from view, and then I felt the springs shift a little as something heavy was placed in the trunk. The lid slammed shut, and then Rachel was slipping into the passenger seat next to me.
She looked terrible.
Even in the light from the street lamps, I could see circles under her eyes that she hadn't bothered to hide with makeup. The skin of her face seemed looser, somehow, like someone recovering from a bad accident.
"What're you staring at?" she snapped. I was stammering an apology when she laid a gentle hand on my arm. "Sorry, Stan. I know I look a fright – almost like one of the stereotypes of my profession."
"Are you sick? Maybe we can-"
"No, I'm not sick, in the usual sense of the term. I haven't slept, that's part of it. I last ate something… this morning, I think, but I forget what it was. I've been working pretty much nonstop since you left me yesterday. Necromancy takes a lot of preparation, and we're not exactly blessed with time, are we? A lot of the work involves setting up protections for the necromancer." She paused, then added, "That would be me."
"Protections agai
nst the corpse? I thought-"
"We won't be raising his corpse, Stan. You've been seeing too many movies. What we're going to resurrect, if this works, is his spirit – and that is infinitely more dangerous."
"How come?"
"Protecting myself from a physical body is a piece of cake, comparatively – there are a hundred spells that could do it. But guarding against a pure spirit is harder, because of all the different ways it can manifest. And the fact that he was a wizard makes it even trickier."
"Why should it? Dead is dead, no? Except when it's undead."
"I wish it were that simple. A dead man is a dead man, Stanley. But a dead wizard is… well, a dead wizard."
Rachel turned to face forward. "Come on, let's get this circus on the road, before I come to my senses."
After a while, the silence in the car started to get uncomfortable. For me, anyway. "Proctor," I said. "That name has… associations for me. Something to do with the Salem witch trials, maybe?"
"Very astute. I'm a descendant of John Proctor, who was hanged as a witch after being denounced by his housekeeper."
"Your family history of witchcraft goes back a long ways, then." I said.
"That it does – on both sides. My mother, whose maiden name was Brown, was a direct descendant of the Mathers – Increase, and his son, Cotton."
"Mathers – like in Leave it to Beaver?"
From the corner of my eye, I saw a glimmer of a smile.
"I've always thought that ought to be the title of a porn flick. Or maybe it was, and I missed it."
"I didn't know witches liked porn."
"Don't generalize from one example, Stan. And d beplay dumb, either. You know who the Mathers were."
"The guys behind the witch trials."
"That's an oversimplification, but – yeah."
"Sounds like an interesting family."
"It was that, all right. Proctors on one side, Mathers on the other – and me in the middle."
"You mean they used to-"
"Let's not talk any more, Stan. It's distracting me."
"Distracting? From what?"
"Praying."
Grave 24-C looked like all the other plots in this corner of the city cemetery, apart from the freshly turned earth on top. There'd be no headstone, of course. Anybody willing to spring for a marker to put on George Kulick's grave would probably have paid for a proper funeral in the bargain, and he'd likely have buried the guy in a better class of graveyard, too.
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