M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

As one skirted closer to the edges of the township, farther into the periphery, property values lowered perceptibly, and though kept up, houses showed more obvious signs of age and wear. Still, the community was one for those within a comfortable level of income. This was where Allen Roberts lived.

The house was a split-level brick dwelling that showed every appearance of being fairly well maintained. The driveway and sidewalk were clear of snow and the slowly melting piles of the white stuff rose above the rest of the tableau to outline the salt-stained concrete. An evergreen hedgerow wrapped around the foundation buried beneath drifts. Here and there random boughs would peek through applying small splashes of emerald against the stark white blanket.

We had arrived within five minutes of leaving the gas station/convenience store and parked on the street in front of the residence. Ben had conveniently positioned his van to block the mouth of the driveway with Special Agent Mandalay’s sedan only a few feet behind. We could see no movement through the unshaded windows, and it didn’t appear that anyone noticed us as we advanced on the home.

Detective Deckert split off from us as we reached the start of the sidewalk, and he continued up the driveway to the corner of the house. There, he positioned himself to keep watch on a side entrance.

“Are you guys always this edgy when you go to question someone?” I asked as the three of us ambled along the path and started up the short flight of steps to the porch.

Ben glanced back and asked me rhetorically, “When it’s even remotely possible they have somethin’ ta’ do with a psychotic killer? You bet your ass.” Then, looking over at Constance, he raised a questioning eyebrow, “So, you wanna draw straws?”

In answer, Agent Mandalay reached out and gave the doorbell a double stab with her thumb. Beyond the darkly stained oak door the muffled ping-pong of the chime echoed twice in rapid succession and was followed shortly by the dull thudding of someone descending carpeted stairs. After the raspy metal-on-metal grating noise of the deadbolt being twisted, the door swung open, breaking the weather tight seal with an audible swoosh.

A thirtyish man with sandy hair stood peering at us from behind the glass of the storm door. He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt; both bore the stylized music note logo of the local hockey team. After taking a sip from an oversized coffee mug, he canted his mouth into a disgusted frown then unlatched the exterior door and pushed it slightly open.

“I’m not buying anything,” he stated flatly before anyone else could speak. “And if you’re from some church, I’m an atheist and I’m not interested, so leave me alone.”

“Mister Roberts?” Constance queried, “Mister Allen Roberts?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and took another sip from the mug. “Like I told you, I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste your breath.”

“No problem, sir,” Ben replied. “We aren’t sellin’ anything. We’d just like to ask ya’ some questions.”

“Mister Roberts,” Constance continued, easily withdrawing her ID wallet and splaying it open as I’d seen her do before. “I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI. This is Detective Storm with the…”

Her incomplete sentence hung in the air as all color drained from Allen Roberts face, and his eyes grew wide with surprised fright. I felt the fear skate up my spine as he projected it wildly, and my defenses automatically enveloped me to ward off the intensely broadcast emotion. Less than a second later, the coffee mug Roberts had been just bringing to his lips slipped from his grasp and exploded in a shower of ceramic shards across the threshold.

“SHIT!” he exclaimed in a panicked voice.

As the cup and its steaming contents splattered through the opening, Constance leapt backwards propelling herself against the wrought iron railing that ringed the porch. The blatantly unnerved man retreated from the doorway, making a hasty attempt to swing the oak barrier shut in our faces, only to have it wedge against one of the larger shards of the broken ceramic before reaching mid-swing.

“Awwwww fuck!” Ben spat under his breath as he motioned quickly to Deckert with one hand and simultaneously withdrew his sidearm from its shoulder holster with the other. With a swift quarter turn of his torso my friend planted his hand on my chest and drove me toward the stairs. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on the doorway and his large frame between any possible threat and me. “Get outta here, Row! Get behind the van! Now!”

I stumbled back, grabbing the railing for support while I struggled to maintain my balance. I could see that Constance was already gripping her weapon stiff-armed before herself at eye level and was glaring down the sights as Ben yanked the outer door wide.

“STOP! Federal Officer!” she bellowed in a crisp, commanding voice as she proceeded through the opening with Ben glued to her heels.

Deckert hopped a short distance down to a snow covered patio area and hustled around the corner of the house, his hand also filled with a nine-millimeter equalizer. I caught only a quick glimpse of the portly detective’s fedora adorned head as he disappeared behind the brick wall.

I continued to twist as I back peddled down the short set of stairs, fighting to turn backward motion into forward as I came to face the street. I had no real clue as to why Allen Roberts had reacted this way to the sight of Agent Mandalay’s badge. My senses detected only fear, and I felt none of the calculated malice that had been present at each of the crime scenes. I could only assume that if he was in fact responsible for the threatening e-mail, he realized that such harassment over the internet was considered a hate crime and was at this very moment regretting the action.

However, I was still firmly convinced that the vile piece of electronic detritus that had been delivered to Kendra Miller’s online address was no more than a coincidence. It was an accidental event that was leading us farther from, rather than closer to, the actual killer.

I pumped my legs hard, pounding my feet against the curved concrete walkway, striving to obey my friend’s order to remove myself from the near proximity. Adrenalin was just taking over as I reached the end of the driveway and hooked myself around the back of his van.

A white Crown Victoria, its door emblazoned with the brown, red, and gold seal of the Saint Louis County Police department screeched to a halt in front of me, light bar flickering madly. The officer Ben had stationed on the side street across from Allen Roberts’ home hit the pavement while the vehicle was still coming to a complete halt. Before I could process the overwhelming abundance of visual information assaulting me, the uniformed cop had grabbed my collar and dragged me down behind the open door of the car.

“Dispatch, this is Unit Nineteen,” the officer spoke rapidly into a hand mic. “Detective Storm and the FBI agent are inside. Detective Deckert has moved his position to the back of the house. Over.”

The radio crackled with static and the faint voices of overlapping channels, then blared the feminine voice of the dispatcher into the frosty air, “Affirmative, Nineteen. Backup is rolling on your location. What is your status?”

“I am in a secure position in front of the residence,” he answered. “Everything’s quiet at the moment. Over.”

Hissing static returned for a brief second.

“Nineteen, be advised, Detective Deckert informed us earlier that there would be a civilian consultant on the scene. One Mister Rowan Gant. Do you know his status? Over.”

“Affirmative,” he spoke as he keyed the microphone. “Mister Gant is safe. I have him right here.”