THE WITCH'S LADDER (Detective Marcella Witch's Series)

by Dana Donovan

  “Detective, anything’s possible. You should know that by now.”

  “Yes. I’m beginning to see that.” I gestured farewell by tugging on the brim of my hat before turning away. I took only a few steps before stopping and turning back. “Oh, there’s just one more thing.”

  “Yes Detective?”

  “A moment ago we were talking, and I mentioned how Doctor Lieberman’s head had been cut off.”

  “You did mention that.”

  “Yes, but I never referred to the killer as they.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No, but you did.” I hatched a foxy grin. “That’s the strange thing about this case. Doctor Lieberman was a large man. It appears someone had badly beaten him before his death. It probably took a couple of strong individuals to take him down. Wouldn’t you think?”

  “I suppose. It could have been a gang. You mentioned that early on when Travis got killed.”

  “Yes, I suppose I did. And that’s just it, another inconsistency. There aren’t many similarities between Doctor Lieberman’s death and the others. The unnecessary brutality, for one, doesn’t fit the same MO.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Isn’t it? I think I can say with certainty that somebody other than the Stalker killed Doctor Lieberman. I believe several people killed him. Oddly though, I also think the Stalker came by later for his liver, after the real killers had gone.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because of the neatness in the way the liver was removed. It carries the signature of the Surgeon. The extraction of the organ is in stark contrasts to the sloppiness of the killing. You see, the Surgeon didn’t kill Doctor Lieberman, yet somehow he knew about the murder.”

  “And you suspect all this because Doctor Lieberman got his ass kicked before he died?”

  “Yes, that and the fact we found the footprints of a half-dozen other individuals at the crime scene.”

  If I listened a little harder, I could probably have heard Michael’s heart skip a beat.

  “Footprints?” His eyes fell involuntarily to the floor around his feet. My eyes followed, locking on to a new pair of black-leathered work boots. They were free of the mud and blood I might expect to find had he worn the shoes at Doctor Lieberman’s murder only two nights before.

  “We’ve taken plaster impressions of the mud around the tree by the body,” I said. “We’ll know more soon.” Michael looked up again and saw me smiling. “And yes, Michael, we recovered a lot more clues from the site this time.”

  “Clues?”

  “Of course, I’m not at liberty to discuss any of that right now, but if his murder is tied to the others, and it seems obvious it is, then we’ll soon have our Surgeon Stalker and whoever else is involved. Mark my words.”

  Michael cleared his throat unintentionally. “Consider them marked.”

  Twelve

  Later that afternoon, I stopped by to see Gordon Walsh and ask him some questions. I was there when his phone rang. I would have known from the wire tap that it was Michael calling, but I didn’t need to go back and listen to the tapes to learn that. Michael was so excited; I could hear his voice booming over the telephone earpiece.

  Gordon answered. “Hello.”

  “Gordy, it’s me. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “Oh, hey…Dad.”

  “Dad? Oh, I see. You can’t talk now. Marcella’s there?”

  “You got it.”

  “Okay, just keep your cool. He’s going to try to trip you up.”

  “Oh, don’t I know it.”

  “Okay. Call me when he leaves.”

  “I will. Tell Mom I said hi.”

  Gordon smiled up at me sheepishly, the word GUILT sprawled across his face. I’m sure he hoped I couldn’t read it, but we both knew better. I watched him steady the receiver back on the hook before taking a deep breath.

  “So, that was your dad?”

  “What? Oh, yeah. That was Dad checking up on me. He sent me some money. Wanted to make sure I got it.”

  “That’s awfully nice of him. Do you keep in touch often?”

  “Sure. I guess.” Gordon’s voice grew suddenly squeaky. “Sometimes he calls me—sometimes I call him.”

  “Of course.”

  “Detective, is there anything else you would like from me?”

  “Just a few more questions, Gordon.” I pulled a small black notepad from my pocket and jotted down highlights from the interview. “I have to ask you this, son. Where were you the other night when Doctor Lieberman was killed?”

  Outside, a fire truck with sirens wailing rushed by the window, stealing Gordon’s attention until it had rounded the corner and faded from sight. He turned back and shrugged. The unusual blend of emotional unease and anxious relief tugged on his face. He forced a grin. I made note of his reaction and scribbled my observation down on my pad. It was not so important that I documented it; rather that he saw me do it.

  “So, what do you say, Gordon?”

  “`Bout what?”

  “Where were you the other night? You do have an alibi. Don’t you?”

  “An alibi? Why would I need an alibi? Do you think I had something to do with Doctor Lieberman’s death?”

  “Not necessarily. But I have to ask.”

  I could tell that Gordon’s thoughts were reeling. I suspected he had an alibi, sort of, but he hadn’t thought the story through all the way yet. Unfortunately, the time to use it had come.

  “See, it’s like this,” he began. “The workshop got out early because Doctor Lieberman developed a wicked headache. It came over him really fast and strong. It must have been bad, because he threw everyone out on the spot—told us not to come back.”

  “So you left?”

  “Yeah, we left, and I went to the video arcade at the Plaza to play video games. I stayed there for a couple of hours, maybe three I guess, and then I went home to bed.”

  I made another entry on paper. “You went to the arcade. Did you see anyone there?”

  Gordon pitched his head back and gave me a side-glance, unsure if I was giving him a chance to validate his story or change it completely. “Like who?”

  “I don’t know, like maybe Michael?”

  “Michael? Did he say he saw me there?”

  “Did you?”

  Gordon rolled his eyes down at the floor where he noticed my shoes and how they still had mud on them—mud that I picked up outside the institute where Doctor Lieberman died.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “Michael was there. We played on the same machine for a while. Huh. Isn’t that funny how I almost forgot?”

  I made note of his response, jotting it down in longhand and punctuating the period at the end with a jabbing stab. I looked up again and found Gordon peering into my eyes as if trying to read from them the believability of his story. I smiled back, finding neither solace nor displeasure in the response.

  “So tell me, Gordon. How is it that you came to join the Institute?”

  “You mean the workshop?” He smiled genuinely. “That’s easy. Travis got me in.”

  “Did he?”

  “We were good friends, you know. We go all the way back to grade school. Travis and I used to talk to one another through telepathy even before we knew what that was. We didn’t know the other kids couldn’t do it until we got older. By then, we learned how to make money off them by guessing cards. See, the way it worked is, I would stand behind the kid with the card so that I could see it, and then I thought about that card and Travis would read my thoughts and guess it correctly. It worked every time.”

  “So you were little hustlers.”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t apologizing for it.”

  “No, of course not. You were just having fun.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Making a little money—a little scratch?”

  “Yeah, you got it: a buck or two here and there. We weren’t hurting anybody.”

  “No, it�
��s all good.”

  “Damn straight. So anyway, that kind of stuff went on till after junior high. Then Travis transferred out to another school for gifted kids like him. By then, we both knew we had telepathic abilities, but his was much stronger and he really wanted to excel with it. That’s why he was so excited about getting into the Institute.”

  “With the workshops?”

  “Uh-huh. He really cut his teeth there when it came to his gift.”

  “Then he eventually got you into the program?”

  “Yeah, right after high school. That’s when Travis told Doctor Lieberman about me. The rest is history.”

  “I guess it’s fair to say that you two were pretty tight?”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you. Travis and I were buddies—the best.”

  “And you would have done anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

  “You bet I would.”

  “Even avenge his death?”

  Gordon’s face soured. “Did you want to say something, Detective?”

  I shook my head. “I’m just doing my job. Tell you what. How `bout you let me ask you a couple of more questions and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  He nodded.

  “I need to ask you about the twins. Do you know where they are now?”

  “I didn’t know they were missing. When did that happen?”

  “Apparently last night. We found their car by the lake, next to a burned out gazebo.”

  “The lake behind the Center?”

  “That’s right. You’re familiar with it?”

  “Sure. I’ve been there a few times. We all have; most of us, I mean.”

  “Why would the girls go there?”

  “Beats me. Maybe to practice witchcraft.”

  “Witchcraft?”

  “Sure. Lilith wasn’t the only witch at the Center. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

  I nodded. “I guess I suspected it. It’s in the girl’s culture. Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know about that, but from what I hear, between the witchcraft and their voodoo worshiping, they were really just a bit more than weird.”

  “Strange you used the past tense.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They were they are, whatever. If you ask me, they’re just evil.”

  “The twins?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way. What have they done to warrant that label?”

  “I don’t know. They just are. That’s all.”

  “Or were?”

  “Yeah, or were. Either way, I don’t care. I hope they’re gone for good.”

  “Is there something about them I should know?”

  “You mean like do I think they killed Doctor Lieberman and the others?”

  “Do you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Gordon, if you know something, you have to tell me.”

  “Look, Detective, let’s say the twins killed Doctor Lieberman and the others. So what if they did? If they’re gone now, then all your problems are over. Aren’t they?”

  “That’s not how it works, Gordon. If you’re holding something back, I’ll find out.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know anything. It’s just an observation. The twins practiced witchcraft and voodoo. You have people with livers cut out. If you put one and one together what do you have?”

  “I don’t know, but if you get two, then it still doesn’t add up. If the twins wanted to kill Doctor Lieberman and then leave town, how do you explain the abandoned Saturn and the burning gazebo, or all the footprints in the mud where Doctor Lieberman was killed?”

  “Footprints?”

  “Yeah, footprints. Maybe you should ask Michael about that when you return his call.”

  Gordon winced at that. His eyes darted toward the phone and back to me.

  “Do you have any more questions, Detective?”

  I grinned gratuitously. “Just one more thing. Did you kill Doctor Lieberman?”

  The look on his face told me the answer. He brushed past me, bumping me hard enough to knock me off balance. He crossed the room in a steady march, yanked the door open and pointed. I recognized the invitation and saw my way out into the hall.

  “We’ll talk again,” I told him.

  “We’ll see about that,” he replied.

  He slammed the door. I heard the clicking of locks and security chains latching behind it. “Yes, we will see,” I uttered under my breath. “We will see.”

  Thirteen

  The Second Precinct is not pretty, but it’s functional and it’s been my home away from home for decades. The red brick and mortar building, constructed early in the last century, serves a dual purpose of courthouse and jail. The furnishings: desks, file cabinets and what have you, are all leftover relics from the days of rotary phones and pinstripe suits. The ground-floor office houses a dozen workstations: one for every detective, a special investigator, and a handful of administrative assistants.

  My desk sits in the corner, tucked away like an old footlocker. On it sits a phone, a Rolodex and a vintage crank-type pencil sharpener. No computer for me, thank you. I don’t go for those glitzy monitors and keyboards. I could care less what a gigabyte, megabyte, modem or ram is. I prefer ink-ribbon to inkjet and Whiteout to the Delete command. Am I stuck in my ways? With some things, yes, but like an old shoe, it fits me well.

  So, that’s where I went after leaving Gordon’s apartment; back to the precinct where I found an envelope waiting on my desk. I picked it up and tore it open. Inside was the lab report on the plaster footprint casts we made at the institute. It confirmed what I already suspected, that seven people were present on the night of the murder. The report concluded that the group consisted of two men and five women, based on the physical size of the prints. Surprising? Hardly. I gathered as much from viewing the prints myself. What did surprise me, however, were the interesting little pieces of evidence inadvertently picked up by the plaster in one cast: three small beads from a necklace or rosary. One of the suspects must have stepped on them, pressing them into the mud where they transferred into the castings the next day. I knew I had seen similar beads before, but I just could not bring myself to believe it. For if it was true, it meant I had no choice but to consider Leona Diaz a prime suspect in the murders.

  I eased myself around the desk, flopped into my chair and considered the various implications of the find. As I allowed my imagination to wander, I could see how easily the non-threatening Leona might have distracted my officer from one side of the squad car, while the twins moved in for the kill from the other. I envisioned the same cunning deception used on Chris and Travis, as well as the two homeless men. All would have let his guard down readily, as the shy and reserved Leona approached, acting as decoy for Shekina and Akasha’s brutal attack from behind.

  With Barbara, however, things may have played out differently. I could only imagine that the twins, possibly acting alone, managed to sneak into the back seat of Barbara’s car and surprised her after she got in. The entire matter seemed too bizarre, and it troubled me greatly. Why, I wondered, would the others have joined in on the mayhem, attacking Doctor Lieberman and killing him with viciousness seemingly beyond their capacity? What evil could have seduced them, recruiting their powers for such a barbaric deed? It truly made no sense.

  With my thoughts still adrift, absorbed in a fantasy of modern day Jekyll and Hyde, another large envelope dropped onto my desk, jolting me back to reality. I looked up and saw Carlos Rodriquez standing over me, smiling. Carlos has been my partner and friend for thirty-odd years. He joined the force as a young, skinny Cuban American eager to change the world. Even today, that drive stays with him. I’m ten years his senior, and though I’m now in my sixties, I still see him as that young hot-shot rookie that finds excitement in all the things I deem boring and mundane. That is not to say he acts like a rookie; only that the newness of the job has never worn off for him.

  “Carlos,” I said. “What do you know
?”

  He pointed at the envelope, his know-it-all grin pinching dimples deep into his cheeks. Even in his fifties, his boyish grin remained infectious. “Go ahead, open it,” he said.

  I smiled back. “What is it?”

  “It’s the murder weapon used to kill Doctor Lieberman.”

  “What? In this little envelope?”

  He laughed. “Go on. Open it.”

  I opened the package and studied the photos inside. “It’s the handsaw and tire iron we found in the twins’ car,” I said.

  “That’s right. They’re the real deal.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Better than the beads?”

  “You know about the beads?”

  “Yeah, I talked to the lab this morning.”

  “You don’t miss a trick, do you, Carlos?”

  “Not many.”

  “How about fingerprints?”

  “None,” he said, and the dimples quickly faded to shadowed smudges. “Sorry. The lab was unable to lift prints from either. But the blood is definitely Doctor Lieberman’s. It’s fresh. The tire iron has the doctor’s blood and hair on it, and the saw contains skin and muscle tissue embedded in the teeth.”

  “But no prints?”

  “No prints.”

  I stared at the photos for a while, saying nothing as a gritty sort of determination overtook me. I felt my brows crowding low on my forehead, my lips drawing tight like white chalk lines below my mustache. I knew that Carlos could sense my frustration, knowing how close we were getting to the Stalker, yet not close enough.

  “Is there any way of tracing the origin of these items?” I asked. “Can we find out who bought them?”

  He shrugged. “Not likely, Tony. The tire iron could have come from anywhere, and as far as the saw, well, it’s just an old run of the mill carpenter’s crosscut. We can probably trace it to the original manufacturer, but I suspect we’ll find it’s one of a million others that could have been purchased anywhere. And that it looks like it’s a hundred years old doesn’t help much. Guess it’s a real setback.”

  “Not necessarily. After all, we have the saw, the tire iron and now the beads. That’s more than we had a week ago.”