M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

“Just what the hell do you two think you are doing?” he demanded as he waved the file between us. “Which one of you is Detective Storm?”

“That’d be me,” Ben answered coldly. “You are?”

Considering the current circumstances, I was glad the man was focusing his attention on Ben. The primary thrust of agony was now beginning to fade, but I knew something just this side of bearable was going to be left in its wake.

“I am this man’s attorney.” If the young man was taken aback in any way by Ben’s stature, he didn’t show it outwardly. Instead, he turned on him as he answered the question and spat authoritatively. “I want both of you out of here right now.”

“Slow down.” My friend held up his hands in mock surrender. “Your client has been Mirandized, and he agreed ta’ speak with us. ‘Sides, we aren’t even discussin’ the assault.”

“Alleged assault,” the court appointed attorney insisted. “And my client, according to your own department’s Breathalyzer test is legally intoxicated. I am certain the blood test you gave him will prove that out. He is in no condition to agree to speak with you about anything without adequate representation present.”

“Hold on just a minute…”

“No, YOU hold on. Unless you want me to bring the both of you and this department up on charges, I suggest you two get out of here and let me speak to my client!”

Ben let out a resigned sigh and shook his head. “Come on, Row. Let’s get outta here.”

I gave a gentle nod and turned toward the open door. Before I completed a single step for the opening, the old man’s voice met my ears in a pleading tone, “Hey, Mister.”

I stopped mid-stride, tried to ignore the thudding in my skull, and turned back to him. As I did, the still fuming lawyer interposed himself between us and spoke quickly, “As your attorney I strongly advise against continuing your conversation with these men.”

“Mister,” the old bum looked around the body obstructing his view and appealed to me once again while shaking his head. “Tracy shoodn’t feel bad cuz she spilt her drink on me. I know it was uh accident. Kin you tell her for me? I doan wan’ her ta’ feel bad.”

It wasn’t what I had hoped he was about to tell me, but I wasn’t surprised. The sudden interruption had undone everything I had started to accomplish, and the drunken old man had instantly reverted back to his fantasy world.

“Sure,” I said. “Can I tell her your name?”

“Name?” He looked back at me with a puzzled frown.

“Yes sir, your name. Can I tell Miz Watson your name?”

A wide grin spread across his face, and he began clapping his hands together as best he could with the hardened steel restraints still encircling his wrists.

“Puddin ‘n’ Tain,” he giggled suddenly. “Puddin ‘n’ Tain, thas’ my name, ask me agin an I’ll tell ya’ the same!”

I simply turned and walked out of the room, leaving the old man to gleefully chant a new rhyme. Before the door shut, we heard the attorney angrily spit a demand after us, “I want someone in here to get these handcuffs off my client!”

“Fuckin’ idealistic little snot-nosed bastard.” Ben voiced his deprecating slur about the young public defender as he drove his doubled fist into his open palm. The impact elicited a loud pop that echoed seemingly forever down the long tiled hallway. “Sonofabitch pro’bly just passed the bar last week.”

“I hate to play devil’s advocate here,” I offered as we continued down the corridor. I was forced to increase my pace in order to keep up with my friend’s long, angry strides. “But, be that as it may, he has a point. That old man in there is far too inebriated to make accurate judgments at the moment. You saw that for yourself. Fact is he might not even be mentally capable of making decisions that are in his own best interest, period.”

“Maybe so, but you were beginnin’ ta’ get through to him, weren’t ya’?” It was as much a statement as a question.

“He appeared to be starting to regress back to that night, but I can’t tell you how much was fantasy and how much was reality.”

We slowed and rounded a corner then came to a halt before a metal door. Gouges and chips littered the grey, semi-gloss finish, forming a mottled background for uneven, faded letters across its face that read ‘STAIRS.’ Above the door an exit sign glowed dully.

Ben rested one hand on the doorknob and then jerked his free thumb over his shoulder toward the interview room we had just left. “But ya’ could’ve if ya’ hadn’t been interrupted by Perry Mason back there, am I right?”

“I can’t guarantee you that, but yes,” I nodded slightly, “it’s possible.”

“Well weren’t ya’ doin’ some of that hocus-pocus stuff to ‘im? You know, like when ya’ hypnotized me into seein’ that spider on my arm that time?” He was referring to a simplistic glamour I had used to demonstrate hypnosis to him months ago.

“Kind of. Not exactly like that, but along similar lines. Mainly I was just trying to help him remember.”

“Yeah, I thought so.” He levered the door open and motioned me through.

“In all honesty, he would probably be easier to hypnotize once he’s sobered up anyway,” I added as we started up the stairs. “It’s obvious that he already lives in a bit of a fantasy world, and the liquor was not only acting to perpetuate that but also to confuse him even more. An insane mind is not an easy one to read or affect.”

“Well, now that he’s got an attorney, I wouldn’t count on gettin’ that chance anytime soon. Jeez, white man, you’re gonna hafta teach me some of that hocus-pocus stuff one of these days.”

“Trust me, it’s not all that much fun.”

“I dunno… Bet that little Svengali deal is a blast at parties.”

“Believe me, Chief, sometimes the payback is a bitch. You just think it would be fun because right now you can’t feel the headache I have coming on.”

Members of the Major Case Squad had broken off into various groups by the time we returned to the squad room on the upper floor; some in small teams discussing and exchanging ideas; some alone with telephones pressed purposefully to their ears; still others already out on the streets. No matter the particular duty being executed, though, they were all striving toward a singular purpose. To find a killer and stop him before anyone else could become a victim.

“The systems administrator of the Miller woman’s ISP is supposed to meet one of us at their office around noon,” the young detective named Chuck told us. “He says they keep their logs for ninety days, so we might have a good shot.”

The three of us were positioned around Ben’s desk in a small huddle of our own. My friend stood leaning against the piece of furniture with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a dejected scowl glued to his angular features. The young detective had accosted us with the information almost as soon as we had come through the double metal and glass doors that served as an entryway to the squad room.

Ben nodded thoughtfully and cocked an eyebrow at me. “Tell me again what this is gonna do for us?”

I was just swallowing a handful of decomposing aspirin from a bottle that looked like it had been rolling around in the desk drawer for the past decade. I had tried to eyeball a measurement that looked like it might equal somewhere around three or four whole tablets, then finally gave up and simply filled my palm with the chunky granules. Hopefully the analgesic would kick in soon because a small troll with a ball peen hammer was already having a party inside my skull.