[Sign Behind the Crime 02.0] Aries

by Ronnie Allen

  He opened the door, stuck a hand in with the gown, and she took it. “Okay, leave the soiled one on the floor,” he said. “Have extra underwear?”

  “Yes, in my bag.”

  She planned to tell them she had changed her mind about making calls. Leave it to that bitch Detective. She had probably gotten a warrant to wiretap her calls. But they’d never find this number. Yeah. She was one step ahead of them. She planned to stay that way.

  ***

  Sam, Nick, Frank, Withers, and a two man team of crime scene investigators, stood staring at AriellaRose’s impressive brownstone in Park Slope, attached on both sides with brownstones in similar gothic designs. The tree-lined street was definitely the higher end of the neighborhood. Sam unrolled the blueprints they had gotten from the realtor. Five floors, one room on each floor with a finished basement. First floor, living room and half bathroom; second floor, kitchen; third floor, master bedroom and full bathroom; fourth floor, guest bedroom and bath; fifth floor, another bedroom. No bath. Black wrought iron security bars with antique scrolling spread about two inches apart on each, encased all of the windows. A small balcony extended from the master bedroom floor. The building’s beige tone projected a calm feeling. One that was probably the opposite of the happenings inside.

  Sam took charge. “Okay. Need to find the location of the warehouse. I can just imagine what they’re doing to Emma and it isn’t pretty. And I want to read that text. Good thing she didn’t find the device inside the toilet paper roller. Let’s do this.”

  “No,” Nick said. “We need to wait for ESU to clear the building. She’s savvy enough to do what she’s done, no telling what she could do to her place to wire it.”

  “You’re so right,” Sam replied.

  Withers snorted. “Don’t become overzealous. That’ll make you careless.”

  She stared at him. “Yes, I got it. Thank you for the second reminder. So where the hell are they?”

  “Rookie, listen to me. I know you’re far from hardened, but this Calinda, she’s a murderer, multiple times, no sympathy from the rest of us.”

  “She’s still a human being. Any news on the text?”

  Nick frowned. “Yeah. Her back was to the camera. Her body concealed it. Damn! Okay first things first. But we’ll get a warrant for the phone.”

  The ESU van pulled up. Men in full gear--helmets, body shields, Kevlar vests--exited quickly. They dressed as if they were entering a war zone. Three men nodded to the awaiting team and plodded up the ten steps. Sam followed them. With a hand-held electronic device, one of the men focused the laser around the door. He listen to the device and heard nothing to halt the inspection of the premises. He put out his hand to Sam for the key and then motioned for her and the team to back away. Sam stood, defiant. Frank bolted up the steps, lifted her up in one arm, sprinted down, and carried her across the street. He put her back on her feet, firmly. She scowled at him while everyone else laughed. The ESU cop waited until they followed his directions and shook his head at Frank’s display.

  Sam pulled out binoculars from her bag. She intended to view first hand, no matter what. She focused the lens. The ESU cop held a device to an alarm box on the wall above the doorbell. He must have decoded it, because a minute later, he depressed the right keys. Sam shifted her view. She saw the red light on the keypad turn to green. But her wait wasn’t over, yet.

  He put the key in the lock. It was a double bolted security lock. The realtor told them that. The cop stepped back. Checked again with his monitoring device, turned the key. He opened the door about an inch. No wires. He entered the first floor, with his two team mates following.

  Sam shifted on both legs. After about five minutes, which seemed like an eternity, Nick got the “all clear” signal in his earwig.

  “We’re on.”

  Sam raced ahead of them and bolted up the steps. They entered the first floor and scanned the room. Nothing that unusual. Leather couch, love seat, ottoman, all in a bright apple red. Glass coffee table with finger print marks. Crime Scene noticed them before her and were on it.

  The walls were off white. The floor was a natural sand colored wood. Overall, good taste. With gloves on, Sam walked over to the knickknacks on the end tables. Every accessory was in red. Small plates, bowls in a red milk glass, bud vases. But very nice. Primary colored abstract oil paintings hung on the walls.

  To Sam they were eerie, irregular patterns, colors looked splashed on the canvas with red, being the dominant color, vomited on top.

  They ascended a black, wrought-iron spiral staircase in the middle of the room to the second floor, the kitchen. Sam stopped dead. This was striking. Red veining within the white marble on the counters, white cabinets in a galley construction. Appliances on the counters, all with red bases. The usual, blenders, mix-master, toaster, confection oven, coffee maker. Lighting fixtures on silver bases hung from the ceiling, with the bulb ornamentation covers all in red. A round kitchen table in a painted red wood was surrounded by six red upholstered swiveled arm chairs.

  No clutter. No mail left carelessly on the counter or table. No dishes in the sink.

  Frank seemed to be taking it all in. “Doesn’t look like a home of a depraved murderer.”

  “You’re telling me. I want to know her decorator. Upstairs to her master.” They hiked up another spiral staircase, larger than the first. “You know? With all this stairs climbing, you’d think she’d be in better shape.” She pulled her grasp from the landing. “Fingerprints, guys. Maybe they all went upstairs.”

  The master bedroom must have reversed Frank’s initial impression. He stared, standing in one position, his gaze circling around the room, in sync with Sam’s. Everything in red--headboard, bed frame, bed linens, comforter, red wood dresser, night tables, red based and shaded lamps, red around the mirror over her dresser, and red walls.

  Frank stared at the wall behind the dresser. “This just hit me guys, in this room, all blood red--at all stages of blood hitting oxygen. Some dark purple veins designs hand painted throughout the walls. Looks like the shade of blood drawn through a syringe. Then these darker splotches on the walls, like oozing blood that had dried. These other reds look as if they were letting blood out of cuts.” He moved to a corner near a window. “Hey, over here. See the splatter? Resembles blood spraying from bullet wounds.”

  “Glad we had the good doctor with us,” Withers mumbled.

  “Holy crap! This is too much. What the heck does all this red mean?” Nick exclaimed.

  “Okay,” Sam began. “Um, red is the color of Aries. They can be violent, but there are violent traits in each sign. The Warrior. And blood. What do you think, Frank?”

  “Oh, man. The first thing that hits is anger. No matter what the sign. This woman is turbulent. Anger rules all of her actions. Overwhelming. I get the feeling she has murdered before. Not orchestrated it, but she herself. It’s that strong. Maybe she had another partner, a fourth that she had disposed of. Or fifth. Or sixth. Nothing would surprise me. All I know, is I’m glad she’s where she is. I’m putting a call in to Jake to secure her room, completely. Nick, make sure you get that warrant for the cell phone she used.” Frank moved off to the side to put in the call to Jake.

  “Nothing would surprise me, either,” Sam went on. “Hear me out, please. What if--what if, each line, each marking, each splatter--” She pointed to the splatter. “That it’s all symbolic of a cut or kill she made. She told them to cut Emma. Maybe they’re trophies? Have Crime Scene count them. Just a thought.”

  Wither nodded in the affirmative.

  Nick and Withers followed Sam up the next spiral staircase. Crime scene investigators were already working the two lower floors and putting out markers. When Sam, Nick, Frank, and Withers got onto the landing, they stood in awe of an open closet. The entire floor held clothing racks.

  Sam counted ten. Casual clothes, dressy, sports clothes, evening wear, some racks had size labels on top. “Hold on. All these sizes are too small for Ar
iellaRose to wear. And the lengths appear to be too long for her height.” She pulled out the rack on rollers that mimicked the clothes worn at the Mason kill. Suits, jackets, blouses, pants, different shades of browns, grays and blues. Each piece was labeled with laundry tags with markings. Sam couldn’t decipher them on first glance. She picked up the sleeve on a black leather jacket that matched the witness statement.

  A manila tag on the cuff read Thurs. 3 p.m., C. “What does this mean?”

  Frank took the tag between his gloved fingers. “Three p.m. Thursday was the time of the Mason kill. C, not for Calinda. This woman is taller. About the five-tenish in height, the witness described. What the heck? How many aliases do these women have? Tell Crime Scene to bag all of this.”

  “Believe me, they will.” Sam started reading tags. “Wait a minute. Three p.m. on Thursday for Mason, four to five a.m. for Steven Larcon, 10 a.m. for Valerie and the Mrs.” She thought hard for a moment before she let it out. “Okay, guys. Another reason he’d commit me, but hear me out, please.”

  “Go ahead, rookie.”

  She sneered at Withers. “These murders happened in what we call ‘the moon in Mars conjunct hour.’ It’s the hour in which planned murders will be successful. She’s using black magick to persuade these women to kill for her. No, it’s not actually working. They’re suggestible. But--and it’s a big but--the hold she actually has on them is that she knows about their past murders. They’d better do as she says or she’d turn them in. Obviously she set it all up, prior to her hospitalization. They knew whom to murder and what to wear. They must have access to the house even when she isn’t here. They’d have to come in to pick up an outfit. Um, on the racks, tell Crime Scene to note any spaces between them. Maybe there was a outfit there, that was just removed for another kill. And find the spare key they use for entry.’”

  “Okay, I follow but what do you mean by ‘what we call’? Nick asked.

  Um, so Nick listens. “I practice Dianic Wicca, white magick. This guy--” She tilted her head at Frank. “--would think it’s meditation, the mind body connection, which it is. If I saw her ritual room, I could tell you everything. Possibly even ID the other two women. But I’d love to read all the tags, too. The times would be when the kills occurred. There’s an hour for each one. How much time do we have?”

  “As much as you need,” Nick encouraged.

  Sam scanned the racks one at a time. “Okay, can’t do it all now and do it justice. Get everything bagged and labeled. Tell Crime Scene I need tags photographed, size on outfits, actually the outfits, photographed. I could possibly find previous murders. Um, ritual room, basement.”

  “How do you know it’s in the basement?” Nick asked.

  “Mine is.” Without hesitation, she skipped down two flights of stairs to the living room. Go downstairs yet?”

  “Not yet, Detective. Waiting for directives. This isn’t a crime scene.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Sam’s gaze scrutinized the hand railing leading to the basement. This one was the original red-brown mahogany. She saw smudges on the hand rail. She yelled. “Fingerprints, here!”

  An investigator perked up and laughed at her attitude, but he came running with the portable fingerprint ID unit. She backed up into the living room to give him space. He photographed about ten sets of prints. “Give me a while. Don’t go downstairs yet.” He connected the unit to the laptop and connected to the AFIS database.

  Damn, the basement was the room she most wanted to inspect.

  A Black Magick coven?

  She had never been in one. The anticipation made her hands clammy. She slipped both her hands into her pockets, pulled out of her right a clear quartz rough stone, and grasped it to her heart to cleanse her aura. She replaced it in her pocket. Out of her left, she pulled a black tourmaline tumbled stone, and a rutilated quartz, also tumbled. They would definitely protect her from absorbing any negativity from the room. She couldn’t afford to get sick.

  She was so preoccupied in meditation that until she finished and looked up, she hadn’t noticed Frank watching her every move.

  Yup. I’ll be next to be put into the psych ward.

  CHAPTER 25

  Leonardo Philetano wore the short-sleeved buttoned-down orange shirt and elastic waistband polyester pants of a maximum security prisoner as three hefty guards dragged him into the solitary visitation area. If it weren’t for the guards’ hold on him, he wouldn’t have kept his balance. He had only been here a week, but they sure had done a number on him. The drugs they had given him to calm his anger didn’t mix well with the detox meds. Confusion overtook his brain. He didn’t care what they did to him. He’d be spending the rest of his life in here, anyway.

  Fuck his father, the big shot Paulo Philetano. Fuck his brothers. His attorney had told him about the Steven Larcon case and that some bitch detective put his girl in the hospital. Well, fuck that Samantha Wright, too.

  He gazed through the bars to the other side of the visitors’ lounge, where minimum security inmates were allowed some contact with their visitors. Thirty inmates, at least, sat at red, green, or gray tables, matching their uniforms, with seating for each visitor. Three max. Couples had a three second hug, held hands. Daddy’s held their little children on their laps while the Mommy and Grandma wept. It was Tuesday afternoon in Manhattan and his visitor had just arrived with only ten minutes left.

  Two correction officers supported Leonardo under his arms, guiding him to a stool by the bars, while the third stood in the at-ease position by the door. They sat him down and backed off. His body swayed back and forth, out of control. He stared vacantly into the eyes of his visitor. All he could manage were blinks, at thirty second intervals in slow motion, and nods. He couldn’t get any words out.

  A gong, like a church bell, echoed through the halls. His visitor got up and left.

  Leonardo only hoped his visitor had understood his message.

  ***

  Sam paced around the living room. Crime Scene had brought up bridge chairs from their van for her team to sit on. The men sat. She couldn’t. This excited her. This reminded her why she wanted to become a detective. The action. The analyzing. The uncertainty. Teaching had become too predictable. Boring. She loved the children, and all, but her life wasn’t complete. Now her fulfillment was getting closer. At least she felt she had a reason to get up and go to work every day. Every day would be an adventure. She tapped her foot on the wooden floor and checked her watch every few seconds.

  Come on, Sam. It’s only three seconds later than the last time you looked. Let these guys do their job. She had to scold herself to give herself a dose of reality. After thirty minutes, she got some news.

  “We have IDs, Detectives!” The investigator shouted from the top of the stairs leading to AriellaRose’s living room.

  Sam, Frank, Nick, and Withers surrounded him.

  “Okay, AriellaRose Larcon, Emma Sanders, who we had, and these two new ones. Meredith Cummings and Rachel Hawthorn.”

  “Cummings is the one I met in AriellaRose’s hospital room,” Frank said.

  “She’s wanted for killing her john in a Vegas strip club last year. And this Hawthorn is wanted for killing her grandmother. All gems.”

  Sam nodded. “That’s the hold AriellaRose has on them for sure. I’m going downstairs.”

  “Be careful, Detective. It sure as hell is eerie down there.”

  Sam grinned from ear to ear. “Not for me.”

  Her gloved hand lightly touched the poles on the left side of the stairwell that ran from the top to base of the steps. Again, red-brown mahogany. She paused after each step, one foot in front of the other, as she gazed at the rose toned tiled floor. She noticed specks of dried wax on the tiles. She stood at the base of the steps, taking it all in. The space was massive. Easily thirty-five feet by twelve. Unbelievable. This was the same design and wood she had in her own basement. Only hers was smaller, by maybe about ten feet. The time this house and hers were built must h
ave been the same. The late 1920s, early ’30s. She was mesmerized by it. Her eyes scanned robotically as she analyzed everything.

  Oh my God. This is awesome!

  She turned left from the stairwell and approached a stand-alone bar. This was AriellaRose’s ritual altar.

  Oh my God!

  Again, the same as hers. The engravings in this wood were more ornate than in hers, more Mediterranean. Hers was more colonial in style.

  Wait till Frank sees mine. Uh, oh.

  Frank, Nick, and Withers stood in the center of the space, not getting it. Sam had one word to describe their faces. Bewildered. She signaled for them to come over. “Listen as I explain all this. And with an open mind, please.”

  She heard a crunching sound as Frank moved over. She looked down. “Okay, Frank, you just stepped into a ritual circle, actually desecrated it.”

  He examined the floor and smiled. Nick and Withers didn’t share the same enthusiasm.

  “It’s salt crystals, to keep away any energy or entity that would prevent their ritual from going smoothly. Look here on the mantle. The same amulets. She must have just made these. Don’t know if she gives them a fresh one for each kill or for each ritual. The ritual she did for these kills had to include all of them. Here’s why.” Sam stared at the candles. “Oh, no. There are five, seven-knobbed candles around the main one. One more murder to go.”

  “Rookie, be a little more specific for us non-believers. Okay?”

  “Okay, these candles are called seven-knobbed. You burn one knob, one for each day of the week. There’s four more knobs to go. Obviously she snuffs the candles before she leaves the house. That’s why there’s so much candle left. There’s the center one. I think the five surrounding it are for people. Black for evil. Red for Aries. To have the energy and strength to carry it through. It’s color symbolism. They have candles in every color, depending upon what you want to accomplish. So I’d interpret it as five murders in seven days. Today makes seven days. So today or tomorrow will be another kill. There could be some leeway. We have to find out who.”