Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (9 page)

By now I could take no more. It felt as if
someone were driving a white-hot blade mercilessly into my
flesh.

“I told ya’ you shoulda had the doc look at
that, white man,” Ben chided, noticing my attention to the
appendage.

“Somethin’ wrong with your arm?” Carl asked,
genuine concern wrinkling his face.

“I don’t know. It started itching when we
were at the morgue,” I grimaced against another bolt of pain as I
answered. “Now it’s killing me.”

I peeled off the glove and unzipped my coat.
The cold no longer mattered at this point. I had to see what could
possibly be exacting such pain upon my arm. I knew that I hadn’t
injured it, and there had been nothing wrong until Ben had taken me
to the morgue. I couldn’t imagine that I had touched something and
not noticed doing it. Besides, I was wearing a long-sleeved
shirt.

Carefully I slid my throbbing arm from the
thick coat. It had begun to feel sticky and wet, and upon seeing it
the answer became obvious. Blood had soaked through the fabric of
my shirt along the forearm and matted it to my skin.

“Shit, man, you’re bleeding!” Ben
intoned.

Unbuttoning the cuff and gingerly rolling up
the sleeve, I revealed the source of the crimson flow. My flesh was
bruised purple and black, looking for all the world as if I had
been beaten. Off-centered, in the mass of dark contusions, blood
oozed freely. Carved deeply into my skin was a circle, decorated
with hash marks along the side arcs and encompassing a large letter
X that was bisected by a large letter P.

Carl Deckert was the first to break the
silence as he softly muttered under his breath, “Holy Jesus, Mary
Mother of God.”

* * * * *

Even with the intense pain radiating up
my arm, I still felt that Ben’s reaction was overkill. Despite my
reservations, I had been instantly hustled into a county police
cruiser and taken to the nearest emergency room. Inescapable, as
well, were the full benefits of a warbling siren and rapidly
flickering light bar. When all was said and done, the trip to and
from the local medical center had taken less time than the
treatment itself. Of course, as if I didn’t have enough to think
about, the lengthiest portion of my stay in the E.R. was the period
spent trying to convince the doctor of two basic things. One,
that,
no
, I did
not
purposely carve the design into
my own arm. And two,
no
, I did
not need a psychological consultation because, I repeat, I
did
not
purposely carve the
design into my own arm. Since I knew they wouldn’t believe the
truth, and I had been unable to concoct a convincing lie, I was
unable to give them a reasonable explanation for the injury. In the
interest of time, and my own sanity, I was finally forced to assure
them that I would seek help for what they had deemed to be an
“unhealthy proclivity toward self-mutilation.”

* * * * *

Pastel blue-greys streaked the clouds where
the sky finally fell earthward to meet the cluttered horizon. Dusk
was nearly upon us, and what little muted light remained was
fleeing the oncoming night with hasty dispatch. The promised second
wave of snow had blown in and began falling in hesitant showers
before finally applying itself in an all out assault on the already
blanketed white landscape.

Ben and Carl were waiting in the van when the
officer delivered me back to the nearly deserted crime scene.
Snowflakes dying on the Chevy’s windshield, first becoming water
then steamily evaporating, told me the vehicles heater had been
running for some time. I had scarcely managed to thank my escort
and unlatch the door before the two of them were out of their warm
sanctuary and heading toward me.

“So what’d the docs say?” Ben’s words were
opaque with concern as he came around the front of the squad
car.

I took a moment to wave to the departing
officer as she backed out, and then I turned to face my friend.

“They thought I did it to myself,” I answered
wryly. “So, other than being diagnosed as a self-destructive
masochist, I’m fine. It looked worse than it is.”

“You sure?” Carl pressed. “It looked pretty
bad to me.”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“They give ya’ anything for the pain?” Ben
pressed.

“Acetaminophen,” I replied. “It really isn’t
that bad any more. I think it was primarily a psychic reaction of
sorts. My body’s way of getting me to look at it. Like the itching
probably was.”

Carl appealed, “Yeah, but why’d it show up on
you to start with?”

“Best guess? Someone or something is trying
to get my attention. Obviously, it has something to do with the two
murders so far. So now I just have to figure out what that
something is.”

“Whatcha mean
someone
or
somethin’
?” He shook his head in a gesture of
confusion. “I thought that thing just... Ya’know, like, just
appeared on yer arm.”

“It did,” I confirmed his comment. “The
someone or something I’m talking about probably doesn’t reside on
this physical plane. It’s similar to when Ariel Tanner was speaking
to me in my dreams after she had been murdered. This is just a
physical manifestation of a similar type of contact.”

“Holy shit,” he murmured.

Ben shook his head and expelled a short
whistle that puffed a jet of steamy breath into the night air.
“You’re just way too spooky sometimes, white man.”

“Yeah, Rowan,” Carl echoed. “Spooky.”

“Is ‘spooky’ an official police term?” an
unmistakable feminine voice asked from behind our huddle.

We turned as a group and were nearly blinded
as a powerful light mounted atop a video camera suddenly snapped to
life and vomited its harsh glare across us. So intent had we been
on our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Brandee Street and her
cameraman when they drove up. We had been under the impression that
the media had given up their vigil outside the gates of the park
and gone in search of other news to sensationalize. Apparently,
Brandee had laid in wait for the last squad car to leave before
descending upon us in search of a video byte.

She looked like the living rendition of a
magazine advertisement for a ski lodge. With brightly rouged lips
and thick lashes, she was decked out in stylish hiking boots that
no doubt had never seen an actual hiking trail; leggings; and a
high-collared, white fur jacket. A matching set of earmuffs
completed the ensemble, and her teased mane of blonde hair appeared
to have been styled to purposely incorporate them. I half expected
the wind to start whistling as it blew through her stiffly moussed,
unmoving coif.

“How’d you get in here, Street?” Ben shot
back his disgusted query while shielding his eyes from the blaze of
the video light.

“We drove,” she answered, her voice ripe with
sarcasm as she pointed a gloved finger over her shoulder at the
news van. “All right, Jay, we can shoot the intros later...”

Before any objections could be made, she drew
in a breath and brought a logo-adorned microphone up from her
side.

“Detective Storm. Can you give us any insight
as to why the Major Case Squad has been called in on this
investigation?”

Ben squinted and jerked back perceptibly as
she thrust the business end of the device at him, then he coldly
remarked, “This is a closed crime scene. I’m gonna hafta ask ya’
ta’ leave.”

The determined young woman staunchly ignored
him and swung her attention immediately to Carl.

“Detective Deckert. What is your reasoning
behind getting the MCS involved?”

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at this
time, Miss Street,” Carl returned tactfully.

“Is there any truth to the rumor that you
specifically requested Detective Storm on this case?”

“Detective Storm is a fine officer, and I
welcome any opportunity to work with him.”

“But is it true that you contacted the city
police chief to request his assignment to the MCS?”

“I have no control over assignments to the
Major Case Squad,” he explained in a calm, slightly patronizing
tone.

“Let me rephrase the question.” Brandee was
quickly becoming annoyed, and it was easily apparent in the crisp
tenor of her voice. “Sources close to both the city and county
police departments indicate that you specifically asked that
Detective Storm be assigned to the Major Case Squad. These same
sources have also indicated that you requested Mister Gant be
brought in to consult as well. Would you like to comment now?”

“No, Miss Street, I would not.”

“Mister Gant…” In a flash she abandoned the
unresponsive cops and concentrated directly on me. “Given your
involvement last summer with the Satanic Serial Killer
investigation, your presence here would seem to indicate some type
of occult element in this murder. Is that true?”

“I’m sorry. No comment,” I told her
apologetically.

“We have it on good authority that you were
rushed to the hospital earlier for a wound on your arm. Can you
tell us more about that?”

Before I could get another “Sorry, no
comment” out of my mouth, Ben interposed his large frame between
the relentless reporter and me.

“Listen Brandee, if I’ve told ya’ once I’ve
told ya’ a thousand times, ya’ want a statement, ya’ talk ta’ the
public relations officer.”

“The people of Saint Louis have a right to
know what’s going on, Storm!” she barked back, glaring up at him
and holding her ground.

“Don’t give me that old freedom of the press
speech, I’ve heard it before,” he answered. “You know full well
we’re not in a position to tell ya’ anything. Call Public Relations
in the mornin’ and I’m sure they’ll have a statement prepared.”

“I’m after the real story here, Storm. Not
that P.R. department crap!” She then added, bitterly stressing each
word, “I... Am... Trying... To... Do... My... Job.”

“So are we, Brandee, and like I said before,
this crime scene still hasn’t been cleared, so technically
speaking, you’re trespassin’. I’m only gonna tell ya’ ta’ leave one
more time, then I’m gonna arrest ya’.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she spat angrily.

“Try me.”

She didn’t.

* * * * *

“I guess I don’t have to tell you that Street
wasn’t too far out in left field. The Major Case Squad is running
the show now.” Ben told me as he carefully propelled the van down
dark streets through a thickening veil of white. “Carl and I are
both assigned to it. Big surprise.”

During my brief absence, the crime scene unit
had finished gathering and cataloging anything remotely resembling
evidence. The weather had not been a friend to them, and the
aforementioned items had been few. Of course, little had been found
at the scene of Brianna Walker’s death as well. Inwardly I pondered
the fact that no Bible, or even Bible verse, had been found at this
latest homicide. I had fully expected one and even hoped that it
might help to determine a pattern. Perhaps a clue as to the way the
victims were chosen, some tangible connection between them other
than their religion, or his perception of such.

Very simply, I was looking for anything.

The idea that the verse may have been nothing
more than an afterthought at the first scene crossed my mind. It
was something I didn’t believe but at the same time couldn’t
dismiss, so it remained cocooned in my brain as a minor bother
until such time as it could emerge as a full-fledged
aggravation.

With the mobilization of the MCS, Ben had
pulled some strings in order to get the body of the latest victim
transferred to the city morgue where Doctor Sanders could be in
charge of the postmortem. The county coroner had put up a minor
fuss, citing jurisdiction and various boundaries, but whomever Ben
had in his corner had made short work of the red tape and the
unprecedented occurred. With all the I’s dotted and T’s crossed,
the case was transferred to the city without delay. By the time I
had returned from my visit to the ER, the remnants of the woman’s
charred corpse had been carefully removed and were already en-route
downtown. It was there to which we were now endeavoring to
return.

The crisp halogen beams of the headlights
seemed, from one moment to the next, to be more hindrance than help
in the near blizzard conditions. Cacophonous rumblings overhead
were randomly punctuated with still louder aerial booms, each one
seeming to add another measure to the deluge of fluffy white
flakes. For the first time in many years, Saint Louis was
experiencing the meteorological phenomenon aptly called “thunder
snow.”

“Plan is,” Ben continued, throwing a quick
glance at me, “ta’ go with your theory that this asshole is
creatin’ his own Inquisition, or whatever, and assume he’s not
gonna stop at two.”

“He won’t,” I asserted.

Ben slowed the vehicle and ignoring the
barely visible signal, cautiously hooked a sweeping right turn
through an empty intersection. The road conditions were
deteriorating with each passing minute, and he didn’t dare come to
a complete stop for fear of becoming stuck. He gave me an animated
nod and spared only a quick glance in my direction as he spoke.

“I believe ya’, and apparently so do a few
people in important places. Not that anyone is happy ‘bout the
theory, mind you. At any rate, word came down from on high while
you were gettin’ patched up. The chief wants ya’ involved... Every
step of the way.”

“I can think of a lot of other things I’d
rather be involved in,” I said. “But it’s nice not to be considered
a crackpot for a change.”