“So there’s a Christine Webster out there that actually is a member of that coven?” one of the cops asked.
“Exactly,” my friend answered. “Only ‘er name is spelled with a K instead of a C-h. K-r-i-s-t-i-n-e, ta’ be exact. Other than that, the middle and last names are identical.”
“The mistake makes sense if you follow the killer’s brand of logic,” I interjected. “It stands to reason that someone with a deep religious conviction would hear Christine and automatically spell it with a C-h. After all, the origin of the name is Christ.”
Ben grunted in agreement.
“So the original theory holds?” the questioning cop asked.
“For now, yes.” Ben nodded. “Okay. Now that we’ve cleared that one up, I’m gonna turn the floor over to our distinguished city M.E. So, Doc, you got anything for us on last night’s unfortunate souls?”
Doctor Sanders set her own coffee aside while simultaneously slipping her reading glasses onto her face. The spectacles that hung from a simple chain about her neck were like a permanent fixture. I couldn’t recall ever having seen her without them. She opened a file before her and peered at the scribbled notes, reciting from them without looking up.
“I have the preliminary posts on all three. First victim is Sheryl Kee…” The last few words of her sentence elongated and rose in pitch as she yawned deeply. Covering her mouth with her hand, she drew in a second breath and sighed, “Excuse me. I’m terribly sorry.”
“S’alright Doc,” Ben told her. “Been a long one for all of us… Go on.”
“As I was saying,” she continued, “first victim, Sheryl Keeven, Caucasian, female, thirty-four years of age. She was hung by the neck from the balcony of her apartment. Prelim shows a stress fracture at the third cervical vertebrae, but that didn’t kill her immediately. There are indications that she expired due to asphyxiation. There were thirteen remarkable puncture wounds in soft tissues that were made pre-mortem. I would venture to say from an ice pick or something very similar.
“Next…” She flipped a page in the manila file and stifled another yawn. “Christine Webster, again Caucasian, female. Twenty-seven years of age. Cause of death was asphyxiation due to drowning, pure and simple. Her lungs were full of water. Ms. Webster’s body also exhibited a number of puncture wounds consistent with the Keeven woman as well as the two earlier victims.
“Finally, Robert Webster. Caucasian, male, twenty-eight. Contused larynx. Cause of death, again, asphyxiation. He was choked to death using the cord from a set of mini blinds. No other wounds in this case save for some minor, unremarkable bruising and abrasions that most likely occurred during a struggle. Judging from the upward angle of the contusion, I would venture to hypothesize that the attacker was a rather large male, probably over six feet in height. Other than that…” She flicked the folder shut then removed her glasses and gently massaged the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “…we will have to wait for the tox and labs to come back.”
She allowed her glasses to dangle down on their omnipresent chain and looked up at us with a slight shrug. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got for you at the moment.”
“Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate ya’ gettin’ on that so quick,” Ben told her then turned his attention back to the rest of the room and nodded in the direction of a thick, stocky man who was absently smoothing his moustache as he listened. “You and your team have anything for us from the crime scenes, Murv?”
The man gestured in the direction of Doctor Sanders, and when he spoke, his voice was richly timbered and affected with a slight, lazy, southern drawl. “I’d say the Doc’s prob’ly right about our bad guy. We got one decent imprint out of the snow around the pool last night. Matches up to a man’s size seventeen hiking boot, so I’d have to say he’s a big boy. Best estimate, anywhere from six-six to seven foot tall.”
He paused as he again brushed imaginary crumbs from the whiskers on his upper lip and then took a moment to scratch the back of his head. “So far we haven’t had a single worthwhile print, but it’s winter and everyone is wearin’ gloves so I don’t really expect any. He’s left a different kind of Bible at each scene, all of them being of a type readily available from any bookstore. We’re runnin’ it down anyway. The spray paint he’s used to leave the symbol is just your standard commercially available stuff.” He stopped talking for a moment and shrugged. “Either way, got a sample of it off to the FBI crime lab. Couple of fibers. Poly-cotton blend, dyed black. Pretty generic stuff. Besides that we got a big fat zippo. Sorry ya’ll, but this ol’ boy ain’t givin’ us much to go on.”
Ben nodded. “You’ll let us know if ya’ come up with anything else?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Great. Thanks, Murv.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, tox on the Miller woman showed Roofies in her system,” Ben announced to the room and looked around. “Who’s workin’ with Narc on that?”
“Over here,” a hard-edged but still feminine voice came from across the room. “Detective Baker. I’m your liaison to County Narcotics.”
“Great, Baker. Whaddaya got?”
“Unfortunately, nothing,” she returned. “We’ve worked the college campuses and all the small time dealers we can think of. Of course, we haven’t really known what we were looking for.”
“Understood,” Ben replied and gave her a nod. “I’d like for ya’ ta’ hit ‘em again and work from the basis that we’re lookin’ for an unusually tall individual. That might help.”
“Will do.”
Ben gave his notes a quick scan and without looking up from the fistful of paper, queried the room, “Computer crimes. Do we have anything on this whole Internet stalkin’ lead?”
“The Miller woman’s hard drive is clean,” a younger detective announced. “According to the system registry, the operating system was a recent install, and we found a receipt from a local repair shop. Looks like she upgraded.”
“I hate the damn things, Chuck,” Ben returned grumpily. “You mind puttin’ that in English?”
“She souped up her machine and had a new piece of hardware installed in place of the original mass storage device,” the detective answered. “I called the repair shop, and they said the drive was toast, and it went into the trash. To put it simply, as far as getting something off her system goes we’re screwed. We aren’t going to get anything from it.”
“What about her… Whaddaya call it… You know…” He rotated his hand in a circular gesture while furrowing his brow.
“ISP,” I offered. “Her service provider.”
“Small local outfit in South County” came the answer. “No weekend hours.”
“Great,” Ben sighed. “They got an alarm?”
“Probably, I dunno,” Chuck returned.
“Find out. Call the local muni and the alarm company. Get the contact list and get someone to open the doors. If that doesn’t work, go down there and throw a brick through the window or somethin’. We wanna talk to ‘em today. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“All right then, there’s another angle I want us to look into.” My friend huffed, paused for a moment then pointed over at me. “Most of ya’ are familiar with Rowan here from the last time he worked with us. As well, most of ya’ are aware that we’ve asked for his help again with this case.” His hand went up automatically as he spoke, smoothing back his hair and coming to rest on his neck. After a short pause he let out a resigned sigh. “Now, while I’ll be the first one ta’ admit that his methods seem more than just a little weird to the rest of us, I think we all know just how accurate he can be. At any rate, Row here has given us reason ta’ think maybe our bad guy might possibly be a priest. This isn’t a definite, but I’d like ta’ follow that avenue an’ see where it goes.”
“You mean like a Catholic priest?” a voice piped up.
“Yeah. Could be,” he answered. “Or Lutheran I s’pose.”
“What makes you think it’s a priest?” the detective queried again.