M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“GET OUT OF HERE NOW!” Agent Mandalay’s shrill demand sliced through the cacophonous thudding to reach my ears as she continued to wave her free arm furiously.

Obviously, there was no way the pilot could have heard her command, but it was at this moment, he apparently elected to obey her pointed gesticulations. Either that, or someone elsewhere had told him it was time to go.

The brilliant spotlight suddenly switched off, and the pitch of the hovering craft’s engine rose with a rapidly increasing whine. Still seeing multi-colored spots before my eyes, I watched as the helicopter smoothly nosed forward then canted to the side and sped off and upward across the thickly clouded night sky.

I slowly began relaxing my grip on the sheet as I watched the winking, red and blue anti-collision lights of the craft shrink in the distance. My friend was staring after it as well, his face grim and temper seething. His heated glare was a textbook example of looks that could kill, and I was more than relieved that it wasn’t aimed in my direction.

“DAMMIT!” Ben exclaimed and hammered the heel of his fist against the top of the iron railing in a frustrated release of anger. “I just don’t believe that bitch!”

Constance was standing next to me on the other side, and I noticed that she had traded her badge for her cell phone. She held the device pressed tightly against her ear as she pushed her ruined hairdo from her eyes with her free hand.

“Yes, FAA?” she began speaking, “This is Special Agent Constance Mandalay with the FBI, Saint Louis field office. My badge number is nine-five-seven-four-dash-three-six-six. I need to speak with someone regarding an airspace violation…”

“I shouldn’t even hazard a guess at a time of death before I get an internal temperature,” Doctor Sanders informed Ben and Constance. “Not with her being exposed to the elements unprotected like that.”

“I can understand that, Doc,” Ben returned, “but if you can ballpark it, I’d really appreciate it.”

“Well,” she replied, “I can tell you this much. The wounds on her back and abdomen appear recent, and the bruising would indicate that she was alive when they were made. She’s definitely not completely frozen yet…”

I was standing across the room next to the gurney containing the woman’s body. I followed along distractedly with the banter between the coroner and the two law enforcement officers. Hearing, but not really listening to what was being said.

The sliding doors leading out to the balcony were now shut, and the temperature in the room was returning to something more bearable. While Doctor Sanders and her assistant were moving the corpse, I had mechanically removed my coat and unrolled my sleeve then slipped back into my tweed jacket.

Ben had turned up the volume slightly on the television when the Saturday night movie had been interrupted for a breaking news update. Brandee Street, her cameraman, and the pilot had been arrested all right-but not before getting the morbid video into the station’s hands. Even through the overblown colors of the malfunctioning set, you could easily make out Ben, Constance and me on the balcony of the apartment. We had fought a desperate fight, but in the end the sheet had fluttered enough to give at least a partial view of the woman’s nude remains.

We all stared silently at the picture as the talking heads behind the anchor desk identified us each in succession. It was all we could do to stifle disgusted sighs as they proceeded to tag us with a sensationalized nickname. A moniker that would unfortunately not only stick for some time to come but was also picked up immediately by every other station and newspaper in the bi-state area. We had been christened “The Ghoul Squad.”

The welts on my arm had continued growing, and my flesh was dappled with the full spectrum of colors normally associated with bruises-and a few unrelated shades as well. The itching was growing fiercer by the moment, and each time I tried to tend it, I would wince at the soreness my fingers awakened. I knew it was only a matter of time before the welts would turn into bleeding lacerations. Whoever was trying to get my attention definitely had it. Apparently, I just didn’t comprehend the message.

I stood, looking down at the shrouded body. The earlier emotions that had welled up inside me fought to return and I let them. I had never known this woman, but the sense of loss overwhelmed me as I stared mutely at her covered remains. My nose tingled with an acidic burn for a brief moment, and a single watery tear crawled from the corner of my eye to begin rolling across my wind-ravaged cheek.

“…at my office.” Agent Mandalay was speaking now. “If there’s anything you need, I can get it rushed through the lab in Washington.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Doctor Sanders replied. “I’ll be certain to call you if…”

I ignored the snippet of the conversation that had intruded on my sorrowful introspection. While they continued to talk, I knelt next to the gurney and then carefully pulled back the sheet and tugged down the zipper on the body bag. Absently I reached over to claw at my savagely itching arm, and the stiletto of pain that shot up to my shoulder reminded me of why I hadn’t done it sooner. I flinched and pulled my hand away then continued to quietly stare at the young woman’s lifeless face.

Sheryl Keeven’s strawberry-blonde hair was tousled about her head in a tangled halo, whipped there by the wind and elements. The thin poly-cotton cord was still snugged about her neck, visible against the blotchy contusions that surrounded it. I visually counted the loops in the slipknot. Then I counted them again. Both times the total ended in thirteen.

A hangman’s noose.

Her features were a grotesque mask of fear and pain, sculpted in life and frozen in death. Her eyes were locked open in an endless stare, showing the glassy, bloodshot whites where they had rolled upward. Gummy tape residue still surrounded her mouth. The wide swatch of silver duct tape that had once been there had eventually come loose but was still precariously attached by one small corner. The same kind of tape had been used to make several revolutions around her wrists. Her now exposed lips were parted to reveal the bulbous purple mass of her swollen tongue as it forced its way between them.

She had asphyxiated.

She had strangled to death while suspended by the neck with her arms bound behind her back. Hanging was simply another of the favored methods of execution used during the Inquisition. Its effectiveness had not waned over the years.

I closed my eyes, and the scene flashed haphazardly through my mind. I could see her struggling.

Fighting.

Kicking.

Wrestling to free her hands so that she could claw at the constriction around her neck, until finally, the lack of oxygen to her brain won out, and she slipped into darkness.

“I realize it’s the weekend but the sooner you can get the labs started the better,” Ben was saying in the background. “We’re still followin’ up the lead on the Roofies.”

“I can have samples ready to go to the lab first thing Monday morning,” the coroner replied. “But other than that I…”

Once again, I forced the distant conversation out of the forefront and focused entirely on the corpse in front of me. I knew how Sheryl Keeven died. I even knew the twisted reasoning behind why. What I now desperately wanted to know was who had killed her… And Kendra Miller… And Brianna Walker…

But what I wanted most desperately of all was for him to stop.

Without even thinking I reached out my latex gloved hand and laid my palm across her cold forehead. The connection that formed was as immediate and piercing as if I had just wrapped my hand about a frayed electrical cord. The jolt that followed exploded through my consciousness with blatant disregard for the here and now, ferociously replacing present with recent past.