Westcott sighed, “Let's think about it more tomorrow. I've had enough for one day.”
Chapter Four. I Love You, Honey, Don't Get Killed
Westcott decided to look into the life and family of Jennifer Seriano. He did much of this work in internet cafes, knowing every action of his home computer was tracked.
At this point, direct contact with her family was not possible, too many policemen around, and if his theories were correct, perhaps some mobsters as well. The fact is, witches and hit men rarely go to the same bars. They move in completely different social circles. So, Westcott concluded hiring the hit man had little to do with black magick or occult practitioners.
The murders were about professional criminals cleaning up loose ends. Westcott wanted to find the connection between Jennifer Seriano and the bad guys.
Perhaps, Jennifer saw something or was part of something. This meant the scrubbing and decorating of Jennifer's bones and dumping them on the beach was a very creative cover-up. Most cover-ups were not so artistic. Usually, a simple dead body swimming with the fishes was sufficient. I explored a different direction. I wanted to know more about Frederick Hansen. A Ballard fisherman and High Priest who was the twin of Jan de Bray's, Bacchus of 1660-- that sparked my imagination. Hansen was well-known in witchcraft circles. I found three books of rituals and spells, which he wrote and published in the 1970s and many articles by him on a wide variety of occult subjects. His specialty was the transmigration of souls.
I did not know there were experts on that subject, men and women who could direct their own reincarnations and the reincarnations of others. I found an obscure article in a Swedish library, detailing the names and places of Hansen's ancestors.
There was solid documentation of his family back to 1510, and written references to the family line as far back as 1100 CE. Stories from earlier times were simply colorful myths, with no evidence at all. Hansen had direct paternal ancestors in Holland in the late 1600s. One was an established artist associated with the famous Haarlem Painter's Guild. This elder Hansen appears in the far left corner of Jan de Bray's portrait of the Guild painters, from 1675, and was very likely the model for the earlier painting, Bacchus.
As far as Frederick Hansen's psychic powers, there was much talk, but no tangible evidence. Two of his published rituals were specifically for the purpose of directing the soul, as it exited a dying body, into the womb of a chosen pregnant woman. The details of how this worked were not clear. This was apparently the method used to transfer his own personality and ancestral memory into new bodies. When the babies grew up, they clearly remembered all their past lives.
It was said, Hansen remembered his life experiences as far back as 800 CE, with partial memories back to 350 BCE. I got the impression Hansen had a vivid imagination, and used it to spin wonderful and engaging tales. Hansen had knowledge of rituals which created decorated skeletons, similar to Jennifer's bones. He also had knowledge of Paracelsus, and probably knew the words burned into Jennifer's thighbones.
I found no evidence to connect Hansen's coven in Ballard with Stiles's coven on Orcas Island. Stiles probably knew Hansen, if not in person, certainly by reputation. I decided to contact members of Stiles's coven, quietly, in-person to see if anyone knew about, 'The ritual to reincarnate Jennifer into the womb of her mother.' I wanted the name of the other witch, the one who took Jennifer's body from the hospital. I wanted know the truth, even if it did not fit comfortably into my version of reality. If the ritual had worked and Jennifer was born again, I wanted to meet the mother.
Westcott looked at me sideways, when I told him my plans. But, he agreed more information from Stiles's coven would be helpful. Westcott continued to work from the assumption that Hansen and Stiles were contract murders, somehow involving Jennifer Seriano.
Because Westcott now lived in his giant Bainbridge Island house all by himself, he invited me to stay with him. I welcomed the idea of not paying rent for awhile, and I liked his company.
Without the pressure to find paying work, I had time for the investigation, and other pursuits, specifically the pursuit of women. For a number of years, my love life had been severely limited by my lack of cash. The short periods of time when I did have cash, I was very busy figuring out how to make that cash flow continue. I have always had minimal success in securing a reliable cash flow. I noticed the young women of Bainbridge were generally very well kept. Perfect teeth, the results of astronomical dental bills, were the norm. Perfect hair and fit bodies also seemed to be normal attributes of the comfortably rich. Because of my modest success as a writer and as a musician, I could move in wealthy circles without being wealthy. I was one of the “artist-types” the upper class enjoys having around, much as they enjoy having yachts, fast cars or riding horses. I added some glamor to their lives, when they were incapable of generating their own. A lively raconteur, I could spin entertaining stories of actresses or supermodels I had met. Often, complete lies, but I knew just enough gossip to sound credible.
If Westcott cared about his social reputation, he might have been embarrassed to have 'the scandalous writer' living in his house. But, Jensen Westcott really did not give a damn what anyone thought. He put up with his neighbor's high social status, with tact and courtesy in public, and roaring laughter at home. We shared many nights of entertaining stories.
Six months had passed since the murder of David Stiles. We felt less scrutinized by law enforcement officers. Westcott kept reminding me we were still in danger, but I found it hard to take seriously. Neither of us had received any threats, and now with the snoopers on the decline, I began to relax.
One evening I sat in a local, upscale bar, chatting-up a curvy, blonde real estate agent. In her late 30's, her main goal in life was to make as much money as possible, as fast as possible. This had included the divorce settlements from two husbands and her own substantial earnings. She spoke cheerfully about all her acquisitions, and I was aware I could be counted among those acquisitions if I chose to be.
I looked at her beautiful mouth as she talked, and I heard excerpts of Handel's Water Music, in particular the “alla hornpipe” section, to be played on the hornpipe. I have a lovely little hornpipe. Would she consider a private recital? Thankfully, about twenty minutes into our conversation, she took a cell-phone call and rushed off to sell something.
A handsome 40-ish man replaced her on the bar stool. He looked at me and smiled pleasantly, “You're that writer, aren't you?”
“I am a writer,“ I smiled back, “But I'm not sure if I am that writer.”
He laughed, “Of course you are. You are that writer who saw a guy whacked at a Masonic Convention in Centralia. I saw you on TV.”
“Yes, I am that writer.” I really did not want to pursue that subject with anyone.
The man continued smiling. “I thought you had a lot of class. Not letting the press pester you. You shut them down politely and permanently, and went about your business.”
“Mostly, I was told to keep my mouth shut. The FBI made that very clear.”
“Maybe so, but you did it with style.”
“Well, thank you... if you say so,” I replied.
The man continued. “Would you mind if we stepped outside a moment? I would like to ask you a few questions about what happened. It's too noisy to talk in here.”
I cannot say I felt threatened just then, but I did not like the way this was going. However, I was curious, and I figured he would not do anything to me outside a busy restaurant, with so many people coming and going. “Sure,” I said.
Outside we sat in a far corner of the heated patio, a fair distance from the closest table. His demeanor had now changed. No longer the pleasant stranger, he looked at me more like a suspicious cop. His tone was demanding. “Lowenstein, I will get straight to the point. I am the man who shot Stiles. I need to know what he told you. If I am not satisfied with what I hear, you will not live much longer.”
With some confidence, I said, “
You mean, right here? You plan to kill me here? Really, there is no need to kill me at all. Just tell me specifically what you want to know?”
He ignored my bravado. “I want to know what Stiles told you about Jennifer Seriano.”
“You will not believe me, if I tell you that. I think Stiles was some wacko, occult fanatic. He said he helped skin her bones and burn magic spells onto her thighbones and skull. He said he, and some other witch, did a ritual to reincarnate her into the womb of her mother. Wackos. It made no sense to me at all. Then he was dead.”
“He didn't say anything else? Nothing about the Seriano girl's twin sister?”
“He didn't say anything about a twin sister. Stiles said Jennifer had been stung by a bee and went into shock and died when she was out hiking. He said another witch had stolen her body from the hospital in Port Angeles. Then later, they did the ritual to reincarnate her.”
“If you are lying to me, you will regret it.”
“Look, buddy,” I said in frustration, “I have no reason to lie to you. I have nothing to do with this. You tell me you are a hit man, well good for you. I hope you make lots of money. I don't care what your job is. I am just saying, Stiles showed up at my door and told me the wacko story, and then he was dead. I don't know anything more about it. You can threaten me as much as you want, but that won't change what I know or what I don't know.”
“OK, ok, calm down. I just need to make sure. The people I work for like good information. I just need to be sure I get them what they want.”
Without saying anything else, he got up and left. I was a frazzled mess. My swagger and bravado had been an inadequate cover-up. Frankly, I was terrified. I did not want to be dead. And, that mobster could make me dead, as easily as lighting a cigarette. I went back to the bar and knocked back four shots of gin.
When I got back to Westcott's home, I banged out the bipolar 1st movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.32 in C minor, Op. 111, trying get the demons and fear out of my head. Finally, I relaxed a bit and moved on to the 1st movement of Beethoven's Piano Sonata No.24 in F-sharp major, Op.78---all fairies, pixie dust and smiles compared to the Piano Sonata No.32. By this time it was about 2am, and Westcott stumbled into the living room in his pajamas.
He looked at me, and said calmly, “Ya know, Lowenstein, I don't mind piano music, but you might play Debussy or Clementi. Beethoven at this time of day is really irritating.”
***
“I won't say, I told you so... but.” Westcott could not help but laugh at me, “I sure didn't expect the hit man to come calling! Good God, that's a surprise! Whoever hired him, they are still nervous. Something is unresolved for them, even after killing Stiles and Hansen. And, what was that about a twin sister? That sure adds something to our mystery!”
I was not nearly as cheerful as Westcott about the hit man. I felt I had convinced him of my ignorance about whatever he was looking for, so I felt safe enough. However, hit men and their bosses did not explain the occult involvement of Hansen and Stiles. Why was Stiles so eager to tell me about their ritual, and assure me that Jennifer Seriano was not dead? Still, a whole lot of questions without answers. During the next few days I examined what public records I could find about births in the Seriano family.
Twin daughters where born in 1988, and a son in 1992. The parents address was in Eastsound, Washington. Jennifer's sister was Abby. Both daughters graduated from Orcas Island High School.
Mr. and Mrs. Seriano ran an antique store on Orcas Island, and had lived there six years before the birth of the twins. The store was still in business, with an online store as well as the physical store. I believed it was time to go to Orcas and do some discreet investigating, without causing trouble for the Seriano parents. I wanted to meet them and speak directly, but I still felt that might be too risky.
***
I felt sorry for Jensen. Susan was much too far away. Jensen was drinking far too much. Fortunately, Susan had many poignant memories of her husband, and some were associated to particular pieces of music. Listening to the Flower Duet from Léo Delibes' opera, Lakmé, Susan missed her husband terribly. He had taken her to that opera on their first date. She called Jensen from London.
They talked about her teaching at Cambridge, but didn't discuss much about the case on the phone. However, they developed code words to tease the FBI snoops. “Daisy-chain lovers” meant all the witchcraft or occult practitioners involved in the case, and “Taking out the garbage” referred to hit men cleaning-up other people's messes.
Jensen told her, “A handsome garbage collector wanted to add Mr. Lowenstein's old billiard balls to his trophy collection.” And he mentioned, “The daisy-chain lovers must have really pissed-off the garbage crew.” He said. “Things are going very well,”
Susan ended the conversation by saying, “I love you, honey, do what you want, just don't get killed.” And they both laughed, with spontaneous joy.
Chapter Five. Digging up the Bones
The ferry ride from Anacortes to Orcas Island is exhilarating on a bright summer's day. On the top deck, wind in my hair, I can almost reach out and touch the seagull gliding the air, keeping pace with the vessel. In the east, Mt. Baker rises up like a full-breasted woman, and luxuriating in the southwest the Olympic Mountains bathe in the mid-morning sun.
Looking at my bright, cheerful surroundings, listening the the water slap the steel hull, I felt peaceful and joyous. I started humming a theme from the 3rd movement of Beethoven's Symphony no.6 in F major, the“Pastorale”.
But as my mind wandered to the bones of Jennifer Seriano, I grew silent, with the aching and strident melody of Mendelssohn's Violin Concerto in E minor playing in my head. Great effort is involved to remove all the skin, flesh and muscle from bones to leave them squeaky clean. Two witches and one hit man, all three highly motivated, driven toward specific goals. The hit man's job could be explained as Westcott says, bad guys covering their tracks.
But, what about the witches? Their work took far more time and effort than the hit man's work. To what purpose? A ritual to reincarnate a dead young woman into her pregnant mother's womb remains outside the parameters of my reality.
I pretend to be an average tourist, poking about the shops of Eastsound, booking a room at the Rosario Resort, and enjoying their fine meals and wine. I spent half a day looking at old newspapers in the public library. There was a small notice in the daily paper from Wednesday, January 26th, 2011: “The grave of Abby Seriano was vandalized sometime on Monday this week. The coffin was opened and the body removed. Police are offering a reward for information.” Nothing more, no follow-up to that notice in the weeks following the event.
I looked further back to find a death notice for Abby Seriano. She had died of allergic relation to a bee sting. Her death was in the summer of 2008. Stiles said Jennifer died from a bee sting. That's fishy. The surviving twin would have carried an Epipen as a precaution. Stiles said Jennifer was still alive, meaning she was reincarnated into her mother's womb. Not likely.
I'm no genius, but the fishy bee sting makes me believe the bones on the Bainbridge beach were Abby's bones, not Jennifer's. Jennifer is still alive as a twenty-three year old woman hiding out from hit men. The witches were creating a bizarre, occult story, to make the bad guys believe Jennifer was dead. That would be plenty motivation for their efforts. Somehow the plan went wrong, and the hit man went after Stiles, and probably Hansen, to find out where Jennifer really was. The man came to me for the same reason.
Now, more than ever, I wanted to talk with Jennifer's mother. I decided to create a disguise, like Sherlock Holmes with clever makeup and wigs. I took on the persona of a Sociology Professor from Cambridge University, keen on the growth of paganism and witchcraft in America. I do a very credible British accent, so this was not a stretch. I bought some fake bifocals, and a few recent books on Wicca.
As Professor Gerald Moriarty, I visited the antique shop of Mr. and Mrs. Seriano. I introduced myself to Mrs. Seriano,
and asked if there might be any local witchcraft covens willing to speak with me about their religion. I was entirely sincere in this, so acting the part was not difficult at all. She responded with a warm smile, and took my hand between hers.
“Professor,” she said, “You have come to the right place. I am Debbie Seriano. Both my husband and I belong to the Coven of Aleutian Seals. We are a small group, just nine of us, and we would be glad to talk with you.”
“Thank you so very much, “ I bowed and kissed her hand.
“We are having our Summer Solstice Ritual tomorrow evening, with a potluck dinner. You do not need to bring anything, but I would like to invite you to join us. I can introduce you to the group and you can ask whatever questions you wish.”
“You are too kind,” again I bowed.
Mrs. Seriano gave me directions to her home and said the dinner started at 7pm. They would perform the ritual later in the evening, around 10pm when the moon was full up in the sky. I noticed Mrs. Seriano was glowing with pregnancy. I would guess at least six months along. I was dying to know if it was a boy or a girl. Would she be naming the child, Jennifer?
I spoke with Westcott on my cell phone, briefly before heading out the Solstice Ritual. Of course, I said nothing about my activities. I simply told him I was having a good vacation and meeting interesting people. Westcott responded that he had gone fishing, sailing a boat out from Ballard. Later, I learned the details of his fishing trip. Westcott poked around Fisherman's Terminal for a few days, finding a few people who knew Capt. Frederick Hansen. Everyone had good things to say about Hansen, an honest man, a reliable sailor and fisherman, knowledgeable about the waters of the Pacific Northwest.
Some mentioned, with a smile, Hansen was a little odd-- ya know, with that witchcraft-voodoo stuff. But, one man Westcott met took Hansen's occult interests seriously. His name was, Derek Thomas. Thomas had worked on Hansen's boat from time to time, and seemed to know a lot about Hansen's side job as High Priest of a coven. After six or seven beers, Thomas opened up a bit and began to talk about witchcraft.
The Bainbridge Affair Page 3
