THE WITCH'S KEY (Detective Marcella Witch's Series. Book 3)

by Dana Donovan

“No.” she shook her head. “I’m not, actually.”

  “Of course not. Why should you? Funny, isn’t it?”

  Her brows rose slightly. “What?”

  “That you asked me to find these snippets of hair the other night. Bet you didn’t think I would.”

  “Those aren’t the snippets I asked you to find.”

  I admit, at that point my patience was wearing thin. I tossed the locket back onto the table and did nothing when the lid sprang open and the hair clippings spilled out. Lilith seemed unfazed by the change in my demeanor and even laughed at the unintended consequences. I stood abruptly, crowding over the pictures with my palms flat against the table.

  “Cut the crap, Lilith! I want some straight answers from you. Now!” She reeled back. “I want to believe that you had nothing to do with the rash of suicides that have gone down lately, but you’re making it difficult.”

  She sat up in her chair and leaned in on her elbows to narrow the distance between us. “It’s only difficult, Tony,” her voice fell into a sexy sort of hush, “because you have nothing, and you’re trying desperately to pin your meager trail of trinkets on me. So, what do you say we just kiss my ass and let me go?”

  “What?” I backed away a half step. “You call this meager?” I waved my hand over the spread of evidence. “You’re all over this, Lilith. Look. These are pictures of you sneaking into Minor’s Point dressed like a stalker. These are your witch’s keys. This Incubus devil ring, it’s yours.”

  “You can’t prove any of that.”

  “What about this locket? It has my hair clippings in it. Who else but you could have gotten that from me?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, your barber maybe?”

  “That’s funny, seeing you’re the one who cuts my hair now.”

  She pushed off of her elbows and slapped her hand down on the table. “Screw it!” She picked up one of the photos and tore it in half. “You know what? You caught me sneaking onto private property. Big deal, charge me with trespassing. The witch’s key you found by the tracks? It could be anyone’s. Anything you seized from my apartment, you did so illegally, so they’re inadmissible. The ring is irrelevant. You have no proof it’s mine, and as far as the locket goes, it’s your hair inside it. Who’s to say that you didn’t drop it after killing that transient?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “Yeah? Well, seems to me that your mountain of evidence is nothing more than a molehill of circumstantial bullshit. I have a good mind to sue this city for false arrest and imprisonment including the unlawful use of a restraining device resulting in serious injury to my person.”

  “You’re not injured.”

  “I have circumstantial evidence to the contrary.”

  “Such as?”

  “My back and neck. It hurts when I do this.” She demonstrated her alleged pain by turning her head fifteen degrees in either direction, accompanied by exaggerated groans and torturous expressions. “See?”

  I had to laugh, but inside I knew she was right about qualifying for a lawsuit. Still, I know a bluff when I hear one.

  “Pleeease,” I said, showing no concern for her threat. “That’s not what you call circumstantial. That’s called felonious intent to extort from a government municipality, and it’s punishable by a real prison term of ten-to-twelve with time off in five for good behavior, which, incidentally, I don’t see happening since you don’t know how to behave yourself.”

  You have to love Lilith for scoffing in all the right places. Nonetheless, she let me finish and reminded me when I was done that I still didn’t have a case for the DA.

  “Blow all the steam you want,” she said. “In the end, it’s still only circumstantial, and juries don’t convict on circumstance.”

  “They do if the circumstantial evidence is supported by an eye witness.”

  “Oh?” She eased back, folding her arms to her chest. “This should be good.”

  “It is,” said Carlos. “We have a witness who saw you with Raymond Kosinski moments before he jumped from a trestle.”

  She soured her face at that. “Who?”

  “Leonard Kingsley. He’s a brakeman on a CSX Portland to Providence.”

  “No, I mean, who is Raymond Kosinski?”

  I chimed in. “He’s the young man that Kingsley saw with you just moments before he jumped to his death.”

  “He said it was me?”

  “He did. Dominic showed him the photograph he took of you a couple of weeks ago and he had no problem identifying you as that woman.”

  Lilith’s expression grew predictably neutral. “Really? Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know either of those men. It doesn’t matter anyway. What you have here is a case of mistaken identity.”

  “I don’t know about that. He seemed certain.”

  “I’m sure he did, but your recipe is still incomplete. You don’t have a motive. You’ll need that, won’t you? In any trial, you need motive, means and opportunity; remember?”

  I sat down again and copied her body language, including the arm folding and practiced smug look. I didn’t want her to see that I knew she was right. The evidence was weak at best, and with what we had so far, the DA would never let it get to a jury.

  But I’ve learned not to give an inch in situations like this, and to treat every nuance of evidence like the proverbial nail in the coffin. Sometimes it works; others, it does not. The determining factor is always in the character of the suspect. With Lilith, I got the feeling that everything we had collected against her was slipping away like sand through our hands.

  “The motive isn’t important,” I insisted. “In serial cases, it’s usually nothing more than someone getting his kicks out of watching people die. As far as opportunity, these photos prove you had plenty of that.”

  Even as I spoke, her head shook in dismissal of my theory. She knew me well enough not to worry about academic foreplay, and to address only the tangible incriminating evidence against her, of which, it turned out, we really had none.

  “What about means?” she said, saving her best shot for last. “You have a witness who claims to have seen me. Big deal. You have others who saw men step out in front of moving trains on their own freewill. Are you going to convince the DA that I, with my hundred-and-eight pound body, somehow forced those men, some twice my size, to kill themselves?”

  I couldn’t let it pass. “A hundred and eight, Lilith?”

  She smiled back, teasingly. “All right, one-twelve.” I raised a brow at that, but she squelched it quickly. “And we’ll leave it at that.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the paper I found in the back seat of her car. “Here’s your means,” I said, handing it to her. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes.” she laughed. “This is a will-kill spell.”

  “I know what it is.”

  At that point, I must admit that even I had a difficult time keeping a straight face. She looked the page over thoroughly before giving it back. “You’re going to tell the DA that I cast a spell on those men?”

  “Didn’t you? I mean, I know you had to do something to get them to walk out in front of a moving train like that.”

  I watched her face grow from disbelief to scorn and then to something resembling hurt. At that moment I knew the interview was over. She leaned forward in her chair, hesitated, and then stood, looking tired and beat.

  “You know what, Tony?” The scornful tone in her voice caught my attention now like never before. Her eyes seemed to look both at me and through me at the same time. “I was having fun with this for awhile,” she said, and I definitely heard a break in her voice. “I thought you put all this on for my benefit. But now you’ve ruined it.”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “This,” she swept her hand over the table. “I thought we were putting on this show for Carlos and Spinelli. I never thought you were really buying into any of it. Now I see….” She stopped to catch her breath. “
Now I see you in another light. You’re no different after all; are you?”

  “Lilith, I only presented you with the evidence so you could explain your side.”

  “My side?” She pointed her finger at me, and for just a moment, I swear I thought it was loaded. “I’ll tell you my side. I didn’t kill anyone, and that’s all you need to know.”

  She started for the door, and at the risk of serious witch-baked repercussions, I grabbed her arm to stop her. “Lilith, wait!” She could have pulled away easily, but did not. “I’m sorry. I truly am, but we’re desperate. We need answers. Everything we see here connects you to this case in some way or another. You can’t tell me it’s all coincidence.”

  “Coincidence? Have I not told you before that coincidence—”

  “Yes, I know, it’s just another way of explaining the unexplainable.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But it’s not always the case. Look. What about this?” I reached across the table and grabbed the framed picture sitting upside down on top of the others. “Explain this.”

  She turned it over slowly, as if knowing what she might find on the other side. I watched her face turn pale as she regarded the black and white photo as some ghost from her past. Her lips parted, her eyes blinked in a flutter as she ran her fingers lightly over the image. I leaned in closer, touched her gently, and heard her whisper, “Gypsy.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  She didn’t answer, but gazed at the photo, immersed, as if pulled through time to another place so long ago. Carlos, perhaps thinking he was helping, came up from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. “That’s Gypsy, Tony. I heard her. She said Gypsy.”

  “Thank you, Carlos.” I shooed him away with a menacing glare.

  Lilith’s fingers continued along the glass over the picture in gentle strokes. I had never seen her look so vulnerable before, and imagined I might get her to talk to me if I approached her delicately. I leaned in and whispered, “It’s okay. You can tell me. Is that you, Lilith? Are you the woman in the photo?”

  She shook her head no.

  “It’s your twin then, isn’t it? Gypsy’s your twin?”

  She peeled her eyes away from the photo and immediately, that surly expression of hers returned. I backed away instinctively, not caring anymore for delicacy.

  “Gypsy is not my twin,” she said, and she pressed the picture to my chest. “She’s my mother.”

  I watched in silence as she turned and walked out of the room. I looked at Carlos and Spinelli, their faces washed in astonishment. Even if I could have found my voice, I could not have put it better than when Carlos said simply, “Man, I didn’t see that coming.”

  Seventeen

  Carlos, Spinelli and I walked in silence from the cafeteria back to Carlos’ workstation, where we stood for the longest time, looking at one another, shaking our heads and wondering where the hell the latest revelation in the case left us. When it became obvious that I would have to speak first or none of us would be going home anytime soon, I broke the ice with a modest proposal.

  “Tell me how I could have avoided the last half hour,” I said, “and I’ll pay for your dinners tonight.”

  “You couldn’t,” said Spinelli. “You did everything by the book. You laid your cards down on the table and you forced Lilith to play her hand.”

  Carlos agreed. “Not only that, but you extracted a key bit of information from her that might blow this case wide open now.”

  “You mean about Gypsy being Lilith’s mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s that going to help us blow the case open?”

  He squirmed a little. “Well…I don’t know exactly, but you’re good with that sort of thing.”

  Spinelli said. “At least you know that Lilith isn’t our killer. That’s something.”

  “And she’s not your mother,” Carlos added. “That’s got to be a relief.”

  “No,” I said. “She’s not my mother, but if Gypsy is Lilith’s mother, that makes Lilith—”

  “Your sister!” Spinelli shouted. “My God! You and Lilith are brother and sister! How weird is that?”

  I dropped my head and closed my eyes, and in that instant felt that my reason for living had become just an incidental footnote to the bigger mystery surrounding us. I suppose I should have been happy. I never had a sibling growing up and I never really knew my mother or father. Now that I had all three, I could hardly reconcile the consequences. I lifted my head and saw Spinelli, his half smile telling me that he still did not feel my pain. Carlos, however, recognized my anguish and offered real solace by way of empathetic intervention. He came to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me to his side.

  “It’s a tough break, Tony, but you know we’re here for you.”

  I nodded. “I know.”

  “If it’s any consolation, you can take comfort in knowing that you haven’t lost her. Knowing she’s your sister will only make things less complicated, not more. Now you don’t ever have to worry about a messy breakup.”

  I smiled, giving him an ‘A’ for effort. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “It doesn’t?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it does. Thanks. You’re a good friend, Carlos.” I pulled Spinelli into our little huddle. “You, too, Dominic.” I slapped them both on the back and then pushed them away. “Now, how `bout we figure out what we’re going to do next?”

  The two retreated to neutral corners and took their seats. I could tell that Carlos still wanted to talk about the whole brother and sister thing, but Spinelli seemed less focused on that and more on the case. And maybe that was good. If I dwelled too much on my feelings for Lilith, I might have made myself sick. As it stood, I imagined I would probably need a month of deprogramming to flush the images I formed of her out of my mind, assuming that was even possible. I made it a point to avoid eye contact with Carlos while giving Spinelli a silent nod to say what he was thinking.

  “I don’t see how anything’s changed,” he said, though I believe Carlos and I would have respectfully disagreed. “I mean, as far as the evidence trail is concerned.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Who is Gypsy,” he said, “other than a name from the distant past?”

  He had our attention now. “Go on.”

  “I’m not saying that she wasn’t a real person, but if not for a couple of drunken bums, we would have never heard of her. Look at the evidence. It still points to Lilith. The witch’s keys are hers. The Incubus ring is hers. We have photos of her sneaking onto railroad property at night wearing dark clothing. There is at least one witness who identified her from a photo as being the last person to see one of the vics. We have your hair, Detective, in a locket that—”

  “All right!” I said, holding my hand to his face to shut him up. “I get it. We have nothing that suggests the existence of another suspect named Gypsy.”

  “Exactly. It would not be a stretch to say that Gypsy is just a fabrication to throw us off track.”

  “But not Lilith’s fabrication. You said so yourself that a couple of drunken bums started that rumor.”

  “Ah, because that’s what Lilith wanted them to believe. By leaving chalked symbols relating to Gypsy at the site of each murder, she knew that word would circulate like fire around the jungle that the ghost of Gypsy was killing again.”

  “Why?” asked Carlos. “Why kill transients? That doesn’t seem like Lilith’s thing.”

  “He’s right,” I said. “Lilith didn’t do it.” Spinelli cleared his throat to challenge that assertion, but then seemed to change his mind for no reason. I knew what he was thinking, though, and I wanted him to say it. I’ve always considered constructive criticism and open dialogue the cornerstone of any partnership.

  I felt that Spinelli was a good cop with an inherent aptitude for understanding human nature. For him to subordinate his opinions for fear of conflicting with mine could only squelch his
greater instinct for creative reasoning. I reached over and tapped him on the knee. “Dominic,” I said, “go on. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He shook his head. “Forget it.”

  “No, please. This is an open forum.”

  He shrugged, but I knew it was coming. “I think you’re in denial,” he said. “I hate to bring this up, but you know about Lilith’s involvement in the Lieberman and Kayo murders.”

  “That’s never been proven.”

  “Then you deny it?”

  “Her involvement? No. I wouldn’t say that.”

  “All right, then why do you find it so hard to believe that she’s culpable in these homicides?”

  I looked at Carlos, who gave me a question mark look validating Spinelli’s point. In a perfect world, they would both be right. If Gypsy were in her early twenties back in 1942, it would seem unlikely now that she’d be running around the countryside, hopping freights and leaving a trail of dead bodies in her wake. But this was not a perfect world and the element of witchcraft left all doors open for imperfect scenarios.

  I thanked Spinelli again for his candidness, adding that his input and opinions are never taken for granted.

  “And I’m not ruling out her involvement entirely,” I told him. “Just so we’re clear on that. I know her past is all but squeaky clean. But if she’s tied up in this, it’s not on the dark side of it.”

  He rocked back in his seat and folded his arms to his chest. “You seem sure of yourself.”

  “I am, and I’m sure she has her reasons for not telling us what she knows. I don’t know what they are, and maybe I’ll never understand them, but I believe it. And if you think I’m in denial, fine. I’ll accept that. But to prove my point, I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is.”

  “What’s that mean?” Carlos asked.

  “It means it’s time to get in the thick of it. I’m going to put myself out there as bait.”

  “Come again?”

  “Look, we know that all the victims shared similar physical characteristics; young white males about the same height, weight and build, and all traveled alone.”