I smiled slightly, remembering the trip well. Felicity and I had taken Ariel and a number of other Wiccan friends on a weeklong retreat to the Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois just over two years ago. We had camped, studied nature, and become closer to Mother Earth as well as one another. We had ended that trip with a ritual circle on Summer Solstice, one of the religion’s four Lesser Sabbats.
After what I had experienced in the apartment less than an hour before, the memories of that holiday were pleasant and very welcome.
“I’m glad it was a happy time for her,” I told him.
“I thought she told me you were into computers or something like that,” he said.
“I am.”
“Then what are you consulting with the police about?” he queried.
“You probably didn’t notice the walls in her bedroom,” I started carefully. “There were some symbols left behind. Her death is apparently related to The Craft in some way.”
“Devon!” he screamed suddenly. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch!”
With that, he once again bolted past both Ben and me as he ran full speed up the small space between the buildings with my friend on his heels. Being shorter of stature and much wirier, R.J. was able to negotiate the cramped alleyway with slippery ease, quickly widening his lead and bursting out on to the street. I, with my throbbing skull, arrived in front of the building just in time to see Ben trying to yank open the door of a gold Trans Am.
R.J. gunned the engine, and the car jumped away from the curb, tires squealing against asphalt. Ben managed to follow alongside for a few steps before losing his grip on the handle, and choosing discretion over valor, back-peddled from the vehicle as it sped away.
“Are you all right?” I called to him as he jogged toward me.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he nodded. “Did ya’ catch what he said?”
“He said he was going to kill someone named Devon,” I replied. “I seem to have triggered it when I told him Ariel’s death was somehow connected to The Craft.”
“Well,” he said walking toward the back of the house. “Let’s get back to the van and get his plate number out over the air. I’m thinkin’ maybe we need ta’ find out who this Devon guy is.”
Using the police radio in his van, Ben was able to get R.J.’s license plate number, as well as a description of the car and him, out to the on-duty patrols. We were just pulling into the parking lot of the medical examiner’s office when a call blared over the tinny speaker stating that he had been picked up. Ben quickly instructed the arresting officer to bring him to the M.E.’s office where we would be waiting.
Ben was thumbing through his notes as we walked across the lot in the general direction of the entrance. After flipping back and forth between pages a trio of times, he settled on a particular scribble and glanced over at me.
“What’s an at-tommy?” he queried as he searched his breast pocket for a writing implement.
“Athame,” I corrected. “It’s a Witch’s personal knife. It’s used in rituals and the practice of The Craft. Why?”
He quickly added the words “Witches Knife” to the scrawled notation.
“When you were doing that thing, whatever it was, back at the apartment, you screamed something about the killer using Ariel’s own Ath-Tommee,” he still stumbled over the word, “to skin her.”
“Yeah.” The thought brought back unpleasant phantom pains in my chest. “That’s what I saw.”
“Whaddaya use it for?” he continued. “To sacrifice things or something?”
“No,” I answered. “Not in the sense you mean. A Witch’s athame should never draw blood, and the only sacrifice a Witch makes is of him or herself.”
“So ya’ think Ariel Tanner was tortured and killed with her own Witch knife?” he voiced.
“Yes,” I answered. “Which is something that made it even worse for her because an athame is a very personal tool to a Wiccan practitioner. Hers was a dirk.”
“Which is?”
“A European double-edged dagger about six inches long,” I explained. “It’s double-beveled and has a black handle.”
“Is that somethin’ you saw in your vision?”
“Yes. But I knew even before then. I gave it to her when she went out and started her own coven. It was a gift.”
We entered the coroner’s office and were greeted by a pleasant young woman at the reception desk who led us back to a room with stainless steel tables and tile floors: a room where the emptiness of death pervaded every sense to one who is aware. The young woman introduced us to Dr. Christine Sanders, the chief medical examiner who was also the M.E. working Ariel’s case.
Despite my protestations, Ben pointed out my recent injury and asked if she might be able to take a look at it. After an effusive amount of concern, I was forced to be x-rayed and the gash stitched up. This was not something I expected from someone who spends her days with the dead, and I made the mistake of stating as much. She was quick to point out that she was in fact an M.D., so I elected not to argue.
Once my spur-of-the-moment medical treatment was finished, we gathered in Dr. Sanders’ office. With its carpeting, mauve walls, and strategically placed paintings, it was a much more pleasant place to be than the chilled antiseptic realm of the autopsy suite.
“Ariel Tanner…” she began. “Just finished that one yesterday afternoon. You guys are lucky you caught me here,” she added. “This is supposed to be my day off. I only came in to finish up some paperwork.”
“I know the feelin’, doc,” Ben replied.
Dr. Sanders continued leafing through a thick file folder and finally came to rest on the page she sought. Her glasses hung loosely on a chain around her neck, giving her a stern look. Her demeanor, however, was much more pleasant than her outer appearance immediately suggested. She tossed back a shoulder-length shock of grey- flecked, brunette hair and slid the glasses onto her face, resting them lightly on the end of her nose.
“It appears that we are still waiting on some of the tox screen results,” she told us. “But cause of death was due to an acute trauma to the neck resulting in massive blood loss. Judging from her histamine levels, the trauma to the chest…” She looked up over her glasses at me then to Ben.
“It’s okay,” he told her. “He’s consulting on the case.”
“…Then,” she continued, “the trauma to the chest and excision of the dermis occurred antemortem.”
“In English, doc,” Ben said.
“She was skinned alive, Detective.”
Jotting down quick notes, Ben continued, “Any idea what the killer mighta used ta’ accomplish that?”
“Based on the size and shape of the wounds…” She looked back at the file and flipped over some more pages. “A short, beveled blade of some sort, but that’s just a guess.”
“One last question,” he asked. “And it might seem a bit odd. Did ya’ find any marks on her arms? Like a puncture wound?”
“Now that you mention it, yes we did,” Dr. Sanders answered. “There was a puncture wound on her left arm, consistent with an injection. I assumed it was from a dose of insulin since she was a diabetic.”
“We’ve got reason ta’ believe she might have been drugged. Possibly with an injection,” Ben told her after glancing quickly at me.
“We took a tissue sample,” she submitted. “It’s being screened with all the rest.”
“Dr. Sanders?” the intercom on her desk blared.
“Yes, Cecilia?” she answered.
“Sorry to bother you,” the disembodied voice continued issuing from the speaker. “But there is an officer here in the lobby to see Detective Storm.”
“Thank you,” Dr. Sanders said to the young woman at the other end then turned back to us. “Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”
“I think that’s it for now,” Ben told her, standing and stowing his small notebook in a shirt pocket. “I’d appreciate hearin’ from ya’ as soon as the tox results are in.” He handed her his card.
“No problem,” she replied, clipping the card to the front of the file folder and then turning to me. “And you,
