M Sellars - Harm none

“He got a bit rowdy with the officer that stopped him, so they decided to set an example,” Ben explained. “City of Andrew Heights is gonna hold ‘im over for arraignment on the DUI and a resisting charge. I just got the muni to let me have custody for a while.”

“Okay,” I told him. “Better let me grab a shower and all that. I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“We’re not goin’ anywhere.”

As I was hanging up the phone, Salinger jumped up to the corner of our entertainment center and seated himself. He looked up at me with his bewhiskered face and large eyes forming a caricature of a wizened prophet then let out a doleful meow.

“You don’t really think R.J.’s guilty, do you?” I asked him rhetorically as I scratched him behind the ears.

He replied only by closing his eyes and purring loudly.

“Aye, Rowan, was that Ben on the phone?” Felicity asked as she trudged slowly into the room with soda crackers in one hand and a cup of what smelled like ginger tea in the other.

“Yeah, that was him,” I told her. “He’s at the MCS headquarters. They’ve got R.J. down there, and he’s asking for me.”

“Did they arrest him?” she asked with a start.

“Yes and no.” I explained, “He was arrested on a Driving-Under-the-Influence charge early this morning. Ben went looking for him again using his license plate number this time, and that’s how he found him. He borrowed him from the municipality that arrested him, so he could ask him a few questions.”

“Why is he asking for you instead of an attorney, then?”

“Who knows?” I shrugged. “Probably because I’m a Witch-at least that’s Ben’s theory. Apparently, he got pretty antsy when they told him they wanted to ask him about Ariel and Karen.”

“Aye, wouldn’t you?” Felicity asked.

“I suppose I would.”

“So, how long before we have to be there? I don’t know if I’m over this nausea yet.”

“You don’t need to go,” I told her. “You can stay here and rest for a while, and I can fill you in later.”

“Are you sure?” she queried. “I don’t have a photo shoot scheduled until this afternoon, so I’ve got the morning free.”

“I’m sure,” I replied. “You need to get some rest. The accent is still a little heavy.”

“Oh, stop it, then.”

“Seriously though, honey. I can call you if anything happens.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay then.”

I left her lounging on the sofa in our living room, surrounded by three cats displaying curious concern as only they can do.

I parked my truck behind City Hall and checked in at the desk. I was apparently becoming a familiar face, or I was anticipated, as the Sergeant had a visitor’s badge in hand as soon as he saw me. After checking in, I continued down the corridor and was met at the door by Ben and Detective Deckert.

“How’s Firehair?” Ben inquired, calling Felicity by one of his many nicknames for her.

“She was starting to perk up,” I told him as we continued farther into the bowels of the building. “I expect she’ll be fine.”

“Good, good,” his voice trailed off as we descended a flight of stairs, and he fell silent.

Detective Deckert’s face wore a somber expression, and his only greeting to me when I arrived had been a stiff nod. He was still silent as we rounded a landing and continued downward. It didn’t take the heightened senses of a Witch to feel the tension coming from the two. Tension directed toward me.

“So look, Rowan…” Ben finally broke the silence as we stopped in front of a heavy steel door. “I got somethin’ I need ta’ tell ya’, and I don’t think you’re gonna like it much.”

“I had a feeling,” I acknowledged. “It’s something about R.J. isn’t it?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Deckert intoned.

Ben let out a heavy breath and smoothed his hair back. His brow was creased with apprehension as he wrestled with what he had to tell me.

“So there’s no way to sugar coat it,” he spoke. “I just got off the phone with the forensics lab a minute or two before you got here…”

“Something about that fingerprint?” I feared I knew what he was about to say.

“Yeah, that print,” he answered. “The muni that popped R.J. this morning entered his prints into AFIS, and the lab boys got an immediate hit.”

“It matched?” I stared at him in disbelief.

“Like an identical twin.”

“Damn,” I whispered. “I thought it was a partial print?”

“It was, but there was enough there to make a positive ID.”

“What about the wax from the other scenes?”

“They were clean, but that doesn’t matter. The one found last night matches. No two ways about it.”

“That’s not all.” Deckert expounded, “The M.E. came up with some long, dark hairs on the body as well as some other fibers.”

“And the lab ran a check on the semen found at the scene last night. Blood type O Positive,” Ben added. “Same as R.J.”

“If I remember correctly, O Positive is fairly common,” I protested. “Somewhere near forty percent of the population shares that blood type.”

“Yeah, it is,” Ben agreed. “But fingerprints ain’t. The lab’s gonna run a DNA analysis too, but that’ll take awhile.” He paused. “We got enough for a search warrant, Rowan… I’m sorry man, but I think R.J.’s involved.”

“What about his eyes, Ben?” I pleaded, unwilling to believe what I was being told. “What color are his eyes?”

“His eyes are brown,” he responded. “But like I told ya’, that’s inadmissible… Besides, maybe you made a mistake.”

“No,” I expressed, “I didn’t make a mistake.”

We stood in silence for a moment, Ben’s hand on the doorknob. My mind raced, trying to formulate a logical way to refute the evidence Ben had outlined. Even with my own suspicions about R.J., I was reluctant to believe he was the killer. There had to be an explanation, and it needed to be a good one.

“Are you charging him?” I questioned.

“Not yet,” Deckert returned. “We’re gonna see what turns up when we search his place first.”

Ben opened the heavy door, and we entered another corridor in the basement of the building. Fluorescent light fixtures were unevenly spaced along the acoustic drop ceiling, bathing the hallway in a harsh blue-white light. One of the older tubes would occasionally flicker into darkness then burn dull orange at each end before snapping back to life, if only for a moment. The glossy, painted, cinder block walls had aged from the original white to a sickly yellowish tone that was deepened at intervals by the orange glow. The walls felt close when combined with the low drop ceiling, and I fought back a thin wave of claustrophobia.

We continued down a cracked asphalt tile floor and came to a halt before a uniformed officer stationed at a large metal desk. Chips and gouges in the grey painted piece of furniture testified to its age and use. A green desk blotter, a telephone, and a sign-in sheet adorned its sparse surface. I couldn’t help but be somewhat amused by the fact that the pen accompanying the sheet was chained to the desk. A dilapidated drip coffeemaker, stained from years of use, sizzled and popped in the corner behind the duty officer-a careless spill being turned into yet another crusty residue on its heating plate.

Ben and Deckert surrendered their sidearms to the uniformed man, and he locked them away in the desk drawer. With a wordless grunt, he indicated the sign-in sheet, and the three of us added our names to it. With this task completed, the voiceless guard led us farther down the corridor and unlocked the door to the first interview room. We stepped in-Ben, Deckert, and finally me. The weighty door swung shut behind us, and the lock dropped back into place with an audible metallic clunk that echoed from the bare cement walls. A plain wooden table with two chairs, much like one would find in a small kitchen, was positioned near the center of the room. A bedraggled, unshaven R.J. filled one of the chairs. He looked up with a nervous start as we entered. For the second time in less than three days, R.J. was in the custody of the police. His at once depressed and fearful expression showed that he was still no more practiced at it than he had been the first time.