M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Great, Baker. Whaddaya got?”

“Unfortunately, nothing,” she returned. “We’ve worked the college campuses and all the small time dealers we can think of. Of course, we haven’t really known what we were looking for.”

“Understood,” Ben replied and gave her a nod. “I’d like for ya’ ta’ hit ‘em again and work from the basis that we’re lookin’ for an unusually tall individual. That might help.”

“Will do.”

Ben gave his notes a quick scan and without looking up from the fistful of paper, queried the room, “Computer crimes. Do we have anything on this whole Internet stalkin’ lead?”

“The Miller woman’s hard drive is clean,” a younger detective announced. “According to the system registry, the operating system was a recent install, and we found a receipt from a local repair shop. Looks like she upgraded.”

“I hate the damn things, Chuck,” Ben returned grumpily. “You mind puttin’ that in English?”

“She souped up her machine and had a new piece of hardware installed in place of the original mass storage device,” the detective answered. “I called the repair shop, and they said the drive was toast, and it went into the trash. To put it simply, as far as getting something off her system goes we’re screwed. We aren’t going to get anything from it.”

“What about her… Whaddaya call it… You know…” He rotated his hand in a circular gesture while furrowing his brow.

“ISP,” I offered. “Her service provider.”

“Small local outfit in South County” came the answer. “No weekend hours.”

“Great,” Ben sighed. “They got an alarm?”

“Probably, I dunno,” Chuck returned.

“Find out. Call the local muni and the alarm company. Get the contact list and get someone to open the doors. If that doesn’t work, go down there and throw a brick through the window or somethin’. We wanna talk to ‘em today. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“All right then, there’s another angle I want us to look into.” My friend huffed, paused for a moment then pointed over at me. “Most of ya’ are familiar with Rowan here from the last time he worked with us. As well, most of ya’ are aware that we’ve asked for his help again with this case.” His hand went up automatically as he spoke, smoothing back his hair and coming to rest on his neck. After a short pause he let out a resigned sigh. “Now, while I’ll be the first one ta’ admit that his methods seem more than just a little weird to the rest of us, I think we all know just how accurate he can be. At any rate, Row here has given us reason ta’ think maybe our bad guy might possibly be a priest. This isn’t a definite, but I’d like ta’ follow that avenue an’ see where it goes.”

“You mean like a Catholic priest?” a voice piped up.

“Yeah. Could be,” he answered. “Or Lutheran I s’pose.”

“What makes you think it’s a priest?” the detective queried again.

Ben slapped me on the arm with the sheaf of papers he held in his hand. “You wanna go ahead and take that one, Row.”

I had been expecting this when Ben asked me to be at the meeting. Now, the feeling of deja vu that had been tittering up and down my spine forcibly seized me by the shoulders and whispered in my ear, “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

The last time I had addressed the Major Case Squad had been a few scant months ago during the last frantic investigation. At that time I had been severely heckled, almost to the point of Ben losing his temper in an attempt to defend me. Now, however, it seemed a small legend had arisen from the final success of that case, and while there were certainly those who still thought me a crackpot, as Ben had said, a number of the officers present today were individuals I had worked with before.

I watched nervously as they shifted their glances over to me and waited just as attentively as they had for Ben.

“Quite honestly,” I began, choosing a direct approach, “it was something I saw through Sheryl Keeven’s eyes when I channeled her last moments.”

The room remained quiet, save for the muted ringing of phones and normal background noises of the offices. No laughs. No heckling. No comments of outright dismissal. As unorthodox as they may have found me, I had been accepted. I had gained their respect. In some small way, I had become one of them, and worthy of their attention.

I continued, indicating to my neck as I spoke, “What I caught a glimpse of was a black shirt with a white collar insert. Like a priest’s collar.”

“So what about a seminary student then?” Detective Baker spoke this time. “My cousin was in the seminary and he wore one of those collars.”

“Good idea, Baker,” Ben interjected then gestured to a nearby detective. “Morrow. You and Buchanan check that out. Osthoff, you and Martin ask around the local Archdiocese. Carefully.” He stressed the word. “Remember, it hasn’t been all that long since the Pope graced our fair city with his presence. There’re a lotta Catholics in this area, and they’re still ridin’ high on that. Last thing we need ta’ do is piss off over half of Saint Louis.”

“Got it,” the officers replied almost in unison.

“Okay. That’s about all I have.” Ben’s shoulders dropped noticeably as he let out a tired sigh. “Anyone got any questions?”

“Any theories on why he changes the way he kills the victim each time?” A slightly greying officer queried. “Seems a bit off for a serial killer. I thought they stuck to an established pattern.”

“I’ll leave the floor to you on that one, white man,” Ben told me.

I simply bobbed my head and began. “In this particular case it actually makes perfect sense. We’ve already established that the killer appears to be targeting members of alternative religions. In point of fact, Witches.”

A ripple of nods coupled with the warbling hum of murmured concurrence ran through the assemblage. I pushed off from the edge of the desk I was leaning against and began to pace as I ticked points off on my fingertips.

“So far, there has been one victim burned, one hung, and one drowned,” I continued. “All of these are methods of execution that were used during the time of the Inquisition. The manner of death selected back then oftentimes depended on a wide range of criteria. Anything from the pre-ordained level of the heresy committed to the way the inquisitors happened to feel at the time of passing sentence.”

“What about the first one?” another detective questioned. “The Walker woman. She was thrown out a window. Was that one of their methods?”

“Of execution, no. Of verification, yes.” I answered then paused to allow my statement to take hold. “I would postulate that the killer was applying a razor… A test if you will… He threw Miz Walker off the balcony in order to see if she would save herself by flying or levitating.”

The officer who had started us along this line spoke again, “I seem to recall reading an article in the paper recently where you yourself said you Witches don’t do that sort of thing.”

“We don’t.” I nodded in agreement. “But during the times of the Inquisition, ‘Witch Hysteria’ was rampant. All manner of accusations were made, and it is where many of the popular myths about us came from. People believed that Witches could fly. They thought we were made of wood and therefore wouldn’t sink in water. Supposedly, we didn’t need to breathe and could be deprived of oxygen and still live. That’s just to name a few.”

“So why hasn’t he been testing the other victims?” another voice asked.

“He has to an extent,” I replied. “Witches, and those accused, were tortured for a variety of reasons, the obvious one being to make them confess. Other tortures, such as the stabbing seen on these victims, also known as ‘Witch Pricking,’ were used to prove out the accusation. You should understand, of course, that the accusation was then and will always be proven out for him, no matter what.”