Never burn a witch argi.., p.24
Never Burn A Witch argi-2, page 24
part #2 of A Rowan Gant investigation Series
He took a deep drag from the remains of the cigarette held between his thumb and forefinger as he watched us get out of the vehicle. With a lazy flick, he sent the butt sailing through the air in the direction of a large coffee can without even looking. I assumed the receptacle was partially filled with sand, but it was impossible to be sure as it was already overflowing onto the sidewalk with the extinguished remnants of countless other cigarettes. The butt impacted the concrete near the can and exploded a small shower of red embers outward to quickly die then rolled to a stop and laid smoldering amidst the others that had come before it.
The bedraggled man nodded in our direction as he blew out a thick cloud of smoke intermixed with steamy breath. “You two the cops that called?”
Constance reached into her coat as she stepped around the front of the car and withdrew the leather case containing her credentials. In a practiced motion she smoothly flipped open the wallet with one hand to display her badge and identification to him.
“I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI,” she stated in an even, businesslike tone. “This is Mister Gant.”
“FBI, huh. I was just expectin’ cops,” the man grunted then chuckled lightly. “Shouldn’t you be a redhead and shouldn’t he be taller?”
Constance glanced over at me with a thin frown sealing her lips but refrained from commenting on the TV show reference she had probably heard more times that she could easily recollect. Fluidly closing the leather case, she thrust her identification back into her pocket and looked back to the man.
“You are the systems administrator for this Internet Service?” The tone of her voice turned the statement into a question, and she motioned to the sign on the window that proclaimed South County Online to be the “Leading Edge In Internet Information Services.”
“That’s me.” He extended his hand as he acknowledged in a somewhat unsettled tone, having most certainly noticed Agent Mandalay’s cold reaction to his quip. “Rocky Wendell.”
We exchanged quick handshakes and then followed him through the door into the dark interior of the building.
“I can put some coffee on if either of you want any,” he told us as we tagged along through the reception area, past a service desk, and into a corridor lit dimly by a glowing exit sign.
“Thank you, no,” Constance gunned down his offer with sharp, vocational politeness. “We’re running a little short on time, so if you could just answer a few questions about one of your clients, we’ll let you get on with what’s left of the weekend.”
Wendell hesitated for a moment after slapping a pair of switches and stood studying her face as fluorescent illumination poured into the hallway and rear half of the building. It was becoming obvious that the petite federal agent’s demeanor had him off balance. It was almost as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle dealing with a woman in a position of authority.
Finally, he simply shrugged then turned and continued down the corridor. “Suit yourself.”
*****
“Kendra Miller, yeah, here it is,” Wendell told us from behind a glassy eyed stare at a screen positioned on his desk, “Witchvixen at yadda yadda yadda.” He ripped off a string of keystrokes, and we could see the light of the screen flicker across his face as it changed. “According to her activity log, I think she might have taken that nickname a little too seriously… Says here she was subscribed to some of those wacko newsgroups… alt dot WitchCraft, alt dot Witches, alt dot Wicca…”
“Do you have any record of her complaining of threatening or harassing e-mail?” Agent Mandalay interrupted him before he could continue reading off the list.
“Just a second.” He tapped out another series of clicks and clacks on the keyboard, then once again the screen flickered, and he slowly began nodding. “Yeah… yeah, looks like about a month ago. She got a crank e-mail and called. Looks like we just set up a trap filter on her account for that addy.”
“Did you have to trap an entire domain?” I inquired.
“Nope, whoever it was didn’t bother to spoof it. Address and IP were clean. It was an easy trap, not that it mattered. She only got the one e-mail.”
“Nothing else?” I pressed.
“Nope. Just the one.” He shook his head. “We e-mailed a notification of the problem to the originating server and didn’t even get an acknowledgement back. We assumed they just took care of it.”
“Can you give us a copy of that information?” Mandalay asked.
“Sure.” He rolled back a foot or so and punched the power switch on a laser printer that was positioned behind him. “You want a copy of the original crank e-mail too?”
“Please.” She nodded.
We watched on in silence as he rapidly issued a series of commands through the keyboard then sat back and raised his eyebrows at us. “Be just a second. It’ll spool just as soon as the printer warms up. You know, if you want my opinion, she was pretty much looking to get harassed if she was hanging out on newsgroups like that.” He let out a sudden cackling laugh. “I mean get serious. Witches? What a bunch of nutballs.”
Constance and I remained silent and waited patiently as the device came ready then began spitting out sheets of paper. After a moment, Wendell gathered the short stack of warm twenty-pound bond and handed it across the desk to Constance.
“Originating SMTP server is part of a privately owned domain,” he offered as she leafed through the pages, handing each one to me in succession as she finished scanning it. “Info is right there in the header.”
“Rowan,” Constance said as she handed over a sparsely printed page, “have a look at this.”
The text contained the standard date, time, tracking number and header information one would find on any e-mail. The TO line read “witchvixen@sthcnty-online. net.” The FROM read “wtchhnter@repent. com.” The body of the message was what really struck home. In bold black against the stark white paper the words “Thou Shalt Not Suffer A Witch To Live” stared back at me. Below that familiar sentence was another, far less eloquent phrase, “You will burn you fucking bitch!”
I glanced over at Constance and raised an eyebrow then turned my attention back to the man behind the desk.
“Did you by any chance run a check on this domain to see who owns it?” I asked.
“Just a sec…” he replied and once again assaulted his keyboard.
Almost instantly the laser printer wound up from a low squeal to a high pitched whine like a miniature jet preparing for takeoff. With a sharp click followed by a dull thunk, it peeled off a fresh sheet of paper from the tray and a moment later spit it out the top. Wendell snatched it up and perused the printing on its face briefly before tossing it on the desk in front of me.
“That’s a ‘whois’ on it,” he explained. “Shows who the domain is registered to, gives a contact name, phone number, all that. From the looks of the address the owner’s local.”
I gave the listing a quick once over, noting the address as well, then slid it over to Constance who picked it up and began to quickly read.
“We appreciate all your help, Mister Wendell,” she told him as she slowly stood and extended her hand, all the while still looking at the information on the page I had just given her. “We will be sure to contact you if we have any further questions.”
I followed her cue and rose up from my chair as well.
“Glad I could help,” the man returned as he shook her hand then looked over at me and reached out to shake mine. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Well I always thought you Feds were supposed to be clean cut and all,” he spoke as he pumped my right hand and gestured at my hair with his free appendage. “But you’ve got a ponytail and a beard. What’s up with that? You some kind of undercover agent or something?”
“Mister Gant isn’t with the Bureau,” Constance volunteered.
“She’s right, I’m not.” I smiled at him. “I’m one of those nutball Witches.”
CHAPTER 18
“Yes, that’s right, last four digits are two-five-two-two,” Agent Mandalay said into her cell phone as she cranked the steering wheel and backed us out of the parking space. The tires let out a dull squeal as they spun against the wet pavement before taking hold. “Address looks like it’s a private residence in West County… Millchester… The man’s name that holds the registration on the domain or whatever is one Allen Roberts. That first name is spelled A-L-L-E-N… Yeah, like a surname. The last name is Roberts, R-O-B-E-R-T-S.
“Yes… Yeah… Uh-huh, okay… Rowan and I are on our way there right now. Uh-huh, okay, call me on my cellular if you need to. Uh-huh, yes…I’d say about twenty minutes… Okay, see you there… Bye.”
The phone let out an audible squelch as she pulled it away from her ear and stabbed the END button with her thumb, then dropped it onto the seat.
“Storm and Deckert are meeting us there.” She glanced quickly at me as she seized a break in the traffic and pushed the sedan out into the westbound lanes of Gravois. “Carl is calling in some backup from County right now.”
“You know,” I started hesitantly, “I don’t really want to rain on your parade, but something just doesn’t feel right about this. I don’t think this is our guy.”
“Why not?” she asked, settling into her seat and smoothly accelerating the vehicle as we merged with the flow.
“It’s just not right.” I shook my head. “It… It just doesn’t feel like him.”
“What about the message?” she posed. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live? Exodus twenty-two eighteen, just like was highlighted in the Bible that old bum had in his pocket. You said you were sure he got it from the Miller crime scene.”
“I am sure,” I agreed. “And yes, it is the same verse, but that is the most commonly quoted, misquoted, and misinterpreted, mind you, passage from the Bible with regard to Witches and WitchCraft. It is definitely not out of the question that someone else would quote it in their hate mail.”
“Well what about the rest of it? The whole ‘You’ll burn you fucking bitch’ part?” Constance insisted. “That’s exactly how she was murdered, right?”
“Granted, he did burn her, but the whole comment doesn’t sound like this guy at all. He passes judgment using the questions and conventions of the Malleus Maleficarum, and he quotes it directly. It definitely has a tendency to be much more eloquently worded. This is not to mention the fact that he passes the judgment in person just as it would have been done at a Witch trial. He’s very intent on adhering to these methods, up to and including the motions of proving out the accusation through some means of torture. I don’t believe he would actually verbalize, or in this case write, the judgment until he had done that at the very least.
“The use of denigrating expletives in calling her a ‘fucking bitch’ is way out of character as well.” I shook my head vigorously. “No, I think this is all just a bizarre coincidence.”
“You don’t think it’s just a little too bizarre?”
“Believe me, I can see where you’re coming from, Constance,” I admitted with a sigh then endeavored to explain my logic. “But, just from my own experience I can tell you that when you mention Witches to someone, one of the first things they think of is burning at the stake. You’d be surprised how many people out there believe that those accused of WitchCraft in Salem were burned, when in fact they were hanged. While in one respect that is a testament to the apathy of the population, in another it shows how the whole myth surrounding Witch Burnings has become a very common and deeply ingrained fallacy. I really don’t find that comment surprising at all. Besides, for all we know, whoever wrote that e-mail could have meant she was going to burn in hell. That’s another well worn expression we’ve all been subjected to at one time or another.”
“You could be right,” she replied. “But I think the similarities between the e-mail and the actual crime are too important to ignore.”
“Don’t misunderstand,” I told her, “I’m not saying that anything should be ignored, least of all this. I’m just telling you that I truly don’t believe this is the guy. It just doesn’t feel right.”
Constance snapped a quick look over her shoulder and then eased the car onto the ramp to Highway 270. We continued wordlessly for a few moments, the ticking sound of the turn signal filling the cab like a metronome as she blended us into the other traffic. With another glance behind and quick check of the mirrors, she hopscotched the government sedan across a trio of lanes and leaned on the accelerator.
“So this is one of your feelings, huh?” she finally voiced the half question.
“Yeah. One of my feelings,” I affirmed.
The landscape was beginning to slip past the windows at an ever-increasing rate, and the other cars sharing the highway with us had become only momentary flashes of color. I let my gaze drift over to the dashboard and saw the vibrating needle of the speedometer hovering somewhere between seventy-five and eighty.
“Well I guess we’ll know soon enough,” Mandalay expressed matter-of-factly. “Storm is supposed to be getting a description of this guy from DMV. Besides, we should be there inside of ten minutes anyway.”
*****
“Got two cars in the driveway. DMV shows both of them registered to Allen Roberts,” a stocky, African-American officer clad in a crisp tan-over-brown County uniform, told us. He was among a number of people I had seen today who was devoid of a jacket or coat, regaling themselves in the illusion of spring-like weather in the heart of winter. Absently he reached to his belt and adjusted the volume of his radio as it chattered with the voice traffic of the other units patrolling the suburbs of Saint Louis. “Shades are up and I caught some motion through the front window on a drive by. Someone is definitely home.”
Constance and I had met up with Ben, Deckert, and the patrolman on the parking lot of a small combination gas station/convenience store less than a half-mile from the residence. Cars streamed in and out of the station at random intervals. Some moments every available pump would be occupied, and at others the lot would be almost empty. The occasional patron would stop for a moment and stare in our direction, drawn in by idle curiosity at the small assemblage of badge-wearing individuals. I could feel their eyes upon us making the hair stand on the back of my neck as they gazed in wonderment. Being the only non-law enforcement member of the group, I suddenly felt thoroughly conspicuous and horribly out of place. Logically, I knew that the onlookers had no way of knowing that I wasn’t just another cop, but that didn’t stop the prickling sensation from running up and down my back.
In truth, since the beginning of this case, I had been treated by all of them as though I was one of their own. I had only recently begun to realize that I was an altogether vested member of this elite group and that I had been accepted fully into their fold. They depended on me to make sense of things that were unknown to them. They used me to track bizarre killers the way a traffic cop uses a radar gun to catch speeders. While some of my talents and revelations still brought a furrowed brow, or even a brief glazed look of fear, they were doing all this with little or no question.
Still, acting as an advisor and explaining my supernormal visions to a room full of cops was one thing. Being in the middle of an operation such as this one was an entirely different story. I beat back the rhizome of anxiety that was starting to spread and reminded myself that this wasn’t the first time I had done this. It wasn’t something new to me at all and, in fact, was even a bit mundane considering my last experience, which had been an all out assault on a killer’s house. That time I had been clad in a bullet proof vest and wallowing in the thick of it for the sake of rescuing a little girl he intended to ritually sacrifice for some still unknown purpose. The urgency of that situation combined with the adrenalin rush hadn’t afforded me the opportunity to feel this out of place on that night. I guess I was making up for it now.
“Great.” My friend nodded as he planted his large hand on a map spread across the hood of the patrol car and studied it carefully. Every now and then a cold breeze would whip around the end of the small building, lifting the edge of the carefully drawn grid and threaten to take the paper into flight. “That’s terrific. This prob’ly isn’t gonna be much of anything, ta’ be perfectly honest. Well, unless forensics is way off on their height estimation, ‘cause the description of this Roberts individual we got from his license info actually doesn’t match up with the physical profile of our bad guy. But, accordin’ to what Agent Mandalay and Rowan found out, he’s somehow connected with the threatening e-mail one of the victims received, so he might know somethin’. Basically, I’d just like to be ready in case he bolts.”
“The patrol areas overlap here, here, and here,” the uniformed man offered, using his finger to indicate points on the carefully inked grid. “If he runs and manages to get past you, he’s not going far.”
“Good deal.” Ben nodded as he spoke and pushed his own finger around the sheet of intersecting lines then tapped it on the final destination. “We’re just gonna knock on the front door, so you take up a spot on this side street here and keep an eye out.”
“Yes sir,” the patrolman replied with a curt nod and then proceeded to quickly fold the map.
“Okay folks,” my friend announced as he looked around our small huddle. “Let’s get movin’. Row, you ride with me.”
I followed him to his van and climbed in to the passenger side while Deckert shook hands with the uniformed officer and finished thanking him for his help then joined Agent Mandalay in her vehicle.
“Constance told me you think this is a dead end,” Ben stated as he twisted the key in the ignition and the engine kicked over.
“Honestly, yes,” I agreed. “After seeing the actual e-mail, I don’t really believe it has anything to do with the killer.”
“Lovely,” he replied while waiting for the other two cars to back out, watching intently in his side view mirror. “So we just spin our wheels some more.”
