Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation (3 page)

Even after I had answered his several pointed
questions, he still clung to his misconceptions, and so, out of
respect for him, I made sure to steer clear of the subject
entirely.

Now, for the second time in less than a week,
Ben was asking me about a part of my life he normally avoided. I
wasn’t about to push, so I was more than willing to bide my time
and wait for him to get around to what he wanted. I could feel his
preoccupation thick in the darkness around us, so I was certain my
wait would be a short one.

“So… You remember when I called you ‘bout
that five-pointed star a couple days back?” he finally asked.

“You mean the difference between a Pentacle,
and a Pentagram?” I returned. “Yeah, I remember.”

“That’s it,” he affirmed. “Would ya’ mind
tellin’ me the difference on that again?”

“No problem. A Pentacle is basically just
what you said, a five-pointed star surrounded by a circle. It’s a
very common symbol in the Wiccan religion. When it’s upright,” I
scribed the symbol in the air with my finger, “with only one point
at the top, it represents man and the spirit as it rules over the
four elements. That’s when it’s called a Pentacle. If on the other
hand you turn it one hundred-eighty degrees, and two of the points
are at the top,” I spun my finger in a circle, “it’s called a
Pentagram and represents the spirit’s union with material
elements.” I relaxed back into my chair. “Some however, place an
improper, albeit widely accepted, meaning on the Pentagram. They
claim it represents Satan, evil, black magick, etcetera.”

“So, if it’s right side up or whatever, it
doesn’t mean anything evil?” he posed.

“It actually depends on who drew it, and the
significance THEY placed on it, but it’s really nothing more than a
symbol. Inherently, neither of them mean anything evil,” I
answered. “In my religion anyway.”

Ben stared thoughtfully out into the night,
absently fingering the rim of his Scotch glass and quietly puffing
on his cigar. I didn’t disturb him. Instead I watched the orange
glow on the end of the cigar each time he puffed and waited
patiently for the next question.

“What about colors?” he asked. “Do ya’ color
it in or somethin’? You know, like a rainbow?”

“Sometimes you’ll find a different color at
each of the four corners,” I answered. “Yellow in the upper left,
blue in the upper right, red in the lower right, and green in the
lower left. They represent the elements of Air, Water, Fire, and
Earth. On occasion the top point will be white, representing
Akasha, or the spirit.”

“Would they be pastels?” he queried.

“Well, I suppose if you wanted to be artistic
about it they could,” I laughed. “But they don’t have to be. Just
yellow, blue, red, green, and white.” I could feel his tension
congealing around us and knew that something about a Pentacle was
really bothering him. I was just about to break my own rules and
press for the problem when he elected to reveal it on his own.

“So listen, Rowan,” he began. “I’ve got this
case I’m workin’ on, and ta’ be honest, it’s really got me screwed
up. It’s not normal...there’s somethin’ real strange about it.”

“Something to do with a Pentacle, I assume?”
I asked, already knowing it to be true.

“Yeah,” he continued. “The theology expert
the department called in can’t seem to make up his mind. His theory
changes every time we try to talk to ‘im. A couple of the old
timers on the force say the whole thing reminds them of a
Satan-worship-slash-cult-murder they worked a few years back.
That’s why I called you Wednesday night.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I was almost ready ta’ agree with ‘em about
the cult stuff, but somethin’ kept eatin’ at me,” he explained.
“I’m sittin’ at my desk thinkin’, ‘where have I seen this star
thing before?’ All of a sudden it hits me...” Ben pointed at me and
waved his hand about. “Hangin’ around YOUR neck.”

The fact that he had been able to match me
with the symbol suddenly made sense. The quarter-sized pendant I
wore was for all intents and purposes a part of me, for I almost
never took it off; much as one who wears a Crucifix or the
medallion of a patron saint. For the most part, it remained hidden
behind the fabric of my shirt, and I had honestly never given any
thought to the fact that he might have noticed it, but obviously,
he had. Of course, what good is a cop if he’s not observant?

“So you called me to find out if I was in a
cult or something?” I posed.

“Hell no, I knew better than that. I called
ya’ because I figured ya’ just might know a little more about what
it means than the wingnut the department hired.” He let out a
frustrated sigh. “Now the problem is I’m even more confused.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, if this star is a good thing, I don’t
get why it was at the scene.”

“If I’m following you, you’re talking about a
murder, correct?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he answered and took a long swallow
of his drink. “Murder... Sacrifice... Something...”

“And you’re sure what you found was a
Pentacle, and not a Pentagram?”

“It had five points, and it was right side
up,” he explained. “So yeah, it was a Pentacle I guess.”

“So what does your expert have to say?”

“Well, the latest theory from that Einstein
is that it’s a ritual sacrifice from a Satanic African cult called
Santeria.”

I puzzled over the information wordlessly for
a moment, staring deliberately into my own drink as I formed a
response. “I realize that I haven’t seen the evidence myself, but
based on what you’ve said, I would seriously doubt that.”

“Why?”

“To begin with, a Pentacle isn’t a Santerian
symbol, but that’s only a minor part of it. Santeria is an
Afro-Cuban religion, not a cult, and it has nothing to do with
Satan worship. Their sacrifices are normally small animals such as
chickens, not human beings. In most cases, the animal is cooked and
eaten as a part of the ritual. Truth is, they treat their dinner
with more respect than you or I do.

“Another thing you might want to take into
account is the fact that the actual Satanic religion doesn’t
endorse human blood sacrifice either. My guess would be that your
expert has some pre-conceived notions and is misinterpreting the
facts.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” Ben looked
at me with an expression of mild surprise, his cigar held frozen
several inches before his face.

“I read a lot,” I told him. “Wicca and
WitchCraft get compared to everything under the sun. Good, bad, and
otherwise. I just like to keep up with what I’m being accused
of.”

“Makes sense.” Thoughtful silence followed
his measured reply, leaving us with the trilling night song of
countless crickets.

I realized my explanation had,
unintentionally, served only to add more confusion to his current
discomposed thoughts. I could also feel his aura of internal
conflict as he debated over his next question. In the interest of
addressing both of the complications, I voiced my own query,
“So…Are you looking for help?”

“I shouldn’t drag you into it,” he answered
after a long pause.

“You aren’t dragging me anywhere, Ben,” I
told him. “If what happened is actually some kind of cult
sacrifice, it could mean something bigger than just one homicide.
Besides, the fact that you found a Wiccan symbol bothers me just as
much as it does you. Like I’ve told you before, our most basic rule
is to ‘Harm None’. Even if it has nothing to do with the religion,
if I can help you track down whoever did it, then let me.”

Ben ran one hand through his hair and
smoothed it back, a gesture I had come to equate with his being
lost in thought. I had known this man for more years than I cared
to remember and had seen him through good and bad. He was a
consummate professional, without a doubt. Still, I knew that all
the training and even all the experience in the world could never
prepare someone for every scenario he may encounter in this line of
work.

I was constantly amazed by my friend’s
ability to remain detached and objective in an investigation, but
tonight was different. I had never seen him so disturbed by a case.
Ever. I could tell from his troubled demeanor that this one must be
beyond what even a seasoned veteran considered bad.

“I’ve got some pictures with me,” he finally
spoke after what seemed a lifetime. “Do ya’ think you can give me
an idea of what some of the stuff might mean?”

“I’ll be happy to give it a try,” I told
him.

“You haven’t seen this stuff yet,” he
replied. “It’s bad, Rowan.”

“I understand.”

“No you don’t,” he sighed. “When I say bad, I
mean it’s fuckin’ sick.”

* * * * *

I had just turned on the overhead light in
the dining room and seated myself at the table when Ben returned
from his van with his briefcase. He peeled off his sport coat and
threw it over the back of a chair then sat down. With a quick snap,
he released the latches on the case and retrieved a large manila
envelope bearing a case number and the word EVIDENCE printed in
bright red block letters. I could see sweat already forming on his
brow, and his hands trembled slightly as he handed me the
packet.

“Man,” he said. “I really hate ta’ do this to
ya’. This shit is enough to give ya’ nightmares. It has me.”

“Like I said,” I took the envelope, “you
aren’t doing anything to me. I offered to help.”

I unwrapped the string that held the package
shut and folded back the flap. Tilting it, I slid out a healthy
stack of eight-by-ten photographs, some color, some black and
white. I began thumbing through the pictures slowly, studying each
one carefully and giving Ben my general impression of the
images.

The first photo was of a crudely painted
Pentacle on a wall. Sections were shaded in pastel yellow, blue,
and green. The outline of the symbol was a deep, rusted red, and a
portion of it was smeared with the same color.

“Now I see why you were asking about the
pastels,” I stated. “But the red looks a little strange. Not really
a pastel.”

“It’s the victim’s blood,” Ben volunteered
matter-of-factly, his voice almost a whisper.

“Oh,” I replied. I couldn’t think of anything
else to say.

The second picture showed the Pentacle at
more of a distance, revealing a mound of black and a mound of white
on the floor. The following picture, a close-up of the mounds,
showed them to be candles that had burned until they extinguished
themselves, leaving behind hardened puddles of wax.

“Obviously a ritual of some sort,” I told
him. “I’m not sure for what.”

I thumbed through more pictures of the
candles and wall from various angles. The black and white images
were much easier to tolerate, though knowing that the Pentacle had
been inscribed in blood made me imagine I could still see the
glaring red within the crisp black and grey tones. Eventually, I
came to a picture of another wall. In the same dripping crimson
strokes as the Pentacle were the words “All Is Forgiven.”

“The consultant still can’t manage to explain
that,” Ben told me, indicating the pictured words. “He says it
probably has somethin’ ta’ do with blood sacrifice rituals. Says he
thinks it might...”

“No,” I interrupted him, holding up a hand,
“those words have nothing to do with a blood sacrifice ritual.”

“Whaddaya mean?” he queried, sitting up a
little straighter and focusing his attention.

“Your
expert
is apparently pretty full of
misinformation. I’m not saying that there wasn’t a sacrifice ritual
performed mind you, but just because the victim’s blood was used,
that doesn’t make it so,” I detailed. “The Pentacle and the
inscription are components of a spell.”

“You mean a hocus-pocus-poof-you’re-a-frog
kinda spell?”

“No. That’s a fairy-tale misconception. While
spells sometimes do involve what can be called magick, they are
primarily something like a prayer. This particular spell is a
separate ritual unto itself, and if I’m right, then I’m willing to
bet your killer performed it because of the murder, not as a part
of it.”

“I still don’t get it,” Ben told me, both
eager and frustrated.

“Just a second...” I got up from the table
and went across the room to the bookshelves. “I just want to verify
something real quick to make sure I’m right.” I scanned the shelves
reserved for our Wiccan and alternative religious literature and
quickly found what I was after. “Here it is...”

I pulled the book from the shelf and leafed
quickly through it as I strode back across the room and once again
took a seat at the table.

“What is that?” Ben asked as I continued
rapidly turning and perusing the pages.

“A grimoire,” I told him. “Kind of like a
recipe book for Witches.” I stopped leafing through the book, and
my eyes followed my finger down the text while I quietly mumbled to
myself. Eventually I came to rest halfway down the page. “Yes, it’s
a variation of an Expiation spell.”

“A what?” Ben’s still confused voice reached
my ears as I handed him the spellbook and quickly leafed back
through the pictures I had already seen. According to the grimoire,
a piece of the spell appeared to be missing. I felt sure it was
there but that I simply hadn’t noticed it.

“An Expiation spell,” I repeated. “A ritual
to rid yourself of guilt and regrets—a way of asking forgiveness
from yourself. I’m not finding it...” I stated hurriedly. “Was
there a cup or goblet there? It would have had wine in it. Or maybe
water.” Only silence met my ears. “Ben?” I queried again, looking
up.

He was staring at me across the table, face
ashen, the spellbook held loosely in his hands.

“Are you okay?” I asked, growing mildly
concerned.

“Yeah, we found a wine glass all right,” he
said quietly. “But, it wasn’t filled with wine.”