Never burn a witch argi.., p.25
Never Burn A Witch argi-2, page 25
part #2 of A Rowan Gant investigation Series
“I could be wrong,” I offered.
“Yeah, like I’ve seen that happen a lot lately,” he replied sarcastically. “No, if you’ve got one of your feelin’s, then you’re prob’ly right, but we gotta check it out anyway. So, you get anything outta that space cadet number you were pullin’ this morning, or did ya’ finally decide it was just a bad dream?”
“Haven’t given it much thought,” I admitted. “It’s been kind of a full day so far.”
“Uh-huh,” he grunted as he gunned the engine and pushed the van into a backward arc. “Get no argument from me on that.”
With a tired sigh my friend cranked the shift lever down into drive and urged us forward.
“Well,” he volunteered, “on the up side maybe I’ll get ta’ have dinner with my family for a change. Although, Allison did say she’s makin’ a meatlump tonight.”
“Don’t you mean meatloaf?”
“You ever had Al’s meatloaf, white man? Trust me, she’s makin’ a meatlump.”
*****
The heart of Millchester was a West County suburb of the semi-affluent and moderately comfortable. Tree-lined streets hosting domiciles in the range of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Some a little more, some a little less. For the area, your basic upper middle class subdivision. It was the kind of neighborhood where a reference to “the gardener” was pretentious slang for the third party service that manicured the lawn in the summer and plowed the driveway in winter. A place where “the club” was the private pool and tennis courts maintained by a subdivision committee.
As one skirted closer to the edges of the township, farther into the periphery, property values lowered perceptibly, and though kept up, houses showed more obvious signs of age and wear. Still, the community was one for those within a comfortable level of income. This was where Allen Roberts lived.
The house was a split-level brick dwelling that showed every appearance of being fairly well maintained. The driveway and sidewalk were clear of snow and the slowly melting piles of the white stuff rose above the rest of the tableau to outline the salt-stained concrete. An evergreen hedgerow wrapped around the foundation buried beneath drifts. Here and there random boughs would peek through applying small splashes of emerald against the stark white blanket.
We had arrived within five minutes of leaving the gas station/convenience store and parked on the street in front of the residence. Ben had conveniently positioned his van to block the mouth of the driveway with Special Agent Mandalay’s sedan only a few feet behind. We could see no movement through the unshaded windows, and it didn’t appear that anyone noticed us as we advanced on the home.
Detective Deckert split off from us as we reached the start of the sidewalk, and he continued up the driveway to the corner of the house. There, he positioned himself to keep watch on a side entrance.
“Are you guys always this edgy when you go to question someone?” I asked as the three of us ambled along the path and started up the short flight of steps to the porch.
Ben glanced back and asked me rhetorically, “When it’s even remotely possible they have somethin’ ta’ do with a psychotic killer? You bet your ass.” Then, looking over at Constance, he raised a questioning eyebrow, “So, you wanna draw straws?”
In answer, Agent Mandalay reached out and gave the doorbell a double stab with her thumb. Beyond the darkly stained oak door the muffled ping-pong of the chime echoed twice in rapid succession and was followed shortly by the dull thudding of someone descending carpeted stairs. After the raspy metal-on-metal grating noise of the deadbolt being twisted, the door swung open, breaking the weather tight seal with an audible swoosh.
A thirtyish man with sandy hair stood peering at us from behind the glass of the storm door. He was dressed in grey sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt; both bore the stylized music note logo of the local hockey team. After taking a sip from an oversized coffee mug, he canted his mouth into a disgusted frown then unlatched the exterior door and pushed it slightly open.
“I’m not buying anything,” he stated flatly before anyone else could speak. “And if you’re from some church, I’m an atheist and I’m not interested, so leave me alone.”
“Mister Roberts?” Constance queried, “Mister Allen Roberts?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and took another sip from the mug. “Like I told you, I’m not buying anything, so don’t waste your breath.”
“No problem, sir,” Ben replied. “We aren’t sellin’ anything. We’d just like to ask ya’ some questions.”
“Mister Roberts,” Constance continued, easily withdrawing her ID wallet and splaying it open as I’d seen her do before. “I’m Special Agent Mandalay with the FBI. This is Detective Storm with the…”
Her incomplete sentence hung in the air as all color drained from Allen Roberts face, and his eyes grew wide with surprised fright. I felt the fear skate up my spine as he projected it wildly, and my defenses automatically enveloped me to ward off the intensely broadcast emotion. Less than a second later, the coffee mug Roberts had been just bringing to his lips slipped from his grasp and exploded in a shower of ceramic shards across the threshold.
“SHIT!” he exclaimed in a panicked voice.
As the cup and its steaming contents splattered through the opening, Constance leapt backwards propelling herself against the wrought iron railing that ringed the porch. The blatantly unnerved man retreated from the doorway, making a hasty attempt to swing the oak barrier shut in our faces, only to have it wedge against one of the larger shards of the broken ceramic before reaching mid-swing.
“Awwwww fuck!” Ben spat under his breath as he motioned quickly to Deckert with one hand and simultaneously withdrew his sidearm from its shoulder holster with the other. With a swift quarter turn of his torso my friend planted his hand on my chest and drove me toward the stairs. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on the doorway and his large frame between any possible threat and me. “Get outta here, Row! Get behind the van! Now!”
I stumbled back, grabbing the railing for support while I struggled to maintain my balance. I could see that Constance was already gripping her weapon stiff-armed before herself at eye level and was glaring down the sights as Ben yanked the outer door wide.
“STOP! Federal Officer!” she bellowed in a crisp, commanding voice as she proceeded through the opening with Ben glued to her heels.
Deckert hopped a short distance down to a snow covered patio area and hustled around the corner of the house, his hand also filled with a nine-millimeter equalizer. I caught only a quick glimpse of the portly detective’s fedora adorned head as he disappeared behind the brick wall.
I continued to twist as I back peddled down the short set of stairs, fighting to turn backward motion into forward as I came to face the street. I had no real clue as to why Allen Roberts had reacted this way to the sight of Agent Mandalay’s badge. My senses detected only fear, and I felt none of the calculated malice that had been present at each of the crime scenes. I could only assume that if he was in fact responsible for the threatening e-mail, he realized that such harassment over the internet was considered a hate crime and was at this very moment regretting the action.
However, I was still firmly convinced that the vile piece of electronic detritus that had been delivered to Kendra Miller’s online address was no more than a coincidence. It was an accidental event that was leading us farther from, rather than closer to, the actual killer.
I pumped my legs hard, pounding my feet against the curved concrete walkway, striving to obey my friend’s order to remove myself from the near proximity. Adrenalin was just taking over as I reached the end of the driveway and hooked myself around the back of his van.
A white Crown Victoria, its door emblazoned with the brown, red, and gold seal of the Saint Louis County Police department screeched to a halt in front of me, light bar flickering madly. The officer Ben had stationed on the side street across from Allen Roberts’ home hit the pavement while the vehicle was still coming to a complete halt. Before I could process the overwhelming abundance of visual information assaulting me, the uniformed cop had grabbed my collar and dragged me down behind the open door of the car.
“Dispatch, this is Unit Nineteen,” the officer spoke rapidly into a hand mic. “Detective Storm and the FBI agent are inside. Detective Deckert has moved his position to the back of the house. Over.”
The radio crackled with static and the faint voices of overlapping channels, then blared the feminine voice of the dispatcher into the frosty air, “Affirmative, Nineteen. Backup is rolling on your location. What is your status?”
“I am in a secure position in front of the residence,” he answered. “Everything’s quiet at the moment. Over.”
Hissing static returned for a brief second.
“Nineteen, be advised, Detective Deckert informed us earlier that there would be a civilian consultant on the scene. One Mister Rowan Gant. Do you know his status? Over.”
“Affirmative,” he spoke as he keyed the microphone. “Mister Gant is safe. I have him right here.”
The dispatcher’s businesslike voice filtered from the speaker once again, “Affirmative, Nineteen.”
The muted crackle of the cross-talking radio traffic filled the thickness around us as we waited for any indication of what was happening inside the walls of the home. Less than three minutes had elapsed since Ben had muscled me off the porch and ordered me out of what he perceived as harm’s way.
My legs were already starting to cramp as I knelt on the cold asphalt next to the county police cruiser. I watched the still open entrance to the house intently, peering past the stocky officer in front of me, straining to detect any movement or noise that might indicate what was happening inside those walls.
That self-conscious, “I don’t belong here” feeling was once again wrapping me in its prickly embrace-threatening to smother me with its special brand of anxiety. It was all but forgotten when a large, familiar figure appeared in the doorway.
The rush of excitement died a lingering, but painless, death, as Ben Storm exited the residence and lethargically ambled down the stairs. He was already strolling down the driveway when a pair of County squad cars joined us on the street. My friend was slowly shaking his head and a dull frown affected a deep crease in his chiseled features. He held his badge out in plain view for the newly arrived officers to see before slipping the attached cord over his head and hanging the shield about his neck. Detective Deckert reappeared around the corner and was soon trundling alongside, quickening his pace in order to match the long strides of the tall Native American cop.
All around us, drapes were being pulled back and blinds parted. Front doors stood open with families of onlookers crowded into the small spaces, peering out from behind panes of breath-fogged glass as they chattered with one another about the unfolding scene. Glancing across the street, I noticed the round-cheeked impression of a child’s face pressed against the lower section of a storm door, staring at us in wide-eyed amazement. Momentarily, the youngster was whisked away by protective adults intent on keeping her from harm, but giving no consideration to their own safety as they themselves continued to gawk.
As short and sweet as the burst of action was, this was probably the most excitement this small community had seen for ages. I didn’t have to hear what the spectators were theorizing to know that the speculations were growing wilder with each spoken word. One could be sure that exhilarated phone calls were already being traded among neighbors, friends, and relatives.
“All clear,” Ben told the officer as he approached us. “Agent Mandalay’s got Roberts in custody.”
The officer nodded and keyed his microphone, “Dispatch, this is Nineteen. House is secure and subject detained. Over.”
“Affirmative, Nineteen,” the dispatcher’s voice crackled in reply.
“Do me a favor, Golden,” Deckert addressed the uniformed cop. “Have Dispatch get a van from the Crime Scene Unit out here just in case.”
“You wanna go ahead and coordinate out here while I take Rowan in?” Ben asked Deckert.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Carl, answered with an animated nod. “I got it covered.”
“C’mon, Kemosabe,” my friend said as he clapped me on the shoulder and jerked his head in the direction of the house. “Need ya’ ta’ look at this.”
“What?” I queried as we started back up the driveway. “Did you find something?”
“Maybe, I dunno. Asshole ran straight for a room full of computer shit. Stopped ‘im just as he was tryin’ ta’ type somethin’ on a keyboard.” He sighed. “There’re wires and crap runnin’ all over the place. Looks like fuckin’ NORAD in there or somethin’. I need you ta’ tell me just what the hell we’re lookin’ at.”
CHAPTER 19
In reality, Allen Roberts had actually managed to type something into the keyboard. He’d even managed to hit ENTER. Truth be known, he’d succeeded in typing the “something” three separate times before Ben and Agent Mandalay had stopped him. Our only saving grace was apparently his haste-induced clumsiness. At each glowing prompt on the screen was a short string of characters that in another situation would appear to be the daily jumble from the feature section of the newspaper. In this particular case, however, it was obvious to anyone with a basic knowledge of computers that the unintentional anagram “KLLIFLIE” was supposed to have spelled out the command “KILLFILE.” Had he been successful in executing the utility, Roberts would have effectively erased all of the data from the machine.
Ben hadn’t really exaggerated about the wires and other gadgetry in the room, although what appeared to him as an intimidating monstrosity of electronics was to me simply a computer technician’s playroom. Of course, I was in the business, and my own home office wasn’t much different in appearance from this one. My friend, on the other hand, disdained the thought of using a computer and did so only when it was an absolute necessity. Taking that fact into consideration, I could understand his finding the flashing lights and purring boxes a bit intimidating.
“It looks like some kind of network to me,” Agent Mandalay offered as I stood surveying the contents of the room. “Beyond that, I couldn’t tell you.”
Allen Roberts was sitting in a wheeled desk chair, hands cuffed behind his back, watching quietly as I nodded and continued my cursory inspection. A sudden attack of bravado overcame him when I stepped closer to a humming machine mounted in what appeared to be a recycled mini-computer peripheral’s cabinet.
“Leave that alone!” he demanded angrily as he started up from the chair. “You still haven’t shown me a warrant!”
Constance, who was positioned behind him, snapped her arm out in a blur of motion and twisted her hand into the collar of his sweatshirt as he rose. Leverage and balance being fully on her side, she jerked him back down and unceremoniously planted him hard in the seat before he could take a single step.
“Don’t do that again,” she ordered sternly, “or one of us is going to get hurt, and it won’t be me.”
“Buy a vowel, Roberts,” Ben shot back. “All we wanted ta’ do was ask ya’ a few questions. You wouldn’t even be wearin’ those bracelets right now if ya’ hadn’t acted like a damn fruitcake.”
“Screw you!” the man spat. “You still need a warrant.”
“Cool it, Roberts,” Constance instructed him evenly. “Keep it up and I’ll add assaulting a federal officer to the report.”
“Assaulting a… What assault?” he asked incredulously, “I didn’t assault anyone!”
“I don’t know about that,” she chided, “I seem to recall you hurling a coffee cup at me.”
“I did not! That’s a lie! I just dropped it and you know it!”
“Ya’know, it looked ta’ me like ya’ threw it at ‘er,” Ben volunteered with a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I’d definitely hafta say ya’ threw it. Yep, wingin’ a full coffee cup at an FBI agent’s not a real bright move. ‘Specially Mandalay here. She’s kinda got a reputation for bein’ a real hardass if ya’ know what I mean. Sure am glad I’m not you.”
“This is crazy!” the man sputtered. “You know I didn’t throw that cup. You’re lying.”
“Which one of us do ya’ think a judge is gonna believe?”
My friend’s sarcastic query was met only with angry silence.
“Of course, I might be willing to forget about that little indiscretion if you were to stop acting like a jerk and cooperate instead,” Agent Mandalay suggested. “You know… answer a few questions. Maybe explain what was so important in here that made you run like a scared rabbit?”
“I’d give that one some thought,” Ben expressed. “Just between you an’ me she’s not usually this forgivin’. She must think you’re okay lookin’ or somethin’, although I really can’t see why.”
“I want my lawyer,” Roberts grumbled.
“Fine with me,” Constance replied in a stoic voice.
“Not ‘zactly the choice that I woulda made.” Ben shrugged then turned and spoke to me in a clipped tone as he gestured at the rack of equipment, “Go ahead, Chief. What is all this shit?”
He was outwardly showing signs of fatigue, and I’d seen him like this before. His biggest problem, or perhaps asset, depending on your point of view, was that he often cared too much. It wasn’t unusual for him to run on little to no sleep along with inordinate amounts of coffee whenever he was working a case. Considering the previous night’s events, I knew he was running on pure caffeine-we all were. The sharp bite that now permeated my friend’s voice told me he was riding on the edge and that Allen Roberts’ attitude wasn’t helping his overall demeanor.
The simple fact of the matter was that we were all on edge. Constance had, for all intents and purposes, threatened Roberts with the assault charge. Such a tactic coming from her was overtly uncharacteristic of her by-the-book persona we all knew so well. Even Carl Deckert looked like he had aged ten years in the matter of a week.
