Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “Here,” Felicity was telling me. “You’ve got the PZ-1 with a 28-to-80 and macro. It’s loaded with high speed transparency, and I put fresh batteries in it and the Sunpak.”

  “Thanks,” I said and kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t know how long this is going to take.”

  “Don’t worry,” she answered. “I’ll take care of everything here.”

  While waiting for me, Ben quickly jotted down everyone’s phone numbers in order to contact them with any further questions and then handed out his business cards. We expressed hurried goodbyes to the overwhelmed group and hastily headed out into the dense melancholy of the stormy night. I pulled Felicity aside on the front porch as she saw us out, lagging for a moment behind Ben who had already ventured forth into the rain and was starting his van.

  “Look, I don’t know if you noticed or not,” I stated, “but Salinger and Dickens seem to have some kind of problem with R.J.”

  “Don’t worry,” she answered. “I’m sure you’re just being overly suspicious because of everything that’s going on. It’ll be okay.”

  “I just want you to be careful,” I continued.

  “I’ll be fine,” she admonished. “Now go, then. Ben’s waiting.”

  I watched her wave to us then turn and go into the house as we backed out of the driveway. I wasn’t sure that she was correct, but then, after all that I had been through, it was possible that I had become more suspicious than usual. Maybe Ben was rubbing off on me. In any case, I knew my wife well, and she would be just fine. I also knew that she had almost instant access to a loaded Ruger .357 magnum, for neither of us was naive enough to think that the rest of the world believed as we do. The very concept of “live and let live” seemed almost alien to the general populous anymore, and the headlines of the newspaper or a quick glance at the evening news gave testimony to that fact. At Ben’s urging, for our own protection, Felicity and I had purchased the weapon and been rigorously trained in its proper use by him. If it came down to a matter of life or death, I was certain my wife wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  “So,” I asked Ben as we motored down the street, its shiny wetness reflecting the glare of the streetlights. “Exactly where are we headed?”

  “Some park called Thayer,” he answered. “You know where it is?”

  “Yeah, it’s not far from here. Hang a right at the next stop sign.”

  * * * * *

  We arrived at the park and turned in to the main access road, following it past the ball field and darkened pavilions. Ben had placed a magnetic bubble light atop the van and plugged it into the cigarette lighter receptacle as we entered. The red light flickered eerily across the face of the uniformed officer at the gate and reflected brightly from his rain-slicked yellow poncho. Ben rolled down the window and held out his ID to the officer, who illuminated it with the bright beam of a three cell Mag-Lite.

  “Evening, Detective,” he said and brought the beam to bear on me. “Who’s that with you?”

  “Consultant,” Ben answered him authoritatively.

  The sodden officer nodded and pointed the long flashlight up the road. Its beam, though powerful, eventually dissipated into the murky darkness.

  “Just over that rise, sir,” he told Ben. “Then about two hundred yards. Evidence unit is all over the place, you can’t miss it.”

  Ben thanked him and rolled up his window, pushing the van into motion up the slight grade. The wind and rain were beginning to pick up, and a few distant flashes in the western sky were testimony to a rapidly approaching thunderstorm.

  “Look behind your seat,” Ben was telling me as we topped the rise. “Should be some rain slickers back there.”

  I turned in the seat and rummaged about in the dark. My hand brushed against what felt like a gym bag, and I yanked it from beneath the seat and tugged on the zipper.

  “In this bag back here?” I asked.

  “Yeah, prob’ly.”

  I could feel the van slowing and pitching slightly to the left as Ben took a wide turn into a parking space and brought us to a halt. I quickly found the rain ponchos I sought and with them in hand, turned back around in my seat.

  The spectacle outside the windshield was illuminated like a toppled-over Christmas tree stuck in overdrive. Red lights, blue lights, and white lights on emergency vehicles, even yellow caution lights on sawhorses blinked randomly in the night. The lack of sync in the pulses seemed to bring even more chaos to what appeared to be an already disordered scene.

  Ben reached out and grabbed one of the slickers from my motionless hand, taking notice of my blank stare and mouth agape.

  “Welcome to my world,” he told me, then paused. “Sucks don’t it? Go ahead an’ put your poncho on.”

  I broke from the short stupor and began pulling the yellow plastic rain gear over my head. The extra room in the cab of the van made me realize why Ben refused to get rid of the decrepit vehicle.

  “How should I introduce ya’?” Ben asked, unlatching his door. “I doubt if they’ll go for Good Witch of the East.”

  “How about, Alternative Religion Specialist,” I replied.

  “Sounds good ta’ me.”

  A distant streak of lightning followed by a sharp crack and low rumble of thunder alerted us to the ever-increasing violence of the storm as we stepped out into the downpour. We walked across the parking area, past the flapping yellow tape that cordoned off the crime scene. I was concerned that important evidence might be washed away, but my fears were soon allayed when I noticed the core of the activity involved the cinder block building that housed a set of the park’s restrooms.

  “Ben Storm,” my friend told another detective, displaying his badge as we approached him. “City Homicide Unit. I’m assigned to the MCS.”

  “Carl. Carl Deckert. County Police.” The thickset, greying detective reached out and shook Ben’s hand. “You the one investigating that Tanner homicide?”

  “That’s me,” Ben answered.

  “This your partner?” he queried, reaching out to shake my hand.

  “Rowan Gant,” I told him, returning the gesture.

  “He’s a specialist on alternative religions,” Ben explained. “He’s consulting for us on the symbols left at the Tanner crime scene.”

  Detective Deckert motioned to another officer who produced a partially sodden clipboard. Ben scrawled a signature on the damp paperwork and then indicated a spot for me to sign and record the time.

  “Well,” our stocky escort said as the three of us began walking toward the entrance to the restroom. “You’ve got plenty to consult about. Looks like a freakin’ Satanic graffiti party in there.”

  “Have you ID’d the victim?” Ben questioned.

  “Found a purse,” Deckert continued. “Driver’s license matches up to a Karen Barnes. Twenty-eight years old...”

  A bright flash exploded in my eyes, momentarily blinding me. At first I thought a streak of lightning had hit nearby, but the telltale clap of thunder was never forthcoming. Instead I heard shouting, expletives, and what sounded to be a scuffle.

  “What the...” Ben exclaimed.

  “Shit!” Detective Deckert shouted. “How the hell did he get in here?!”

  My vision began returning to normal, and what had sounded like a scuffle was revealed to be just that. Two uniformed officers were on either side of a struggling young man holding a camera affixed with a powerful flash unit.

  “Get him outta here!” Deckert ordered the two officers. “And tighten up the perimeter!” he shouted after them as they dragged the photographer away. “Sorry about that. Freakin’ media. Every damn one of ‘em’s got a police scanner. Sometimes they get to the scene before we do.”

  “You were sayin’?” Ben prodded.

  “Oh, yeah,” he continued. “Karen Barnes, twenty-eight years old. Lives about three blocks from here. Looks like she was out walking her dog. The son-of-a-bitch killed it too.”

  “Family been notified?” Ben asked.r />
  “Got a car waiting for the husband. Neighbor said he was out of town on business. She was expecting him back tonight.”

  “Any kids?”

  “No. Just her and the spouse.”

  “Well at least there’s that.”

  We had paused at the entrance of the women’s restroom on the side of the cinder block structure. Evidence technicians were exiting, carrying bulky cases containing the tools of their trade.

  “Being a public restroom, there are prints everywhere,” Deckert pointed out. “We didn’t find anything real fresh except for some smudges. Looks like he was wearing gloves.” He pulled a pair of packets from the pocket of his trench coat and handed one to each of us. “Speaking of which, you better put these on just to be safe.”

  I took the offered surgical gloves and with some work, managed to pull them over my damp hands as we entered the building.

  I caught my breath and nearly stumbled as waves of ethereal pain washed over me. I quickly fought to disconnect myself from the supernatural plane associated with the scene and ground myself here in this reality. A sharp pain, followed by a frigid, tingling sensation consumed my body, then slowly subsided as I mentally slammed on the brakes, preventing my otherworldly senses from continuing down the path that beckoned them.

  “You okay?” Ben whispered in my ear, grabbing my arm to steady me. “You aren’t getting ready to flip out or do that channeling thing are you?”

  “I’ll be all right,” I answered in a hushed tone. “I caught it before it happened.”

  “Good. Just try not to go all Twilight Zone on me with the rest of these guys around here.”

  A white sheet was arranged in the center of the room covering a section of the smooth, grey concrete floor. Beneath the shroud laid the lifeless body of another young woman. Patches of deep crimson diffused slowly through the sheet at various points where it contacted portions of the torso. A cloying odor, both sweet and musty, intermingled with the stench of the restroom, tingling my nostrils. The pungent scent was all too familiar.

  “Sage and rose oil,” I stated aloud.

  “Come again?” Detective Deckert asked.

  “That smell,” I told him as he started taking notes. “It’s sage and rose oil. Probably a little charcoal mixed in to help it burn. Did you find a pile of ash anywhere?”

  “In the sink over there.” He pointed. “That mean something?”

  “He burned it to cleanse the room,” I replied. “Sage is often used in incense for purification. You’ll probably find salt in the North, South, East, and West positions of the room as well.”

  I stepped past him and peered in the sink at the pile of grey cinders. The floor in the area was littered with broken glass, silvered on the back. The mirror above the washbasin had been shattered.

  “Evidence unit took the larger pieces of the mirror with them,” he offered. “We don’t know if the killer broke it or if vandals did it earlier.”

  “My guess would be that he did it,” I told them, turning and finding Ben taking notes. “Probably before he performed the ritual.”

  “Why do ya’ think that is?” Ben asked.

  “If he was trying to invoke something...” I caught myself, remembering that Detective Deckert was in the room. “You know, if he thought he was attempting to conjure up a spirit,” I explained. “Some legends have it that if a spirit witnesses its own reflection in a mirror, it will become mesmerized and therefore, trapped. I would guess he probably subscribes to that belief.”

  “So the wacko busted the mirror,” Deckert’s gruff voice interjected. “So his little ghost buddy wouldn’t see himself?”

  “It’s one possibility,” I replied carefully.

  The wall opposite me was inscribed with a familiar-looking Pentacle. The symbol was drawn on the painted, cinder block wall, once again in blood and shaded with pastels. At the base of the wall, slags of hardened black and white wax were obvious remnants of extinguished candles. Nestled next to the solidified remains stood a simple wine glass, partially filled with coagulating red liquid. Between the symbol and the floor was once again lettered, All Is Forgiven.

  “So,” Deckert was asking Ben. “You think it’s the same guy?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said as Ben turned to me. “It’s the same guy all right. Only this time, he might not have been practicing.”

  “Whaddaya mean ‘practicing’?” Deckert looked from Ben’s face to mine and back with a puzzled expression.

  Ben explained. “We’ve got reason to believe that the ritual this guy is performin’ was never actually completed at the first scene. He was doin’ like a dress rehearsal or somethin’.”

  “Holy shit!” the detective exclaimed. “This prick committed murder to rehearse a murder? Holy shit!”

  “Tell me about it,” Ben chimed.

  “Well, if he did what he set out to do, then he probably won’t kill any more, right?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I answered as I squatted next to the covered corpse and examined the floor. “He might not be finished yet.”

  “Finished doing what exactly?” Deckert questioned.

  “Invoking whatever spirit he’s after. He’ll continue to perform the ritual until he has succeeded,” I explained. “Or, at least, perceives that he has.” I paused thoughtfully for a moment before speculating aloud, “He might kill again because maybe he wants to get caught.”

  “What makes ya’ think that?” Ben asked.

  “The Expiation spell.” I motioned at the wall behind them. “I originally thought that it was an aberration at the first scene. Possibly because whoever killed Ariel Tanner might have known her. But this...it might have been the real thing for him. The actual ritual played to its conclusion, yet, he’s still seeking atonement from himself. It doesn’t make sense to perform an atonement ritual at the site of a sacrificial ritual.

  “You see an Expiation spell is a private thing, very much like going to confession. By performing it at the scene, essentially he exposes himself. He may be seeking atonement from society as well. In short, kind of a sick cry for help. So it leads me to believe that either he wants to get caught, or he’s not finished yet. Maybe even both.”

  “Jesus,” Deckert said. “Where did you get all that from?”

  “Trust me,” I heard Ben say. “You don’t wanna know.”

  “Let’s just say I did a lot of research this afternoon,” I told him as I stood and walked over to the rune-covered wall. “Anyway, it’s just a theory.”

  I pulled out the camera and fired up the flash unit. The thyristor began charging with a low hum and then grew quickly to a quiet whine. Status lights began glowing on the unit’s back, indicating its readiness.

  “Crime Scene Unit already took pictures,” Deckert told me as I placed the PZ-1 to my eye and began tightly focusing on the Pentacle.

  “I know,” I replied absently. “But I’d like to take some of my own if it’s okay.”

  “Hey,” he answered. “Whatever makes you happy.”

  “Who found the body?” Ben inquired.

  “Local kid,” Deckert responded. “He was out walking his dog. Says when he walked it by here, it just went nuts. Broke away from him and ran in. Apparently, the door had been propped open.”

  “Animals can sense death,” I stated aloud, still taking pictures of the scene before me. “He did the same thing with Ariel Tanner. The door was propped open. Could be he wanted the body found as soon as possible.”

  “You sure you ain’t some kinda psychiatrist or something?” Deckert asked the back of my head.

  “I’ve got a semester of college psych,” I told him as I turned. “But that doesn’t qualify me to practice the science, no.”

  “Well,” he continued. “You sure sound like some kinda FBI shrink. It’s like you’re getting inside this asshole’s head or something.”

  “Like I said, I’m just speculating,” I replied.

  Detective Deckert didn’t realize how close to the tru
th he was with his last comment. My experiences channeling Ariel’s death and the blatant evidence left at both scenes were all acting as catalysts to pull me in. The more I saw, and the more I sensed, the more I feared what would be waiting around the next corner.

  “What time do ya’ think the murder occurred?” Ben inquired.

  “Based on the time the neighbor says she left for her walk,” Deckert started, “and the time the kid found her, we’re estimating somewhere between five-thirty and eight P.M.”

  “Between five-thirty and eight,” Ben repeated, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

  I knew what the glance implied. He had been suspicious of R.J. from the beginning, and I had to admit, his actions this evening coupled with his late arrival at the meeting hadn’t helped. Salinger and Dickens voicing their feline distaste had even compelled me to wonder about what the young man was hiding.

  “We might be able to pin it down a bit closer,” Deckert intoned, “once your M.E. gets here.”

  “She’s here.”

  A voice came from the doorway, and the three of us turned to face a bleary-eyed woman clad in faded denim. Dr. Christine Sanders pushed back the hood of her rain-soaked jacket and hefted a thick aluminum case from one hand to the other.

  “Detectives.” She nodded to them as she entered the room. “I thought I told you to get some rest, Mister Gant.”

  “And I thought this was your day off,” I replied with a slight smile.

  “Me too,” she returned. “But that was before the captain of the Major Case Squad called me at the request of Detective Storm.”

  “You’re familiar with the Tanner case,” Ben stated matter-of-factly.

  “Officially, I’m only here as a consultant,” she informed him. “This is out of the city jurisdiction. You’re just lucky the county coroner and I have an understanding.”

  “I know, Doc. I just want the best on this.”

  “Save the flattery for your wife, Storm,” she told him with a weak grin. “You’re still going to owe me big.”