M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Don’t worry,” Ben spat sarcastically. “Your dues to that club are paid in full. I’m sure they’ll have ya’ listed on the membership rolls soon enough.”

“Freakin’ wonderful. Mona’ll love that,” Deckert muttered then paused and clucked his tongue thoughtfully. “So you think maybe this screwball is an exhibitionist or something?”

“Maybe. He hasn’t been hidin’ his work, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I volunteered. “He’s making the murders public executions for a deeper reason. I don’t believe he’s doing it for the thrill. Like I told you originally, he most likely views himself as divine or chosen. He sees himself as the hand of God. That’s why he’s picking these venues. They’re his town square, in a sense. He wants everyone to see the penalty for heresy in order to teach them a lesson.”

“Puttin’ the fear of God into ‘em, so to speak,” Ben grunted.

“Exactly.”

“Still,” Deckert objected, “he can’t keep going around killing out in the open like this and there not eventually be a witness. Even with the cover of darkness, he’s gotta know someone is gonna see him.”

“Obviously he’s willing to take that risk in the name of ridding the world of that which he views as evil,” I stated matter-of-factly.

Deckert repeated a paraphrased version of his earlier comment, “Like I said, the wacko’s got some balls.”

In the near distance, we could hear the voice of a uniformed officer as he announced to the waiting evidence technicians, “Meat wagon’s here.”

The three of us watched mutely as the head of the crime scene unit filled in the bedraggled county coroner. After a brief exchange, he nodded his head, visibly agreeing with the officer in charge. Shortly thereafter a member of the condo complex’s maintenance staff that had been standing by was put to the task of clearing as much snow as he could from around the hole.

“Do ya’ know if the command post was able ta’ get ahold of everyone yet?” Ben shifted the direction of the conversation momentarily while we waited.

“Yeah, they did.” Carl nodded. “All accounted for. Whoever’s down there, she’s not a member of that group.”

“Hmmmmph,” Ben grunted thoughtfully. “That’s odd.”

“What do you mean odd?” I asked.

“Well, this wingnut had established a pattern by goin’ after the women in this particular coven. It’s just a rule of thumb on serial killers-they tend ta’ stick to an established pattern. So why all of a sudden did he decide ta’ pick someone outside of that target group?”

“Do you think he might know that the members of Starr’s coven are being watched?” I offered.

“I s’pose it’s possible. ‘Specially if he was stalkin’ ‘em or somethin’, but there’re eight more women on that list. That’s a lot of stalkin’ for one guy ta’ do in a short period of time. Plus we’ve been tryin’ ta’ keep the protection low profile on the chance we could pop ‘im tryin’ to nab one of ‘em,” he replied, all the while shaking his head. “Now we go back to the drawin’ board. How’d he pick this one? How does she fit in to the pattern?”

“Both of you have said she,” I commented. “What makes you think this victim is female?”

“Well, he’s only killed women so far,” Ben, answered.

“Storm is right.” Agent Mandalay’s voice filtered in from behind our small huddle. “That’s another rule of thumb. Serial killers don’t typically cross gender lines. Normally it’s one or the other but not both. Hello again. Sorry I’m late.”

We had apparently been so engrossed in our conversation that we had not noticed her arrival, and until now she had elected to remain silent. She was much less conspicuous after having traded her party dress and overcoat for blue jeans and a dark, hooded parka; although, her face still bore the cosmetic accentuation of a more than average make over. Even so, her somber expression matched the grim edge of her voice.

“Connie,” Deckert greeted her as only he could.

“Hi, Carl,” she replied then turned to me and continued, “I’d say odds are the killer is misogynistic. Also the general public commonly associates Witches with being female, not male.”

“I can understand that theory to an extent, and I’m not trying to second guess you by any means,” I admitted, “but this guy isn’t a typical serial killer. I don’t believe he’s doing this on a lark, or even because of a hatred of women. He has a specific agenda, and it includes anyone accused of WitchCraft, regardless of their gender.”

“Is this something you saw in one of your visions?” she questioned.

“No. Just a feeling.”

“Well, I’ve learned better than to doubt one of your feelings, Rowan,” she conceded solemnly. “But male or female, we still have a fourth victim on our hands.”

“This is true,” I agreed.

Carl captured our attention with a lethargic gesture, and he volunteered in a sober tone, “Looks like they’re gettin’ ready to go after the body.”

His voice was both preceded and followed by a muffled thudding noise that emanated from across the pool area. Under the supervision of the head CSU technician, a maintenance worker was laboring to fracture the layer of ice and widen the entry point for the diver. A second pair of thuds resulted in a sharp cracking sound as the frozen strata splintered. Another of the technicians struggled with a shepherd’s hook to fish the broken chunks of solidified water out of the way.

A crowd had been gathering out beyond the barrier tape and was still gaining mass as more gawkers straggled in. Die-hard thrill seekers that even the weather couldn’t deter from a feeding frenzy of morbid curiosity. Some of them were just as bad, if not worse, than the media hounds that were vying for position with them. This fact was unequivocally proven when our concentration on the scene was diverted by the clamorous sound of a verbal altercation and physical scuffle.

Outside the fence a patrolman was shining his flashlight directly into the lens of a video camera that was being operated by an onlooker in the front of the crowd. The bright light effectively blinded the device, and the spectator began boisterously protesting the action.

Another uniformed officer quickly joined the patrolman as he attempted to calm the man down; however, after a few moments of the complainant loudly misquoting constitutional amendments, it became obvious that they were fighting for a lost cause. Finally, the obnoxious individual was unceremoniously handcuffed and parked in the back seat of a squad car where he continued his now muffled vociferations.

During the short commotion, the maintenance worker and crime scene unit technicians had managed to slightly more than double the size of the hole in the sheet of snow-covered ice. A diver clad in a dark wetsuit was now sitting on the edge of the pool nodding his head at a series of instructions he was receiving from the coroner who squatted next to him.

After a moment, a sharp hiss of air blasted into the now quiet site as he tested his regulator then slipped the mouthpiece between his lips. In a smooth, practiced motion, he shifted and turned, lowering himself into the icy pool, then snapped on a powerful underwater lamp. Seconds later, he slid into the murky depths, leaving us to stare at a dimly glowing hole and an occasional burst of bubbles rising to the surface.

“Man, that’s gotta be some cold ass water.” Ben whistled between his teeth and shot me a sideways glance. “You doin’ okay so far?”

“I’m fine,” I nodded in assent.

“No Twilight Zone or anything?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You having those visions again, Rowan?” Deckert inquired.