Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

Lights went on behind Felicity’s eyes as the realization reached her a full step ahead of me. “College campuses.”

  Ben looked at her and touched the tip of his index finger to the end of his nose. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly where they tend ta’ show up. We’ve got Narcotics on it right now.”

  “But we still have no idea what this guy looks like or even how old he might be,” I volunteered. “What good is it going to do to shake down a handful of drug dealers?”

  “You got a better idea?” He shrugged and shook his head. “At least this is a place ta’ start. It might narrow the field down some. Besides, didn’t you say ya’ thought ya’ might be able ta’ recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

  “Well, you’re right,” I admitted. “I might be able to recognize the voice... at any rate, it can’t hurt.”

  “What about working up a profile or something? Can’t Constance help you with that?” Felicity offered, referring to our mutual friend with the FBI.

  It had been hate at first sight between Special Agent Constance Mandalay and Detective Benjamin Storm when we all first met last summer. She was a strong-willed woman in a male-dominated profession, and he was the lead detective with the Major Case Squad. To her rigid set of views, I was nothing more than a carnival charlatan, and she made her opinion well known. More than a few sparks were brought forth from that point of contention.

  Less than forty-eight hours later, she was violently subjected first hand to the horrific realities of true evil and misused Magicks. I just happened to be the one who saved her life. We had all been friends ever since.

  “Already called the field office,” Ben answered. “She’s on some kinda security assignment at the moment, so I ended up talkin’ ta’ some SAIC named Bartlett.” He shook his head in disgust. “This guy’s a real winner. Reminded me of why I can’t stand Feebs.”

  “Do you think he’s going to be able to help?” she pressed.

  “He said he’d see what he could do, but I’m not holdin’ my breath.”

  “Did he at least say when Constance would be back?” I asked.

  “Accordin’ ta’ him she’s s’posed to be back in the office Monday. That’s only two more days countin’ today. So, if our luck holds out, and this prick doesn’t off anyone for a little while longer...”

  “That’s a pretty big ‘if,’ Ben.” I shook my head. “The weather has settled down, and something tells me we haven’t got that long.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope like hell you’re wrong this time.”

  We all sat in the gathering silence for a moment, sipping our coffee and pondering the weight of what we faced. Ben reached up to begin working on a muscle in the back of his neck, and Felicity chewed at her lower lip. Working against the clock was definitely not new to any of us.

  Dickens, our solid black cat, eventually sauntered into the mute room, tail at attention, and leapt lithely onto the table. Taking a seat and closing his large eyes, he let out a regal you-may-pet-me-now mew.

  “What about the particulars on Kendra Miller,” I finally asked. “Obviously the dental records matched up. Were you able to find out anything more about her?”

  Ben broke out of his stupor and rummaged around in his pocket. After a moment he withdrew his ever-present notebook and began flipping through the pages. “Yeah, yeah… The records matched up perfect. Yeah, here it is. Kendra Darlene Miller was ‘er name all right. Twenty-four, single. Worked as a secretary over at the gas company.”

  “Not a hooker then?” I interjected.

  “Not a hooker, no,” he echoed, “but accordin’ to ‘er co-workers, she was a definite party-girl.”

  “No law against that,” Felicity said in an almost defensive tone.

  “Maybe not,” he said, “but they said she played it fast and loose on the singles scene. Also, rumor has it she buttered both sides of the bread if ya’ know what I mean.” He paused momentarily as he scanned his notes. “She was real open ‘bout her religion too... Yeah, here it is, she was a member of a Dianic Coven. That mean somethin’ to you two?”

  “Basically it is just a tradition within The Craft,” I answered.

  “The Dianic tradition places the focus purely on the feminine aspect,” Felicity expanded on my response. “The Coven will almost always consist only of women and will engage in Goddess worship with little or no mention of the God or male influence.”

  “Humph.” He rolled his eyes as he grunted out the sound. “Guess that’d explain the whole Bi thing.”

  “Don’t be so judgmental,” Felicity chastised. “Being in a Dianic Coven doesn’t automatically make you a lesbian or bisexual. But even so, what if she was? What difference does it make?”

  “Hey, whoa!” He held his hands up in mock defense. “I’m just doin’ my job here. I don’t care what anyone does as long as they aren’t hurtin’ anybody, and I don’t hafta look at it...

  “Unfortunately though, her bein’ Bi does set off a few alarms. Couple it with what ‘er co-workers had ta’ say, and you got someone at high risk for all kinds of shit.”

  “So, to you, her lifestyle puts her in the same category as Brianna Walker,” I proposed.

  “Hate ta’ say it, but yeah. Damn near, anyway.” He took a sip from his coffee cup and then set it back on the counter where he was leaning. “I should also mention that she was takin’ a couple of classes over at the U of M. Narcotics is payin’ special attention to that campus.”

  “So are you coming back to the theory that this guy is only after hookers?” I asked.

  “Not completely, but I do think his choice of victims so far does say somethin’.” He paused and let his gaze rest on me then added, “Don’t you?”

  “Maybe.” I shook my head. “But I still think he’s after Witches not prostitutes.”

  “Listen, white man…” He let out a frustrated sigh before continuing, “No one has thrown out your theory ‘bout the whole revival of the Inquisition thing, least of all me. But I’ve got a job ta’ do, and we hafta look at all the angles. Whether he’s after hookers, Witches, or...” He flung his arm out in a sweeping gesture as he searched for the elusive words. “Awww hell, whoever! I just want the bastard in a cell waitin’ for his last meal, that’s all.”

  “I know you do, Ben,” I murmured half-heartedly, “I know you do.”

  “Look, Row, we’ve got the Narcs workin’ the dealers, and personally I think that’s a hot lead. We’ve been over the Miller woman’s apartment with a microscope... Twice...” He held up two fingers to punctuate. “The place had been tossed, but all we found were some smudges. The guy was obviously wearin’ gloves. Shit, it’s the middle of winter! Everybody’s wearin’ gloves!”

  He reached up to smooth his hair and then shook his head. He was already starting to show signs of stress over this case himself, and my unsupportive-sounding reply hadn’t helped.

  “We’ve been canvassin’ the area around Meadowbrook Park, and so far nobody’s seen a thing. If we can figure out where she was last, we’ll be all over that place too. Other than that I don’t know what ta’ say...”

  “I’m sorry, Ben,” I quickly apologized. “I didn’t mean to sound like I was doubting you.”

  “S’okay, Kemosabe. I think we’re all a little wired. Kinda standin’ around waitin’ for the other shoe ta’ drop.” He folded his arms across his large chest and pursed his lips for a moment as he stared out through our atrium window then turned his attention back to us. “So, Deckert and I are s’posed to go talk to some members of ‘er group this afternoon.” He bobbed his head in our direction. “You two wanna come with?”

  “What time?”

  “Around four.”

  Felicity shook her head and looked over at me, “I should really stay here and take care of a few things, but you could go as long as you’re back in time. We’re supposed to be at the party by six-thirty.”

  “That’s right, I almost forgot,” I replied.

  “Party?” Ben raised an eyebrow.
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  “My grandparents’ sixtieth wedding anniversary combined with a double family reunion,” my wife explained. “And being a daughter of the O’Brien clan, I’m expected to dance, so I have to put the finishing touches on my outfit.”

  “You need a special outfit so ya’ can dance?” He shot a glance in my direction and jibed, “You got somethin’ pretty ta’ wear too?”

  “Céilidh dancing, Ben,” Felicity interjected. “Irish folk dancing. My cousins and I are providing the entertainment at my grandparents’ request. It’s like a family tradition.”

  “So you mean ya’ do like that Lord of the Dance thing, then? Allison loves that stuff.”

  “It’s pretty much the same thing,” she nodded. “Not exactly, but close. And there is the fact that we do it for fun and celebration. Not professionally.”

  “Wow. Sounds like a big deal.”

  “Regular Irish shindig,” I grumbled. “Lots of colcannon and whiskey followed closely by sightings of leprechauns and the traditional ‘dancing of the jig’ right on into the wee hours.”

  “What the hell’s a cold cannon?”

  “Colcannon. It’s a traditional Irish dish made of potatoes, onions and cabbage,” Felicity explained, then with her face bearing a broad grin, reached across the table and jokingly slapped my hand. “And you? Stop it! You’ll have fun and you know it.”

  “You sure ya’ got time?” Ben questioned. “I’d really prefer to have ya’ there but it’s not like it’s your job. Deck and I can handle it.”

  “He’s got plenty of time,” my wife answered for me. “He’s not the one dancing, I am. You just have to promise to have him back here in one piece by five-thirty, so I can get him dressed.”

  “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “That’s with a K,” a pretty young blonde woman with a neatly clipped pageboy haircut anxiously explained to Detective Deckert.

  “K-a-r-o-l?”

  “No sir,” she answered. “With a K and a Y. K-a-r-y-l. Karyl.”

  “K-a-r-Y…” Carl muttered to himself as he wrote the name in his notepad emphasizing the K and the Y, “Gotcha. Last name?”

  “Steinbeck.”

  “Like the writer?”

  “Yes, Detective.” She gave a slightly bothered sigh that was only partially masked by her obvious jitters. “Like the writer.”

  “Any relation?”

  “Not that I am aware of, Detective.”

  “Great book, that Grapes of Wrath.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Detective,” she told him, “I’ve never read it.”

  “Too bad, you really ought to. Excellent book,” he told her then moved on to the woman seated at her side. “And your name again, Miss?”

  “Miz.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I prefer Miz,” she stated flatly as she brushed a shock of coal black hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

  I couldn’t help but notice the lobe was decorated with a row of three rather significant diamond studs.

  “My apologies,” Carl returned without missing a beat. “And your name again, Miz?”

  “Starr,” she answered coldly, “with two R’s. Starr Winston.”

  He mumbled softly as he scribbled, “Of course. Starr with two R’s...”

  We had arrived at the upscale address in the historic section of Lansbury at ten minutes of four. Detective Deckert had driven himself and met us in front of the restored home. Though we were expected, the reception had been less than warm to say the least. Upon entering, we were quietly led to a sizeable sitting room by the young blonde who then excused herself and disappeared momentarily.

  The room, like the rest of the interior we had seen, sported meticulously restored hardwood floors, three-member base accents and crown moldings. Throughout, eclectic paintings adorned strategic points providing embellishment for the muted colors of the walls. Otherwise, the furniture and decor seemed a paradox of feminine tastes driven by masculine undertones. The layout was nice, neat and altogether functional in design.

  Karyl had returned shortly with her partner, and the two young women were now huddled close together on a high-backed love seat holding hands, their fingers tightly entwined. Carl and I had taken up residence on the matching couch across from them. The short distance between was occupied by a spartan antique coffee table. Ben remained standing, hands buried in his pockets, quietly surveying the room. I knew he was using his size to, as he would put it, “compel full cooperation”; but in this case it was accomplishing nothing more than scaring the wits out of one of the women and putting the other on the extreme defensive. At least he was wearing a sport coat, so his sidearm wasn’t adding to the intimidation.

  Having worked with me before, Carl had slipped easily into the habit of treating me as if I were just another cop; therefore, I doubted he was aware—or even concerned with the fact—that from my vantage point seated next to him, I could see everything he was putting on the paper. Next to Karyl’s name he made the notation, “blonde/blue nervous”—hair color, eye color, and demeanor. Next to Starr’s was the description “black/blue bitchy.”

  On a separate line beneath the two names, he scrawled “lipstick lesbians” and double underlined it. I assumed this to be a reference to the fact that while they were obviously involved with one another, they were both very feminine in their appearance and dress. Yet another slang term born of the same misconstrued stereotypes of homosexuals that had given us such epithets as “bull-dyke” and “flaming-fairy.”

  “Nice house you got here,” Carl observed aloud. “Must be one heck of a mortgage payment.”

  “As if it is any of your business, Detective,” Starr hissed, “it is paid for.”

  He let out a low whistle. “Nice. Have a good job, do you?”

  “I am an attorney, Detective Deckert,” she returned. “A very successful one. Of course, I’m sure you were well aware of that before you ever came here.”

  Next to her name on the notepad, he penciled in “lawyer/bucks.”

  “Just the two of you live here, I take it?”

  “Yes,” she huffed. “If I may, Detective Deckert, I am certain you were well aware of our names and countless other facts that are none of your business before you ever arrived here. So, if I may ask, is there a point to these questions other than a transparent attempt to antagonize me?”

  “Just makin’ an observation, Miz Winston.” He shrugged. “That’s all. I’m not tryin’ to antagonize anyone.”

  Her eyes quickly darting back and forth between Deckert and Starr, Karyl suddenly blurted, “Are we suspects?”

  “Not at all, Miss Steinbeck.” Carl shook his head. “Not at all. We’re just tryin’ to get some information, so we can solve this case.”

  The reply to her question was followed by a thickening silence. Information wasn’t going to flow freely from these two women, and being a Witch myself, I could fully understand their reluctance to speak. Considering the way the media had already begun sensationalizing their erroneous and unconfirmed rumors of “Cult Revenge,” the entire Pagan community in the area was probably running scared. Two of the local television stations had even started weeklong exposés titled something on the order of “WitchCraft: Saint Louis’ Hidden Evil.”

  “Listen, Miss Steinbeck, Miz Winston...” Carl volunteered. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of this case except to say that the current speculation in the media is way off base... Don’t pay any attention to it.”

  Their silence continued.

  “Should we be expectin’ anyone else?” Ben finally asked from his station, semi-blocking the doorway. “Or is it just gonna be the two of you?”

  The blonde woman stared past him into the next room at first, obviously making note of his blatant positioning, then tensely chewed at her lower lip before answering, “No, Detective...”

  “Storm,” he reminded her.

  “Detective Storm,” she said with a nod. “No. No one else.”

>   He paused for a moment and thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “Mind if I ask why? When I called yesterday I was given ta’ understand that there were several members in your group, and I asked that you all be present for this meeting.”

  “On my counsel they have elected to remain anonymous,” Starr replied in her still frosty tone. “Not everyone in our Coven is as outspoken about their religious practices as Karyl and I. To be perfectly honest, Detective, the last thing they need is to have the police putting their names on their hit list.”

  “Ladies,” Carl interjected with a fatherly chuckle, “I can assure you that there is no such thing as a ‘hit list.’”

  “Officially,” she spat.

  “Listen,” Ben began, “like Detective Deckert said, we’re just tryin’ ta’ solve a coupl’a murders here. The media is just runnin’ off at the mouth, as usual, and you two are not suspects. Now, we know Kendra Miller was a member of your group, and all we wanna do is ask ya’ a few questions. This isn’t some kinda shakedown. We are not on a Witch Hunt, okay?”

  The two women simply stared back silently, making no move to speak or even acknowledge what he had just told them.

  “I was afraid of this... That’s why we brought Rowan along,” he appealed, gesturing in my direction. “Give us a break, willya’?”

  Still facing a mute audience, he turned his exasperated gaze on me and threw his hands in the air. “Okay, I give up… Row, speak some Witch to ‘em or somethin’.”

  As I suspected would happen, I was unceremoniously dropped into the hot seat, and the two women turned to me almost in unison. Starr continued her piercing stare with ice blue eyes. Her stony expression combined with the frigid glare was enough to show me why she was so successful in her practice of the law. I somehow doubted that losing was an acceptable option for this young woman, and I was inwardly glad that I wasn’t on a witness stand being cross-examined by her; although, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was any safer where I sat at the moment.

  Karyl was quite obviously the weaker of the two. Though while she certainly wasn’t as stoical as her partner, she remained completely mute. She simply cracked a fleeting, tight-lipped smile and watched me with wide, troubled eyes.