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

by Dana Donovan

  Carlos nodded. “That’s right.”

  And none had particularly high levels of alcohol in their system.”

  Again he nodded. “Four of them had no drugs or alcohol in their system at all.”

  “Okay, so that leads me to believe that the killer, for whatever reason, is targeting that particular type of individual. After all, if these were just thrill kills, then I imagine any old transient would do.”

  Spinelli kicked in, “And because you fit the mold, you believe you qualify as bait?”

  I looked at Carlos and gave him a thumbs up. “The kid’s good, Carlos. You better watch him.”

  He laughed at that. “Are you kidding? I’ll be too busy watching you.”

  “Come again?”

  “Tony, if you’re going to dress up as a hobo and stick your neck out like some sacrificial lamb, then you’re going to need back up. I’m going with you.”

  “No, you can’t. It’s got to look like I’m traveling solo.”

  “Then I’ll shadow you. I’ll dress accordingly and hang back, out of sight.”

  “We’ll wear wires,” said Spinelli.

  “We?”

  He looked both surprised and offended. “Of course. We’re not going to let you hog all the glory. Besides, with all due respect, Detective, you’re not a cop any more. You need us to pull this off.”

  He had me there. Working alone in an unofficial capacity without adequate back up could get me killed. Though bringing the two of them in would increase my odds of blowing my cover, I knew it was a chance I had to take. So, I agreed with certain conditions, including the absolute must that they (Carlos) kept out of sight and dead quiet.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll stay fifty yards up and down track from you the entire time. At the first sign of trouble you drop the code word and we’ll be on you like white on dice.”

  “That’s white on rice,” I said.

  He crowded his forehead till the light went on upstairs. “Huh, that does make more sense, doesn’t it?”

  I turned to Spinelli. “Dominic, do you really think you two can stay out of sight all night?”

  “Tony, please.” He gestured with opened palms. “We’re professionals.”

  “Hey, what about the other analogy?” asked Carlos.

  “What analogy?”

  “Like flies on ships. Is that how that goes?”

  Not wanting to go there, Spinelli and I both answered, “Yes, Carlos. That’s how it goes.”

  Eighteen

  As night fell, Carlos, Spinelli and I headed up Dutton Street towards Minor’s Point. We finalized our game plan and settled on Witchit as our code word. After field-testing our wireless mikes and transmitters, we split off in three directions.

  Spinelli had done a location survey, mapping out all the places where the victims died. Eight of the ten were killed between Crooks Blind and the Jefferson Street Bridge. Spinelli called it murderous mile. The proximity of that dubious stretch fell within walking distance of the jungle where virtually all the victims likely set up camp one time or another. For that reason, I decided to look for a spot smack in the middle of Spinelli’s mile and make myself as conspicuous as possible.

  I remembered a particular patch of woods with a clearing by the tracks when Carlos and I were investigating out in the field. I knew from the bottles and butts and the evidence of recent campfires that such a place might show up on our killer’s radar. I only hoped for our purposes, the site was empty of campers.

  I had dressed in typical hobo attire, heeding the advice of the old man in the alley by layering in dark clothing and carrying a bedroll on my back. The night was mostly clear with a near-full moon rising. As I made my way to the campsite, I met several very despicable characters. None seemed particularly dangerous, but in passing I said hello and checked a half salute to them. In each case, I received a greeting of sorts in return, which made me think that I had at least succeeded in dressing the part. I pressed my finger to my earpiece and uttered softly, “Carlos, you copy?”

  He came back, “Roger Bulldog. Havana Joe here; I copy.”

  “What? Is that you, Carlos?”

  “Gees, Tony, call me by my moniker.”

  I rolled my eyes and laughed lightly at that. “All right, fine, but keep your profile low. You got it?”

  “Roger that.”

  I checked with Spinelli. “Dom, you on?”

  “I’m here, Detective, just south of your position.”

  I looked back in his direction and spotted a pedestrian walk over the tracks about fifty yards away. “You on the catwalk?”

  He came back simply, “Meow.”

  “Can you see me?”

  “That’s affirmative. I have you in my binoculars. Hey, by the way, do you still have your 9mm?”

  “It’s in my backpack.”

  “I have an extra ankle holster and a snub nose in the car if you need a back up.”

  I thought about it. A back up is always a good idea in the field. But technically, I wasn’t even supposed to have a gun. I thanked Spinelli for the offer but declined. “I could use an extra coat, though,” I said. I layered up, but it’s a lot cooler out here than I thought.”

  He came back, “Sorry, kemosabe. No gots, but don’t worry. You probably won’t need to stay out there too long. We’re expecting a couple of north bounds and one south bound through here before midnight. If your killer doesn’t show up for that party, we’ll have to wait till tomorrow night to try again.”

  “Great. Remind me to pack some hot chocolate in a thermos if it comes to that, will you?”

  “Sure. In the meantime, maybe you should get your fire going.”

  “I will, and like I told Banana Joe, remember to keep low. I don’t want to spook anyone.”

  “That’s Havana Joe!” cried Carlos. “What, did you think, I wasn’t listening?”

  I couldn’t see Spinelli from where I stood, but I knew he got a good laugh out of that. I offered Carlos a halfhearted apology before instructing them both to go dark.

  “Keep your ears open and your traps shut,” I said, meaning most of it for Carlos. “I’ll talk you through what I see, but remember, do nothing unless you hear the word, Witchit. You got that, Dom?”

  He answered, “Got it.”

  “Carlos?” I waited for Carlos to respond, but nothing came. “Carlos? You got it?” Still he did not answer. I tapped my mike. “Carlos? Damn, Spinelli, I’m getting concerned over here. I think Carlos’ unit went out.”

  Spinelli said, “Try Havana Joe.”

  “What?”

  “Try it.”

  I dropped a sigh and mumbled through gritted teeth, “Havana Joe?”

  He kept me waiting a full three count before keying in, “Roger that, Bulldog. Listening for the Witchit.”

  I spent the next twenty minutes gathering firewood, all the while keeping Carlos and Spinelli posted by narrating on my surroundings.

  “A narrow path feathers out just west of here,” I said, nearly in a whisper. “I think it probably leads to the access road off Jefferson. Better keep your ears open for motor sounds from that direction, Carlos.” Later I noted how the wind had shifted from the north. “If it causes the campfire smoke to throw up a screen, Dom, let me know. I’ll reposition.”

  Some of what I narrated must have sounded like idle chatter, and I suppose it was. But I wanted them to get familiar with the audio levels of my voice and my breathing in case I suddenly found myself in trouble. Also, I know how Carlos is. It doesn’t take much to distract him. The last thing I wanted was for him to miss his cue or fall off his mark. Spinelli, I wasn’t worry about. If the next generation of cops is halfway like him, our future is in good hands.

  After getting a solid fire started, I sat down on a log and settled in front of it for the long haul. The first couple of hours went by uneventfully, but along about ten o’clock, I heard a noise that sounded like a small animal approaching from behind. I knew the area had its share of
opossums, raccoons, squirrels and skunks, and figured that the rustling of leaves could be any of those, or one of a dozen other little critters foraging the woods for food. The moon had risen over the trees and its pale yellow light allowed me a fine distinction between shapes and shadows. For that reason, I decided against reaching for my weapon, relying instead on the fire to convince the creature to keep its distance. I tucked my chin to my chest and whispered into my mike.

  “Got a visitor.”

  Spinelli came back, “Is it a friendly?”

  “Hope so. I haven’t had my rabies shots.”

  “Are we supposed to have that?” Carlos asked. “Because I never got mine.”

  “No, Carlos. I’m kidding. You don’t get the shots unless you’ve been bitten by a rabid animal.”

  “You can,” said Spinelli. “There’s a pre-emptive vaccine for humans.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that. I thought….”

  A tree branch behind me snapped, and I suddenly found myself confronted by a sound that I knew no furry little chipmunk made. I turned abruptly, too blinded from looking at the fire to see through the shadows. As I stood to face what I thought was the direction of the noise, I heard a voice call out.

  “Howdy, Capt`n. Permission to come aboard?”

  I looked down at my bedroll and calculated the time it would take to reach it and grab my weapon. I concluded that if the intruder was armed and fixed on causing me harm, then I didn’t have a chance. Instead, I cupped my eyes and squinted into the darkness, hoping that my unexpected guest was alone and friendly.

  “Howdy to you,” I said. “Welcome aboard. Have a seat.” I waved my hand past the flames, presenting a place by the fire. My hope was that he would sit across from me, but kinship in hobo circles extends beyond acquaintances. He sat down on the log within arm’s length of where I stood. I reclaimed my seat but scooted away just a bit further, though not so far that my bedroll remained out of reach. My new guest offered his hand and I shook it, smiling with reserve as he introduced himself.

  “Name’s Smiley,” he said, and when he grinned at me I could see why they called him that. He had barely a tooth in his head. I thought he looked familiar, but in the flickering campfire light I couldn’t tell if that was because I had seen him before or because he just looked like the quintessential roving vagabond. I only hoped that I looked half as convincing playing my part.

  “Smiley, huh? Well, nice to meet you,” I said. “They call me Bulldog.”

  His toothless grin had all but disappeared when he cranked it up again at the corners. “Yeah.” He pointed a crooked finger at me and shook it. “Bulldog, right, I thought I recognized you.”

  “You know me?”

  Now he didn’t seem so sure. “Don’t I?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t see how. I just rode in on the B&O this evening.”

  “Flatbed?”

  “Boxcar.”

  His eyes grew suspicious and his posture rigid. “Is that so? Where’d you catch out?”

  “Maine.”

  “No, that can’t be. The B&O don’t run that far north, fella.”

  In my earpiece, I heard Spinelli shout, “B&M, Tony. It’s the B&M, Boston and Maine.”

  I looked at Smiley as if I was offended. “Yes, of course. Did I say B&O? I meant B&M. I know the Baltimore and Ohio don’t run through here. Ha, guess I’m just rail weary.”

  Smiley eased back on the log, tapping an unfiltered cigarette from a generic pack and wedging it between his sticky lips. He offered up the next smoke in the pack to me, but I waved him off with a thin smile and a subtle headshake.

  I noticed then that his hands were black with grease and his arms all scratched and scabbed. My first thought was that he had been accosted and survived. But then I realized that his wounds appeared not so much defensive in nature as aggressive. I watched how he pulled a burning stick from the fire to light his cigarette. The glow from the flame highlighted still more scratches and cuts on his face, which led me to conclude that he had indeed been engaged in a struggle or two recently.

  After returning the stick to the fire, old smiley rocked back and blew a stream of white-blue smoke toward the sky. In his exhale, he said, “That’s all right. Lord knows we all get weary out here.”

  He reached into the lining of his jacket, and for a moment, I thought he was reaching for a weapon. Another second and I would have pounced on him, breaking his arm before he had a chance to take aim at me. I don’t know why I waited, maybe because I knew that I was so much younger, stronger and quicker. For whatever reason, giving him the benefit of the doubt seemed prudent. Instead of a weapon, Smiley pulled from beneath his coat a bottle of rock gut. He removed the cap and dragged his dirty coat sleeve over the opening before passing it to me.

  “Here ya go, Capt`n. A little white mule will help those weary bones. Bottom’s up.”

  Spinelli came back with a whispered warning, “Easy, Tony. That’s corn whiskey. It’ll tear you up quick.”

  I took the bottle and made a good show of belting back a swig that I hoped would stay down. After re-sculpting my distorted face, I handed it back and thanked him as if I meant it.

  He laughed. “Don’t thank me. Thank the stupid cop that gave me the money to buy it.”

  Suddenly it hit me who he was: the old wino in the alley that Carlos, Spinelli and I stopped to talk to a couple of days earlier. I had given him ten bucks; not figuring it would last him the night. But instead of spending it on a meal and a simple bottle of wine, he stretched it out, buying old-fashioned moonshine and cheap cigarettes.

  He looked different now, maybe because he hadn’t just woken up. That morning he had an eyeful to look at with the three of us dressed like we were heading for a Halloween party. But now I had dressed more convincingly, and the night shadows were in my favor. He said he thought I looked familiar, and now I knew why. I made it a point from thereon not to hold eye contact with him for too long.

  “Why did the cop give you money?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Why do they ever? Not because they feel sorry for you; know what I mean?”

  I laughed. “They ain’t the Sallies. That’s for sure.”

  “Got that, my friend.” He belted back a hit of moonshine and tried handing the bottle back to me. I passed, explaining that my stomach had not felt right all day. He nodded as though he knew well enough about that.

  “It’ll happen, spearing biscuits this time of year.”

  “What?”

  Spinelli said, “He’s talking about fishing out of the trash. Tell him it ain’t keeping so fresh in the can.”

  “`Cause it’s hotter now,” said Smiley.

  “Right,” I said. “It ain’t keeping in the can no more.”

  He looked down and patted his belly. “That’s why I only hop the dumpsters at supermarkets and I only eat what’s on top. That way I know it’s fresh.”

  “Good idea,” I told him, although the thought of that really did make my stomach turn. “Anyway, tell me what that cop wanted from you.”

  He drew another long drag on his smoke before flicking the butt into the fire. “Yeah, the cop. There was three of `em, actually, all dressed like frat boys in drag. Ho, what a sight?”

  “Yeah? Were they asking about all the suicides going down around here lately.”

  From the moment I opened my mouth, I realized I had made a mistake. Smiley’s posture grew rigid again. His facial expression hardened like stone. I could see him looking at me now with renewed mistrust. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I said, thinking quickly. “It’s just that a couple of dicks stopped me today to ask about them. Thought maybe they were the same guys.”

  He rocked his head back and narrowed his eyes. “No,” he said, clearly lying to me now. “They wanted to know `bout some warehouse break-ins and robberies.”

  “Oh, I see.” I nodded. “Yeah, they always suspect us first, don’t they?”

  The vibes I got from him t
hen set the hairs on the back of my neck on end. I thought I would break the tension by stirring up the logs in the fire and acting less interested in his brush with the cops––a move I never should have made. Even a rookie knows better than to let his guard down like that when he senses unease in a situation.

  I leaned forward, letting Smiley’s silhouette slip from my peripheral vision. To change the subject, I asked him about the big jamboree coming up that weekend. “It’s supposed to be the biggest yet in these parts,” I said. “Ever been to this one?”

  I finished poking the logs and rearranging the hot spots, when I turned around and found Smiley standing over me with a gun—my gun.

  “Easy does it, Mister.” He had assumed a shooter’s stance.

  I put my hands up and backed away from the fire. “What are you doing?”

  “You just caught out of Maine, did you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then how come you know about all the suicides here in New Castle?”

  “Are you kidding? They say word gets around fast in hobo circles…Witchit…does.

  “Don’t give me that crap. I know who you are. You think you’re so clever.”

  “Me? Not nearly.”

  “Ya must `cause I know ya figured out I done it.”

  “I did?”

  “That’s right. What? I don’t look like a cold-blooded killer to you?”

  “Wow!” I shook my head. “Actually, I’m surprised. I had no idea.”

  “Don’t lie, Mister. You knew it. That’s why you questioned me in the alley. It’s why you’re here tonight. You knew I’d be here `cause Gitana’s got a train pulling out tonight. And you figured I’d catch out on it.”

  “I see. And now I suppose you think you’re going to get me to step out in front of that train.”

  “The idea had crossed my mind. You can make it look like another suicide.”

  “What makes you think I would do that?”

  He pointed the gun at my knees. “`Cause I can make it a lot more slow and painful for you if you don’t.”

  I shook my head. “I have back up on the way, you know. You’ll never get away with it.”

  “No you don’t, or they’d be here by now.”