M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Maybe I shoulda called or somethin’,” Carl stated apologetically as he added his offering to the pile. “That’s an awful lot of donuts.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” I quipped. “I mean we are sitting in a room full of cops and it’s only a few dozen donuts. What are the odds that there will be any left over by the time lunch rolls around?”

“Ya’know, you civilians have gotta get over that whole cop slash donut thing,” my friend returned, verbalizing the punctuation as he spoke. Then he let out a small laugh.

“Sure, whatever you say, Ben. But tell me this, am I right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re right,” he answered with a broad smile. “Now shut up.”

“So I’m sure everyone is aware that our boy was real busy last night. For those of you who were on the scenes, this may be a little bit of a rehash. For those who weren’t, or who just got assigned to the MCS, we’ll try ta’ bring ya’ up ta’ speed as quickly as possible.” Ben was sitting on the edge of his desk in the squad room addressing the attentive assembly of detectives attached to the Major Case Squad. “Last night we got three bodies…” He held up his hand and displayed three fingers to the group, turning his hand front to back. “…Three in one night, people. Two fittin’ the M.O. of our bad guy from the Walker and Miller cases. The third was one of the latest victim’s husband, and it looks like he just might’ve been in the way. Most of ya’ are familiar with the first two victims, those that aren’t, everything we have is on the handouts I just gave you.” He waved a sheaf of papers at the group.

“Now, some of ya’ have prob’ly already heard the theory that the husband wasn’t the only screw up for our boy last night. From all indications, Christine Webster was not a Witch and in fact didn’t actively practice any religion at all, much less an alternative one. Well, the good news is I think we’ve solved the mystery behind this break in the M.O.”

Ben had already told me this simple revelation upon my arrival at the MCS command post, but from the attentive stares he now commanded, I could tell that this was new information to most everyone else present.

“As you’re aware, we’ve been operatin’ on the assumption that the killer is workin’ off a list. This list contains the names of several women who are members of a local Witches coven. All of the victims up until this point have been on that list. Now what we believe we are dealin’ with on the most recent victim is a case of mistaken identity.”

“So there’s a Christine Webster out there that actually is a member of that coven?” one of the cops asked.

“Exactly,” my friend answered. “Only ‘er name is spelled with a K instead of a C-h. K-r-i-s-t-i-n-e, ta’ be exact. Other than that, the middle and last names are identical.”

“The mistake makes sense if you follow the killer’s brand of logic,” I interjected. “It stands to reason that someone with a deep religious conviction would hear Christine and automatically spell it with a C-h. After all, the origin of the name is Christ.”

Ben grunted in agreement.

“So the original theory holds?” the questioning cop asked.

“For now, yes.” Ben nodded. “Okay. Now that we’ve cleared that one up, I’m gonna turn the floor over to our distinguished city M.E. So, Doc, you got anything for us on last night’s unfortunate souls?”

Doctor Sanders set her own coffee aside while simultaneously slipping her reading glasses onto her face. The spectacles that hung from a simple chain about her neck were like a permanent fixture. I couldn’t recall ever having seen her without them. She opened a file before her and peered at the scribbled notes, reciting from them without looking up.

“I have the preliminary posts on all three. First victim is Sheryl Kee…” The last few words of her sentence elongated and rose in pitch as she yawned deeply. Covering her mouth with her hand, she drew in a second breath and sighed, “Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry.”

“S’alright Doc,” Ben told her. “Been a long one for all of us… Go on.”

“As I was saying,” she continued, “first victim, Sheryl Keeven, Caucasian, female, thirty-four years of age. She was hung by the neck from the balcony of her apartment. Prelim shows a stress fracture at the third cervical vertebrae, but that didn’t kill her immediately. There are indications that she expired due to asphyxiation. There were thirteen remarkable puncture wounds in soft tissues that were made pre-mortem. I would venture to say from an ice pick or something very similar.

“Next…” She flipped a page in the manila file and stifled another yawn. “Christine Webster, again Caucasian, female. Twenty-seven years of age. Cause of death was asphyxiation due to drowning, pure and simple. Her lungs were full of water. Ms. Webster’s body also exhibited a number of puncture wounds consistent with the Keeven woman as well as the two earlier victims.

“Finally, Robert Webster. Caucasian, male, twenty-eight. Contused larynx. Cause of death, again, asphyxiation. He was choked to death using the cord from a set of mini blinds. No other wounds in this case save for some minor, unremarkable bruising and abrasions that most likely occurred during a struggle. Judging from the upward angle of the contusion, I would venture to hypothesize that the attacker was a rather large male, probably over six feet in height. Other than that…” She flicked the folder shut then removed her glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “…we will have to wait for the tox and labs to come back.”

She allowed her glasses to dangle down on their omnipresent chain and looked up at us with a slight shrug. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment.”

“Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate ya’ gettin’ on that so quick,” Ben told her then turned his attention back to the rest of the room and nodded in the direction of a thick, stocky man who was absently smoothing his moustache as he listened. “You and your team have anything for us from the crime scenes, Murv?”

The man gestured in the direction of Doctor Sanders, and when he spoke, his voice was richly timbered and affected with a slight, lazy, southern drawl. “I’d say the Doc’s prob’ly right about our bad guy. We got one decent imprint out of the snow around the pool last night. Matches up to a man’s size seventeen hiking boot, so I’d have to say he’s a big boy. Best estimate, anywhere from six-six to seven foot tall.”

He paused as he again brushed imaginary crumbs from the whiskers on his upper lip and then took a moment to scratch the back of his head. “So far we haven’t had a single worthwhile print, but it’s winter and everyone is wearin’ gloves so I don’t really expect any. He’s left a different kind of Bible at each scene, all of them being of a type readily available from any bookstore. We’re runnin’ it down anyway. The spray paint he’s used to leave the symbol is just your standard commercially available stuff.” He stopped talking for a moment and shrugged. “Either way, got a sample of it off to the FBI crime lab. Couple of fibers. Poly-cotton blend, dyed black. Pretty generic stuff. Besides that we got a big fat zippo. Sorry ya’ll, but this ol’ boy ain’t givin’ us much to go on.”

Ben nodded. “You’ll let us know if ya’ come up with anything else?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Great. Thanks, Murv.”

“No problem.”

“Okay, tox on the Miller woman showed Roofies in her system,” Ben announced to the room and looked around. “Who’s workin’ with Narc on that?”

“Over here,” a hard-edged but still feminine voice came from across the room. “Detective Baker. I’m your liaison to County Narcotics.”