Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (12 page)

“Carl. Carl Deckert. County Police.” The
thickset, greying detective reached out and shook Ben’s hand. “You
the one investigating that Tanner homicide?”

“That’s me,” Ben answered.

“This your partner?” he queried, reaching out
to shake my hand.

“Rowan Gant,” I told him, returning the
gesture.

“He’s a specialist on alternative religions,”
Ben explained. “He’s consulting for us on the symbols left at the
Tanner crime scene.”

Detective Deckert motioned to another officer
who produced a partially sodden clipboard. Ben scrawled a signature
on the damp paperwork and then indicated a spot for me to sign and
record the time.

“Well,” our stocky escort said as the three
of us began walking toward the entrance to the restroom. “You’ve
got plenty to consult about. Looks like a freakin’ Satanic graffiti
party in there.”

“Have you ID’d the victim?” Ben
questioned.

“Found a purse,” Deckert continued. “Driver’s
license matches up to a Karen Barnes. Twenty-eight years
old...”

A bright flash exploded in my eyes,
momentarily blinding me. At first I thought a streak of lightning
had hit nearby, but the telltale clap of thunder was never
forthcoming. Instead I heard shouting, expletives, and what sounded
to be a scuffle.

“What the...” Ben exclaimed.

“Shit!” Detective Deckert shouted. “How the
hell did he get in here?!”

My vision began returning to normal, and what
had sounded like a scuffle was revealed to be just that. Two
uniformed officers were on either side of a struggling young man
holding a camera affixed with a powerful flash unit.

“Get him outta here!” Deckert ordered the two
officers. “And tighten up the perimeter!” he shouted after them as
they dragged the photographer away. “Sorry about that. Freakin’
media. Every damn one of ‘em’s got a police scanner. Sometimes they
get to the scene before we do.”

“You were sayin’?” Ben prodded.

“Oh, yeah,” he continued. “Karen Barnes,
twenty-eight years old. Lives about three blocks from here. Looks
like she was out walking her dog. The son-of-a-bitch killed it
too.”

“Family been notified?” Ben asked.

“Got a car waiting for the husband. Neighbor
said he was out of town on business. She was expecting him back
tonight.”

“Any kids?”

“No. Just her and the spouse.”

“Well at least there’s that.”

We had paused at the entrance of the women’s
restroom on the side of the cinder block structure. Evidence
technicians were exiting, carrying bulky cases containing the tools
of their trade.

“Being a public restroom, there are prints
everywhere,” Deckert pointed out. “We didn’t find anything real
fresh except for some smudges. Looks like he was wearing gloves.”
He pulled a pair of packets from the pocket of his trench coat and
handed one to each of us. “Speaking of which, you better put these
on just to be safe.”

I took the offered surgical gloves and with
some work, managed to pull them over my damp hands as we entered
the building.

I caught my breath and nearly stumbled as
waves of ethereal pain washed over me. I quickly fought to
disconnect myself from the supernatural plane associated with the
scene and ground myself here in this reality. A sharp pain,
followed by a frigid, tingling sensation consumed my body, then
slowly subsided as I mentally slammed on the brakes, preventing my
otherworldly senses from continuing down the path that beckoned
them.

“You okay?” Ben whispered in my ear, grabbing
my arm to steady me. “You aren’t getting ready to flip out or do
that channeling thing are you?”

“I’ll be all right,” I answered in a hushed
tone. “I caught it before it happened.”

“Good. Just try not to go
all
Twilight Zone
on me with the rest of these guys around here.”

A white sheet was arranged in the center of
the room covering a section of the smooth, grey concrete floor.
Beneath the shroud laid the lifeless body of another young woman.
Patches of deep crimson diffused slowly through the sheet at
various points where it contacted portions of the torso. A cloying
odor, both sweet and musty, intermingled with the stench of the
restroom, tingling my nostrils. The pungent scent was all too
familiar.

“Sage and rose oil,” I stated aloud.

“Come again?” Detective Deckert asked.

“That smell,” I told him as he started taking
notes. “It’s sage and rose oil. Probably a little charcoal mixed in
to help it burn. Did you find a pile of ash anywhere?”

“In the sink over there.” He pointed. “That
mean something?”

“He burned it to cleanse the room,” I
replied. “Sage is often used in incense for purification. You’ll
probably find salt in the North, South, East, and West positions of
the room as well.”

I stepped past him and peered in the sink at
the pile of grey cinders. The floor in the area was littered with
broken glass, silvered on the back. The mirror above the washbasin
had been shattered.

“Evidence unit took the larger pieces of the
mirror with them,” he offered. “We don’t know if the killer broke
it or if vandals did it earlier.”

“My guess would be that he did it,” I told
them, turning and finding Ben taking notes. “Probably before he
performed the ritual.”

“Why do ya’ think that is?” Ben asked.

“If he was trying to invoke something...” I
caught myself, remembering that Detective Deckert was in the room.
“You know, if he thought he was attempting to conjure up a spirit,”
I explained. “Some legends have it that if a spirit witnesses its
own reflection in a mirror, it will become mesmerized and
therefore, trapped. I would guess he probably subscribes to that
belief.”

“So the wacko busted the mirror,” Deckert’s
gruff voice interjected. “So his little ghost buddy wouldn’t see
himself?”

“It’s one possibility,” I replied
carefully.

The wall opposite me was inscribed with a
familiar-looking Pentacle. The symbol was drawn on the painted,
cinder block wall, once again in blood and shaded with pastels. At
the base of the wall, slags of hardened black and white wax were
obvious remnants of extinguished candles. Nestled next to the
solidified remains stood a simple wine glass, partially filled with
coagulating red liquid. Between the symbol and the floor was once
again lettered, All Is Forgiven.

“So,” Deckert was asking Ben. “You think it’s
the same guy?”

“Oh yeah,” I said as Ben turned to me. “It’s
the same guy all right. Only this time, he might not have been
practicing.”

“Whaddaya mean ‘practicing’?” Deckert looked
from Ben’s face to mine and back with a puzzled expression.

Ben explained. “We’ve got reason to believe
that the ritual this guy is performin’ was never actually completed
at the first scene. He was doin’ like a dress rehearsal or
somethin’.”

“Holy shit!” the detective exclaimed. “This
prick committed murder to rehearse a murder? Holy shit!”

“Tell me about it,” Ben chimed.

“Well, if he did what he set out to do, then
he probably won’t kill any more, right?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I answered as I
squatted next to the covered corpse and examined the floor. “He
might not be finished yet.”

“Finished doing what exactly?” Deckert
questioned.

“Invoking whatever spirit he’s after. He’ll
continue to perform the ritual until he has succeeded,” I
explained. “Or, at least, perceives that he has.” I paused
thoughtfully for a moment before speculating aloud, “He might kill
again because maybe he wants to get caught.”

“What makes ya’ think that?” Ben asked.

“The Expiation spell.” I motioned at the wall
behind them. “I originally thought that it was an aberration at the
first scene. Possibly because whoever killed Ariel Tanner might
have known her. But this...it might have been the real thing for
him. The actual ritual played to its conclusion, yet, he’s still
seeking atonement from himself. It doesn’t make sense to perform an
atonement ritual at the site of a sacrificial ritual.

“You see an Expiation spell is a private
thing, very much like going to confession. By performing it at the
scene, essentially he exposes himself. He may be seeking atonement
from society as well. In short, kind of a sick cry for help. So it
leads me to believe that either he wants to get caught, or he’s not
finished yet. Maybe even both.”

“Jesus,” Deckert said. “Where did you get all
that from?”

“Trust me,” I heard Ben say. “You don’t wanna
know.”

“Let’s just say I did a lot of research this
afternoon,” I told him as I stood and walked over to the
rune-covered wall. “Anyway, it’s just a theory.”

I pulled out the camera and fired up the
flash unit. The thyristor began charging with a low hum and then
grew quickly to a quiet whine. Status lights began glowing on the
unit’s back, indicating its readiness.

“Crime Scene Unit already
took pictures,” Deckert told me as I placed the
PZ-1
to my eye and began tightly
focusing on the Pentacle.

“I know,” I replied absently. “But I’d like
to take some of my own if it’s okay.”

“Hey,” he answered. “Whatever makes you
happy.”

“Who found the body?” Ben inquired.

“Local kid,” Deckert responded. “He was out
walking his dog. Says when he walked it by here, it just went nuts.
Broke away from him and ran in. Apparently, the door had been
propped open.”

“Animals can sense death,” I stated aloud,
still taking pictures of the scene before me. “He did the same
thing with Ariel Tanner. The door was propped open. Could be he
wanted the body found as soon as possible.”

“You sure you ain’t some kinda psychiatrist
or something?” Deckert asked the back of my head.

“I’ve got a semester of college psych,” I
told him as I turned. “But that doesn’t qualify me to practice the
science, no.”

“Well,” he continued. “You sure sound like
some kinda FBI shrink. It’s like you’re getting inside this
asshole’s head or something.”

“Like I said, I’m just speculating,” I
replied.

Detective Deckert didn’t realize how close to
the truth he was with his last comment. My experiences channeling
Ariel’s death and the blatant evidence left at both scenes were all
acting as catalysts to pull me in. The more I saw, and the more I
sensed, the more I feared what would be waiting around the next
corner.

“What time do ya’ think the murder occurred?”
Ben inquired.

“Based on the time the neighbor says she left
for her walk,” Deckert started, “and the time the kid found her,
we’re estimating somewhere between five-thirty and eight P.M.”

“Between five-thirty and eight,” Ben
repeated, looking at me from the corner of his eye.

I knew what the glance implied. He had been
suspicious of R.J. from the beginning, and I had to admit, his
actions this evening coupled with his late arrival at the meeting
hadn’t helped. Salinger and Dickens voicing their feline distaste
had even compelled me to wonder about what the young man was
hiding.

“We might be able to pin it down a bit
closer,” Deckert intoned, “once your M.E. gets here.”

“She’s here.”

A voice came from the doorway, and the three
of us turned to face a bleary-eyed woman clad in faded denim. Dr.
Christine Sanders pushed back the hood of her rain-soaked jacket
and hefted a thick aluminum case from one hand to the other.

“Detectives.” She nodded to them as she
entered the room. “I thought I told you to get some rest, Mister
Gant.”

“And I thought this was your day off,” I
replied with a slight smile.

“Me too,” she returned. “But that was before
the captain of the Major Case Squad called me at the request of
Detective Storm.”

“You’re familiar with the Tanner case,” Ben
stated matter-of-factly.

“Officially, I’m only here as a consultant,”
she informed him. “This is out of the city jurisdiction. You’re
just lucky the county coroner and I have an understanding.”

“I know, Doc. I just want the best on
this.”

“Save the flattery for your wife, Storm,” she
told him with a weak grin. “You’re still going to owe me big.”

By now, Dr. Sanders was kneeling next to the
body of the young woman and had thrown back the sheet that had been
covering it. The injuries appeared very similar to those of Ariel
Tanner. The skin had been peeled away from what I could see of the
woman’s chest, leaving behind raw, exposed muscle. Her eyes stared
off blankly, and her face wore a grimace of excruciating pain and
horror. Her arms were twisted behind her body, and though I
couldn’t see them, I was sure they were bound.

A departure from the similarity with Ariel’s
torture was the fact that Karen Barnes’ mouth was covered with a
wide strip of duct tape. It had been wrapped tightly around her
head to keep it from coming loose. Her ankles were also secured in
the same fashion, and the tape wrapped around the post of a stall
to keep her legs in place.

“I’ll have to do a swab,” Dr. Sanders was
telling us. “But if he’s establishing a pattern, I doubt if she was
raped. The Tanner woman wasn’t.”

“He didn’t rape her,” I said. “That would
have soiled her. He wouldn’t defile his sacrifice.”

I moved around to get a better view of the
body and was about to expand upon my statement when the angle that
had been blocked by the doctor’s kneeling form came into my line of
sight. Directly beneath Karen Barnes’ rib cage, a deep, ragged
incision stretched horizontally across her flayed torso. The uneven
gash puckered open like a bloody, toothless smile, exposing
lacerated internal organs. Instantly I turned away and bolted for a
stall, bile rising in my throat.

A few moments later, I heard Deckert asking
from behind me, “Are you gonna be all right?”