All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “So, just because you and your crew can’t use a little common sense, you’re going to kick me out of my own house?”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “Gods! What is it with you people?! Does the fact that I just bought those books have no bearing on this at all?”

  “Look, if that’s true, and you have receipts to prove it, you can take it up with Major Case and the prosecutor.”

  “Maybe so, but right now I’m taking it up with YOU,” I returned.

  In reality, I’m sure he was correct. If I could provide receipts, which I could, at the very least Jackie should be able to negate the effect of the books as evidence. In fact, she could probably get them thrown out altogether before it even went that far. But, I wasn’t willing to take that chance because with the situation as it was, our attorney’s ability to accomplish that feat was by no means guaranteed.

  Ominous shadows were lurking somewhere in the background of all this. Someone, or maybe even something, was trying very hard to stack the deck against Felicity. That much had become painfully apparent over the past hour. I certainly wasn’t about to let anything I was holding in my own hand be used in that process if I could help it.

  “That’s it, I’m done with this,” the crime scene technician replied with a wave of his hand before looking over to the Briarwood cops. “I have a job to do, and this man is preventing me from doing it. Would you guys like to take it from here?”

  “Sir,” one of the uniformed officers spoke up. “Why don’t you step outside with me for a bit?”

  The tech had turned back to face me, and I was now holding him locked in a stare down, so I snapped an acrid reply without breaking my gaze. “Why? Because I don’t want to.”

  “Sir, that wasn’t a question. It was a strong suggestion.”

  “Your suggestion is noted.”

  “Sir, it was a very strong suggestion. Under the circumstances I can make it an order.”

  “What? You people aren’t happy with just arresting my wife? Now you’re arresting me too?”

  The officer replied, “No sir, you aren’t being arrested.” After a short pause he added, “Not yet, but if you keep going the way you are, it’s a very good possibility. So, why don’t you do like I suggested, and just step outside with me where you can cool off for a few minutes?”

  Before I could manage to formulate another snide remark, I flashed on the recent conversation with Jackie. The words “don’t do anything stupid” rang through my head at full volume and made me take pause. As much as I wanted to lash out at all of them, to just go stark raving berserk, the fact remained that getting myself locked up wasn’t going to help Felicity at all.

  I dwelled on the realization for a moment then huffed out a resigned sigh and ended my unblinking glare at the technician. With an agitated shake of my head, I looked over at the officer and grumbled, “Yeah, fine.”

  “Good call,” he replied.

  He was standing close enough to me that when he’d spoken I’d easily been able to pick up the odor of burnt tobacco on his breath.

  “You smoke, right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, why, I got bad breath?”

  “No, because I need a cigarette.”

  I hadn’t really given much thought to the comment, any at all, really. It just came tumbling out of my mouth in place of something far more caustic. Still, all I could manage to do was give an internal shrug when it dawned on me what I had just said.

  As we headed for the door, the officer pulled a pack from his pocket then tapped it across his index finger before holding it out toward me.

  Whether it was out of reflex or because I truly did feel like I needed one, I don’t know, but I reached over and pulled the proffered smoke from the pack and stuck it between my lips.

  “You want to grab a jacket?” the officer asked.

  A sarcastic quip escaped before I could subdue it. “Why would I want to do that? I’m supposed to be cooling off, right?”

  “Yeah. Right,” he returned.

  Without another word I pushed the door open and headed through with him on my heels. As I’d suspected, neighbors had positioned themselves to watch the show. Since it was still early enough in the afternoon, there weren’t as many peeking from behind curtains or lethargically walking dogs as there could have been. But, it was a good bet that phones were buzzing with news of yet another incident involving the police at “the Witch’s house”. I’m sure my ears should have been burning.

  It was only a few moments later that a van emblazoned with the logo of a local television station pulled up and parked on the opposite side of the street. As usual, I wasn’t going to be immune from the jaundiced spotlight of the media either.

  “Damn TV people,” the cop muttered and then offered, “We can go out back or sit in the car if you want.”

  “That’s okay,” I replied with a slight shake of my head. “It’s not the first time they’ve pointed their cameras at me, and I doubt it will be the last.”

  “Guess the neighbors are having a field day,” he grunted.

  “Yeah, probably,” I agreed. “You’d think they’d be used to it by now.”

  I didn’t expand on the history of flashing lights and news vans that had been positioned in front of my house over the years, and he didn’t ask. He probably already knew all about it anyway. In fact, it was entirely possible he had been one of the many cops to have graced my doorstep in the past. After a quiet moment I pulled the cigarette from my mouth and inspected the still pristine paper and tobacco on its end.

  “Got a light?” I asked before tucking it back between my lips.

  He dug in his pocket then withdrew a disposable lighter and handed it to me. I gave it a quick flick with my thumb and touched the flame to the business end of the smoke then handed the stubby metal and plastic device back to him.

  As we stood on the porch, and I took the first drag on the nicotine and menthol laden tobacco, I simply yielded to the idea that I was once again re-adding an old vice to my list.

  If circumstances were different, given my earlier jibe, I suspect Helen would have found it thoroughly amusing.

  CHAPTER 7:

  The crime scene unit had been gone for something on the order of fifteen minutes now, and I was still trying to figure out how they could possibly manage to lay waste to someone’s home as quickly as they had in this case. All in all, it had taken them just under two hours to accomplish what I can only imagine would have taken a busload of sugared up toddlers an entire day to do.

  The emotional response to the specter of the destruction even seemed to transcend the boundary between human and house pet, as evidenced by our cats—Dickens, Emily, and Salinger. At the moment, they were sitting in a loose semicircle on the coffee table, perusing the mess. Earlier, they had found places to hide away, as they always did whenever we had unfamiliar visitors, and had only ventured back out now that the commotion was done and gone. Watching them from across the room, it looked for all the world like they were having an impromptu emergency meeting. It was as if they were trying to come to some conclusion about the scene before them that would make sense to their feline brains. Every now and then they would look at one another then at me, nervously twitch their tails or ears, and then go back to swiveling their heads around the room, yellow-green eyes open wide with a glaze of curiosity and perhaps even fear.

  I couldn’t blame them. Our house was, in a word, trashed. The only way I can explain the spectacle that greeted me upon re-entering my home was that it looked as though everything had been the victim of a very strong, but somewhat considerate earthquake. I say considerate because nothing appeared to have been broken, at least not that I could see. However, no matter where I looked, there was obvious visual evidence of the search.

  Furniture had been moved out from walls and instead of being put back was simply left sticking out at odd angles. Books were piled on the floor instead of resting in their rightful places on shelves. Even DVD and videoc
assette cases created a haphazard mound on a chair after having been opened, inspected and discarded.

  That disaster was merely the living room, and I knew for a fact that they hadn’t contained themselves there.

  Now I was getting angry all over again. Although standing on the front porch with the Briarwood officer had calmed me considerably, I couldn’t quell the renewed surge of rage as I looked at the mess and realized that not only had the books been pulled from the bookcases but so had all the items we kept on the shelf we used as our altar. I tried to keep telling myself that they most likely had no idea that they were desecrating objects of religious significance—literally violating what was deemed by our faith a sacred space. But, no matter how many times I repeated it to myself, it wasn’t an easy sell, mostly because I had recognized a couple of their faces. They were people I had worked with at crime scenes before. People, who knew who I was, knew that I was a Witch, and had heard me speak about such things before.

  And, even if that wasn’t enough, I knew for certain that one of them had attended a class I had taught for the police department on recognizing the difference between religious activity and cult coercion. A portion of that workshop had specifically addressed altars and their importance to practitioners of alternative religions. At the very least, he should have known better.

  Of course, if I were the paranoid type, I would bet that Albright had something to do with that as well. The fact is, whether my suspicion was born of paranoia or not, she probably did.

  When I finally managed to dampen my newly inflamed rage, I left the cats to their huddle and moved toward the back of the house to continue my own assessment of the chaos. In retrospect, I probably should have waited a little longer because what I found only served to ignite my smoldering temper once again.

  My heart all but skipped a beat, and I felt a hot rush of blood fill my face the moment I saw our bedroom. If the front of the house had been the victim of an earthquake, this room had been pummeled by its big brother as well as every other disaster imaginable. The contents of the dresser and chest of drawers now resided in a scattered heap on top of our bed, and along with that was anything that might have been stored away in the matching nightstands. While the majority was carelessly piled, a small portion of it actually sat in something remotely resembling stacks. I had a feeling these existed only because it had been easier for them to take those particular items out of the drawers that way.

  The clothing that had once occupied the walk-in closet was tossed in crumpled heaps across the footboard of the waterbed. Garments that had once been methodically arranged by Felicity according to color, length, and a number of other factors that fit her personal system of organization, were now nothing short of a giant pile of laundry.

  Everything else from the closet looked as if it had been vomited out across the floor. This included every pair of shoes my wife owned, and trust me there were more of them than I wanted to count. Those, along with several rectangular boxes where some of them had once made their homes, formed a colorful debris field expanding out from the mirrored doors which were themselves hanging wide open. It looked much like a disastrous accident had occurred in the middle of a shoe store stockroom.

  On the far wall, through the bathroom doorway, I could see that the medicine chest had pretty much been ransacked. Judging from the terrycloth mass I spotted on the floor just in front of the double vanity, the linen closet hadn’t been spared either.

  Standing here surveying the blatant deconstruction of our lives, I didn’t even want to think about what the office, or even worse, my wife’s darkroom and files, looked like right about now. There was so much strife here on the main floor that I wasn’t entirely certain I could stomach going upstairs or downstairs just yet.

  At this point, however, there was no doubt in my mind that someone, whether it was Albright or not, had instructed the crime scene technicians to lay waste to our home. I’d been involved in far too many investigations and had seen how these things were normally done. What I saw staring back at me now definitely wasn’t an example of standard procedure.

  My rising anger eventually gave way to a cold swell of depression, and I simply hung my head. After a moment I pushed a pile of shirts aside with a distracted swipe of my hand then slowly settled myself onto the edge of the bed.

  I couldn’t begin to say exactly what all had been taken, with the exception of the books and a handgun that was registered to me. The only reason I knew about the weapon was because they had seen fit to tell me they were going to confiscate it for the time being. I didn’t know why, but I had already discovered that arguing with them over the books didn’t do any good, so I didn’t bother to object.

  I also knew for a fact that some of Felicity’s clothing and shoes had been removed because I saw them being loaded into evidence bags while I was standing on the outside looking in. From what little I overheard, intimate garments had been of particular interest and in fact, were even specifically listed on the warrant. I’m sure the reasoning for that probably had everything to do with the sexual nature of the crimes.

  Even though I knew my wife wasn’t one to be easily embarrassed, I certainly didn’t know how she would react to a handful of strangers looting her lingerie drawer. For some reason, the fact that they had encroached upon this particular sanctity made me feel more violated than any of the other things they had manhandled and then absconded with. Surprisingly, even the desecration of our altar no longer mattered in the face of this. Odd, considering that they weren’t even my undergarments, but I was in a very protective mode right now. Anything that violated Felicity was, to me, patently unforgivable.

  I heard a damp snort and looked over to see our English setter staring at me with sad eyes. Taking a tentative step forward, he nudged my hand then nuzzled in and brought his head to rest on my thigh. I absently stroked his crown and gave him a half-hearted scritch behind the ears. Usually, Quigley the Australian cattle dog was hot on his heels, but last I’d seen him he was sitting in the dining room looking just about as confused as the cats.

  Our animals were as close as we had to children—not that we hadn’t tried for one of our own species. Unfortunately, Felicity’s only pregnancy to date had been abruptly terminated by a physical altercation between her and a murder suspect who was making a getaway attempt. Since then, even though everything checked out for both of us according to doctors, we hadn’t had much luck in the conception department.

  In truth, it was probably a good thing that we didn’t have children because I had the feeling that right now I would be completely lost. I could easily comfort a dog with a few pats on the head even if he could still sense that something was amiss. On the other hand, I had no clue what I could possibly tell a child that would quell his or her fears in a situation such as this.

  “Mommy is going to go with the nice policemen for a while,” just didn’t seem to me like it would do the trick. And, right now, saying something like “Don’t worry, everything is going to be okay” could very well be a flat-out lie. Primarily, because I wasn’t so sure that it was going to be okay. On top of that, I knew that my own mental state wouldn’t be particularly healthy for a child to endure either.

  I looked down at the dog, only to find his large brown eyes peering back up at me. As he watched, the small sprigs of hair that passed for eyebrows began rocking back and forth on his expressive face then his tail began slowly thumping against the side of the bed.

  “Kind of a mess, isn’t it, buddy?” I mumbled, turning my head and looking around the room while my hand continued automatically stroking his fur.

  My brain was more or less chasing itself around in a circle at this point. What I felt like I wanted to do right now was to jump in my truck and head down to the police station. But, that was just the surface reaction. What I truly wanted more than anything else was Felicity back home, safe and free of this insanity. Short of “busting her out,” there wasn’t really much I could do to make that happen. At least n
ot by showing up there and causing a scene, anyway. Since Jackie had told me to stay put, I had no choice but to fight back the urge to make a beeline for Clark Avenue downtown.

  Our attorney was certainly right about one thing. I would definitely cause more trouble than anything else, and I knew that. I just had to trust her to take care of this, but that was becoming harder to do with each passing moment. A quick glance at the clock told me that better than two hours had passed since she had told me she was on her way to the police station, and I still hadn’t heard anything from her. I suppose that in the grand scheme of things, two hours isn’t really that much time, but for me it had already been an eternity.

  As I continued looking around the room, my eyes fell on a picture frame resting in a niche on our headboard. From all outward appearances, it was apparently the only thing that hadn’t been touched by the uncaring hands of the crime scene technicians. The frame was small but intricately designed—the kind of heirloom that readily evokes sentimentality at first glance. Centered within its rectangular border was a semi-candid shot of Felicity and me.

  I stared at the photo, studying it to the exclusion of everything around me. Though I had pretty much forgotten that it was there, I remembered the snapshot well. It had been taken at a party some years before. My petite wife was perched on my lap with her arms around my neck, and mine were encircling her waist, hugging her close. We were both grinning, obviously filled to overflowing with the happiness of the moment. The vivid memory played back inside my skull as I recalled the gathering. What stood out most of all was the fact that only moments before that particular photo had been snapped, we had all been playing the “trust game”. In essence, it was an old pseudo-psychological exercise where you demonstrate your trust in your partner by falling backwards into their arms. We had all really just been clowning around, but in truth, there was an underlying seriousness to the results.