M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“This guy is just plain demented,” Mandalay expressed.

“You’ll get no argument from me on that account,” I told her. “But in this case, I doubt even he believes the message he left behind. I think he might even be in some severe emotional pain over this. That’s what I’m feeling anyway, for whatever it’s worth.”

“Yeah, we should all feel real sorry for the fuckhead,” Ben spat.

“On the one hand, this could give us some breathing room,” Agent Mandalay ventured. “If he really is broken up over this or whatever, then maybe he will shut down for a while. Decompress. Stop killing.”

“Uh-huh,” Ben grunted in agreement. “I’m all for anything that’ll stop the body count from risin’, but it’s gonna make the prick a helluva lot harder to find if he just withdraws.”

“He will withdraw for a while, I’m sure. How long is anyone’s guess,” I offered. “The feelings of sadness I’m picking up are far too intense for him to keep going without first coming to terms with this. But something tells me that he’ll cycle through it. He’s not finished with what he set out to do.”

“Of course not,” Ben expressed. “We could never be that friggin’ lucky.”

“Another thing,” I said. “I don’t think that killing the husband was his only mistake. Something just doesn’t click with this scene.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Take a look around. No books on WitchCraft or Wicca in the house. No pentacles or other symbols. No trappings of the religion anywhere in here that I’ve seen.”

“So maybe she kept all her stuff hidden or somethin’.” Ben shrugged. “Like ta’ keep friends or relatives from knowin’. What’s it I’ve heard ya’ say… ‘Hidin’ in the broom closet’ or somethin’ like that.”

“Yeah, that’s the colloquialism. And, maybe she was, but I don’t think so. Not this time. There’s something else too… Like I said before, he passes judgment on his victims. It’s very formal and strict. Even more so than pronouncing sentence in a court of law. It’s important to him that the accused be fully aware that WitchCraft is considered an unforgivable crime.”

“Yeah, so? I’m not sure I’m followin’ you.”

“Do you get the feeling that he didn’t do that this time or something, Rowan?” Mandalay asked.

“Oh no, he pronounced sentence all right.” I shook my head. “But what I picked up when they were recovering her body was that she didn’t understand. The fact that he accused her of being a Witch made absolutely no sense to her. It was an unfathomable concept in her mind.”

“So that’s why you don’t think she was a Witch?” she pressed.

“That’s why I’m almost positive she wasn’t.”

“Then she doesn’t fit the victimology any more than the husband,” Ben expressed. “What would have prompted ‘im to pick her?”

“I wish I knew.”

Further musings were cut short, and our small cluster grew larger by one when Carl Deckert trundled through the doorway from the living room. He had been out leading the door-to-door interviews and from the look of his face had only just now come inside.

“Okay, here’s the run down,” his voice issued as he sidled up next to us. “We got nuthin’ in the way of witnesses.”

Out of habit he removed his fedora and smoothed back his disheveled, greying hair then perched the hat back atop his crown and tilted the brim upward out of his face. His fleshy cheeks were flushed bright red, and he was visibly winded. A cloud of coldness still seeped from the fabric of his coat to noticeably chill the air around us.

“Looks like almost everyone was at a meeting of the condo association when all this apparently went down,” Deckert explained. “Nobody saw or heard a thing till the security guard found the pool gate open.”

“Nobody normal ever goes ta’ those things,” Ben stated incredulously. “What’s up with that?”

“I always go to mine,” Constance confessed. “Second Friday of every month.”

Ben stared back at her briefly, “No offense, Mandalay, but you might want ta’ get a life.”

“Well, I am on the board,” she admitted.

“Correction,” Ben chided. “Change might want to desperately need .”

“Yeah, well how’s this for a kick in the teeth,” Deckert remarked dismally before she could retort. “They were listenin’ to one of the local department’s finest talk about settin’ up a neighborhood watch program to supplement the hired security.”

“How’s that arm?” Ben asked me as he guided the van onto the exit ramp from Highway 40.

“Sore,” I answered flatly. “Still throbbing a little, but it’ll be okay.”

We were both exhausted, and there was no doubt in my mind that we were operating on automatic pilot. I wasn’t entirely sure what was keeping my friend going at this point. I knew for a fact that for every ounce of energy I had lost through the painful physical manifestations of my unknown ethereal guide, Ben had expended more than double that amount in worrying about me. Personally, I felt like I could sleep for a week, and my mind was all but completely numb. How he was even managing to stay awake was beyond me.

“What about the pool water thing and all that? Are ya’ sure you don’t wanna see a doctor about it?” he pressed.

“I already did, Ben. Doctor Sanders, remember?”

“Yeah, I know, but…”

“I’ll be fine,” I interjected with a weary yawn. “Stop being such a mother hen.”

“Okay. Fine. I’m too goddammed beat to argue with ya’ about it anyway.”

“Good.”

He cautiously turned through the blinking yellow traffic signal at the intersection and continued down the salt-and-cinder-dulled asphalt strip. Streetlights cast yellowish glows at evenly spaced intervals along the roadway, forming harsh puddles of sickly light separated by thick, blue-black shadows.

“So you gonna be able to make it in the mornin’?” Ben finally asked, switching the subject to the hastily scheduled emergency meeting of the Major Case Squad, which was in reality only a few painfully short hours away.

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Shit, I oughta just go on in now,” he lamented. “I’m barely gonna have enough time for my head ta’ hit the pillow as it is.”

“You should really go home,” I told him. “You need the rest as much as I do. Besides, I’m sure Allison would appreciate it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “She sure as hell didn’t know what she was gettin’ into when she became a cop’s wife.”

“Have you heard her complain about it?” I asked.

“Nope. Not a word,” he replied. “She’s really great about that.”

“Then I would expect she probably knew what she was getting herself into. Give her a little credit, Tonto.”

“Yup. You’re right. I s’pose maybe she did.”

By now he had turned the Chevy down my street and was slowly pushing it the last few blocks toward my home. Leafless tree branches bowing under the weight of ice and snow hung low over the roadway, forming an eerie canopy. I was already starting to imagine that I could feel my bed.

“Oh, by the way,” Ben started as a thought was apparently remembered and brought to the forefront, “the Bible they found next ta’ the pool house was book-marked just like the other two. The same passage as from the Sheryl Keeven murder was highlighted. First Samuel, 15:23. Whaddaya make of that?”

“Off the top of my head, I don’t know,” I answered as he hooked the vehicle into my driveway and rolled it to a halt. “I’m sure he assigns a particular significance to each passage and applies it to the victim based on that.”

“Yeah. That’s what we were thinkin’ too.”