M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“I have no control over assignments to the Major Case Squad,” he explained in a calm, slightly patronizing tone.

“Let me rephrase the question.” Brandee was quickly becoming annoyed, and it was easily apparent in the crisp tenor of her voice. “Sources close to both the city and county police departments indicate that you specifically asked that Detective Storm be assigned to the Major Case Squad. These same sources have also indicated that you requested Mister Gant be brought in to consult as well. Would you like to comment now?”

“No, Miss Street, I would not.”

“Mister Gant…” In a flash she abandoned the unresponsive cops and concentrated directly on me. “Given your involvement last summer with the Satanic Serial Killer investigation, your presence here would seem to indicate some type of occult element in this murder. Is that true?”

“I’m sorry. No comment,” I told her apologetically.

“We have it on good authority that you were rushed to the hospital earlier for a wound on your arm. Can you tell us more about that?”

Before I could get another “Sorry, no comment” out of my mouth, Ben interposed his large frame between the relentless reporter and me.

“Listen Brandee, if I’ve told ya’ once I’ve told ya’ a thousand times, ya’ want a statement, ya’ talk ta’ the public relations officer.”

“The people of Saint Louis have a right to know what’s going on, Storm!” she barked back, glaring up at him and holding her ground.

“Don’t give me that old freedom of the press speech, I’ve heard it before,” he answered. “You know full well we’re not in a position to tell ya’ anything. Call Public Relations in the mornin’ and I’m sure they’ll have a statement prepared.”

“I’m after the real story here, Storm. Not that P.R. department crap!” She then added, bitterly stressing each word, “I… Am… Trying… To… Do… My… Job.”

“So are we, Brandee, and like I said before, this crime scene still hasn’t been cleared, so technically speaking, you’re trespassin’. I’m only gonna tell ya’ ta’ leave one more time, then I’m gonna arrest ya’.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she spat angrily.

“Try me.”

She didn’t.

“I guess I don’t have to tell you that Street wasn’t too far out in left field. The Major Case Squad is running the show now.” Ben told me as he carefully propelled the van down dark streets through a thickening veil of white. “Carl and I are both assigned to it. Big surprise.”

During my brief absence, the crime scene unit had finished gathering and cataloging anything remotely resembling evidence. The weather had not been a friend to them, and the aforementioned items had been few. Of course, little had been found at the scene of Brianna Walker’s death as well. Inwardly I pondered the fact that no Bible, or even Bible verse, had been found at this latest homicide. I had fully expected one and even hoped that it might help to determine a pattern. Perhaps a clue as to the way the victims were chosen, some tangible connection between them other than their religion, or his perception of such.

Very simply, I was looking for anything.

The idea that the verse may have been nothing more than an afterthought at the first scene crossed my mind. It was something I didn’t believe but at the same time couldn’t dismiss, so it remained cocooned in my brain as a minor bother until such time as it could emerge as a full-fledged aggravation.

With the mobilization of the MCS, Ben had pulled some strings in order to get the body of the latest victim transferred to the city morgue where Doctor Sanders could be in charge of the postmortem. The county coroner had put up a minor fuss, citing jurisdiction and various boundaries, but whomever Ben had in his corner had made short work of the red tape and the unprecedented occurred. With all the I’s dotted and T’s crossed, the case was transferred to the city without delay. By the time I had returned from my visit to the ER, the remnants of the woman’s charred corpse had been carefully removed and were already en-route downtown. It was there to which we were now endeavoring to return.

The crisp halogen beams of the headlights seemed, from one moment to the next, to be more hindrance than help in the near blizzard conditions. Cacophonous rumblings overhead were randomly punctuated with still louder aerial booms, each one seeming to add another measure to the deluge of fluffy white flakes. For the first time in many years, Saint Louis was experiencing the meteorological phenomenon aptly called “thunder snow.”

“Plan is,” Ben continued, throwing a quick glance at me, “ta’ go with your theory that this asshole is creatin’ his own Inquisition, or whatever, and assume he’s not gonna stop at two.”

“He won’t,” I asserted.

Ben slowed the vehicle and ignoring the barely visible signal, cautiously hooked a sweeping right turn through an empty intersection. The road conditions were deteriorating with each passing minute, and he didn’t dare come to a complete stop for fear of becoming stuck. He gave me an animated nod and spared only a quick glance in my direction as he spoke.

“I believe ya’, and apparently so do a few people in important places. Not that anyone is happy ‘bout the theory, mind you. At any rate, word came down from on high while you were gettin’ patched up. The chief wants ya’ involved… Every step of the way.”

“I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be involved in,” I said. “But it’s nice not to be considered a crackpot for a change.”

“I’ll be honest with ya’, Row. I told ‘im I’d ask ya’, but I also let ‘im know I wasn’t all that keen on it and…”

“I thought we had this conversation this morning, Ben.” I cut him off with an exasperated sigh and prepared to refute another episode of his self-imposed guilt.

“Yeah, well that was before ya’ ended up bein’ some kinda mystical carvin’ board,” he shot back. “But lemme finish, will ya’… Like I said, I told ‘im I wasn’t keen on the whole idea and that I ‘specially didn’t like bein’ put in the position of askin’ you just because we’re friends…” Before I could voice another objection, he drew in a deep breath and continued. “Then, I told ‘im that knowin’ you like I do and considerin’ what you’ve seen so far today, I figured we’d be hard pressed to keep ya’ out of it without lockin’ ya’ up.”

After a short pause, he added, “The decision is still yours to make, though. Ya’ don’t have to do this.”

“Well, since I’m the one that wanted to head down to the morgue in this mess, I guess you already know what that decision is,” I said. “So that’s a moot point. If it would make you feel any better though, tell him that next time he can ask me himself.”

“I already did.”

“I guess I should have known you would.”

Ben tacked the lumbering van down the snow-packed avenue and fell in behind a city maintenance dump truck. In the hard swaths of the headlights, we could make out the attached salt-spreader spewing bluish granules of chemical deterrent in tired, jerky bursts. If the temperature fell to the lows predicted for later this night, the corrosive sno-melt would be well beyond its threshold of usefulness, and Mother Nature would be winning this skirmish. Considering the current conditions, my money was on her.

Visibility had dropped to zero, and we tracked the plow by the evenly spaced flares of yellow brilliance emitting from the pulsing warning lights. A twenty-minute long half mile later, Ben suddenly cranked the steering wheel hard to the left, and the rear end of the van fishtailed in an oblique arc.