A baleful cry in the fold of darkness.
A crystalline blanket hued blue by shadows cast in the dim moonglow…
Fear.
Hatred.
Horror.
Silence.
My heart is racing in my chest. It is one of only two sounds that break the stillness. The other is the report of my naked feet crunching frenzied through the sharp crust of ice to the mantle of snow beneath. I am running from something.
I am running from someone…
I do not know where I am…
I know only that I run in fear.
Frigid air sears my lungs and chills me throughout. A hardened ache tears at my throat, dry and cold. I gasp for breath as I slow my pace and finally halt, struggling to deny the pain. A grove of twisted trees surrounds me.
Envelopes me.
The moon’s filtered shine dances eerily between the gnarled branches and plays across my nude body. Streaks of sticky wetness stream across my skin. In the muted light they appear oily and black. I run my hands across my body and wince at the soreness of the festering wounds.
The streaks are my own blood.
My staggering footprints stain the snow.
My feet are also raw and bleeding.
My wheezing breath punctuates the night.
A deep, familiar voice rumbles from the darkness. “Wherefore, since you, Rowan Linden Gant, are fallen into the damned heresies of Witches, practicing them publicly, and have been by legitimate witnesses convicted of the sin of heresy…”
I start in fear at the words.
I bolt forward blindly.
A baleful cry in the fold of darkness.
“Yo, mission control ta’ Rowan.” Ben’s voice snapped me back to the reality at hand. “You want any of this coffee, Kemosabe?”
He was waving his hand before my face and looking at me quizzically. From his expression I assumed I had once again slipped into the glassy-eyed, slack-jawed trance that had been plaguing me all morning. Snippets of a vivid horror kept ricocheting about the inside of my skull, disjointed and making no sense whatsoever. Thus far, I had been unable to piece together anything from the randomized remembrance of the nightmare and was beginning to doubt I ever would. Fact of the matter was, it might simply have been just that, a nightmare. No more than a product of my overtaxed senses and the frightening spectacles to which I had been witness in the past hours and days. It may mean nothing at all. But it was painfully reminiscent of the small vignette that had appended itself to my recurring nightmare about Ariel Tanner, and that was what concerned me.
“Yeah, sure,” I nodded as I spoke, shaking off the fog.
“I’ll warn ya’ up front, this stuff is strong enough ya’ damn near hafta slice it. There’re some donuts over here too.” He indicated a large white box as he rummaged about for a clean coffee cup. “Great little place over on Chippewa. All they had fresh was glazed, though.”
I shook my head, declining the offer. I wasn’t sure how something like that would sit with my stomach at the moment. It already felt like my hastily gulped morning meal was lodged in it sideways. Considering that the meal had consisted of cold leftovers from a traditional Irish dinner, it probably was.
“So, what’s up with you this mornin’?” Ben continued pressing me as he filled a chipped ceramic mug from a brown streaked globe of Pyrex then slid it across the table in my direction before returning the pot to its equally discolored warming base. “You’ve been glazin’ over left and right ever since ya’ got here. Somethin’ I should know?”
“I’m not sure,” I returned, accepting the mug and taking a sip of the brew. It was acrid and bitter. Ben’s wisecrack about ‘strong enough to slice’ had been right on the mark. “Could just be lack of sleep, I don’t know. I keep having these weird flashes…like pieces of a nightmare or something.”
I placed the cup back on the table and absently rattled clumps of sugar from an off-white cardboard cylinder, scarcely noticing when they plopped into the black liquid. Scanning the area around the coffeemaker, I searched for a stirring stick and found none. Ben noticed my fruitless quest then reached into his pocket and offered me a cheap plastic ballpoint.
“So you’re goin’ all…” He finished the sentence by letting out a low, vibrato whistle tied to an animated gesticulation with his outstretched arm. Over time, I had come to know this as his particular brand of sign language for “out there.”
“Not really… maybe… I don’t know.” I finished stirring and tapped the pen on the rim of the cup before laying it aside on an already stained paper napkin. “It doesn’t really feel the same… It could be just pieces of a bad dream.” I shrugged and took another sip of the bitter brew. The sugar hadn’t helped. I don’t know that I had really expected it to.
“You didn’t by any chance come up with anything on the doubled up Bible verses from last night didya?”
“You mean the one from First Samuel?”
“Yeah, that one.”
“Not really.” I shook my head. “The only thing I can think of is that it’s a pretty generic verse as far as the condemnation of WitchCraft goes. It would easily fit as a catch-all if he doesn’t have a specific heresy over and above that in mind.”
“So no greater reasoning that might give us a bead on this wacko then, eh?”
“Not that I can see.”
Ben pursed his lips and nodded back. “Well if anything else clicks, just say the word. I don’t give a damn if ya’ interrupt the meeting even, ‘kay?”
“Okay.”
“So where’s the little woman this mornin’?” He changed the subject as he wandered in the direction of his desk with me tagging along. “I kinda figured she’d be with ya’.”
“When I left her she was holding her head and muttering Gaelic curses about a bottle of whiskey,” I answered.
“Oh yeah, that’s right. The party. Sorry again ‘bout that… Did ya’ get yourself any of that Cold-cannon stuff?” He’d never know just how accurate his mispronunciation matched the way the contents of my stomach felt at the moment.
He wheeled out his seat and pointed to a molded plastic chair next to his desk. It looked like something from a discarded seventies era dinette, and I suspected it would be even less comfortable than it appeared.
“Something like that, and yeah, she brought me home a plate. It was my breakfast.” I rested my mug on the corner of his workspace as I sat down and glanced quickly at my watch. “Of course, I expect she’s on the road by now. Had a photo shoot for a client today.”
“On a Sunday? I thought she went freelance so she could set ‘er own hours.”
I held my hands apart wide in a one-that-got-away type of gesture. “Really big client.”
The answering bob of his head told me I needn’t say any more. “Ahhh, much wampum. I get it. Well, at least she has a choice in it.” He sighed as he looked around. “Some of us have a crazy fuck makin’ the decisions for us.”
I mimicked his swiveled head scan of the room, and his reference dawned over the sleep-deprived fog that clouded my mind. On a normal Sunday morning, the homicide division squad room was relatively still and near lifeless. Today, however, with the advent of the emergency meeting and the fact that the Major Case Squad was using it as a base of operations, it was slowly coming to bustling wakefulness.
Phones were beginning to add their annoying jingles to the vanishing silence as calls were transferred from the main switchboard into the squad room. Bleary-eyed detectives with vacant faces were cradling handsets against their ears; some while lethargically scribbling notes, others while just leaning back in their chairs and pretending to listen.
The petite thud of a hurried pair of cross-trainers against aged linoleum started softly at the door and grew louder as their owner came breezing in. Making her way through the grid of desks, the tousled-haired federal officer shot us a quick good morning without so much as slowing down.
“Sorry I’m late. I overslept,” Agent Mandalay announced as she strode past us with an oblong white box in her hands. “Hope you like glazed. It’s all they had fresh.”
“Don’t tell me,” Ben offered, “Rachel’s Donut Hut down on Chippewa.”
“How did you know?” she asked as she deposited the container on the table next to the other box of morning sweets.
“Great minds think alike.”
“Okay, I’ve heard that before, but what’s your excuse, Storm?”
My friend chuckled a muted expletive at the playful jibe but, other than that, elected not to reply.
Constance unzipped and shrugged off her coat while at the same time surveying the scene in front of her. When she turned back to face us, we could see that over her denim jeans she was wearing a slightly faded sweatshirt emblazoned with a steeple like logo, the lower portion of which disappeared into a line of stylized text that read, Cornell University, Ithaca, New York. The tail of the garment was tucked behind a worn leather holster clipped to her right side, and high on her hip rode a forty caliber Sig Sauer. I knew from the experience of having seen her in action that this young woman could be much more dangerous than was boasted by her rumpled college co-ed appearance.
She swept her hand back at the disorderly mess and frowned. “Sheesh, don’t you guys ever clean up after yourselves?”
“It’s not that bad,” Ben grunted then sipped his coffee. “Besides, ain’t my turn.”
Agent Mandalay rolled her eyes and proceeded to remove the visitors badge from her jacket and clip it onto her belt before finding a place to hang the garment. “Is everyone here, or am I not the only late one?”
My friend rolled his arm up and peered over the rim of his cup at the watch face on his wrist. “Just you’n Deck. He called about fifteen, twenty minutes ago, so I expect him ta’ be walkin’ through the door any time now. Doc Sanders is here, but she ran down the hall for a minute. Other than that, I think we’re all accounted for.”
“I didn’t sleep too well last night.” She let out a small sigh as she dragged over a chair similar to mine and dropped her petite frame into it. “What about you guys?”
I looked at her and shook my head.
Ben simply shrugged and took a pull at his cup of java then said, “Me neither. Nightmares. Of course, it’s not like there was an overabundance of time for sleepin’ anyway.”
“I know what you mean. The alarm went off way too early,” she agreed. “Either of you catch the national news this morning? That video byte got picked up by the wire services.”
“Don’t tell me…” Ben muttered the rhetorical question.
“Yeah. The ‘Ghoul Squad’ is national news.”
“Were they at least a little more selective about which part and how much of the tape they showed?” I asked.
“Not the station I was looking at,” she returned.
“Figures,” Ben spat.
“Ben, Connie, Rowan,” Carl Deckert’s gruff voice met our ears as he trudged in, holding a box of donuts in one hand while working the buttons of his overcoat with the other. “I hope you guys like glazed. It’s all they had fresh.”
“So we’ve heard,” Ben answered and raised an eyebrow at Constance.
“Rachel’s Donut Hut over on Chippewa,” she chuckled.
“How’d you know?” Carl continued fumbling with the last button and gave them both a puzzled expression. After a moment, he began eyeing the carton on all sides, presumably in search of a telltale marking.
“Table,” Ben answered and pointed to the other boxes near the coffee.
“Maybe I shoulda called or somethin’,” Carl stated apologetically as he added his offering to the pile. “That’s an awful lot of donuts.”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I quipped. “I mean we are sitting in a room full of cops and it’s only a few dozen donuts. What are the odds that there will be any left over by the time lunch rolls around?”
“Ya’know, you civilians have gotta get over that whole cop slash donut thing,” my friend returned, verbalizing the punctuation as he spoke. Then he let out a small laugh.
“Sure, whatever you say, Ben. But tell me this, am I right?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he answered with a broad smile. “Now shut up.”
“So I’m sure everyone is aware that our boy was real busy last night. For those of you who were on the scenes, this may be a little bit of a rehash. For those who weren’t, or who just got assigned to the MCS, we’ll try ta’ bring ya’ up ta’ speed as quickly as possible.” Ben was sitting on the edge of his desk in the squad room addressing the attentive assembly of detectives attached to the Major Case Squad. “Last night we got three bodies…” He held up his hand and displayed three fingers to the group, turning his hand front to back. “…Three in one night, people. Two fittin’ the M.O. of our bad guy from the Walker and Miller cases. The third was one of the latest victim’s husband, and it looks like he just might’ve been in the way. Most of ya’ are familiar with the first two victims, those that aren’t, everything we have is on the handouts I just gave you.” He waved a sheaf of papers at the group.
“Now, some of ya’ have prob’ly already heard the theory that the husband wasn’t the only screw up for our boy last night. From all indications, Christine Webster was not a Witch and in fact didn’t actively practice any religion at all, much less an alternative one. Well, the good news is I think we’ve solved the mystery behind this break in the M.O.”
Ben had already told me this simple revelation upon my arrival at the MCS command post, but from the attentive stares he now commanded, I could tell that this was new information to most everyone else present.
“As you’re aware, we’ve been operatin’ on the assumption that the killer is workin’ off a list. This list contains the names of several women who are members of a local Witches coven. All of the victims up until this point have been on that list. Now what we believe we are dealin’ with on the most recent victim is a case of mistaken identity.”
“So there’s a Christine Webster out there that actually is a member of that coven?” one of the cops asked.
“Exactly,” my friend answered. “Only ‘er name is spelled with a K instead of a C-h. K-r-i-s-t-i-n-e, ta’ be exact. Other than that, the middle and last names are identical.”
“The mistake makes sense if you follow the killer’s brand of logic,” I interjected. “It stands to reason that someone with a deep religious conviction would hear Christine and automatically spell it with a C-h. After all, the origin of the name is Christ.”
Ben grunted in agreement.
“So the original theory holds?” the questioning cop asked.
“For now, yes.” Ben nodded. “Okay. Now that we’ve cleared that one up, I’m gonna turn the floor over to our distinguished city M.E. So, Doc, you got anything for us on last night’s unfortunate souls?”
Doctor Sanders set her own coffee aside while simultaneously slipping her reading glasses onto her face. The spectacles that hung from a simple chain about her neck were like a permanent fixture. I couldn’t recall ever having seen her without them. She opened a file before her and peered at the scribbled notes, reciting from them without looking up.
“I have the preliminary posts on all three. First victim is Sheryl Kee…” The last few words of her sentence elongated and rose in pitch as she yawned deeply. Covering her mouth with her hand, she drew in a second breath and sighed, “Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry.”
“S’alright Doc,” Ben told her. “Been a long one for all of us… Go on.”
“As I was saying,” she continued, “first victim, Sheryl Keeven, Caucasian, female, thirty-four years of age. She was hung by the neck from the balcony of her apartment. Prelim shows a stress fracture at the third cervical vertebrae, but that didn’t kill her immediately. There are indications that she expired due to asphyxiation. There were thirteen remarkable puncture wounds in soft tissues that were made pre-mortem. I would venture to say from an ice pick or something very similar.
“Next…” She flipped a page in the manila file and stifled another yawn. “Christine Webster, again Caucasian, female. Twenty-seven years of age. Cause of death was asphyxiation due to drowning, pure and simple. Her lungs were full of water. Ms. Webster’s body also exhibited a number of puncture wounds consistent with the Keeven woman as well as the two earlier victims.
“Finally, Robert Webster. Caucasian, male, twenty-eight. Contused larynx. Cause of death, again, asphyxiation. He was choked to death using the cord from a set of mini blinds. No other wounds in this case save for some minor, unremarkable bruising and abrasions that most likely occurred during a struggle. Judging from the upward angle of the contusion, I would venture to hypothesize that the attacker was a rather large male, probably over six feet in height. Other than that…” She flicked the folder shut then removed her glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “…we will have to wait for the tox and labs to come back.”
She allowed her glasses to dangle down on their omnipresent chain and looked up at us with a slight shrug. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment.”
“Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate ya’ gettin’ on that so quick,” Ben told her then turned his attention back to the rest of the room and nodded in the direction of a thick, stocky man who was absently smoothing his moustache as he listened. “You and your team have anything for us from the crime scenes, Murv?”
The man gestured in the direction of Doctor Sanders, and when he spoke, his voice was richly timbered and affected with a slight, lazy, southern drawl. “I’d say the Doc’s prob’ly right about our bad guy. We got one decent imprint out of the snow around the pool last night. Matches up to a man’s size seventeen hiking boot, so I’d have to say he’s a big boy. Best estimate, anywhere from six-six to seven foot tall.”
He paused as he again brushed imaginary crumbs from the whiskers on his upper lip and then took a moment to scratch the back of his head. “So far we haven’t had a single worthwhile print, but it’s winter and everyone is wearin’ gloves so I don’t really expect any. He’s left a different kind of Bible at each scene, all of them being of a type readily available from any bookstore. We’re runnin’ it down anyway. The spray paint he’s used to leave the symbol is just your standard commercially available stuff.” He stopped talking for a moment and shrugged. “Either way, got a sample of it off to the FBI crime lab. Couple of fibers. Poly-cotton blend, dyed black. Pretty generic stuff. Besides that we got a big fat zippo. Sorry ya’ll, but this ol’ boy ain’t givin’ us much to go on.”
Ben nodded. “You’ll let us know if ya’ come up with anything else?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Great. Thanks, Murv.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, tox on the Miller woman showed Roofies in her system,” Ben announced to the room and looked around. “Who’s workin’ with Narc on that?”
“Over here,” a hard-edged but still feminine voice came from across the room. “Detective Baker. I’m your liaison to County Narcotics.”
“Great, Baker. Whaddaya got?”
“Unfortunately, nothing,” she returned. “We’ve worked the college campuses and all the small time dealers we can think of. Of course, we haven’t really known what we were looking for.”
“Understood,” Ben replied and gave her a nod. “I’d like for ya’ ta’ hit ‘em again and work from the basis that we’re lookin’ for an unusually tall individual. That might help.”
“Will do.”
Ben gave his notes a quick scan and without looking up from the fistful of paper, queried the room, “Computer crimes. Do we have anything on this whole Internet stalkin’ lead?”
“The Miller woman’s hard drive is clean,” a younger detective announced. “According to the system registry, the operating system was a recent install, and we found a receipt from a local repair shop. Looks like she upgraded.”
“I hate the damn things, Chuck,” Ben returned grumpily. “You mind puttin’ that in English?”
“She souped up her machine and had a new piece of hardware installed in place of the original mass storage device,” the detective answered. “I called the repair shop, and they said the drive was toast, and it went into the trash. To put it simply, as far as getting something off her system goes we’re screwed. We aren’t going to get anything from it.”
“What about her… Whaddaya call it… You know…” He rotated his hand in a circular gesture while furrowing his brow.
“ISP,” I offered. “Her service provider.”
“Small local outfit in South County” came the answer. “No weekend hours.”
“Great,” Ben sighed. “They got an alarm?”
“Probably, I dunno,” Chuck returned.
“Find out. Call the local muni and the alarm company. Get the contact list and get someone to open the doors. If that doesn’t work, go down there and throw a brick through the window or somethin’. We wanna talk to ‘em today. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“All right then, there’s another angle I want us to look into.” My friend huffed, paused for a moment then pointed over at me. “Most of ya’ are familiar with Rowan here from the last time he worked with us. As well, most of ya’ are aware that we’ve asked for his help again with this case.” His hand went up automatically as he spoke, smoothing back his hair and coming to rest on his neck. After a short pause he let out a resigned sigh. “Now, while I’ll be the first one ta’ admit that his methods seem more than just a little weird to the rest of us, I think we all know just how accurate he can be. At any rate, Row here has given us reason ta’ think maybe our bad guy might possibly be a priest. This isn’t a definite, but I’d like ta’ follow that avenue an’ see where it goes.”
“You mean like a Catholic priest?” a voice piped up.
“Yeah. Could be,” he answered. “Or Lutheran I s’pose.”
“What makes you think it’s a priest?” the detective queried again.
Ben slapped me on the arm with the sheaf of papers he held in his hand. “You wanna go ahead and take that one, Row.”
I had been expecting this when Ben asked me to be at the meeting. Now, the feeling of deja vu that had been tittering up and down my spine forcibly seized me by the shoulders and whispered in my ear, “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
The last time I had addressed the Major Case Squad had been a few scant months ago during the last frantic investigation. At that time I had been severely heckled, almost to the point of Ben losing his temper in an attempt to defend me. Now, however, it seemed a small legend had arisen from the final success of that case, and while there were certainly those who still thought me a crackpot, as Ben had said, a number of the officers present today were individuals I had worked with before.
I watched nervously as they shifted their glances over to me and waited just as attentively as they had for Ben.
“Quite honestly,” I began, choosing a direct approach, “it was something I saw through Sheryl Keeven’s eyes when I channeled her last moments.”
The room remained quiet, save for the muted ringing of phones and normal background noises of the offices. No laughs. No heckling. No comments of outright dismissal. As unorthodox as they may have found me, I had been accepted. I had gained their respect. In some small way, I had become one of them, and worthy of their attention.
I continued, indicating to my neck as I spoke, “What I caught a glimpse of was a black shirt with a white collar insert. Like a priest’s collar.”
“So what about a seminary student then?” Detective Baker spoke this time. “My cousin was in the seminary and he wore one of those collars.”
“Good idea, Baker,” Ben interjected then gestured to a nearby detective. “Morrow. You and Buchanan check that out. Osthoff, you and Martin ask around the local Archdiocese. Carefully.” He stressed the word. “Remember, it hasn’t been all that long since the Pope graced our fair city with his presence. There’re a lotta Catholics in this area, and they’re still ridin’ high on that. Last thing we need ta’ do is piss off over half of Saint Louis.”
“Got it,” the officers replied almost in unison.
“Okay. That’s about all I have.” Ben’s shoulders dropped noticeably as he let out a tired sigh. “Anyone got any questions?”
“Any theories on why he changes the way he kills the victim each time?” A slightly greying officer queried. “Seems a bit off for a serial killer. I thought they stuck to an established pattern.”
“I’ll leave the floor to you on that one, white man,” Ben told me.
I simply bobbed my head and began. “In this particular case it actually makes perfect sense. We’ve already established that the killer appears to be targeting members of alternative religions. In point of fact, Witches.”
A ripple of nods coupled with the warbling hum of murmured concurrence ran through the assemblage. I pushed off from the edge of the desk I was leaning against and began to pace as I ticked points off on my fingertips.
“So far, there has been one victim burned, one hung, and one drowned,” I continued. “All of these are methods of execution that were used during the time of the Inquisition. The manner of death selected back then oftentimes depended on a wide range of criteria. Anything from the pre-ordained level of the heresy committed to the way the inquisitors happened to feel at the time of passing sentence.”
“What about the first one?” another detective questioned. “The Walker woman. She was thrown out a window. Was that one of their methods?”
“Of execution, no. Of verification, yes.” I answered then paused to allow my statement to take hold. “I would postulate that the killer was applying a razor… A test if you will… He threw Miz Walker off the balcony in order to see if she would save herself by flying or levitating.”
The officer who had started us along this line spoke again, “I seem to recall reading an article in the paper recently where you yourself said you Witches don’t do that sort of thing.”
“We don’t.” I nodded in agreement. “But during the times of the Inquisition, ‘Witch Hysteria’ was rampant. All manner of accusations were made, and it is where many of the popular myths about us came from. People believed that Witches could fly. They thought we were made of wood and therefore wouldn’t sink in water. Supposedly, we didn’t need to breathe and could be deprived of oxygen and still live. That’s just to name a few.”
“So why hasn’t he been testing the other victims?” another voice asked.
“He has to an extent,” I replied. “Witches, and those accused, were tortured for a variety of reasons, the obvious one being to make them confess. Other tortures, such as the stabbing seen on these victims, also known as ‘Witch Pricking,’ were used to prove out the accusation. You should understand, of course, that the accusation was then and will always be proven out for him, no matter what.”
“Okay, so what about this whole torture thing?” A young detective waved his handout in my direction. “According to this, the first two victims were rather severely tortured, whereas numbers three and four weren’t nearly as bad. What’s up with that?”
“That’s a good question,” I agreed with a nod. “I have my own theories, and I think there are a combination of answers. The most obvious is probably the constitution of the victim combined with the amount of time he had to conduct the tortures.”
“What are the not so obvious reasons?” another voice asked. “Just out of curiosity.”
“Well, as we know, the first three victims were all members of the same coven. For the sake of argument, let us pretend that victim number four was as well, because even though we know she wasn’t, I don’t believe the killer has realized that yet. Victim five, we will leave entirely out of the equation because as Detective Storm stated, he simply appears to have been a spouse who got in the way.
“Now forgive me if this starts to sound like a college lecture, but if you would, please bear with me for a moment. What I need to do here is back up and give you some background so you understand how I came to this conclusion. For this to all make sense, what you absolutely must understand is the mentality behind the concept of ‘Witch Hysteria.’ Those accused of heresy were tortured for several reasons, not just for a confession or just for proving out the accusation. In fact, sometimes it was just because the particular inquisitor was a sadistic bastard who enjoyed inflicting pain. But more importantly, by the prescription of Church Doctrine it was specifically done in order to get an accused heretic or Witch to incriminate others.
“The first deviation in our killer’s torture pattern occurs with victim number three. While she was not put through the same rigors as the first two, she was subjected to some amount of torture. Judging from what I picked up at the crime scene, I would say she folded rather easily and didn’t require an excessive amount of torture to extract that which the killer sought.
“Then you have Christine Webster, who we are pretty sure was the wrong Kristine Webster. Throw into that mix the fact that she had a husband who lost his own life trying to protect her. Basically the husband being there knocked the killer’s entire plan off kilter. It probably forced him to rush the ritual of applying proof and confession to the judgment for the simple fear of being caught.”
I paused for a moment and took a quick sip of the bittersweet coffee I had set aside earlier. It had grown lukewarm and tasted even worse than it had before, but I desperately needed something for my rapidly drying throat.
“This is where the not so obvious comes into play. Something that I have witnessed through the various visions I have experienced while working this case is the fact that the killer passes judgment on the victims much as an inquisitor would have. He is even going so far as to actually quote a ‘Witch Hunting’ manual known as the Malleus Maleficarum.
“His last two quotations have been the same and are as follows-‘In accordance with the thirty-third question, in as much as you stand accused of the heresy of WitchCraft by another of your kind…’-This is what leads me to believe that he has been actively seeking to add heretics to his list.”
“What does he mean ‘thirty-third’ question?” a female detective with close-cropped blonde hair queried.
“The Malleus Maleficarum is laid out as a series of questions with applied criteria,” I explained. “An accused Witch or heretic would be put to these questions and convicted on the basis of the one that matched the closest. The thirty-third question for example is relative to the passing of sentence upon someone accused by another Witch who either has been, or is to be, burned at the stake. In this case, I would venture to guess that both Sheryl Keeven’s and Kristine Webster’s names were given to the murderer by Kendra Miller under the pain of torture. As you will note, her manner of execution was burning.”
“So how is it that you know about these questions?” another detective asked as he poured over his handouts. “I don’t see anything about that in the chain of evidence.”
“That’s part of why it’s not so obvious,” I answered him head on. “I saw it when I channeled the last moments of the victims lives.”
“Oh,” he returned. The look on his face told me that he wasn’t sure if he should challenge me or keep quiet. I still don’t know for sure why he elected to do the latter, but at that moment I could feel a large presence over my shoulder and knew that Ben was no longer leaning against his desk.
“So that explains the list,” a voice interjected into the quiet. “Do you think he’s just going right down the page, line by line?”
“That’s the theory,” I acknowledged. “He probably started by picking Brianna Walker because of her street moniker ‘Wicked Witch of the West End.’ She in turn gave him Kendra Miller’s name and probably several others for that matter. Kendra Miller gave him even more… Let me just add that he undoubtedly has the names of every Witch in their coven because when asked who else they know that’s a Witch, the obvious answer would be those they worship with. Of course, it is probably a safe bet that they gave him other names as well. I can’t say for a fact at this time how he might be picking each successive victim from his list… It obviously doesn’t appear to be alphabetical… But starting at the beginning and working forward seems as logical as any. Be that as it may, I’m willing to bet he has plenty of names to work from because of the tortures he put the first two young women through.
“I’d also like to add a personal theory, and this one is just based on a feeling. I think that he’s probably very overwhelmed by what he perceives as the sheer magnitude of an infestation of heretics. Every time he executes one, most likely two or more are added to his list. He’s probably just trying to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Therefore, he may no longer be as interested in extracting names from them as he was in the beginning. This might also account for the lessened amount of torture, and it would certainly explain the little spree last night.
“Still, because of the nature of what he is doing, he will continue to demand names, and the list will just keep getting longer.”
“So, whether he wants it to or not, the rolls keep growing, and in a sense the victims perpetuate the crimes by continuing to add names to the list,” the blonde detective stated matter-of-factly.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I agreed.
“You’re right, it would explain the change in his pattern and definitely the sudden escalation,” Agent Mandalay remarked from behind me. “If he feels that he’s losing control, another spree could be just around the corner.”
“Great,” Detective Deckert muttered sarcastically then appealed, “Just how long is this crackpot’s list?”
“Depends on how many names the previous victims gave him. And like I said, it just keeps growing,” I offered the detail in answer. “Your guess is as good as anyone’s. There is quite a large Pagan community in Saint Louis whether you know it or not. Just using myself as an example, while I certainly don’t know every Witch in Saint Louis, I could probably name twenty-five without even thinking hard. If pressed, I might be able to give you a hundred. I’m sure Brianna, Kendra and Sheryl could have done the same.
“On that note, however, I would like to mention something else. I have made my case for the fact that this guy is after Witches or anyone he perceives to be one. As you know, last night, he deviated from that pattern when he killed Robert Webster. Now based on the facts at hand, I think we can all agree that Mister Webster was NOT on the list, especially since the Kristine Webster he was supposed to have gone after is unmarried. That would mean his death was purely unplanned, at least as far as the pattern has been established. Now unless I grossly misinterpreted the scene, I believe the killer is feeling some pretty heavy remorse over this.”
“Enough to make him stop killing?” a voice asked.
“I think so. Not for long, mind you,” I returned. “But, yes, I do feel that it might buy us a short reprieve. I would suggest we find him before he gets over it, however. I’m no psychologist, but I have a bad feeling that he is going to turn this guilt into anger and blame. When he does, I’m betting the blame will end up on the heads of Witches and Wiccans, and like Agent Mandalay said, another spree could be just around the corner. Maybe even worse than last night if he…”
Across the squad room the glass-paned door swung open, and a young, uniformed officer poked his head through. “Excuse me, Detective Storm?”
“Yeah, whatcha’ need?” Ben looked up and across at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he proceeded, “but a unit just came in with an old bum they popped for an assault, and, well… I think you should come down and have a look.”
“What for?” Ben shot him an impatient frown.
“Well, when they searched him they found a Bible in his pocket with a passage highlighted.”
“What was the passage?” I asked.
“Exodus, twenty-two-eighteen.”
Stunned silence layered itself across the room in an almost stifling fog. Colors bloomed and flashed in a sparkling fireworks display that rained outward in slow motion. A distant ethereal scream shattered my ears.
Liquid fire rushes down my throat.
I cannot scream.
The pain is piercing my very soul.
Why doesn’t someone help me?
The colors had begun to spiral back into themselves, and the imagined silence breaking shriek was fading steadily. I clung to the vision a moment longer, fearing it intensely, yet knowing that it had been triggered for a reason.
I’m floating.
Flames lick at me from below.
I cannot feel them.
I CAN feel them.
I still cannot scream.
Something… Someone… A movement in the darkness.
An old man.
Stumbling.
Sudden horror in his eyes
Flames lick at me from below.
Chroma, hue and sound completed their sudden wild pinwheel through the fold of the room and settled back to an even tone. The bloom faded and normalcy once again prevailed. The jangle of ringing phones filtered into my ears as if they had never been absent. I knew my brief excursion into another realm had been just that. Brief. I doubted anyone noticed other than myself.
“Thou shalt not suffer a Witch to live,” I recited aloud then glanced back at Ben. “I knew there should have been a Bible at the second scene… That has to be it… He was there…”
“Jeezus,” Ben muttered under his breath.
“Son of a bitch,” Deckert echoed behind him.
“And by the way, Mister Gant,” the uniformed officer added. “There’s a woman downstairs asking for you. Pretty redhead about so tall.” He held his hand up to illustrate. “Say’s she’s your wife. Seems she’s the one who tackled the guy and sat on him until the squad car arrived.”