Between her lingering hangover and coming down from the adrenalin rush, I knew she was fading fast. I also had no doubt that she would muster a second wind and do everything in her power to make her client happy—and she would succeed as usual. This evening, however, one could be certain that she was going to crash and crash hard.
“You look to me like you need a few more hours sleep as opposed to working,” I admonished. “No offense intended. You’re still the prettiest sight I’ve seen all day.”
“Aye, none taken,” her voice lilted as she rested against me. “Surely I feel like I could use it myself. And I suspect you need to have your glasses checked then.”
“Uh-huh. My glasses are fine, sweetheart.”
“Ahh, you’re just besotted then.” My petite wife let out a satiny, musical laugh then stretched cat-like against me and pressed herself deeper into the cradle of my arm. “Oh, and I almost forgot, Austin called shortly after you left this morning. He’d like to take us to dinner tomorrow night if we’re free. I told him I’d check with you.”
“I don’t see why we couldn’t,” I said with a slight shrug. “I can’t say what’s going to happen between now and then, but as far as I know I’ll be available. And I definitely didn’t get to spend much time with him last night. How did all that work out anyway?”
“What’s that? The fight?”
“Yeah,” I said and gave her arm a squeeze. “Best I could get from you last night was that you’d bailed him out.”
She let out a breath and inhaled deeply. I could feel a slight movement of her head against me as she gave a shallow nod. “The charges were dropped. Austin didn’t hurt him that badly, and seems that after Daddy was finished threatening the hotel management with lawsuits, they were apologizing and assuring him they would take disciplinary action against the bartender.”
“Leave it to Shamus,” I muttered with hollowness in my voice. “So some poor stiff is going to lose his job on top of getting pummeled by my brother-in-law, all because he happened to make a joke about me? I can’t live with that.”
“Aye, I’m thinking not, so don’t worry,” she returned. “Daddy told them they should leave it be. Just let men be men and be done with it.”
“If the guy dropped the assault charges though, you can be sure he got some pressure from the upper management.”
“Aye. Surely you’re correct on that.”
“I realize Austin felt he was just being loyal to a family member, but he should really go apologize to the man.”
“He probably already has.” She reached over and gave my thigh a loving pat. “That’s where he was planning to go this morning after breakfast.”
* * * * *
A flat-bottomed mass of clouds hung like an anvil over the small corner of Saint Louis’ south county—an oppressive reminder of winter casting a harsh, blue-grey silhouette across the mounded snow. The temperature managed to bootstrap itself to a few degrees above the freezing point by the time the clock hands met at twelve. This, in combination with the moderate amount of sunshine that peeked through, had already rendered the small dusting of the fresh white stuff we had received overnight to a damp memory. It was now continuing to work silently at melting away the remnants of the recent miniature blizzard.
The general populace of the city and county were visibly active in the wake of this serendipitous “heat” wave. Self-service car washes were raking in the quarters as patrons choked their small lots—everyone vying for positions to wash the corrosive road grime from their vehicles. For every clean car to exit on the backside, seemingly two more would rush to join the throng waiting for a turn. As we passed by these small pockets of frenzied activity, we saw no less than a half dozen fender benders caused by the impatient confusion.
Special Agent Mandalay turned the dark sedan into the parking lot of a plain looking strip mall on Gravois. Due to the possible federal jurisdiction surrounding this crime—or portion of a larger crime—she and I had been elected to make this call. Constance was, of course, the official representative of law enforcement. I was along simply as a translator. Someone to make sense of any computer and internet jargon she might not be familiar with.
Everyone else, including Ben and Deckert had either remained behind or set out in different directions, all intent on following up other leads, sparse as they were. Another purpose for my friend to remain at the MCS command post was to be able to direct the actions of the squad. Even his superior officers were giving him free rein over this case based on his recent past history with the last serial killer and to an even greater extent, me. Because of his relationship with me, as well as the circumstances surrounding the last case, he was viewed as the ranking officer when it came to crimes that dealt with anything even remotely related to what they termed “occult dealings.” I suppose that in their opinion, a madman going around murdering Witches by all the conventions of the Inquisition fell under that particular heading. I guess I had to agree.
The long brick building we were rolling toward across the wet asphalt was nestled comfortably between a small restaurant on the right and what appeared to be a light industrial area to the left. A laundromat equipped with its own bar, aptly titled SUDZ, occupied one end of the structure. Neon signs painted on the window boasted a Tuesday and Thursday singles night. Not exactly my idea of a good time, but then I had never been one for enjoying either activity—doing the laundry or singles night at a bar. Not even when I was single.
The opposite end housed the office and showroom of a small accounting firm with a decidedly ethnic name. A few other nondescript businesses occupied the center, with our destination sandwiched in between. South County Online Internet Services, L.L.C.
Constance nosed her sedan into a space in front of the establishment and directly next to an older, but apparently well maintained, Cutlass Supreme. The car showed almost no sign of the chalky, whitish-grey salt that coated her vehicle and in fact, was even steaming slightly in the sunlight as water from an extremely recent wash evaporated into the chilled air. It couldn’t have been pulled into its space very long before we arrived.
A haggard looking man with shoulder-length hair, dressed in denim jeans and an oversized sweatshirt bearing the logo of a modem manufacturer stood outside the door of the service provider. His winter coat hung limply open over his thin frame, and his wide eyes bore the signature glaze of the programmer’s trinity—caffeine, nicotine, and a late night spent staring at the sixty hertz scan of a computer monitor. Years ago, before I had gone into business for myself, I had seen a very similar face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror each and every morning.
He took a deep drag from the remains of the cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger as he watched us get out of the vehicle. With a lazy flick, he sent the butt sailing through the air in the direction of a large coffee can without even looking. I assumed the receptacle was partially filled with sand, but it was impossible to be sure as it was already overflowing onto the sidewalk with the extinguished remnants of countless other cigarettes. The butt impacted the concrete near the can and exploded a small shower of red embers outward to quickly die then rolled to a stop and laid smoldering amidst the others that had come before it.
The bedraggled man nodded in our direction as he blew out a thick cloud of smoke intermixed with steamy breath. “You two the cops that called?”
Constance reached into her coat as she stepped around the front of the car and withdrew the leather case containing her credentials. In a practiced motion she smoothly flipped open the wallet with one hand to display her badge and identification to him.
“I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI,” she stated in an even, businesslike tone. “This is Mister Gant.”
“FBI, huh. I was just expectin’ cops,” the man grunted then chuckled lightly. “Shouldn’t you be a redhead and shouldn’t he be taller?”
Constance glanced over at me with a thin frown sealing her lips but refrained from commenting on the TV show
reference she had probably heard more times that she could easily recollect. Fluidly closing the leather case, she thrust her identification back into her pocket and looked back to the man.
“You are the systems administrator for this Internet Service?” The tone of her voice turned the statement into a question, and she motioned to the sign on the window that proclaimed South County Online to be the “Leading Edge In Internet Information Services.”
“That’s me.” He extended his hand as he acknowledged in a somewhat unsettled tone, having most certainly noticed Agent Mandalay’s cold reaction to his quip. “Rocky Wendell.”
We exchanged quick handshakes and then followed him through the door into the dark interior of the building.
“I can put some coffee on if either of you want any,” he told us as we tagged along through the reception area, past a service desk, and into a corridor lit dimly by a glowing exit sign.
“Thank you, no,” Constance gunned down his offer with sharp, vocational politeness. “We’re running a little short on time, so if you could just answer a few questions about one of your clients, we’ll let you get on with what’s left of the weekend.”
Wendell hesitated for a moment after slapping a pair of switches and stood studying her face as fluorescent illumination poured into the hallway and rear half of the building. It was becoming obvious that the petite federal agent’s demeanor had him off balance. It was almost as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle dealing with a woman in a position of authority.
Finally, he simply shrugged then turned and continued down the corridor. “Suit yourself.”
* * * * *
“Kendra Miller, yeah, here it is,” Wendell told us from behind a glassy eyed stare at a screen positioned on his desk, “Witchvixen at yadda yadda yadda.” He ripped off a string of keystrokes, and we could see the light of the screen flicker across his face as it changed. “According to her activity log, I think she might have taken that nickname a little too seriously... Says here she was subscribed to some of those wacko newsgroups... alt dot WitchCraft, alt dot Witches, alt dot Wicca...”
“Do you have any record of her complaining of threatening or harassing e-mail?” Agent Mandalay interrupted him before he could continue reading off the list.
“Just a second.” He tapped out another series of clicks and clacks on the keyboard, then once again the screen flickered, and he slowly began nodding. “Yeah... yeah, looks like about a month ago. She got a crank e-mail and called. Looks like we just set up a trap filter on her account for that addy.”
“Did you have to trap an entire domain?” I inquired.
“Nope, whoever it was didn’t bother to spoof it. Address and IP were clean. It was an easy trap, not that it mattered. She only got the one e-mail.”
“Nothing else?” I pressed.
“Nope. Just the one.” He shook his head. “We e-mailed a notification of the problem to the originating server and didn’t even get an acknowledgement back. We assumed they just took care of it.”
“Can you give us a copy of that information?” Mandalay asked.
“Sure.” He rolled back a foot or so and punched the power switch on a laser printer that was positioned behind him. “You want a copy of the original crank e-mail too?”
“Please.” She nodded.
We watched on in silence as he rapidly issued a series of commands through the keyboard then sat back and raised his eyebrows at us. “Be just a second. It’ll spool just as soon as the printer warms up. You know, if you want my opinion, she was pretty much looking to get harassed if she was hanging out on newsgroups like that.” He let out a sudden cackling laugh. “I mean get serious. Witches? What a bunch of nutballs.”
Constance and I remained silent and waited patiently as the device came ready then began spitting out sheets of paper. After a moment, Wendell gathered the short stack of warm twenty-pound bond and handed it across the desk to Constance.
“Originating SMTP server is part of a privately owned domain,” he offered as she leafed through the pages, handing each one to me in succession as she finished scanning it. “Info is right there in the header.”
“Rowan,” Constance said as she handed over a sparsely printed page, “have a look at this.”
The text contained the standard date, time, tracking number and header information one would find on any e-mail. The TO line read “[email protected].” The FROM read “[email protected].” The body of the message was what really struck home. In bold black against the stark white paper the words “Thou Shalt Not Suffer A Witch To Live” stared back at me. Below that familiar sentence was another, far less eloquent phrase, “You will burn you fucking bitch!”
I glanced over at Constance and raised an eyebrow then turned my attention back to the man behind the desk.
“Did you by any chance run a check on this domain to see who owns it?” I asked.
“Just a sec...” he replied and once again assaulted his keyboard.
Almost instantly the laser printer wound up from a low squeal to a high pitched whine like a miniature jet preparing for takeoff. With a sharp click followed by a dull thunk, it peeled off a fresh sheet of paper from the tray and a moment later spit it out the top. Wendell snatched it up and perused the printing on its face briefly before tossing it on the desk in front of me.
“That’s a ‘whois’ on it,” he explained. “Shows who the domain is registered to, gives a contact name, phone number, all that. From the looks of the address the owner’s local.”
I gave the listing a quick once over, noting the address as well, then slid it over to Constance who picked it up and began to quickly read.
“We appreciate all your help, Mister Wendell,” she told him as she slowly stood and extended her hand, all the while still looking at the information on the page I had just given her. “We will be sure to contact you if we have any further questions.”
I followed her cue and rose up from my chair as well.
“Glad I could help,” the man returned as he shook her hand then looked over at me and reached out to shake mine. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Well I always thought you Feds were supposed to be clean cut and all,” he spoke as he pumped my right hand and gestured at my hair with his free appendage. “But you’ve got a ponytail and a beard. What’s up with that? You some kind of undercover agent or something?”
“Mister Gant isn’t with the Bureau,” Constance volunteered.
“She’s right, I’m not.” I smiled at him. “I’m one of those nutball Witches.”
CHAPTER 18
“Yes, that’s right, last four digits are two-five-two-two,” Agent Mandalay said into her cell phone as she cranked the steering wheel and backed us out of the parking space. The tires let out a dull squeal as they spun against the wet pavement before taking hold. “Address looks like it’s a private residence in West County... Millchester... The man’s name that holds the registration on the domain or whatever is one Allen Roberts. That first name is spelled A-L-L-E-N... Yeah, like a surname. The last name is Roberts, R-O-B-E-R-T-S.
“Yes... Yeah... Uh-huh, okay... Rowan and I are on our way there right now. Uh-huh, okay, call me on my cellular if you need to. Uh-huh, yes...I’d say about twenty minutes... Okay, see you there... Bye.”
The phone let out an audible squelch as she pulled it away from her ear and stabbed the END button with her thumb, then dropped it onto the seat.
“Storm and Deckert are meeting us there.” She glanced quickly at me as she seized a break in the traffic and pushed the sedan out into the westbound lanes of Gravois. “Carl is calling in some backup from County right now.”
“You know,” I started hesitantly, “I don’t really want to rain on your parade, but something just doesn’t feel right about this. I don’t think this is our guy.”
“Why not?” she asked, settling into her seat and smoothly accelerating the vehicle as we merged with th
e flow.
“It’s just not right.” I shook my head. “It... It just doesn’t feel like him.”
“What about the message?” she posed. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live? Exodus twenty-two eighteen, just like was highlighted in the Bible that old bum had in his pocket. You said you were sure he got it from the Miller crime scene.”
“I am sure,” I agreed. “And yes, it is the same verse, but that is the most commonly quoted, misquoted, and misinterpreted, mind you, passage from the Bible with regard to Witches and WitchCraft. It is definitely not out of the question that someone else would quote it in their hate mail.”
“Well what about the rest of it? The whole ‘You’ll burn you fucking bitch’ part?” Constance insisted. “That’s exactly how she was murdered, right?”
“Granted, he did burn her, but the whole comment doesn’t sound like this guy at all. He passes judgment using the questions and conventions of the Malleus Maleficarum, and he quotes it directly. It definitely has a tendency to be much more eloquently worded. This is not to mention the fact that he passes the judgment in person just as it would have been done at a Witch trial. He’s very intent on adhering to these methods, up to and including the motions of proving out the accusation through some means of torture. I don’t believe he would actually verbalize, or in this case write, the judgment until he had done that at the very least.
“The use of denigrating expletives in calling her a ‘fucking bitch’ is way out of character as well.” I shook my head vigorously. “No, I think this is all just a bizarre coincidence.”
“You don’t think it’s just a little too bizarre?”
“Believe me, I can see where you’re coming from, Constance,” I admitted with a sigh then endeavored to explain my logic. “But, just from my own experience I can tell you that when you mention Witches to someone, one of the first things they think of is burning at the stake. You’d be surprised how many people out there believe that those accused of WitchCraft in Salem were burned, when in fact they were hanged. While in one respect that is a testament to the apathy of the population, in another it shows how the whole myth surrounding Witch Burnings has become a very common and deeply ingrained fallacy. I really don’t find that comment surprising at all. Besides, for all we know, whoever wrote that e-mail could have meant she was going to burn in hell. That’s another well worn expression we’ve all been subjected to at one time or another.”
Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 24