Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (33 page)

“Well what about the rest of it? The whole
‘You’ll burn you fucking bitch’ part?” Constance insisted. “That’s
exactly how she was murdered, right?”

“Granted, he did burn her, but the
whole comment doesn’t sound like this guy at all. He passes
judgment using the questions and conventions of the
Malleus Maleficarum
, and he quotes it
directly. It definitely has a tendency to be much more eloquently
worded. This is not to mention the fact that he passes the judgment
in person just as it would have been done at a Witch trial. He’s
very intent on adhering to these methods, up to and including the
motions of proving out the accusation through some means of
torture. I don’t believe he would actually verbalize, or in this
case write, the judgment until he had done that at the very
least.

“The use of denigrating expletives in calling
her a ‘fucking bitch’ is way out of character as well.” I shook my
head vigorously. “No, I think this is all just a bizarre
coincidence.”

“You don’t think it’s just a
little
too
bizarre?”

“Believe me, I can see where you’re
coming from, Constance,” I admitted with a sigh then endeavored to
explain my logic. “But, just from my own experience I can tell you
that when you mention Witches to someone, one of the first things
they think of is burning at the stake. You’d be surprised how many
people out there believe that those accused of WitchCraft in Salem
were burned, when in fact they were hanged. While in one respect
that is a testament to the apathy of the population, in another it
shows how the whole myth surrounding Witch Burnings has become a
very common and deeply ingrained fallacy. I really don’t find that
comment surprising at all. Besides, for all we know, whoever wrote
that e-mail could have meant she was going to burn in hell. That’s
another well worn expression we’ve
all
been subjected to at one time or
another.”

“You could be right,” she replied. “But I
think the similarities between the e-mail and the actual crime are
too important to ignore.”

“Don’t misunderstand,” I told her, “I’m not
saying that anything should be ignored, least of all this. I’m just
telling you that I truly don’t believe this is the guy. It just
doesn’t feel right.”

Constance snapped a quick look over her
shoulder and then eased the car onto the ramp to Highway 270. We
continued wordlessly for a few moments, the ticking sound of the
turn signal filling the cab like a metronome as she blended us into
the other traffic. With another glance behind and quick check of
the mirrors, she hopscotched the government sedan across a trio of
lanes and leaned on the accelerator.

“So this is one of your
feelings
, huh?” she finally voiced
the half question.

“Yeah. One of my
feelings
,” I affirmed.

The landscape was beginning to slip past the
windows at an ever-increasing rate, and the other cars sharing the
highway with us had become only momentary flashes of color. I let
my gaze drift over to the dashboard and saw the vibrating needle of
the speedometer hovering somewhere between seventy-five and
eighty.

“Well I guess we’ll know soon enough,”
Mandalay expressed matter-of-factly. “Storm is supposed to be
getting a description of this guy from DMV. Besides, we should be
there inside of ten minutes anyway.”

* * * * *

“Got two cars in the driveway. DMV shows both
of them registered to Allen Roberts,” a stocky, African-American
officer clad in a crisp tan-over-brown County uniform, told us. He
was among a number of people I had seen today who was devoid of a
jacket or coat, regaling themselves in the illusion of spring-like
weather in the heart of winter. Absently he reached to his belt and
adjusted the volume of his radio as it chattered with the voice
traffic of the other units patrolling the suburbs of Saint Louis.
“Shades are up and I caught some motion through the front window on
a drive by. Someone is definitely home.”

Constance and I had met up with Ben, Deckert,
and the patrolman on the parking lot of a small combination gas
station/convenience store less than a half-mile from the residence.
Cars streamed in and out of the station at random intervals. Some
moments every available pump would be occupied, and at others the
lot would be almost empty. The occasional patron would stop for a
moment and stare in our direction, drawn in by idle curiosity at
the small assemblage of badge-wearing individuals. I could feel
their eyes upon us making the hair stand on the back of my neck as
they gazed in wonderment. Being the only non-law enforcement member
of the group, I suddenly felt thoroughly conspicuous and horribly
out of place. Logically, I knew that the onlookers had no way of
knowing that I wasn’t just another cop, but that didn’t stop the
prickling sensation from running up and down my back.

In truth, since the beginning of this case, I
had been treated by all of them as though I was one of their own. I
had only recently begun to realize that I was an altogether vested
member of this elite group and that I had been accepted fully into
their fold. They depended on me to make sense of things that were
unknown to them. They used me to track bizarre killers the way a
traffic cop uses a radar gun to catch speeders. While some of my
talents and revelations still brought a furrowed brow, or even a
brief glazed look of fear, they were doing all this with little or
no question.

Still, acting as an advisor and explaining my
supernormal visions to a room full of cops was one thing. Being in
the middle of an operation such as this one was an entirely
different story. I beat back the rhizome of anxiety that was
starting to spread and reminded myself that this wasn’t the first
time I had done this. It wasn’t something new to me at all and, in
fact, was even a bit mundane considering my last experience, which
had been an all out assault on a killer’s house. That time I had
been clad in a bullet proof vest and wallowing in the thick of it
for the sake of rescuing a little girl he intended to ritually
sacrifice for some still unknown purpose. The urgency of that
situation combined with the adrenalin rush hadn’t afforded me the
opportunity to feel this out of place on that night. I guess I was
making up for it now.

“Great.” My friend nodded as he planted his
large hand on a map spread across the hood of the patrol car and
studied it carefully. Every now and then a cold breeze would whip
around the end of the small building, lifting the edge of the
carefully drawn grid and threaten to take the paper into flight.
“That’s terrific. This prob’ly isn’t gonna be much of anything, ta’
be perfectly honest. Well, unless forensics is way off on their
height estimation, ‘cause the description of this Roberts
individual we got from his license info actually doesn’t match up
with the physical profile of our bad guy. But, accordin’ to what
Agent Mandalay and Rowan found out, he’s somehow connected with the
threatening e-mail one of the victims received, so he might know
somethin’. Basically, I’d just like to be ready in case he
bolts.”

“The patrol areas overlap here, here, and
here,” the uniformed man offered, using his finger to indicate
points on the carefully inked grid. “If he runs and manages to get
past you, he’s not going far.”

“Good deal.” Ben nodded as he spoke and
pushed his own finger around the sheet of intersecting lines then
tapped it on the final destination. “We’re just gonna knock on the
front door, so you take up a spot on this side street here and keep
an eye out.”

“Yes sir,” the patrolman replied with a curt
nod and then proceeded to quickly fold the map.

“Okay folks,” my friend announced as he
looked around our small huddle. “Let’s get movin’. Row, you ride
with me.”

I followed him to his van and climbed in to
the passenger side while Deckert shook hands with the uniformed
officer and finished thanking him for his help then joined Agent
Mandalay in her vehicle.

“Constance told me you think this is a dead
end,” Ben stated as he twisted the key in the ignition and the
engine kicked over.

“Honestly, yes,” I agreed. “After seeing the
actual e-mail, I don’t really believe it has anything to do with
the killer.”

“Lovely,” he replied while waiting for the
other two cars to back out, watching intently in his side view
mirror. “So we just spin our wheels some more.”

“I could be wrong,” I offered.

“Yeah, like I’ve seen that happen a lot
lately,” he replied sarcastically. “No, if you’ve got one of your
feelin’s, then you’re prob’ly right, but we gotta check it out
anyway. So, you get anything outta that space cadet number you were
pullin’ this morning, or did ya’ finally decide it was just a bad
dream?”

“Haven’t given it much thought,” I admitted.
“It’s been kind of a full day so far.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted as he gunned the engine
and pushed the van into a backward arc. “Get no argument from me on
that.”

With a tired sigh my friend cranked the shift
lever down into drive and urged us forward.

“Well,” he volunteered, “on the up side maybe
I’ll get ta’ have dinner with my family for a change. Although,
Allison did say she’s makin’ a meatlump tonight.”

“Don’t you mean meatloaf?”

“You ever had Al’s meatloaf, white man? Trust
me, she’s makin’ a meatlump.”

* * * * *

The heart of Millchester was a West County
suburb of the semi-affluent and moderately comfortable. Tree-lined
streets hosting domiciles in the range of two hundred fifty
thousand dollars. Some a little more, some a little less. For the
area, your basic upper middle class subdivision. It was the kind of
neighborhood where a reference to “the gardener” was pretentious
slang for the third party service that manicured the lawn in the
summer and plowed the driveway in winter. A place where “the club”
was the private pool and tennis courts maintained by a subdivision
committee.

As one skirted closer to the edges of the
township, farther into the periphery, property values lowered
perceptibly, and though kept up, houses showed more obvious signs
of age and wear. Still, the community was one for those within a
comfortable level of income. This was where Allen Roberts
lived.

The house was a split-level brick dwelling
that showed every appearance of being fairly well maintained. The
driveway and sidewalk were clear of snow and the slowly melting
piles of the white stuff rose above the rest of the tableau to
outline the salt-stained concrete. An evergreen hedgerow wrapped
around the foundation buried beneath drifts. Here and there random
boughs would peek through applying small splashes of emerald
against the stark white blanket.

We had arrived within five minutes of leaving
the gas station/convenience store and parked on the street in front
of the residence. Ben had conveniently positioned his van to block
the mouth of the driveway with Special Agent Mandalay’s sedan only
a few feet behind. We could see no movement through the unshaded
windows, and it didn’t appear that anyone noticed us as we advanced
on the home.

Detective Deckert split off from us as we
reached the start of the sidewalk, and he continued up the driveway
to the corner of the house. There, he positioned himself to keep
watch on a side entrance.

“Are you guys always this edgy when you go to
question someone?” I asked as the three of us ambled along the path
and started up the short flight of steps to the porch.

Ben glanced back and asked me rhetorically,
“When it’s even remotely possible they have somethin’ ta’ do with a
psychotic killer? You bet your ass.” Then, looking over at
Constance, he raised a questioning eyebrow, “So, you wanna draw
straws?”

In answer, Agent Mandalay reached out and
gave the doorbell a double stab with her thumb. Beyond the darkly
stained oak door the muffled ping-pong of the chime echoed twice in
rapid succession and was followed shortly by the dull thudding of
someone descending carpeted stairs. After the raspy metal-on-metal
grating noise of the deadbolt being twisted, the door swung open,
breaking the weather tight seal with an audible swoosh.

A thirtyish man with sandy hair stood peering
at us from behind the glass of the storm door. He was dressed in
grey sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt; both bore the stylized
music note logo of the local hockey team. After taking a sip from
an oversized coffee mug, he canted his mouth into a disgusted frown
then unlatched the exterior door and pushed it slightly open.

“I’m not buying anything,” he stated flatly
before anyone else could speak. “And if you’re from some church,
I’m an atheist and I’m not interested, so leave me alone.”

“Mister Roberts?” Constance queried, “Mister
Allen Roberts?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and took another sip from
the mug. “Like I told you, I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste
your breath.”

“No problem, sir,” Ben replied. “We aren’t
sellin’ anything. We’d just like to ask ya’ some questions.”

“Mister Roberts,” Constance continued, easily
withdrawing her ID wallet and splaying it open as I’d seen her do
before. “I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI. This is Detective
Storm with the...”

Her incomplete sentence hung in the air as
all color drained from Allen Roberts face, and his eyes grew wide
with surprised fright. I felt the fear skate up my spine as he
projected it wildly, and my defenses automatically enveloped me to
ward off the intensely broadcast emotion. Less than a second later,
the coffee mug Roberts had been just bringing to his lips slipped
from his grasp and exploded in a shower of ceramic shards across
the threshold.