“Ex-oh-duss.” He nodded vigorously and proceeded to misquote the highlighted passage. “Whiches shall not live.”
“That’s what was bookmarked,” Ben agreed then urged him on. “Can you remember where ya’ got the Bible?”
“It wuz on the table,” he answered.
“Can you tell me where this table was?”
“By the fire,” he returned matter-of-factly and shrugged. The old man continued to stare at Ben as if he fully expected the answer to make perfect sense to us. Before the obvious next question could be asked, his face slackened, and his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment. Leaning forward, he began to search Ben’s face, “Is Tracy okay?”
“I already told ya’, Miz Watson is fine,” my friend returned impatiently. “Now can ya’ be a little more specific about where ya’ obtained this Bible.”
“Tracy, Tracy,” the old man grinned sheepishly and began singing, “Tracy, Tracy, I love Tracy. Tracy with the big, big tits!”
Ben shot another glance over at me, and it took no great skill to read the expression that had applied itself to his chiseled features. The old bum wasn’t exactly residing in the same plane of reality that we were. Whether or not this was entirely due to the alcohol in his system still remained to be seen.
“The mean lady with the pritty hair hit me,” the bum announced. “Didyu ‘rest her too?”
“Sir...” Ben started.
“She wuz mean.” He furrowed his brow and belched loudly. “Tracy is nice.” Again he began his off-keyed ditty, “Tracy, Tracy, I love Tracy...”
“Sir,” Ben cut him off with a disgusted sigh, “please concentrate on the question. Where did ya’ get the Bible we found in your pocket?”
My friend’s voice had taken on a sharp, biting tone that made the old man flinch and cower away. I could easily sense that his irritation with the state of affairs was rising and that his temper was well on its way to a minor flare at the very least. I knew this would serve no purpose other than driving the old man’s memory further out of our reach and decided to break my self-imposed silence.
“You said it was on a table next to the fire,” I volunteered in a soothing voice. “Can you tell us where the fire was?”
The bum cautiously shifted his gaze over to me and stared quizzically. “Fire?”
With my eyes fixed to his I spoke, keeping my timbre light and even, almost to the point of being a dull monotone, “Yes, you were telling us about the Bible you found on the table.”
“On the table,” he echoed my words, nodding slightly as he did so.
“Right.” I smiled and continued to soothe him with my voice. “You said the table was next to a fire. Can you tell me where the fire was?”
He, himself, having been on the receiving end of such an impromptu hypnosis by me, Ben quickly caught on to what I was trying to do. He immediately ceased pressing with his own questions and fell silent. He even went so far as to back away from the small table as if he thought he might somehow be in my way.
“The park,” the old man mumbled and blinked. “The fire wuz in the park.”
I could feel how hard he was concentrating on the question and in a way felt sorry for him. I knew it was just as hard for him to make sense of his disjointed remembrances as it was for me to cajole them to the surface. I wasn’t even sure my expenditure of energy was going to get us anywhere, for the old man may have seen nothing at all.
I could only hope that it wouldn’t be fruitless because the tightening that now crept along my scalp was a harbinger of the payment I would be doling out in the very near future.
“Good.” I nodded and then urged calmly, “Now can you remember anything else about the park? What did you see?”
Wide-eyed horror slowly crept into the bum’s face, forcing his befuddled expression aside, then finally overtaking and replacing it entirely.
An acrid burn washed over my skin as my hairs rose on end. Gelid fear tickled the pit of my stomach and threatened to force its way outward through every pore on my body. The barest glimpse of what the old man had seen that night hazily began to form as the experience was blurted into the ethereal space between us.
“Oh no!” he cried and began shaking his head. “No! She’s in the fire! No!”
An image visible to only the old man and I began to congeal and clarify, offering its testimony of the events that were played out. I stared hard into the vision searching for anything that would even remotely equal a clue.
Without warning, dull pain bludgeoned me with a rock hard fist directly between the eyes as the small snippet of that night was unceremoniously ripped from my grasp, even before I had had the opportunity to truly view it.
I turned suddenly at the sound of the interview room door flying open and was greeted by the image of a beleaguered young man wielding a briefcase and a file folder. He followed the swinging barrier hastily inward while glaring angrily in my direction. Ben shifted quickly to the side to avoid being creased by the heavy metal rectangle pivoting on its hinges.
“Just what the hell do you two think you are doing?” he demanded as he waved the file between us. “Which one of you is Detective Storm?”
“That’d be me,” Ben answered coldly. “You are?”
Considering the current circumstances, I was glad the man was focusing his attention on Ben. The primary thrust of agony was now beginning to fade, but I knew something just this side of bearable was going to be left in its wake.
“I am this man’s attorney.” If the young man was taken aback in any way by Ben’s stature, he didn’t show it outwardly. Instead, he turned on him as he answered the question and spat authoritatively. “I want both of you out of here right now.”
“Slow down.” My friend held up his hands in mock surrender. “Your client has been Mirandized, and he agreed ta’ speak with us. ‘Sides, we aren’t even discussin’ the assault.”
“Alleged assault,” the court appointed attorney insisted. “And my client, according to your own department’s Breathalyzer test is legally intoxicated. I am certain the blood test you gave him will prove that out. He is in no condition to agree to speak with you about anything without adequate representation present.”
“Hold on just a minute...”
“No, YOU hold on. Unless you want me to bring the both of you and this department up on charges, I suggest you two get out of here and let me speak to my client!”
Ben let out a resigned sigh and shook his head. “Come on, Row. Let’s get outta here.”
I gave a gentle nod and turned toward the open door. Before I completed a single step for the opening, the old man’s voice met my ears in a pleading tone, “Hey, Mister.”
I stopped mid-stride, tried to ignore the thudding in my skull, and turned back to him. As I did, the still fuming lawyer interposed himself between us and spoke quickly, “As your attorney I strongly advise against continuing your conversation with these men.”
“Mister,” the old bum looked around the body obstructing his view and appealed to me once again while shaking his head. “Tracy shoodn’t feel bad cuz she spilt her drink on me. I know it was uh accident. Kin you tell her for me? I doan wan’ her ta’ feel bad.”
It wasn’t what I had hoped he was about to tell me, but I wasn’t surprised. The sudden interruption had undone everything I had started to accomplish, and the drunken old man had instantly reverted back to his fantasy world.
“Sure,” I said. “Can I tell her your name?”
“Name?” He looked back at me with a puzzled frown.
“Yes sir, your name. Can I tell Miz Watson your name?”
A wide grin spread across his face, and he began clapping his hands together as best he could with the hardened steel restraints still encircling his wrists.
“Puddin ‘n’ Tain,” he giggled suddenly. “Puddin ‘n’ Tain, thas’ my name, ask me agin an I’ll tell ya’ the same!”
I simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving the old man to gleefully cha
nt a new rhyme. Before the door shut, we heard the attorney angrily spit a demand after us, “I want someone in here to get these handcuffs off my client!”
* * * * *
“Fuckin’ idealistic little snot-nosed bastard.” Ben voiced his deprecating slur about the young public defender as he drove his doubled fist into his open palm. The impact elicited a loud pop that echoed seemingly forever down the long tiled hallway. “Sonofabitch pro’bly just passed the bar last week.”
“I hate to play devil’s advocate here,” I offered as we continued down the corridor. I was forced to increase my pace in order to keep up with my friend’s long, angry strides. “But, be that as it may, he has a point. That old man in there is far too inebriated to make accurate judgments at the moment. You saw that for yourself. Fact is he might not even be mentally capable of making decisions that are in his own best interest, period.”
“Maybe so, but you were beginnin’ ta’ get through to him, weren’t ya’?” It was as much a statement as a question.
“He appeared to be starting to regress back to that night, but I can’t tell you how much was fantasy and how much was reality.”
We slowed and rounded a corner then came to a halt before a metal door. Gouges and chips littered the grey, semi-gloss finish, forming a mottled background for uneven, faded letters across its face that read ‘STAIRS.’ Above the door an exit sign glowed dully.
Ben rested one hand on the doorknob and then jerked his free thumb over his shoulder toward the interview room we had just left. “But ya’ could’ve if ya’ hadn’t been interrupted by Perry Mason back there, am I right?”
“I can’t guarantee you that, but yes,” I nodded slightly, “it’s possible.”
“Well weren’t ya’ doin’ some of that hocus-pocus stuff to ‘im? You know, like when ya’ hypnotized me into seein’ that spider on my arm that time?” He was referring to a simplistic glamour I had used to demonstrate hypnosis to him months ago.
“Kind of. Not exactly like that, but along similar lines. Mainly I was just trying to help him remember.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” He levered the door open and motioned me through.
“In all honesty, he would probably be easier to hypnotize once he’s sobered up anyway,” I added as we started up the stairs. “It’s obvious that he already lives in a bit of a fantasy world, and the liquor was not only acting to perpetuate that but also to confuse him even more. An insane mind is not an easy one to read or affect.”
“Well, now that he’s got an attorney, I wouldn’t count on gettin’ that chance anytime soon. Jeez, white man, you’re gonna hafta teach me some of that hocus-pocus stuff one of these days.”
“Trust me, it’s not all that much fun.”
“I dunno... Bet that little Svengali deal is a blast at parties.”
“Believe me, Chief, sometimes the payback is a bitch. You just think it would be fun because right now you can’t feel the headache I have coming on.”
CHAPTER 17
Members of the Major Case Squad had broken off into various groups by the time we returned to the squad room on the upper floor; some in small teams discussing and exchanging ideas; some alone with telephones pressed purposefully to their ears; still others already out on the streets. No matter the particular duty being executed, though, they were all striving toward a singular purpose. To find a killer and stop him before anyone else could become a victim.
“The systems administrator of the Miller woman’s ISP is supposed to meet one of us at their office around noon,” the young detective named Chuck told us. “He says they keep their logs for ninety days, so we might have a good shot.”
The three of us were positioned around Ben’s desk in a small huddle of our own. My friend stood leaning against the piece of furniture with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a dejected scowl glued to his angular features. The young detective had accosted us with the information almost as soon as we had come through the double metal and glass doors that served as an entryway to the squad room.
Ben nodded thoughtfully and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Tell me again what this is gonna do for us?”
I was just swallowing a handful of decomposing aspirin from a bottle that looked like it had been rolling around in the desk drawer for the past decade. I had tried to eyeball a measurement that looked like it might equal somewhere around three or four whole tablets, then finally gave up and simply filled my palm with the chunky granules. Hopefully the analgesic would kick in soon because a small troll with a ball peen hammer was already having a party inside my skull.
I chased the crumbling white pill remnants down with a quick gulp of fresh coffee that wasn’t much better than the hours old brew from earlier. The bitter tang of the medicine combined with the java leeched into the back of my tongue, and I had to bite back a reflexive gag.
“Whoever sent her the threatening e-mail,” I finally explained, setting my cup aside and forcing myself to ignore the throbbing in my temples, “would most likely have an e-mail address or a domain header embedded in it. If we can get that information, we should be able to trace it back to their service provider and get their billing information.”
“Unless the sender spoofed it,” Chuck volunteered.
“Yes, that’s true,” I agreed.
“Spoof?” Ben shot a puzzled look between us.
“Masked or somehow altered the address and domain,” the young detective detailed. “Kind of like electronically filing off a serial number.”
“Simply fuckin’ lovely.” Ben’s right hand went up to smooth back his hair as he muttered the curse.
“Even if it was spoofed, as long as they have the POP-three logs and the original piece of mail, the assigned routing number should at least allow us to track it to the mail server that delivered it originally,” I offered.
Chuck returned an animated nod. “True, but that’s all you’d get. No account info. And if you’re talking AOL or something, that’s a big goddamned ISP. That’s not even taking into account if it was sent through an open relay.”
“So what’s the story? There’s still a way ta’ track ‘im down even if he did this ‘spoofing’ thing, or no?” Ben queried.
“In theory, yes,” I told him. “I have to be honest though, I don’t think this guy is that computer savvy. In fact, we should consider the fact that the threatening e-mail might not have even come from him.”
“Whaddaya mean?” my friend asked.
“This kind of hate crime is not terribly uncommon,” I replied with a shrug. “The idea of taunting or degrading someone from behind the anonymity of the keyboard is terribly appealing to some. Unfortunately, there are a large number of individuals out there who are closed minded and hateful but are just a little too inhibited to step over the line in person. Hide them behind a computer monitor and a phone line and they suddenly change. The inhibitions disappear because they believe no one knows who they are, and they think that they can’t be caught.”
“So you’re sayin’ this kinda shit happens all the time?” Ben appealed.
Chuck had been bobbing his head at strategic points throughout my statement. “It’s rapidly becoming the preferred method of sending anonymous hate mail.”
I shrugged in agreement. “Sure. I’ve been on the receiving end of threatening e-mail myself.”
“What the fuck?” Ben’s eyes grew wide. “Why haven’t ya’ ever told me this before, white man?”
“Why?”
“So maybe I could do somethin’ about it.”
“So you could do what, Ben?” I questioned. “Fly halfway across the country and beat up... oh, I don’t know...” I shrugged and shook my head before continuing, “maybe a beer swilling bigot in his mid-twenties whose biggest thrill in life is denigrating others over the internet just for something to do? People like that aren’t worth your time any more than they are mine.”
My friend stared at the floor for a moment, silently working his fingers on a tense knot at the bac
k of his neck. “Okay,” he finally spoke. “So if I understand what you two are sayin’, this lead may or may not get us any closer to our guy.”
“Right,” Chuck answered.
“Correct,” I agreed. “But there’s only one way to find out, and that’s to go talk to the administrator of Kendra Miller’s ISP and see what kind of information we can get.”
“You know,” Chuck offered, “internet stalking is a federal crime. You might want to get the Feeb’s in on this.”
Still massaging the base of his neck, Ben twisted around and motioned across the room with his free hand. “Hey, Constance, you got a minute?”
* * * * *
We were sitting in a small waiting area in one corner of the homicide division squad room. My auburn-maned wife was planted lethargically in her seat next to me, one leg draped over the other, unmoving. Ever since I had known her, whenever she sat with her legs crossed, she would invariably begin lightly tapping her foot in the air to a rhythm only she could hear. Her now uncharacteristic motionlessness was a sure indicator of her fatigue.
Her upper torso was slightly twisted and tucked neatly into the crook of my shoulder with my arm hooked about her. She cupped a half-full coffee mug in her dainty hands, absently running the tip of a neatly manicured nail around its rim.
I rested my chin lightly atop her head, and since her contaminated jacket was draped across a seat several feet away, all I could smell was the fresh sweetness of juniper wafting from her soft hair. I closed my eyes and relaxed, feeling the fistful of aspirins beginning to force my headache into submission.
“We’ll be leaving in about thirty-minutes or so, I guess,” I told Felicity in a quiet voice. “I don’t know how long it will take, but I wouldn’t expect more than an hour or two.”
“That’s okay,” she answered with an exhausted near whisper. “I called my client before I came up here. They still want to see if we can do the shoot today, so I really need to be getting over there then.”
Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 23