M Sellars: Harm none

“Yeah.” The thought brought back unpleasant phantom pains in my chest. “That’s what I saw.”

“Whaddaya use it for?” he continued. “To sacrifice things or something?”

“No,” I answered. “Not in the sense you mean. A Witch’s athame should never draw blood, and the only sacrifice a Witch makes is of him or herself.”

“So ya’ think Ariel Tanner was tortured and killed with her own Witch knife?” he voiced.

“Yes,” I answered. “Which is something that made it even worse for her because an athame is a very personal tool to a Wiccan practitioner. Hers was a dirk.”

“Which is?”

“A European double-edged dagger about six inches long,” I explained. “It’s double-beveled and has a black handle.”

“Is that somethin’ you saw in your vision?”

“Yes. But I knew even before then. I gave it to her when she went out and started her own coven. It was a gift.”

We entered the coroner’s office and were greeted by a pleasant young woman at the reception desk who led us back to a room with stainless steel tables and tile floors: a room where the emptiness of death pervaded every sense to one who is aware. The young woman introduced us to Dr. Christine Sanders, the chief medical examiner who was also the M.E. working Ariel’s case.

Despite my protestations, Ben pointed out my recent injury and asked if she might be able to take a look at it. After an effusive amount of concern, I was forced to be x-rayed and the gash stitched up. This was not something I expected from someone who spends her days with the dead, and I made the mistake of stating as much. She was quick to point out that she was in fact an M.D., so I elected not to argue.

Once my spur-of-the-moment medical treatment was finished, we gathered in Dr. Sanders’ office. With its carpeting, mauve walls, and strategically placed paintings, it was a much more pleasant place to be than the chilled antiseptic realm of the autopsy suite.

“Ariel Tanner…” she began. “Just finished that one yesterday afternoon. You guys are lucky you caught me here,” she added. “This is supposed to be my day off. I only came in to finish up some paperwork.”

“I know the feelin’, doc,” Ben replied.

Dr. Sanders continued leafing through a thick file folder and finally came to rest on the page she sought. Her glasses hung loosely on a chain around her neck, giving her a stern look. Her demeanor, however, was much more pleasant than her outer appearance immediately suggested. She tossed back a shoulder-length shock of grey-flecked, brunette hair and slid the glasses onto her face, resting them lightly on the end of her nose.

“It appears that we are still waiting on some of the tox screen results,” she told us. “But cause of death was due to an acute trauma to the neck resulting in massive blood loss. Judging from her histamine levels, the trauma to the chest…” She looked up over her glasses at me then to Ben.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “He’s consulting on the case.”

“…Then,” she continued, “the trauma to the chest and excision of the dermis occurred antemortem.”

“In English, doc,” Ben said.

“She was skinned alive, Detective.”

Jotting down quick notes, Ben continued, “Any idea what the killer mighta used ta’ accomplish that?”

“Based on the size and shape of the wounds…” She looked back at the file and flipped over some more pages. “A short, beveled blade of some sort, but that’s just a guess.”

“One last question,” he asked. “And it might seem a bit odd. Did ya’ find any marks on her arms? Like a puncture wound?”

“Now that you mention it, yes we did,” Dr. Sanders answered. “There was a puncture wound on her left arm, consistent with an injection. I assumed it was from a dose of insulin since she was a diabetic.”

“We’ve got reason ta’ believe she might have been drugged. Possibly with an injection,” Ben told her after glancing quickly at me.

“We took a tissue sample,” she submitted. “It’s being screened with all the rest.”

“Dr. Sanders?” the intercom on her desk blared.

“Yes, Cecilia?” she answered.

“Sorry to bother you,” the disembodied voice continued issuing from the speaker. “But there is an officer here in the lobby to see Detective Storm.”

“Thank you,” Dr. Sanders said to the young woman at the other end then turned back to us. “Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”

“I think that’s it for now,” Ben told her, standing and stowing his small notebook in a shirt pocket. “I’d appreciate hearin’ from ya’ as soon as the tox results are in.” He handed her his card.

“No problem,” she replied, clipping the card to the front of the file folder and then turning to me. “And you, sir… I recommend you go home and get some rest.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” I answered and shook her hand. “Thanks for the quick treatment.”

“You’re very welcome,” she smiled. “It’s nice to see one of my patients leave under his own power for a change.”

Once outside the office, I turned to Ben as we headed down the intersecting maze of corridors toward the reception area. “So what do you think?”

“I think if that puncture wound turns up somethin’ besides insulin that you’re one spooky S.O.B.” was all he said.

We were met in the lobby by a uniformed patrol officer and followed him outside to his vehicle. Ben sent him across the street for a cup of coffee, and we climbed into the back of the squad car on either side of R.J., leaving the doors partially open to avoid being locked in. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he appeared even more disheveled than earlier. He shot Ben a frightened look as we climbed in and then glanced at me as if asking for help. It was obvious that he had never been through an ordeal such as this.

“Would ya’ mind tellin’ me,” Ben started, “just exactly why I shouldn’t throw the book at ya’?”

“For what?” R.J. squeaked, trying unsuccessfully to appear tough.

“For pickin’ your nose in public,” Ben shot back sarcastically. “It doesn’t really matter! Let’s look at the facts. One. I’m tryin’ to conduct a homicide investigation. Two. You show up at the scene and clock my consultant in the face with a table lamp. Three. You flee the scene screamin’ that you’re gonna kill some individual by the name of Devon. Killin’ someone is a felony, ya’know.” He paused for effect. “Now put yourself in my place. What am I supposed to think?”

R.J. hung his head and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. I could feel his anguish, his fear…his sadness. Quite a bit had been thrust upon him within the last few hours, and I was sure that he was rapidly approaching critical mass. I only hoped that I would be able to defuse it without getting in the way of Ben’s investigation.

“He wasn’t even home,” R.J. finally muttered.

“You mean Devon?” I queried.

“Yeah, Devon,” he answered, nodding his head. “His neighbor said he hasn’t been home for a couple of days.”

“Who is this Devon character?” Ben asked, once again flipping open the cover of his ever-present notepad.

“He used to be a member of our coven,” R.J. said, glancing quickly at Ben, then back at me, as if only I would understand. “Up until a few weeks ago.”

“He didn’t leave on very good terms I take it,” I coached.

“We banished him. He had been straying from the path for a while, and he started talking about ritual magick a lot. It was like he was trying to get us involved too.”

“Ritual magick isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

“His idea of it was.”

“Okay, go on,” I told him, glancing up to look at Ben who met my gaze quietly and continued scribbling.