M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Robert,” I muttered.

“Excuse me?” Agent Mandalay questioned.

“Robert,” I repeated. “She kept trying to cry out for Robert to come help her.”

A jagged shard of agony tore through the flesh on my forearm and felt as though it scraped against bone. I sensed its sickening message deep in the pit of my stomach, and all I could do was issue a tired sigh because I hated the fact that I had become so accustomed to violent death.

My head was starting to ache, and I closed my eyes for a moment.

“Dammit, Rowan! Whaddid I tell you?” Ben admonished.

“It just happened, Ben,” I barked back as I rubbed my throbbing temples. “I didn’t have any control over it. Besides, it’s what I’m here for, right?”

“Jeezus… Okay… Shit…” he stuttered for a moment, and then decided to make the best of the situation. “Well, any idea who this Robert is?”

“A husband. A boyfriend. I don’t know.” I shook my head as I opened my eyes and began to carefully peel off my glove. My bare hand revealed a smear of blood across its back, now spreading from beneath my coat sleeve. “But, unfortunately, it looks like we were all correct because I’m certain that he’s victim number five.”

My comment was punctuated by a nearby patrolman’s radio as it crackled and spewed forth a dispassionate voice from its tinny speaker, “Yeah, this is Ross. You want to advise Detectives Storm and Deckert that we have another body up here…”

“His wristwatch stopped when the face was shattered,” Doctor Sanders told us over her shoulder. She was kneeling next to the latest victim and carefully affixing bags over his hands to preserve any possible evidence. Mundane things such as hair follicles or even a shard of the killer’s skin beneath his fingernails could be crucial in the investigation. “Assuming death occurred sometime during the struggle, which is a pretty safe bet, I would place the T.O.D. on or around eleven-forty this evening, give or take.” She peered over the rim of her glasses at her own timepiece and made a note on her clipboard. “That’s just a little over two hours ago which is also consistent with his liver temp.”

“We just missed him,” I breathed sadly.

The harried Saint Louis city chief medical examiner had arrived shortly after the young woman’s corpse had been pulled from the depths of the swimming pool. Her counterpart from the county jurisdiction had seen to the care and transport of that body leaving Doctor Sanders free to do the same for Sheryl Keeven. This now being the third murder in one evening, she had scarcely had time to see to the delivery of those remains to the morgue before heading out for this scene. In the somewhat crowded condominium, I couldn’t help but overhear a veteran detective from the local municipality speaking to another uniformed officer. With a respectful, somber tone, he referred to the almost choreographed conveyance of the corpses as a “dead man’s dance.”

Robert Webster’s body was positioned, for the most part, just as it had been found. He was sprawled against the wall in the small dining room that adjoined the kitchen. He was still fully clothed and bore none of the signature markings that had screamed so prominently from the bodies of the previous victims. A double strand of nylon cord was still looped tightly about his throat, and bloody abrasions were visible along his neck where he had apparently clawed at the makeshift garrote. The opposite end of the thin noose trailed out across the floor, ending at a jumbled pile of beige vinyl strips-the remains of mini-blinds that had once been mounted over a now bare window.

“Gal. 3:1” was harshly scribbled in black on the wall directly above him. A wide-tipped magic marker was found on a nearby counter and had already been bagged by the CSU technicians.

Various signs of a brief struggle were obvious throughout the room. Mini-blinds that had been unceremoniously ripped from their mountings now lay in a crumpled heap. A chair overturned near the table. A potted plant now rested on the floor, its terra cotta planter shattered beyond repair and dark soil sprayed across the tile in a wide caricature of a comet tail. The cluster of aloe vera that had once called the clay pot home now sat upright in the middle of the debris field almost as if it had been placed there purposely. I made a mental note to myself to re-plant it once the crime scene had been cleared. I saw no reason for it to become a victim too.

As futile as the struggle turned out to be, at least Robert Webster had put up a fight.

“Sure doesn’t fit the profile of the other murders. Actually, it looks more like he wasn’t expectin’ the husband ta’ be here,” Ben muttered as he surveyed the scene. “That could kinda blow a hole in the stalkin’ theory.”

“Maybe not,” Agent Mandalay offered. “If he’s stalked all of the other victims, I doubt he’s suddenly going to change that aspect. Could be that the husband was normally gone on Saturday nights.”

“Yeah. Like bowlin’ or somethin’,” he nodded as he spoke. “Good point. We’ll check it out.”

“He was never intended to be a victim,” I announced. “This was quite obviously unplanned. You’re right, I don’t think he was expecting him to be here…”

I tilted my head to the side and stared at the shaky inscription on the wall. It was plainly scrawled in extreme haste. What was even more perceptible, to me at least, was the fact that it had been done as an afterthought.

The visual inconsistencies were by no means the only problem with the setting either. There was no feeling of greater purpose for this killing as there had been for all the others. My empathic senses registered none of the conviction and fiery intent that had thus far been woven through the fabric of horror that shrouded each successive scene.

What I detected instead was blinding anger and, to my surprise, painful sadness. All were the product of a presence recently in the room… A presence that had been at every other site… A presence that had until now conveyed only misguided determination coupled with the passing of a terrifying judgment.

“…In fact,” I finally submitted, “I think he could be upset by what he’s done here. I think he may even be feeling very intense remorse, and he’s trying to come to terms with what he has done.”

“How do ya’ figure that?” Ben asked.

“The Bible verse,” I answered with a nod in the direction of the wall. “Galatians chapter three, verse one. ‘O foolish Galatians, who hath bewitched you, that ye should not obey the truth, before whose eyes Jesus Christ hath been set forth, crucified among you?’…

“I think the killer is trying to tell us that this man was bewitched by his wife and her path, and for that he had to die. Kind of a guilt by association thing.”

“You sure he didn’t just kill ‘im because he was in the way?”

“In reality that’s probably exactly what happened. But remember, this individual doesn’t kill just for kicks. He has an agenda, and in some perverse way, he still respects life-but only the life of the good and righteous as defined by his beliefs. This is his way of justifying his actions as much to himself as to us.”

“Man, I know it’s been awhile since I’ve been ta’ church,” Ben declared. “But I sure as hell don’t remember the Bible advocatin’ all the shit this asshole is doin’.”

“It doesn’t in a literal sense,” I replied, “but it is written in a way that leaves itself open to a wide range of interpretations. The killer is picking and choosing passages and taking them out of context in order to vindicate his actions. Notice they always contain a key word-Witch, bewitched, wizard, sorcerer…”