M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“I don’t know, Ben.” I said. “If you’re looking for an accurate and expert psychological assessment, then I’m not the one you need to be speaking to. You know that. I can help you with the historical aspects, and if I visualize something up here…” I tapped my forehead with my index finger. “But other than that…”

“You think I need ta’ call the Feebs, don’tcha?”

“If you want a profile of him.” I confirmed his comment with a nod then added, “Look, I know you have a problem with the FBI getting involved, but you’ve got a pretty good working relationship with Constance Mandalay in the local field office. She’s pretty open-minded and you know it.”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “She’s workable. I just don’t wanna get stuck with another one of those know-it-alls with an Ivy League sheepskin an’ a big fat zero in the experience department. I don’t need that kinda aggravation when somethin’ like this is goin’ on.”

“So request her specifically.”

“I s’pose I could get ‘er involved unofficially and see where it goes. If the Feebs end up knee deep in it then…”

Ben’s vocal musing was bitten off cleanly by the shrill cry of his pager as it demanded immediate attention. He thumbed the button to silence the device and peered at the liquid crystal display with a thin-lipped frown.

“Office,” he proclaimed as he proceeded to slip the beeper back on to his belt, only to have it begin blaring loudly once more. Extracting the screaming palm full of electronic components, he glanced at its face with sharp disgust before returning it to his side once again. “Jeezus… Fuckin’…It’s the goddamned office again.”

Ben reached around the back of his chair and into the folds of his coat. After a moment of wrestling with the flap on the pocket, he withdrew a hand-held cell phone and pressed the power switch. The compact apparatus looked like a child’s toy in his massive hand. The moment the ready tone announced the phone’s status, he stabbed out the department number from memory and then held it to his ear.

“Yeah, it’s Storm,” he said after a short wait. “I was paged.”

He paused for another moment, apparently holding to be transferred to the individual who had done the paging. I decided I was finished with my lunch and pushed the plate of gelatinized gravy and cold vegetables to the side then began molesting my itchy forearm in a distracted fashion.

“Yeah. I’m at lunch. What’s up?” Ben finally spoke into the cell phone once again.

I watched him as he listened to the voice at the other end. Slowly, his face took on an expression of deep concentration, and his free hand went to the back of his neck and began automatically massaging.

“Yeah… Yeah… Uh-huh,” he grunted. “Hold on a sec…”

He switched the phone to his other ear and fumbled for his notebook. The struggle ended quickly, and he flipped the pad open on the surface of the table then snapped the button on his ink pen. Resting one elbow on the notepad to hold it in place, he looked like a contorted giant trying to use miniature replicas of everyday items.

“Okay, go ahead… Yeah… Uh-huh… Yeah, I know ‘im…” He scribbled furiously, stopping only briefly as breaks in the information coming to him warranted. “Sure. We worked together a few months back.”

Ben scrawled a line on the paper and accented it with a double underline then motioned for me to have a look. The blue ink scribble read “Carl Deckert.”

Detective Carl Deckert worked for the county police department. We had met during the last case I worked when he had been assigned to the Major Case Squad, Saint Louis’ version of a violent crime task force. The MCS was formed as a collective of municipal police departments, all supplying manpower whenever a particularly heinous or high profile case came along. That case would then receive the highest priority and the undivided attention of the officers assigned. The intention was for the squad to be a trump card, activated only when absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, these days, they seemed to spend more time active than not.

“Yeah… What’s the name of the place again? Uh-huh… Uh-huh… Got it.” Ben flipped to a fresh page and returned to scribbling. “Yeah, I took ‘im down ta’ the morgue a little while ago.” He pointed at me, verifying for me that I was the him to whom he was referring. “He identified the symbol and he’s got a theory. It ain’t a good one, but I’m guessin’ you already figured that out. Yeah, he’s with me right now… I dunno, hold on…”

He cupped his free hand over the mouthpiece and turned his attention completely on me.

“Jonsey says the chief wants ta’ know if you’re free ta’ go check out another crime scene.”

“When?” I asked.

“Now.”

I mulled it over for a moment. I had at least two clients waiting for updates on their software, and I had to customize it specifically for them. Fortunately, owning my own consulting firm and working from home allowed flexibility in my schedule. It didn’t take me long to decide that I could spend a few hours working in the evening to catch up.

“Sure. No problem.”

“He’s okay with it,” Ben said as he resumed speaking into the phone. “Yeah… No problem. We’re on our way.”

He remained silent after switching off the device and stowing it in his coat, then he gathered up the notebook. His grim countenance was almost enough to verify what I already suspected.

“He killed someone else, didn’t he?” I asked, following Ben’s example and shrugging into my coat.

“That’s gonna be your call,” he responded. “But yeah, looks like it. Meadowbrook Park out in the county. Carl Deckert’s waitin’ for us.”

“How was the victim killed?” I pressed.

“Not sure ‘bout that, but the body was burned,” he answered. “The vic was found tied to a piece of a telephone pole in one a’ the pavilion fire pits where it’d been torched.”

The itching sensation on my forearm had now mutated into a knife-edged pain.

Ask any number of people on the street, and they will tell you that they abhor violence and crime. Then ask those people how they feel about rubbernecking sightseers who slow down to gawk at automobile accidents, and they will tell you that they despise them. They will tell you that such individuals are sick and twisted. They will tell you that such individuals are morbid and in need of psychiatric help.

Now, using the very same people you’ve been questioning, throw in yellow crime scene tape, flashing lights, police cars and a dead body. Mix well.

Suddenly the morbid becomes the curiosity and they, along with scores like them, will flock to the perimeter in order to catch the tiniest glimpse of what the commotion is all about. Meadowbrook Park was filled with those people today.

Normally, the paved road through the park would remain untouched during the winter; there was no reason to waste taxpayers’ money plowing a street that wouldn’t be traveled. Of course, when a murder scene planted itself in the middle of the snow-covered venue, the concept of normal became quickly obsolete.

Street crews had cut a double-wide swath from the park entrance to a point thirty or so yards past the easiest access point to the main pavilion, effectively clearing a small avenue to allow ingress and egress for the multitude of emergency vehicles present. Mounds of the wet winter precipitation were piled unceremoniously in the center of the road exactly where the plows had left them, and there they would stay until removed slowly by the process of thaw.

Ben plugged in his magnetic bubble light and positioned it on the dash before nosing the Chevy through the crowd of onlookers. He flashed his badge to the uniformed patrolman blocking the entry and was told that we were expected. Once we were waved through, he pressed the van forward up the salted drive and carefully edged it in next to a row of county police cruisers then levered the gear shift into park and switched off the engine.