sure. But I don’t think she knew who he was, or I would have picked it up. His familiarity with her was probably from afar. He might have stalked her…” I shrugged. “I don’t know. At any rate, the fact that he knew her full name was a formality. It was kind of a ‘legal necessity’ shall we say, for when he passed his sentence on her. Just like it would have been during the time of the Inquisition.”
“By all means, let’s make sure the legal necessities are all friggin’ covered,” Ben muttered sarcastically. “Any possibility this one might’ve been a hooker too?”
I touched the mouth of the bottle to the rim of my glass and carefully splashed another double over the melting ice. “I don’t know. I can guarantee you of one thing about her though… She was guilty as charged. Kendra Miller was a practicing Witch.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Doctor Sanders hesitantly broke her self-imposed reticence. “I mean if I understood you correctly, the killer’s proof was the necklace. It might not have even belonged to her.”
“Oh, it belonged to her all right. No doubt in my mind.” I twirled the alcohol in the tumbler while watching the light glow through its amber translucence and then rested the glass on my knee. I had hammered the first two drinks, and on an empty stomach they had quickly served their purpose by chasing away my trembles with their liquid courage. I was beginning to feel a mildly warm tingle creeping along the back of my scalp and decided I had better take it easy with this one. “I’m sure she was of The Craft because of the strength of the vision and the force with which I was drawn into it. I had a similar experience with Ariel Tanner when she was murdered… Only the spirit of a Witch could have pulled me in like that.”
“Amazing,” she muttered before taking a sip of her own drink.
“You said this asshole told ‘er he got the evidence-the necklace-from her apartment recently. Right?” Ben pressed.
“Yeah. That’s what he said.”
“But ya’ don’t know how long she was left alone?”
“The whole thing was pretty disjointed,” I confessed. “I really couldn’t determine any type of reference point for time, so I guess the answer would be no. Why do you ask?”
Ben set his drink atop a nearby filing cabinet, and his now free hand went up to smooth his hair then slid easily down to begin massaging his neck. “Just curious. I thought maybe once we found ‘er apartment, we could determine a radius or somethin’. An area where this wingnut might be operatin’ out of. But if ya’ don’t know how long he was gone…” He let his voice fade.
“Sorry,” I offered.
“Not your fault,” he returned. “So what about the basement, if that’s what it was. Do ya’ remember anything about it? Anything unique?”
“Just what I already told you. Your standard grey concrete walls and floor. They were a little on the pitted side though, so I’d guess it was an older house… Kind of hefty rafters… Wooden stairs… Had a fairly high ceiling, considering… And then there was the oversized crucifix and the candles. Get rid of those and it’s just a pretty basic basement.”
“Crucifix and candles,” he echoed under his breath then paused. “That would imply that the killer is Roman Catholic.”
“Or Greek Orthodox, or Russian Orthodox, or Lutheran for that matter…” I let my voice trail off. “I’m inclined to agree that he practices some manner of Catholicism based on his adherence to the Malleus Maleficarum. Of course, Saint Louis is just like most large cities. We have a rather substantial population of traditional Catholics as well as the various offshoots. The religion factor, in and of itself, really doesn’t narrow the field much.”
“Don’t remind me,” he sighed.
The ensuing silence was interrupted by a muffled electronic warble demanding immediate attention. Ben stepped over to a chair and rummaged about in his coat then produced a hand-held cell phone from a pocket. Flipping it open and stabbing it on, he cut off the third ring mid-peal and placed it against his ear. “Storm.”
Only he was privy to who was on the other end of the line, but his broken attempts to reply made it apparent that the person was a mere heartbeat away from hysterics. The caller’s identity became immediately obvious when he was finally able to forcibly wedge a sentence into the one-sided conversation. “Whoa, whoa, calm down, okay? He’s right here and he’s fine. I’m standin’ here lookin’ at ‘im… No problem. Hold on.”
Ben had covered the short distance between us as he talked and now offered me the device. “It’s your wife. If I understood her right she seems ta’ think that you’re dead.”
Upon hearing my voice, Felicity abandoned her frenzy of concern and burst into relieved sobs. Running the full gamut of emotions at a breakneck pace, her solace was quickly followed by happiness, embarrassment, and eventually anger. I allowed her to vent, and after five minutes of bombarding me with her particular brand of Irish fury at my having engaged in such a dangerous endeavor, she completed the circle and returned once again to relief. A few moments later I finally convinced her I was fine and promised to stay that way.
Doctor Sanders had been sitting quietly and now stared at me incredulously for a moment as I switched off the phone and handed it back to Ben.
“Your wife could see what you were seeing?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” I returned. “More along the lines of a premonition or a nightmare. She saw me being burned and felt some of the pain that I was feeling.”
She continued to stare across her desk at me and slowly cocked one eyebrow. Momentarily, she drained her glass of bourbon and planted it on the desktop then pushed her chair back. “I’m not entirely sure what to make of anything I’ve heard so far tonight, Mister Gant… But on that note, I believe I have an autopsy to finish.”
My dinner consisted of a stale Zagnut coaxed unceremoniously from a recalcitrant vending machine in the lobby of the building. I had washed it down with coffee served in a cheerfully decorated paper cup left over from a holiday office party. It now felt as though it was lodged sideways in the pit of my stomach, angrily fighting for space with the three tumblers of bourbon. Not exactly fine dining at Kemoll’s, but I took what I could get.
Quarter-sized clumps of snow were pelting me mercilessly as I tipped my head back and swallowed the last dregs from the red and green, holly-inscribed vessel. The remaining brew had already begun to grow cold, and it slowly forced its way down my throat in a bitter, watery lump.
While sitting alone in the break room, choking down the dry candy bar, I had been subjected to only slightly muted versions of the earlier pains brought about by the procedure going on in the autopsy suite. Physically, I could neither see nor hear what was happening in that room. Mentally, I was being treated to-or more accurately, tortured by-a first hand view through a dead woman’s eyes. Before long I was left with no choice other than to seek safe haven by placing even more distance between the corpse and myself. Constrained by the hazardous travel conditions and my only avenue for refuge being outdoors, I had ventured out into the snowy night. The added distance served to blunt a good deal of the pain; however, even the frozen darkness couldn’t remove it entirely.
I had continued to feel the spirit of Kendra Miller cry out in protest at what was being done to her earthly remains. I was unable to escape her wailing lament at what she could only view as more torture.
I crumpled the empty paper cup and stuffed it into my coat pocket then turned my back to the frigid wind, seeking what shelter I could alongside the glassed-in foyer that jutted from the front of the building. With cold- numbed hands, I slipped the cellophane from a Cruz Real #2 and neatly guillotined the end. A thick swoosh sounded behind me as the sluggish metal-framed door was forced open, and I heard heavy footsteps squeakily crunching in the snow.
“Still hooked on those Mexicans, eh?” Ben’s voice met my ears, the words making a weary jab at my choice of cigar brands.
The match I held cupped in my hands flared to life, and I touched its fire to the cigar clenched between my teeth. Staring into it, I felt myself becoming mesmerized by the tiny flame. A hot knife dragged down my spine, and I closed my eyes tightly, forcibly willing away the vibrant Technicolor flashes of my recent vision.
“I guess you could say that,” I answered as I turned and shook out the nearly spent wooden match.
He had just finished paring the end from his own smoke and now tucked it into the corner of his mouth before burying his hands into his pockets. “One good thing ‘bout this freakin’ blizzard,” he mumbled, “the bastard’s prob’ly snowed in just like the rest of us.”
