Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  The question settled, I stripped wearily and shut off the lights. Then with a satisfied sigh, I crawled into the bed next to my temporarily comatose wife. As I relaxed, a sleep deprived wrinkle in my brain told me to make a note to ask Ben if there was some statistical reason known only to law enforcement as to why dead bodies seemed to always turn up in the middle of the night.

  When I finally began to drift off, I felt for all the world like I was falling to my death. I knew then that it wasn’t going to be the restful sleep I had hoped for.

  CHAPTER 15

  A baleful cry in the fold of darkness.

  A crystalline blanket hued blue by shadows cast in the dim moonglow…

  Fear.

  Hatred.

  Horror.

  Silence.

  My heart is racing in my chest. It is one of only two sounds that break the stillness. The other is the report of my naked feet crunching frenzied through the sharp crust of ice to the mantle of snow beneath. I am running from something.

  I am running from someone...

  I do not know where I am...

  I know only that I run in fear.

  Frigid air sears my lungs and chills me throughout. A hardened ache tears at my throat, dry and cold. I gasp for breath as I slow my pace and finally halt, struggling to deny the pain. A grove of twisted trees surrounds me.

  Envelopes me.

  The moon’s filtered shine dances eerily between the gnarled branches and plays across my nude body. Streaks of sticky wetness stream across my skin. In the muted light they appear oily and black. I run my hands across my body and wince at the soreness of the festering wounds.

  The streaks are my own blood.

  My staggering footprints stain the snow.

  My feet are also raw and bleeding.

  My wheezing breath punctuates the night.

  A deep, familiar voice rumbles from the darkness. “Wherefore, since you, Rowan Linden Gant, are fallen into the damned heresies of Witches, practicing them publicly, and have been by legitimate witnesses convicted of the sin of heresy...”

  I start in fear at the words.

  I bolt forward blindly.

  A baleful cry in the fold of darkness.

  “Yo, mission control ta’ Rowan.” Ben’s voice snapped me back to the reality at hand. “You want any of this coffee, Kemosabe?”

  He was waving his hand before my face and looking at me quizzically. From his expression I assumed I had once again slipped into the glassy-eyed, slack-jawed trance that had been plaguing me all morning. Snippets of a vivid horror kept ricocheting about the inside of my skull, disjointed and making no sense whatsoever. Thus far, I had been unable to piece together anything from the randomized remembrance of the nightmare and was beginning to doubt I ever would. Fact of the matter was, it might simply have been just that, a nightmare. No more than a product of my overtaxed senses and the frightening spectacles to which I had been witness in the past hours and days. It may mean nothing at all. But it was painfully reminiscent of the small vignette that had appended itself to my recurring nightmare about Ariel Tanner, and that was what concerned me.

  “Yeah, sure,” I nodded as I spoke, shaking off the fog.

  “I’ll warn ya’ up front, this stuff is strong enough ya’ damn near hafta slice it. There’re some donuts over here too.” He indicated a large white box as he rummaged about for a clean coffee cup. “Great little place over on Chippewa. All they had fresh was glazed, though.”

  I shook my head, declining the offer. I wasn’t sure how something like that would sit with my stomach at the moment. It already felt like my hastily gulped morning meal was lodged in it sideways. Considering that the meal had consisted of cold leftovers from a traditional Irish dinner, it probably was.

  “So, what’s up with you this mornin’?” Ben continued pressing me as he filled a chipped ceramic mug from a brown streaked globe of Pyrex then slid it across the table in my direction before returning the pot to its equally discolored warming base. “You’ve been glazin’ over left and right ever since ya’ got here. Somethin’ I should know?”

  “I’m not sure,” I returned, accepting the mug and taking a sip of the brew. It was acrid and bitter. Ben’s wisecrack about ‘strong enough to slice’ had been right on the mark. “Could just be lack of sleep, I don’t know. I keep having these weird flashes...like pieces of a nightmare or something.”

  I placed the cup back on the table and absently rattled clumps of sugar from an off-white cardboard cylinder, scarcely noticing when they plopped into the black liquid. Scanning the area around the coffeemaker, I searched for a stirring stick and found none. Ben noticed my fruitless quest then reached into his pocket and offered me a cheap plastic ballpoint.

  “So you’re goin’ all...” He finished the sentence by letting out a low, vibrato whistle tied to an animated gesticulation with his outstretched arm. Over time, I had come to know this as his particular brand of sign language for “out there.”

  “Not really... maybe... I don’t know.” I finished stirring and tapped the pen on the rim of the cup before laying it aside on an already stained paper napkin. “It doesn’t really feel the same... It could be just pieces of a bad dream.” I shrugged and took another sip of the bitter brew. The sugar hadn’t helped. I don’t know that I had really expected it to.

  “You didn’t by any chance come up with anything on the doubled up Bible verses from last night didya?”

  “You mean the one from First Samuel?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Not really.” I shook my head. “The only thing I can think of is that it’s a pretty generic verse as far as the condemnation of WitchCraft goes. It would easily fit as a catch-all if he doesn’t have a specific heresy over and above that in mind.”

  “So no greater reasoning that might give us a bead on this wacko then, eh?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  Ben pursed his lips and nodded back. “Well if anything else clicks, just say the word. I don’t give a damn if ya’ interrupt the meeting even, ‘kay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So where’s the little woman this mornin’?” He changed the subject as he wandered in the direction of his desk with me tagging along. “I kinda figured she’d be with ya’.”

  “When I left her she was holding her head and muttering Gaelic curses about a bottle of whiskey,” I answered.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right. The party. Sorry again ‘bout that... Did ya’ get yourself any of that Cold-cannon stuff?” He’d never know just how accurate his mispronunciation matched the way the contents of my stomach felt at the moment.

  He wheeled out his seat and pointed to a molded plastic chair next to his desk. It looked like something from a discarded seventies era dinette, and I suspected it would be even less comfortable than it appeared.

  “Something like that, and yeah, she brought me home a plate. It was my breakfast.” I rested my mug on the corner of his workspace as I sat down and glanced quickly at my watch. “Of course, I expect she’s on the road by now. Had a photo shoot for a client today.”

  “On a Sunday? I thought she went freelance so she could set ‘er own hours.”

  I held my hands apart wide in a one-that-got-away type of gesture. “Really big client.”

  The answering bob of his head told me I needn’t say any more. “Ahhh, much wampum. I get it. Well, at least she has a choice in it.” He sighed as he looked around. “Some of us have a crazy fuck makin’ the decisions for us.”

  I mimicked his swiveled head scan of the room, and his reference dawned over the sleep-deprived fog that clouded my mind. On a normal Sunday morning, the homicide division squad room was relatively still and near lifeless. Today, however, with the advent of the emergency meeting and the fact that the Major Case Squad was using it as a base of operations, it was slowly coming to bustling wakefulness.

  Phones were beginning to add their annoying jingles to the vanishing silence as calls were transferred from th
e main switchboard into the squad room. Bleary-eyed detectives with vacant faces were cradling handsets against their ears; some while lethargically scribbling notes, others while just leaning back in their chairs and pretending to listen.

  The petite thud of a hurried pair of cross-trainers against aged linoleum started softly at the door and grew louder as their owner came breezing in. Making her way through the grid of desks, the tousled-haired federal officer shot us a quick good morning without so much as slowing down.

  “Sorry I’m late. I overslept,” Agent Mandalay announced as she strode past us with an oblong white box in her hands. “Hope you like glazed. It’s all they had fresh.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Ben offered, “Rachel’s Donut Hut down on Chippewa.”

  “How did you know?” she asked as she deposited the container on the table next to the other box of morning sweets.

  “Great minds think alike.”

  “Okay, I’ve heard that before, but what’s your excuse, Storm?”

  My friend chuckled a muted expletive at the playful jibe but, other than that, elected not to reply.

  Constance unzipped and shrugged off her coat while at the same time surveying the scene in front of her. When she turned back to face us, we could see that over her denim jeans she was wearing a slightly faded sweatshirt emblazoned with a steeple like logo, the lower portion of which disappeared into a line of stylized text that read, Cornell University, Ithaca, New York. The tail of the garment was tucked behind a worn leather holster clipped to her right side, and high on her hip rode a forty caliber Sig Sauer. I knew from the experience of having seen her in action that this young woman could be much more dangerous than was boasted by her rumpled college co-ed appearance.

  She swept her hand back at the disorderly mess and frowned. “Sheesh, don’t you guys ever clean up after yourselves?”

  “It’s not that bad,” Ben grunted then sipped his coffee. “Besides, ain’t my turn.”

  Agent Mandalay rolled her eyes and proceeded to remove the visitors badge from her jacket and clip it onto her belt before finding a place to hang the garment. “Is everyone here, or am I not the only late one?”

  My friend rolled his arm up and peered over the rim of his cup at the watch face on his wrist. “Just you’n Deck. He called about fifteen, twenty minutes ago, so I expect him ta’ be walkin’ through the door any time now. Doc Sanders is here, but she ran down the hall for a minute. Other than that, I think we’re all accounted for.”

  “I didn’t sleep too well last night.” She let out a small sigh as she dragged over a chair similar to mine and dropped her petite frame into it. “What about you guys?”

  I looked at her and shook my head.

  Ben simply shrugged and took a pull at his cup of java then said, “Me neither. Nightmares. Of course, it’s not like there was an overabundance of time for sleepin’ anyway.”

  “I know what you mean. The alarm went off way too early,” she agreed. “Either of you catch the national news this morning? That video byte got picked up by the wire services.”

  “Don’t tell me...” Ben muttered the rhetorical question.

  “Yeah. The ‘Ghoul Squad’ is national news.”

  “Were they at least a little more selective about which part and how much of the tape they showed?” I asked.

  “Not the station I was looking at,” she returned.

  “Figures,” Ben spat.

  “Ben, Connie, Rowan,” Carl Deckert’s gruff voice met our ears as he trudged in, holding a box of donuts in one hand while working the buttons of his overcoat with the other. “I hope you guys like glazed. It’s all they had fresh.”

  “So we’ve heard,” Ben answered and raised an eyebrow at Constance.

  “Rachel’s Donut Hut over on Chippewa,” she chuckled.

  “How’d you know?” Carl continued fumbling with the last button and gave them both a puzzled expression. After a moment, he began eyeing the carton on all sides, presumably in search of a telltale marking.

  “Table,” Ben answered and pointed to the other boxes near the coffee.

  “Maybe I shoulda called or somethin’,” Carl stated apologetically as he added his offering to the pile. “That’s an awful lot of donuts.”

  “Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I quipped. “I mean we are sitting in a room full of cops and it’s only a few dozen donuts. What are the odds that there will be any left over by the time lunch rolls around?”

  “Ya’know, you civilians have gotta get over that whole cop slash donut thing,” my friend returned, verbalizing the punctuation as he spoke. Then he let out a small laugh.

  “Sure, whatever you say, Ben. But tell me this, am I right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he answered with a broad smile. “Now shut up.”

  * * * * *

  “So I’m sure everyone is aware that our boy was real busy last night. For those of you who were on the scenes, this may be a little bit of a rehash. For those who weren’t, or who just got assigned to the MCS, we’ll try ta’ bring ya’ up ta’ speed as quickly as possible.” Ben was sitting on the edge of his desk in the squad room addressing the attentive assembly of detectives attached to the Major Case Squad. “Last night we got three bodies...” He held up his hand and displayed three fingers to the group, turning his hand front to back. “...Three in one night, people. Two fittin’ the M.O. of our bad guy from the Walker and Miller cases. The third was one of the latest victim’s husband, and it looks like he just might’ve been in the way. Most of ya’ are familiar with the first two victims, those that aren’t, everything we have is on the handouts I just gave you.” He waved a sheaf of papers at the group.

  “Now, some of ya’ have prob’ly already heard the theory that the husband wasn’t the only screw up for our boy last night. From all indications, Christine Webster was not a Witch and in fact didn’t actively practice any religion at all, much less an alternative one. Well, the good news is I think we’ve solved the mystery behind this break in the M.O.”

  Ben had already told me this simple revelation upon my arrival at the MCS command post, but from the attentive stares he now commanded, I could tell that this was new information to most everyone else present.

  “As you’re aware, we’ve been operatin’ on the assumption that the killer is workin’ off a list. This list contains the names of several women who are members of a local Witches coven. All of the victims up until this point have been on that list. Now what we believe we are dealin’ with on the most recent victim is a case of mistaken identity.”

  “So there’s a Christine Webster out there that actually is a member of that coven?” one of the cops asked.

  “Exactly,” my friend answered. “Only ‘er name is spelled with a K instead of a C-h. K-r-i-s-t-i-n-e, ta’ be exact. Other than that, the middle and last names are identical.”

  “The mistake makes sense if you follow the killer’s brand of logic,” I interjected. “It stands to reason that someone with a deep religious conviction would hear Christine and automatically spell it with a C-h. After all, the origin of the name is Christ.”

  Ben grunted in agreement.

  “So the original theory holds?” the questioning cop asked.

  “For now, yes.” Ben nodded. “Okay. Now that we’ve cleared that one up, I’m gonna turn the floor over to our distinguished city M.E. So, Doc, you got anything for us on last night’s unfortunate souls?”

  Doctor Sanders set her own coffee aside while simultaneously slipping her reading glasses onto her face. The spectacles that hung from a simple chain about her neck were like a permanent fixture. I couldn’t recall ever having seen her without them. She opened a file before her and peered at the scribbled notes, reciting from them without looking up.

  “I have the preliminary posts on all three. First victim is Sheryl Kee...” The last few words of her sentence elongated and rose in pitch as she yawned deeply. Covering her mouth with her hand, she drew in a second breath a
nd sighed, “Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry.”

  “S’alright Doc,” Ben told her. “Been a long one for all of us... Go on.”

  “As I was saying,” she continued, “first victim, Sheryl Keeven, Caucasian, female, thirty-four years of age. She was hung by the neck from the balcony of her apartment. Prelim shows a stress fracture at the third cervical vertebrae, but that didn’t kill her immediately. There are indications that she expired due to asphyxiation. There were thirteen remarkable puncture wounds in soft tissues that were made pre-mortem. I would venture to say from an ice pick or something very similar.

  “Next…” She flipped a page in the manila file and stifled another yawn. “Christine Webster, again Caucasian, female. Twenty-seven years of age. Cause of death was asphyxiation due to drowning, pure and simple. Her lungs were full of water. Ms. Webster’s body also exhibited a number of puncture wounds consistent with the Keeven woman as well as the two earlier victims.

  “Finally, Robert Webster. Caucasian, male, twenty-eight. Contused larynx. Cause of death, again, asphyxiation. He was choked to death using the cord from a set of mini blinds. No other wounds in this case save for some minor, unremarkable bruising and abrasions that most likely occurred during a struggle. Judging from the upward angle of the contusion, I would venture to hypothesize that the attacker was a rather large male, probably over six feet in height. Other than that…” She flicked the folder shut then removed her glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “…we will have to wait for the tox and labs to come back.”

  She allowed her glasses to dangle down on their omnipresent chain and looked up at us with a slight shrug. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate ya’ gettin’ on that so quick,” Ben told her then turned his attention back to the rest of the room and nodded in the direction of a thick, stocky man who was absently smoothing his moustache as he listened. “You and your team have anything for us from the crime scenes, Murv?”