Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (15 page)

“Better than I expected.” I kissed the top of
her head. “How’d the slides come out?”

“Technically, okay, though I can’t say as
that I really care for the subject matter,” she returned. “But I
wouldn’t quit my day job if I were you.”

“Always the critic,” I told her. “You eat
yet?

“No. These haven’t exactly done wonders for
my appetite.” She dealt another handful of the transparencies onto
the light box. “Besides, I was waiting for you.”

“Well, isn’t that sweet.”

“Not really. It’s your turn to cook.”

“I should have known.”

I was in the kitchen quickly sautéing onions
when the phone rang. I picked up the receiver and tucked it between
my ear and shoulder while I whisked eggs to a medium froth in a
mixing bowl. “Hello?”

“Good mornin’” came a familiar, but rough
voice. “I didn’t wake you guys, did I?”

“No, we’re awake, Ben,” I told him. “I’m just
now making breakfast.”

“What are we havin’?” he asked.

“What do you mean we?” I laughed. “Are you on
your way or something?”

“Actually,” he replied, “I’m in the
driveway.”

“In that case, you’re having a Denver omelet
and hash browns.”

I hung up the phone and retrieved the carton
of eggs from the refrigerator then began cracking more of them into
the bowl.

“Honey?” I called out. “Could you unlock the
front door? Ben’s in the driveway.”

I was folding large chunks of chopped ham,
peppers, onions, and shredded cheese into a fluffy omelet when a
haggard, unkempt Ben Storm ambled into my kitchen and helped
himself to a cup of coffee.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to do
without doughnuts this morning?” I asked, sliding the finished
omelet from the pan and preparing to make another.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he replied, seating
himself at our breakfast nook. “Like I haven’t heard the
cop-slash-doughnut jokes before. You get any sleep last night?”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted, pouring frothy eggs into
the pan. “How about yourself?”

“Got a couple hours.” He sipped his coffee.
“Didn’t get home till four this mornin’.”

“How’s Allison taking all this?” Felicity
asked. She had been standing in the doorway and now took a seat
opposite him.

“She’s not happy about it,” he answered. “But
she’s been through it before. It goes with the job.”

“What about the little guy?” I asked, sliding
plates containing omelets and hash browns before them.

“Not as good. He doesn’t understand why I’m
never home.” Ben shoveled in a mouthful of food and sat chewing
thoughtfully. “I think I’m gonna take a vacation when this is all
over.”

“Might be good for you,” Felicity told him.
“AND your family.”

I finished filling my plate and joined them
at the small bar. After moving some magazines, there was just
enough room for the three of us.

“So,” Ben asked between bites, “have ya’ seen
this mornin’s paper?”

“I brought it in,” Felicity answered, “but I
haven’t even unrolled it yet.”

“You might wanna put it in a scrapbook... or
the garbage, depends on how ya’ look at it.” He gestured at me with
his fork. “You’re all over the front page.”

“Me?” I stopped a forkful of food halfway to
my mouth and put it down. “What am I doing on the front page?”

“Remember the asshole with the camera that
jumped out in front of us last night?” Ben was up and refilling his
coffee cup. “Anyone need a warmup?”

Felicity held out her cup, and he topped it
off.

“Anyway,” he continued, returning to his
plate, “he caught ya’ like a deer in headlights.”

By now, I had gone into the living room and
returned with the rolled up newspaper. Taking my seat back at the
nook, I slid off the string and unfurled it. My wife leaned over
next to me in order to view the curiosity. Offset to the upper left
of the front page was a large color photo of Ben, and Detective
Deckert, and myself as we were walking toward the crime scene last
evening. As Ben had said, the look of surprise on my face gave me
the appearance of a stunned animal. Forty-eight point type below
the masthead spelled out the headline, “Police Witch Hunt.” The
lead of the story read, “Saturday evening, Saint Louis Major Case
Squad detectives brought Rowan Gant, a self-proclaimed witch, to
Thayer Park, the scene of yet another grisly cult-like murder.” The
rest of the story went on to recount details of both Ariel’s and
Karen Barnes’ murders and speculate about my involvement in the
investigation.

“How the hell did they come up with this?” I
exclaimed. “How’d they know I wasn’t just some cop?”

“Sidebar, page five,” Ben answered, placing
his dishes in the sink. “Hey, you got any of those cake things left
over from last night?”

Felicity directed him to the honey cakes as I
rapidly flipped through the pages of the newspaper and found the
accompanying article to which he had referred. Another photo of me,
this time black and white, was staring back. This particular photo
had been taken when I had addressed a group at a local Wiccan
gathering two years ago. The article was a slightly reworked copy
of the original interview I had given that reporter.

“Somebody at the paper had a good memory,”
Felicity intoned, peering over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” Ben added, “I’ve already caught ten
kinds of hell from the chief because of it.”

“I’m sorry, Ben,” I told him, folding the
paper and tossing it disgustedly on the nearby counter. “I guess
you won’t be needing me at the meeting today then.”

“Shit yes, I need you at the meetin’,” he
answered and sucked down a honey cake in one bite. “I said I caught
ten kinds of hell. I didn’t say he won.”

“I should have known,” I said as I gathered
the rest of the dishes and started washing them.

Felicity rolled her eyes at Ben as he
devoured the remaining cakes, then she grabbed a towel and began
drying the freshly washed plates.

* * * * *

The dining room table had
seemed to become our
command center
over the past few days, and once again, we
gathered around it to look over the slides and discuss the upcoming
meeting with the rest of the Major Case Squad.

“Did the coroner come up with anything last
night?” I asked Ben as he looked at slides with a small illuminated
viewer.

“Partial thumbprint,” he answered, “but it
was pretty smudged, so we only got three points. AFIS didn’t show
any hits.”

“AFIS?” Felicity asked.

“Automated Fingerprint
Identification System. Ya’ see,” he retrieved a ballpoint pen from
his breast pocket and made marks on his thumb, then showed it to
us, “a fingerprint is made up of what they call points. These
points come together to make the unique pattern of the print. You
or I can have some of the same points on our prints, but when you
add them all up, voilà, unique as a snowflake. AFIS is an on-line
database that allows us to break down the points that we obtain
from a print and convert them into a number. You feed the number
in, and the computer checks the database for matches or hits
against anyone who has ever been arrested and printed by an AFIS
participatin’ department. The
quote
quote
magic number of points to make a
positive ID is eight. With three, we have the possibility of at
least narrowin’ down the field.”

“So,” she continued, “since you didn’t get
any hits, that means he probably has never been arrested,
right?”

“At least not by a department hooked up with
AFIS.” Ben put away his pen and rubbed the ink from his thumb.
“Other than the print, the M.E. came up with the fact that the size
and shape of the wounds are consistent with those from Ariel
Tanner. And also, there was some metallic residue left behind on
her ribs.”

I replayed last evening’s vision in my head,
watching carefully. I forced myself to remain detached and
clinical. I didn’t want to lose my compassion, but I also wanted to
keep my breakfast where it belonged.

“From the dirk,” I volunteered, “when he cut
her open.”

“The M.E. said somethin’ like that,” Ben
confirmed.

“Was there anything else?”

“Minor blunt trauma to the head and upper
back. Looks like she put up a fight.” He read to us from his notes,
“And a puncture wound on her arm, just like Ariel Tanner.”

“So what I saw was right,” I told him. “He’s
drugging his victims in order to immobilize them. Do you know what
he’s using yet?”

“M.E.’s still trying to identify it, but the
sample from Ariel Tanner came up negative for insulin,” he
answered. “You bring up an interestin’ point, though.”

“The killer knows something about drugs and
how to use them?” Felicity interjected.

“Bingo,” Ben replied. “Which means the killer
probably works in a hospital or something.”

“Makes sense,” I chimed.

“Guess what I found out about your
lamp-swingin’ buddy?” He looked at me seriously.

“R.J.?” Felicity asked.

“Yeah, R.J.,” Ben answered. “Seems he’s an
orderly at County Hospital, in the emergency room.”

“I know that might seem to fit,” Felicity
stated, “but an orderly? Would he really know that much about the
drugs and such?”

“Can’t say,” he told her, “but if he pays
attention and reads a lot, who knows. In any event, he could have
access to controlled substances at his job.”

“I don’t know, Ben,” I added. “I agree that
something’s going on with R.J. that he’s not telling us, but do you
really think...”

“Hey,” he interrupted. “You yourself said
that Ariel Tanner thought she knew her killer. Right?”

“She thought she recognized the voice.”

“So add it up,” he continued. “Friend of
Ariel Tanner. He has a key to her apartment. Access to controlled
substances and a medical background of sorts.” He was counting the
points off on his fingers. “Shows up out of the clear blue at the
victim’s home Saturday, and finally, he shows up here an hour late
last night.”

Remembering a detail from the day before, I
quickly volunteered, “But he said he was out of town on a fishing
trip with his father when Ariel was killed.”

“Yeah, I know, but I didn’t find him all that
convincing.” Ben brushed away my objection. “So I already had a
talk with his dad. They didn’t actually leave on that trip ‘til
later that night, and ‘Pops’ had no idea where the kid was before
that. Based on the approximate time of death from the coroner, he
had plenty of time to do it.”

“Didn’t you upset his parents?” Felicity
asked with concern. “I mean, implying that their son is involved in
a murder and all...”

“Hey, I just told ‘em the truth,” he
answered. “It’s just routine. If they get their shorts in a bunch
then that’s their problem.”

“Why would he have lied?” I mused aloud.

“Maybe he did it.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Okay, so who knows?” Ben shrugged. “But I
intend to find out.”

“If knowing the victim is an important
factor, then what about Karen Barnes?” I queried. “Is there
anything to indicate that he knew her?”

“Not yet,” he shot back. “Maybe he picked her
because of the color of her hair... Maybe because the opportunity
was there... Shit, maybe he didn’t have to have a reason.”

“Still,” Felicity objected, “Rowan or I
should have felt something from R.J. if he had killed Karen Barnes
just before coming here. We’re both Witches you know.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Ben turned
to her. “Besides, why are you so attached to this kid anyway? You
act like you’ve known him forever or somethin’.”

“I just have a major pet-peeve about innocent
people being railroaded... And in a way, I DO know him pretty well.
When I cast circle last night, he was in it.”

“So?” Ben shrugged, obviously not
understanding the significance of her comment.

“So a circle is a very intense ritual in The
Craft,” she explained. “You are joined with your peers, and you
share energies. To be able to hide your true feelings during a
circle would take more practice than I can even imagine. I don’t
even know if Rowan or I could do it, and we’re both definitely more
skilled than he is... No. R.J. was wide open last night. I refuse
to believe he did it.”

“Tell that to a judge and see how far it gets
ya’,” Ben replied. “Besides, nobody has convicted the kid yet. I’m
just gonna ask him some more questions.”

As much as I wanted this to be over, and even
with my feelings that R.J. was hiding something, I found the
thought hard to comprehend. We hadn’t known him long, but I trusted
my wife’s instincts as well as my own. The morose silence that
followed Ben’s announcement was abruptly punctuated by Salinger as
he leapt to the table and let out a sudden, mournful yowl.

* * * * *

Felicity and I followed Ben, driving in her
Jeep. I had imitated his mode of dress by affixing a tie about my
neck and wearing a lightweight, tweed sport coat over my jeans. My
wife had opted for her no-nonsense look, donning a grey summer suit
and black pumps. She also wore glasses instead of her normal
contact lenses, which only served to enhance the businesslike
appearance she had assumed. The back seat of our vehicle contained
a carousel tray loaded with a small selection of slides from the
roll I had shot last evening, as well as our slide projector.

“So what do you think about this whole thing
with R.J.?” Felicity asked me as she shifted gears and merged with
the traffic.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “Ben makes it
sound pretty convincing, and I did have that feeling last
night...You said you felt it too.”

“Yes, I did,” she stated. “But it wasn’t that
malevolent.”

“True,” I responded, “you would think that
someone evil enough to do what this guy has done would be giving
off some seriously bad energies.”