M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Morning, Chief,” I greeted him as he pulled on the screen door. “Business or social?”

“A little of both, Kemosabe,” he admitted as he stepped in, waving a large manila envelope at me. “Got the labs back on the Miller woman.”

No new bodies. That was good news. I breathed an inner sigh of relief and felt the knot in my stomach wind tighter by one more turn. The tense waiting game would continue, for now anyway.

“Coffee?” I offered while he shrugged off his coat.

“Absolutely.” He nodded and sniffed animatedly in the direction of the kitchen. “That wouldn’t be one of Firehair’s world famous breakfasts I’m smellin’, would it?”

“You know it.” I chuckled at yet another of his nicknames for my flame-maned wife while I took his coat and hung it in the closet. “You hungry?”

“Starvin’.”

“You don’t look terribly starving to me,” Felicity chided as she rounded the corner from the dining room.

“Yeah, okay, so I’m not really starvin’,” he returned with a grin and leaned in to kiss her atop her forehead. “But I’m not about to turn down a meal in this house.”

“Well then you’d better come in here and grab a plate,” she told him with a pleased smile. “I’m not going to play waitress for you… and by the way, for showing up when you did, you win today’s door prize.”

“Seconds and thirds?”

“Aye, even better. You get to help wash the dishes.”

“Looks like he doped ‘er up with Roofies,” Ben told me as he finished drying the last pan Felicity handed him and then hooked it on the pot rack suspended over the stove. Where my wife and I had to stretch to accomplish the same task, he had to duck to avoid getting beaned by a saucepan.

He took the next item and began distantly working on it with the dishcloth. I had to stifle a laugh at the sight of him being so blatantly domestic. It’s not every day you see a six-foot-six Native American drying dishes and being ordered around by a petite, redheaded Irish woman. Especially when that “Indian” had a badge on his belt and was packing a nine-millimeter Beretta in a shoulder holster.

“That might explain why she was so foggy when I channeled her.” I had propped myself at the breakfast nook and was looking over the contents of the manila envelope he had brought.

“They also identified the residue in ‘er mouth,” he continued. “You were right on the money. Nylon. Consistent with a pair of pantyhose. The rest of it just shows elevated carbon monoxide levels in ‘er blood which gives even more proof that she was alive when he torched ‘er.”

“No offense, guys,” Felicity interjected, “but what good is all that? All it does is confirm what Rowan already told you.”

She had a point. And unless I was missing something, all of this information seemed moot.

“You’re right, ‘cept for the Roofies,” he returned.

“So he drugged her with Rohypnol,” I remarked. “Did he use it on Brianna Walker too?”

“No, but that’s not the point.” Ben continued talking while he finished folding the dishcloth. Then he topped off Felicity’s coffee and poured himself a fresh cup. “Roofies aren’t available in the U.S. by any quote quote legal means.” He made two-fingered quotation marks in the air with his free hand as he repeated the word twice-yet another Ben Storm original mannerism. “So the only place you’re gonna get ‘em is on the streets. Also, they aren’t good for anything except makin’ ya’ damn near a zombie. That’s the reason they call it the ‘date rape drug.’”

Lights went on behind Felicity’s eyes as the realization reached her a full step ahead of me. “College campuses.”

Ben looked at her and touched the tip of his index finger to the end of his nose. “Unfortunately, that’s exactly where they tend ta’ show up. We’ve got Narcotics on it right now.”

“But we still have no idea what this guy looks like or even how old he might be,” I volunteered. “What good is it going to do to shake down a handful of drug dealers?”

“You got a better idea?” He shrugged and shook his head. “At least this is a place ta’ start. It might narrow the field down some. Besides, didn’t you say ya’ thought ya’ might be able ta’ recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“Well, you’re right,” I admitted. “I might be able to recognize the voice… at any rate, it can’t hurt.”

“What about working up a profile or something? Can’t Constance help you with that?” Felicity offered, referring to our mutual friend with the FBI.

It had been hate at first sight between Special Agent Constance Mandalay and Detective Benjamin Storm when we all first met last summer. She was a strong-willed woman in a male-dominated profession, and he was the lead detective with the Major Case Squad. To her rigid set of views, I was nothing more than a carnival charlatan, and she made her opinion well known. More than a few sparks were brought forth from that point of contention.

Less than forty-eight hours later, she was violently subjected first hand to the horrific realities of true evil and misused Magicks. I just happened to be the one who saved her life. We had all been friends ever since.

“Already called the field office,” Ben answered. “She’s on some kinda security assignment at the moment, so I ended up talkin’ ta’ some SAIC named Bartlett.” He shook his head in disgust. “This guy’s a real winner. Reminded me of why I can’t stand Feebs.”

“Do you think he’s going to be able to help?” she pressed.

“He said he’d see what he could do, but I’m not holdin’ my breath.”

“Did he at least say when Constance would be back?” I asked.

“Accordin’ ta’ him she’s s’posed to be back in the office Monday. That’s only two more days countin’ today. So, if our luck holds out, and this prick doesn’t off anyone for a little while longer…”

“That’s a pretty big ‘if,’ Ben.” I shook my head. “The weather has settled down, and something tells me we haven’t got that long.”

“Yeah, well, I hope like hell you’re wrong this time.”

We all sat in the gathering silence for a moment, sipping our coffee and pondering the weight of what we faced. Ben reached up to begin working on a muscle in the back of his neck, and Felicity chewed at her lower lip. Working against the clock was definitely not new to any of us.

Dickens, our solid black cat, eventually sauntered into the mute room, tail at attention, and leapt lithely onto the table. Taking a seat and closing his large eyes, he let out a regal you-may-pet-me-now mew.

“What about the particulars on Kendra Miller,” I finally asked. “Obviously the dental records matched up. Were you able to find out anything more about her?”

Ben broke out of his stupor and rummaged around in his pocket. After a moment he withdrew his ever-present notebook and began flipping through the pages. “Yeah, yeah… The records matched up perfect. Yeah, here it is. Kendra Darlene Miller was ‘er name all right. Twenty-four, single. Worked as a secretary over at the gas company.”

“Not a hooker then?” I interjected.

“Not a hooker, no,” he echoed, “but accordin’ to ‘er co-workers, she was a definite party-girl.”

“No law against that,” Felicity said in an almost defensive tone.

“Maybe not,” he said, “but they said she played it fast and loose on the singles scene. Also, rumor has it she buttered both sides of the bread if ya’ know what I mean.” He paused momentarily as he scanned his notes. “She was real open ‘bout her religion too… Yeah, here it is, she was a member of a Dianic Coven. That mean somethin’ to you two?”