Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “There’s a medical school at the University of Washington,” I voiced. “A friend of mine attended it. That would tie in with the curare and the theory about the killer having some kind of medical background as well. When did this happen?”

  “A little less than a year ago,” Ben answered this time. “And nothin’ else came up on the NCIC database, so to our knowledge, he hasn’t killed anywhere besides here and Seattle.”

  The timer on the microwave beeped, so I stepped over to pull out the tray of lasagna. I moved through the task of dishing it onto plates automatically, still pondering everything that had been said.

  “So our killer moved from Seattle to Saint Louis sometime within the last year,” I ventured, “and might have been a medical student at the University of Washington.”

  “That’s how it looks,” Deckert acknowledged. “The Seattle PD is compiling a list of the med students they interviewed right now.”

  “How soon do you think you’ll hear something?” I placed steaming plates before the two men and absently offered them silverware.

  “Hopefully sometime this afternoon,” Ben answered, cutting into the lasagna with his fork. “They’re as anxious to find this asshole as we are.”

  “Yeah,” Deckert added. “As if it wasn’t enough that this shithead maimed and killed this girl, it turns out she was the daughter of some big cheese out there. The family posted some obnoxious amount as a reward.” He glanced up from his plate and noticed me leaning against the counter lost in thought. “So are you gonna eat or what?”

  For all intents and purposes, I had switched to automatic pilot when the two of them began filling me in on the latest news, and the fact that I was hungry was all but forgotten. Before I could answer, the dogs began yelping loudly, raising their general, happy, canine ruckus at the back gate. A moment later, the reason became obvious when we heard the front door open, followed by Felicity noisily entering.

  “Ben, your van is in my parking spot,” her voice came from the other room.

  I turned to Detective Deckert. “I guess I’ll get that chance after I heat some up for her.” I jerked my thumb in the direction of the living room and then waved my index finger at the both of them. “I’ll let you two get her caught up with what’s been going on.”

  CHAPTER 19

  So what’s with this theory about the next victim being a child?” Felicity was mechanically sorting film canisters. “I mean, is there something that can be done?”

  While she was eating, Ben and Deckert had brought her up to date on the days events, from the latest murder to the discovery of the connection with Seattle. We had now moved to the dining room table where she could do some work while we talked.

  “It took some doin’ since we don’t have any hard evidence,” Ben answered, “but I managed to convince the chief of the possibility of a child abduction. We’ve got coppers stationed at all of the area schools, but the truth is, we really don’t know what we’re lookin’ for. This asshole hasn’t established any kind of pattern or anything.

  “And what with school just starting in some districts, the effort has been hard to coordinate.”

  “Not to mention that it’s quite a bit of ground to cover,” Deckert added. “He could try to grab a kid outside of the metro area for all we know.”

  “What about the police in those areas?” she posed. “Can’t they help out?”

  “They are,” Deckert explained, “but you’re talking about some real small departments. They can only spread themselves so thin, and like Ben said, he hasn’t exactly been sticking to a particular stereotype...and now we’re guessing that he’ll go after a kid...”

  I had been listening quietly, pondering the facts as they were reiterated for my wife’s benefit and trying each of them out on the mental jigsaw puzzle I had created. Each of my nightmares provided another piece, and I felt that my recent revelations had begun putting them together. The border was completed, I was certain of that, and something told me that I had most of the pieces necessary to fill in the center but for some reason, still lacked the dexterity to do it.

  I was troubled as much as the rest of them by the paradox the killer had created. It was obvious that he was practicing, preparing himself for the rite of invocation I believed he intended to perform. With each victim, he had grown progressively more intense, displaying increasingly greater skill at his grotesque art. Each of his steps seemed carefully planned out, but at the same time, the selection of his victims appeared random.

  Ariel Tanner, Karen Barnes, Ellen Gray, and now Darla Radcliffe. Other than the fact that three of them knew R.J., they had little in common. There was nothing to indicate that they knew one another. The fact that R.J. was still in custody at the time of the fourth murder tended to rule him out as a suspect and in my mind, as the common thread I was searching for. The women lived in different parts of the city and county. They had different professions, different hair colors, different eye colors, sizes, weights, shapes, birth dates, this, that, and the other thing. They appeared to have nothing more in common than being adult, mid-to-late twenties, and female. Now I believed that the killer’s next victim would be a child, so even that pattern, minute as it was, instantly began to unravel.

  “Rowan?”

  I plunged back toward reality at the sound of Felicity’s voice sharply prodding me. “Wha...What?”

  “You were starin’ off into space for a minute there,” Ben interjected. “Somethin’ we should know? You weren’t goin’ all Twilight Zone on us were you?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” I answered, still dragging myself out of my introspective trance. “I was just thinking about the victims. There’s got to be some kind of connection that we’re missing. He had to pick them for a reason. There has to be a common thread.”

  “I’ll buy that, but I got no idea what it is,” he returned. “We talked to friends, relatives, and neighbors of all four of ‘em. We’ve been over the crime scenes dozens of times. Personal effects as well. Nothin’.”

  “Why does it matter?” Deckert interjected. “If you think he’s gonna go for a kid this time then all bets are off.”

  “I don’t know.” I stood up and began slowly pacing about the room. “Maybe it would give us a better idea of who we’re looking for. Maybe it’s something the four of them could have in common with a child...I don’t know.” I began to mutter, “It just bothers me...”

  “You’re thinking that if we knew the connection,” Felicity ventured, “that we might have a better idea of the type of child he might abduct?”

  “In general, yes. That is, of course, assuming that he hasn’t grabbed a child already.”

  “We thought of that,” Deckert expressed. “There haven’t been any unresolved child abductions in the area within the past two years.”

  “What about Seattle?”

  “Nothing,” Ben added. “If he already grabbed a kid, either it hasn’t been reported, or it happened somewhere in between here and Seattle. I’ve got a coupl’a guys workin’ on compilin’ a list right now, but that’s gonna take some time.”

  “Dammit! There has to be something.” My pace was quickening as my patience began showing wear. “There’s something there, and I’m too blind to see it.”

  “You can’t blame yourself, Rowan,” Felicity chimed.

  “Why not?” I shot back as I came to a halt and motioned to Ben and Deckert. “They’re taking me at my word on all of this. They’ve got cops all over the place watching schools all day. What if I’m wrong? What if this bastard doesn’t try to grab a kid after all? What if he kills a waitress from the local pancake house? Or a secretary? Or anyone else for that matter...Then it’s MY fault because I was wrong.”

  The room fell hushed as my diatribe ended, and the three of them watched me in concerned silence. After a long moment, the quiet was ushered from the room by the raspy sound of Detective Deckert clearing his throat.

  “Do you think you’re wrong?” he asked simply.
/>   I allowed his words to fade softly away before bringing my gaze up to meet their faces. “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Then stop kickin’ yourself in the ass,” Ben ordered. “It’s not gonna help us figure out who this sicko is.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if anything is,” I whispered.

  “If it weren’t for you, we’d have never made the Seattle connection,” he continued. “It’s not like this asshole has been leavin’ behind a lot of clues. Trust me, even I don’t believe I’m about to say this, but right now your dreams or nightmares, or whatever the hell you call ‘em, are the best leads we’ve got. So far, you’re two for two, and that’s a damned good average in my book.”

  “But the dreams aren’t just ‘Bam, here’s the answer’, Ben,” I objected. “The clues are obscure and symbolic. Like the Seattle thing. I had that dream days ago, and it was about rain. I didn’t make the connection until I got a package from a client that’s based in Seattle, and it triggered the thought. I still don’t know what the other ones mean.”

  “So maybe you just need to relax,” Deckert volunteered.

  “Could be.” I leaned against the doorframe and let out a long sigh. “That would probably help.”

  “I don’t mean to push, especially on that note, but you mentioned somethin’ about money on the phone earlier,” Ben queried. “Any idea what it means yet?”

  “No, not yet... And there’s a perfect example of what I mean about the clues being obscure. What I saw in the dream wasn’t actually money, it was a tarot card.”

  “You mean like those fortune teller cards,” Deckert intoned.

  “Exactly.” I pushed away from the doorway and retrieved a tarot deck from the top drawer of the buffet then seated myself back at the table. “This deck belonged to my mother,” I told them as I unwrapped the square of white silk that encompassed them. “Neither Felicity nor I have ever been really into tarot, so I had to look some of this up. Ariel, on the other hand, was fascinated with it. In my dream, we were sitting at a table, and she was reading the cards for me...but not really FOR me, more like TO me.”

  “I don’t believe I’m asking this,” Ben spoke this time, “but what did she tell you?”

  “Nothing really.” I fanned the deck of seventy-two oversized cards before us and began carefully choosing those that had appeared in the dream. “I think this one represents the killer.”

  As they watched, I placed the Knight of Cups face up in the center of the table.

  “Why’s that?” Deckert asked.

  “Whenever Ariel read tarot,” I explained, “she used a method know as the Celtic Cross. The variation of the style she followed requires that the reader choose a card called a significator to represent the person being read for. This was the card she chose in the dream.”

  “So what does that tell us?”

  “If you follow the assigned, or divinatory as it’s called, meaning of the card, then it would represent a young man with light hair and eyes.”

  “Not exactly a specific description is it,” Ben ventured rhetorically.

  “She continued with this card.” I reached out and placed The Devil over the significator card. “As you would expect, this card can signify violence and black magick. In this position of the Celtic Cross, the card represents the general atmosphere surrounding the subject.” I placed The Tower across the two cards. “Next, the sixteenth card of the Major Arcana, representing an overthrow of existing ways of life, imprisonment, even death. This position shows the forces that oppose the subject of the reading.”

  “It represents us,” Felicity whispered softly.

  “That’s my guess,” I agreed. “Anyway, that’s where the reading stopped. Suddenly everything changed, and I witnessed her being murdered by a shadowy figure once again.”

  “Excuse me if I appear stupid,” Ben puzzled, “but where in the hell did ya’ get money outta that?”

  “From this card,” I answered and tossed the Seven of Pentacles face up onto the pile. “Seventh card of the suit of Pentacles, sometimes called coins. The money card. A little girl appeared in the dream and handed it to me... It recurred several times in the next nightmare as well. That’s why I think it’s important.”

  “You still just don’t know why,” Deckert volunteered.

  “Exactly.”

  At that moment, the wall clock executed its assigned task and announced the time with a loud bong. The singularity of the tone signified that it was half past the hour. The black metal hands imperceptibly rotated around its ornamental face and showed the time to be 4:30 P.M.

  “Sheesh, I didn’t realize it was gettin’ this late,” Ben announced after glancing over his shoulder at the timepiece. “I still have to get by the bank and hit the ATM.”

  The bank.

  Mentally, I turned the piece of the imaginary jigsaw puzzle in my ethereal hands. Its curved, interlocking fingers instantly took on a familiar shape, matching obviously with its mate. I pressed the fragment downward and watched it slip snugly in where it belonged.

  “That’s it,” I whispered.

  “What’s it?” Felicity asked. “Are you okay, Rowan?”

  “The bank,” I spoke more audibly. “Money. The bank. The killer works at a bank.” I turned quickly to Ben and Deckert. “The four victims. Did they go to the same bank?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben answered. “But I doubt it. They all lived in different parts of the city.”

  “I don’t know either,” Deckert admitted. “But we can find out. Ben’s probably right though. Even if they did use the same bank, that doesn’t mean they used the same branch.”

  “Let’s check it anyway,” I told them adamantly. “It has to be the connection. It just has to be.”

  * * * * *

  Material leftovers from the lives of the four women resided within catalogued and labeled plastic bags—purses and wallets that, until the deaths of these women, had been sacred repositories of their ordinary, extraordinary, and personal items. Purses that husbands and boyfriends refused to violate, taking them instead to their loved one held at arms length and waiting patiently for her to pull that which he sought from its depths. Purses, the contents of which had now been heartlessly fondled, inspected, dusted, and inventoried by the hands of complete strangers.

  These tangible remnants, once owned by the four women, now lay neatly upon the surface of the conference table at the Major Case Squad command post. “Bagged and tagged” as Ben would often say. Dispassionately “bagged and tagged” and now waiting for Ben, Deckert, and myself to join the ranks of the prying strangers.

  “I wouldn’t bother with any credit cards,” I volunteered as they began rummaging through the contents of the clear plastic bags. “It’s going to be a checking or savings account. Something that would get them into the bank where he could see them.”

  “Here’s one,” Deckert announced and tossed a worn, blue leather checkbook on the table in front of me. “It’s Ariel Tanner’s.”

  I reached for the checkbook and hesitated noticeably when he volunteered the identity of its former owner. I don’t think either of them noticed, as Ben was still searching through a bag, and Deckert had turned his attention to the next one in line. I took a deep breath in through my nose and then let it out slowly through my mouth, forcing myself to relax. Only then did I pick up the checkbook and flip open the cover.

  The checks were a simple mottled tan, a line of text boasting the fact that they had been printed on recycled paper. Across the upper left corner, ARIEL R. TANNER was imprinted in bold black letters, her address and phone number followed beneath in slightly smaller type. Just above the memo line was a shadowy, stylized logo of a domed building bisected by a line of sturdy type.

  “Capitol Bank of Missouri,” I read aloud.

  “Same here,” Ben echoed, peering up from the checkbook he was holding, then added, “Ellen Gray.”

  My heart started to race. Thus far, two of the four women had used the same bank.
While there were several branch offices throughout the metropolitan area, it was easily possible they had both visited the same one at some point in time. My theory with regard to the last two nightmares was being proven true.

  “This is it,” I exclaimed. “I was right. This is the connection.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Deckert interrupted, a sagging frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Community Bank of Overmoor.” He waved the grey vinyl-covered checkbook at me. “Karen Barnes.”

  “Westview Federal Savings,” Ben recited in a dejected tone. “Darla Radcliffe... Sorry, Rowan... It was a hell of a try though.”

  My rising bubble of elation had been abruptly punctured by Detective Deckert, and as I began dropping back toward earth, Ben ripped a mile wide tear in the fabric that sent me crashing. There were three different banks between the four victims. I didn’t understand. That piece of the puzzle had fit in so perfectly. I couldn’t be wrong.

  “Can I see those?” I asked tonelessly as I dropped into a chair.

  The two solemn detectives quietly slid the checkbooks across the table to me. I reached out and picked up the first one. I opened the pebbly-surfaced grey vinyl to reveal the happily colored pastel checks imprinted with the names RICHARD H. BARNES and KAREN L. BARNES. The dark black logo for the Community Bank of Overmoor stood out in hard contrast against the dusty blue background, wordlessly telling me I was wrong.

  I sat holding the rectangular booklet of smooth paper and grainy plastic. Something simply didn’t feel right. I ran my fingers over the checks, tracing the lines imprinted on their faces. They were crisp and clean. The cover felt stiff and new, unsullied by repeated use. I could even detect a faint chemical odor, like that of vinyl upholstery. On a hunch, I flipped open the register occupying the other half of the checkbook and pored over the first line.

  “This is a new account,” I voiced immediately, turning the register to them. “Look at this. According to the starting balance, it was opened less than a month ago.”