Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  * * * * *

  Pastel blue-greys streaked the clouds where the sky finally fell earthward to meet the cluttered horizon. Dusk was nearly upon us, and what little muted light remained was fleeing the oncoming night with hasty dispatch. The promised second wave of snow had blown in and began falling in hesitant showers before finally applying itself in an all out assault on the already blanketed white landscape.

  Ben and Carl were waiting in the van when the officer delivered me back to the nearly deserted crime scene. Snowflakes dying on the Chevy’s windshield, first becoming water then steamily evaporating, told me the vehicles heater had been running for some time. I had scarcely managed to thank my escort and unlatch the door before the two of them were out of their warm sanctuary and heading toward me.

  “So what’d the docs say?” Ben’s words were opaque with concern as he came around the front of the squad car.

  I took a moment to wave to the departing officer as she backed out, and then I turned to face my friend.

  “They thought I did it to myself,” I answered wryly. “So, other than being diagnosed as a self-destructive masochist, I’m fine. It looked worse than it is.”

  “You sure?” Carl pressed. “It looked pretty bad to me.”

  “Yes. I’m sure.”

  “They give ya’ anything for the pain?” Ben pressed.

  “Acetaminophen,” I replied. “It really isn’t that bad any more. I think it was primarily a psychic reaction of sorts. My body’s way of getting me to look at it. Like the itching probably was.”

  Carl appealed, “Yeah, but why’d it show up on you to start with?”

  “Best guess? Someone or something is trying to get my attention. Obviously, it has something to do with the two murders so far. So now I just have to figure out what that something is.”

  “Whatcha mean someone or somethin’?” He shook his head in a gesture of confusion. “I thought that thing just... Ya’know, like, just appeared on yer arm.”

  “It did,” I confirmed his comment. “The someone or something I’m talking about probably doesn’t reside on this physical plane. It’s similar to when Ariel Tanner was speaking to me in my dreams after she had been murdered. This is just a physical manifestation of a similar type of contact.”

  “Holy shit,” he murmured.

  Ben shook his head and expelled a short whistle that puffed a jet of steamy breath into the night air. “You’re just way too spooky sometimes, white man.”

  “Yeah, Rowan,” Carl echoed. “Spooky.”

  “Is ‘spooky’ an official police term?” an unmistakable feminine voice asked from behind our huddle.

  We turned as a group and were nearly blinded as a powerful light mounted atop a video camera suddenly snapped to life and vomited its harsh glare across us. So intent had we been on our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Brandee Street and her cameraman when they drove up. We had been under the impression that the media had given up their vigil outside the gates of the park and gone in search of other news to sensationalize. Apparently, Brandee had laid in wait for the last squad car to leave before descending upon us in search of a video byte.

  She looked like the living rendition of a magazine advertisement for a ski lodge. With brightly rouged lips and thick lashes, she was decked out in stylish hiking boots that no doubt had never seen an actual hiking trail; leggings; and a high-collared, white fur jacket. A matching set of earmuffs completed the ensemble, and her teased mane of blonde hair appeared to have been styled to purposely incorporate them. I half expected the wind to start whistling as it blew through her stiffly moussed, unmoving coif.

  “How’d you get in here, Street?” Ben shot back his disgusted query while shielding his eyes from the blaze of the video light.

  “We drove,” she answered, her voice ripe with sarcasm as she pointed a gloved finger over her shoulder at the news van. “All right, Jay, we can shoot the intros later...”

  Before any objections could be made, she drew in a breath and brought a logo-adorned microphone up from her side.

  “Detective Storm. Can you give us any insight as to why the Major Case Squad has been called in on this investigation?”

  Ben squinted and jerked back perceptibly as she thrust the business end of the device at him, then he coldly remarked, “This is a closed crime scene. I’m gonna hafta ask ya’ ta’ leave.”

  The determined young woman staunchly ignored him and swung her attention immediately to Carl.

  “Detective Deckert. What is your reasoning behind getting the MCS involved?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at this time, Miss Street,” Carl returned tactfully.

  “Is there any truth to the rumor that you specifically requested Detective Storm on this case?”

  “Detective Storm is a fine officer, and I welcome any opportunity to work with him.”

  “But is it true that you contacted the city police chief to request his assignment to the MCS?”

  “I have no control over assignments to the Major Case Squad,” he explained in a calm, slightly patronizing tone.

  “Let me rephrase the question.” Brandee was quickly becoming annoyed, and it was easily apparent in the crisp tenor of her voice. “Sources close to both the city and county police departments indicate that you specifically asked that Detective Storm be assigned to the Major Case Squad. These same sources have also indicated that you requested Mister Gant be brought in to consult as well. Would you like to comment now?”

  “No, Miss Street, I would not.”

  “Mister Gant…” In a flash she abandoned the unresponsive cops and concentrated directly on me. “Given your involvement last summer with the Satanic Serial Killer investigation, your presence here would seem to indicate some type of occult element in this murder. Is that true?”

  “I’m sorry. No comment,” I told her apologetically.

  “We have it on good authority that you were rushed to the hospital earlier for a wound on your arm. Can you tell us more about that?”

  Before I could get another “Sorry, no comment” out of my mouth, Ben interposed his large frame between the relentless reporter and me.

  “Listen Brandee, if I’ve told ya’ once I’ve told ya’ a thousand times, ya’ want a statement, ya’ talk ta’ the public relations officer.”

  “The people of Saint Louis have a right to know what’s going on, Storm!” she barked back, glaring up at him and holding her ground.

  “Don’t give me that old freedom of the press speech, I’ve heard it before,” he answered. “You know full well we’re not in a position to tell ya’ anything. Call Public Relations in the mornin’ and I’m sure they’ll have a statement prepared.”

  “I’m after the real story here, Storm. Not that P.R. department crap!” She then added, bitterly stressing each word, “I... Am... Trying... To... Do... My... Job.”

  “So are we, Brandee, and like I said before, this crime scene still hasn’t been cleared, so technically speaking, you’re trespassin’. I’m only gonna tell ya’ ta’ leave one more time, then I’m gonna arrest ya’.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” she spat angrily.

  “Try me.”

  She didn’t.

  * * * * *

  “I guess I don’t have to tell you that Street wasn’t too far out in left field. The Major Case Squad is running the show now.” Ben told me as he carefully propelled the van down dark streets through a thickening veil of white. “Carl and I are both assigned to it. Big surprise.”

  During my brief absence, the crime scene unit had finished gathering and cataloging anything remotely resembling evidence. The weather had not been a friend to them, and the aforementioned items had been few. Of course, little had been found at the scene of Brianna Walker’s death as well. Inwardly I pondered the fact that no Bible, or even Bible verse, had been found at this latest homicide. I had fully expected one and even hoped that it might help to determine a pattern. Perhaps a clue as to the way the victims
were chosen, some tangible connection between them other than their religion, or his perception of such.

  Very simply, I was looking for anything.

  The idea that the verse may have been nothing more than an afterthought at the first scene crossed my mind. It was something I didn’t believe but at the same time couldn’t dismiss, so it remained cocooned in my brain as a minor bother until such time as it could emerge as a full-fledged aggravation.

  With the mobilization of the MCS, Ben had pulled some strings in order to get the body of the latest victim transferred to the city morgue where Doctor Sanders could be in charge of the postmortem. The county coroner had put up a minor fuss, citing jurisdiction and various boundaries, but whomever Ben had in his corner had made short work of the red tape and the unprecedented occurred. With all the I’s dotted and T’s crossed, the case was transferred to the city without delay. By the time I had returned from my visit to the ER, the remnants of the woman’s charred corpse had been carefully removed and were already en-route downtown. It was there to which we were now endeavoring to return.

  The crisp halogen beams of the headlights seemed, from one moment to the next, to be more hindrance than help in the near blizzard conditions. Cacophonous rumblings overhead were randomly punctuated with still louder aerial booms, each one seeming to add another measure to the deluge of fluffy white flakes. For the first time in many years, Saint Louis was experiencing the meteorological phenomenon aptly called “thunder snow.”

  “Plan is,” Ben continued, throwing a quick glance at me, “ta’ go with your theory that this asshole is creatin’ his own Inquisition, or whatever, and assume he’s not gonna stop at two.”

  “He won’t,” I asserted.

  Ben slowed the vehicle and ignoring the barely visible signal, cautiously hooked a sweeping right turn through an empty intersection. The road conditions were deteriorating with each passing minute, and he didn’t dare come to a complete stop for fear of becoming stuck. He gave me an animated nod and spared only a quick glance in my direction as he spoke.

  “I believe ya’, and apparently so do a few people in important places. Not that anyone is happy ‘bout the theory, mind you. At any rate, word came down from on high while you were gettin’ patched up. The chief wants ya’ involved... Every step of the way.”

  “I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be involved in,” I said. “But it’s nice not to be considered a crackpot for a change.”

  “I’ll be honest with ya’, Row. I told ‘im I’d ask ya’, but I also let ‘im know I wasn’t all that keen on it and...”

  “I thought we had this conversation this morning, Ben.” I cut him off with an exasperated sigh and prepared to refute another episode of his self-imposed guilt.

  “Yeah, well that was before ya’ ended up bein’ some kinda mystical carvin’ board,” he shot back. “But lemme finish, will ya’... Like I said, I told ‘im I wasn’t keen on the whole idea and that I ‘specially didn’t like bein’ put in the position of askin’ you just because we’re friends...” Before I could voice another objection, he drew in a deep breath and continued. “Then, I told ‘im that knowin’ you like I do and considerin’ what you’ve seen so far today, I figured we’d be hard pressed to keep ya’ out of it without lockin’ ya’ up.”

  After a short pause, he added, “The decision is still yours to make, though. Ya’ don’t have to do this.”

  “Well, since I’m the one that wanted to head down to the morgue in this mess, I guess you already know what that decision is,” I said. “So that’s a moot point. If it would make you feel any better though, tell him that next time he can ask me himself.”

  “I already did.”

  “I guess I should have known you would.”

  Ben tacked the lumbering van down the snow-packed avenue and fell in behind a city maintenance dump truck. In the hard swaths of the headlights, we could make out the attached salt-spreader spewing bluish granules of chemical deterrent in tired, jerky bursts. If the temperature fell to the lows predicted for later this night, the corrosive sno-melt would be well beyond its threshold of usefulness, and Mother Nature would be winning this skirmish. Considering the current conditions, my money was on her.

  Visibility had dropped to zero, and we tracked the plow by the evenly spaced flares of yellow brilliance emitting from the pulsing warning lights. A twenty-minute long half mile later, Ben suddenly cranked the steering wheel hard to the left, and the rear end of the van fishtailed in an oblique arc.

  “Shit! Almost missed it!” he exclaimed.

  The tires spun with a raspy crunch until they chewed through the loose ice and bit into pavement. With a short squeal of rubber against asphalt, we were launched forward over a small snow dike and bounced our way once again into the near-deserted parking lot of the Saint Louis city morgue.

  Once Ben parked the van in what he declared to be a valid space, we braved the cold wind and deepening drifts to hurry inside. We both took a moment to shake off in the outer foyer before pushing through the second set of double doors and embracing the welcome warmth of the building’s interior.

  Ben had just unzipped his coat and was about to display his badge to the receptionist when she spoke up. “Was that you that just pulled in the lot?”

  “Yeah, that a problem?” he responded as he held the gold shield up for her to see.

  “Haven’t you been listening to the radio?”

  Ben looked at me then back to her and raised an eyebrow. “Should we have?”

  “The snow is coming down at over an inch per hour,” she explained with mild exasperation in her voice. “All city and county streets are closed to traffic except emergency vehicles and road crews until further notice.”

  “So, did the body make it in from the county?” Ben queried, dismissing what he had just been told without acknowledgement.

  “About two hours ago,” she returned. “Doctor Sanders is back there with her now.”

  I looked at the clock on the wall behind the young woman’s desk and then drew in a deep breath. It was already approaching seven p.m.

  “Excuse me,” I addressed her politely, “but could you direct me to a phone I can use? If we’re going to be stuck here, I need to call my wife.”

  * * * * *

  “I just saw you on television,” Felicity told me as soon as I had finished explaining where I was, along with the fact that I wouldn’t be home anytime soon.

  “Wonderful. I hope they got my good side,” I returned without even trying to hide the sarcasm. “What are they saying?”

  “A lot of speculation for the most part,” she answered. “The popular theory at the moment is that a cult is getting their revenge for that whole thing last year.”

  “Cult, huh? They just love that stuff, don’t they?”

  “Row, what’s really going on?” I could hear mild concern in her voice. “And what was all that about you being wounded?”

  “That? It was nothing.”

  “Rowan…”

  “Seriously, just a minor cut. No big deal.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes, honey,” I assured her. “A doctor has already looked at it.”

  “Okay,” she conceded. “But you still haven’t told me what’s really going on.”

  “Well,” I exhaled the word heavily. “It’s not something I can get into over the phone except to say that it’s pretty bad.”

  “As bad as last summer?” she prodded.

  “Worse... Potentially, a lot worse.”

  I could hear her measured breathing on the other end of the line and knew she was digesting what I had just said. I suppose I could have told her more, but I saw no reason to subject her to the same fears I was barely holding at bay this particular moment. Especially not while she was alone.

  “You can tell me about it tomorrow then,” she said, realizing fully that I was simply trying to protect her. She allowed the subject to drop for the time being, but I knew she would ex
pect a full explanation soon enough. “Oh, by the way, I was cleaning up around here and I found a note you left next to the phone. Did you need to keep it?”

  “Note?” I echoed in a puzzled tone.

  “Well, I guess that’s what it is,” she explained. “It’s mainly just scribbling, except for a number. Two-two-one-eight.”

  All that happened today had managed to push the haunting, senseless number out of my mind. Now, it returned with a vengeance, tattooing itself across the front of my grey matter and refusing to be ignored. Demanding my full and absolute attention, of this I was certain, for I had thrown that note away.

  “Where did you say you found it?”

  “Next to the phone,” she replied. “It looked like it had been crumpled up and then smoothed back out. Like maybe you decided not to throw it away or something.”

  A Wiccan poem known as The Rede scrolled through my brain as I mentally weighed what Felicity had just said. Without realizing it I mumbled aloud the snippet of verse that had parked itself in the forefront, “When the wind blows from the west, departed souls will have no rest...”

  “What was that?”

  “Huh? Nothing. Nothing... Just... Just hang on to it for me, okay?” I said hesitantly.