Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (20 page)

“Just the eyes,” I answered. “He was either
very careful about being seen, or he was very lucky.”

“That’s somethin’ I don’t quite understand,”
Ben stated.

“What’s that?” Felicity asked.

“Why would he care?” he continued. “It’s not
like his victims can give an eyewitness description.”

“Fear,” I stated simply. “I think that might
be why he props the doors open too.”

They both stared at me blankly as if I had
lost them.

“Think about it,” I proceeded. “When my body
shut down in there, my spirit or soul, whatever you prefer to call
it, left. But it didn’t go very far, obviously, because I watched
you two argue about giving me CPR. That’s what turned me on to this
idea. I think the killer not only feels remorse but fear as well.
He performs the Expiation spell for forgiveness, and he props the
door open so his victim’s spirit can leave.”

“I still don’t see the connection with hiding
his face from the victims,” Ben puzzled.

“He fears retribution from the spirits of his
victims,” Felicity interjected, realizing what I was trying to
explain. “He keeps his identity hidden so they can’t find him.”

“You mean ta’ tell me he thinks the ghosts of
his victims will come after him for revenge?” Ben asked
incredulously. “That’s nuts. That’s just plain nuts.”

“It all depends on what you believe, Ben,” I
told him.

“What about the fact that he killed her out
here in the park?” he protested. “It seems like that would fit more
with the wantin’-ta’-get-caught theory you mentioned.”

“I don’t know why he killed her out here,” I
replied. “I just know what I feel, and what I feel right now is
that he’s propping the doors open to let the victims’ spirits
escape.”

“This is a pretty secluded section of the
park,” Felicity interjected as she shaded her eyes and looked
around. “You’ve got the wooded area with the fitness trail, but
that’s about it. Most of the activity would be taking place closer
to the front of the park where the pavilions and ballfields
are.”

“Jeezus, this is one twisted fuckhead,” Ben
muttered.

“We knew that already,” I told him.

“Does R.J. have grey eyes?” Felicity
asked.

“Not that I recall,” I replied, “but I can’t
say that I paid that much attention.”

“I still wanna talk to ‘im anyway,” Ben
stated flatly.

Ben’s comment was followed by an awkward
pause as his suspicion had once again reared its omnipresent
head.

“So why don’t we head over to the house,”
Felicity finally suggested, breaking the silence. “It’s cooler and
there’s fresh, herb, sun tea in the fridge.”

“Sounds great to me,” I intoned. “Besides,
that’s where my cigars are.”

“I’m with you,” Ben added.

Felicity rolled her eyes and went around the
Jeep to climb into the driver’s seat.

* * * * *

Felicity was changing into shorts and a
t-shirt while Ben and I set fire to a pair of cigars out on the
back deck. I was just finishing the final adjustments to the patio
umbrella when she came out to join us, preceded by our two bounding
canines. She set a tray containing glasses and a pitcher of iced
tea on the table and then lithely draped herself in a chair to join
us.

It was still early afternoon, and the
temperature had not yet begun to decline. The air remained thick
with humidity, but there was a slight breeze, and as long as we
stayed relaxed in the shade, the clime was at least tolerable.

“So I made a coupl’a calls on the way over
here,” Ben announced, helping himself to the tea. “Seems Deckert
managed to dig some info up on Devon Johnston.”

“Have they found him?” I asked, taking my
turn with the pitcher and pouring a glass for my wife.

“Not yet,” he continued, “but we’re still
lookin’.”

“What did Detective Deckert come up with?”
Felicity asked, taking a sip of her drink.

“Found Johnston’s parents,” Ben answered, “or
his mother anyway. His dad is deceased.”

“Why did it take until today?” I queried.
“Not that I’m being critical.”

“Illinois license,” he replied. “We were just
searching the Missouri DMV records initially. His mom lives in
Urbana, and apparently, that’s where he grew up. He just never
switched his driver’s license over. But, that’s not the interestin’
part. It seems that one Mister Devon Johnston was recently
dismissed from his position as a medical technician with Mercy
Hospital... And accordin’ to his records with the DMV, he’s got
grey eyes.”

“So that should take the heat off of R.J.,”
Felicity stated.

“Not really,” Ben told her. “It just gives me
another asshole who’s moved one of his bricks into the suspicious
pile ta’ worry about. Granted, his bricks are a little heavier than
R.J.’s.”

“Seems to me they should be a lot heavier,” I
interjected.

“Like I said,” Ben blew out a stream of
smoke, “the information you get from one of your visions doesn’t do
a damn bit of good in a courtroom. If it gives us a lead, great,
but I still hafta come up with hard evidence. Hell, I don’t even
know why I believe you. This ain’t exactly an everyday method of
investigation, you know.”

“Maybe because you’re an open-minded
individual,” Felicity chimed. “Whether you want to admit it or
not.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But sometimes, I still
feel like I might be a little nuts to go for some of this
stuff.”

I knew exactly what Ben meant; I had even
been known to be a bit skeptical myself in earlier years. I had
been a practitioner of The Craft for all of my adult life, and
though I had come to accept the things my otherworldly senses would
tell me, I could still be surprised. As someone unfamiliar with the
supernatural talents of the mind, this had to be very hard for him.
I had to admit, he was holding up better than most.

I took advantage of the momentary silence to
watch our dogs at play in the sun-soaked backyard. They tumbled and
rolled with one another, tails wagging in a delighted frenzy as
they wrestled, oblivious to the horror we three humans were being
forced to contemplate. I sometimes wished I could be just as
unmindful.

“Any ideas where Devon might be?” I queried,
ending the self-imposed reticence.

“Nada,” Ben answered with a slight, somewhat
animated shrug. “His mother hasn’t heard from him in six months, or
so she says. We’ve got somebody sittin’ on her place too, just in
case. We checked with his former co-workers, and it appears like
he’s a bit of a loner. None of ‘em really got to know ‘im that
well, and from what was said, they really didn’t care to
either.”

“What about Cally?” Felicity intoned. “He
called her once. Do you think he might try to contact her
again?”

“We hafta hope that she’ll tell us if he
does,” he returned. “We’re watchin’ her place, but if he calls ‘er
or meets ‘er somewhere else, we’ll prob’ly miss it.”

“Can’t you follow her?” I asked.

“Not enough evidence at this point.” Ben
turned his attention to me. “Last thing we need is ta’ get nailed
for harassment.”

Ben paused as he puffed on his cigar and
quietly watched the hummingbirds assault a hanging feeder like WWII
era airplanes in a spectacular dogfight. Eventually he reached up
and began smoothing his hair. Felicity and I looked at each other
then back to him, as we were both intimately familiar with the
gesture.

“So let me ask you somethin’,” he finally
spoke.

“Shoot,” I returned.

“You said somethin’ about this creep taking
Karen Barnes’ heart with ‘im so he could ‘finish the ritual’. What
was that all about?”

“It’s part of the sacrifice,” I explained.
“And what he does with it is entirely dependent upon what he is
trying to accomplish. He might burn it, or he might bury it...
Hell, he might eat it.”

“I was afraid you were gonna say somethin’
like that,” he mumbled.

“I wish I could say for sure, but I’m still
not entirely clear on what he’s trying to do.” I continued with a
frustrated sigh. “To be honest, something about his whole ritual is
bothering me.”

“How so?” Felicity asked.

“The energy at the crime scene.”

“What energy?” she queried, confused. “I
didn’t feel anything except death.”

“Exactly,” I replied.

“What are you two talkin’ about?” Ben
interjected his question, coming fully upright in his seat and
paying rapt attention.

“Whenever a Witch or practitioner of magick
does something, an invocation for example,” I explained, “he or she
leaves behind residual energy. Kind of a left over that just floats
around until it dissipates.”

“So what’s your point?” he pressed.

“That excess energy wasn’t there,” Felicity
stated. “Neither of us felt it.”

“I was at that scene within hours of the
murder,” I told him. “And we were there again today. That energy
should hang around for a good long time, but there’s nothing there.
Just the energies given off by Karen Barnes. Her fear, pain, and
especially her death.”

“Okay,” Ben replied slowly. “So I’d still
appreciate it if ya’ could tell me what this is s’posed ta’
mean.”

“Maybe nothing,” I answered. “There could be
a few different explanations, like maybe he just went through the
physical motions but didn’t actually perform the ritual as he
should have. It’s just something that kind of bothers me.”

“So it’s not a lead or anything like
that.”

“No. At least I don’t think so.”

Ben returned his attention to the cigar held
loosely between his fingers then relaxed and leaned back in his
seat. It was obvious that he was on edge, and I was certain that a
lack of sleep was partially to blame.

“When is the last time you had a decent
night’s sleep, Ben?” Felicity asked him, following my thoughts as
if I had spoken them aloud.

“I think it was sometime during winter ‘bout
three years ago,” he answered facetiously.

“Do you really need to talk to R.J. today?” I
questioned. “Couldn’t that wait till tomorrow?”

“Probably. Why?”

“You need sleep, Ben,” my wife stated
matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, chief,” I agreed. “No offense
intended, but you’re all edgy, and you look like someone ran over
you with a truck.”

“Your health is going to start suffering,”
Felicity intoned. “You can’t keep going like this. You really need
to decompress.”

“Yeah... I know,” he answered with a sigh. “I
haven’t seen my wife face to face in nearly a week. Shit, she told
me this mornin’ on the phone that the little guy asked her if Daddy
still lived there.”

“Go home, Ben,” I told him. “Go home and hug
your kid, kiss your wife, and have a meal with your family. Then
get some sleep.”

“I haven’t got the time,” he objected.

“Unless you have some kind of secret
information that you haven’t told us about,” I admonished, “you
aren’t going to catch this guy tonight. You need some sleep, man.
Besides, it’s not just you working this case. The entire Major Case
Squad is on it now.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right.” He slumped more
noticeably in his chair. “But I still wanna talk ta’ the kid today.
I think I’ll sleep better if I do.”

“If that’s what it takes, do it,” I told him.
“But get some rest either way because something tells me we haven’t
seen the end of this yet.”

“What a cheerful thought,” he mumbled.

* * * * *

Ben eventually left us in search of R.J.
Felicity and I spent a quiet afternoon together trying not to think
about serial killers and of course, were unable to ponder anything
else. In an effort to put the subject out of our minds, we made a
quick trip to the store and returned with fresh, yellow fin tuna
steaks for the grill. Together with a medley of vegetables from our
garden, we made a light meal and after cleaning up the dishes,
generally lazed about into the evening hours.

Stories of Ariel Tanner and Karen Barnes’
murders flooded the airwaves as the top story during the late
evening news on every station. Details about the crimes were
convoluted and misconstrued to the point that they were telling a
different story on each channel. The two points they all agreed on
were the nominative “Satanic Serial Killer” and the practice of
flashing the newspaper photo of me on the screen. Touching my thumb
to the remote, I rolled back through the channels in the hope they
had found something else to talk about. I was giving serious
consideration to turning off the chattering box when a familiar
face, other than my own, leapt out at me from the screen. I swiftly
reversed the direction of my scan and came to rest on that
station.

Detective Arthur McCann’s worry-lined face
stared back at me with concern and determination creasing his brow.
Apparently, he had just finished speaking as the picture suddenly
cut to a wide-eyed Brandee Street anxiously clutching a microphone.
I punched up the volume a notch and settled in.

“Can you explain a little more about the
Wiccan religion,” she asked him.

“Certainly,” Arthur returned authoritatively.
“This so- called religion is nothing more than a fancy name for
cult activities. The individuals involved undermine the morals of
our children and recruit them into these cults. There they become
addicted to drugs and often are the victims of sexual abuse.”

I had heard his speech before, but each and
every time, I was amazed by what he said. I found it hard to
believe that an intelligent human being could be so blind to the
truth.

“Do you believe that one of these Wiccan
cultists is responsible for the bizarre murders that have recently
occurred?” Brandee’s voice came again.

“Since I’m not involved in the investigation,
I cannot directly comment, but I will say that it wouldn’t surprise
me,” he answered.