Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (7 page)

“Are you all right?” I called to him as he
jogged toward me.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he nodded. “Did ya’ catch
what he said?”

“He said he was going to kill someone named
Devon,” I replied. “I seem to have triggered it when I told him
Ariel’s death was somehow connected to The Craft.”

“Well,” he said walking toward the back of
the house. “Let’s get back to the van and get his plate number out
over the air. I’m thinkin’ maybe we need ta’ find out who this
Devon guy is.”

* * * * *

Using the police radio in his van, Ben was
able to get R.J.’s license plate number, as well as a description
of the car and him, out to the on-duty patrols. We were just
pulling into the parking lot of the medical examiner’s office when
a call blared over the tinny speaker stating that he had been
picked up. Ben quickly instructed the arresting officer to bring
him to the M.E.’s office where we would be waiting.

Ben was thumbing through his notes as we
walked across the lot in the general direction of the entrance.
After flipping back and forth between pages a trio of times, he
settled on a particular scribble and glanced over at me.

“What’s an at-tommy?” he queried as he
searched his breast pocket for a writing implement.

“Athamè,” I corrected. “It’s a Witch’s
personal knife. It’s used in rituals and the practice of The Craft.
Why?”

He quickly added the words “Witches Knife” to
the scrawled notation.

“When you were doing that thing, whatever it
was, back at the apartment, you screamed something about the killer
using Ariel’s own Ath-Tommee,” he still stumbled over the word, “to
skin her.”

“Yeah.” The thought brought back unpleasant
phantom pains in my chest. “That’s what I saw.”

“Whaddaya use it for?” he continued. “To
sacrifice things or something?”

“No,” I answered. “Not in the sense you mean.
A Witch’s athamè should never draw blood, and the only sacrifice a
Witch makes is of him or herself.”

“So ya’ think Ariel Tanner was tortured and
killed with her own Witch knife?” he voiced.

“Yes,” I answered. “Which is something that
made it even worse for her because an athamè is a very personal
tool to a Wiccan practitioner. Hers was a dirk.”

“Which is?”

“A European double-edged dagger about six
inches long,” I explained. “It’s double-beveled and has a black
handle.”

“Is that somethin’ you saw in your
vision?”

“Yes. But I knew even before then. I gave it
to her when she went out and started her own coven. It was a
gift.”

We entered the coroner’s office and were
greeted by a pleasant young woman at the reception desk who led us
back to a room with stainless steel tables and tile floors: a room
where the emptiness of death pervaded every sense to one who is
aware. The young woman introduced us to Dr. Christine Sanders, the
chief medical examiner who was also the M.E. working Ariel’s
case.

Despite my protestations, Ben pointed out my
recent injury and asked if she might be able to take a look at it.
After an effusive amount of concern, I was forced to be x-rayed and
the gash stitched up. This was not something I expected from
someone who spends her days with the dead, and I made the mistake
of stating as much. She was quick to point out that she was in fact
an M.D., so I elected not to argue.

Once my spur-of-the-moment medical treatment
was finished, we gathered in Dr. Sanders’ office. With its
carpeting, mauve walls, and strategically placed paintings, it was
a much more pleasant place to be than the chilled antiseptic realm
of the autopsy suite.

“Ariel Tanner...” she began. “Just finished
that one yesterday afternoon. You guys are lucky you caught me
here,” she added. “This is supposed to be my day off. I only came
in to finish up some paperwork.”

“I know the feelin’, doc,” Ben replied.

Dr. Sanders continued leafing through a thick
file folder and finally came to rest on the page she sought. Her
glasses hung loosely on a chain around her neck, giving her a stern
look. Her demeanor, however, was much more pleasant than her outer
appearance immediately suggested. She tossed back a shoulder-length
shock of grey-flecked, brunette hair and slid the glasses onto her
face, resting them lightly on the end of her nose.

“It appears that we are still waiting on some
of the tox screen results,” she told us. “But cause of death was
due to an acute trauma to the neck resulting in massive blood loss.
Judging from her histamine levels, the trauma to the chest...” She
looked up over her glasses at me then to Ben.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “He’s consulting on
the case.”

“...Then,” she continued, “the trauma to the
chest and excision of the dermis occurred antemortem.”

“In English, doc,” Ben said.

“She was skinned alive, Detective.”

Jotting down quick notes, Ben continued, “Any
idea what the killer mighta used ta’ accomplish that?”

“Based on the size and shape of the wounds…”
She looked back at the file and flipped over some more pages. “A
short, beveled blade of some sort, but that’s just a guess.”

“One last question,” he asked. “And it might
seem a bit odd. Did ya’ find any marks on her arms? Like a puncture
wound?”

“Now that you mention it, yes we did,” Dr.
Sanders answered. “There was a puncture wound on her left arm,
consistent with an injection. I assumed it was from a dose of
insulin since she was a diabetic.”

“We’ve got reason ta’ believe she might have
been drugged. Possibly with an injection,” Ben told her after
glancing quickly at me.

“We took a tissue sample,” she submitted.
“It’s being screened with all the rest.”

“Dr. Sanders?” the intercom on her desk
blared.

“Yes, Cecilia?” she answered.

“Sorry to bother you,” the disembodied voice
continued issuing from the speaker. “But there is an officer here
in the lobby to see Detective Storm.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Sanders said to the young
woman at the other end then turned back to us. “Is there anything
else I can do for you gentlemen?”

“I think that’s it for now,” Ben told her,
standing and stowing his small notebook in a shirt pocket. “I’d
appreciate hearin’ from ya’ as soon as the tox results are in.” He
handed her his card.

“No problem,” she replied, clipping the card
to the front of the file folder and then turning to me. “And you,
sir… I recommend you go home and get some rest.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” I answered
and shook her hand. “Thanks for the quick treatment.”

“You’re very welcome,” she smiled. “It’s nice
to see one of my patients leave under his own power for a
change.”

Once outside the office, I turned to Ben as
we headed down the intersecting maze of corridors toward the
reception area. “So what do you think?”

“I think if that puncture wound turns up
somethin’ besides insulin that you’re one spooky S.O.B.” was all he
said.

* * * * *

We were met in the lobby by a uniformed
patrol officer and followed him outside to his vehicle. Ben sent
him across the street for a cup of coffee, and we climbed into the
back of the squad car on either side of R.J., leaving the doors
partially open to avoid being locked in. His hands were cuffed
behind him, and he appeared even more disheveled than earlier. He
shot Ben a frightened look as we climbed in and then glanced at me
as if asking for help. It was obvious that he had never been
through an ordeal such as this.

“Would ya’ mind tellin’ me,” Ben started,
“just exactly why I shouldn’t throw the book at ya’?”

“For what?” R.J. squeaked, trying
unsuccessfully to appear tough.

“For pickin’ your nose in public,” Ben shot
back sarcastically. “It doesn’t really matter! Let’s look at the
facts. One. I’m tryin’ to conduct a homicide investigation. Two.
You show up at the scene and clock my consultant in the face with a
table lamp. Three. You flee the scene screamin’ that you’re gonna
kill some individual by the name of Devon. Killin’ someone is a
felony, ya’know.” He paused for effect. “Now put yourself in my
place. What am I supposed to think?”

R.J. hung his head and squirmed uncomfortably
in his seat. I could feel his anguish, his fear...his sadness.
Quite a bit had been thrust upon him within the last few hours, and
I was sure that he was rapidly approaching critical mass. I only
hoped that I would be able to defuse it without getting in the way
of Ben’s investigation.

“He wasn’t even home,” R.J. finally
muttered.

“You mean Devon?” I queried.

“Yeah, Devon,” he answered, nodding his head.
“His neighbor said he hasn’t been home for a couple of days.”

“Who is this Devon character?” Ben asked,
once again flipping open the cover of his ever-present notepad.

“He used to be a member of our coven,” R.J.
said, glancing quickly at Ben, then back at me, as if only I would
understand. “Up until a few weeks ago.”

“He didn’t leave on very good terms I take
it,” I coached.

“We banished him. He had been straying from
the path for a while, and he started talking about ritual magick a
lot. It was like he was trying to get us involved too.”

“Ritual magick isn’t necessarily a bad
thing.”

“His idea of it was.”

“Okay, go on,” I told him, glancing up to
look at Ben who met my gaze quietly and continued scribbling.

“We didn’t know how long he had actually been
practicing Black Arts, but he really got a big head about it.” R.J.
squirmed a little more against the biting handcuffs then continued.
“He started bragging about an invocation rite and even showed us
where he had done it.”

“What did he sacrifice?” I asked, knowing
what the ritual implied.

“A dog,” R.J. spat, showing a flash of
disgust. “He said he got it from the pound. It made all of us sick,
but Ariel took it the worst. She felt like she had failed or
something.”

“That’s a Pisces for you,” I told him. “I
remember how she used to beat herself up over what she considered
her own failings.”

“It wasn’t long after that when we held our
Full Moon meeting. Devon was unanimously cast out of the coven.” He
looked back to Ben as if a sudden rush of anger had displaced his
fear of his own current situation. “He told us we would regret
it.”

“So ya’think Devon is the one who did this to
Ariel?” Ben interjected.

“It has to be,” he replied. “He was mad at
all of us but especially with Ariel. If what Rowan said is true
about her murder being connected to The Craft...”

“What’s his last name?” Ben cut him off.

“Johnston. Devon Johnston. He lives over in
South City.”

Ben wrote down the information as R.J.
relayed it to him and then looked up from his notebook. I caught
his eye and motioned for him to step out of the car with me. He
nodded and shoved his door open wider.

“We’ll be right back,” I told R.J. as I
pushed against my own door. “I know this hurts man. I know it’s
tearing you up inside... I’m feeling it too. Ground and center,
you’ll feel better.”

He nodded, and even as I exited the car, he
began to consciously slow his breathing just as he had been
taught.

“What do you think?” I asked Ben over the
roof of the vehicle, keeping my voice low.

He squinted and held up his notebook to shade
his eyes. “I think there’s somethin’ he’s not tellin’ us,” he
answered me in his own quiet tone. “He was kinda hesitant when I
asked him about where he was Wednesday night... Not ta’ mention the
fact that he has a key. What about you?”

“I picked up on that too, but honestly I
think he’s just a scared kid. What about his story on that Devon
Johnston guy? If he actually did sacrifice an animal then a human
could be the next logical progression.”

“Yeah, I definitely wanna have a chat with
Mister Johnston.”

“If you’re game,” I submitted after a moments
pause, “I’d like to try something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to talk to the rest of the coven
members.” I continued, “Get an idea of their feelings about Devon.
And,” I added, “THEIR stories about what happened at that Full Moon
meeting.”

“You think the kid’s makin’ it up?” Ben
asked. “You’re startin’ ta’ sound like a copper.”

“I don’t really think that he’s making it up,
but I think his judgment may be a bit left of center,” I answered.
“Actually, what I do think is that he was in love with Ariel
Tanner.”

“Where the hell’d you come up with that?”

“Just a feeling.”

“Well, I’d actually like to talk to them
anyway, so I guess we can get their names from him and call them
downtown,” he suggested.

“No.” I shook my head. “I think that might
make them a little too uncomfortable, and they’d just clam up.
Remember, you’re dealing with a group of Witches here. We’re
already persecuted enough.”

“You got a better idea?”

“I want to let R.J. make the calls and get
them over to my place,” I recited my idea. “A nice, informal
atmosphere where we can talk Witch to Witch.”

“I don’t know...” Ben started.

“I want you there too,” I added, stopping him
before he could finish his objection. “I just don’t want to spook
these people. I’m pretty sure that I know their type a little
better than you do. Remember, I’m one of them.”

Ben paused then smoothed his hair back,
letting his hand rest at the back of his neck, his telltale
physical manifestation of intense thought. I knew that he was
concerned about what he considered to be an unorthodox approach to
the investigation, but it had lost its normalcy the moment he asked
for my advice. I also knew that he was still skeptical about the
entire concept of WitchCraft, even with what he had witnessed so
far today.