Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (27 page)

I held my hands apart wide in a
one-that-got-away type of gesture. “Really big client.”

The answering bob of his head told me I
needn’t say any more. “Ahhh, much wampum. I get it. Well, at least
she has a choice in it.” He sighed as he looked around. “Some of us
have a crazy fuck makin’ the decisions for us.”

I mimicked his swiveled head scan of the
room, and his reference dawned over the sleep-deprived fog that
clouded my mind. On a normal Sunday morning, the homicide division
squad room was relatively still and near lifeless. Today, however,
with the advent of the emergency meeting and the fact that the
Major Case Squad was using it as a base of operations, it was
slowly coming to bustling wakefulness.

Phones were beginning to add their annoying
jingles to the vanishing silence as calls were transferred from the
main switchboard into the squad room. Bleary-eyed detectives with
vacant faces were cradling handsets against their ears; some while
lethargically scribbling notes, others while just leaning back in
their chairs and pretending to listen.

The petite thud of a hurried pair of
cross-trainers against aged linoleum started softly at the door and
grew louder as their owner came breezing in. Making her way through
the grid of desks, the tousled-haired federal officer shot us a
quick good morning without so much as slowing down.

“Sorry I’m late. I overslept,” Agent Mandalay
announced as she strode past us with an oblong white box in her
hands. “Hope you like glazed. It’s all they had fresh.”

“Don’t tell me,” Ben offered, “Rachel’s Donut
Hut down on Chippewa.”

“How did you know?” she asked as she
deposited the container on the table next to the other box of
morning sweets.

“Great minds think alike.”

“Okay, I’ve heard that before, but
what’s
your
excuse,
Storm?”

My friend chuckled a muted expletive at the
playful jibe but, other than that, elected not to reply.

Constance unzipped and shrugged off her
coat while at the same time surveying the scene in front of her.
When she turned back to face us, we could see that over her denim
jeans she was wearing a slightly faded sweatshirt emblazoned with a
steeple like logo, the lower portion of which disappeared into a
line of stylized text that read,
Cornell
University
, Ithaca, New York. The tail of the garment
was tucked behind a worn leather holster clipped to her right side,
and high on her hip rode a forty caliber Sig Sauer. I knew from the
experience of having seen her in action that this young woman could
be much more dangerous than was boasted by her rumpled college
co-ed appearance.

She swept her hand back at the disorderly
mess and frowned. “Sheesh, don’t you guys ever clean up after
yourselves?”

“It’s not that bad,” Ben grunted then sipped
his coffee. “Besides, ain’t my turn.”

Agent Mandalay rolled her eyes and proceeded
to remove the visitors badge from her jacket and clip it onto her
belt before finding a place to hang the garment. “Is everyone here,
or am I not the only late one?”

My friend rolled his arm up and peered over
the rim of his cup at the watch face on his wrist. “Just you’n
Deck. He called about fifteen, twenty minutes ago, so I expect him
ta’ be walkin’ through the door any time now. Doc Sanders is here,
but she ran down the hall for a minute. Other than that, I think
we’re all accounted for.”

“I didn’t sleep too well last night.” She let
out a small sigh as she dragged over a chair similar to mine and
dropped her petite frame into it. “What about you guys?”

I looked at her and shook my head.

Ben simply shrugged and took a pull at his
cup of java then said, “Me neither. Nightmares. Of course, it’s not
like there was an overabundance of time for sleepin’ anyway.”

“I know what you mean. The alarm went off way
too early,” she agreed. “Either of you catch the national news this
morning? That video byte got picked up by the wire services.”

“Don’t tell me...” Ben muttered the
rhetorical question.

“Yeah. The ‘Ghoul Squad’ is national
news.”

“Were they at least a little more selective
about which part and how much of the tape they showed?” I
asked.

“Not the station I was looking at,” she
returned.

“Figures,” Ben spat.

“Ben, Connie, Rowan,” Carl Deckert’s gruff
voice met our ears as he trudged in, holding a box of donuts in one
hand while working the buttons of his overcoat with the other. “I
hope you guys like glazed. It’s all they had fresh.”

“So we’ve heard,” Ben answered and raised an
eyebrow at Constance.

“Rachel’s Donut Hut over on Chippewa,” she
chuckled.

“How’d you know?” Carl continued fumbling
with the last button and gave them both a puzzled expression. After
a moment, he began eyeing the carton on all sides, presumably in
search of a telltale marking.

“Table,” Ben answered and pointed to the
other boxes near the coffee.

“Maybe I shoulda called or somethin’,” Carl
stated apologetically as he added his offering to the pile. “That’s
an awful lot of donuts.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I quipped.
“I mean we are sitting in a room full of cops and it’s only a few
dozen donuts. What are the odds that there will be any left over by
the time lunch rolls around?”

“Ya’know, you civilians have gotta get
over that whole
cop slash donut
thing,” my friend returned, verbalizing the punctuation as he
spoke. Then he let out a small laugh.

“Sure, whatever you say, Ben. But tell me
this, am I right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he answered
with a broad smile. “Now shut up.”

* * * * *

“So I’m sure everyone is aware that our boy
was real busy last night. For those of you who were on the scenes,
this may be a little bit of a rehash. For those who weren’t, or who
just got assigned to the MCS, we’ll try ta’ bring ya’ up ta’ speed
as quickly as possible.” Ben was sitting on the edge of his desk in
the squad room addressing the attentive assembly of detectives
attached to the Major Case Squad. “Last night we got three
bodies...” He held up his hand and displayed three fingers to the
group, turning his hand front to back. “...Three in one night,
people. Two fittin’ the M.O. of our bad guy from the Walker and
Miller cases. The third was one of the latest victim’s husband, and
it looks like he just might’ve been in the way. Most of ya’ are
familiar with the first two victims, those that aren’t, everything
we have is on the handouts I just gave you.” He waved a sheaf of
papers at the group.

“Now, some of ya’ have prob’ly already heard
the theory that the husband wasn’t the only screw up for our boy
last night. From all indications, Christine Webster was not a Witch
and in fact didn’t actively practice any religion at all, much less
an alternative one. Well, the good news is I think we’ve solved the
mystery behind this break in the M.O.”

Ben had already told me this simple
revelation upon my arrival at the MCS command post, but from the
attentive stares he now commanded, I could tell that this was new
information to most everyone else present.

“As you’re aware, we’ve been operatin’ on the
assumption that the killer is workin’ off a list. This list
contains the names of several women who are members of a local
Witches coven. All of the victims up until this point have been on
that list. Now what we believe we are dealin’ with on the most
recent victim is a case of mistaken identity.”

“So there’s a Christine Webster out there
that actually is a member of that coven?” one of the cops
asked.

“Exactly,” my friend answered. “Only ‘er name
is spelled with a K instead of a C-h. K-r-i-s-t-i-n-e, ta’ be
exact. Other than that, the middle and last names are
identical.”

“The mistake makes sense if you follow the
killer’s brand of logic,” I interjected. “It stands to reason that
someone with a deep religious conviction would hear Christine and
automatically spell it with a C-h. After all, the origin of the
name is Christ.”

Ben grunted in agreement.

“So the original theory holds?” the
questioning cop asked.

“For now, yes.” Ben nodded. “Okay. Now that
we’ve cleared that one up, I’m gonna turn the floor over to our
distinguished city M.E. So, Doc, you got anything for us on last
night’s unfortunate souls?”

Doctor Sanders set her own coffee aside while
simultaneously slipping her reading glasses onto her face. The
spectacles that hung from a simple chain about her neck were like a
permanent fixture. I couldn’t recall ever having seen her without
them. She opened a file before her and peered at the scribbled
notes, reciting from them without looking up.

“I have the preliminary posts on all three.
First victim is Sheryl Kee...” The last few words of her sentence
elongated and rose in pitch as she yawned deeply. Covering her
mouth with her hand, she drew in a second breath and sighed,
“Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry.”

“S’alright Doc,” Ben told her. “Been a long
one for all of us... Go on.”

“As I was saying,” she continued, “first
victim, Sheryl Keeven, Caucasian, female, thirty-four years of age.
She was hung by the neck from the balcony of her apartment. Prelim
shows a stress fracture at the third cervical vertebrae, but that
didn’t kill her immediately. There are indications that she expired
due to asphyxiation. There were thirteen remarkable puncture wounds
in soft tissues that were made pre-mortem. I would venture to say
from an ice pick or something very similar.

“Next…” She flipped a page in the manila file
and stifled another yawn. “Christine Webster, again Caucasian,
female. Twenty-seven years of age. Cause of death was asphyxiation
due to drowning, pure and simple. Her lungs were full of water. Ms.
Webster’s body also exhibited a number of puncture wounds
consistent with the Keeven woman as well as the two earlier
victims.

“Finally, Robert Webster. Caucasian, male,
twenty-eight. Contused larynx. Cause of death, again, asphyxiation.
He was choked to death using the cord from a set of mini blinds. No
other wounds in this case save for some minor, unremarkable
bruising and abrasions that most likely occurred during a struggle.
Judging from the upward angle of the contusion, I would venture to
hypothesize that the attacker was a rather large male, probably
over six feet in height. Other than that…” She flicked the folder
shut then removed her glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her
nose between her thumb and forefinger. “…we will have to wait for
the tox and labs to come back.”

She allowed her glasses to dangle down on
their omnipresent chain and looked up at us with a slight shrug.
“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment.”

“Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate ya’ gettin’
on that so quick,” Ben told her then turned his attention back to
the rest of the room and nodded in the direction of a thick, stocky
man who was absently smoothing his moustache as he listened. “You
and your team have anything for us from the crime scenes,
Murv?”

The man gestured in the direction of Doctor
Sanders, and when he spoke, his voice was richly timbered and
affected with a slight, lazy, southern drawl. “I’d say the Doc’s
prob’ly right about our bad guy. We got one decent imprint out of
the snow around the pool last night. Matches up to a man’s size
seventeen hiking boot, so I’d have to say he’s a big boy. Best
estimate, anywhere from six-six to seven foot tall.”

He paused as he again brushed imaginary
crumbs from the whiskers on his upper lip and then took a moment to
scratch the back of his head. “So far we haven’t had a single
worthwhile print, but it’s winter and everyone is wearin’ gloves so
I don’t really expect any. He’s left a different kind of Bible at
each scene, all of them being of a type readily available from any
bookstore. We’re runnin’ it down anyway. The spray paint he’s used
to leave the symbol is just your standard commercially available
stuff.” He stopped talking for a moment and shrugged. “Either way,
got a sample of it off to the FBI crime lab. Couple of fibers.
Poly-cotton blend, dyed black. Pretty generic stuff. Besides that
we got a big fat zippo. Sorry ya’ll, but this ol’ boy ain’t givin’
us much to go on.”

Ben nodded. “You’ll let us know if ya’ come
up with anything else?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Great. Thanks, Murv.”

“No problem.”

“Okay, tox on the Miller woman showed Roofies
in her system,” Ben announced to the room and looked around. “Who’s
workin’ with Narc on that?”

“Over here,” a hard-edged but still feminine
voice came from across the room. “Detective Baker. I’m your liaison
to County Narcotics.”

“Great, Baker. Whaddaya got?”

“Unfortunately, nothing,” she returned.
“We’ve worked the college campuses and all the small time dealers
we can think of. Of course, we haven’t really known what we were
looking for.”

“Understood,” Ben replied and gave her a nod.
“I’d like for ya’ ta’ hit ‘em again and work from the basis that
we’re lookin’ for an unusually tall individual. That might
help.”

“Will do.”

Ben gave his notes a quick scan and without
looking up from the fistful of paper, queried the room, “Computer
crimes. Do we have anything on this whole Internet stalkin’
lead?”

“The Miller woman’s hard drive is clean,” a
younger detective announced. “According to the system registry, the
operating system was a recent install, and we found a receipt from
a local repair shop. Looks like she upgraded.”

“I hate the damn things, Chuck,” Ben returned
grumpily. “You mind puttin’ that in English?”