just a person like any of you, only I happen to be of a different religion.”
“It’s heresy. I don’t care what you say.” The statement was punctuated by a notebook slamming shut and a chair screeching on linoleum.
The voice had issued from a man everyone recognized. Detective Arthur McCann stood up and strode toward the door. He had been a valued member of the county police department for as long as anyone cared to remember. He was the prototypical good guy and esteemed member of his church. I had known him well a few years back when I helped out waiting tables in the small family diner my mother had owned and where he had been a regular customer. These days, he appeared in the paper often, a one-man task force bent on the eradication of the Wiccan religion and occult practices in Saint Louis. It was his belief that anything which didn’t include his God was nothing more than a cult and therefore evil. He was not about to listen to anything different.
“If you insist on having a Witch involved in this investigation…” He turned as he reached the door, fixing his gaze on Ben, who was standing next to me. “Then I will have no part of it.”
“Arthur,” I stated evenly, “how many times have I told you, good is good and bad is bad. I’ve done nothing bad.”
“You speak heresy,” he spat back angrily. “You go against the word of God.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I returned. “And it bothers me that it hasn’t been that long ago that you thought I was a pretty good guy…Until you found out my religion that is.”
He didn’t answer, his face just grew redder, and he stormed out of the room, angrily slamming the door behind him.
While I could still detect a definite lack of enthusiasm for my presence in the investigation by the rest of the members of the Major Case Squad, there had been no more outbursts for the rest of the briefing. We left the frenetic activity behind as Ben escorted us out of the building, dropping off our visitor’s badges with the desk sergeant before exiting into the bright, sunlit day. The small, nomadic media city from the night before had positioned itself in front of City Hall, and local television personalities were vying for positions from which to do their live reports.
“Looks like a goddammed airhead convention out there,” Ben spat as we walked.
The sun was beating down hard on the pavement, and combined with the moisture from the previous night’s rain, we had the makings of a legendary Saint Louis summer day. The humidity was thick in the atmosphere, and the stillness of the air made the ninety-four degrees on the thermometer seem less than accurate. Felicity peeled off her light jacket and arranged it over the back of her seat when we arrived at the Jeep.
“I have to tell you,” I said to him as I stowed the slide projector and tray, “it went much better than I expected.”
“Yeah, but what was that crap with McCann? I didn’t know you two knew each other.”
“Awhile ago,” I answered. “Back when Mom had that diner. I helped out waiting tables and got to know him then.”
“Oh yeah,” he said. He had been to the diner many times himself. “So I guess he’s outta here.”
“Looked that way,” I said, haphazardly tossing my own jacket into the Jeep and getting a stern look from Felicity. “So, why didn’t you say anything about R.J.?” Knowing my wife’s expressions, I retrieved the jacket and hung it properly over the back of the passenger seat.
“Pretty much ‘cause I’m workin’ on a hunch,” he explained. “You see, the way I look at it, everybody starts with ten bricks in their pile. As the investigation progresses, some of the bricks get moved into the suspicious and/or guilty pile, and the rest stay right where they were and don’t bother anybody. Right now, I’d say R.J.’s only managed to move a couple’a his bricks over to the suspicious pile.”
“When were you planning to talk to him?” I queried.
“I kinda figured on paying him a visit a little later this afternoon.”
“What’s the plan with Devon?”
“We’re sittin’ on his house, and I got a basic description from his cousin out on the streets,” Ben answered.
“Hey,” Felicity interrupted, “in case you two haven’t noticed, it’s hot and muggy out here, not to mention that I’m the only one standing here in heels.”
“Point taken,” I told her and then looked back at Ben. “Do you have a little free time to get us in to the Karen Barnes murder scene?”
“Yeah, why?” he asked.
“I’d like to play a hunch of my own,” I answered. “I want to make sure I didn’t miss something last night.”
CHAPTER 10
Leaving the parking lot proved to be much more of a nuisance than I originally expected. We were exiting ahead of Ben, and the moment our Jeep rounded the corner of the building, the drive was blocked by a swarm of reporters and cameramen. Felicity pressed lightly on the accelerator, inching us through the mob as they thrust microphones at our windows and barked questions made unintelligible by the din of them all speaking at once. Viewing the spectacle, it was impossible to miss Brandee Street, short skirt, trendy hair and manicured nails, as she ruthlessly insinuated herself between the others.
“Mister Gant,” she shouted over the uproar. “What exactly is your role in this investigation?”
Even with the windows up and the air conditioner cranked as high as it would go, I could still hear her singsong voice. I ignored her and reached over to turn up the radio.
“Mister Gant.” She was shuffling along at my window as we inched forward. “Is it true the police have called you in to communicate with the spirits of the victims?”
Suddenly, the crowd parted, and the reason became instantly clear as we saw the flashing red lights and uniformed officers executing much-needed crowd control. With a quick glance in either direction, Felicity shifted gears and gunned the engine, letting out a short squeal from the tires as she propelled us away from the bedlam. I turned and looked out the back window and saw Ben’s van behind us, emergency bubble-light flashing on the corner of the roof. Once we merged with traffic, it switched off, and I saw him reach out and pull it inside.
“Awfully determined young lady, wasn’t she?” Felicity asked as we came to a stop at a traffic light.
“You could call it that,” I answered. “Ben yanked her chain last night, and she threw her microphone at him.”
“You’re kidding,” she stated incredulously.
“Nope. Not kidding. She launched it at him, but she missed.”
“What did he do to her to get that kind of response?”
The light changed, and Felicity nudged the Jeep forward into the intersection then hooked into a left turn.
“Apparently there’s some kind of long running adversarial relationship between the two of them,” I answered. “She follows him around chasing stories, and he won’t give her the time of day. Last night he took the microphone out of her hand and unplugged it, then handed it back to her.”
“Serves him right then.”
“What do you mean?” I questioned.
“Never make a woman angry then be stupid enough to hand her something to throw at you.”
The small cinder block building in the back of the park was cordoned off and locked up just as I had expected. We parked our vehicles and followed the same path we had last evening, this time without the rain and organized pandemonium of the crime scene investigation. Ben produced a key and opened up the restroom.
The pungent aroma of the charred sage and rose oil still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the sharp and musty odors of old disinfectant, damp concrete, and the coppery smell of blood. The heavy door swung slowly shut
