“No. I’ll be all right,” I continued. “I just need a minute.”
Knowing I had to get a grip, I began to inwardly visualize myself surrounded by an impenetrable shield of white light. In my mind I was carefully constructing a barrier, tangible only on a supernormal level, but exactly what I needed to hold the frightening visions at bay nonetheless. Almost instantly I began to relax.
“Well if ya’ won’t go to the hospital and ya’ won’t go home,” he ventured, “why don’t you just wait here in the van? The techs from the crime scene unit are takin’ pictures, and I can fill ya’ in on any other details afterwards.”
“That may not be enough, Ben,” I returned and cocked my head in the direction of the scene. “Maybe this victim saw his face. Maybe there’s something in there that won’t show up on a photograph but will be visible to me. I can’t let a stupid phobia keep me from doing what I was brought here to do.”
“Fuck phobias, Rowan!” he shot back. “I just watched you almost drown in a goddamned dry apartment. That’s not a phobia, white man, that’s... that’s... Well hell, I dunno what it was, but I know ya’ coulda died. And that was the second time too! In my book that’s worth more than just a little fear.”
“I let you know right from the very beginning that this one was going to be worse than the last case,” I told him quietly.
“Yeah…” Ben nodded. “But I thought you were just talkin’ about the body count.”
“Unfortunately, so did I.”
I was feeling much more at ease now, though it was a sensation that was most certainly only temporary. I had successfully wrestled the demon known as terror back into its cage for the time being, and the thick supernatural armor I had erected around myself would protect me from the outside influences of the scene. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay hidden behind it the entire time, for if I did my particular talents would be useless. However, what I would do was try to keep myself safe for a little while. At least until I was fully grounded and ready to face whatever horrific image was waiting for me on the other side.
“Okay,” my friend eventually huffed. “Short of bannin’ ya’ from the scene, I know I’m gonna play hell tryin’ ta’ keep ya’ out, so I might as well give up. But,” he added sharply and thrust a stiff index finger at me, “first sign of you bein’ in some kinda spooky ass trouble, you’re outta here. No arguments. Understood?”
“Understood,” I agreed.
“Better yet, no hocus-pocus without warnin’ me first.”
“I can’t always control it, Ben. You know that.”
“Yeah, but sometimes ya’ do shit without tellin’ anyone and ya’ get yourself in trouble. That’s the kinda thing I’m talkin’ about.”
“Okay, okay. If I try to do anything, I promise I’ll tell you first.”
“Like I said, don’t try anything. If it just happens ain’t much I can do about it, but don’t be makin’ it happen.”
“Yeah. Okay. I won’t.”
“I’m serious, Row.”
“I know you are.”
After he finally gave his reluctant, negotiated blessing, Ben and I climbed out of the beat up Chevy and started across the small parking lot toward the crux of the activity. Since we were on the opposite side of the street, we had to stop for a moment and wait as a large, black panel van rolled past. A patina of grey and white from salt and road grime dusted its dark exterior, blending it in with every other vehicle in the city that had yet to see time in a car wash. A multi-pitched mechanical groan emitted from beneath the van, audibly announcing improperly meshed gears as the driver shifted and slowed. The van coasted for a second while the occupant stared at the spectacle, or so I assumed. A fraction of a minute later the engine gunned and roared its protest in an off key duet with the transmission as it was up-shifted again.
“Take a picture, asshole,” Ben called after the pair of dusky red taillights. “It’ll last longer.”
As we crossed the narrow lane immediately behind the passing vehicle, a cold tingle danced up my spine. My scalp tightened painfully, and the hair on the back of my neck tilted upward, sending a prickling sensation throughout. I caught myself as I tripped across the low curb and stifled a small gasp. Fortunately, Ben didn’t know the real reason behind my stumbling, and I was able to mask the event as a random attack of clumsiness.
I was more than a little surprised and took a moment to bolster my defenses even more. I shouldn’t have felt anything yet, and if something was getting through to me already, then this was going to be worse than I originally thought.
In that moment, I became even less pleased by the prospect that I would soon need to cast away these ethereal shields in order to view the scene with senses other than the physical. I tried not to think about it as we continued walking. Needless to say, I met with only limited success.
The street immediately in front of the pool enclosure was alive with light bars atop emergency vehicles flashing in and out of sync. Each revolution temporarily stained the snow with harsh, multi-colored blotches of brilliance. The wildly flickering show was almost enough to mesmerize.
Powerful halogen lamps were mounted high on strategically placed standards around the pool area, and they now flooded it with severe blue-white illumination. Originally meant to extend the hours of swimming enjoyment deep into summer nights, they cast eerie shadows across the frozen tableau. The hard edges of obscurity served only to underscore the horror and misery that had forced its way into this place intended for happiness and pleasure.
Ben slipped his badge onto a thick cord as we walked and then hung it around his neck in plain view before we signed ourselves in on the crime scene log. The officer tending the entrance to the pool area was from the local municipality that encompassed the subdivision of condominiums and was unfamiliar with my part in the investigation. Since I lacked a badge, it took a terse and abbreviated explanation of my role by Ben in order to overcome the patrolman’s unwillingness to allow me entry. Finally, we continued past the yellow tape barrier without further challenge.
“Ben, Rowan.” Carl Deckert addressed us grimly as we skirted around taut stretches of bright, canary-colored plastic labeled with simple black letters—CRIME SCENE - DO NOT CROSS.
“Carl,” I returned with equal bleakness in my voice.
Ben just nodded and silently inspected the surroundings, all the while casting an occasional watchful eye in my direction.
“I thought Connie was comin’ with you,” Deckert remarked, cocking his head and glancing past us for the absent federal agent. He was the only person I’d ever met who could get away with calling her by the clipped version of Constance. I guess it had something to do with his grandfatherly demeanor.
“She should be here in a bit,” Ben replied. “She doesn’t live too far away, and she wanted to stop and change clothes.”
“Change clothes? What for?”
My friend just shook his head. “She was dressed a little on the formal side tonight. Somethin’ to do with an assignment.”
“Ahhh. Okay.”
A deep, recessed basin in the mantle of snow outlined the swimming pool, in and of itself. It was fairly common as private pools go—roughly kidney-shaped and not huge by any means but not the smallest I’d ever seen either. A path had been carefully cleared through the snow around the perimeter on one side. The opposite border was marred by a single row of foot traffic and appeared to be the path the killer had taken. Therefore, it had been left intact to preserve any possible evidence. Small spots of red were scattered here and there along the trail up to a small depression where they blossomed into several garish blotches. The victim had been bleeding.
We were standing in the shoveled area opposite the low brick building that housed the pumps, filters, and changing rooms. Here, the pale, crystalline blanket of snow came nearly even with the concrete deck. If the pool had been properly winterized, which considering the neighborhood I was certain it had, somewhere around two feet below the pristine whi
te cover would be a sheet of ice. Beneath that would be murky, chemical-laden water, along with leaves and anything else that had blown or fallen in since its closure just after the Labor Day holiday.
All in all, it was a normal swimming pool that had been shut down for the winter months, with one glaring exception—tonight someone had deliberately beaten a hole through the thick crust of ice and placed another human being into the water’s chilled depths.
“Looks like he used something to chip away at the ice,” Deckert announced with a frosty sigh as he pointed across the depression to a gaping hole in the snow on the other side. “Not sure what, but he broke it up pretty good. Enough to get a body through anyway.”
“Don’t they normally put covers on pools when they close them up?” I asked.
“Most of the time, yeah,” Carl answered. “But not always. Obviously they didn’t on this one.”
“Anybody besides the security guard notice anything?” Ben asked.
“Not that we’ve heard yet, but we’re doin’ a door to door,” Deckert replied.
“Prob’ly give us a big fuckin’ zero,” my friend mused aloud.
“Yeah,” Carl agreed, “probably. But maybe we’ll get lucky. I’m guessin’ this wacko’s been here before.”
“Why is that?” I inquired.
Deckert pointed across the pool and traced the cordoned off route through the air with his finger, starting at the gate and ending at the hole in the ice.
“The whole cover thing for one, but more importantly, look at the path. We’ve isolated the rent-a-cop’s footprints and kept the area blocked off,” he explained. “The killer cut the padlock on the gate, prob’ly just used some bolt cutters. From there he followed that path straight to where he broke through the ice.”
“Yeah,” I shrugged, “I guess I’m still missing something.”
“Okay, pretend the hole’s not there,” he instructed. “Now tell me which end of the pool is the deep end.”
“Shouldn’t it be right there? Farthest from the gate?” I asked. “Isn’t that an insurance thing?”
“Exactly,” Deckert replied with a nod. “But there’re two gates, and they just kept the one at the deep end padlocked all the time rather than replace it with regular fencing. If you look at the tracks, that’s the one he came through, and the deep end is actually right there where the hole is. So, since you can’t really tell which gate is the proper entrance just by lookin’ at ‘em, that tells me our killer somehow knew right where to go.”
The moment he finished, the realization struck me full in the face. If the tracks and the hole weren’t there, the landscape would be nothing more than unspoiled snow. The symmetrical hollow of the pool’s perimeter gave no clue as to which end was which. The shallow end of the pool was closest to the main entrance, and it was also the more secluded of the two by virtue of an evergreen hedgerow. But the killer wanted to be sure the victim drowned as opposed to just death by exposure. He had purposely gone to the deep end to ensure this... And he knew exactly where the deep end was. I mutely chastised myself for missing such an obvious fact.
“Good point,” Ben whistled. “He couldn’t have known which end it was unless he’d been to this pool before. Not with all this snow.”
“That’s what I’m thinkin’.” Carl nodded.
“Well I doubt if he lives here,” I offered. “This subdivision is primarily condos, and the few houses we passed look way too modern to have the kind of basement I saw when I was channeling Kendra Miller.”
“Yeah,” Deckert nodded as he spoke. “Besides, as reckless as he’s been he’s probably too smart to do it in his own back yard. He’s been spread out all over the place so far.”
“So what’s the plan for recoverin’ the body?” Ben queried.
“Well, as soon as the CSU is finished with the tracks and such, they’re talkin’ about sendin’ a diver in. It’s either that or drain the damn thing, so they got the local muni’s fire department on standby. I think they’re pretty much waitin’ on the coroner to make the final decision,” Carl answered then shook his head. “Damn! This SOB has gotta have some freakin’ balls. I mean the hotel, the park, now this.”
“Tell me about it. He hung number three off her own friggin’ balcony,” Ben added. “Right out in plain sight.”
“Yeah, I heard,” Deckert acknowledged. “Also heard about that whole chopper thing with Street. Sheesh, ‘Ghoul Squad.’ No offense, but I’m glad I missed that one.”
“Don’t worry,” Ben spat sarcastically. “Your dues to that club are paid in full. I’m sure they’ll have ya’ listed on the membership rolls soon enough.”
“Freakin’ wonderful. Mona’ll love that,” Deckert muttered then paused and clucked his tongue thoughtfully. “So you think maybe this screwball is an exhibitionist or something?”
“Maybe. He hasn’t been hidin’ his work, that’s for sure.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I volunteered. “He’s making the murders public executions for a deeper reason. I don’t believe he’s doing it for the thrill. Like I told you originally, he most likely views himself as divine or chosen. He sees himself as the hand of God. That’s why he’s picking these venues. They’re his town square, in a sense. He wants everyone to see the penalty for heresy in order to teach them a lesson.”
“Puttin’ the fear of God into ‘em, so to speak,” Ben grunted.
“Exactly.”
“Still,” Deckert objected, “he can’t keep going around killing out in the open like this and there not eventually be a witness. Even with the cover of darkness, he’s gotta know someone is gonna see him.”
“Obviously he’s willing to take that risk in the name of ridding the world of that which he views as evil,” I stated matter-of-factly.
Deckert repeated a paraphrased version of his earlier comment, “Like I said, the wacko’s got some balls.”
In the near distance, we could hear the voice of a uniformed officer as he announced to the waiting evidence technicians, “Meat wagon’s here.”
The three of us watched mutely as the head of the crime scene unit filled in the bedraggled county coroner. After a brief exchange, he nodded his head, visibly agreeing with the officer in charge. Shortly thereafter a member of the condo complex’s maintenance staff that had been standing by was put to the task of clearing as much snow as he could from around the hole.
“Do ya’ know if the command post was able ta’ get ahold of everyone yet?” Ben shifted the direction of the conversation momentarily while we waited.
“Yeah, they did.” Carl nodded. “All accounted for. Whoever’s down there, she’s not a member of that group.”
“Hmmmmph,” Ben grunted thoughtfully. “That’s odd.”
“What do you mean odd?” I asked.
“Well, this wingnut had established a pattern by goin’ after the women in this particular coven. It’s just a rule of thumb on serial killers—they tend ta’ stick to an established pattern. So why all of a sudden did he decide ta’ pick someone outside of that target group?”
“Do you think he might know that the members of Starr’s coven are being watched?” I offered.
“I s’pose it’s possible. ‘Specially if he was stalkin’ ‘em or somethin’, but there’re eight more women on that list. That’s a lot of stalkin’ for one guy ta’ do in a short period of time. Plus we’ve been tryin’ ta’ keep the protection low profile on the chance we could pop ‘im tryin’ to nab one of ‘em,” he replied, all the while shaking his head. “Now we go back to the drawin’ board. How’d he pick this one? How does she fit in to the pattern?”
“Both of you have said she,” I commented. “What makes you think this victim is female?”
“Well, he’s only killed women so far,” Ben, answered.
“Storm is right.” Agent Mandalay’s voice filtered in from behind our small huddle. “That’s another rule of thumb. Serial killers don’t typically cross gender lines. Normally it’s one or the o
ther but not both. Hello again. Sorry I’m late.”
We had apparently been so engrossed in our conversation that we had not noticed her arrival, and until now she had elected to remain silent. She was much less conspicuous after having traded her party dress and overcoat for blue jeans and a dark, hooded parka; although, her face still bore the cosmetic accentuation of a more than average make over. Even so, her somber expression matched the grim edge of her voice.
“Connie,” Deckert greeted her as only he could.
“Hi, Carl,” she replied then turned to me and continued, “I’d say odds are the killer is misogynistic. Also the general public commonly associates Witches with being female, not male.”
“I can understand that theory to an extent, and I’m not trying to second guess you by any means,” I admitted, “but this guy isn’t a typical serial killer. I don’t believe he’s doing this on a lark, or even because of a hatred of women. He has a specific agenda, and it includes anyone accused of WitchCraft, regardless of their gender.”
“Is this something you saw in one of your visions?” she questioned.
“No. Just a feeling.”
“Well, I’ve learned better than to doubt one of your feelings, Rowan,” she conceded solemnly. “But male or female, we still have a fourth victim on our hands.”
“This is true,” I agreed.
Carl captured our attention with a lethargic gesture, and he volunteered in a sober tone, “Looks like they’re gettin’ ready to go after the body.”
His voice was both preceded and followed by a muffled thudding noise that emanated from across the pool area. Under the supervision of the head CSU technician, a maintenance worker was laboring to fracture the layer of ice and widen the entry point for the diver. A second pair of thuds resulted in a sharp cracking sound as the frozen strata splintered. Another of the technicians struggled with a shepherd’s hook to fish the broken chunks of solidified water out of the way.
Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 17