“You seem pretty stuck on this whole Inquisition thing,” he commented. “You really think since he didn’t screw her that he isn’t just some sick fuck that got off on carvin’ this chick up? I mean, look at her customers. That S amp;M shit goes both ways, ya’know.”
“The Monogram of Christ is definitely one sign,” I answered. “It was put there for a reason. It wasn’t random or even an afterthought. It was placed on her inner thighs to purify her because of her profession. The killer was seeking to cleanse the ‘whore.’ Another thing would be the Bible and the highlighted verse.”
“So maybe he’s just after hookers.”
“I doubt it. Remember, the Bible verse highlighted mentioned wizardry and having a familiar spirit, something heavily associated with The Craft. Also, she had a Pentacle tattooed on her upper back. A tattoo, mole, or birthmark in that area would have been considered a Devil’s Mark during the Burning Times. It would have signified that she consorted with Satan, as all Witches were believed to have done. Let’s not forget the fact that she was tortured using a Pear. Medieval torture devices aren’t what I would consider standard fare for someone out to kill hookers. No, he was definitely looking to get a confession out of her.”
“How could she confess anything if she was gagged?”
“She wouldn’t have needed to confess anything verbally. Besides, whoever did this obviously removed the gag at some point.”
“Okay, but ya don’t know for a fact that he used that pear thing. The doc just said somethin ’ was inserted. And besides, that Wicked Witch of the West End shit was just a street name she used. She wasn’t really a Witch… I mean not like you and Felicity, right?”
“I can’t say for certain, Ben. We don’t exactly carry union cards you know. Just because I’m a Witch it doesn’t mean I know every other Witch in Saint Louis. It doesn’t matter anyway,” I shook my head. My hand had crept back over and with a mind of its own was once again scratching my arm. “The majority of those executed for the so-called crime of WitchCraft weren’t Witches either. If the killer perceived her to be a Witch, then to him, that is exactly what she was. A confession would merely be a formality, and the torture, a means to that end.”
“Maybe so, but all this Inquisition stuff…”
“Come on, Ben,” I implored. “You know you don’t really believe that this was just some bondage game gone too far. If you did, you never would have asked me to look at that marking.”
“Okay. So say you’re right, and there is a wacko runnin’ around playin’ judge, jury, and executioner against Witches.” Ben was desperately seeking a way out. I knew he didn’t want to accept the fact that we were dealing with another serial killer, especially since only six months had passed since the demise of the last one. “Then why didn’t he burn ‘er at the stake or somethin’. I thought that’s how they executed Witches back then. You yourself keep callin’ the whole thing the Burnin’ Times.”
“Yes, burning was done in some parts of Europe, and it is the very reason modern day Witches call it the Burning Times. But it was only one form of execution and not the most common at that. Witches, and those accused, were often garroted, hung, disemboweled, drowned, or even slowly crushed to death.
“In this case, he was trying to see if she would save herself instead of facing such a death.”
“Whaddaya mean ‘save herself’? She never had a chance. He chucked her off a fuckin’ balcony.”
“That wasn’t just an execution, Ben, it was also a test to verify the validity of her confession.”
“A test how?”
“He wanted to see if she could fly.”
CHAPTER 4
“The Empress Chicken combination plate is pretty good,” Ben was telling me as he cranked the steering wheel and arced us through the intersection in a left turn that went far too wide for comfort. Fortunately, there was nothing in his way, and he serpentined the vehicle back into the middle of the lane. “But ya’ hafta tell ‘em ta’ lay off the MSG.”
We were back in his van and making our way down a near deserted, snow-packed street in the direction of lunch. He had produced a crumpled menu from the depths of the glove box and offered it to me before we left the parking lot of the city morgue. The tri-fold piece of paper screamed neon yellow in between the scribbled lunch orders, phone numbers, and smudges threatening to completely cover its face. In the center of the outer fold, it bore a caricatured cartoon likeness of a balloon-headed Asian man in a tiny car, gleefully rushing to some unknown destination off the page. The name of the restaurant emblazoned above the line drawing read “Happy Wok Express-We Deliver.”
“I’ll probably just have some vegetables and steamed rice,” I told him after half-heartedly inspecting the list of specials. “I doubt if I need to eat anything very spicy at the moment.”
“Vegetables and rice?” He glanced over at me and chuckled. “Are you serious? Don’t ya’ want any real Chinese food?”
“Actually, Ben, vegetables and steamed rice are probably closer to being real Asian food than your suggestion of Empress Chicken.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Hmmph. Well, I’m still gonna have the chicken.”
“I figured you would.”
Doctor Sanders had arrived in her office shortly before we left the morgue. Much to my surprise, she remembered me and made it a point to ask about Felicity’s well being. Of course, it hadn’t been that long since we’d met. Considering that we had seen each other several times due to the body count of the last case, there was no real reason to be shocked. Truth be told, by the time local media finished trying to make me into an overnight celebrity-Self Proclaimed Witch Aids Police In Satanic Serial Killer Investigation, etcetera-I should have been amazed if someone didn’t know me.
Ben engaged in a short banter with the city’s chief medical examiner and persuaded her to take over the postmortem on Brianna Walker. She had begun by assuring him that Doctor Friedman was more than qualified to complete the autopsy but within minutes agreed to handle it herself. I wasn’t entirely certain if Ben had been just eloquent enough in his arguments or if she had agreed for no other reason than to get him to shut up. In any event, Ben got what he wanted, as usual, and invited her to lunch with us in return for the favor. She had declined for reason of a full schedule, pointedly citing the fact that she now had yet another post to perform on top of her never-ending administrative duties.
The radio was playing softly from strategically placed speakers and intermixed with an occasional tinny spurt of chatter from the police radio mounted vertically to the face of the dash. The cigarette lighter receptacle stood ready to accept the plug for the magnetic bubble light that rested on the engine cover between the seats. I knew from past experience that a hidden switch somewhere on the driver’s side would activate a deafening siren behind the exterior grill. Ben was dedicated to his job, and the modifications he had made to his personal vehicle showed it.
“A lotta coppers eat here,” he said as he urged the van over the curb into the unplowed lot and created his own parking space next to the small building. “I got turned on to it when I worked this district a coupl’a years back.”
He was making conversation. Going purposely out of his way to avoid the subject of Brianna Walker and the revelations I had bestowed upon him less than an hour before. I knew he was doing so for my benefit. It must have been obvious that I was still rattled by the entire experience, and this was even without my having engaged in any psychic exploration of the young woman’s death. I had to admit to myself that I was already in deep and that any other fear I had faced in my life to this point was a cakewalk as compared to what awaited me now. In my mind, I mutely convinced myself that I was just going to have to get over it.