Personally, I could feel the anguish exuding from the young man, and I seriously doubted that it was an act.
“When did this happen?” R.J. queried at last, wiping his reddened eyes with his shirtsleeve.
“Wednesday,” Ben told him. “Sometime after six in the evening.” He was holding a small notebook and ever vigilant, continued, “So, were you her boyfriend?”
“No,” he sniffed. “Just a friend.”
“You said you were here ta’ water the plants. I assume Miz Tanner gave you a key?”
“Yeah.”
“When would that have been?” Ben pressed as he scribbled more notes.
“Last Sunday. She was supposed to leave last night, and she asked me if I’d keep an eye on the place.”
“And that’s the last time you saw ‘er?”
“Yeah.”
Ben paused for a second as he turned to a fresh page, then tilted his head to look directly into R.J.’s face. “Mind tellin’ me where you were Wednesday night?”
“I was…” He started to speak and then caught himself. He almost visibly pondered his answer for a split second before continuing, “I was out of town on a camping trip.”
“Were you with anyone?”
“My dad. It was our annual fishing trip,” R.J. answered, then his eyes grew wide with sudden realization. “Am I a suspect?!”
“It’s just routine,” Ben told him. “But I’d prefer it if ya’ kept yourself available.”
“How long did you know Ariel?” I asked him.
“A couple of years,” he replied. “I was a member of…” he paused uneasily, “…a club she was in.”
“You mean you were a member of her coven?” I questioned.
He stared back at me with a shocked, almost frightened, expression. He reached up to his chest and fingered a silver Pentacle hanging about his neck as if he had forgotten it was there.
“It’s not what you cops think…” he started.
“Whoa,” I stopped him and jerked my thumb over my shoulder at Ben. “He’s the only cop here. My name’s Rowan Gant.” I held my hand out to him. “I’m a Witch too.”
“Rowan Gant,” he repeated my name as he took my hand and shook it. “The Rowan Gant that Ariel studied with?”
“Yeah,” I returned. “That’s me. I’m just here as a consultant.”
“Ariel talked about you and your wife all the time,” he continued. “She even had a picture of all you guys together on a camping retreat you took.”
I smiled slightly, remembering the trip well. Felicity and I had taken Ariel and a number of other Wiccan friends on a weeklong retreat to the Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois just over two years ago. We had camped, studied nature, and become closer to Mother Earth as well as one another. We had ended that trip with a ritual circle on Summer Solstice, one of the religion’s four Lesser Sabbats.
After what I had experienced in the apartment less than an hour before, the memories of that holiday were pleasant and very welcome.
“I’m glad it was a happy time for her,” I told him.
“I thought she told me you were into computers or something like that,” he said.
“I am.”
“Then what are you consulting with the police about?” he queried.
“You probably didn’t notice the walls in her bedroom,” I started carefully. “There were some symbols left behind. Her death is apparently related to The Craft in some way.”
“Devon!” he screamed suddenly. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch!”
With that, he once again bolted past both Ben and me as he ran full speed up the small space between the buildings with my friend on his heels. Being shorter of stature and much wirier, R.J. was able to negotiate the cramped alleyway with slippery ease, quickly widening his lead and bursting out on to the street. I, with my throbbing skull, arrived in front of the building just in time to see Ben trying to yank open the door of a gold Trans Am.
R.J. gunned the engine, and the car jumped away from the curb, tires squealing against asphalt. Ben managed to follow alongside for a few steps before losing his grip on the handle, and choosing discretion over valor, back-peddled from the vehicle as it sped away.
“Are you all right?” I called to him as he jogged toward me.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he nodded. “Did ya’ catch what he said?”
“He said he was going to kill someone named Devon,” I replied. “I seem to have triggered it when I told him Ariel’s death was somehow connected to The Craft.”
“Well,” he said walking toward the back of the house. “Let’s get back to the van and get his plate number out over the air. I’m thinkin’ maybe we need ta’ find out who this Devon guy is.”
Using the police radio in his van, Ben was able to get R.J.’s license plate number, as well as a description of the car and him, out to the on-duty patrols. We were just pulling into the parking lot of the medical examiner’s office when a call blared over the tinny speaker stating that he had been picked up. Ben quickly instructed the arresting officer to bring him to the M.E.’s office where we would be waiting.
Ben was thumbing through his notes as we walked across the lot in the general direction of the entrance. After flipping back and forth between pages a trio of times, he settled on a particular scribble and glanced over at me.
“What’s an at-tommy?” he queried as he searched his breast pocket for a writing implement.
“Athame,” I corrected. “It’s a Witch’s personal knife. It’s used in rituals and the practice of The Craft. Why?”
He quickly added the words “Witches Knife” to the scrawled notation.
“When you were doing that thing, whatever it was, back at the apartment, you screamed something about the killer using Ariel’s own Ath-Tommee,” he still stumbled over the word, “to skin her.”
“Yeah.” The thought brought back unpleasant phantom pains in my chest. “That’s what I saw.”
“Whaddaya use it for?” he continued. “To sacrifice things or something?”
“No,” I answered. “Not in the sense you mean. A Witch’s athame should never draw blood, and the only sacrifice a Witch makes is of him or herself.”
“So ya’ think Ariel Tanner was tortured and killed with her own Witch knife?” he voiced.
“Yes,” I answered. “Which is something that made it even worse for her because an athame is a very personal tool to a Wiccan practitioner. Hers was a dirk.”
“Which is?”
“A European double-edged dagger about six inches long,” I explained. “It’s double-beveled and has a black handle.”
“Is that somethin’ you saw in your vision?”
“Yes. But I knew even before then. I gave it to her when she went out and started her own coven. It was a gift.”
We entered the coroner’s office and were greeted by a pleasant young woman at the reception desk who led us back to a room with stainless steel tables and tile floors: a room where the emptiness of death pervaded every sense to one who is aware. The young woman introduced us to Dr. Christine Sanders, the chief medical examiner who was also the M.E. working Ariel’s case.
Despite my protestations, Ben pointed out my recent injury and asked if she might be able to take a look at it. After an effusive amount of concern, I was forced to be x-rayed and the gash stitched up. This was not something I expected from someone who spends her days with the dead, and I made the mistake of stating as much. She was quick to point out that she was in fact an M.D., so I elected not to argue.
Once my spur-of-the-moment medical treatment was finished, we gathered in Dr. Sanders’ office. With its carpeting, mauve walls, and strategically placed paintings, it was a much more pleasant place to be than the chilled antiseptic realm of the autopsy suite.
“Ariel Tanner…” she began. “Just finished that one yesterday afternoon. You guys are lucky you caught me here,” she added. “This is supposed to be my day off. I only came in to
finish up some paperwork.”
“I know the feelin’, doc,” Ben replied.
Dr. Sanders continued leafing through a thick file folder and finally came to rest on the page she sought. Her glasses hung loosely on a chain around her neck, giving her a stern look. Her demeanor, however, was much more pleasant than her outer appearance immediately suggested. She tossed back a shoulder-length shock of grey-flecked, brunette hair and slid the glasses onto her face, resting them lightly on the end of her nose.
“It appears that we are still waiting on some of the tox screen results,” she told us. “But cause of death was due to an acute trauma to the neck resulting in massive blood loss. Judging from her histamine levels, the trauma to the chest…” She looked up over her glasses at me then to Ben.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “He’s consulting on the case.”
“…Then,” she continued, “the trauma to the chest and excision of the dermis occurred antemortem.”
“In English, doc,” Ben said.
“She was skinned alive, Detective.”
Jotting down quick notes, Ben continued, “Any idea what the killer mighta used ta’ accomplish that?”
“Based on the size and shape of the wounds…” She looked back at the file and flipped over some more pages. “A short, beveled blade of some sort, but that’s just a guess.”
“One last question,” he asked. “And it might seem a bit odd. Did ya’ find any marks on her arms? Like a puncture wound?”
“Now that you mention it, yes we did,” Dr. Sanders answered. “There was a puncture wound on her left arm, consistent with an injection. I assumed it was from a dose of insulin since she was a diabetic.”
“We’ve got reason ta’ believe she might have been drugged. Possibly with an injection,” Ben told her after glancing quickly at me.
“We took a tissue sample,” she submitted. “It’s being screened with all the rest.”
“Dr. Sanders?” the intercom on her desk blared.
“Yes, Cecilia?” she answered.
“Sorry to bother you,” the disembodied voice continued issuing from the speaker. “But there is an officer here in the lobby to see Detective Storm.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Sanders said to the young woman at the other end then turned back to us. “Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”
“I think that’s it for now,” Ben told her, standing and stowing his small notebook in a shirt pocket. “I’d appreciate hearin’ from ya’ as soon as the tox results are in.” He handed her his card.
“No problem,” she replied, clipping the card to the front of the file folder and then turning to me. “And you, sir… I recommend you go home and get some rest.”
“You’ll get no argument from me,” I answered and shook her hand. “Thanks for the quick treatment.”
“You’re very welcome,” she smiled. “It’s nice to see one of my patients leave under his own power for a change.”
Once outside the office, I turned to Ben as we headed down the intersecting maze of corridors toward the reception area. “So what do you think?”
“I think if that puncture wound turns up somethin’ besides insulin that you’re one spooky S.O.B.” was all he said.
We were met in the lobby by a uniformed patrol officer and followed him outside to his vehicle. Ben sent him across the street for a cup of coffee, and we climbed into the back of the squad car on either side of R.J., leaving the doors partially open to avoid being locked in. His hands were cuffed behind him, and he appeared even more disheveled than earlier. He shot Ben a frightened look as we climbed in and then glanced at me as if asking for help. It was obvious that he had never been through an ordeal such as this.
“Would ya’ mind tellin’ me,” Ben started, “just exactly why I shouldn’t throw the book at ya’?”
“For what?” R.J. squeaked, trying unsuccessfully to appear tough.
“For pickin’ your nose in public,” Ben shot back sarcastically. “It doesn’t really matter! Let’s look at the facts. One. I’m tryin’ to conduct a homicide investigation. Two. You show up at the scene and clock my consultant in the face with a table lamp. Three. You flee the scene screamin’ that you’re gonna kill some individual by the name of Devon. Killin’ someone is a felony, ya’know.” He paused for effect. “Now put yourself in my place. What am I supposed to think?”
R.J. hung his head and squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. I could feel his anguish, his fear…his sadness. Quite a bit had been thrust upon him within the last few hours, and I was sure that he was rapidly approaching critical mass. I only hoped that I would be able to defuse it without getting in the way of Ben’s investigation.
“He wasn’t even home,” R.J. finally muttered.
“You mean Devon?” I queried.
“Yeah, Devon,” he answered, nodding his head. “His neighbor said he hasn’t been home for a couple of days.”
“Who is this Devon character?” Ben asked, once again flipping open the cover of his ever-present notepad.
“He used to be a member of our coven,” R.J. said, glancing quickly at Ben, then back at me, as if only I would understand. “Up until a few weeks ago.”
“He didn’t leave on very good terms I take it,” I coached.
“We banished him. He had been straying from the path for a while, and he started talking about ritual magick a lot. It was like he was trying to get us involved too.”
“Ritual magick isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”
“His idea of it was.”
“Okay, go on,” I told him, glancing up to look at Ben who met my gaze quietly and continued scribbling.
“We didn’t know how long he had actually been practicing Black Arts, but he really got a big head about it.” R.J. squirmed a little more against the biting handcuffs then continued. “He started bragging about an invocation rite and even showed us where he had done it.”
“What did he sacrifice?” I asked, knowing what the ritual implied.
“A dog,” R.J. spat, showing a flash of disgust. “He said he got it from the pound. It made all of us sick, but Ariel took it the worst. She felt like she had failed or something.”
“That’s a Pisces for you,” I told him. “I remember how she used to beat herself up over what she considered her own failings.”
“It wasn’t long after that when we held our Full Moon meeting. Devon was unanimously cast out of the coven.” He looked back to Ben as if a sudden rush of anger had displaced his fear of his own current situation. “He told us we would regret it.”
“So ya’think Devon is the one who did this to Ariel?” Ben interjected.
“It has to be,” he replied. “He was mad at all of us but especially with Ariel. If what Rowan said is true about her murder being connected to The Craft…”
“What’s his last name?” Ben cut him off.
“Johnston. Devon Johnston. He lives over in South City.”
Ben wrote down the information as R.J. relayed it to him and then looked up from his notebook. I caught his eye and motioned for him to step out of the car with me. He nodded and shoved his door open wider.
“We’ll be right back,” I told R.J. as I pushed against my own door. “I know this hurts man. I know it’s tearing you up inside… I’m feeling it too. Ground and center, you’ll feel better.”
He nodded, and even as I exited the car, he began to consciously slow his breathing just as he had been taught.
“What do you think?” I asked Ben over the roof of the vehicle, keeping my voice low.
He squinted and held up his notebook to shade his eyes. “I think there’s somethin’ he’s not tellin’ us,” he answered me in his own quiet tone. “He was kinda hesitant when I asked him about where he was Wednesday night… Not ta’ mention the fact that he has a key. What about you?”
“I picked up on that too, but honestly I think he’s just a scared kid. What about his story on that Devon Johnston guy? If he actually did sacrifice an
animal then a human could be the next logical progression.”
“Yeah, I definitely wanna have a chat with Mister Johnston.”
“If you’re game,” I submitted after a moments pause, “I’d like to try something.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to talk to the rest of the coven members.” I continued, “Get an idea of their feelings about Devon. And,” I added, “THEIR stories about what happened at that Full Moon meeting.”
“You think the kid’s makin’ it up?” Ben asked. “You’re startin’ ta’ sound like a copper.”
“I don’t really think that he’s making it up, but I think his judgment may be a bit left of center,” I answered. “Actually, what I do think is that he was in love with Ariel Tanner.”
“Where the hell’d you come up with that?”
“Just a feeling.”
“Well, I’d actually like to talk to them anyway, so I guess we can get their names from him and call them downtown,” he suggested.
“No.” I shook my head. “I think that might make them a little too uncomfortable, and they’d just clam up. Remember, you’re dealing with a group of Witches here. We’re already persecuted enough.”
“You got a better idea?”
“I want to let R.J. make the calls and get them over to my place,” I recited my idea. “A nice, informal atmosphere where we can talk Witch to Witch.”
“I don’t know…” Ben started.
“I want you there too,” I added, stopping him before he could finish his objection. “I just don’t want to spook these people. I’m pretty sure that I know their type a little better than you do. Remember, I’m one of them.”
Ben paused then smoothed his hair back, letting his hand rest at the back of his neck, his telltale physical manifestation of intense thought. I knew that he was concerned about what he considered to be an unorthodox approach to the investigation, but it had lost its normalcy the moment he asked for my advice. I also knew that he was still skeptical about the entire concept of WitchCraft, even with what he had witnessed so far today.
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