“Look, I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m not an expert criminal psychologist or anything like that. What I have to say is simply my interpretation of the facts available based on my knowledge of the Wiccan religion. As I said, knowing the whys and wherefores behind what the killer is doing just might prove useful in catching him.” I paused to let my words settle. “Now, I’m sorry if I made you look like an ass, Bill, but you seemed rather intent on acting like one even without my help… So, can we get down to business and figure out a way to catch this son-of-a-bitch before he kills again?”
A grumble of assent rolled through the room. I could tell that the majority of them still weren’t happy about having me involved in the investigation, but at the same time, I think they realized I might be able to shed some light on certain aspects of the cases.
“Fine,” I continued. “I’ll begin with telling you something that I am sure you already know. You are dealing with a very unstable individual. The second thing I will tell you is what you aren’t dealing with here… What you aren’t dealing with is a Witch.”
I paused and waited for the chairs to quit shifting and the whispers to subside.
“If you will allow me to explain,” I told them. “I am not saying that the person committing these murders is not attempting to practice some type of ritual magick, in fact, I definitely believe that that is exactly what he is doing. I also believe that he thinks the rituals used by a practitioner of The Craft play some part in it. This is very simply not true. An actual practicing Wiccan, or Witch, holds to a very specific covenant within the religion. That covenant is to Harm None. Witches do not, I repeat, DO NOT sacrifice people or animals in their rituals. The reason I’m telling you this is that it’s going to be very easy for you to point your finger at anyone who might happen to be a Wiccan practitioner, simply because this killer is mimicking one of our rituals. I really would like to avoid that. Not only would it cause undue grief for innocent individuals, it would be extremely counterproductive. For example, just because lemons are yellow and tennis balls are yellow, it doesn’t mean you can make lemonade out of tennis balls…What I’m really trying to get at is that just because one mentally unstable individual is using the symbols of the Wiccan religion and committing violent murders, it doesn’t mean that all Wiccans are psycho serial killers. Don’t put blinders on and follow that kind of distorted logic because it’s not going to get us anywhere.”
They were looking back at me a bit more attentively than earlier. I didn’t know if I had convinced them, but I hadn’t lost them, and at this stage of the game, I had the feeling that this was all I could hope for.
I motioned to Detective Deckert and Felicity once more, and again the room was pitched into darkness. Instantly, the slide projector came to life, clicking rapidly as my wife backed the tray to the beginning.
“This, as we have already established, is a Pentacle. In this position, with a single point at the top, it represents man and life. It is a very common symbol in the Wiccan religion. If this were to be turned one hundred-eighty degrees so that there were two points on top, it would then be referred to as a Pentagram. Some cults have taken it upon themselves to assign a meaning of evil and darkness to the Pentagram, claiming it represents Satan. Notice the horns and the pointed goatee.” I indicated the various points on the screen, “Factually, this is inaccurate; however, it has become widely accepted as true over the centuries. That’s probably where you got your misinformation, Bill.”
I stepped away from the podium and into the path of the slide projector. The image took up a large portion on the wall, and I was able to physically point out aspects without entirely blocking the beam of filtered light.
“In this instance, an upright Pentacle was inscribed as part of a ritual known as an Expiation spell. This spell, or ritual, is particularly Wiccan and is the one that the killer has mimicked with some notable variations. Next slide please…” The projector clicked and chunked as the first image was ejected and the second one dropped in its place. “These words, ‘All Is Forgiven,’ are also a part of this ritual. The Pentacle and the words were all inscribed at both crime scenes. As Detective Storm already told you, the victim’s blood was used to draw the symbol and letters. This would be one of the deviations I mentioned a moment ago. The other would be that instead of using wine or water for the spell, the killer once again used the victim’s blood…The fact that this was done, shows that this second ritual was performed after the murder. This correlates with the fact that an Expiation spell is used as something of a ‘self-atonement’ ritual-similar to penance given in a confessional. This leads me to believe that the killer is feeling remorse for what he’s done and is seeking to relieve the guilt.
“Next slide.” Once again the projector rotated the tray and displayed the grisly image of Karen Barnes’ mutilated corpse. “The method of killing has involved ritual flaying in both cases, followed by cutting the throat in the case of Ariel Tanner and removal of the heart in the case of Karen Barnes.”
“What’s the point?” a voice asked. “Is he some kind of sadist or something?”
“While that wouldn’t surprise me,” I answered, “the point behind skinning the victim is to bring them to a heightened sense of pain and fear before their death. From what I have been able to research, our killer appears to be attempting to invoke, or call forth, some spirit or daemon. This, he apparently believes, requires a human sacrifice and requires that the sacrifice be aware of the process. Whatever it is that he desires to call forth apparently feeds on pain and fear.”
“I thought you said you Witches didn’t do shit like that” another voice came out of the dark.
“We don’t,” I replied. “Like I said, he isn’t a Witch.”
“Then where’s he coming up with this stuff?” the same voice asked.
“Fiction,” I answered. “Horror movies. Novels. Perhaps even any number of texts available on the subject of Black Magick, both accurate and inaccurate. It wouldn’t surprise me to find a little of the Spanish Inquisition mixed in as well.”
“So,” a different voice piped in, “what you’re sayin’ is that all this is just a ration of shit, and he’s just a sick bastard goin’ around killing people.”
“Yes and no,” I returned. “I definitely agree with the ‘sick bastard’ part of your comment, but his rituals aren’t just some ‘ration of shit’ as you put it. First off, a ritual is nothing more and nothing less than you make it. It is a way of focusing one’s energies, and it can be something that you make up yourself. It doesn’t have to be some pre-prescribed set of instructions that were written by someone else.”
“Hold the phone,” another voice chimed in the dark. “You aren’t actually suggesting that this wacko is going to bring some beast or demon here from hell or something are you?”
“What I’m suggesting,” I told them, “is that a ritual is used to focus one’s energies to make something happen-like praying or the chants that monks sing. If you’re asking if I personally believe that he’s going to invoke something, just let me say that I think there are forces out there that are better left alone, and we’ll leave it at that.”
I waited wordlessly while my last statement soaked in. There were a few whispers among the group but to my surprise, no recurrence of the earlier heckling, so I continued.
“Now, I realize I haven’t really told you much about the killer, and unfortunately, I’m not able to do much more than speculate based on the existing evidence.
“First, as I said, he’s not a Witch, but he appears to be intimately familiar with The Craft. He might have been a member of a coven at one time or another, but if he actually practiced, I would think it more likely that he was solitary. It’s possible that his knowledge of Wicca was or is derived mainly from literature available at almost any bookstore.
“Second. Because of the lack of various components, I have reason to believe that Ariel Tanner’s murder was done out of his need to practice his ritual. Kar
en Barnes’ may well have been an actual performance of the sacrifice. I can’t be absolutely positive about that because as I told you, he’s making up his own ritual here. The basic components of it tell me generally what he’s trying to do, but so far, he’s left nothing behind that points me to anything specific. Based on what was done to Karen Barnes, my guess would be that it was the real thing for him, but I don’t believe he’s finished. Until he at least perceives that he has conjured whatever or whomever he seeks, then he will continue to execute the ritual.
“Point three. As depicted in this image, the skin was removed from the victim with notable precision considering we believe that the instrument used to accomplish the task is what’s know as a dirk. For those of you unfamiliar with the name, it is a double-edge, European dagger that is about six inches long. Ariel Tanner owned one for use in Wiccan rituals. It was missing from her apartment. Someone able to do this probably has some experience at it and has more than likely skinned an animal or two.”
I could hear scribbling in the dark. I may not have reached all of them, but at least some of them were taking notes, and that bolstered my confidence almost immediately.
“Finally. This individual is meticulous about his rituals. The flaying, the inscription, the use of a purification incense. He took his time and made sure he followed a regimen he had set for himself. This is going to indicate someone deeply involved in ritual and ceremony.
“In both instances, he made it a point to prop open the door to the house or building where he committed the murder. This may indicate that he wants the bodies found as quickly as possible. Couple that with the Expiation spell, and I would theorize that he wants to be caught and punished. He is seeking not only atonement from himself but from the world as well.”
“If the asshole wants to get caught, why doesn’t he just turn himself in?” came another query.
“My guess would be that he would consider that too easy,” I replied. “I don’t know. Like I said before, I’m not a psychologist, I’m just here to interpret the symbols and ritual for you. The rest is pure speculation. Lights please…”
The lights came up in the room, and I heard Felicity switch off the bulb on the projector, though she left the fan running in order to cool it down. It droned on in the otherwise somber room.
“That’s really all that I have for now. I know it’s not much,” I told them, making my way back to the rostrum. “I will be in contact with Detective Storm and will let him know if I’m able to glean anything else from all of this. Are there any more questions?”
“Yeah,” one of the detectives in the center of the room spoke up. “I’m curious about somethin’. Ain’t you s’posed to be called a warlock?”
“Big fan of Bewitched were you?” I chuckled, feeling the mood in the room lighten at his query. “No, I am a Witch. The definition of warlock is ‘liar or breaker of promises’. The word has also been used to describe a practitioner of the Black Arts, either of which I am most definitely not. If you want to get right down to it, I’m really just a person like any of you, only I happen to be of a different religion.”
“It’s heresy. I don’t care what you say.” The statement was punctuated by a notebook slamming shut and a chair screeching on linoleum.
The voice had issued from a man everyone recognized. Detective Arthur McCann stood up and strode toward the door. He had been a valued member of the county police department for as long as anyone cared to remember. He was the prototypical good guy and esteemed member of his church. I had known him well a few years back when I helped out waiting tables in the small family diner my mother had owned and where he had been a regular customer. These days, he appeared in the paper often, a one-man task force bent on the eradication of the Wiccan religion and occult practices in Saint Louis. It was his belief that anything which didn’t include his God was nothing more than a cult and therefore evil. He was not about to listen to anything different.
“If you insist on having a Witch involved in this investigation…” He turned as he reached the door, fixing his gaze on Ben, who was standing next to me. “Then I will have no part of it.”
“Arthur,” I stated evenly, “how many times have I told you, good is good and bad is bad. I’ve done nothing bad.”
“You speak heresy,” he spat back angrily. “You go against the word of God.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I returned. “And it bothers me that it hasn’t been that long ago that you thought I was a pretty good guy…Until you found out my religion that is.”
He didn’t answer, his face just grew redder, and he stormed out of the room, angrily slamming the door behind him.
While I could still detect a definite lack of enthusiasm for my presence in the investigation by the rest of the members of the Major Case Squad, there had been no more outbursts for the rest of the briefing. We left the frenetic activity behind as Ben escorted us out of the building, dropping off our visitor’s badges with the desk sergeant before exiting into the bright, sunlit day. The small, nomadic media city from the night before had positioned itself in front of City Hall, and local television personalities were vying for positions from which to do their live reports.
“Looks like a goddammed airhead convention out there,” Ben spat as we walked.
The sun was beating down hard on the pavement, and combined with the moisture from the previous night’s rain, we had the makings of a legendary Saint Louis summer day. The humidity was thick in the atmosphere, and the stillness of the air made the ninety-four degrees on the thermometer seem less than accurate. Felicity peeled off her light jacket and arranged it over the back of her seat when we arrived at the Jeep.
“I have to tell you,” I said to him as I stowed the slide projector and tray, “it went much better than I expected.”
“Yeah, but what was that crap with McCann? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“Awhile ago,” I answered. “Back when Mom had that diner. I helped out waiting tables and got to know him then.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. He had been to the diner many times himself. “So I guess he’s outta here.”
“Looked that way,” I said, haphazardly tossing my own jacket into the Jeep and getting a stern look from Felicity. “So, why didn’t you say anything about R.J.?” Knowing my wife’s expressions, I retrieved the jacket and hung it properly over the back of the passenger seat.
“Pretty much ‘cause I’m workin’ on a hunch,” he explained. “You see, the way I look at it, everybody starts with ten bricks in their pile. As the investigation progresses, some of the bricks get moved into the suspicious and/or guilty pile, and the rest stay right where they were and don’t bother anybody. Right now, I’d say R.J.’s only managed to move a couple’a his bricks over to the suspicious pile.”
“When were you planning to talk to him?” I queried.
“I kinda figured on paying him a visit a little later this afternoon.”
“What’s the plan with Devon?”
“We’re sittin’ on his house, and I got a basic description from his cousin out on the streets,” Ben answered.
“Hey,” Felicity interrupted, “in case you two haven’t noticed, it’s hot and muggy out here, not to mention that I’m the only one standing here in heels.”
“Point taken,” I told her and then looked back at Ben. “Do you have a little free time to get us in to the Karen Barnes murder scene?”
“Yeah, why?” he asked.
“I’d like to play a hunch of my own,” I answered. “I want to make sure I didn’t miss something last night.”
CHAPTER 10
Leaving the parking lot proved to be much more of a nuisance than I originally expected. We were exiting ahead of Ben, and the moment our Jeep rounded the corner of the building, the drive was blocked by a swarm of reporters and cameramen. Felicity pressed lightly on the accelerator, inching us through the mob as they thrust microphones at our windows and barked questions made unintelligible by the
din of them all speaking at once. Viewing the spectacle, it was impossible to miss Brandee Street, short skirt, trendy hair and manicured nails, as she ruthlessly insinuated herself between the others.
“Mister Gant,” she shouted over the uproar. “What exactly is your role in this investigation?”
Even with the windows up and the air conditioner cranked as high as it would go, I could still hear her singsong voice. I ignored her and reached over to turn up the radio.
“Mister Gant.” She was shuffling along at my window as we inched forward. “Is it true the police have called you in to communicate with the spirits of the victims?”
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and the reason became instantly clear as we saw the flashing red lights and uniformed officers executing much-needed crowd control. With a quick glance in either direction, Felicity shifted gears and gunned the engine, letting out a short squeal from the tires as she propelled us away from the bedlam. I turned and looked out the back window and saw Ben’s van behind us, emergency bubble-light flashing on the corner of the roof. Once we merged with traffic, it switched off, and I saw him reach out and pull it inside.
“Awfully determined young lady, wasn’t she?” Felicity asked as we came to a stop at a traffic light.
“You could call it that,” I answered. “Ben yanked her chain last night, and she threw her microphone at him.”
“You’re kidding,” she stated incredulously.
“Nope. Not kidding. She launched it at him, but she missed.”
“What did he do to her to get that kind of response?”
The light changed, and Felicity nudged the Jeep forward into the intersection then hooked into a left turn.
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