Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I mean, I know I had the morning sickness and all…” She fumbled as she searched for the words to explain her feelings. “But that was only once. I don’t think I was pregnant long enough for it to really sink in. I don’t know. I hope I don’t sound callous. I’m sure I’m not making any sense to you.”

  “You don’t sound callous,” I reassured her. “And I think I understand.”

  “I’m depressed about it,” she announced after another long pause. “I just don’t think I’m going to go off the deep end or anything. What about you? How do you feel about all of this?”

  “I’m disappointed,” I told her, “and a bit depressed. Mainly, I’m pissed at Devon.”

  “Did you ever hear how his surgery went?”

  I changed lanes then glanced over at her. “Haven’t heard a thing.”

  “Have you talked to Ben?”

  “Not since he dropped me off at my truck yesterday afternoon,” I outlined. “Something’s going on with him and Allison. He was real quiet.”

  “Like what?”

  I explained the incident I had only partially witnessed as well as Ben’s abnormally introspective demeanor that followed. Felicity agreed with my theory that Ben’s dedication to his job, combined with the extra hours he had been working, might be putting a strain on his relationship with Allison. Since she knew Ben as well as I did, she also agreed that we would have to wait for him to come to us.

  We exited the highway and continued up the tree-lined streets toward our home.

  “They’re going to charge R.J. with the murders,” Felicity finally announced in a depressed tone.

  “We don’t know that,” I responded. “Like I told you last night, a lot depends on what they find in his apartment.”

  “No. I can feel it,” she insisted. “They’re going to charge him, and he’s not the one.”

  “I know,” I told her. “But the police can’t make their decisions based on the ethereal feelings and gut reactions of a couple of Witches.”

  “Then we need to find something that they CAN base their decisions on.”

  I looked over at her. She wore a determined expression combined with a creased brow, which told me the wheels were already turning beneath her auburn mane. I had kept the second nightmare a secret from her, as I didn’t want her to worry. Now that the third one had forced its way into my life, I suspected it might be time to fill her in. I thought maybe, if we worked on it together, we could decipher the clues I felt Ariel was attempting to give me.

  “So, I think I could use your help with...” I looked back to the road as I turned down our street and quickly changed my train of thought. “What the hell?!”

  The street in front of our home had become a small circus of news vans and media personalities. Tall telescoping booms extended from the vehicles, pushing dish antennas skyward in competition for the best angle and location. Camera-toting video technicians, burdened with battery belts and miles of cable, lounged against the vans in a state of detached boredom while nearly half a dozen on-air talents milled about expectantly.

  “We really don’t need this,” I expressed my thought aloud as we approached.

  “Tell me about it,” Felicity agreed. “You think they’ll go away if we just ignore them?”

  “I doubt it,” I mused sardonically. “They’re television reporters. They don’t pick up on things as fast as your average household pets do.”

  Intent on not being driven from my home by the tenacious reporters, I swung the truck into our driveway and sped past them around to our garage in back of the house. They sprang immediately into frenetic activity, adjusting neckties or primping coiffed hair, as they motioned testily for their apathetic cameramen to follow them.

  “So what do we do now?” Felicity asked as the garage door automatically slid shut behind us. “We can’t sit in here forever.”

  “No, we can’t,” I agreed. “Why don’t you go in and call Ben. Let him know what’s going on. While you’re doing that, I’ll go out front and ask them to leave.”

  “Ask them to leave?” she echoed. “You don’t really think that’s going to do any good do you?”

  “Of course not, but it can’t hurt.”

  She answered me with a familiar roll of her eyes before opening her door and stepping out of the cab. “Whatever.”

  The throng of TV journalists was shuffling about in my driveway like a directionless herd of cattle. Some of them focused their attention on the front of the house while others craned their necks in an attempt to see where Felicity and I might have disappeared. When I rounded the corner however, the division of observation ended and all eyes, including cameras, were brought to bear on me.

  “Mister Gant, can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Dirk White, Channel Four News, Mister Gant, has there been any progress in the investigation?”

  “Rumor has it that a suspect is in custody. Is that true, Mister Gant?”

  “Mister Gant, Mister Gant. Brandee Street, Eyewitness News. Is it true that your wife was directly involved in the capture of a suspect?”

  They shouted their questions, assaulting me from all sides as they attempted to make themselves heard over their rivals. I remained calm and continued to amble easily up the drive toward them, making it a point to be in no particular hurry. Inevitably, I reached the small crowd and came to a halt a few feet away.

  Brandee Street burst forth, her honey-blonde mane moussed into immobility. “Mister Gant, sources close to the investigation say that your wife was injured while aiding in the apprehension of a suspect in the Satanic Serial Killer case. Would you like to comment?”

  Ignoring the question, I held up my hands in a quieting gesture and waited for the huddled group to settle down. Much to my surprise, it didn’t take long for them to comply. Apparently, they assumed I was about to make some type of statement as they all held their microphones forward and stared at me expectantly. What I did tell them, however, was not what they wanted to hear.

  “I just came out here to let you know that you’re wasting your time,” I announced. “My wife and I have no intention of making any statements about the case or answering any questions. So, we would appreciate it greatly if you would please leave us alone.”

  Brandee Street was the first to ignore my speech. “Was that your wife with you in the truck, Mister Gant?”

  “Was her injury serious?” another reporter interposed.

  As I mutely waved off the questions, I noticed a dark grey station wagon as it slipped up next to the curb on the side street across from my house. The thought of another reporter joining the crowd that was currently assaulting me was less than pleasant.

  “I told you we aren’t going to answer any questions,” I repeated. “Now can you please leave us alone?”

  I cast a glance in the direction of the station wagon and noticed that the driver was still positioned behind the wheel. The sun visor blocked the upper half of his face, and his hand obscured the lower half, as he appeared to be speaking into what I assumed to be a hand-held tape recorder. I wondered to myself if Felicity had managed to contact Ben.

  “Mister Gant, is there any truth to the rumor that there is a suspect in custody?” Another reporter, Dirk White, quickly rattled off the question then pushed his microphone at me.

  “Are you people deaf?” I appealed. “How many times do I have to tell you we aren’t going to answer any questions?”

  I was only seconds away from throwing my hands up in utter exasperation and retreating to the interior of my home. Now, more than ever, I understood why Ben always referred to the media as vultures. Mere moments before I sought an escape, a patrol car from the Briarwood police department rolled to a halt on the opposite side of the street. The light bar adorning the top of the marked sedan flickered to life, and a thick, uniformed officer complete with mirrored aviators emerged, citation book in hand. With a sly grin, the cop nodded and gave me a silent wave. He
opened his trunk and rummaged around for a moment, then finding what he was after, set about the task at hand. I almost couldn’t contain my amusement when I noticed that he was adeptly attaching boots to the front tires of the news vans, rendering them immobile, presumably until a towing service arrived.

  “Do your stations cover towing expenses?” I asked the swarm of reporters.

  “Excuse me?” one of them returned.

  “I was just curious,” I continued. “Getting a vehicle out of the impound lot can be a little pricey, especially when you add in the towing costs.”

  One by one at first, then almost as a collective, realization set in, and they turned in their tracks. Various muttered expletives filtered to my ears, and I noticed that Brandee Street let out a small, angry shriek and stamped her foot as I had seen her do two nights before. I was momentarily forgotten as they all began to stride purposefully to their vans. A cameraman I recognized as Ed, the collector of Brandee’s temper tantrums, hung back from the group. He grinned widely and flashed me a quick thumbs up.

  “Good one” was all he said before sauntering off to join the rest.

  I was certain that the officer had his hands full with the crowd of whining prima donnas and was hesitant to bother him, but I wanted to be sure he was aware of the grey station wagon parked at the corner. As I debated how to get this information to him, I looked over to see if the car was still there. I was greeted with the sight of the vehicle’s occupant as he strolled across the street toward me, gingerly balancing a baking dish in his hands. Instead of another reporter as I had suspected, I was surprised and relieved to see Detective Carl Deckert, grey hair flying on a light breeze.

  “I thought you were another reporter when you pulled up over there,” I admitted, motioning to the bickering throng as he trundled up my driveway.

  “I’ll bet,” he responded. “Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

  “No problem. Seemed pretty quick to me.”

  “How’s Felicity doing?” he asked as he reached me. “I heard what happened from Ben.”

  “Doctor gave her a clean bill of health. I’d expect she’s going to be a little sore though.” I fell into stride with him, and we continued up the flagstone walk. “Mentally, she seems okay. She’s a pretty strong individual. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Good. Good. Glad to hear it.”

  We climbed the stairs, and I opened the front door for him.

  “Honey, where are you?” I called out as we entered the living room, and I shut the door. We were greeted only by the cool air and calm atmosphere. “We have a visitor.”

  “I’m in the kitchen. Who is it?” she called back. She met us halfway as we proceeded through the dining room in her direction. “Detective Deckert,” she smiled, “this is a surprise.”

  “Carl, please. Just call me Carl.” He offered the baking dish to her. “I hope this doesn’t seem silly, but I told my wife about what happened and all...Anyway, she made lasagna and insisted I bring it over to you two.”

  “It’s not silly at all.” Felicity took the dish from him and motioned for us to follow her. “Come on in. Tell your wife thank you very much. It’s very nice of her.”

  “No offense intended, Carl,” I showed him farther into the kitchen and offered him a seat at our breakfast nook while Felicity stored the dish in the refrigerator, “but I was expecting Ben.”

  “None taken. He asked if I would handle it,” he explained as he sat down, absently brushing his disheveled grey hairs back into place. “I wanted to come by and deliver the lasagna anyway.”

  Felicity was working at preparing a pitcher of herb tea, and I interposed myself between her and the cabinet as she strained to reach an upper shelf. “Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll finish this up.”

  “I’m fine,” she objected.

  “I’m sure you are,” I rejoined. “But I’ve got this really intense desire to make tea, so why don’t you let me do it?”

  I’m sure she would have argued more had Detective Deckert not been there. Since he was, however, she quietly resigned herself to the fact that I was going to coddle her for a while and joined him at the table. I had scarcely managed to begin transferring the sun-brewed liquid into the ice-filled pitcher when our guest spoke up.

  “This is probably none of my business,” he blurted hesitantly. “But you two are pretty close with Ben and his wife, aren’t you?”

  “Definitely,” I answered. “Ben was my Best Man. We’ve known the two of them forever.”

  “Why do you ask?” Felicity looked over at me as she spoke, then back to Detective Deckert. “Is something wrong?”

  I continued what I was doing but kept my attention on the conversation.

  “You could say that,” he sighed. “Like I said, it’s probably none of my business, but I couldn’t help overhearing him on the phone last night... Then he asked me to come over here when you called a little while ago.” He nodded his head at Felicity.

  “I noticed that he was a little distant,” she agreed. “What did you overhear?”

  “Well,” he explained, “I only heard one side of the conversation, but I got the gist of it.”

  “He and Allison are having problems because of the hours he’s been putting in, right?” I volunteered.

  “They’ve got a problem all right,” he told us. “But his work schedule isn’t it. Near as I can figure, Ben’s wife blames him for Felicity’s miscarriage.”

  “She what?!” I exclaimed.

  “Why would Allison do that?!” Felicity appealed.

  “Hey,” Deckert held up his hands defensively, “from what I overheard, he agrees with her.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It’s not his fault,” Felicity voiced adamantly. “I’m the one that made the choice to walk through that door. He had nothing to do with it.”

  “You know that, and I know that,” Deckert nodded, “but he still feels responsible. He seems to think that if he never got you two involved in this investigation, you never would have gotten hurt.”

  “That’s just plain ridiculous,” I stated. “All he did was ask me the difference between a Pentacle and a Pentagram because he’d seen this hanging around my neck.” I hooked a finger beneath the silver chain and lifted the small pendant from behind my shirt. “Other than that, I volunteered. Hell, he was against the idea of me getting involved in the first place. I had to talk him into it.”

  Deckert shrugged and echoed my sentiments, “I know, I know, but he’s your friend, and he feels responsible for you.” He let out a long sigh. “Shit, it’s part of being a cop. You feel responsible for everyone.”

  At that moment, Detective Carl Deckert looked far older than his years. It was clear that he and Benjamin Storm had been cut from the same cloth when it came to loyalty to their friends and loved ones—when it came to loyalty to their careers as well. In a way, I felt I was seeing my best friend’s future being played out before me by the man seated at my kitchen table.

  “We need to have a talk with those two,” Felicity ventured. “We’ve got to get this straightened out.”

  I had finished preparing the mint tea and placed the full pitcher along with glasses on the table then slid in next to my wife. “Any ideas on how we should do that?”

  “We need to speak to them when they’re together, for one,” she posed.

  “Sure, but that’s going to be a little hard to accomplish with this investigation going on. Ben’s hours are a little unpredictable right now.”

  Detective Deckert cleared his throat, and we both turned our attention to him. “I doubt that’ll be a problem. He should be home at a decent hour tonight.”

  “Why’s that?” I queried.

  “That’s another piece of news I need to give you.” He looked distantly out the window of the atrium then back at us. The deep furrow in his brow revealed the fact that he was struggling with exactly how to go about it.

  “R.J. is being charged with the murders, isn’t he?” Felicity in
toned flatly.

  “Not yet, but don’t be surprised if it happens within the next day or so,” he echoed. “For the murder of Ellen Gray at least. We got the warrant and searched his place early this morning.”

  “What did you find?” I wasn’t sure I wanted him to answer the question.

  “Black and white candles. A lot of ‘em,” he detailed. “And a set of artists pastels among other things.”

  “There has to be some kind of logical explanation.” I shook my head. “What about the dirk, Ariel’s athamè. Did you find that?”

  “The knife?” he echoed, shaking his head. “No. Not yet, but we’re still looking.”

  “You’ve got the wrong person, Carl,” Felicity implored. “I can’t give you tangible proof, but I just know R.J. isn’t guilty.”

  “I know you two think he’s innocent, but so far, the evidence points to the opposite. I think you might be backing the wrong horse.”

  “The candles don’t mean a thing,” I declared. “If you searched our house, you’d find a ton of candles. Witches use them for everything, so we have a tendency to buy them in bulk.”

  “Especially if you find them on sale,” Felicity added. “And as far as the pastels go, maybe he’s an artist.”

  “Since you mention it,” Deckert returned, “he did take a few art classes at the community college, and guess who his instructor was...one Karen Lewis, better known to us by her married name, Karen Barnes.”

  “He knows all three victims,” I muttered to myself.

  “Looks that way,” he continued. “So if you add that in with the candles, the pastels, and his familiarity with your religion...”

  Neither of us had a convincing argument to offer. We sat glumly, firm in our belief that the young man was innocent of the crimes but completely unable to prove it.

  “Well, what did HE have to say?” Felicity almost demanded.

  “We haven’t talked to him about it yet.”

  “Well then, he might have a logical explanation for some of the things you found,” I expressed. “You won’t know until you ask.”