Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (23 page)

“Ahhh. Okay.”

A deep, recessed basin in the mantle of snow
outlined the swimming pool, in and of itself. It was fairly common
as private pools go—roughly kidney-shaped and not huge by any means
but not the smallest I’d ever seen either. A path had been
carefully cleared through the snow around the perimeter on one
side. The opposite border was marred by a single row of foot
traffic and appeared to be the path the killer had taken.
Therefore, it had been left intact to preserve any possible
evidence. Small spots of red were scattered here and there along
the trail up to a small depression where they blossomed into
several garish blotches. The victim had been bleeding.

We were standing in the shoveled area
opposite the low brick building that housed the pumps, filters, and
changing rooms. Here, the pale, crystalline blanket of snow came
nearly even with the concrete deck. If the pool had been properly
winterized, which considering the neighborhood I was certain it
had, somewhere around two feet below the pristine white cover would
be a sheet of ice. Beneath that would be murky, chemical-laden
water, along with leaves and anything else that had blown or fallen
in since its closure just after the Labor Day holiday.

All in all, it was a normal swimming pool
that had been shut down for the winter months, with one glaring
exception—tonight someone had deliberately beaten a hole through
the thick crust of ice and placed another human being into the
water’s chilled depths.

“Looks like he used something to chip away at
the ice,” Deckert announced with a frosty sigh as he pointed across
the depression to a gaping hole in the snow on the other side. “Not
sure what, but he broke it up pretty good. Enough to get a body
through anyway.”

“Don’t they normally put covers on pools when
they close them up?” I asked.

“Most of the time, yeah,” Carl answered. “But
not always. Obviously they didn’t on this one.”

“Anybody besides the security guard notice
anything?” Ben asked.

“Not that we’ve heard yet, but we’re doin’ a
door to door,” Deckert replied.

“Prob’ly give us a big fuckin’ zero,” my
friend mused aloud.

“Yeah,” Carl agreed, “probably. But maybe
we’ll get lucky. I’m guessin’ this wacko’s been here before.”

“Why is that?” I inquired.

Deckert pointed across the pool and traced
the cordoned off route through the air with his finger, starting at
the gate and ending at the hole in the ice.

“The whole cover thing for one, but more
importantly, look at the path. We’ve isolated the rent-a-cop’s
footprints and kept the area blocked off,” he explained. “The
killer cut the padlock on the gate, prob’ly just used some bolt
cutters. From there he followed that path straight to where he
broke through the ice.”

“Yeah,” I shrugged, “I guess I’m still
missing something.”

“Okay, pretend the hole’s not there,” he
instructed. “Now tell me which end of the pool is the deep
end.”

“Shouldn’t it be right there? Farthest from
the gate?” I asked. “Isn’t that an insurance thing?”

“Exactly,” Deckert replied with a nod. “But
there’re two gates, and they just kept the one at the deep end
padlocked all the time rather than replace it with regular fencing.
If you look at the tracks, that’s the one he came through, and the
deep end is actually right there where the hole is. So, since you
can’t really tell which gate is the proper entrance just by lookin’
at ‘em, that tells me our killer somehow knew right where to
go.”

The moment he finished, the realization
struck me full in the face. If the tracks and the hole weren’t
there, the landscape would be nothing more than unspoiled snow. The
symmetrical hollow of the pool’s perimeter gave no clue as to which
end was which. The shallow end of the pool was closest to the main
entrance, and it was also the more secluded of the two by virtue of
an evergreen hedgerow. But the killer wanted to be sure the victim
drowned as opposed to just death by exposure. He had purposely gone
to the deep end to ensure this... And he knew exactly where the
deep end was. I mutely chastised myself for missing such an obvious
fact.

“Good point,” Ben whistled. “He couldn’t have
known which end it was unless he’d been to this pool before. Not
with all this snow.”

“That’s what I’m thinkin’.” Carl nodded.

“Well I doubt if he lives here,” I offered.
“This subdivision is primarily condos, and the few houses we passed
look way too modern to have the kind of basement I saw when I was
channeling Kendra Miller.”

“Yeah,” Deckert nodded as he spoke. “Besides,
as reckless as he’s been he’s probably too smart to do it in his
own back yard. He’s been spread out all over the place so far.”

“So what’s the plan for recoverin’ the body?”
Ben queried.

“Well, as soon as the CSU is finished with
the tracks and such, they’re talkin’ about sendin’ a diver in. It’s
either that or drain the damn thing, so they got the local muni’s
fire department on standby. I think they’re pretty much waitin’ on
the coroner to make the final decision,” Carl answered then shook
his head. “Damn! This SOB has gotta have some freakin’ balls. I
mean the hotel, the park, now this.”

“Tell me about it. He hung number three off
her own friggin’ balcony,” Ben added. “Right out in plain
sight.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Deckert acknowledged. “Also
heard about that whole chopper thing with Street. Sheesh, ‘Ghoul
Squad.’ No offense, but I’m glad I missed that one.”

“Don’t worry,” Ben spat sarcastically. “Your
dues to that club are paid in full. I’m sure they’ll have ya’
listed on the membership rolls soon enough.”

“Freakin’ wonderful. Mona’ll love that,”
Deckert muttered then paused and clucked his tongue thoughtfully.
“So you think maybe this screwball is an exhibitionist or
something?”

“Maybe. He hasn’t been hidin’ his work,
that’s for sure.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I volunteered.
“He’s making the murders public executions for a deeper reason. I
don’t believe he’s doing it for the thrill. Like I told you
originally, he most likely views himself as divine or chosen. He
sees himself as the hand of God. That’s why he’s picking these
venues. They’re his town square, in a sense. He wants everyone to
see the penalty for heresy in order to teach them a lesson.”

“Puttin’ the fear of God into ‘em, so to
speak,” Ben grunted.

“Exactly.”

“Still,” Deckert objected, “he can’t keep
going around killing out in the open like this and there not
eventually be a witness. Even with the cover of darkness, he’s
gotta know someone is gonna see him.”

“Obviously he’s willing to take that risk in
the name of ridding the world of that which he views as evil,” I
stated matter-of-factly.

Deckert repeated a paraphrased version of his
earlier comment, “Like I said, the wacko’s got some balls.”

In the near distance, we could hear the voice
of a uniformed officer as he announced to the waiting evidence
technicians, “Meat wagon’s here.”

The three of us watched mutely as the head of
the crime scene unit filled in the bedraggled county coroner. After
a brief exchange, he nodded his head, visibly agreeing with the
officer in charge. Shortly thereafter a member of the condo
complex’s maintenance staff that had been standing by was put to
the task of clearing as much snow as he could from around the
hole.

“Do ya’ know if the command post was able ta’
get ahold of everyone yet?” Ben shifted the direction of the
conversation momentarily while we waited.

“Yeah, they did.” Carl nodded. “All accounted
for. Whoever’s down there, she’s not a member of that group.”

“Hmmmmph,” Ben grunted thoughtfully. “That’s
odd.”

“What do you mean odd?” I asked.

“Well, this wingnut had established a pattern
by goin’ after the women in this particular coven. It’s just a rule
of thumb on serial killers—they tend ta’ stick to an established
pattern. So why all of a sudden did he decide ta’ pick someone
outside of that target group?”

“Do you think he might know that the members
of Starr’s coven are being watched?” I offered.

“I s’pose it’s possible. ‘Specially if he was
stalkin’ ‘em or somethin’, but there’re eight more women on that
list. That’s a lot of stalkin’ for one guy ta’ do in a short period
of time. Plus we’ve been tryin’ ta’ keep the protection low profile
on the chance we could pop ‘im tryin’ to nab one of ‘em,” he
replied, all the while shaking his head. “Now we go back to the
drawin’ board. How’d he pick this one? How does she fit in to the
pattern?”

“Both of you have said
she
,” I commented. “What makes you
think this victim is female?”

“Well, he’s only killed women so far,” Ben,
answered.

“Storm is right.” Agent Mandalay’s voice
filtered in from behind our small huddle. “That’s another rule of
thumb. Serial killers don’t typically cross gender lines. Normally
it’s one or the other but not both. Hello again. Sorry I’m
late.”

We had apparently been so engrossed in our
conversation that we had not noticed her arrival, and until now she
had elected to remain silent. She was much less conspicuous after
having traded her party dress and overcoat for blue jeans and a
dark, hooded parka; although, her face still bore the cosmetic
accentuation of a more than average make over. Even so, her somber
expression matched the grim edge of her voice.

“Connie,” Deckert greeted her as only he
could.

“Hi, Carl,” she replied then turned to me and
continued, “I’d say odds are the killer is misogynistic. Also the
general public commonly associates Witches with being female, not
male.”

“I can understand that theory to an extent,
and I’m not trying to second guess you by any means,” I admitted,
“but this guy isn’t a typical serial killer. I don’t believe he’s
doing this on a lark, or even because of a hatred of women. He has
a specific agenda, and it includes anyone accused of WitchCraft,
regardless of their gender.”

“Is this something you saw in one of your
visions?” she questioned.

“No. Just a feeling.”

“Well, I’ve learned better than to doubt one
of your feelings, Rowan,” she conceded solemnly. “But male or
female, we still have a fourth victim on our hands.”

“This is true,” I agreed.

Carl captured our attention with a lethargic
gesture, and he volunteered in a sober tone, “Looks like they’re
gettin’ ready to go after the body.”

His voice was both preceded and followed by a
muffled thudding noise that emanated from across the pool area.
Under the supervision of the head CSU technician, a maintenance
worker was laboring to fracture the layer of ice and widen the
entry point for the diver. A second pair of thuds resulted in a
sharp cracking sound as the frozen strata splintered. Another of
the technicians struggled with a shepherd’s hook to fish the broken
chunks of solidified water out of the way.

A crowd had been gathering out beyond the
barrier tape and was still gaining mass as more gawkers straggled
in. Die-hard thrill seekers that even the weather couldn’t deter
from a feeding frenzy of morbid curiosity. Some of them were just
as bad, if not worse, than the media hounds that were vying for
position with them. This fact was unequivocally proven when our
concentration on the scene was diverted by the clamorous sound of a
verbal altercation and physical scuffle.

Outside the fence a patrolman was shining his
flashlight directly into the lens of a video camera that was being
operated by an onlooker in the front of the crowd. The bright light
effectively blinded the device, and the spectator began
boisterously protesting the action.

Another uniformed officer quickly joined the
patrolman as he attempted to calm the man down; however, after a
few moments of the complainant loudly misquoting constitutional
amendments, it became obvious that they were fighting for a lost
cause. Finally, the obnoxious individual was unceremoniously
handcuffed and parked in the back seat of a squad car where he
continued his now muffled vociferations.

During the short commotion, the maintenance
worker and crime scene unit technicians had managed to slightly
more than double the size of the hole in the sheet of snow-covered
ice. A diver clad in a dark wetsuit was now sitting on the edge of
the pool nodding his head at a series of instructions he was
receiving from the coroner who squatted next to him.

After a moment, a sharp hiss of air blasted
into the now quiet site as he tested his regulator then slipped the
mouthpiece between his lips. In a smooth, practiced motion, he
shifted and turned, lowering himself into the icy pool, then
snapped on a powerful underwater lamp. Seconds later, he slid into
the murky depths, leaving us to stare at a dimly glowing hole and
an occasional burst of bubbles rising to the surface.

“Man, that’s gotta be some cold ass water.”
Ben whistled between his teeth and shot me a sideways glance. “You
doin’ okay so far?”

“I’m fine,” I nodded in assent.

“No
Twilight
Zone
or anything?”

“No. Not yet.”

“You having those visions again, Rowan?”
Deckert inquired.

“Some,” I returned.

“Some my ass,” Ben spat. “He scared the piss
outta all of us at the last scene.”

“What happened?”

“Long story, man,” Ben shook his head. “You’d
think I was nuts if I tried ta’ tell ya’.”

“You had to be there, Carl,” Agent Mandalay
offered in agreement. “There’s no way to explain it and keep it
from sounding like some kind of fantastic tale.”

“Well, we
are
talkin’ about Rowan here.” Deckert gave me a
half-hearted, knowing grin.