“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.
