Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (32 page)

The general populace of the city and county
were visibly active in the wake of this serendipitous “heat” wave.
Self-service car washes were raking in the quarters as patrons
choked their small lots—everyone vying for positions to wash the
corrosive road grime from their vehicles. For every clean car to
exit on the backside, seemingly two more would rush to join the
throng waiting for a turn. As we passed by these small pockets of
frenzied activity, we saw no less than a half dozen fender benders
caused by the impatient confusion.

Special Agent Mandalay turned the dark sedan
into the parking lot of a plain looking strip mall on Gravois. Due
to the possible federal jurisdiction surrounding this crime—or
portion of a larger crime—she and I had been elected to make this
call. Constance was, of course, the official representative of law
enforcement. I was along simply as a translator. Someone to make
sense of any computer and internet jargon she might not be familiar
with.

Everyone else, including Ben and Deckert had
either remained behind or set out in different directions, all
intent on following up other leads, sparse as they were. Another
purpose for my friend to remain at the MCS command post was to be
able to direct the actions of the squad. Even his superior officers
were giving him free rein over this case based on his recent past
history with the last serial killer and to an even greater extent,
me. Because of his relationship with me, as well as the
circumstances surrounding the last case, he was viewed as the
ranking officer when it came to crimes that dealt with anything
even remotely related to what they termed “occult dealings.” I
suppose that in their opinion, a madman going around murdering
Witches by all the conventions of the Inquisition fell under that
particular heading. I guess I had to agree.

The long brick building we were rolling
toward across the wet asphalt was nestled comfortably between a
small restaurant on the right and what appeared to be a light
industrial area to the left. A laundromat equipped with its own
bar, aptly titled SUDZ, occupied one end of the structure. Neon
signs painted on the window boasted a Tuesday and Thursday singles
night. Not exactly
my
idea of
a good time, but then I had never been one for enjoying either
activity—doing the laundry
or
singles night at a bar. Not even when I was
single.

The opposite end housed the office and
showroom of a small accounting firm with a decidedly ethnic name. A
few other nondescript businesses occupied the center, with our
destination sandwiched in between. South County Online Internet
Services, L.L.C.

Constance nosed her sedan into a space in
front of the establishment and directly next to an older, but
apparently well maintained, Cutlass Supreme. The car showed almost
no sign of the chalky, whitish-grey salt that coated her vehicle
and in fact, was even steaming slightly in the sunlight as water
from an extremely recent wash evaporated into the chilled air. It
couldn’t have been pulled into its space very long before we
arrived.

A haggard looking man with shoulder-length
hair, dressed in denim jeans and an oversized sweatshirt bearing
the logo of a modem manufacturer stood outside the door of the
service provider. His winter coat hung limply open over his thin
frame, and his wide eyes bore the signature glaze of the
programmer’s trinity—caffeine, nicotine, and a late night spent
staring at the sixty hertz scan of a computer monitor. Years ago,
before I had gone into business for myself, I had seen a very
similar face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror each and
every morning.

He took a deep drag from the remains of the
cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger as he watched us
get out of the vehicle. With a lazy flick, he sent the butt sailing
through the air in the direction of a large coffee can without even
looking. I assumed the receptacle was partially filled with sand,
but it was impossible to be sure as it was already overflowing onto
the sidewalk with the extinguished remnants of countless other
cigarettes. The butt impacted the concrete near the can and
exploded a small shower of red embers outward to quickly die then
rolled to a stop and laid smoldering amidst the others that had
come before it.

The bedraggled man nodded in our direction as
he blew out a thick cloud of smoke intermixed with steamy breath.
“You two the cops that called?”

Constance reached into her coat as she
stepped around the front of the car and withdrew the leather case
containing her credentials. In a practiced motion she smoothly
flipped open the wallet with one hand to display her badge and
identification to him.

“I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI,”
she stated in an even, businesslike tone. “This is Mister
Gant.”

“FBI, huh. I was just expectin’ cops,” the
man grunted then chuckled lightly. “Shouldn’t you be a redhead and
shouldn’t he be taller?”

Constance glanced over at me with a thin
frown sealing her lips but refrained from commenting on the TV show
reference she had probably heard more times that she could easily
recollect. Fluidly closing the leather case, she thrust her
identification back into her pocket and looked back to the man.

“You are the systems administrator for this
Internet Service?” The tone of her voice turned the statement into
a question, and she motioned to the sign on the window that
proclaimed South County Online to be the “Leading Edge In Internet
Information Services.”

“That’s me.” He extended his hand as he
acknowledged in a somewhat unsettled tone, having most certainly
noticed Agent Mandalay’s cold reaction to his quip. “Rocky
Wendell.”

We exchanged quick handshakes and then
followed him through the door into the dark interior of the
building.

“I can put some coffee on if either of you
want any,” he told us as we tagged along through the reception
area, past a service desk, and into a corridor lit dimly by a
glowing exit sign.

“Thank you, no,” Constance gunned down his
offer with sharp, vocational politeness. “We’re running a little
short on time, so if you could just answer a few questions about
one of your clients, we’ll let you get on with what’s left of the
weekend.”

Wendell hesitated for a moment after slapping
a pair of switches and stood studying her face as fluorescent
illumination poured into the hallway and rear half of the building.
It was becoming obvious that the petite federal agent’s demeanor
had him off balance. It was almost as if he wasn’t quite sure how
to handle dealing with a woman in a position of authority.

Finally, he simply shrugged then turned and
continued down the corridor. “Suit yourself.”

* * * * *

“Kendra Miller, yeah, here it is,” Wendell
told us from behind a glassy eyed stare at a screen positioned on
his desk, “Witchvixen at yadda yadda yadda.” He ripped off a string
of keystrokes, and we could see the light of the screen flicker
across his face as it changed. “According to her activity log, I
think she might have taken that nickname a little too seriously...
Says here she was subscribed to some of those wacko newsgroups...
alt dot WitchCraft, alt dot Witches, alt dot Wicca...”

“Do you have any record of her complaining of
threatening or harassing e-mail?” Agent Mandalay interrupted him
before he could continue reading off the list.

“Just a second.” He tapped out another series
of clicks and clacks on the keyboard, then once again the screen
flickered, and he slowly began nodding. “Yeah... yeah, looks like
about a month ago. She got a crank e-mail and called. Looks like we
just set up a trap filter on her account for that addy.”

“Did you have to trap an entire domain?” I
inquired.

“Nope, whoever it was didn’t bother to spoof
it. Address and IP were clean. It was an easy trap, not that it
mattered. She only got the one e-mail.”

“Nothing else?” I pressed.

“Nope. Just the one.” He shook his head. “We
e-mailed a notification of the problem to the originating server
and didn’t even get an acknowledgement back. We assumed they just
took care of it.”

“Can you give us a copy of that information?”
Mandalay asked.

“Sure.” He rolled back a foot or so and
punched the power switch on a laser printer that was positioned
behind him. “You want a copy of the original crank e-mail too?”

“Please.” She nodded.

We watched on in silence as he rapidly issued
a series of commands through the keyboard then sat back and raised
his eyebrows at us. “Be just a second. It’ll spool just as soon as
the printer warms up. You know, if you want my opinion, she was
pretty much looking to get harassed if she was hanging out on
newsgroups like that.” He let out a sudden cackling laugh. “I mean
get serious. Witches? What a bunch of nutballs.”

Constance and I remained silent and waited
patiently as the device came ready then began spitting out sheets
of paper. After a moment, Wendell gathered the short stack of warm
twenty-pound bond and handed it across the desk to Constance.

“Originating SMTP server is part of a
privately owned domain,” he offered as she leafed through the
pages, handing each one to me in succession as she finished
scanning it. “Info is right there in the header.”

“Rowan,” Constance said as she handed over a
sparsely printed page, “have a look at this.”

The text contained the standard date, time,
tracking number and header information one would find on any
e-mail. The TO line read “[email protected].” The FROM
read “[email protected].” The body of the message was what
really struck home. In bold black against the stark white paper the
words “Thou Shalt Not Suffer A Witch To Live” stared back at me.
Below that familiar sentence was another, far less eloquent phrase,
“You will burn you fucking bitch!”

I glanced over at Constance and raised an
eyebrow then turned my attention back to the man behind the
desk.

“Did you by any chance run a check on this
domain to see who owns it?” I asked.

“Just a sec...” he replied and once again
assaulted his keyboard.

Almost instantly the laser printer wound up
from a low squeal to a high pitched whine like a miniature jet
preparing for takeoff. With a sharp click followed by a dull thunk,
it peeled off a fresh sheet of paper from the tray and a moment
later spit it out the top. Wendell snatched it up and perused the
printing on its face briefly before tossing it on the desk in front
of me.

“That’s a ‘whois’ on it,” he explained.
“Shows who the domain is registered to, gives a contact name, phone
number, all that. From the looks of the address the owner’s
local.”

I gave the listing a quick once over, noting
the address as well, then slid it over to Constance who picked it
up and began to quickly read.

“We appreciate all your help, Mister
Wendell,” she told him as she slowly stood and extended her hand,
all the while still looking at the information on the page I had
just given her. “We will be sure to contact you if we have any
further questions.”

I followed her cue and rose up from my chair
as well.

“Glad I could help,” the man returned as he
shook her hand then looked over at me and reached out to shake
mine. “Mind if I ask you something?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Well I always thought you Feds were supposed
to be clean cut and all,” he spoke as he pumped my right hand and
gestured at my hair with his free appendage. “But you’ve got a
ponytail and a beard. What’s up with that? You some kind of
undercover agent or something?”

“Mister Gant isn’t with the Bureau,”
Constance volunteered.

“She’s right, I’m not.” I smiled at him. “I’m
one of those nutball Witches.”

“Y
es, that’s right, last
four digits are two-five-two-two,” Agent Mandalay said into her
cell phone as she cranked the steering wheel and backed us out of
the parking space. The tires let out a dull squeal as they spun
against the wet pavement before taking hold. “Address looks like
it’s a private residence in West County... Millchester... The man’s
name that holds the registration on the domain or whatever is one
Allen Roberts. That first name is spelled A-L-L-E-N... Yeah, like a
surname. The last name is Roberts, R-O-B-E-R-T-S.

“Yes... Yeah... Uh-huh, okay... Rowan and I
are on our way there right now. Uh-huh, okay, call me on my
cellular if you need to. Uh-huh, yes...I’d say about twenty
minutes... Okay, see you there... Bye.”

The phone let out an audible squelch as she
pulled it away from her ear and stabbed the END button with her
thumb, then dropped it onto the seat.

“Storm and Deckert are meeting us there.” She
glanced quickly at me as she seized a break in the traffic and
pushed the sedan out into the westbound lanes of Gravois. “Carl is
calling in some backup from County right now.”

“You know,” I started hesitantly, “I don’t
really want to rain on your parade, but something just doesn’t feel
right about this. I don’t think this is our guy.”

“Why not?” she asked, settling into her seat
and smoothly accelerating the vehicle as we merged with the
flow.

“It’s just not right.” I shook my head.
“It... It just doesn’t feel like him.”

“What about the message?” she posed. “Thou
shalt not suffer a witch to live? Exodus twenty-two eighteen, just
like was highlighted in the Bible that old bum had in his pocket.
You said you were sure he got it from the Miller crime scene.”

“I
am
sure,” I agreed. “And yes, it is the same verse, but that is
the most commonly quoted, misquoted, and misinterpreted, mind you,
passage from the Bible with regard to Witches and WitchCraft. It is
definitely not out of the question that someone else would quote it
in their hate mail.”