M Sellars - Harm none

“Look, I don’t know if you noticed or not,” I stated, “but Salinger and Dickens seem to have some kind of problem with R.J.”

“Don’t worry,” she answered. “I’m sure you’re just being overly suspicious because of everything that’s going on. It’ll be okay.”

“I just want you to be careful,” I continued.

“I’ll be fine,” she admonished. “Now go, then. Ben’s waiting.”

I watched her wave to us then turn and go into the house as we backed out of the driveway. I wasn’t sure that she was correct, but then, after all that I had been through, it was possible that I had become more suspicious than usual. Maybe Ben was rubbing off on me. In any case, I knew my wife well, and she would be just fine. I also knew that she had almost instant access to a loaded Ruger. 357 magnum, for neither of us was naive enough to think that the rest of the world believed as we do. The very concept of “live and let live” seemed almost alien to the general populous anymore, and the headlines of the newspaper or a quick glance at the evening news gave testimony to that fact. At Ben’s urging, for our own protection, Felicity and I had purchased the weapon and been rigorously trained in its proper use by him. If it came down to a matter of life or death, I was certain my wife wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

“So,” I asked Ben as we motored down the street, its shiny wetness reflecting the glare of the streetlights. “Exactly where are we headed?”

“Some park called Thayer,” he answered. “You know where it is?”

“Yeah, it’s not far from here. Hang a right at the next stop sign.”

We arrived at the park and turned in to the main access road, following it past the ball field and darkened pavilions. Ben had placed a magnetic bubble light atop the van and plugged it into the cigarette lighter receptacle as we entered. The red light flickered eerily across the face of the uniformed officer at the gate and reflected brightly from his rain-slicked yellow poncho. Ben rolled down the window and held out his ID to the officer, who illuminated it with the bright beam of a three cell Mag-Lite.

“Evening, Detective,” he said and brought the beam to bear on me. “Who’s that with you?”

“Consultant,” Ben answered him authoritatively.

The sodden officer nodded and pointed the long flashlight up the road. Its beam, though powerful, eventually dissipated into the murky darkness.

“Just over that rise, sir,” he told Ben. “Then about two hundred yards. Evidence unit is all over the place, you can’t miss it.”

Ben thanked him and rolled up his window, pushing the van into motion up the slight grade. The wind and rain were beginning to pick up, and a few distant flashes in the western sky were testimony to a rapidly approaching thunderstorm.

“Look behind your seat,” Ben was telling me as we topped the rise. “Should be some rain slickers back there.”

I turned in the seat and rummaged about in the dark. My hand brushed against what felt like a gym bag, and I yanked it from beneath the seat and tugged on the zipper.

“In this bag back here?” I asked.

“Yeah, prob’ly.”

I could feel the van slowing and pitching slightly to the left as Ben took a wide turn into a parking space and brought us to a halt. I quickly found the rain ponchos I sought and with them in hand, turned back around in my seat.

The spectacle outside the windshield was illuminated like a toppled-over Christmas tree stuck in overdrive. Red lights, blue lights, and white lights on emergency vehicles, even yellow caution lights on sawhorses blinked randomly in the night. The lack of sync in the pulses seemed to bring even more chaos to what appeared to be an already disordered scene.

Ben reached out and grabbed one of the slickers from my motionless hand, taking notice of my blank stare and mouth agape.

“Welcome to my world,” he told me, then paused. “Sucks don’t it? Go ahead an’ put your poncho on.”

I broke from the short stupor and began pulling the yellow plastic rain gear over my head. The extra room in the cab of the van made me realize why Ben refused to get rid of the decrepit vehicle.

“How should I introduce ya’?” Ben asked, unlatching his door. “I doubt if they’ll go for Good Witch of the East.”

“How about, Alternative Religion Specialist,” I replied.

“Sounds good ta’ me.”

A distant streak of lightning followed by a sharp crack and low rumble of thunder alerted us to the ever-increasing violence of the storm as we stepped out into the downpour. We walked across the parking area, past the flapping yellow tape that cordoned off the crime scene. I was concerned that important evidence might be washed away, but my fears were soon allayed when I noticed the core of the activity involved the cinder block building that housed a set of the park’s restrooms.

“Ben Storm,” my friend told another detective, displaying his badge as we approached him. “City Homicide Unit. I’m assigned to the MCS.”

“Carl. Carl Deckert. County Police.” The thickset, greying detective reached out and shook Ben’s hand. “You the one investigating that Tanner homicide?”

“That’s me,” Ben answered.

“This your partner?” he queried, reaching out to shake my hand.

“Rowan Gant,” I told him, returning the gesture.

“He’s a specialist on alternative religions,” Ben explained. “He’s consulting for us on the symbols left at the Tanner crime scene.”

Detective Deckert motioned to another officer who produced a partially sodden clipboard. Ben scrawled a signature on the damp paperwork and then indicated a spot for me to sign and record the time.

“Well,” our stocky escort said as the three of us began walking toward the entrance to the restroom. “You’ve got plenty to consult about. Looks like a freakin’ Satanic graffiti party in there.”

“Have you ID’d the victim?” Ben questioned.

“Found a purse,” Deckert continued. “Driver’s license matches up to a Karen Barnes. Twenty-eight years old…”

A bright flash exploded in my eyes, momentarily blinding me. At first I thought a streak of lightning had hit nearby, but the telltale clap of thunder was never forthcoming. Instead I heard shouting, expletives, and what sounded to be a scuffle.

“What the…” Ben exclaimed.

“Shit!” Detective Deckert shouted. “How the hell did he get in here?!”

My vision began returning to normal, and what had sounded like a scuffle was revealed to be just that. Two uniformed officers were on either side of a struggling young man holding a camera affixed with a powerful flash unit.

“Get him outta here!” Deckert ordered the two officers. “And tighten up the perimeter!” he shouted after them as they dragged the photographer away. “Sorry about that. Freakin’ media. Every damn one of ‘em’s got a police scanner. Sometimes they get to the scene before we do.”

“You were sayin’?” Ben prodded.

“Oh, yeah,” he continued. “Karen Barnes, twenty-eight years old. Lives about three blocks from here. Looks like she was out walking her dog. The son-of-a-bitch killed it too.”

“Family been notified?” Ben asked.

“Got a car waiting for the husband. Neighbor said he was out of town on business. She was expecting him back tonight.”

“Any kids?”

“No. Just her and the spouse.”

“Well at least there’s that.”

We had paused at the entrance of the women’s restroom on the side of the cinder block structure. Evidence technicians were exiting, carrying bulky cases containing the tools of their trade.

“Being a public restroom, there are prints everywhere,” Deckert pointed out. “We didn’t find anything real fresh except for some smudges. Looks like he was wearing gloves.” He pulled a pair of packets from the pocket of his trench coat and handed one to each of us. “Speaking of which, you better put these on just to be safe.”