two murders so far. So now I just have to figure out what that something is.”
“Whatcha mean someone or somethin’?” He shook his head in a gesture of confusion. “I thought that thing just… Ya’know, like, just appeared on yer arm.”
“It did,” I confirmed his comment. “The someone or something I’m talking about probably doesn’t reside on this physical plane. It’s similar to when Ariel Tanner was speaking to me in my dreams after she had been murdered. This is just a physical manifestation of a similar type of contact.”
“Holy shit,” he murmured.
Ben shook his head and expelled a short whistle that puffed a jet of steamy breath into the night air. “You’re just way too spooky sometimes, white man.”
“Yeah, Rowan,” Carl echoed. “Spooky.”
“Is ‘spooky’ an official police term?” an unmistakable feminine voice asked from behind our huddle.
We turned as a group and were nearly blinded as a powerful light mounted atop a video camera suddenly snapped to life and vomited its harsh glare across us. So intent had we been on our conversation that we hadn’t noticed Brandee Street and her cameraman when they drove up. We had been under the impression that the media had given up their vigil outside the gates of the park and gone in search of other news to sensationalize. Apparently, Brandee had laid in wait for the last squad car to leave before descending upon us in search of a video byte.
She looked like the living rendition of a magazine advertisement for a ski lodge. With brightly rouged lips and thick lashes, she was decked out in stylish hiking boots that no doubt had never seen an actual hiking trail; leggings; and a high-collared, white fur jacket. A matching set of earmuffs completed the ensemble, and her teased mane of blonde hair appeared to have been styled to purposely incorporate them. I half expected the wind to start whistling as it blew through her stiffly moussed, unmoving coif.
“How’d you get in here, Street?” Ben shot back his disgusted query while shielding his eyes from the blaze of the video light.
“We drove,” she answered, her voice ripe with sarcasm as she pointed a gloved finger over her shoulder at the news van. “All right, Jay, we can shoot the intros later…”
Before any objections could be made, she drew in a breath and brought a logo-adorned microphone up from her side.
“Detective Storm. Can you give us any insight as to why the Major Case Squad has been called in on this investigation?”
Ben squinted and jerked back perceptibly as she thrust the business end of the device at him, then he coldly remarked, “This is a closed crime scene. I’m gonna hafta ask ya’ ta’ leave.”
The determined young woman staunchly ignored him and swung her attention immediately to Carl.
“Detective Deckert. What is your reasoning behind getting the MCS involved?”
“I’m afraid I can’t comment on that at this time, Miss Street,” Carl returned tactfully.
“Is there any truth to the rumor that you specifically requested Detective Storm on this case?”
“Detective Storm is a fine officer, and I welcome any opportunity to work with him.”
“But is it true that you contacted the city police chief to request his assignment to the MCS?”
“I have no control over assignments to the Major Case Squad,” he explained in a calm, slightly patronizing tone.
“Let me rephrase the question.” Brandee was quickly becoming annoyed, and it was easily apparent in the crisp tenor of her voice. “Sources close to both the city and county police departments indicate that you specifically asked that Detective Storm be assigned to the Major Case Squad. These same sources have also indicated that you requested Mister Gant be brought in to consult as well. Would you like to comment now?”
“No, Miss Street, I would not.”
“Mister Gant…” In a flash she abandoned the unresponsive cops and concentrated directly on me. “Given your involvement last summer with the Satanic Serial Killer investigation, your presence here would seem to indicate some type of occult element in this murder. Is that true?”
“I’m sorry. No comment,” I told her apologetically.
“We have it on good authority that you were rushed to the hospital earlier for a wound on your arm. Can you tell us more about that?”
Before I could get another “Sorry, no comment” out of my mouth, Ben interposed his large frame between the relentless reporter and me.
“Listen Brandee, if I’ve told ya’ once I’ve told ya’ a thousand times, ya’ want a statement, ya’ talk ta’ the public relations officer.”
“The people of Saint Louis have a right to know what’s going on, Storm!” she barked back, glaring up at him and holding her ground.
“Don’t give me that old freedom of the press speech, I’ve heard it before,” he answered. “You know full well we’re not in a position to tell ya’ anything. Call Public Relations in the mornin’ and I’m sure they’ll have a statement prepared.”
“I’m after the real story here, Storm. Not that P.R. department crap!” She then added, bitterly stressing each word, “I… Am… Trying… To… Do… My… Job.”
“So are we, Brandee, and like I said before, this crime scene still hasn’t been cleared, so technically speaking, you’re trespassin’. I’m only gonna tell ya’ ta’ leave one more time, then I’m gonna arrest ya’.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” she spat angrily.
“Try me.”
She didn’t.
“I guess I don’t have to tell you that Street wasn’t too far out in left field. The Major Case Squad is running the show now.” Ben told me as he carefully propelled the van down dark streets through a thickening veil of white. “Carl and I are both assigned to it. Big surprise.”
During my brief absence, the crime scene unit had finished gathering and cataloging anything remotely resembling evidence. The weather had not been a friend to them, and the aforementioned items had been few. Of course, little had been found at the scene of Brianna Walker’s death as well. Inwardly I pondered the fact that no Bible, or even Bible verse, had been found at this latest homicide. I had fully expected one and even hoped that it might help to determine a pattern. Perhaps a clue as to the way the victims were chosen, some tangible connection between them other than their religion, or his perception of such.
Very simply, I was looking for anything.
The idea that the verse may have been nothing more than an afterthought at the first scene crossed my mind. It was something I didn’t believe but at the same time couldn’t dismiss, so it remained cocooned in my brain as a minor bother until such time as it could emerge as a full-fledged aggravation.
With the mobilization of the MCS, Ben had pulled some strings in order to get the body of the latest victim transferred to the city morgue where Doctor Sanders could be in charge of the postmortem. The county coroner had put up a minor fuss, citing jurisdiction and various boundaries, but whomever Ben had in his corner had made short work of the red tape and the unprecedented occurred. With all the I’s dotted and T’s crossed, the case was transferred to the city without delay. By the time I had returned from my visit to the ER, the remnants of the woman’s charred corpse had been carefully removed and were already en-route downtown. It was there to which we were now endeavoring to return.
The crisp halogen beams of the headlights seemed, from one moment to the next, to be more hindrance than help in the near blizzard conditions. Cacophonous rumblings overhead were randomly punctuated with still louder aerial booms, each one seeming to add another measure to the deluge of fluffy white flakes. For the first time in many years, Saint Louis was experiencing the meteorological phenomenon aptly called “thunder snow.”
“Plan is,” Ben continued, throwing a quick glance at me, “ta’ go with your theory that this asshole is creatin’ his own Inquisition, or whatever, and assume he’s not gonna stop at two.”
“He won’t,” I asserted.
Ben slowed the vehicle and ignoring the barely visible signal, cautiously hooked a sweeping right turn through an empty intersection. The road conditions were deteriorating with each passing minute, and he didn’t dare come to
