M Sellars - Never Burn A Witch

The dispatcher’s businesslike voice filtered from the speaker once again, “Affirmative, Nineteen.”

The muted crackle of the cross-talking radio traffic filled the thickness around us as we waited for any indication of what was happening inside the walls of the home. Less than three minutes had elapsed since Ben had muscled me off the porch and ordered me out of what he perceived as harm’s way.

My legs were already starting to cramp as I knelt on the cold asphalt next to the county police cruiser. I watched the still open entrance to the house intently, peering past the stocky officer in front of me, straining to detect any movement or noise that might indicate what was happening inside those walls.

That self-conscious, “I don’t belong here” feeling was once again wrapping me in its prickly embrace-threatening to smother me with its special brand of anxiety. It was all but forgotten when a large, familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

The rush of excitement died a lingering, but painless, death, as Ben Storm exited the residence and lethargically ambled down the stairs. He was already strolling down the driveway when a pair of County squad cars joined us on the street. My friend was slowly shaking his head and a dull frown affected a deep crease in his chiseled features. He held his badge out in plain view for the newly arrived officers to see before slipping the attached cord over his head and hanging the shield about his neck. Detective Deckert reappeared around the corner and was soon trundling alongside, quickening his pace in order to match the long strides of the tall Native American cop.

All around us, drapes were being pulled back and blinds parted. Front doors stood open with families of onlookers crowded into the small spaces, peering out from behind panes of breath-fogged glass as they chattered with one another about the unfolding scene. Glancing across the street, I noticed the round-cheeked impression of a child’s face pressed against the lower section of a storm door, staring at us in wide-eyed amazement. Momentarily, the youngster was whisked away by protective adults intent on keeping her from harm, but giving no consideration to their own safety as they themselves continued to gawk.

As short and sweet as the burst of action was, this was probably the most excitement this small community had seen for ages. I didn’t have to hear what the spectators were theorizing to know that the speculations were growing wilder with each spoken word. One could be sure that exhilarated phone calls were already being traded among neighbors, friends, and relatives.

“All clear,” Ben told the officer as he approached us. “Agent Mandalay’s got Roberts in custody.”

The officer nodded and keyed his microphone, “Dispatch, this is Nineteen. House is secure and subject detained. Over.”

“Affirmative, Nineteen,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled in reply.

“Do me a favor, Golden,” Deckert addressed the uniformed cop. “Have Dispatch get a van from the Crime Scene Unit out here just in case.”

“You wanna go ahead and coordinate out here while I take Rowan in?” Ben asked Deckert.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Carl, answered with an animated nod. “I got it covered.”

“C’mon, Kemosabe,” my friend said as he clapped me on the shoulder and jerked his head in the direction of the house. “Need ya’ ta’ look at this.”

“What?” I queried as we started back up the driveway. “Did you find something?”

“Maybe, I dunno. Asshole ran straight for a room full of computer shit. Stopped ‘im just as he was tryin’ ta’ type somethin’ on a keyboard.” He sighed. “There’re wires and crap runnin’ all over the place. Looks like fuckin’ NORAD in there or somethin’. I need you ta’ tell me just what the hell we’re lookin’ at.”

In reality, Allen Roberts had actually managed to type something into the keyboard. He’d even managed to hit ENTER. Truth be known, he’d succeeded in typing the “something” three separate times before Ben and Agent Mandalay had stopped him. Our only saving grace was apparently his haste-induced clumsiness. At each glowing prompt on the screen was a short string of characters that in another situation would appear to be the daily jumble from the feature section of the newspaper. In this particular case, however, it was obvious to anyone with a basic knowledge of computers that the unintentional anagram “KLLIFLIE” was supposed to have spelled out the command “KILLFILE.” Had he been successful in executing the utility, Roberts would have effectively erased all of the data from the machine.

Ben hadn’t really exaggerated about the wires and other gadgetry in the room, although what appeared to him as an intimidating monstrosity of electronics was to me simply a computer technician’s playroom. Of course, I was in the business, and my own home office wasn’t much different in appearance from this one. My friend, on the other hand, disdained the thought of using a computer and did so only when it was an absolute necessity. Taking that fact into consideration, I could understand his finding the flashing lights and purring boxes a bit intimidating.

“It looks like some kind of network to me,” Agent Mandalay offered as I stood surveying the contents of the room. “Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you.”

Allen Roberts was sitting in a wheeled desk chair, hands cuffed behind his back, watching quietly as I nodded and continued my cursory inspection. A sudden attack of bravado overcame him when I stepped closer to a humming machine mounted in what appeared to be a recycled mini-computer peripheral’s cabinet.

“Leave that alone!” he demanded angrily as he started up from the chair. “You still haven’t shown me a warrant!”

Constance, who was positioned behind him, snapped her arm out in a blur of motion and twisted her hand into the collar of his sweatshirt as he rose. Leverage and balance being fully on her side, she jerked him back down and unceremoniously planted him hard in the seat before he could take a single step.

“Don’t do that again,” she ordered sternly, “or one of us is going to get hurt, and it won’t be me.”

“Buy a vowel, Roberts,” Ben shot back. “All we wanted ta’ do was ask ya’ a few questions. You wouldn’t even be wearin’ those bracelets right now if ya’ hadn’t acted like a damn fruitcake.”

“Screw you!” the man spat. “You still need a warrant.”

“Cool it, Roberts,” Constance instructed him evenly. “Keep it up and I’ll add assaulting a federal officer to the report.”

“Assaulting a… What assault?” he asked incredulously, “I didn’t assault anyone!”

“I don’t know about that,” she chided, “I seem to recall you hurling a coffee cup at me.”

“I did not! That’s a lie! I just dropped it and you know it!”

“Ya’know, it looked ta’ me like ya’ threw it at ‘er,” Ben volunteered with a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I’d definitely hafta say ya’ threw it. Yep, wingin’ a full coffee cup at an FBI agent’s not a real bright move. ‘Specially Mandalay here. She’s kinda got a reputation for bein’ a real hardass if ya’ know what I mean. Sure am glad I’m not you.”

“This is crazy!” the man sputtered. “You know I didn’t throw that cup. You’re lying.”

“Which one of us do ya’ think a judge is gonna believe?”

My friend’s sarcastic query was met only with angry silence.

“Of course, I might be willing to forget about that little indiscretion if you were to stop acting like a jerk and cooperate instead,” Agent Mandalay suggested. “You know… answer a few questions. Maybe explain what was so important in here that made you run like a scared rabbit?”