M Sellars: Harm none

“I’ll give ya’ that,” he replied. “But what do you think you’re gonna find at the scene that wasn’t in the photos?”

“Hopefully something that will tell me if this guy is for real or just trying to make it look that way.”

“And that somethin’ would be?”

“I won’t know until I see it…or feel it,” I explained. “What I’m looking for might not be visible to the naked eye.”

“You mean like some kinda psychic thing? You know I don’t believe in that stuff.”

“I know, but I do, and if it gives you a solid lead, what does it matter?”

“Okay, tell me this.” He skipped past answering my question and proceeded into another of his own. “You ain’t lookin’ for revenge or somethin’ are you?”

“No. Not at all,” I answered with unabashed honesty. “There’s no need. What goes around comes around. He’ll get what’s coming to him whether I help you or not…Eventually.”

“Yeah, well that’s a pretty idealistic sentiment.”

“It comes with the religion.”

Ben grunted and stared thoughtfully into the depths of the mug held between his large hands. After a short period of suggestive silence, he looked up at me with deadly serious eyes. “Mind if I ask where ya’ were Wednesday evenin’?”

I was taken aback by the question and what it implied. At first I was hurt and then angry. It took less than a second for the anger to be replaced by understanding. I knew the victim, and I knew The Craft. The symbols and words in the pictures were no great mysteries to me. I was sure that Ben didn’t truly suspect me of the crime, but if he was going to bring me into this investigation, someone was bound to ask the question. He was correct to assume that I would prefer it came from him.

“Felicity and I had dinner with my dad,” I answered. “We went over to his place around four-thirty and left from there.”

“Where’d you eat?”

“Union Station,” I told him. “There’s a restaurant down there with a fantastic mixed grill. Before you ask,” I added, “we got home around nine-thirty.”

“Your old man can verify this, right?”

“The phone’s right there.” I pointed at the bookshelves. “His number is on the speed dial. I’m sure the receipt is upstairs if you want a copy of that too.”

“I’m sorry, man.” He looked back down at his drink. “You know I had ta’ ask…”

“…Or somebody else would,” I finished the sentence for him. “It’s all right. I was a little miffed at first, but I understand.”

“Okay,” he answered, then drained the coffee from his cup and set it on the table before him. “Let’s go do this.”

Ariel Tanner had lived on the first floor of a four-family flat on a street called Shenandoah within the city limits of Saint Louis. From my house in the suburbs, it took the better part of thirty minutes to reach it even though the Saturday morning traffic was light. The morning sun was already climbing in the sky when we rolled into the alleyway behind the flat and Ben pulled the Chevy into something resembling a parking space.

“This is it,” he told me, switching off the knocking engine and pushing open his complaining door.

I climbed out as well, and we stood in the small patch of grass that served as a backyard, quietly studying the rear entrance of the building. A short flight of wooden stairs led up to a whitewashed exterior door. The porch light, fitted with a dim yellow bulb, still burned in the crisp shadows caused by a small overhang jutting from the brick wall to cover the landing.

“The apartment next to hers,” Ben told me, “and the one directly above are currently unoccupied.” He pointed to each of the windows. “The other upstairs apartment belongs to a forty-year-old woman who’s stone deaf. Besides, she wasn’t even home.”

A ghostly flash of noise battered my eardrums for a moment. The briefness and ethereal quality of the mechanical rumble told me it was only in my head, but I knew immediately what it meant.

“And the air conditioner was running,” I stated. “No one could hear her over the noise if she screamed.”

“Yeah,” Ben paused and looked at me sideways. “The other neighbors didn’t hear a thing.” We started walking toward the stairs. “Anyway, the outer doors automatically lock, and there were no visible signs of forced entry, so we assume she either knew the killer and let ‘im in, or he had a key or somethin’ of that sort.”

“Locksmith, maybe,” I offered as we climbed the stairs and came to rest on the landing.

“We’re checking into that,” Ben replied. “The upstairs neighbor was the one that found ‘er when she was comin’ in later that evenin’. Her door was propped open, and the neighbor thought it was a little strange.”

“Deliberately propped open?”

“Looked that way.”

“Odd…” I mused aloud. “That would seem to indicate that whoever did this wanted the body found quickly.”

Taking out a key that had been provided to the police by the landlord, he opened the exterior door, and we stepped into what could be referred to as a small, shared mud room. To either side, there was a door, each with a large, sectioned pane of glass. Peering through the left window, one could see that the apartment was empty. Through the right, the small kitchen appeared lived in. Shiny copper pots and pans hung from a ceiling rack in the center of the room, and there was a can of vegetarian chili sitting on the counter in front of a small microwave-a last meal that was never eaten. Ben took a small lock blade from his pocket, opened it and cut the Police Crime Scene seal on the door. Stowing the knife and using another key, he unlocked the door.

“Uhhh, Ben.” I reached out and grabbed his arm as he started to push the door open. “I’d better warn you about something.”

“Warn me ‘bout what?” He turned to face me.

“This…” I started. “This might get a little weird, for lack of a better word.”

“Are you talkin’ about that hocus-pocus shit again?” he asked, still holding the doorknob.

“One,” I shot back. “Yes, if that’s what you want to call it. Two, it’s not shit.”

“Okay, okay,” he answered, knowing that he’d raised my ire. “Sorry. But I already told ya’ I don’t really believe in all that stuff.” He slipped his hand up to smooth his hair and let out a resigned sigh. “Okay, look, I’ll give it a try your way, but don’t expect too much from me. I operate in a world where physical evidence is what makes the case.”

“Fair enough. For the sake of argument though, you might want to take notes. Also, if I zone out on you, don’t touch me. That would break my concentration.”

“Okay,” he answered and pushed the door open. “Whatever you say.”

I knew he was still unconvinced, but I also knew I could trust him to do as I asked. In any event, as soon as the door swung open, there was no turning back.

The first thing I felt was the hair on the back of my neck as it stood on end then was rapidly followed by every other hair on my body mimicking the action. My skin began to burn as if I were baking under a sun lamp. Proceeding forward, I stepped through the entrance, followed closely by Ben. I scarcely heard the faint click of the door as he pressed it shut.

“Be careful of that crap they used to dust for prints, it’ll stain…”

I held up a hand to cut him off and walked quietly through the kitchen, working my way to the counter. I began to consciously control my breathing, slowly and deeply in through my nose and out through my mouth. I relaxed and imagined a spire of light, white and pure, running from the soles of my feet to the center of the Earth. In a matter of moments, I was “grounded,” and I cleared my mind, allowing it to become a blank, unblemished slate. I slipped easily into a shallow trance, and when I felt relaxed, centered, and in control, I reached out to touch the unopened can of chili on the counter. When my hand made contact, I invited the last few moments of Ariel Tanner’s life to play themselves out upon the empty screen I had created.