Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation

by M. R. Sellars

  “This is the twenty-first century. While I’m not naive enough to believe prejudice no longer exists, I find it hard to deal with someone reviving the Witch trials of the Middle Ages.”

  Ben stared back at me silently for a substantial portion of what seemed an eternity. I had just spilled an enormous amount of information into the room, and to him, I probably appeared to be rambling. His stoic face told me he was still completely unsure of what the brief lesson in European history had to do with the investigation at hand.

  “Okay... So I’m not quite sure that’s the beginnin’ I was talkin’ about,” he eventually stated then proceeded to gnaw on the end of the cigar thoughtfully. “So why are ya’ so sure this Witch Hammer has something to do with this dead call-girl?”

  “Hammer of the Witches,” I corrected and motioned to his notebook. “Let me borrow that for a second.”

  He handed over the worn notepad and a promotional giveaway ballpoint with a D.A.R.E logo screen-printed along the plastic barrel. I carefully scribed a circle on the page that I then decorated with small hash marks around its perimeter. In the center I placed a large X and vertically intersected it with a large letter P.

  “That is the symbol carved into Brianna Walker’s inner thigh,” I told him as I handed the pen and pad back. “Are you absolutely positive you’ve never seen it before?”

  “Well...” He scrutinized the blue ink rendition of the marking. “It looks kinda familiar, but I can’t place it for sure.”

  “If you walked into a Catholic church you would. They’re Greek letters. The X is Chi, and the P is Ro. The first two letters of the Greek word Christos, or Christ. What you are looking at is called the Monogram of Christ.”

  “You mean like Jesus Christ?”

  “One and the same.”

  “So you’re sayin’ it’s a Christian symbol then?”

  “Absolutely. It represents Jesus Christ and all that he means to Christianity as a whole.”

  My forearm had begun tingling with a mild itch that now burst into the crawling sensation of having a handful of ants marching across my skin. Absently, I pawed at the annoyance while waiting for Ben to digest the first course of information.

  “Guess that would fit...” he muttered.

  “Fit what?”

  “Well, there was a Gideon’s Bible on the bed in her room.” He quickly referenced his notes. “The passage Leviticus twenty twenty-seven was highlighted. A man also or woman that hath a familiar spirit, or that is a wizard, shall surely be put to death: they shall stone them with stones; their blood shall be upon them.”

  “Really,” I finally muttered. “I would have expected Isaiah fifty-seven three. But draw near hither, ye sons of the sorceress, the seed of the adulterer and the whore.”

  “Shit, Rowan! You quote Bible verses too?”

  “I’ve told you before, Ben, I may be a Witch, but I’m a student of religions in general. It’s how I stay on top of what I’m being accused of, and, whom I’m being accused by.”

  Again my skin burned with an un-quelled itch, and I dug my fingers in, working at it through the material of my sleeve.

  “Somethin’ wrong with your arm?” Ben asked, pointing to indicate my sudden preoccupation with the task.

  “Just an itch. Probably nerves.” I forced myself to stop clawing at the bother and focus on the conversation. “Did you find anything else?”

  “Other than the Bible, duct tape, and the washcloths, just her clothing and about a grand in sex toys an’ leather goods, if ya’ know what I mean. Place had been wiped clean as far as prints go… And all the blood on the sheets was hers.”

  “No semen or fresh evidence of sexual intercourse?”

  “Not accordin’ to the M.E. so far, but what’s it matter? She was a hooker. Somethin’ like that wouldn’t be unusual.”

  “Just trying to get a handle on what this guy is thinking. It wasn’t unusual for inquisitors to rape their victims as a part of the torture.” I explained. “The things they did in the name of their God were the only true depravities... They were, to say the least, a rather sick lot. Of course, if there’s no evidence of intercourse, then that could well establish that he isn’t doing this for kicks. In my mind, that makes him even more frightening.” Ben was noting my questions as well as my explanations in his pad as we went along. He looked up from his quick scribbling and peered at me quietly for a moment.

  “You seem pretty stuck on this whole Inquisition thing,” he commented. “You really think since he didn’t screw her that he isn’t just some sick fuck that got off on carvin’ this chick up? I mean, look at her customers. That S&M shit goes both ways, ya’know.”

  “The Monogram of Christ is definitely one sign,” I answered. “It was put there for a reason. It wasn’t random or even an afterthought. It was placed on her inner thighs to purify her because of her profession. The killer was seeking to cleanse the ‘whore.’ Another thing would be the Bible and the highlighted verse.”

  “So maybe he’s just after hookers.”

  “I doubt it. Remember, the Bible verse highlighted mentioned wizardry and having a familiar spirit, something heavily associated with The Craft. Also, she had a Pentacle tattooed on her upper back. A tattoo, mole, or birthmark in that area would have been considered a Devil’s Mark during the Burning Times. It would have signified that she consorted with Satan, as all Witches were believed to have done. Let’s not forget the fact that she was tortured using a Pear. Medieval torture devices aren’t what I would consider standard fare for someone out to kill hookers. No, he was definitely looking to get a confession out of her.”

  “How could she confess anything if she was gagged?”

  “She wouldn’t have needed to confess anything verbally. Besides, whoever did this obviously removed the gag at some point.”

  “Okay, but ya don’t know for a fact that he used that pear thing. The doc just said somethin’ was inserted. And besides, that Wicked Witch of the West End shit was just a street name she used. She wasn’t really a Witch... I mean not like you and Felicity, right?”

  “I can’t say for certain, Ben. We don’t exactly carry union cards you know. Just because I’m a Witch it doesn’t mean I know every other Witch in Saint Louis. It doesn’t matter anyway,” I shook my head. My hand had crept back over and with a mind of its own was once again scratching my arm. “The majority of those executed for the so-called crime of WitchCraft weren’t Witches either. If the killer perceived her to be a Witch, then to him, that is exactly what she was. A confession would merely be a formality, and the torture, a means to that end.”

  “Maybe so, but all this Inquisition stuff...”

  “Come on, Ben,” I implored. “You know you don’t really believe that this was just some bondage game gone too far. If you did, you never would have asked me to look at that marking.”

  “Okay. So say you’re right, and there is a wacko runnin’ around playin’ judge, jury, and executioner against Witches.” Ben was desperately seeking a way out. I knew he didn’t want to accept the fact that we were dealing with another serial killer, especially since only six months had passed since the demise of the last one. “Then why didn’t he burn ‘er at the stake or somethin’. I thought that’s how they executed Witches back then. You yourself keep callin’ the whole thing the Burnin’ Times.”

  “Yes, burning was done in some parts of Europe, and it is the very reason modern day Witches call it the Burning Times. But it was only one form of execution and not the most common at that. Witches, and those accused, were often garroted, hung, disemboweled, drowned, or even slowly crushed to death.

  “In this case, he was trying to see if she would save herself instead of facing such a death.”

  “Whaddaya mean ‘save herself’? She never had a chance. He chucked her off a fuckin’ balcony.”

  “That wasn’t just an execution, Ben, it was also a test to verify the validity of her confession.”

  “A test how?”

 
“He wanted to see if she could fly.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “The Empress Chicken combination plate is pretty good,” Ben was telling me as he cranked the steering wheel and arced us through the intersection in a left turn that went far too wide for comfort. Fortunately, there was nothing in his way, and he serpentined the vehicle back into the middle of the lane. “But ya’ hafta tell ‘em ta’ lay off the MSG.”

  We were back in his van and making our way down a near deserted, snow-packed street in the direction of lunch. He had produced a crumpled menu from the depths of the glove box and offered it to me before we left the parking lot of the city morgue. The tri-fold piece of paper screamed neon yellow in between the scribbled lunch orders, phone numbers, and smudges threatening to completely cover its face. In the center of the outer fold, it bore a caricatured cartoon likeness of a balloon-headed Asian man in a tiny car, gleefully rushing to some unknown destination off the page. The name of the restaurant emblazoned above the line drawing read “Happy Wok Express—We Deliver.”

  “I’ll probably just have some vegetables and steamed rice,” I told him after half-heartedly inspecting the list of specials. “I doubt if I need to eat anything very spicy at the moment.”

  “Vegetables and rice?” He glanced over at me and chuckled. “Are you serious? Don’t ya’ want any real Chinese food?”

  “Actually, Ben, vegetables and steamed rice are probably closer to being real Asian food than your suggestion of Empress Chicken.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Hmmph. Well, I’m still gonna have the chicken.”

  “I figured you would.”

  Doctor Sanders had arrived in her office shortly before we left the morgue. Much to my surprise, she remembered me and made it a point to ask about Felicity’s well being. Of course, it hadn’t been that long since we’d met. Considering that we had seen each other several times due to the body count of the last case, there was no real reason to be shocked. Truth be told, by the time local media finished trying to make me into an overnight celebrity—Self Proclaimed Witch Aids Police In Satanic Serial Killer Investigation, etcetera—I should have been amazed if someone didn’t know me.

  Ben engaged in a short banter with the city’s chief medical examiner and persuaded her to take over the postmortem on Brianna Walker. She had begun by assuring him that Doctor Friedman was more than qualified to complete the autopsy but within minutes agreed to handle it herself. I wasn’t entirely certain if Ben had been just eloquent enough in his arguments or if she had agreed for no other reason than to get him to shut up. In any event, Ben got what he wanted, as usual, and invited her to lunch with us in return for the favor. She had declined for reason of a full schedule, pointedly citing the fact that she now had yet another post to perform on top of her never-ending administrative duties.

  The radio was playing softly from strategically placed speakers and intermixed with an occasional tinny spurt of chatter from the police radio mounted vertically to the face of the dash. The cigarette lighter receptacle stood ready to accept the plug for the magnetic bubble light that rested on the engine cover between the seats. I knew from past experience that a hidden switch somewhere on the driver’s side would activate a deafening siren behind the exterior grill. Ben was dedicated to his job, and the modifications he had made to his personal vehicle showed it.

  “A lotta coppers eat here,” he said as he urged the van over the curb into the unplowed lot and created his own parking space next to the small building. “I got turned on to it when I worked this district a coupl’a years back.”

  He was making conversation. Going purposely out of his way to avoid the subject of Brianna Walker and the revelations I had bestowed upon him less than an hour before. I knew he was doing so for my benefit. It must have been obvious that I was still rattled by the entire experience, and this was even without my having engaged in any psychic exploration of the young woman’s death. I had to admit to myself that I was already in deep and that any other fear I had faced in my life to this point was a cakewalk as compared to what awaited me now. In my mind, I mutely convinced myself that I was just going to have to get over it.

  “You know, Ben, I appreciate what you’re doing, but we can’t keep avoiding the subject. We have to talk about this.”

  The itching sensation on my forearm had tapered off to a dull annoyance for a brief time but had now returned with a growing intensity. The thick, polyfiber-filled fabric of my coat was positioned armor-like between my clawing fingers and my burning skin, rendering my attack useless.

  “Yeah, white man, I know,” he conceded with a nod. “But I don’t mind tellin’ ya, I could really do without another serial nutball runnin’ around loose. Shit! The last one was bad enough.”

  “I hate to tell you this,” I ventured, “but if I’m right, and this guy is re-creating the Inquisition, it could get much worse than the last one... much worse.”

  “Yeah, I was afraid you were gonna say somethin’ like that.” He paused thoughtfully then turned to stare out the window for a brief moment before centering his gaze back on my face. “Sixty-four thousand dollar question, Row. Are ya’ gonna be able to handle this?”

  “Yeah, Ben. I think I will.” I was still pawing at the itch mindlessly.

  “You think, or you know, Rowan?” he stressed. “I’m not gonna have ya’ in the middle of this crap if it’s gonna put ya’ over the edge or somethin’.”

  “I understand your concern, Ben, but I’ll be all right. The whole idea of someone reviving that part of history just caught me a little off guard. Besides, I thought you said my involvement in this was requested from further up the line?”

  “Yeah, it was. You made a big impression with that whole mess last fall... But I’ll tell the chief he can kiss my ass if this is gonna be any danger to you. It’s not like you’re gettin’ paid for this.”

  “I’m in danger whether I help with the investigation or not, Ben.”

  “How do ya’ figure that?”

  “I’m a Witch and I’m open about it. ‘Out of the broom closet’ so to speak. My picture has been in the paper and all over the news. Not to mention the article we were just talking about this morning. If he’s hunting Witches, then I’m a prime target who’s already publicly confessed to the crime.”

  “Sonofabitch... Mutherfuck...” He muttered the expletives as he shook his head. “Damn…I just can’t win for losin’.”

  * * * * *

  The interior of the Happy Wok Express was just as small as the outside of the building had professed it would be. Ben told me that it was once a carryout fried chicken franchise that had been shut down due to several health code violations. The building had apparently remained vacant until just a few years ago when the current owners had taken it over. Of the few tables, we had selected the one in the farthest corner of the establishment. We were the only patrons at the moment, but there was no guarantee it would remain that way. What we would be discussing was definitely not meant to be overheard by the general populace.

  “You shoulda had the doc look at your arm when we were at the morgue.” Ben gestured at my incessant preoccupation with the itch. “Maybe ya’ touched somethin’ in there that you were allergic to, ya’know?”

  “I can’t ask her for treatment every time I see her, Ben. She’s already stitched me up once.” I asserted, referring to the first time she and I had met. I had been bleeding from a minor scalp wound received in the course of an investigation, and she had tended to it without hesitation.

  “Yeah, well,” he retorted between mouthfuls, “she’s a doctor, right?”

  “Right. But she’s getting paid to be a medical examiner, not a general practitioner.”

  It was painfully obvious that the present management had ruled out the entire concept of remodeling, as the interior motif still contained blatant references to the goodness of deep fried poultry. Dark brown ceramic tiles on the walls and floor, sporting more than their sha
re of chips and cracks, married with replacements of carelessly unmatched colors. A flickering soft drink sign hung above the worn Formica counter, balancing a painted menu on either side. Cardboard rectangles with handwritten additions were taped over a number of the original selections announcing price changes in bold strokes from a wide-tipped marker. Low on a nearby wall, where most likely there had once stood a drinking fountain, a copper pipe jutted out; the stem of its shutoff valve was clamped with a small pair of vise-grips. I couldn’t speak for the decorating and maintenance of the place, but at least it appeared to be clean.

  We continued our meal through the momentary lull in our conversation. The sounds of metal utensils rattling against heavy pans echoed from the kitchen area, occasionally punctuated by a rapid string of speech in an Asian language. Their phone was still ringing off and on, though the mid-day rush should theoretically have ended. I assumed that since the weather had forced a later start to the workday, lunch breaks had been pushed back as well. Who better to call on a day like this than someone who would deliver?

  The food was edible but nothing that was going to make the Riverfront Times annual restaurant guide. For some reason, they had found it necessary to blanch my vegetables beyond doneness, turning them into a limp pile covered with something resembling a slightly thickened beef stock. The rice was cold and dry, which led me to believe it had been steamed far in advance of today. Ben sang the praises of his selection between enormous forkfuls of deep fried chicken nuggets in a thickly sweetened hot pepper sauce; of course, Ben wasn’t the pickiest diner I had ever met. I simply pushed my lunch around the Styrofoam plate with the plastic fork, occasionally stabbing a broccoli floret or slice of carrot that hadn’t been cooked beyond recognition and popping it in my mouth.

  “Your food okay?” Ben asked. “Ya’ don’t seem ta’ be eatin’ much.”