Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (6 page)

“You think you’re safe,” I finally told him
softly from behind the wall of my palms.

His confusion was evident. “What? Safe?
What’re ya’ talkin’ about?”

Slowly I rubbed my eyes and let out a heavy
breath. Pressing my palms together, I steepled my hands and rested
the point of my index fingers on my bearded chin then looked him
squarely in the eyes. His expression told me that he was not only
confused but also frightened for me as well. The last time he had
witnessed me behaving such as this, I had almost died, and there
had been nothing he could do to stop it.

The medical examiner had followed him and now
stood across the corridor looking helpless. He displayed his own
grimace of fear as he nervously milled about. I was certain,
however, that his fear was not for me, but rather, of me. His
profession dealt with the dead. Silent corpses devoid of feeling or
emotion. To this he had grown accustomed over the years, and its
comfortable emptiness had left him with little skill in the realm
of the living.

“You think you’re safe,” I repeated before
continuing the explanation. “You believe it no matter what you see
on the news at ten. ‘No, that could never happen to me. That only
happens to other people.’ We all say it. We all believe it. Then it
strikes a little closer to home. A friend. A relative. It hurts,
but you still think you’re immune. Then it comes even
closer...”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about, Rowan?”
Ben pressed, “Did you know her? Was she a friend? Like Ariel
Tanner?”

“No. No, I didn’t know her. That’s not what
I’m talking about.”

“You’re not makin’ sense, white man.”

“It’s the Burning Times, Ben,” I told him
carefully. “All over again. There’s a Witch hunter out there.”

“A Witch hunter? What the...” He stood and
proceeded to massage his neck. “Listen, Row, I think maybe you’d
better start at the beginnin’...”

* * * * *

We were sitting in a small, comfortable
office. Mauve walls were decorated with picturesque watercolor
landscapes in unobtrusive chrome frames. Institutional grade but
nicely piled carpet covered the floor. It was the office of Doctor
Christine Sanders, chief medical examiner for the city of Saint
Louis. She was also the M.E. who had handled the posts on the
victims from the previous investigation.

“Doctor Sanders said to take all the time you
need,” Doctor Friedman, the other M.E., told us, “She’s going to be
tied up for a while.”

“That’s great, Doc, thanks.” Ben answered him
and then added, “Could you let her know that I’d like to get her
involved in this if at all possible?”

Doctor Friedman’s mouth formed a series of
puckered fish-like O’s as he began to object but suddenly thought
better of it. He left us with a curt nod and carefully closed the
door behind him.

Ben had just finished stuffing the cellophane
wrapper from a cigar into his pocket and now clenched the Cameroon
leaf-encased stogie between his teeth.

“Want one?” he offered.

“Not right now, thanks,” I answered. “And I
doubt if Doctor Sanders would appreciate you smoking that in here.
Besides, this is a government building, isn’t it?”

“I’m not smokin’ it, I’m just chewin’ on it.”
He hooked the cigar in his finger then thumbed forward to a fresh
page in his notebook. “So you wanna fill me in on what got under
your skin back there? And start at the beginning.”

“You want the beginning?” I asked
rhetorically. “Here it is. At least the official one, anyway.
Around the year 1484, two inquisitors named Heinrich Kramer and
James Sprenger, masquerading as theologians, produced a document.
It was known as the
Malleus
Maleficarum
, and it was endorsed by the Catholic
Church... It’s possible you may have at some time in your life
heard of it by the name
Hammer of the
Witches
. At that time in history, the church set the
law of the land. Not just moral law but political and social as
well. The Pope at that time, Innocent VIII, issued what is called a
Papal Bull. An official decree of sorts. In it he stated, and I
quote,
‘...by the tenor of these presents
in virtue of Our Apostolic authority, We decree and enjoin that the
aforesaid Inquisitors be empowered to proceed to the just
correction, imprisonment, and punishment of any persons, without
let or hindrance, in every way as if the provinces, townships,
dioceses, districts, territories, yea, even the persons and their
crimes in this kind were named and particularly designated in Our
letters...’”

I paused for a moment to let the quote sink
in and drew a deep breath. I had amazed even myself that I could
remember the diatribe in such vivid detail; it had been quite some
time since I had last read it. Unfortunately, that which we fear
and loathe the most is what seems to remain with us the longest,
and with the greatest clarity.

“Yeah, and that means?”

“In effect,” I explained, “he legalized the
Inquisition; essentially giving the church’s blessing to those who
tortured and executed anyone accused of heresy and consorting with
‘Satan.’

“The
Malleus
Maleficarum
became the handbook of the inquisitors for
nearly three centuries. It contained instructions regarding how to
determine if someone was a Witch, wizard or sorceress, right down
to the questions you should ask of them. It went even further in
that it prescribed the use of torture in order to extract
confessions and especially to force those already accused to
implicate others. Finally, it blueprinted the methods by which they
should then be tried, convicted, and executed.

“Using this book, the various
interpretations of the
Holy
Bible
, and the permission of the church, literally
thousands of innocent people were hunted down and imprisoned. Once
in custody they were brutally tortured, maimed, and murdered by the
delegated inquisitors for what were then called ‘heretical
depravities.’”

“So you’re tellin’ me you’re all weirded out
because of some old book?” my friend posed incredulously.

“Not just because of the book, Ben,” I
appealed as I shook my head. “Because of what it stands for, and
because I was just looking at the corpse of a young woman who has
been subjected to those horrors it prescribes.

“This is the twenty-first century. While I’m
not naive enough to believe prejudice no longer exists, I find it
hard to deal with someone reviving the Witch trials of the Middle
Ages.”

Ben stared back at me silently for a
substantial portion of what seemed an eternity. I had just spilled
an enormous amount of information into the room, and to him, I
probably appeared to be rambling. His stoic face told me he was
still completely unsure of what the brief lesson in European
history had to do with the investigation at hand.

“Okay... So I’m not quite sure that’s the
beginnin’ I was talkin’ about,” he eventually stated then proceeded
to gnaw on the end of the cigar thoughtfully. “So why are ya’ so
sure this Witch Hammer has something to do with this dead
call-girl?”

“Hammer of the
Witches
,” I corrected and motioned to his notebook.
“Let me borrow that for a second.”

He handed over the worn notepad and a
promotional giveaway ballpoint with a D.A.R.E logo screen-printed
along the plastic barrel. I carefully scribed a circle on the page
that I then decorated with small hash marks around its perimeter.
In the center I placed a large X and vertically intersected it with
a large letter P.

“That is the symbol carved into Brianna
Walker’s inner thigh,” I told him as I handed the pen and pad back.
“Are you absolutely positive you’ve never seen it before?”

“Well...” He scrutinized the blue ink
rendition of the marking. “It looks kinda familiar, but I can’t
place it for sure.”

“If you walked into a Catholic church
you would. They’re Greek letters. The X is Chi, and the P is Ro.
The first two letters of the Greek word Christos, or Christ. What
you are looking at is called the
Monogram
of Christ
.”

“You mean like Jesus Christ?”

“One and the same.”

“So you’re sayin’ it’s a Christian symbol
then?”

“Absolutely. It represents Jesus Christ and
all that he means to Christianity as a whole.”

My forearm had begun tingling with a mild
itch that now burst into the crawling sensation of having a handful
of ants marching across my skin. Absently, I pawed at the annoyance
while waiting for Ben to digest the first course of
information.

“Guess that would fit...” he muttered.

“Fit what?”

“Well, there was a Gideon’s Bible on
the bed in her room.” He quickly referenced his notes. “The passage
Leviticus twenty twenty-seven was highlighted.
A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a
wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with
stones; their blood shall be upon them.
”

“Really,” I finally muttered. “I would
have expected Isaiah fifty-seven three.
But
draw near hither, ye sons of the sorceress, the seed of the
adulterer and the whore
.”

“Shit, Rowan! You quote Bible verses
too?”

“I’ve told you before, Ben, I may be a
Witch, but I’m a student of religions in general. It’s how I stay
on top of what I’m being accused of, and,
whom
I’m being accused by.”

Again my skin burned with an un-quelled itch,
and I dug my fingers in, working at it through the material of my
sleeve.

“Somethin’ wrong with your arm?” Ben asked,
pointing to indicate my sudden preoccupation with the task.

“Just an itch. Probably nerves.” I forced
myself to stop clawing at the bother and focus on the conversation.
“Did you find anything else?”

“Other than the Bible, duct tape, and the
washcloths, just her clothing and about a grand in sex toys an’
leather goods, if ya’ know what I mean. Place had been wiped clean
as far as prints go… And all the blood on the sheets was hers.”

“No semen or fresh evidence of sexual
intercourse?”

“Not accordin’ to the M.E. so far, but what’s
it matter? She was a hooker. Somethin’ like that wouldn’t be
unusual.”

“Just trying to get a handle on what this guy
is thinking. It wasn’t unusual for inquisitors to rape their
victims as a part of the torture.” I explained. “The things they
did in the name of their God were the only true depravities... They
were, to say the least, a rather sick lot. Of course, if there’s no
evidence of intercourse, then that could well establish that he
isn’t doing this for kicks. In my mind, that makes him even more
frightening.” Ben was noting my questions as well as my
explanations in his pad as we went along. He looked up from his
quick scribbling and peered at me quietly for a moment.

“You seem pretty stuck on this whole
Inquisition thing,” he commented. “You really think since he didn’t
screw her that he isn’t just some sick fuck that got off on carvin’
this chick up? I mean, look at her customers. That S&M shit
goes both ways, ya’know.”

“The
Monogram
of Christ
is definitely one sign,” I answered. “It was
put there for a reason. It wasn’t random or even an afterthought.
It was placed on her inner thighs to purify her because of her
profession. The killer was seeking to cleanse the ‘whore.’ Another
thing would be the Bible and the highlighted verse.”

“So maybe he’s just after hookers.”

“I doubt it. Remember, the Bible verse
highlighted mentioned wizardry and having a familiar spirit,
something heavily associated with The Craft. Also, she had a
Pentacle tattooed on her upper back. A tattoo, mole, or birthmark
in that area would have been considered a
Devil’s Mark
during the Burning Times. It would
have signified that she consorted with Satan, as all Witches were
believed to have done. Let’s not forget the fact that she was
tortured using a
Pear
.
Medieval torture devices aren’t what I would consider standard fare
for someone out to kill hookers. No, he was definitely looking to
get a confession out of her.”

“How could she confess anything if she was
gagged?”

“She wouldn’t have needed to confess anything
verbally. Besides, whoever did this obviously removed the gag at
some point.”

“Okay, but ya don’t know for a fact
that he used that pear thing. The doc just said
somethin
’ was inserted. And besides, that Wicked
Witch of the West End shit was just a street name she used. She
wasn’t really a Witch... I mean not like you and Felicity,
right?”

“I can’t say for certain, Ben. We don’t
exactly carry union cards you know. Just because I’m a Witch it
doesn’t mean I know every other Witch in Saint Louis. It doesn’t
matter anyway,” I shook my head. My hand had crept back over and
with a mind of its own was once again scratching my arm. “The
majority of those executed for the so-called crime of WitchCraft
weren’t Witches either. If the killer perceived her to be a Witch,
then to him, that is exactly what she was. A confession would
merely be a formality, and the torture, a means to that end.”

“Maybe so, but all this Inquisition
stuff...”

“Come on, Ben,” I implored. “You know you
don’t really believe that this was just some bondage game gone too
far. If you did, you never would have asked me to look at that
marking.”

“Okay. So say you’re right, and there is a
wacko runnin’ around playin’ judge, jury, and executioner against
Witches.” Ben was desperately seeking a way out. I knew he didn’t
want to accept the fact that we were dealing with another serial
killer, especially since only six months had passed since the
demise of the last one. “Then why didn’t he burn ‘er at the stake
or somethin’. I thought that’s how they executed Witches back then.
You yourself keep callin’ the whole thing the Burnin’ Times.”