Never Burn A Witch argi-2, page 6
part #2 of A Rowan Gant investigation Series
“Jonsey says the chief wants ta’ know if you’re free ta’ go check out another crime scene.”
“When?” I asked.
“Now.”
I mulled it over for a moment. I had at least two clients waiting for updates on their software, and I had to customize it specifically for them. Fortunately, owning my own consulting firm and working from home allowed flexibility in my schedule. It didn’t take me long to decide that I could spend a few hours working in the evening to catch up.
“Sure. No problem.”
“He’s okay with it,” Ben said as he resumed speaking into the phone. “Yeah… No problem. We’re on our way.”
He remained silent after switching off the device and stowing it in his coat, then he gathered up the notebook. His grim countenance was almost enough to verify what I already suspected.
“He killed someone else, didn’t he?” I asked, following Ben’s example and shrugging into my coat.
“That’s gonna be your call,” he responded. “But yeah, looks like it. Meadowbrook Park out in the county. Carl Deckert’s waitin’ for us.”
“How was the victim killed?” I pressed.
“Not sure ‘bout that, but the body was burned,” he answered. “The vic was found tied to a piece of a telephone pole in one a’ the pavilion fire pits where it’d been torched.”
The itching sensation on my forearm had now mutated into a knife-edged pain.
CHAPTER 5
Ask any number of people on the street, and they will tell you that they abhor violence and crime. Then ask those people how they feel about rubbernecking sightseers who slow down to gawk at automobile accidents, and they will tell you that they despise them. They will tell you that such individuals are sick and twisted. They will tell you that such individuals are morbid and in need of psychiatric help.
Now, using the very same people you’ve been questioning, throw in yellow crime scene tape, flashing lights, police cars and a dead body. Mix well.
Suddenly the morbid becomes the curiosity and they, along with scores like them, will flock to the perimeter in order to catch the tiniest glimpse of what the commotion is all about. Meadowbrook Park was filled with those people today.
Normally, the paved road through the park would remain untouched during the winter; there was no reason to waste taxpayers’ money plowing a street that wouldn’t be traveled. Of course, when a murder scene planted itself in the middle of the snow-covered venue, the concept of normal became quickly obsolete.
Street crews had cut a double-wide swath from the park entrance to a point thirty or so yards past the easiest access point to the main pavilion, effectively clearing a small avenue to allow ingress and egress for the multitude of emergency vehicles present. Mounds of the wet winter precipitation were piled unceremoniously in the center of the road exactly where the plows had left them, and there they would stay until removed slowly by the process of thaw.
Ben plugged in his magnetic bubble light and positioned it on the dash before nosing the Chevy through the crowd of onlookers. He flashed his badge to the uniformed patrolman blocking the entry and was told that we were expected. Once we were waved through, he pressed the van forward up the salted drive and carefully edged it in next to a row of county police cruisers then levered the gear shift into park and switched off the engine.
Wide strips of bright yellow plastic tape-repetitiously imprinted CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS-were strung between pillars and trees, forming an official barrier against the spectators and the unauthorized. Mother Nature dispassionately ignored the carefully erected boundary, sending icy gusts of wind to tear angrily at the tape and to blow swirling white devils of crystalline snowflakes throughout the pavilion.
Nearby, arctic-suited maintenance workers were laboring with shovels to dig out the first vehicles that had arrived on the scene. Small levees of snow had been piled to their rear bumpers by the passing plow. Ben and I buttoned up then climbed from the warmth of the van into the frigid winter afternoon. The sky was still marbled splotchy grey, and the second round of the predicted snowfall was barreling down upon us from the northwest. Even at this distance, along the frosty backbone of the crisp air, I could detect the sickly sweet odor of scorched flesh. I knew it would only get worse as we drew nearer.
I had to remove my thick glove in order to sign the homicide scene log before entering the area. I was just dragging it back onto my frozen hand when I heard my and Ben’s name called out across the snow-whitened landscape.
Detective Carl Deckert was a fiftyish, portly, grey-haired man possessing at once a boyish charm and a grandfatherly demeanor. He had been the only member of the Major Case Squad, aside from Ben, to accept me when I was first brought in as a consultant on Ariel Tanner’s murder all those months ago. It didn’t take long for us to form a strong friendship. He was trundling toward us now, bundled in a heavy topcoat with a matching scarf. A brown fedora sat perched atop his head, threatening to take wing on the chilly gusts. His nose and ears glowed red from the early stages of mild frostbite, giving an immediate visual indication of how long he’d already been out here.
“Ben! Rowan!” He greeted us again as he drew closer and thrust out his gloved hand. “Sorry I called you guys out in this mess, but I gotta tell ya’, I’m sure glad you’re here.”
“Hello, Carl.” I shook his hand heartily. “Good to see you too, though I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Carl.” Ben followed suit, shaking his hand as we continued walking. “So, whaddaya have here?”
Carl reached up to press his hat back down as a prickly sideways surge of wind sought to rip it from his head. He proceeded to fill us in as we headed briskly for the negligible shelter of the picnic pavilion.
“Near as the coroner can tell from what’s left, it looks like we’re dealin’ with a female. Looks to be about five-six, five-seven and pretty well developed, so we’re most likely talkin’ adult. She was secured with chains and a padlock to what appears might have been a piece of a telephone pole.”
The acrid stink of burnt flesh mingled with the putrid smells of urine, feces, and vomit to form a sickeningly malodorous potpourri. Every step closer to the scene intensified the stench by yet another factor.
“We didn’t get a call on this till a couple’a hours ago,” Carl said, still continuing with his rundown. “But judgin’ from the pile of ashes and the amount of damage to the body, we’re guessin’ she was torched sometime after midnight. Probably real early this morning.”
“I suppose it’d be too much to hope for a witness,” Ben spat the rhetorical comment as we rounded a wide stone pillar and came face to face with the unbridled horror.
Shriveled black patches of skin and cooked flesh were drawn tight over the gnarled skeleton held partially erect in the fire pit. The jaw of the charred skull locked open in a silent, agonized scream, hideously baring blackened teeth where the softer, unsupported flesh had been completely seared away. Surprisingly, more than enough of the torso remained intact to show with relative certainty that the corpse was in fact that of a woman.
“Jeezus…” Ben exclaimed, unable to pry his stare from the disfigured remains.
“Coroner wanted to take her on in,” Carl offered, “but I wanted to wait until you got here.”
Though an autopsy was yet to be performed, I knew that she had been alive when the fire was ignited around her. In my mind, I could see the flames licking up her body, first blistering her skin and then consuming it with an appetite unmatched by a starving animal. The fire enveloped her, searing her nose as she fought not to breathe, only to then be sucked deep into her lungs when she could no longer hold her breath. She wanted to cry out. To scream. But she couldn’t. She had been gagged.
The barrier had eventually burned away, but by then it was too late. I could sense without a doubt that she had been aware of her fate to the very end.
Color and light began to drain from the scene around me in a glittering whirlpool, and I knew I was being pulled into a place I didn’t dare go. Without even trying I was about to channel her last moments on this physical plane. Consciously, I knew that without a solid anchor to pull me back, this was one I could not survive.
Steeling myself against the onslaught of desperate emotions and excruciating unearthly pain, I latched myself onto the nearest thing I could find.
“Rowan!” Ben yelped, finally breaking his stare as I grasped his arm and stumbled forward. He took hold of my shoulders and steadied me before I could plunge face first onto the concrete.
Standing on the opposite side, Carl came to my aid as well. “Hey, Row, are you all right?”
“Thanks…” I muttered to them both as I shakily regained my balance. “Sorry about that.”
“You were goin’ all Twilight Zone, weren’t ya’?” Ben asked. I’m sure that having witnessed similar episodes before he knew the signs all too well.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “But I think I caught it in time.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Carl interjected in his usual fatherly tone.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I hate ta’ ask,” Ben queried in an apologetic tone, “but ya’ didn’t happen to see the asshole who did it when you went… Well, went wherever it is ya’ go when ya’ do that.”
“No. I wish I had.”
The flesh rending pain that had started as a simple itch on my forearm was eating at me with a vengeance. I could feel my eyes watering as I fought to suppress tears.
“Did you find a Bible anywhere on the scene?” I queried Detective Deckert while attempting to ignore the torment.
“No. No Bible.” He shook his head. “But funny you should mention that.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Carl ventured and extended his arm, pointing toward the corpse. “The real reason I called was the symbols.”
My eyes followed his finger down to the stone base of the fire pit. There, skillfully drawn in matte black spray-paint, was the Christian symbol that had become painfully familiar over the past few hours. The Monogram of Christ.
“Fuck me,” Ben muttered.
“Excuse me?” Carl looked at him curiously.
Ben shook his head. “Sorry… Just that we got one just like it carved into a dead call-girl in the city morgue.”
“You found Christ’s Monogram at another murder scene?” Carl asked incredulously.
Ben cocked his head to the side and gave Deckert a sideways look. “You know what it is?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen it before.” Carl nodded. “Not a lot, but I remember it from church when I was a kid.”
“You said symbols,” I interjected the question between stabs of blinding pain. “Plural.”
“Yeah,” Deckert answered with a nod. “The other one is layin’ on the ledge of the fire pit. It’s one of those Pentacle necklaces. That’s kinda why I wanted to get your opinion.”
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.”
