Love Is The Bond: A Rowan Gant Investigation (21 page)

A lone clapping sound echoed in the room, and
I looked over Mandalay’s shoulder to see one of the crime scene
technicians slapping his hands slowly together. The photographer
and two others were simply staring at us.

“Are you all done now?” the applauder asked
with more than a hint of bitter sarcasm.

Ben and Drew both looked away from them with
somewhat chagrined expressions.

“By the way, Agent Drew,” I said calmly.
“I’ll tell you the same thing I seem to have to tell everyone else.
Psychic impressions don’t work like that. I don’t just see a killer
and say there he is.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled.

“So, just what are ya’ feelin’, Row?” Ben
asked, a purposeful sort of curiosity tainting his voice.

“Nothing helpful I’m afraid, although, I will
say that the energy here seems to confirm the suspicion that the
killer is a woman. It also leaves me with the distinct impression
that she truly enjoys it. In fact, she does it because she becomes
sexually aroused by inflicting the torture and then eventually
taking the life.”

“Female sexual predators are almost unheard
of when it comes to homicides, Rowan,” Mandalay offered.
“Especially if you are implying that this is a serial crime.”

I nodded. “Oh yeah, something tells me this
isn’t her first kill. At the very least there have been two because
I’m betting she’s the same person who killed Judge Wentworth. But,
there may have been more leading up to that.”

“You got all that from a feeling?” Agent Drew
asked; each word was liberally coated in sarcasm.

“Yeah. A feeling.”

“You’ll forgive me if I
feel
like you’re full of
crap.”

“Agent Drew,” Mandalay growled under her
breath.

“Don’t worry about it, Constance,” I said,
waving her off before she could ignite. “He’s right. I just might
be full of it.”

“Like that’s ever happened,” she replied.
“But let me ask you this. Are you certain about the female aspect?
Could you be mixing it up? Could it be homosexual in nature?”

“You aren’t actually buying into this, are
you?” Drew asked her.

She quickly shot him an icy glance but didn’t
verbally reply.

“Actually, Ben already asked that question
about Wentworth. And, the answer is no, the killer is definitely a
woman,” I told her with a shake of my head. “Of that much I’m
certain. So is Felicity. This scene is the same. The only male
energy is the one exhibiting the fear and pain.”

“Okay, then I guess Wuornos just got some
competition,” she assented.

“Wuornos?” I questioned. “Why does that sound
familiar?”

“Aileen Wuornos. Killed at least seven
men in Florida.” She recited the details almost mechanically.
“Executed by lethal injection
October ninth, two thousand two. Pronounced dead at 9:47
a.m., six minutes after the injections were started. To date she is
the only
female serial killer to be
officially classified as a sexual predator.”

“There she goes,” Ben mumbled. “You’re worse
than Rowan with all the crap you carry around in your head.”

“You should be used to it by now,” she
replied.

“Yeah, right,” he grunted.

I couldn’t help but notice that Agent Drew
was staring at all of us in disbelief. I turned fully to him and
shook my head. “Look, maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong. But, let’s
see if the evidence bears me out.”

“And, what if the evidence isn’t sufficient
to make that determination?” he asked.

“Try talking to one of your profilers, and
see what they have to say, I guess.”

“Trust me, we will.”

“I’ve got news for you. They’ll agree with
Rowan,” Mandalay told him.

“How can you be sure?” he challenged.

She replied simply, “Because they always
do.”

It dawned on me as we stood there that Ben
had been inordinately quiet ever since making his comment to
Mandalay about her memory for facts and statistics. I looked over
to find him staring blankly in my direction as he slowly massaged
his neck. His face was creased with an unmistakable look of
consternation, and his eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into
space. I couldn’t tell for certain if he was looking at me, past
me, or through me, and for a moment I wondered if he had even been
paying attention. Of course, I knew better. He didn’t miss much,
and his next words were a testament to that fact.

“So we’re lookin’ for some kinda seriously
sick psycho-bitch who just became a serial killer,” he mumbled
before I could say a word; his dark eyes were still glazed and
unblinking. “Given what she did to ‘im, that’s kinda obvious
though. Ya’ got anything else, Row? Anything at all?”

“No, Ben,” I replied. “Sorry. I know it’s not
much help.”

“Yeah, well, doesn’t matter. That ain’t what
I asked you ta’ come here for anyway.”

“Why then?”

“There’s somethin’ else I want ya’ to look
at.”

“What?”

“Remember that design that was carved into
Wentworth?” he asked.

“You mean the heart shape?” I asked. “Yeah.
As a matter of fact, Felicity and I had a theory about that. We
were thinking maybe it’s a tattoo of some sort.”

“That a
Twilight Zone
thing?”

“Yes and no. I did have a quick flash of a
similar symbol, but actually the tattoo idea is just a mundane
theory.”

“Yeah, well I think you might be able to mark
that one off the list. Let’s see what you make of this,” my friend
said, then finally blinked, turned his head slightly and called
out, “Yo, Marty, you done with the table?”

“Yeah,” the photographer replied. “Just be
careful, it’s touchy.”

Ben turned his gaze back on me then pointed
across the room. I followed his finger to a round table positioned
in the corner. The horrific centerpiece on the bed had been the
immediate focal point upon entering the room, and I hadn’t even
noticed the table until just now when he pointed it out.

Two straight-backed chairs, one of which was
still neatly tucked beneath, flanked the piece of furniture. The
other seat, however, was pulled out as if someone had been sitting
there. A glowing swag lamp was suspended only a few feet above the
center of the table’s surface to cast illumination downward on that
specific section of the room. It wasn’t the brightest light in the
place by any means, but it was more than enough to highlight a
yellowish substance that appeared to have been poured onto the
table.

“Go have a look,” my friend instructed. “Just
don’t touch it.”

I turned and gave him a puzzled glance then
walked the twenty or so feet across to the corner. Agent Drew was
already well ahead of me.

After only a pair of steps, what had at first
appeared to be a random spill began to reveal a pattern. After
another few steps, that pattern looked deliberate. A short moment
later when I found myself standing next to the table, I was staring
down at a tangle of yellow lines that were clearly so intricate as
to be considered artful.

More than that, however, what the lines
formed was eerily familiar.

On one third of the table had been drawn a
cross. It wasn’t your typical cross however, instead being a pair
of intersecting lines that were exactly the same length. At each of
the vertices formed by the four ninety-degree angles of the
intersection were scribed smaller crosses. At each end of the
vertical line resided yet another cross. These, however, were
encompassed in small circles. Starbursts adorned the ends of the
horizontal bar, flanked inwardly by ornate, leaf-like designs. A
complex filigree of both thick and thin lines slashed across the
arms of the cross in both perpendicular and diagonal swaths then
sprouted outward, through, and around the base design.

Positioned near the center of the artwork was
a cigar—judging from the size, a petit corona. The band, however,
told a more intriguing story. If the words could be believed, the
stogie was contraband—a real-deal Cuban cigar.

Opposite the roll of tobacco was a bone that
appeared like it might have once belonged to a chicken drumstick.
At least that is the animal I suspected it had come from, even
though it had obviously been stripped, bleached and well dried.
Still, considering that I had seen this symbol before and knew what
it was meant to represent, I was fairly confident that my
identification was correct.

Gracing the next third of the table, next to
the cross, was another complex drawing. The basis for this one
instantly struck a nerve, as it was a heart pierced by a dagger.
Within the confines of the outline, carefully spaced and curved
gridlines created an almost three-dimensional quilted look to the
heart itself. Around the outside, an intricate frill decorated the
border, and splaying out from it was yet another purposefully
twisting filigree.

Planned within the branching design were two
blank patches. One of which held a filterless cigarette. The other,
a glass filled with a translucent, brown liquid, which I had an
inkling would prove to be rum.

By sight, this second drawing was as equally
familiar as the first, if not more so considering my recent vision.
Unfortunately, that was where my experience with it ended, and I
did not know its inherent meaning. However, I knew all too well the
significance of the cross, and that just told me that I now knew
where to look in order to find the other.

And, it wasn’t in a tattoo artist’s design
book.

Below the two symbols, filling the last third
of the surface was an even more recognizable depiction of a circle
divided into thirds by curving lines. It too was intricately
filigreed but still obvious in its design. Positioned within its
borders was what appeared to be a tube of lipstick and a small
bottle of perfume.

“I don’t believe this,” I muttered under my
breath.

Apparently, Ben could still hear me because
he replied with, “Yeah, fuckin’ weird, huh? The bone is what made
me call ya’. That, and the heart, obviously. Either way, when I saw
the bone the frickin’ hair on my neck stood up.”

“What?…” I shook my head for a second before
what he said registered then I began to stammer, “Oh, yeah… Yeah,
that’s… And…” I finally stopped myself before I could look any more
the fool and asked, “Does anyone know where the victim is
originally from?”

“Why?”

“Because this doesn’t make any sense.”

“So it’s just crap?” he asked hopefully.
“It’s not what I was thinkin’ it might be?”

I shook my head vigorously. “That depends on
what you were thinking.”

“What is it?” Constance asked.

I shot her a quick glance. “Do you remember a
little while ago asking me if there was an occult element to
Wentworth’s murder?”

“Yes,” she replied. “You never really gave me
a firm answer on that.”

“Well I am now.”

“Jeezus… Fuck me…” Ben muttered. “I just knew
you were gonna say that. I just knew it.”

“Well, it’s why you wanted me to come here,
isn’t it?”

“Fuck no,” he spat. “What I wanted was
for ya’ ta’ come in here and say ‘what the hell is that?’ then get
mad at me for draggin’ your ass down here. What I
didn’t
want was for you ta’ actually
tell me it’s some kinda hocus-pocus shit.”

“Why are you getting so wound up about it?” I
asked.

“‘
Cause the last time you told me the
crap was the real deal it got way too weird.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid this is the
real thing,” I told him. “Most of it, anyway.”

“Whaddaya mean most of it?”

“Well, it has all the elements, but
given the scene it’s definitely been bastardized to fit an agenda.”
I pointed to the table and moved my finger slowly about. “These
designs are what’s called
veve.
They’re ritual symbols used to represent godlike spirits
known as
Lwa
. This
one…”

“So, you’re saying this is some kind of
WitchCraft?” Agent Drew interrupted, his tone still overtly
skeptical but somewhat less confrontational than before.

“No, not WitchCraft, it’s…”

“What then?” he demanded, once again cutting
me off before I could complete the sentence.

“Stop interrupting the man, Agent Drew,”
Mandalay ordered.

“…
Voodoo,” I finished. “Or like I was
saying, a bastardized form of it.”

“Come on,” he groaned. “Voodoo isn’t real.
It’s all just a bunch of Hollywood crap.”

“No, Agent Drew, it’s very real,” I replied.
“Whether you want to believe it or not. Don’t they teach you
anything about alternative religions at the FBI academy?”

“They teach us about cults.”

“Well, this isn’t a cult. It’s an actual
religion.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever.”

I ignored his rebuke and pointed to the
designs on the table once again, indicating toward the ornate cross
with my index finger. “This
veve
here I’ve seen before. It represents
Papa Legba
. He’s what you would pretty much call
the head
Lwa
. He stands at the
crossroads between the material world and the spiritual world and
facilitates communication between the living and the
dead.

“The cigar and chicken bone are
offerings to him… Gifts given in order to persuade him to open the
gate between the worlds so that the practitioner can speak to the
spirit of a departed loved one, or even another
Lwa
.”

“Well, whatever the reason, whoever did this
is a hell of an artist,” Mandalay observed.