Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation (35 page)

At this moment my gut instinct was telling me
that this whole avenue was an exercise in futility that would get
us no closer to solving these murders. Though I certainly
understood that every lead needed to be followed, I couldn’t shake
the growing impatience that was even now tickling the base of my
brain.

With a sigh I moved in closer to the rack and
gave the blinking lights, humming machines, and tangled wires a
once over, slowly nodding my head and muttering to myself as I
identified the individual components.

“It’s definitely a network,” I acknowledged
Mandalay’s assessment. “But it looks like it’s also an internet
domain server, which is pretty much what we expected.” I began
pointing to various pieces as I named them off, struggling to keep
apathy from seeping into my voice. “This is the hub, this is a
router, and unless I missed my guess, this box here is the server
itself. Is it okay if I touch the keyboard?”

“Hold on a minute,” Ben answered flatly.
“I’ll be right back.” He returned in just over a minute and handed
me a packet containing a pair of surgical gloves adding the
comment, “Just in case.”

I nodded as I pulled the thin latex sheaths
over my hands and inspected the black, rack-mounted unit a bit
closer. On the small pullout keyboard stowed beneath it, I
backspaced the misspelled “killfile” command into non-existence and
tapped in my own instructions for a directory listing.

“Yeah...” I muttered and nodded as I scanned
the listing that streamed across the monitor. “Yeah, looks like
it’s the web server all right. Some kind of proprietary turnkey box
running under a network shell program. Not the most sophisticated
web host on the block, but they’re popular. A lot of small
businesses and Mom ‘n’ Pop ISP’s use them.”

“Is it where the message came from?” Ben
pressed.

“Probably. It’s a web server and considering
that the domain the mail came from is registered to Mister Roberts
here...” I allowed my answer to trail off and punctuated it with a
shrug.

“Message?” Roberts blurted and tossed a
puzzled glance between us. “What message? What are you talking
about?”

“Whaddaya mean ‘prob’ly?’” Ben ignored him
and spat back at me with heated annoyance. “Can’t you tell?”

“I mean exactly what I said!” I barked, my
own voice an open wound bleeding tension into the room. “Probably!
I don’t know for sure, and I’m not experienced with this particular
piece of software. It’s highly likely based on the facts we have at
our disposal that this is the server that the mail originated from.
Beyond that, I can’t say for sure just yet. Contrary to what you’ve
seen in the movies, Ben, you can’t just type in ‘give me the secret
information’ and have it automatically pop up on the screen!”

My friend caught himself as he began to snarl
an angry retort and left the vitriolic words unspoken. Silence rang
through the atmosphere filling the room with its thickness. Almost
simultaneously we grinned sheepishly at one another and shook our
heads.

“Smartass,” Ben replied with a slight chuckle
as he reached up to massage the back of his neck. “Sorry, white
man. Can ya’ figure it out?”

“Yeah,” I nodded and smiled back. “Give me a
few minutes, and I’ll be able to tell you for sure.”

“Are either of you going to answer me?”
Roberts spouted once again. “What are you talking about? What
message?”

“I thought you wanted your attorney?”
Constance posed, her voice tightly wrapped in sarcasm.

Roberts shook his head and tried to look back
at the petite federal agent then appealed to Ben once more, “What
is this all about? Why are you guys here?”

My friend stared him down for a moment then
pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger and
huffed out a tired sigh. “A threatening e-mail message was
apparently sent from here to a Miz Kendra Miller. Last week, Miz
Miller turned up dead. We came here to ask ya’ a few questions
about it.”

The three of us shared an incredulous, slack
jawed gaze at the man when he opened his mouth and replied with a
note of bitter calm, “Dead, huh? Well, I warned her.”

* * * * *

“At first, I really didn’t mind the ‘bi’
thing,” Roberts explained across the small table in the interview
room at the MCS command post. “In fact, it was... well... you know,
kind of a turn on.”

By the time we had arrived downtown, the
earlier fits of bravado had taken hold, and his attitude had
morphed from the original sudden panic to a self-righteous
cockiness. For the moment however, even with his current
disposition, he was at least talking. Unfortunately, what was
coming out of his mouth so far was not only less than helpful but
instead, appeared to be acting more as a caustic irritant for Agent
Mandalay.

Constance was leaning with her back against
the wall a few feet away. Upon hearing the comment, she looked at
the man with a disgusted smirk and raised an eyebrow but kept
silent.

“Do us all a favor, Roberts, and spare us
your little sex fantasies.” Ben shook his head then thrust his chin
toward the man. “Get back to the e-mail.”

“Well, like I said, at first it was no big
deal, but when she started spending all her time with ‘queen lesbo
the lawyer and her dyke club’ it was pretty obvious that she had to
have a thing for one of them.” He paused and looked at us as if we
should feel sorry for him. As though we should view him as an
emotionally damaged victim of a soured love affair. “And then, well
she started screwing around with all that WitchCraft shit... That
was just plain weird, okay? Hell, for all I know they were having
some kind of lesbian orgies or something. Of course, that would
have been fine if I was invited, you know.”

“What did I just say, Roberts?”

“Yeah, okay. So finally I just told her she
had to make a choice. It was either them or me.”

“So as long as her sexuality was entertaining
for you, then it was okay,” Agent Mandalay spat, still glaring at
him from across the room. She stood rigidly postured, pressed
against the dull institution grey wall as if she were seeking to
disappear into its face. Her arms were entwined in a tight fold
across her chest, and her body language loudly broadcast the fact
that this man had definitely gotten under her skin in a bad
way.

“Look,” he returned, obviously enjoying
himself, “her hanging out with them all the time was no different
than if she’d been hanging out with a bunch of men. They were just
as big a threat to our relationship, so of course I was going to be
jealous. But yeah, I got off on it for a while. You know, a couple
of babes getting all wild on each other. It’s every guy’s
fantasy.”

Constance quietly seethed at the comment. She
was almost visibly trembling with bright crimson anger.

“Not necessarily
every
guy, Roberts,” Ben interjected, taking mute
notice of the Federal Agent’s swelling ire. “Now get on with
it.”

“Anyhow, that’s not why I told her she had to
make a choice. That Wicker crap or whatever she was involved in was
way too weird. I didn’t find out about it until she started in with
that group, or I may not have started dating her in the first
place. It’s like some kind of cult or something. If you ask me,
they’re the ones you should be talking to. They probably sacrificed
her or something.”

“Yeah, well nobody asked ya’,” Ben
replied.

“It’s not very likely that her coven had
anything to do with it, Mister Roberts,” I stated evenly. “And it’s
called Wicca, not wicker. Wicca is a religion. Wicker is
furniture.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he retorted. “I still think
it’s some kind of cult.”

“So your solution to all this was to harass
‘er by sendin’ threatening e-mails?” Ben steered the conversation
back onto course with a sardonic query.

“E-MAIL,” Roberts stressed the singularity.
“I just sent the one, and besides, I was drunk.” He continued on as
if being inebriated was a valid excuse that should easily explain
the behavior away. “I barely remembered sending it until I got a
notice from her ISP about it. And yeah, I was pissed. It’s bad
enough to lose your girlfriend to another guy, but to another
woman? And then all that weird Witch crap on top of it.”

“But you took the time to set up the domain,”
I interjected.

“Yeah, so?” he countered. “Ten minutes and a
credit card gets you a domain name. Seemed like the way to go at
the time.”

“So if you’re completely innocent here, why
is it ya’ bolted when Agent Mandalay showed ya’ her ID?” Ben
posed.

“Look, I’ll talk to you about all this other
shit, but I’d rather not get into that part until I speak to my
lawyer.”

“Of course not,” Constance huffed.

“Is there somethin’ on that computer that ya’
don’t want anyone to see?” my friend pushed. “From what I
understand you were tryin’ to erase the data when we stopped
you.”

“Lawyer” came his one word response.

“Somethin’ on there that might connect ya’
with the murder?”

“LAW-YER.”

“Okay then. Fine.” Ben sighed. “How about
tellin’ us what ya’ meant back at your house when ya’ said you had
warned Miz Miller?”

“I meant I warned her. I told her if she kept
messing around with that WitchCraft shit something was going to
happen,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Ya’ mean ya’ warned ‘er or do ya’ mean ya’
threatened ta’ kill ‘er?” Ben chided.

“Warned
,
Detective. And it looks like I was right.”

“Were ya’ right or did ya’ make it into a
self-fulfillin’ prophecy?”

“You just don’t give up, do you? I was right,
that’s all.”

“Did you kill Kendra Miller, Mister Roberts?”
Agent Mandalay had pushed away from the wall and now slammed the
blunt question into his face, driving it home with a cold
stare.

“HELL NO!” he shot back. “How many times do I
have to tell you people this? All I did was send that one e-mail.
Shit, I hadn’t even seen her for three months!”

“So why did you bother with the e-mail then?”
she pressed as she drew closer to the small table. “Why wait three
months to send it?”

“I dunno. Like I said, I was drunk. And I
think that night I was surfing some lesbo sites on the web.”

“Excuse me?” she barked angrily.

“You know, checkin’ out the lez fetish
websites,” he answered, taking great relish in the fact that he was
annoying her. “That’s probably what got me thinking about her, so I
sent the e-mail.”

With no warning whatsoever, Constance strode
quickly forward, her hands outstretched as she drove her inertia
bearing weight into the edge of the small table. A loud moan
escaped from its four legs as they scraped across the tiled floor,
and the opposite side of the piece of furniture slammed hard into
Allen Roberts’ midsection. The air in his lungs vented from his
mouth in a raspy huff, and he wheezed as he fought against the
pressure to replace the escaped breath.

Both Ben and I stood frozen, completely
dumbfounded by what we were witnessing. We had all seen Agent
Mandalay display an almost frightfully hard edge in the past but
always with an even temperament. Explosive anger of this order was
something entirely new.

“You putrid little bastard!” she spat as she
held him pinned against the wall with the edge of the wooden table.
“You make me sick!”

“Whoa, Mandalay!” Ben quickly stepped forward
and grasped her shoulder with a large paw. “Back off.”

Still brimming with a full head of steam, she
twisted away from his grasp and gave the table a furious shove
before letting go. One side lifted slightly, and the legs made a
dull clack as they bounced down against the floor. Wheeling around,
the red-faced FBI special agent exited the interview room in a
tempest of wordless emotion, making certain to slam the door on the
way out.

“What the hell ya’ think that was all about?”
Ben asked me as he looked after her.

“Did you see that?” Allen Roberts coughed as
he finally regained his breath. “She assaulted me! You’re my
witnesses!”

“I didn’t see anything,” Ben spat back
without turning.

“That bitch assaulted me! I’m pressing
charges!”

“Shut up, Roberts,” Ben instructed in no
uncertain terms.

“I think I’d better go see if Constance is
okay,” I offered.

“Yeah, that’s prob’ly a good idea,” my friend
agreed.

“Fuckin’ dyke bitch” came a muttering voice
from behind us.

“I thought I told ya’ ta’ shut up,
Roberts.”

Another disparaging epithet exited the man’s
lips just as I was leaving the interview room. Before the door had
fully closed, I caught a calm query from my friend that managed to
do what the earlier no-nonsense instructions had failed to
accomplish.

“Look asshole, do ya’ want me ta’ cuff ya’ to
the chair and let ‘er back in here with ya’ for a while? ‘Cause
I’ll be happy to arrange it…”

* * * * *

Outside the interview room, at the far end of
the hallway, a low wooden bench lined the wall. Tucked neatly into
the corner, Constance Mandalay now occupied a small section of the
worn real estate. She was pitched forward, elbows resting on her
knees and her forehead cupped in her hands. The distance between us
was short enough that I could clearly see that she was
trembling.

A uniformed officer with an armload of file
folders rounded the corner and shot the young woman a cursory look
as he passed. He did a double take then threw his gaze back and
forth between the two of us. As I made my way steadily toward her,
I simply nodded then gave him a thin-lipped smile when we met and
then passed one another in the chilly corridor.

While the cop continued on his way, I paused
for a moment before a dented vending machine and thrust my hand
into my pants pocket. After rummaging around for a moment, I
extracted a small handful of loose change along with my car keys.
After picking out the quarters, I shoved the keys and remaining
silver back into my pocket.