“You could be right,” she replied. “But I think the similarities between the e-mail and the actual crime are too important to ignore.”
“Don’t misunderstand,” I told her, “I’m not saying that anything should be ignored, least of all this. I’m just telling you that I truly don’t believe this is the guy. It just doesn’t feel right.”
Constance snapped a quick look over her shoulder and then eased the car onto the ramp to Highway 270. We continued wordlessly for a few moments, the ticking sound of the turn signal filling the cab like a metronome as she blended us into the other traffic. With another glance behind and quick check of the mirrors, she hopscotched the government sedan across a trio of lanes and leaned on the accelerator.
“So this is one of your feelings, huh?” she finally voiced the half question.
“Yeah. One of my feelings,” I affirmed.
The landscape was beginning to slip past the windows at an ever-increasing rate, and the other cars sharing the highway with us had become only momentary flashes of color. I let my gaze drift over to the dashboard and saw the vibrating needle of the speedometer hovering somewhere between seventy-five and eighty.
“Well I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Mandalay expressed matter-of-factly. “Storm is supposed to be getting a description of this guy from DMV. Besides, we should be there inside of ten minutes anyway.”
* * * * *
“Got two cars in the driveway. DMV shows both of them registered to Allen Roberts,” a stocky, African-American officer clad in a crisp tan-over-brown County uniform, told us. He was among a number of people I had seen today who was devoid of a jacket or coat, regaling themselves in the illusion of spring-like weather in the heart of winter. Absently he reached to his belt and adjusted the volume of his radio as it chattered with the voice traffic of the other units patrolling the suburbs of Saint Louis. “Shades are up and I caught some motion through the front window on a drive by. Someone is definitely home.”
Constance and I had met up with Ben, Deckert, and the patrolman on the parking lot of a small combination gas station/convenience store less than a half-mile from the residence. Cars streamed in and out of the station at random intervals. Some moments every available pump would be occupied, and at others the lot would be almost empty. The occasional patron would stop for a moment and stare in our direction, drawn in by idle curiosity at the small assemblage of badge-wearing individuals. I could feel their eyes upon us making the hair stand on the back of my neck as they gazed in wonderment. Being the only non-law enforcement member of the group, I suddenly felt thoroughly conspicuous and horribly out of place. Logically, I knew that the onlookers had no way of knowing that I wasn’t just another cop, but that didn’t stop the prickling sensation from running up and down my back.
In truth, since the beginning of this case, I had been treated by all of them as though I was one of their own. I had only recently begun to realize that I was an altogether vested member of this elite group and that I had been accepted fully into their fold. They depended on me to make sense of things that were unknown to them. They used me to track bizarre killers the way a traffic cop uses a radar gun to catch speeders. While some of my talents and revelations still brought a furrowed brow, or even a brief glazed look of fear, they were doing all this with little or no question.
Still, acting as an advisor and explaining my supernormal visions to a room full of cops was one thing. Being in the middle of an operation such as this one was an entirely different story. I beat back the rhizome of anxiety that was starting to spread and reminded myself that this wasn’t the first time I had done this. It wasn’t something new to me at all and, in fact, was even a bit mundane considering my last experience, which had been an all out assault on a killer’s house. That time I had been clad in a bullet proof vest and wallowing in the thick of it for the sake of rescuing a little girl he intended to ritually sacrifice for some still unknown purpose. The urgency of that situation combined with the adrenalin rush hadn’t afforded me the opportunity to feel this out of place on that night. I guess I was making up for it now.
“Great.” My friend nodded as he planted his large hand on a map spread across the hood of the patrol car and studied it carefully. Every now and then a cold breeze would whip around the end of the small building, lifting the edge of the carefully drawn grid and threaten to take the paper into flight. “That’s terrific. This prob’ly isn’t gonna be much of anything, ta’ be perfectly honest. Well, unless forensics is way off on their height estimation, ‘cause the description of this Roberts individual we got from his license info actually doesn’t match up with the physical profile of our bad guy. But, accordin’ to what Agent Mandalay and Rowan found out, he’s somehow connected with the threatening e-mail one of the victims received, so he might know somethin’. Basically, I’d just like to be ready in case he bolts.”
“The patrol areas overlap here, here, and here,” the uniformed man offered, using his finger to indicate points on the carefully inked grid. “If he runs and manages to get past you, he’s not going far.”
“Good deal.” Ben nodded as he spoke and pushed his own finger around the sheet of intersecting lines then tapped it on the final destination. “We’re just gonna knock on the front door, so you take up a spot on this side street here and keep an eye out.”
“Yes sir,” the patrolman replied with a curt nod and then proceeded to quickly fold the map.
“Okay folks,” my friend announced as he looked around our small huddle. “Let’s get movin’. Row, you ride with me.”
I followed him to his van and climbed in to the passenger side while Deckert shook hands with the uniformed officer and finished thanking him for his help then joined Agent Mandalay in her vehicle.
“Constance told me you think this is a dead end,” Ben stated as he twisted the key in the ignition and the engine kicked over.
“Honestly, yes,” I agreed. “After seeing the actual e-mail, I don’t really believe it has anything to do with the killer.”
“Lovely,” he replied while waiting for the other two cars to back out, watching intently in his side view mirror. “So we just spin our wheels some more.”
“I could be wrong,” I offered.
“Yeah, like I’ve seen that happen a lot lately,” he replied sarcastically. “No, if you’ve got one of your feelin’s, then you’re prob’ly right, but we gotta check it out anyway. So, you get anything outta that space cadet number you were pullin’ this morning, or did ya’ finally decide it was just a bad dream?”
“Haven’t given it much thought,” I admitted. “It’s been kind of a full day so far.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted as he gunned the engine and pushed the van into a backward arc. “Get no argument from me on that.”
With a tired sigh my friend cranked the shift lever down into drive and urged us forward.
“Well,” he volunteered, “on the up side maybe I’ll get ta’ have dinner with my family for a change. Although, Allison did say she’s makin’ a meatlump tonight.”
“Don’t you mean meatloaf?”
“You ever had Al’s meatloaf, white man? Trust me, she’s makin’ a meatlump.”
* * * * *
The heart of Millchester was a West County suburb of the semi-affluent and moderately comfortable. Tree-lined streets hosting domiciles in the range of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Some a little more, some a little less. For the area, your basic upper middle class subdivision. It was the kind of neighborhood where a reference to “the gardener” was pretentious slang for the third party service that manicured the lawn in the summer and plowed the driveway in winter. A place where “the club” was the private pool and tennis courts maintained by a subdivision committee.
As one skirted closer to the edges of the township, farther into the periphery, property values lowered perceptibly, and though kept up, houses showed more obvious signs of age and wear. Still, the community was one for those within a comfortable lev
el of income. This was where Allen Roberts lived.
The house was a split-level brick dwelling that showed every appearance of being fairly well maintained. The driveway and sidewalk were clear of snow and the slowly melting piles of the white stuff rose above the rest of the tableau to outline the salt-stained concrete. An evergreen hedgerow wrapped around the foundation buried beneath drifts. Here and there random boughs would peek through applying small splashes of emerald against the stark white blanket.
We had arrived within five minutes of leaving the gas station/convenience store and parked on the street in front of the residence. Ben had conveniently positioned his van to block the mouth of the driveway with Special Agent Mandalay’s sedan only a few feet behind. We could see no movement through the unshaded windows, and it didn’t appear that anyone noticed us as we advanced on the home.
Detective Deckert split off from us as we reached the start of the sidewalk, and he continued up the driveway to the corner of the house. There, he positioned himself to keep watch on a side entrance.
“Are you guys always this edgy when you go to question someone?” I asked as the three of us ambled along the path and started up the short flight of steps to the porch.
Ben glanced back and asked me rhetorically, “When it’s even remotely possible they have somethin’ ta’ do with a psychotic killer? You bet your ass.” Then, looking over at Constance, he raised a questioning eyebrow, “So, you wanna draw straws?”
In answer, Agent Mandalay reached out and gave the doorbell a double stab with her thumb. Beyond the darkly stained oak door the muffled ping-pong of the chime echoed twice in rapid succession and was followed shortly by the dull thudding of someone descending carpeted stairs. After the raspy metal-on-metal grating noise of the deadbolt being twisted, the door swung open, breaking the weather tight seal with an audible swoosh.
A thirtyish man with sandy hair stood peering at us from behind the glass of the storm door. He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt; both bore the stylized music note logo of the local hockey team. After taking a sip from an oversized coffee mug, he canted his mouth into a disgusted frown then unlatched the exterior door and pushed it slightly open.
“I’m not buying anything,” he stated flatly before anyone else could speak. “And if you’re from some church, I’m an atheist and I’m not interested, so leave me alone.”
“Mister Roberts?” Constance queried, “Mister Allen Roberts?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and took another sip from the mug. “Like I told you, I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste your breath.”
“No problem, sir,” Ben replied. “We aren’t sellin’ anything. We’d just like to ask ya’ some questions.”
“Mister Roberts,” Constance continued, easily withdrawing her ID wallet and splaying it open as I’d seen her do before. “I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI. This is Detective Storm with the...”
Her incomplete sentence hung in the air as all color drained from Allen Roberts face, and his eyes grew wide with surprised fright. I felt the fear skate up my spine as he projected it wildly, and my defenses automatically enveloped me to ward off the intensely broadcast emotion. Less than a second later, the coffee mug Roberts had been just bringing to his lips slipped from his grasp and exploded in a shower of ceramic shards across the threshold.
“SHIT!” he exclaimed in a panicked voice.
As the cup and its steaming contents splattered through the opening, Constance leapt backwards propelling herself against the wrought iron railing that ringed the porch. The blatantly unnerved man retreated from the doorway, making a hasty attempt to swing the oak barrier shut in our faces, only to have it wedge against one of the larger shards of the broken ceramic before reaching mid-swing.
“Awwwww fuck!” Ben spat under his breath as he motioned quickly to Deckert with one hand and simultaneously withdrew his sidearm from its shoulder holster with the other. With a swift quarter turn of his torso my friend planted his hand on my chest and drove me toward the stairs. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on the doorway and his large frame between any possible threat and me. “Get outta here, Row! Get behind the van! Now!”
I stumbled back, grabbing the railing for support while I struggled to maintain my balance. I could see that Constance was already gripping her weapon stiff-armed before herself at eye level and was glaring down the sights as Ben yanked the outer door wide.
“STOP! Federal Officer!” she bellowed in a crisp, commanding voice as she proceeded through the opening with Ben glued to her heels.
Deckert hopped a short distance down to a snow covered patio area and hustled around the corner of the house, his hand also filled with a nine-millimeter equalizer. I caught only a quick glimpse of the portly detective’s fedora adorned head as he disappeared behind the brick wall.
I continued to twist as I back peddled down the short set of stairs, fighting to turn backward motion into forward as I came to face the street. I had no real clue as to why Allen Roberts had reacted this way to the sight of Agent Mandalay’s badge. My senses detected only fear, and I felt none of the calculated malice that had been present at each of the crime scenes. I could only assume that if he was in fact responsible for the threatening e-mail, he realized that such harassment over the internet was considered a hate crime and was at this very moment regretting the action.
However, I was still firmly convinced that the vile piece of electronic detritus that had been delivered to Kendra Miller’s online address was no more than a coincidence. It was an accidental event that was leading us farther from, rather than closer to, the actual killer.
I pumped my legs hard, pounding my feet against the curved concrete walkway, striving to obey my friend’s order to remove myself from the near proximity. Adrenalin was just taking over as I reached the end of the driveway and hooked myself around the back of his van.
A white Crown Victoria, its door emblazoned with the brown, red, and gold seal of the Saint Louis County Police department screeched to a halt in front of me, light bar flickering madly. The officer Ben had stationed on the side street across from Allen Roberts’ home hit the pavement while the vehicle was still coming to a complete halt. Before I could process the overwhelming abundance of visual information assaulting me, the uniformed cop had grabbed my collar and dragged me down behind the open door of the car.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Nineteen,” the officer spoke rapidly into a hand mic. “Detective Storm and the FBI agent are inside. Detective Deckert has moved his position to the back of the house. Over.”
The radio crackled with static and the faint voices of overlapping channels, then blared the feminine voice of the dispatcher into the frosty air, “Affirmative, Nineteen. Backup is rolling on your location. What is your status?”
“I am in a secure position in front of the residence,” he answered. “Everything’s quiet at the moment. Over.”
Hissing static returned for a brief second.
“Nineteen, be advised, Detective Deckert informed us earlier that there would be a civilian consultant on the scene. One Mister Rowan Gant. Do you know his status? Over.”
“Affirmative,” he spoke as he keyed the microphone. “Mister Gant is safe. I have him right here.”
The dispatcher’s businesslike voice filtered from the speaker once again, “Affirmative, Nineteen.”
The muted crackle of the cross-talking radio traffic filled the thickness around us as we waited for any indication of what was happening inside the walls of the home. Less than three minutes had elapsed since Ben had muscled me off the porch and ordered me out of what he perceived as harm’s way.
My legs were already starting to cramp as I knelt on the cold asphalt next to the county police cruiser. I watched the still open entrance to the house intently, peering past the stocky officer in front of me, straining to detect any movement or noise that might indicate what was happening inside those walls.
That self-conscious, “I don’
t belong here” feeling was once again wrapping me in its prickly embrace—threatening to smother me with its special brand of anxiety. It was all but forgotten when a large, familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
The rush of excitement died a lingering, but painless, death, as Ben Storm exited the residence and lethargically ambled down the stairs. He was already strolling down the driveway when a pair of County squad cars joined us on the street. My friend was slowly shaking his head and a dull frown affected a deep crease in his chiseled features. He held his badge out in plain view for the newly arrived officers to see before slipping the attached cord over his head and hanging the shield about his neck. Detective Deckert reappeared around the corner and was soon trundling alongside, quickening his pace in order to match the long strides of the tall Native American cop.
All around us, drapes were being pulled back and blinds parted. Front doors stood open with families of onlookers crowded into the small spaces, peering out from behind panes of breath-fogged glass as they chattered with one another about the unfolding scene. Glancing across the street, I noticed the round-cheeked impression of a child’s face pressed against the lower section of a storm door, staring at us in wide-eyed amazement. Momentarily, the youngster was whisked away by protective adults intent on keeping her from harm, but giving no consideration to their own safety as they themselves continued to gawk.
Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 25