Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  Not being familiar with fingerprint analysis, I appealed, “Somebody want to fill me in?”

  “It’s a partial right thumbprint,” Detective Deckert explained. “The one you turned us on to with your vision or whatever you call it.”

  “Yeah, I kinda caught on to that,” I acknowledged. “But I thought it was too smudged to do anything with.”

  “That’s what we thought,” he continued. “But that was before we got the second print which just happened to be quite a bit clearer.”

  “They both look smudged to me.”

  “It’s a scar,” Ben volunteered, completing the explanation for me, then turned to Deckert. “Any hits from AFIS?”

  “Not yet,” he returned. “It’s been scanned, and they’re trying to do a digital image match, but that takes a little longer. The first one didn’t hit, but this one is clearer, so maybe...”

  “One of you Detective Storm?” a voice issued from behind us.

  We turned to find a uniformed officer peering at us expectantly, a manila envelope tucked under his arm.

  “That’s me,” Ben answered.

  “Got something here from Capitol Bank for you.” The officer held out a clipboard and pen. “I need ya to sign for it.”

  Ben quickly scribbled his signature on the paperwork then exchanged the clipboard for the envelope and muttered a quick “thanks.” He was already ripping it open before the officer was out the door.

  “Hey Storm!” another voice called from across the room. “Got a cellular call from a Special Agent Mandalay on line two. Wants to talk to you.”

  “Tell ‘im I’m not here,” he shouted back as he rifled through the contents of the envelope.

  “He’s a she,” the voice returned.

  “Then fuckin’ tell HER I’m not here,” he shouted back angrily.

  “What are you looking for?” I queried as I watched him quickly shuffling through the papers.

  “Ten print card,” he answered. “All bank employees are printed for security and exclusionary purposes.”

  “Exclusionary purposes?”

  “Like if the bank gets broken into or robbed,” Deckert explained. “Employees’ prints are going to be all over the place, so we need copies in order to exclude them from any of the prints lifted during the investigation.”

  “Here it is,” Ben intoned urgently and tossed the heavy stock card face up on the desk.

  Each of the outlined squares contained a neatly inked copy of Roger Henderson’s fingerprints. The black and white study of irrefutable personal identification stared back up as the three of us brought our eyes to bear on the right thumbprint.

  What met our triple-barreled gaze was a curving pattern of lines arcing around into what might have been a tight whorl. Might have been, because the lines ended abruptly in a blank, smeary looking splotch.

  “It’s him,” I whispered.

  “Get the prosecuting attorney on the horn,” Ben ordered Deckert calmly as he handed the rest of Roger Henderson’s employee file to him. “Then call Benson. I want a warrant yesterday.”

  “I’m on it,” Deckert was already dialing the phone.

  “Detective Benjamin Storm?” a demanding, almost angry, female voice came from behind us.

  We turned once again and were greeted by an attractive brunette woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. She was dressed in a nicely fitted grey suit that scarcely managed to conceal the forty-caliber bulge at her right hip.

  “Yeah,” Ben answered.

  She thrust her hand forward. In it was a large leather case, held deftly open with her index finger as she prominently displayed her badge and FBI identification.

  “Special Agent Constance Mandalay,” she announced indignantly. “I thought you weren’t here?”

  Ben looked her coolly in the eyes without blinking and answered her accusation head on. “I lied.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The two of them engaged in a short-lived staring contest as Agent Mandalay slipped her identification back into her jacket and folded her arms across her chest. Petite-framed and standing no taller than five-foot-six, she was forced to look up at Ben, but that wasn’t unusual as most everyone else had to do the same.

  Ben stood with his hands on his hips, eyes tightly locked with hers. To the outside observer, they seemed to form a brief living caricature of David and Goliath. Had the urgency and gravity of the current situation been of a lesser degree, I am certain the standoff would have elicited a number of laughs.

  “Well, at least you’re honest about that.” Agent Mandalay maintained her resentful demeanor as she spat the comment. “How long did you plan to keep ducking my calls? You had to know I’d show up here eventually.”

  “For as long as I needed to,” Ben retorted, continuing with the precedent he had set for truthfulness. “And unfortunately, yes, I knew some Feeb would come walkin’ through the door at some point. Hell, I’m surprised ya’ waited this long.”

  “Had it been up to me, we wouldn’t have,” she shot back. “I was ready to come down here when you made your queries through VICAP. You should have called the Bureau for help with the first homicide. We have a lot more experience in this field than you do. We have experts on occult practices that...”

  Ben cut her off mid-sentence, “I got my own expert, thank you.”

  “Who? Him?” she stated incredulously as she waved her hand in my direction. I assumed she recognized me from the media coverage. “He claims he’s a Witch, for Chrissake! I’m talking about people with PhD’s, not some flake you picked up off the street.”

  I was mildly insulted, but then, I was also quite used to the ridicule and demeaning commentaries from uninformed, closed-minded individuals. The fact that I made no secret of my religion forced me to deal with it on a daily basis. Fortunately, witch burning was no longer an accepted practice, so verbal debasement and occasional graffiti were pretty much the worst I had to face. Because I had become so jaded to it, her comment was easily and quickly disregarded.

  Ben, on the other hand, was furious. Ever since I had known him, he had been very protective of his family and friends. Even though he had wallowed in his own disbelief until just recently, he had never passed judgment upon my religion or me. The look that suddenly crossed his face was testimony to the fact that he was not about to allow someone else to do so.

  “You wait just one goddamn minute!” he asserted, angrily thrusting his index finger at her. “Don’t come in here with your holier-than-thou attitude and start insultin’ people you don’t even know. Whether you like it or not, Rowan Gant is part of this investigation. A VERY IMPORTANT part.”

  “Yes he is. He should be a suspect.”

  “Don’t even go there! If it weren’t for him, we’d all still be scratchin’ our asses tryin’ to figure out what’s goin’ on. I’ll put him up against your PhD’s any day of the week.”

  “Is that why you have four homicides and a kidnapping to deal with?” Thick, bitter sarcasm dripped from her comment.

  “I’ve got four homicides and a kidnappin’ to deal with because there appears to be a bumper crop of sick assholes this year,” he echoed. “Now, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy. Because of Rowan, we know who the sonofabitch is, and I’m tryin’ ta’ get a warrant, so we can stop him from killin’ this little girl. If you wanna help, fine. If you wanna cop an attitude and cause me a lotta grief, then you can take your fuckin’ Ivy-league-piled-high-and-deeps and shove them up your...”

  “Ben!” Carl Deckert’s voice sliced surgically through the air as if on cue, preventing Ben from completing his verbal instructions to Special Agent Mandalay. “The warrant’s signed. Benson’s on the phone.”

  “Tell ‘im to get his ass back here now,” Ben turned and barked over his shoulder. “I want everyone in the conference room in fifteen. And have somebody get a map of the streets around this shithead’s house.”

  Detective Deckert acknowledged and immediately relayed Ben’s message into t
he phone before hurrying off to set up the meeting. Ben turned his attention back to the thin-lipped, staunchly staring face of Agent Mandalay.

  “Like I said, Special Agent, I’m busy. If you’re still interested in helpin’, the tactical meeting is in fifteen minutes.”

  Her expression never changed as she hissed venomously, “I’ll be there.”

  * * * * *

  “How in the hell can you stand wearing one of these things?” I whispered my question to Ben through the darkness behind his van.

  I was trying to force myself to ignore the itching sensation that was erupting over the majority of my torso as we took our positions in the shadows. The air was unmoving and viscous with humidity, and though it was already after ten in the evening, the mercury had only dipped into the mid-eighties.

  Rivulets of sweat brought on by the tenseness of the situation, as well as the heat, were tickling my chest and back as the force of gravity inched them slowly downward. Mid-chest, a particularly sensitive bundle of nerves began to complain. The more I tried to keep my mind off it, the more intense it became, until finally, a violent itch burst forth. Instinctively, my hand shot up to relieve the prickling sensation with what promised to be an ecstatic scratch. Unfortunately, instead of giving me the relief I sought, my fingers impacted with a dull thud against the object of my earlier vocal disdain—a Kevlar flak vest.

  “Ya’ just do,” Ben whispered back. “Besides, I promised Felicity I wouldn’t let ya’ get hurt.”

  The tactical meeting had gone quickly as the veteran members of the MCS had studied the enlarged street map in order to plan the best avenue of assault. From the moment the warrant was signed, the machine that was the Greater Saint Louis Major Case Squad shifted into high gear—each individual doing whatever was necessary to ensure the success of the operation. The local police department had been immediately notified and the house placed under surveillance. That had been just over an hour ago. Thus far, the only activity in the residence had been the lights going off.

  We had stationed ourselves on a side street diagonally across from the address while the rest of the force had fanned out around the home. The houses directly behind and to either side had been surreptitiously evacuated in order to keep the occupants out of harm’s way. To someone such as myself who had witnessed such things only on television cop shows, the entire process seemed oddly surreal.

  Every member of the Major Case Squad and more than a handful of officers from the local municipality, uniformed and not, were spread in a tight circle around the small brick house. Here and there, if you knew exactly where to look, you could occasionally catch a fleeting glimpse of one of them through the shadows. A flash of eyes peering out the gap of a full-face-hugging balaclava. A quick instant where the stenciled yellow POLICE on someone’s flak vest came into view or even the glint of the streetlights from the barrel of a gun.

  “Are you sure you need this many people?” I whispered nervously once again. “I mean, I’m not trying to tell you your job or anything, but, you know...”

  If Ben noticed my anxiety, which I’m sure he did, he didn’t mention it. “I’m a great believer in excessive force,” he quipped softly. “’Specially when it comes ta’ assholes like this one.”

  The streets were barricaded for two blocks in either direction, and there had been no vehicular traffic for the past ten minutes. The only sound to be heard was the almost mechanical on-again off-again warbling of nature’s chitin-covered orchestra in the trees. Even the city had fallen quiet, or so it seemed.

  The sound of a car coasting quietly to a stop behind us violated the hush. I started nervously, and Ben simply turned, still tactfully ignoring my jitters.

  Detective Deckert had switched off the headlights and killed the engine farther up the street then allowed the stored momentum to roll the vehicle smoothly up to us. As soundlessly as they could manage, he and Special Agent Mandalay climbed out of the station wagon and gently pushed the doors shut. Our position was fairly obscured by a tall evergreen hedgerow, so they were able to duck down and remain unseen as they made their way forward. The moon had stationed itself behind a shadowy wall of clouds, and we were parked as far away from the streetlights as possible. However, there was still enough of a dim glow for me to see that Deckert had squeezed himself into a vest as well. Over hers, Agent Mandalay had donned a dark blue windbreaker bearing the stenciled logo “FBI” across the left breast.

  “What the hell is he doing here?!” Special Agent Mandalay hissed at Ben as she drew up next to us.

  “Observin’,” he returned evenly.

  “What do you mean ‘observing’?” she declared. “This is a law enforcement operation. He’s a civilian.”

  “Raise your right hand, Rowan,” Ben ordered without taking his gaze from her.

  “Do what?” I voiced my confusion.

  He glanced over at me quickly. “Raise your right hand.” When I had done so, he returned his cold stare to Agent Mandalay. “Do you, Rowan Gant,” he began, “Swear to love your wife, pet your dog, and uphold truth, justice, and the American way, so help you whatever deity it is you Witches worship?”

  “You can’t deputize him!” she hissed once again. “This isn’t a cowboy movie!”

  “Well, Rowan? Do ya’?” he pressed.

  “Sure,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.

  “I’m going to have your badge, Storm!” she pronounced angrily through clenched teeth.

  “Jeezus Christ,” Deckert interjected in a harsh murmur. “Will you two give it a rest!? We’ve got a psycho to stop. If you’re that desperate to have a battle of egos, I’ll be more than happy to ring the freakin’ bell for ya’... AFTER we catch this guy.”

  The combative stares lingered between the two of them a moment longer, then Ben turned his head and reached up to the microphone clipped on the shoulder of his vest and depressed the talk button.

  “All positions report in,” he whispered.

  The radio on his belt, set to low volume, crackled slightly as each of the pre-designated teams reported in one by one. When all had answered their readiness, Ben slipped his pistol from its shoulder holster and hefted it slightly. Deckert and Mandalay followed suit, the latter still frowning intensely as she quietly filled her hand with a government issue Sig Sauer P226.

  “You do only what I tell ya’ ta’ do, when I tell ya’ ta’ do it,” Ben directed the command to me. “Stay behind me at all times, and if I tell ya’ to stay put, then don’t even fuckin’ breathe. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “I got it.”

  With another quick glance at Agent Mandalay, he thumbed the microphone switch once again and whispered, “All right, we’re goin’ in.”

  I had all but forgotten the earlier itching of the flak vest. Now, as we stealthily advanced across the street and up the steps to the porch of the old brick house, the unpleasant chafing had returned with a vengeance. I was certain that a large part of my discomfort was psychological, directly related to the fact that I was unable to scratch.

  I fought to relax and push the sensation from my mind, but the tenseness of the situation had opened the valve on my adrenal gland to full. Energy was crackling riotously through my body like a downed power line in a storm and I noticed much to my chagrin that my hands were shaking.

  Ben flattened himself against the wall to the left of the door and silently motioned with his empty hand. His signals made it clear that I was to remain with him while Deckert and Agent Mandalay were to take a similar position on the right. Following his instruction, I pressed myself into the brick, attempting to disappear into its face. Looking out over the front yard we had just crossed, I could see various figures that had advanced behind us, cutting off any avenue of escape for the occupant of the house. I was greatly impressed by the precision with which the entire operation was being executed.

  After a few more wordless signals, Ben reached over and slowly depressed the latch on the screen door until it released with a
n audible metallic click. The noise was something that wouldn’t even be noticed on a normal day, but to us, it sounded as loud as a gunshot. He waited for an eternity, then just a few moments more. No lights came on. No sound issued from the house. The silence was broken only by the raspy cadence of our own shallow breathing. I couldn’t speak for the other three, but my heart was racing at a madman’s pace, threatening to burst from my chest and be contained only by the Kevlar body armor.

  Ben began pulling the screen door open at a laboriously slow speed. All the while, his eyes remained locked with those of another cop who had crept up the stairs and was now crouched on the top step. I could only see the man’s eyes as his face was obscured by the tight fabric of a full-face mask. Still, I recognized him as Bill, the young detective that had given me so much grief at the Major Case Squad briefing. He glanced over at me briefly as a flicker of recognition ran through his eyes then gave me a slight nod. From the manner in which the fabric covering the lower half of his face momentarily stretched, I almost believed he smiled.

  The screen door was halfway open now, and Ben kept a steady pressure on it, easing it wider by the second. The aluminum frame pivoted almost soundlessly on the evenly spaced hinges, making only a slight whispering sound of mild friction. It was when the door reached three-fourths its open arc that my heart stopped.

  Maybe the frame was bent slightly, maybe there was rust deep in the hinges, or maybe any of a countless number of other reasons. Whatever the exact maybe was, the point was moot. The door emitted a sudden small groan of protest, followed instantly by a piercing creak that echoed across the empty street. In the split second following the end of the harsh metallic wail, the porch light snapped on.

  Time slowed for me. I don’t know if it was a supernatural effect or just a psychological aberration due to the newness and intensity of the situation. Whatever it was, it made the next few moments appear to me in what I can only describe as Hollywood slow motion. Ben was nodding vigorously as he yanked the door fully open, sending another series of loud groans resounding through the night. As I turned, I saw Bill come up from his crouch like a sprinter at the sound of a starting pistol. Two long strides later, his shoulder met the wooden door, followed by his full weight in motion, causing the frame to buckle and splinters to fly in several directions.