The Wizard of Sante Fe

by Simon Hawke

  The mutilated, nude body of a young Hispanic girl was lying in the fountain, her black hair fanned out like water lilies. The bougainvillea was in bloom and the early morning sun was shining down through the cottonwood branches, dappling the brick paths of the placita with spots of light and shadow. Paul Ramirez turned away from the grisly sight and walked unsteadily to one of the mission-style, wooden benches placed around the little courtyard. The secluded little plaza off Palace Avenue was located across the street from the Cathedral of St. Francis. It was surrounded by the walls of an old adobe hacienda, which now housed several shops and an elegant restaurant. It was a popular place for couples to linger after an evening out, sitting in the shadowed areas where the benches were placed, talking and listening to the tranquil playing of the fountain. A safe, quiet little haven in the heart of downtown Santa Fe. Only sometime late last night, it had become a nightmarish corner of hell for this poor girl, who had lingered too late and too long.

  Paul sat down and bent over with his head between his knees. He closed his eyes and brought his hands up to his head, rubbing his temples. The police lieutenant approached the bench and looked down at him sympathetically.

  "I'm sorry," said Lt. Loomis. "I should have prepared you for this."

  "I don't know that one can ever be prepared for something like that," said Ramirez, glancing up toward the fountain. He patted the pockets of his light blue, raw silk robe, embroidered with a southwestern pattern. "I didn't get much sleep last night," he said wearily. "And I can think of better ways to start the day." He sighed. "I don't suppose you'd have a cigarette?"

  Loomis took out a pack and offered it to him. He was in his late forties, a large man, about two hundred and sixty pounds, with the body of a powerlifter, lots of dense, thick muscle beneath a layer of fat. He wore a light gray suit with a western cut, a snap-button white shirt with a silver bolo tie, well-worn, black cowboy boots, and a narrow-brimmed white Stetson. In a hand-tooled, floral carved leather holster at his waist, he carried an old Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum with a four-inch heavy barrel and staghorn grips. He had a wide face with ruddy features and a bushy black moustache. He looked like a successful western rancher, but his voice was pure South Side Chicago. He took the pack of cigarettes back from Ramirez and shook one out for himself. He lit it and inhaled deeply, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils.

  "It's a bad habit," he said, "but I find it helps steady my nerves. Especially at times like this."

  "I keep meaning to quit myself, but I don't seem to be having much luck," Ramirez said wryly. He stared down at his soft, high leather moccasins for a moment, then shook his long, gray-streaked, shoulder-length, black hair out of his face and stood. "I suppose I'd better take another look," he said wearily.

  "There's no hurry," said Loomis laconically. "She's not going anywhere."

  Ramirez grimaced. He had just turned fifty last week, but he suddenly felt much older.

  "Are you okay, Professor?" Loomis asked. "I mean, you look a little shaky. Can I get you some coffee or something?"

  His manner toward Ramirez was solicitous and deferential. Professor Paul Ramirez was the dean of the College of Sorcerers at the university. He was also the local representative of the Bureau of Thaumaturgy, which made him an important man.

  "No, thanks. I'll be all right," Ramirez said. He took a few more drags off the cigarette and threw it down, then approached the fountain and looked at the body once again. He took a deep breath. "Can you . . . can you pull her out of there?"

  Loomis turned to the man from the crime lab. "Are you finished?"

  "You can take her out," the man said. "Put her down on the bricks there, I'd like to take a few more shots of the wounds."

  Loomis nodded to several police officers and they pulled the body out of the fountain. Ramirez watched as they gently laid her down beside it and the photographer snapped a few more pictures.

  "What do you make of the wounds, Professor?" Loomis asked.

  Ramirez winced as he stared at the curious markings carved into the young woman's chest.

  "They appear to be runic symbols," he said, "but I've never seen anything like them before."

  "So what are we looking at?" asked Loomis. "A crime committed by an adept?"

  Ramirez pursed his lips. "Possibly. Would you ask your men to step back a moment, please?"

  Loomis gestured to the uniformed officers and they moved away from the body. Ramirez swallowed nervously, then crouched down over the corpse and closed his eyes. He remained in that position for a moment, concentrating, then stood up, a grave expression on his face.

  "Damn, I was hoping I'd be wrong," he said, turning away. His stomach felt queasy and he was fighting nausea.

  "Trace emanations?" Loomis asked.

  Ramirez nodded. "Very strong ones." He glanced at Loomis. "You know about thaumaturgic emanations?"

  "A little," Loomis said. "But I'm no expert. We're really not equipped to deal with necromancy."

  Ramirez gave him a sharp look.

  "That's what we've got here, isn't it?" said Loomis. "I mean, there's no point in mincing words, is there?"

  Ramirez compressed his lips into a tight grimace and nodded with resignation. "Yes. I suppose you're right."

  "I was hoping you could tell me it was something else," said Loomis with a sigh.

  "I wish I could," replied Ramirez.

  "You're sure?" asked Loomis. "There can be no question?"

  Ramirez shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

  "Well, I guess that makes it your case, then."

  Ramirez frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "Crime involving magic use," replied Loomis. "That makes it the jurisdiction of the Bureau. Which means you're in charge of the investigation as of right now."

  "Now hold on a moment," said Ramirez with a frown. "I'm a teacher, not a policeman."

  "You're the local Bureau representative," said Loomis.

  "Well, yes, technically, but I'm only an administrator. I conduct adept certification exams and I oversee licensing requirements. I'm little more than a glorified college professor. I don't know the first thing about conducting a murder investigation."

  "Well, I do," Loomis replied. "What I don't know about is magic. You're the expert there. And the law states that you have to take charge of this case. Anything I do would have to be subject to your authority. That's how it's got to be, Professor. This case is technically out of my jurisdiction."

  "But my duties at the college," said Ramirez. "I have my classes and—"

  "Look, Professor," Loomis interrupted, "this is not an ordinary murder. This girl was killed in some sort of ritual of black magic. We've never had a case of necromancy in Santa Fe before. I understand it's very rare. I've only heard of one other case, in L.A. a few years back, and from what the papers said, it was a real nightmare. I tried to get the details, but I wasn't allowed access to the official records. Only a Bureau agent has clearance for that. And you're the local-Bureau agent, even if you are only an administrator. You can get me the records of that case. And I need those records, Professor. I'm going to need all the help I can get."

  "I understand," said Ramirez, "but I'm not really qualified for something like this."

  "Well, then get me someone who is qualified," said Loomis. "But until the Bureau can send out someone who can take charge of this case, you're it. You're all I've got."

  Ramirez nodded. "Yes, of course. I can see that. I'll help you in any way I can, at least until the Bureau can send out a field agent."

  "I appreciate that, Professor," Loomis said.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "First thing I need for you to do is officially report this to the Bureau," Loomis replied. "I'm requir
ed to go through channels, which means I'm reporting it to you and you've got to pass it on to Bureau headquarters. Tell them we need some help on this, A.S.A.P. Next, I'm going to need the records of any similar cases, especially that one in L.A."

  "All right. Is there anything else?"

  "I'll need access to your records at the college," Loomis said. "And to your local Bureau files, as well."

  "I'm afraid those are confidential," said Ramirez.

  "Look, Professor, this is a homicide investigation. One involving necromancy. That means whoever did this has to be at least a wizard, am I correct?"

  Ramirez pursed his lips and nodded.

  "A warlock wouldn't be sufficiently advanced to cast a necromantic spell, am I right?"

  "Yes, that's correct," Ramirez replied tensely. "Unless he were unusually gifted, but even so . . ." He shook his head. "It would be highly unlikely. A warlock simply wouldn't have the necessary knowledge or experience for . . . something like this."

  "Then my list of suspects has to come from your college records," Loomis said, "as well as from your certification lists and the local Bureau registrations. If you have to clear that with the Bureau, then please do so, but I need that information. Without it, I haven't got a thing to go on. I assure you, I'll treat it with the utmost confidence."

  "How are you going to do that?" Ramirez asked. "The moment you start asking questions, every adept in town will know about it." He glanced toward the entrance to the placita, where a group of reporters was waiting on the sidewalk, just beyond the police barricades. "The news media will make sure of that. They'll be swarming all over you like hornets."

  "You let me worry about them," said Loomis. "They don't have to know anything I don't choose to tell them. The last thing I need right now is for this whole city to know that we've got a necromancer on the loose."

  "You're going to treat this as an ordinary homicide?" Ramirez asked. "If you don't tell them about the necromancy angle, how will you explain my presence here?"

  "Routine inquiry," replied Loomis. "We've already identified the girl. She was a student at the college. I was merely consulting you as a university official. The killer could have been one of her fellow students for all we know. If they ask you any questions, tell them that. Better yet, don't tell them anything. Just give them a 'no comment' and refer them to me."

  "I don't know," Ramirez said dubiously. "How long do you think you can keep this under wraps? The moment the Bureau field agent arrives, they'll immediately make the connection."

  "Not if the field agent shows up to conduct a routine inspection of your branch office," Loomis said. "We can stonewall the press, Professor. The important thing is to keep the necromancy angle quiet, otherwise we're liable to have a panic on our hands. Every adept in town is going to be suspected."

  "They already are, aren't they?" asked Ramirez dryly. "Necromancy requires a high degree of thaumaturgic skill. All things considered, I should think that I'd be a logical suspect myself."

  Loomis gave him a level gaze. "What makes you think you're not?"

  "Oh. I see. Well, I appreciate your candor, Lieutenant, if not the sentiment behind it."

  "No offense, Professor," said Loomis. "I don't think you did it. But I can't afford to make any assumptions. I only deal with facts. And right now, I haven't got too many of those."

  Ramirez nodded. "I understand. No offense taken. I don't envy you your job, Lieutenant. Are you finished with me for the present?"

  "For the present, yes. But I'd appreciate it if you checked in with the medical examiner sometime today. In a case like this, a Bureau agent has to sign off on the report."

  "Of course."

  "And please get those files for me as soon as possible," said Loomis. "I'm hoping this is just an isolated case. Maybe it's some adept who knew the girl and had it in for her. A passion killing or something. Otherwise, we're liable to be seeing more bodies like this before too long."

  Ramirez closed his eyes and shook his head. "God forbid."

  Loomis gave him a curious look. "God? I thought adepts were pagans."

  "Not necessarily. Some are, but I was raised a Catholic myself."

  "Really? I thought the Church didn't recognize adepts."

  "Not officially," Ramirez said. "Technically, I became excommunicate the moment I began to practice thaumaturgy. I am not allowed to partake of the sacraments, but I can still enter a church and pray." He gave a small snort. "My presence doesn't make the font boil, you know."

  Loomis smiled. "It's a strange world we live in, isn't it? You believe in the Devil, Professor?"

  "Only in a figurative sense," Ramirez replied. "I believe in Good and Evil. A necromancer is capable of conjuring up a demon, for instance. However, popular supposition aside, what he's summoning is not some entity from Hell, but a living personification of the evil in his own soul."

  "No kidding? Seriously?"

  "Seriously. Thaumaturgy deals with natural forces, not supernatural ones, though it's a rather fine line, I suppose. It depends on your perspective and beliefs. The mind is capable of more things than you might imagine, Lieutenant. If you know how to tap its potential."

  "This is starting to sound less like magic and more like psychology," said Loomis as they slowly walked back toward the entrance to the placita. "Let me see if I have this right. A necromancer is basically an adept, like any other—"

  "An advanced adept," Ramirez corrected him.

  "An advanced adept," repeated Loomis, "but the difference is that instead of using his own energy to cast a spell, he draws it off from someone else and kills them in the process, correct?"

  "Essentially, yes. But it also has to do with the nature of the spells he uses, which are, of course, highly illegal and not taught in thaumaturgy schools. Knowledge of such spells would be extremely difficult to come by, though not impossible, unfortunately."

  "I see. And in order to do that, to draw off someone else's life energy to fuel his spell, the necromancer has to be there, right? I mean, physically be present?"

  "Not necessarily," Ramirez replied.

  "Oh?" Loomis frowned.

  "Remember what I was saying about a necromancer conjuring up a demon, a living personification of his own soul? Call it his subconscious, if that makes you more comfortable. It would take a very powerful adept to do something like that, both because such a spell would be incredibly demanding and because he'd have to be strong enough not only to effect the spell, but also to control it."

  "A demon is hard to control?"

  "Extremely. Can you control your own subconscious?"

  "Oh. I see. So a necromancer could animate a part of his . . . what? His dark side?"

  "That would be a good way of putting it, yes."

  "And he'd have to be unusually strong in order to control it, because he'd be trying to control a part of himself that most people don't have any control over at all?"

  Ramirez nodded. "Correct. It would take not only enormous skill in order to effect the spell, but enormous discipline, as well. A demon, even though it's a part of you, your subconscious, could easily destroy you. Just as anyone's subconscious can, under the proper circumstances."

  "Sounds pretty scary," Loomis said.

  "It is that."

  "You ever try it?"

  "Conjuring up a demon is against the law, Lieutenant. I wouldn't dare."

  "Why? Because it's against the law? Or because you'd be afraid to?"

  "Frankly, both."

  "But you have the skill. That is, you could do it."

  "Yes, I suppose I could. And now your next question will be to ask me where I was last night."

  "You had a small social gathering of people from the university at your home," Loomis said. "The party didn't break up until almost four in the morning, by which time the victim was already dead. And if you were casting a spell while you were there, I imagine someone would have noticed."

  Ramirez stopped and stared at him. "You've already checked me ou
t? I must say, I'm impressed, Lieutenant. You're very thorough."

  "Let's get back to this demon thing. You're saying that the girl could have been killed by a demon, but that the necromancer wouldn't actually have had to be physically present? I mean, he could have animated his subconscious and sent it out to do the job?"

  "Yes, it's possible."

  "Which means the killer could have been somewhere else at the time of the murder? That he could have an alibi?"

  "He could have been somewhere else, yes," Ramirez said, "but he would have been unable to cast the spell or direct the entity with any witnesses present. Unless, of course, they were in collusion with him. Such a spell would be very dangerous and complicated, to say nothing of being rather dramatic. It would require a great deal of concentration. The demon would initially appear wherever the necromancer was, and it would have to be contained within a warding pentagram before it could be directed. Not exactly the sort of thing you could do in the middle of a cocktail party. Not unless you wanted to be the center of attention."

  "Yeah, I guess that would do it," Loomis said. "So what you're telling me is that I can safely eliminate any adepts who can produce witnesses to account for their whereabouts last night?"

  "Unless the witnesses were involved themselves," Ramirez said.

  "I don't even want to think about that," Loomis said. He sighed heavily. "That would mean we had some sort of cult on our hands, wouldn't it?"

  "Not a very attractive possibility," Ramirez replied. "But I wouldn't overlook it."

  "You see?" said Loomis with a smile. "You're already starting to think like a cop."

  Ramirez grimaced and looked out past the barricades, where the crowd of reporters was waiting. "Do you suppose there's any way I can avoid all that?"

  Loomis beckoned to one of the men. "Have the officer who brought Professor Ramirez down bring his unit up through the line," he said. "And move those people back so he can get through without being hassled."

  "Thank you," said Ramirez.

  "Thank you," said Loomis. "I appreciate your help on this. I wouldn't want to have to handle this thing all by myself."

  "I only wish you could," Ramirez said. "Tell me, Lieutenant Loomis—"