Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (34 page)

“SHIT!” he exclaimed in a panicked voice.

As the cup and its steaming contents
splattered through the opening, Constance leapt backwards
propelling herself against the wrought iron railing that ringed the
porch. The blatantly unnerved man retreated from the doorway,
making a hasty attempt to swing the oak barrier shut in our faces,
only to have it wedge against one of the larger shards of the
broken ceramic before reaching mid-swing.

“Awwwww fuck!” Ben spat under his breath as
he motioned quickly to Deckert with one hand and simultaneously
withdrew his sidearm from its shoulder holster with the other. With
a swift quarter turn of his torso my friend planted his hand on my
chest and drove me toward the stairs. All the while he kept his
eyes fixed on the doorway and his large frame between any possible
threat and me. “Get outta here, Row! Get behind the van! Now!”

I stumbled back, grabbing the railing for
support while I struggled to maintain my balance. I could see that
Constance was already gripping her weapon stiff-armed before
herself at eye level and was glaring down the sights as Ben yanked
the outer door wide.

“STOP! Federal Officer!” she bellowed in a
crisp, commanding voice as she proceeded through the opening with
Ben glued to her heels.

Deckert hopped a short distance down to a
snow covered patio area and hustled around the corner of the house,
his hand also filled with a nine-millimeter equalizer. I caught
only a quick glimpse of the portly detective’s fedora adorned head
as he disappeared behind the brick wall.

I continued to twist as I back peddled down
the short set of stairs, fighting to turn backward motion into
forward as I came to face the street. I had no real clue as to why
Allen Roberts had reacted this way to the sight of Agent Mandalay’s
badge. My senses detected only fear, and I felt none of the
calculated malice that had been present at each of the crime
scenes. I could only assume that if he was in fact responsible for
the threatening e-mail, he realized that such harassment over the
internet was considered a hate crime and was at this very moment
regretting the action.

However, I was still firmly convinced that
the vile piece of electronic detritus that had been delivered to
Kendra Miller’s online address was no more than a coincidence. It
was an accidental event that was leading us farther from, rather
than closer to, the actual killer.

I pumped my legs hard, pounding my feet
against the curved concrete walkway, striving to obey my friend’s
order to remove myself from the near proximity. Adrenalin was just
taking over as I reached the end of the driveway and hooked myself
around the back of his van.

A white Crown Victoria, its door emblazoned
with the brown, red, and gold seal of the Saint Louis County Police
department screeched to a halt in front of me, light bar flickering
madly. The officer Ben had stationed on the side street across from
Allen Roberts’ home hit the pavement while the vehicle was still
coming to a complete halt. Before I could process the overwhelming
abundance of visual information assaulting me, the uniformed cop
had grabbed my collar and dragged me down behind the open door of
the car.

“Dispatch, this is Unit Nineteen,” the
officer spoke rapidly into a hand mic. “Detective Storm and the FBI
agent are inside. Detective Deckert has moved his position to the
back of the house. Over.”

The radio crackled with static and the faint
voices of overlapping channels, then blared the feminine voice of
the dispatcher into the frosty air, “Affirmative, Nineteen. Backup
is rolling on your location. What is your status?”

“I am in a secure position in front of the
residence,” he answered. “Everything’s quiet at the moment.
Over.”

Hissing static returned for a brief
second.

“Nineteen, be advised, Detective Deckert
informed us earlier that there would be a civilian consultant on
the scene. One Mister Rowan Gant. Do you know his status?
Over.”

“Affirmative,” he spoke as he keyed the
microphone. “Mister Gant is safe. I have him right here.”

The dispatcher’s businesslike voice filtered
from the speaker once again, “Affirmative, Nineteen.”

The muted crackle of the cross-talking radio
traffic filled the thickness around us as we waited for any
indication of what was happening inside the walls of the home. Less
than three minutes had elapsed since Ben had muscled me off the
porch and ordered me out of what he perceived as harm’s way.

My legs were already starting to cramp as I
knelt on the cold asphalt next to the county police cruiser. I
watched the still open entrance to the house intently, peering past
the stocky officer in front of me, straining to detect any movement
or noise that might indicate what was happening inside those
walls.

That self-conscious, “I don’t belong here”
feeling was once again wrapping me in its prickly
embrace—threatening to smother me with its special brand of
anxiety. It was all but forgotten when a large, familiar figure
appeared in the doorway.

The rush of excitement died a lingering, but
painless, death, as Ben Storm exited the residence and
lethargically ambled down the stairs. He was already strolling down
the driveway when a pair of County squad cars joined us on the
street. My friend was slowly shaking his head and a dull frown
affected a deep crease in his chiseled features. He held his badge
out in plain view for the newly arrived officers to see before
slipping the attached cord over his head and hanging the shield
about his neck. Detective Deckert reappeared around the corner and
was soon trundling alongside, quickening his pace in order to match
the long strides of the tall Native American cop.

All around us, drapes were being pulled back
and blinds parted. Front doors stood open with families of
onlookers crowded into the small spaces, peering out from behind
panes of breath-fogged glass as they chattered with one another
about the unfolding scene. Glancing across the street, I noticed
the round-cheeked impression of a child’s face pressed against the
lower section of a storm door, staring at us in wide-eyed
amazement. Momentarily, the youngster was whisked away by
protective adults intent on keeping her from harm, but giving no
consideration to their own safety as they themselves continued to
gawk.

As short and sweet as the burst of action
was, this was probably the most excitement this small community had
seen for ages. I didn’t have to hear what the spectators were
theorizing to know that the speculations were growing wilder with
each spoken word. One could be sure that exhilarated phone calls
were already being traded among neighbors, friends, and
relatives.

“All clear,” Ben told the officer as he
approached us. “Agent Mandalay’s got Roberts in custody.”

The officer nodded and keyed his microphone,
“Dispatch, this is Nineteen. House is secure and subject detained.
Over.”

“Affirmative, Nineteen,” the dispatcher’s
voice crackled in reply.

“Do me a favor, Golden,” Deckert addressed
the uniformed cop. “Have Dispatch get a van from the Crime Scene
Unit out here just in case.”

“You wanna go ahead and coordinate out here
while I take Rowan in?” Ben asked Deckert.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Carl, answered with an
animated nod. “I got it covered.”

“C’mon, Kemosabe,” my friend said as he
clapped me on the shoulder and jerked his head in the direction of
the house. “Need ya’ ta’ look at this.”

“What?” I queried as we started back up the
driveway. “Did you find something?”

“Maybe, I dunno. Asshole ran straight for a
room full of computer shit. Stopped ‘im just as he was tryin’ ta’
type somethin’ on a keyboard.” He sighed. “There’re wires and crap
runnin’ all over the place. Looks like fuckin’ NORAD in there or
somethin’. I need you ta’ tell me just what the hell we’re lookin’
at.”

I
n reality, Allen Roberts
had actually managed to type something into the keyboard. He’d even
managed to hit ENTER. Truth be known, he’d succeeded in typing the
“something” three separate times before Ben and Agent Mandalay had
stopped him. Our only saving grace was apparently his haste-induced
clumsiness. At each glowing prompt on the screen was a short string
of characters that in another situation would appear to be the
daily jumble from the feature section of the newspaper. In this
particular case, however, it was obvious to anyone with a basic
knowledge of computers that the unintentional anagram “KLLIFLIE”
was supposed to have spelled out the command “KILLFILE.” Had he
been successful in executing the utility, Roberts would have
effectively erased all of the data from the machine.

Ben hadn’t really exaggerated about the wires
and other gadgetry in the room, although what appeared to him as an
intimidating monstrosity of electronics was to me simply a computer
technician’s playroom. Of course, I was in the business, and my own
home office wasn’t much different in appearance from this one. My
friend, on the other hand, disdained the thought of using a
computer and did so only when it was an absolute necessity. Taking
that fact into consideration, I could understand his finding the
flashing lights and purring boxes a bit intimidating.

“It looks like some kind of network to me,”
Agent Mandalay offered as I stood surveying the contents of the
room. “Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you.”

Allen Roberts was sitting in a wheeled desk
chair, hands cuffed behind his back, watching quietly as I nodded
and continued my cursory inspection. A sudden attack of bravado
overcame him when I stepped closer to a humming machine mounted in
what appeared to be a recycled mini-computer peripheral’s
cabinet.

“Leave that alone!” he demanded angrily as he
started up from the chair. “You still haven’t shown me a
warrant!”

Constance, who was positioned behind him,
snapped her arm out in a blur of motion and twisted her hand into
the collar of his sweatshirt as he rose. Leverage and balance being
fully on her side, she jerked him back down and unceremoniously
planted him hard in the seat before he could take a single
step.

“Don’t do that again,” she ordered sternly,
“or one of us is going to get hurt, and it won’t be me.”

“Buy a vowel, Roberts,” Ben shot back. “All
we wanted ta’ do was ask ya’ a few questions. You wouldn’t even be
wearin’ those bracelets right now if ya’ hadn’t acted like a damn
fruitcake.”

“Screw you!” the man spat. “You still need a
warrant.”

“Cool it, Roberts,” Constance instructed him
evenly. “Keep it up and I’ll add assaulting a federal officer to
the report.”

“Assaulting a... What assault?” he asked
incredulously, “I didn’t assault anyone!”

“I don’t know about that,” she chided, “I
seem to recall you hurling a coffee cup at me.”

“I did not! That’s a lie! I just dropped it
and you know it!”

“Ya’know, it looked ta’ me like ya’ threw it
at ‘er,” Ben volunteered with a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, the more I
think about it, the more I’d definitely hafta say ya’ threw it.
Yep, wingin’ a full coffee cup at an FBI agent’s not a real bright
move. ‘Specially Mandalay here. She’s kinda got a reputation for
bein’ a real hardass if ya’ know what I mean. Sure am glad I’m not
you.”

“This is crazy!” the man sputtered. “You know
I didn’t throw that cup. You’re lying.”

“Which one of us do ya’ think a judge is
gonna believe?”

My friend’s sarcastic query was met only with
angry silence.

“Of course, I might be willing to forget
about that little indiscretion if you were to stop acting like a
jerk and cooperate instead,” Agent Mandalay suggested. “You know...
answer a few questions. Maybe explain what was so important in here
that made you run like a scared rabbit?”

“I’d give that one some thought,” Ben
expressed. “Just between you an’ me she’s not usually this
forgivin’. She must think you’re okay lookin’ or somethin’,
although I really can’t see why.”

“I want my lawyer,” Roberts grumbled.

“Fine with me,” Constance replied in a stoic
voice.

“Not ‘zactly the choice that
I
woulda made.” Ben shrugged then
turned and spoke to me in a clipped tone as he gestured at the rack
of equipment, “Go ahead, Chief. What is all this shit?”

He was outwardly showing signs of fatigue,
and I’d seen him like this before. His biggest problem, or perhaps
asset, depending on your point of view, was that he often cared too
much. It wasn’t unusual for him to run on little to no sleep along
with inordinate amounts of coffee whenever he was working a case.
Considering the previous night’s events, I knew he was running on
pure caffeine—we all were. The sharp bite that now permeated my
friend’s voice told me he was riding on the edge and that Allen
Roberts’ attitude wasn’t helping his overall demeanor.

The simple fact of the matter was that we
were all on edge. Constance had, for all intents and purposes,
threatened Roberts with the assault charge. Such a tactic coming
from her was overtly uncharacteristic of her by-the-book persona we
all knew so well. Even Carl Deckert looked like he had aged ten
years in the matter of a week.

And then there was me.

I had become so unbalanced by my own rabid
fears of the history this killer was re-kindling that I was
breaking one of my own cardinal rules. I wasn’t keeping myself
properly grounded. While my ethereal senses continued to work in
overdrive, there was no proper outlet for the by-products of those
supernormal energies. Like a transformer with a short circuit, I
was almost literally burning myself out. And as evidenced by the
episodes Felicity had experienced, I wasn’t doing her any good
either.