Blue-white wisps curled upward from the lit end of a tight roll of tobacco that was hooked under my index finger. I took a lazy puff and rolled the spicy smoke around on my tongue before blowing it outward into an evenly spreading cloud that wafted about on the warm breeze. Then, with a lazy stretch, I rested my forearm across my knee and contemplated the slowly growing ash on the end of the cigar.
It had been more than six months since my last cigarette, so my wife, Felicity, was none too excited when I decided to revive my old habit of cigar smoking. As I am not one to do things halfway, these weren’t the greenish, dried out logs you pick up at the local stop’n’grab. Not at all. My humidor was filled with rich, Maduro-wrapped symbols of masculinity available only from a good tobacco shop. Inevitably, with such quality there comes a price, and said price served simply to provide Felicity with yet another reason to harbor disdain for the habit.
Of course, with any marriage-well, good ones anyway-there is a generous amount of compromise. The “compromise” that had been reached in ours was something on the order of a matter-of-fact statement from my headstrong wife of, “If you’re going to smoke those things anyway, you’re going to do it outside!” After eight years with this auburn-haired, second generation Irish-American dynamo on a five-foot-four frame, I had learned to cut my losses and run; for as much as she hated to admit it, Felicity fit neatly into the stereotype of the tempestuous, Irish redhead. Though her singsong accent was normally faint-unless she was tired, angry, or had been in close proximity to her relatives, whereupon it became very pronounced-her stubbornness and temper were with her 24/7.
In this particular instance, however, the fact that there was no way she was about to let me in the door with a lit cigar was only one of a trio of reasons I had for being parked on the cement stairs of our modest, suburban Saint Louis home this warm, late summer’s evening. The second and most important reason for smoking outside was that we had only recently discovered that Felicity was six weeks pregnant. The third-I was waiting for someone.
Earlier in the day, I had received a phone call from my long time cohort, Ben Storm, a detective with the Saint Louis City police department. Since he had a tendency to work somewhat bizarre hours, I was pleasantly surprised when he suggested that he drop by this evening for an impromptu drink to congratulate us on our impending family addition. I was more than agreeable to the idea; unfortunately, the tone of his voice told me there was an underlying, less social reason for the visit. His inflection only confirmed a suspicion that had been nagging at me for nearly two days now.
Late Wednesday night I had received a short, cryptic call from a distracted and extremely official sounding version of my friend. He had been seeking information about the meaning of a religious symbol known as a Pentacle. Though I knew he was perfectly aware of my religious practices, I was mildly amazed he had equated me with the emblem. In keeping with his official demeanor that night, as soon as I finished giving him the requested details, he abruptly ended the call with curt politeness.
When we spoke again today, I was sure I had detected a definite note of that same distraction in his voice. I hoped that I was wrong but deep inside felt that I wasn’t. However, on the chance that I might have misinterpreted the tenor of his speech, I had kept the observation to myself, mentioning it neither to him nor Felicity.
“I take it Ben hasn’t gotten here yet.” I heard the half question, half statement from my wife through the screen door behind me.
“Nope,” I replied and took another lazy draw from my cigar. “But you know how Ben is. If he says six in the evening, he really means eight.”
“Ever since his promotion, we’re lucky to see him at all,” she expressed. “Are Allison and Ben Junior coming?”
“I doubt it. He said something about Al taking the little guy out shopping for clothes.”
“Well…” She pushed the screen door open a bit to allow one of our cats to exit the confines of the house. “I’m going to go upstairs and pay some bills. Let me know when he gets here. I don’t want to miss this little celebration. Remember, I’m the one who’s pregnant.”
“I doubt that you’ll let me forget it,” I answered, looking back at her with a grin. “I’ll call you when he shows up.”
She smiled in return and left me to my cigar and quiet contemplation of the tree-lined street, as well as my attempts to dull the secret, foreboding sensation with a tumbler of single malt scotch on the rocks. Ten minutes short of an hour later, not only had I still not managed to shake the feeling, but it grew even stronger as a tired-looking Chevrolet van rolled into my driveway. The engine knocked and complained as the driver switched it off, and then it sputtered into silence. After a moment, the door opened with a labored screech, and the occupant extricated himself from the seat.
Ben Storm was a Native American, six-foot-six with jet-black hair and the finely angular features one associated with the boilerplate portrayal of feather-adorned natives from TV Westerns. He kept himself in excellent physical condition and made a very imposing figure both in and out of uniform. When he had been a street cop, I often joked that he was the last person I would want to see coming down a dark alley at me if I had done something wrong. He always made it a point to bet that he would be the first person I would want to see coming down that alley were I in trouble. I never hesitated to agree.
Just over a year ago, fate dealt him a winning hand. He had been promoted to Detective and was assigned to homicide investigations. This was a radical, though welcome, change from knocking down the doors of crack houses, which had been his previous assignment. Now, at times, his work schedule had become less structured and was often expanded with overtime. However, that time was more often spent interviewing suspects and gathering evidence than dodging bullets sprayed from an illegally modified, Tech Nine machine pistol in the hands of a fifteen-year-old gangbanger.
I knew for a certainty that his wife was happy to have him out of the direct line of fire. Felicity and I had made no secret of the fact that we were just as relieved.
The van door made a loud groan of protest as he pushed it shut, then he turned and strode up my sidewalk with a brown paper bag tucked casually under his arm.
“I can’t believe you’re still driving that old piece of crap,” I called to him and motioned toward the decrepit looking Chevy.
He was halfway up the flagstone walkway when he stopped, looked back at the vehicle for a moment, then turned back to me. “What?” he answered, feigning insult, then with a shrug continued walking. “It still runs.”
He climbed the stairs and parked himself on the edge of the porch then stretched and let out an exhausted sigh.
“Ya’know,” he finally said as he set the paper bag carefully on the first step. “Bein’ a copper is a menial job… It’s kinda like bein’ the secretary for all the chaos out there in the world…But anyway…” He reached into his jacket and pulled out two cigars then handed one to me. “Congrats on the kid ya’ silly ‘effin white man.”
“Thanks, Chief.” I took the cigar and gave it a close look. “Dominican, eh? Been hanging around the tobacconist playing Wooden Indian again?” I grinned.
“Yeah, blow it out your ass,” he laughed. “One of the coppers I helped with a case owed me one and finally paid up.” Reaching into the bag he pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet and a bottle of de-alcoholized white zinfandel. “So where’s the little woman?”
“Upstairs doing that bill paying thing,” I answered, sliding the cigar beneath my nose with a flourish and sniffing the spicy, Spanish cedar veneer that encased it. “She’s gonna just love you for this,” I continued, waving the expensive smoke at him. “I’m supposed to call her down when you get here, and I suppose that would be about now.”
“I’ll get ‘er,” he told me as he stood up and took a stride to the door. “I need a glass and some ice anyway. You good?”
“I could go for a couple of cubes. Just fill the ice bucket and bring it out if you want.”
“Everything still in the usual place?” he asked as he opened the door.
“Yeah, same as always.”
I could hear him calling up the stairs to Felicity as the screen door swung shut; something pseudo-official sounding about having the place surrounded and that all tiny red-headed women should come out with their hands up. His call was answered by my wife bounding down the stairs followed closely by our English setter and Australian cattle dog vociferously making their individual presences known. A few short minutes later he returned, ladened with the ice bucket, a fresh glass, and Felicity in tow.
“So, before you even get started with your cop stories,” my wife began, perching herself on the ledge near the stairs, “how are Allison and Ben Junior?”
Ben extracted the cork from the bottle of white zinfandel and filled the wine glass she held forth.
“Good,” he answered. “Pretty good. Al said ta’ tell you guys ‘hey’ and sorry she couldn’t make it. The little guy told me to make sure I said ‘hi’ to the dogs.”
“We really need to find some time to get together for a barbecue or something,” I stated as he planted himself back on the edge of the porch and went about the task of opening the Scotch.
“Yeah,” Ben returned. “Why don’t ya’ tell that to the bad guys. I could use a little time off.” He poured himself a drink and topped mine off before sticking his cigar between his lips and setting it alight with a wooden match. “Ahhhhh,” he exclaimed, blowing out a stream of pungent smoke. “I’ve been so damn busy lately, I really haven’t had a chance to enjoy a cigar… Ya’know, I think this is the first time I’ve had anything lit in my mouth in a month.”
“Like you really need it,” Felicity admonished. “Allison and I get you two to quit cigarettes, and the next thing we know you’re sucking on some other burning carcinogen.”
“Boys will be boys,” I told her.
“Yeah,” Ben chimed in. “What he said.”
The friendly chatter eased my mind for the time being, but I still felt a nag in the back of my skull. Sitting here, I knew that just as I had suspected, my friend was without a doubt its undeniable source.
Later in the evening, we called out for pizza and moved our celebration indoors. After putting the dogs through their paces for a handful of the crusts, Felicity said her goodnights and went off to bed, for she had an early outing with her nature photography club the next morning.
Ben had grown quieter as the evening wore on, leaning more heavily on the Scotch than I can ever recall him doing before. After I finished clearing the dishes from the table, he refilled our glasses from the near-depleted bottle of Glenlivet, and then we ventured out to the back deck.
My friend dropped his large frame heavily into a chair and went about trimming the end from a fresh cigar as I lit the citronella-oil-filled tiki torches that rimmed the deck. Mosquitoes had been bad this summer, and these seemed to stave them off fairly well while providing an unobtrusive light. After bringing the last torch to life, I took my seat opposite Ben at the patio table and proceeded to work on my own after-dinner smoke. I could literally feel his introspection building to a point of release and knew that the worry clouding the back of my mind would soon be summoned forward.
“You’n Felicity are still into that Wicca thing, right?” Ben queried after an extended silence.
“If you mean have we converted to Catholicism or something, no we haven’t,” I answered. “We aren’t connected with a coven right now, but we still practice. Once you’re a Witch, you usually stay a Witch.” I lit my cigar and then took a sip of my Scotch. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” he replied hesitantly.
I knew there was more to the question than mere curiosity, but I also knew better than to press this particular subject with Ben, for that would only serve to make him feel ill at ease. He had always been willing to accept that Felicity and I practiced what was considered by most to be a non-traditional religion but usually showed a clear desire to leave it in the background. Out of sight, out of mind. As with most things that didn’t fit with the majority view, the masses, including Ben, were entirely off base in their misconceptions regarding Wicca, WitchCraft and almost any other alternative religion for that matter.
I had once attempted to explain to him that Wicca and WitchCraft, or simply “The Craft” as we often call it, involved no pointed hats, bubbling cauldrons, or flying brooms. To the knowledge of any practitioner of the religion, it never did truly include such things. I told him that Wicca was simply an Earth religion, and as for deities, ours were the Earth and the Moon: Diana and Pan, respectively. There was no evil intent, and in fact, our most basic and all-important covenant was to “Harm None.” We viewed our religion as a way of life through which we did our best to live in harmony with nature, and through study and meditation, we attempted to learn control over the natural energies that inherently reside within all of us. I further explained that in doing this, we sometimes developed abilities that some would consider psychic in nature, such as an uncanny sixth sense or the ability to heal others and ourselves: We think of these as learned talents, nothing more, and nothing less. I even added that I knew of no incident where anyone had been turned into a frog, except in fairy tales. The simple fact was that even if that were possible, no self-respecting Witch would consider it.
Even after I had answered his several pointed questions, he still clung to his misconceptions, and so, out of respect for him, I made sure to steer clear of the subject entirely.
Now, for the second time in less than a week, Ben was asking me about a part of my life he normally avoided. I wasn’t about to push, so I was more than willing to bide my time and wait for him to get around to what he wanted. I could feel his preoccupation thick in the darkness around us, so I was certain my wait would be a short one.
“So… You remember when I called you ‘bout that five-pointed star a couple days back?” he finally asked.
“You mean the difference between a Pentacle, and a Pentagram?” I returned. “Yeah, I remember.”
“That’s it,” he affirmed. “Would ya’ mind tellin’ me the difference on that again?”
“No problem. A Pentacle is basically just what you said, a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. It’s a very common symbol in the Wiccan religion. When it’s upright,” I scribed the symbol in the air with my finger, “with only one point at the top, it represents man and the spirit as it rules over the four elements. That’s when it’s called a Pentacle. If on the other hand you turn it one hundred-eighty degrees, and two of the points are at the top,” I spun my finger in a circle, “it’s called a Pentagram and represents the spirit’s union with material elements.” I relaxed back into my chair. “Some however, place an improper, albeit widely accepted, meaning on the Pentagram. They claim it represents Satan, evil, black magick, etcetera.”
“So, if it’s right side up or whatever, it doesn’t mean anything evil?” he posed.
“It actually depends on who drew it, and the significance THEY placed on it, but it’s really nothing more than a symbol. Inherently, neither of them mean anything evil,” I answered. “In my religion anyway.”
Ben stared thoughtfully out into the night, absently fingering the rim of his Scotch glass and quietly puffing on his cigar. I didn’t disturb him. Instead I watched the orange glow on the end of the cigar each time he puffed and waited patiently for the next question.
“What about colors?” he asked. “Do ya’ color it in or somethin’? You know, like a rainbow?”
“Sometimes you’ll find a different color at each of the four corners,” I answered. “Yellow in the upper left, blue in the upper right, red in the lower right, and green in the lower left. They represent the elements of Air, Water, Fire, and Earth. On occasion the top point will be white, representing Akasha, or the spirit.”
“Would they be pastels?” he queried.
“Well, I suppose if you wanted to be artistic about it they could,” I laughed. “But they don’t have to be. Just yellow, blue, red, green, and white.” I could feel his tension congealing around us and knew that something about a Pentacle was really bothering him. I was just about to break my own rules and press for the problem when he elected to reveal it on his own.
“So listen, Rowan,” he began. “I’ve got this case I’m workin’ on, and ta’ be honest, it’s really got me screwed up. It’s not normal…there’s somethin’ real strange about it.”
“Something to do with a Pentacle, I assume?” I asked, already knowing it to be true.
“Yeah,” he continued. “The theology expert the department called in can’t seem to make up his mind. His theory changes every time we try to talk to ‘im. A couple of the old timers on the force say the whole thing reminds them of a Satan-worship-slash-cult-murder they worked a few years back. That’s why I called you Wednesday night.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I was almost ready ta’ agree with ‘em about the cult stuff, but somethin’ kept eatin’ at me,” he explained. “I’m sittin’ at my desk thinkin’, ‘where have I seen this star thing before?’ All of a sudden it hits me…” Ben pointed at me and waved his hand about. “Hangin’ around YOUR neck.”
The fact that he had been able to match me with the symbol suddenly made sense. The quarter-sized pendant I wore was for all intents and purposes a part of me, for I almost never took it off; much as one who wears a Crucifix or the medallion of a patron saint. For the most part, it remained hidden behind the fabric of my shirt, and I had honestly never given any thought to the fact that he might have noticed it, but obviously, he had. Of course, what good is a cop if he’s not observant?
“So you called me to find out if I was in a cult or something?” I posed.
“Hell no, I knew better than that. I called ya’ because I figured ya’ just might know a little more about what it means than the wingnut the department hired.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “Now the problem is I’m even more confused.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, if this star is a good thing, I don’t get why it was at the scene.”
“If I’m following you, you’re talking about a murder, correct?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he answered and took a long swallow of his drink. “Murder… Sacrifice… Something…”
“And you’re sure what you found was a Pentacle, and not a Pentagram?”
“It had five points, and it was right side up,” he explained. “So yeah, it was a Pentacle I guess.”
“So what does your expert have to say?”
“Well, the latest theory from that Einstein is that it’s a ritual sacrifice from a Satanic African cult called Santeria.”
I puzzled over the information wordlessly for a moment, staring deliberately into my own drink as I formed a response. “I realize that I haven’t seen the evidence myself, but based on what you’ve said, I would seriously doubt that.”
“Why?”
“To begin with, a Pentacle isn’t a Santerian symbol, but that’s only a minor part of it. Santeria is an Afro-Cuban religion, not a cult, and it has nothing to do with Satan worship. Their sacrifices are normally small animals such as chickens, not human beings. In most cases, the animal is cooked and eaten as a part of the ritual. Truth is, they treat their dinner with more respect than you or I do.
“Another thing you might want to take into account is the fact that the actual Satanic religion doesn’t endorse human blood sacrifice either. My guess would be that your expert has some pre-conceived notions and is misinterpreting the facts.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” Ben looked at me with an expression of mild surprise, his cigar held frozen several inches before his face.
“I read a lot,” I told him. “Wicca and WitchCraft get compared to everything under the sun. Good, bad, and otherwise. I just like to keep up with what I’m being accused of.”
“Makes sense.” Thoughtful silence followed his measured reply, leaving us with the trilling night song of countless crickets.
I realized my explanation had, unintentionally, served only to add more confusion to his current discomposed thoughts. I could also feel his aura of internal conflict as he debated over his next question. In the interest of addressing both of the complications, I voiced my own query, “So…Are you looking for help?”
“I shouldn’t drag you into it,” he answered after a long pause.
“You aren’t dragging me anywhere, Ben,” I told him. “If what happened is actually some kind of cult sacrifice, it could mean something bigger than just one homicide. Besides, the fact that you found a Wiccan symbol bothers me just as much as it does you. Like I’ve told you before, our most basic rule is to ‘Harm None’. Even if it has nothing to do with the religion, if I can help you track down whoever did it, then let me.”
Ben ran one hand through his hair and smoothed it back, a gesture I had come to equate with his being lost in thought. I had known this man for more years than I cared to remember and had seen him through good and bad. He was a consummate professional, without a doubt. Still, I knew that all the training and even all the experience in the world could never prepare someone for every scenario he may encounter in this line of work.
I was constantly amazed by my friend’s ability to remain detached and objective in an investigation, but tonight was different. I had never seen him so disturbed by a case. Ever. I could tell from his troubled demeanor that this one must be beyond what even a seasoned veteran considered bad.
“I’ve got some pictures with me,” he finally spoke after what seemed a lifetime. “Do ya’ think you can give me an idea of what some of the stuff might mean?”
“I’ll be happy to give it a try,” I told him.
“You haven’t seen this stuff yet,” he replied. “It’s bad, Rowan.”
“I understand.”
“No you don’t,” he sighed. “When I say bad, I mean it’s fuckin’ sick.”
I had just turned on the overhead light in the dining room and seated myself at the table when Ben returned from his van with his briefcase. He peeled off his sport coat and threw it over the back of a chair then sat down. With a quick snap, he released the latches on the case and retrieved a large manila envelope bearing a case number and the word EVIDENCE printed in bright red block letters. I could see sweat already forming on his brow, and his hands trembled slightly as he handed me the packet.
“Man,” he said. “I really hate ta’ do this to ya’. This shit is enough to give ya’ nightmares. It has me.”
“Like I said,” I took the envelope, “you aren’t doing anything to me. I offered to help.”
I unwrapped the string that held the package shut and folded back the flap. Tilting it, I slid out a healthy stack of eight-by-ten photographs, some color, some black and white. I began thumbing through the pictures slowly, studying each one carefully and giving Ben my general impression of the images.
The first photo was of a crudely painted Pentacle on a wall. Sections were shaded in pastel yellow, blue, and green. The outline of the symbol was a deep, rusted red, and a portion of it was smeared with the same color.
“Now I see why you were asking about the pastels,” I stated. “But the red looks a little strange. Not really a pastel.”
“It’s the victim’s blood,” Ben volunteered matter-of-factly, his voice almost a whisper.
“Oh,” I replied. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
The second picture showed the Pentacle at more of a distance, revealing a mound of black and a mound of white on the floor. The following picture, a close-up of the mounds, showed them to be candles that had burned until they extinguished themselves, leaving behind hardened puddles of wax.
“Obviously a ritual of some sort,” I told him. “I’m not sure for what.”
I thumbed through more pictures of the candles and wall from various angles. The black and white images were much easier to tolerate, though knowing that the Pentacle had been inscribed in blood made me imagine I could still see the glaring red within the crisp black and grey tones. Eventually, I came to a picture of another wall. In the same dripping crimson strokes as the Pentacle were the words “All Is Forgiven.”
“The consultant still can’t manage to explain that,” Ben told me, indicating the pictured words. “He says it probably has somethin’ ta’ do with blood sacrifice rituals. Says he thinks it might…”
“No,” I interrupted him, holding up a hand, “those words have nothing to do with a blood sacrifice ritual.”
“Whaddaya mean?” he queried, sitting up a little straighter and focusing his attention.
“Your expert is apparently pretty full of misinformation. I’m not saying that there wasn’t a sacrifice ritual performed mind you, but just because the victim’s blood was used, that doesn’t make it so,” I detailed. “The Pentacle and the inscription are components of a spell.”
“You mean a hocus-pocus-poof-you’re-a-frog kinda spell?”
“No. That’s a fairy-tale misconception. While spells sometimes do involve what can be called magick, they are primarily something like a prayer. This particular spell is a separate ritual unto itself, and if I’m right, then I’m willing to bet your killer performed it because of the murder, not as a part of it.”
“I still don’t get it,” Ben told me, both eager and frustrated.
“Just a second…” I got up from the table and went across the room to the bookshelves. “I just want to verify something real quick to make sure I’m right.” I scanned the shelves reserved for our Wiccan and alternative religious literature and quickly found what I was after. “Here it is…”
I pulled the book from the shelf and leafed quickly through it as I strode back across the room and once again took a seat at the table.
“What is that?” Ben asked as I continued rapidly turning and perusing the pages.
“A grimoire,” I told him. “Kind of like a recipe book for Witches.” I stopped leafing through the book, and my eyes followed my finger down the text while I quietly mumbled to myself. Eventually I came to rest halfway down the page. “Yes, it’s a variation of an Expiation spell.”
“A what?” Ben’s still confused voice reached my ears as I handed him the spellbook and quickly leafed back through the pictures I had already seen. According to the grimoire, a piece of the spell appeared to be missing. I felt sure it was there but that I simply hadn’t noticed it.
“An Expiation spell,” I repeated. “A ritual to rid yourself of guilt and regrets-a way of asking forgiveness from yourself. I’m not finding it…” I stated hurriedly. “Was there a cup or goblet there? It would have had wine in it. Or maybe water.” Only silence met my ears. “Ben?” I queried again, looking up.
He was staring at me across the table, face ashen, the spellbook held loosely in his hands.
“Are you okay?” I asked, growing mildly concerned.
“Yeah, we found a wine glass all right,” he said quietly. “But, it wasn’t filled with wine.”
The look on his face told me that which I needed but didn’t want to know.
“It was filled with blood wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “We think the bastard drank her blood.”
The two of us shared a wordless stare as we were simultaneously bludgeoned by the revolting possibility he had just voiced. I swallowed hard and slowly forced my eyes back down to the permanent visual records of the abomination. Five photographs later, it was my turn for the greyish pallor to overtake my face. The glossy color image before me showed a bed with the nude body of a petite young woman draped across it. Her mouth was frozen in the oval shape of an agonized scream, her dull eyes staring horrifically into space. The wall next to the bed was spattered wildly with blood. Her throat had been cut, and her long, strawberry-blonde hair was matted into the sheets, which flowed to the floor like a crimson waterfall. From the ragged incision at her throat to a point just below her waist, and from shoulder to shoulder, she was nothing but bare exposed muscle. She had been skinned.
As if that weren’t enough, there was something else that made me hold my breath a beat longer. That something was the fact that her face held more than just a passing familiarity to me.
“An invocation rite,” I stated flatly, fighting back insistent waves of nausea.
“What’s that?” Ben asked.
“A ritual used to call forth someone or something from another plane of existence.”
“You mean like a spirit or somethin’?”
“Yeah,” I answered, “it’s the ‘or something’ that bothers me.”
“How can ya tell that’s what it is?” Ben pressed. “All the symbols were with that Expiation thing.”
“The flaying,” I answered. “Skinning and mutilation are considered parts of a ritual sacrifice for invocation in some old religions. Have you gotten a report from the coroner?”
“No, not yet…Why?”
“Whoever did this…” I caught my breath and started again. “Whoever did this probably skinned her alive. The sonofabitch performed two rituals. One to invoke who knows what, and one to forgive himself for doing it.”
“Jeezus,” Ben whispered.
“I need to see this crime scene, Ben,” I told him, still staring at the two-dimensional horror.
“I don’t know, Rowan…” he began to protest.
“No, Ben,” I shot back, “I’m serious. I don’t know for sure what this guy is up to yet, but you’ve already told me that your expert can’t find his way around the block. If this bastard is really trying to do what I think he is, then I doubt if he’s going to stop here. If I’m physically on the scene, maybe I can find something that will help.” Without realizing it, I had stood up from my seat and had begun pacing. “Besides,” I stopped, looked down at the picture for a moment and then back to Ben’s face, “I know the victim.”
“You know ‘er?” He stared back at me incredulously.
“Her name’s Ariel Tanner,” I stated quietly and then turned away as if having the photographs behind me would make them magically disappear. I took a deep breath before adding, “She’s a… was… a Witch.”
“How did you know her?”
“I was her teacher. I instructed her in The Craft.”
I could hear him scribbling quickly, making notes like a good cop was supposed to do. I had started him on the road to solving one of his mysteries, but an entirely new one was unfolding before me. A new one that my instincts were telling me would need to be solved very quickly.
“Shit,” Ben muttered as he made his decision. “Okay. I’ll pick you up in the mornin’.”
“I’ll be here.”