M Sellars - Harm none

“Good mornin’” came a familiar, but rough voice. “I didn’t wake you guys, did I?”

“No, we’re awake, Ben,” I told him. “I’m just now making breakfast.”

“What are we havin’?” he asked.

“What do you mean we?” I laughed. “Are you on your way or something?”

“Actually,” he replied, “I’m in the driveway.”

“In that case, you’re having a Denver omelet and hash browns.”

I hung up the phone and retrieved the carton of eggs from the refrigerator then began cracking more of them into the bowl.

“Honey?” I called out. “Could you unlock the front door? Ben’s in the driveway.”

I was folding large chunks of chopped ham, peppers, onions, and shredded cheese into a fluffy omelet when a haggard, unkempt Ben Storm ambled into my kitchen and helped himself to a cup of coffee.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to do without doughnuts this morning?” I asked, sliding the finished omelet from the pan and preparing to make another.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replied, seating himself at our breakfast nook. “Like I haven’t heard the cop-slash-doughnut jokes before. You get any sleep last night?”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted, pouring frothy eggs into the pan. “How about yourself?”

“Got a couple hours.” He sipped his coffee. “Didn’t get home till four this mornin’.”

“How’s Allison taking all this?” Felicity asked. She had been standing in the doorway and now took a seat opposite him.

“She’s not happy about it,” he answered. “But she’s been through it before. It goes with the job.”

“What about the little guy?” I asked, sliding plates containing omelets and hash browns before them.

“Not as good. He doesn’t understand why I’m never home.” Ben shoveled in a mouthful of food and sat chewing thoughtfully. “I think I’m gonna take a vacation when this is all over.”

“Might be good for you,” Felicity told him. “AND your family.”

I finished filling my plate and joined them at the small bar. After moving some magazines, there was just enough room for the three of us.

“So,” Ben asked between bites, “have ya’ seen this mornin’s paper?”

“I brought it in,” Felicity answered, “but I haven’t even unrolled it yet.”

“You might wanna put it in a scrapbook… or the garbage, depends on how ya’ look at it.” He gestured at me with his fork. “You’re all over the front page.”

“Me?” I stopped a forkful of food halfway to my mouth and put it down. “What am I doing on the front page?”

“Remember the asshole with the camera that jumped out in front of us last night?” Ben was up and refilling his coffee cup. “Anyone need a warmup?”

Felicity held out her cup, and he topped it off.

“Anyway,” he continued, returning to his plate, “he caught ya’ like a deer in headlights.”

By now, I had gone into the living room and returned with the rolled up newspaper. Taking my seat back at the nook, I slid off the string and unfurled it. My wife leaned over next to me in order to view the curiosity. Offset to the upper left of the front page was a large color photo of Ben, and Detective Deckert, and myself as we were walking toward the crime scene last evening. As Ben had said, the look of surprise on my face gave me the appearance of a stunned animal. Forty-eight point type below the masthead spelled out the headline, “Police Witch Hunt.” The lead of the story read, “Saturday evening, Saint Louis Major Case Squad detectives brought Rowan Gant, a self-proclaimed witch, to Thayer Park, the scene of yet another grisly cult-like murder.” The rest of the story went on to recount details of both Ariel’s and Karen Barnes’ murders and speculate about my involvement in the investigation.

“How the hell did they come up with this?” I exclaimed. “How’d they know I wasn’t just some cop?”

“Sidebar, page five,” Ben answered, placing his dishes in the sink. “Hey, you got any of those cake things left over from last night?”

Felicity directed him to the honey cakes as I rapidly flipped through the pages of the newspaper and found the accompanying article to which he had referred. Another photo of me, this time black and white, was staring back. This particular photo had been taken when I had addressed a group at a local Wiccan gathering two years ago. The article was a slightly reworked copy of the original interview I had given that reporter.

“Somebody at the paper had a good memory,” Felicity intoned, peering over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ben added, “I’ve already caught ten kinds of hell from the chief because of it.”

“I’m sorry, Ben,” I told him, folding the paper and tossing it disgustedly on the nearby counter. “I guess you won’t be needing me at the meeting today then.”

“Shit yes, I need you at the meetin’,” he answered and sucked down a honey cake in one bite. “I said I caught ten kinds of hell. I didn’t say he won.”

“I should have known,” I said as I gathered the rest of the dishes and started washing them.

Felicity rolled her eyes at Ben as he devoured the remaining cakes, then she grabbed a towel and began drying the freshly washed plates.

The dining room table had seemed to become our command center over the past few days, and once again, we gathered around it to look over the slides and discuss the upcoming meeting with the rest of the Major Case Squad.

“Did the coroner come up with anything last night?” I asked Ben as he looked at slides with a small illuminated viewer.

“Partial thumbprint,” he answered, “but it was pretty smudged, so we only got three points. AFIS didn’t show any hits.”

“AFIS?” Felicity asked.

“Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Ya’ see,” he retrieved a ballpoint pen from his breast pocket and made marks on his thumb, then showed it to us, “a fingerprint is made up of what they call points. These points come together to make the unique pattern of the print. You or I can have some of the same points on our prints, but when you add them all up, voila, unique as a snowflake. AFIS is an on-line database that allows us to break down the points that we obtain from a print and convert them into a number. You feed the number in, and the computer checks the database for matches or hits against anyone who has ever been arrested and printed by an AFIS participatin’ department. The quote quote magic number of points to make a positive ID is eight. With three, we have the possibility of at least narrowin’ down the field.”

“So,” she continued, “since you didn’t get any hits, that means he probably has never been arrested, right?”

“At least not by a department hooked up with AFIS.” Ben put away his pen and rubbed the ink from his thumb. “Other than the print, the M.E. came up with the fact that the size and shape of the wounds are consistent with those from Ariel Tanner. And also, there was some metallic residue left behind on her ribs.”

I replayed last evening’s vision in my head, watching carefully. I forced myself to remain detached and clinical. I didn’t want to lose my compassion, but I also wanted to keep my breakfast where it belonged.

“From the dirk,” I volunteered, “when he cut her open.”

“The M.E. said somethin’ like that,” Ben confirmed.

“Was there anything else?”

“Minor blunt trauma to the head and upper back. Looks like she put up a fight.” He read to us from his notes, “And a puncture wound on her arm, just like Ariel Tanner.”

“So what I saw was right,” I told him. “He’s drugging his victims in order to immobilize them. Do you know what he’s using yet?”

“M.E.’s still trying to identify it, but the sample from Ariel Tanner came up negative for insulin,” he answered. “You bring up an interestin’ point, though.”