Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (31 page)

“Yes sir, your name. Can I tell Miz Watson
your name?”

A wide grin spread across his face, and he
began clapping his hands together as best he could with the
hardened steel restraints still encircling his wrists.

“Puddin ‘n’ Tain,” he giggled suddenly.
“Puddin ‘n’ Tain, thas’ my name, ask me agin an I’ll tell ya’ the
same!”

I simply turned and walked out of the room,
leaving the old man to gleefully chant a new rhyme. Before the door
shut, we heard the attorney angrily spit a demand after us, “I want
someone in here to get these handcuffs off my client!”

* * * * *

“Fuckin’ idealistic little snot-nosed
bastard.” Ben voiced his deprecating slur about the young public
defender as he drove his doubled fist into his open palm. The
impact elicited a loud pop that echoed seemingly forever down the
long tiled hallway. “Sonofabitch pro’bly just passed the bar last
week.”

“I hate to play devil’s advocate here,” I
offered as we continued down the corridor. I was forced to increase
my pace in order to keep up with my friend’s long, angry strides.
“But, be that as it may, he has a point. That old man in there is
far too inebriated to make accurate judgments at the moment. You
saw that for yourself. Fact is he might not even be mentally
capable of making decisions that are in his own best interest,
period.”

“Maybe so, but you were beginnin’ ta’ get
through to him, weren’t ya’?” It was as much a statement as a
question.

“He appeared to be starting to regress back
to that night, but I can’t tell you how much was fantasy and how
much was reality.”

We slowed and rounded a corner then came to a
halt before a metal door. Gouges and chips littered the grey,
semi-gloss finish, forming a mottled background for uneven, faded
letters across its face that read ‘STAIRS.’ Above the door an exit
sign glowed dully.

Ben rested one hand on the doorknob and then
jerked his free thumb over his shoulder toward the interview room
we had just left. “But ya’ could’ve if ya’ hadn’t been interrupted
by Perry Mason back there, am I right?”

“I can’t guarantee you that, but yes,” I
nodded slightly, “it’s possible.”

“Well weren’t ya’ doin’ some of that
hocus-pocus stuff to ‘im? You know, like when ya’ hypnotized me
into seein’ that spider on my arm that time?” He was referring to a
simplistic glamour I had used to demonstrate hypnosis to him months
ago.

“Kind of. Not exactly like that, but along
similar lines. Mainly I was just trying to help him remember.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” He levered the door
open and motioned me through.

“In all honesty, he would probably be easier
to hypnotize once he’s sobered up anyway,” I added as we started up
the stairs. “It’s obvious that he already lives in a bit of a
fantasy world, and the liquor was not only acting to perpetuate
that but also to confuse him even more. An insane mind is not an
easy one to read or affect.”

“Well, now that he’s got an attorney, I
wouldn’t count on gettin’ that chance anytime soon. Jeez, white
man, you’re gonna hafta teach me some of that hocus-pocus stuff one
of these days.”

“Trust me, it’s not all that much fun.”

“I dunno... Bet that little Svengali deal is
a blast at parties.”

“Believe me, Chief, sometimes the payback is
a bitch. You just think it would be fun because right now you can’t
feel the headache I have coming on.”

M
embers of the Major Case
Squad had broken off into various groups by the time we returned to
the squad room on the upper floor; some in small teams discussing
and exchanging ideas; some alone with telephones pressed
purposefully to their ears; still others already out on the
streets. No matter the particular duty being executed, though, they
were all striving toward a singular purpose. To find a killer and
stop him before anyone else could become a victim.

“The systems administrator of the Miller
woman’s ISP is supposed to meet one of us at their office around
noon,” the young detective named Chuck told us. “He says they keep
their logs for ninety days, so we might have a good shot.”

The three of us were positioned around Ben’s
desk in a small huddle of our own. My friend stood leaning against
the piece of furniture with his hands thrust deep in his pockets
and a dejected scowl glued to his angular features. The young
detective had accosted us with the information almost as soon as we
had come through the double metal and glass doors that served as an
entryway to the squad room.

Ben nodded thoughtfully and cocked an eyebrow
at me. “Tell me again what this is gonna do for us?”

I was just swallowing a handful of
decomposing aspirin from a bottle that looked like it had been
rolling around in the desk drawer for the past decade. I had tried
to eyeball a measurement that looked like it might equal somewhere
around three or four whole tablets, then finally gave up and simply
filled my palm with the chunky granules. Hopefully the analgesic
would kick in soon because a small troll with a ball peen hammer
was already having a party inside my skull.

I chased the crumbling white pill remnants
down with a quick gulp of fresh coffee that wasn’t much better than
the hours old brew from earlier. The bitter tang of the medicine
combined with the java leeched into the back of my tongue, and I
had to bite back a reflexive gag.

“Whoever sent her the threatening e-mail,” I
finally explained, setting my cup aside and forcing myself to
ignore the throbbing in my temples, “would most likely have an
e-mail address or a domain header embedded in it. If we can get
that information, we should be able to trace it back to their
service provider and get their billing information.”

“Unless the sender spoofed it,” Chuck
volunteered.

“Yes, that’s true,” I agreed.

“Spoof?” Ben shot a puzzled look between
us.

“Masked or somehow altered the address and
domain,” the young detective detailed. “Kind of like electronically
filing off a serial number.”

“Simply fuckin’ lovely.” Ben’s right hand
went up to smooth back his hair as he muttered the curse.

“Even if it was spoofed, as long as they have
the POP-three logs and the original piece of mail, the assigned
routing number should at least allow us to track it to the mail
server that delivered it originally,” I offered.

Chuck returned an animated nod. “True, but
that’s all you’d get. No account info. And if you’re talking AOL or
something, that’s a big goddamned ISP. That’s not even taking into
account if it was sent through an open relay.”

“So what’s the story? There’s still a way ta’
track ‘im down even if he did this ‘spoofing’ thing, or no?” Ben
queried.

“In theory, yes,” I told him. “I have to be
honest though, I don’t think this guy is that computer savvy. In
fact, we should consider the fact that the threatening e-mail might
not have even come from him.”

“Whaddaya mean?” my friend asked.

“This kind of hate crime is not terribly
uncommon,” I replied with a shrug. “The idea of taunting or
degrading someone from behind the anonymity of the keyboard is
terribly appealing to some. Unfortunately, there are a large number
of individuals out there who are closed minded and hateful but are
just a little too inhibited to step over the line in person. Hide
them behind a computer monitor and a phone line and they suddenly
change. The inhibitions disappear because they believe no one knows
who they are, and they think that they can’t be caught.”

“So you’re sayin’ this kinda shit happens all
the time?” Ben appealed.

Chuck had been bobbing his head at strategic
points throughout my statement. “It’s rapidly becoming the
preferred method of sending anonymous hate mail.”

I shrugged in agreement. “Sure. I’ve been on
the receiving end of threatening e-mail myself.”

“What the fuck?” Ben’s eyes grew wide. “Why
haven’t ya’ ever told me this before, white man?”

“Why?”

“So maybe I could do somethin’ about it.”

“So you could do what, Ben?” I questioned.
“Fly halfway across the country and beat up... oh, I don’t know...”
I shrugged and shook my head before continuing, “maybe a beer
swilling bigot in his mid-twenties whose biggest thrill in life is
denigrating others over the internet just for something to do?
People like that aren’t worth your time any more than they are
mine.”

My friend stared at the floor for a moment,
silently working his fingers on a tense knot at the back of his
neck. “Okay,” he finally spoke. “So if I understand what you two
are sayin’, this lead may or may not get us any closer to our
guy.”

“Right,” Chuck answered.

“Correct,” I agreed. “But there’s only one
way to find out, and that’s to go talk to the administrator of
Kendra Miller’s ISP and see what kind of information we can
get.”

“You know,” Chuck offered, “internet stalking
is a federal crime. You might want to get the Feeb’s in on
this.”

Still massaging the base of his neck, Ben
twisted around and motioned across the room with his free hand.
“Hey, Constance, you got a minute?”

* * * * *

We were sitting in a small waiting area in
one corner of the homicide division squad room. My auburn-maned
wife was planted lethargically in her seat next to me, one leg
draped over the other, unmoving. Ever since I had known her,
whenever she sat with her legs crossed, she would invariably begin
lightly tapping her foot in the air to a rhythm only she could
hear. Her now uncharacteristic motionlessness was a sure indicator
of her fatigue.

Her upper torso was slightly twisted and
tucked neatly into the crook of my shoulder with my arm hooked
about her. She cupped a half-full coffee mug in her dainty hands,
absently running the tip of a neatly manicured nail around its
rim.

I rested my chin lightly atop her head, and
since her contaminated jacket was draped across a seat several feet
away, all I could smell was the fresh sweetness of juniper wafting
from her soft hair. I closed my eyes and relaxed, feeling the
fistful of aspirins beginning to force my headache into
submission.

“We’ll be leaving in about thirty-minutes or
so, I guess,” I told Felicity in a quiet voice. “I don’t know how
long it will take, but I wouldn’t expect more than an hour or
two.”

“That’s okay,” she answered with an exhausted
near whisper. “I called my client before I came up here. They still
want to see if we can do the shoot today, so I really need to be
getting over there then.”

Between her lingering hangover and coming
down from the adrenalin rush, I knew she was fading fast. I also
had no doubt that she would muster a second wind and do everything
in her power to make her client happy—and she would succeed as
usual. This evening, however, one could be certain that she was
going to crash and crash hard.

“You look to me like you need a few more
hours sleep as opposed to working,” I admonished. “No offense
intended. You’re still the prettiest sight I’ve seen all day.”

“Aye, none taken,” her voice lilted as she
rested against me. “Surely I feel like I could use it myself. And I
suspect you need to have your glasses checked then.”

“Uh-huh. My glasses are fine,
sweetheart.”

“Ahh, you’re just besotted then.” My petite
wife let out a satiny, musical laugh then stretched cat-like
against me and pressed herself deeper into the cradle of my arm.
“Oh, and I almost forgot, Austin called shortly after you left this
morning. He’d like to take us to dinner tomorrow night if we’re
free. I told him I’d check with you.”

“I don’t see why we couldn’t,” I said with a
slight shrug. “I can’t say what’s going to happen between now and
then, but as far as I know I’ll be available. And I definitely
didn’t get to spend much time with him last night. How did all that
work out anyway?”

“What’s that? The fight?”

“Yeah,” I said and gave her arm a squeeze.
“Best I could get from you last night was that you’d bailed him
out.”

She let out a breath and inhaled deeply. I
could feel a slight movement of her head against me as she gave a
shallow nod. “The charges were dropped. Austin didn’t hurt him that
badly, and seems that after Daddy was finished threatening the
hotel management with lawsuits, they were apologizing and assuring
him they would take disciplinary action against the bartender.”

“Leave it to Shamus,” I muttered with
hollowness in my voice. “So some poor stiff is going to lose his
job on top of getting pummeled by my brother-in-law, all because he
happened to make a joke about me? I can’t live with that.”

“Aye, I’m thinking not, so don’t worry,” she
returned. “Daddy told them they should leave it be. Just let men be
men and be done with it.”

“If the guy dropped the assault charges
though, you can be sure he got some pressure from the upper
management.”

“Aye. Surely you’re correct on that.”

“I realize Austin felt he was just being
loyal to a family member, but he should really go apologize to the
man.”

“He probably already has.” She reached over
and gave my thigh a loving pat. “That’s where he was planning to go
this morning after breakfast.”

* * * * *

A flat-bottomed mass of clouds hung like an
anvil over the small corner of Saint Louis’ south county—an
oppressive reminder of winter casting a harsh, blue-grey silhouette
across the mounded snow. The temperature managed to bootstrap
itself to a few degrees above the freezing point by the time the
clock hands met at twelve. This, in combination with the moderate
amount of sunshine that peeked through, had already rendered the
small dusting of the fresh white stuff we had received overnight to
a damp memory. It was now continuing to work silently at melting
away the remnants of the recent miniature blizzard.