Текст книги "Hard Spell"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  "Good evening, as Bela Lugosi used to say," she said to me, then nodded at my partner. "Karl."

  "Whatever chance this had of being a good evening went down the tubes hours ago," I said. "You wanna fill us in?"

  "I might be able to do better than that, and get you inside for a look," she said. "The Crime Lab guys have been and gone."

  As we walked toward the house Lacey said, "Family's name is Dwyer. They've got the upstairs."

  "Who's ROS?" I asked her. I wanted to know who the Ranking Officer on Scene was because I wasn't going in that house without permission. Lacey couldn't give it, because this wasn't her case, or her jurisdiction. The last thing I wanted was some Statie calling McGuire to complain that I'd violated procedure.

  "Twardzik," she said flatly.

  There was silence for three or four paces.

  "Of course it is," I said. "Why should God start taking pity on me now?"

  I followed her through the small crowd of milling cops and technicians to where the Ranking Officer on Scene was chewing on a couple of guys in plain clothes. Even from the rear, Lieutenant Michael Twardzik was easy to spot. He was the only one around in a State Police uniform who barely topped 5'5". That's the minimum height requirement, and I swear the little bastard must've worn lifts in his shoes when he applied for the academy. His case of short man complex isn't much worse than, say, Napoleon's.

  "And if either of you fail to turn in your Fives in a timely manner again," Twardzik growled, "you'll be packing up for your transfer to Altoona before end of shift. Understand me?"

  He didn't wait for an answer. "Dismissed."

  Every big organization has its version of Siberia – the place they send you when you fuck up not quite bad enough to be fired. In the Army, it used to be the Aleutian Islands off Alaska. With the FBI, it's Omaha, for some reason. And the Pennsylvania State Police's designated version of Purgatory is Altoona. I wouldn't argue the choice – I've been to Altoona.

  I let Lacey take the lead as we came up behind Twardzik. "Lieutenant?" Even in that one word, I could tell that she'd made her voice softer, a little more feminine. This surprised me some, since Lacey's normally a "fuck you if you can't take a joke" kind of gal. She must really want us to see the inside of that duplex. "Would it be okay with you if I give these officers a look at the crime scene?"

div>   Twardzik turned, squinting against the flashing lights from the police cruisers. "Which – oh, these officers."

  Years ago, before I joined the Scranton PD, I thought I wanted to be a Statie. So I took the exam for admission to their academy. Something like two hundred and thirty guys (it was all guys, back then) took it that year, and I scored fourteenth. Each new class is capped at a hundred, no exceptions, and the test score is what they go by.

  Before you can even take the exam, they check to make sure you have a high school diploma and a clean record, and you've got to pass the physical fitness test. So if your score is in the top hundred, you're in, and if not, sorry, Charlie. And they only let you take it once.

  The scores are public record, which is how I know my rank – as well as Twardzik's, which was one-ohone. When I decided not to go (that's pretty rare, I guess), everybody below me moved up one. And that's how Twardzik got into the academy. He owes his career to the fact that I gave up my place in line.

  No wonder the little bastard hates me – even though I've never once mentioned it to him.

  Twardzik gave me the kind of look you'd give a particularly scuzzy-looking panhandler. "You're a long way from your playpen, Markowski. What'd you do – take a wrong turn on your way to the whorehouse?"

  "Patronizing prostitutes is illegal, Lieutenant," I said evenly. No way was he getting a rise out of me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction – or the excuse.

  "I asked these detectives to come down from Scranton, Lieutenant," Lacey said hastily. "It looks like this homicide has some similarities with others that we're currently investigating."

  Twardzik looked at Lacey. "Last I checked, WilkesBarre and Scranton were some distance apart, not to mention being in different jurisdictions. How is it you two are investigating homicides together? Has a law enforcement romance blossomed?"

  That was when I wanted to hit him. But before I could say anything, Lacey got in with "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I was being unclear. I meant that each of us is investigating separate homicides that seem to have similarities with each other, as well as with the case you have here. I thought it might help both investigations to move forward if these officers had a chance to view this crime scene."

  Twardzik looked at me, then back at her, taking his time. I was pretty sure I knew what was going through his mind. If he denied permission, and Lacey and I each sent separate complaints to his Troop Commander, Twardzik would have to give a reason why he'd done it – and it would have to be a better one than his desire to see me in Hell with my back broken.

  "Yeah, all right, go on," he said to me, making a head gesture toward the house. "The sooner you do, the quicker you'll be out of my sight." Then he turned away, probably looking for a stray dog he could kick.

• • • •

We followed Lacey up the creaking steps that led to the second floor apartment. "Snotty little fuck," she said quietly, but with a lot of feeling. "It should come as no surprise that he's got a tiny cock, too."

  "And you would know that, how?" I kept my voice casual, as if the answer wouldn't matter.

  "I'm friends with his ex-wife, Stan. Jeez, how did you think I'd know?"

  I didn't say anything, but felt my shoulders lose some tension I hadn't even known was there.

  The steps brought us to a small landing in front of a simple wooden door that had plastic numbers "443B" glued to it. The doorway was spanned by a big yellow X of crime scene tape, which Lacey started o remove.

  "Careful now," Karl said. Even though he was behind me, I could hear the grin in his voice. "Wouldn't want to upset the lieutenant."

  "Are you kidding?" Lacey said. "I'm gonna put that back exactly the way I found it. Shit, I was tempted to take a picture, to make sure I get it right."

  Once the tape was down, she opened the unlocked door and led us into the living room. I stepped to the side to make room for Karl's bulk and almost knocked over a knick-knack shelf full of little ceramic leprechauns. There'd be hell to pay if I broke any of them.

  The furniture and drapes were old, but well caredfor. The floral wallpaper wasn't peeling anywhere, although nails stuck out from it in several parts of the room. The rug we stood on was threadbare in a few places, but it was as clean as you could expect with cops tramping all over it.

  The Dwyers didn't have a lot, but they seemed to take pride in what they had. I was betting that Mrs. Dwyer vacuumed every week – probably on Saturday morning, just like my mom had done. On one wall, occupying a place of honor, was a framed faded portrait of JFK that looked like it had been clipped from a magazine. The one in our house had been from Life, I remembered.

  A short hallway branched from the living room, with a door on each side and a bathroom at the end. One room had its door open, lights burning inside. Lacey led us there saying, "Mom, Dad, and two boys. Dennis is at Penn State, the other one, James, dropped out of high school a little over a year ago. Junior year."

  "That must've been when he was turned," I said. "Which came first, I wonder?"

  "Was he out to the parents?" Karl asked.

  "Dunno," Lacey said, "but, Christ, he'd have to be."

  Pretty hard to explain to Mom and Dad that you weren't going outside in daylight any more, and that midnight mass at Christmas was off your schedule for good. Sunday dinner would never be the same, either. They must've known their kid was a vamp. I felt sorry for them.

  The bedroom looked like it would make a good set for a remake of I Was a Teenage Vampire. The walls were covered with posters of rock stars, although I didn't recognize most of them. Discarded clothes covered the furniture, and the floor was littered with CDs, DVDs, and magazines. The room's two windows had close-fitting boards nailed over both of them, which were covered with black plastic from garbage bags. The edges of the bags were heavily taped around the edges, to make sure no speck of sunlight would sneak in. That was the only unusual thing about the room – unless you counted the bloody corpse on the bed.

  The wooden stake must have been very sharp – it looked like it had gone right through the kid's body, pinning him to the mattress like some kind of bug in a museum exhibit. James Dwyer had been wearing white briefs and a gray T-shirt with "Question Authority" printed on the front. Probably what he wore to bed when he'd been sleeping at night, not all that long ago.

  The heart contains a lot of blood, so I wasn't surprised at the gore that half-covered the body and bed, and spattered the nearby wall. I'd seen staked vampires before.

  "Here's the reason my buddy called me, and why I got in touch with you guys," Lacey said, walking over to the body. She pushed bloody blond hair away from James Dwyer's forehead, and there they were: three of the same kind of symbols that we'd been encountering on corpses lately. In fact, these looked kind of familiar.

  I reached into my jacket pocket for my notebook. Even though the case files contained plenty of photos from each of the dead vamp crime scenes, I had still made cies by hand of the symbols that had been carved into each of the victims.

  First vic – three symbols. Check. Second vic – three symbols, but different from the first set. Check. Third one – three symbols found on the guy in Wilkes-Barre. Check. Same weird alphabet, but different from the other two. Then James Dwyer, right in front of me. Three symbols. Check. Except...

  "Lacey, lift the kid's hair again, will you? Karl, take a close look at these."

  Karl stepped closed and leaned in close. Then he straightened up. "They look similar to the ones we been seeing," he said. "Not surprising."

  "No," I said, "but here's something that is." I showed him my notebook. "See?" Each of the first three vics had a different set of these fucking arcane symbols carved on him. But James, here–"

  "–has got the same markings as the first vic." Karl's forehead wrinkled. "So, maybe this fucking ritual, whatever it is, requires some kind of repetition, only… Fuck, I dunno."

  Lacey was looking at me. "There's something else that doesn't fit," she said. "Now that you mention it. The M.O."

  "All the M.O.s have been different," Karl said. "I mean, that's part of the pattern, haina?"

  "I think maybe I see what she's getting at," I said to him. "It's not weird enough."

  She nodded slowly. "Yeah, exactly. My guy had been done by a silver garrote, and in your two, the perp used–"

  "Charcoal bullets and a silver-coated blade," I said. "Wooden stake through the heart, it's, I dunno, too conventional."

  "Okay, I'm with you now," Karl said, "but it still doesn't tell us shit. We don't know why the perp would all of a sudden start using the tried-and-true method of killing a vamp, but we don't know why the fucker's doing anything he does."

  "Yeah, but I wonder..." I let my voice trail off. "Look, we should get out of here so the coroner can take the body away. They're probably waiting for us."

  As we shuffled back out the door, I said, "Besides, there's something I wanna look at in the car."

  "What's that?" Karl asked.

  "My laptop."

Karl was just slipping into the passenger side as I reached under my seat for the slim laptop computer. I heard the rear door open and close as Lacey scrambled into the back seat.

  I opened up my computer, logged on, then passed it to Karl. "Here," I said. "You're better at this stuff than I am."

  "What stuff?" Karl asked.

  "Searching the Internet."

  "Ah, hell. It's not all that hard to find porn." He glanced over his shoulder at Lacey. "Not that I would know."

  "If not, you're the only guy in the world who doesn't," Lacey murmured.

  "So what am I looking for, Stan?" Karl said.

  "Images of the symbols that were carved into the first victim."

  He looked at me. "Scranton PD never released that information. Neither did Wilkes-Barre."

  "No, they didn't," I said. "But it's funny how much confidential stuff gets on the Internet without being officially released. I want to know if somebody outside law enforcement could've known what those symbols looked like."

  Lacey leaned over the front seat. I could feel warm breath on the back of my neck. "You're thinking copycat?"

  "Maybe," I said. "It would sure explain a few things that don't otherwise make much sense."

  Despite his modesty, Karl was good at nding stuff online besides porn. His fingers were flying over the keyboard, and I could hear him swearing softly as his search efforts came up empty, one after another. Then he stopped, stared at the screen, and said, "Jesus fucking Christ on a goddamn bicycle."

  "What?" I asked, although I thought I knew the answer.

  "This," Karl said, and turned the screen to face me.

  And there they were.

The website described the photo as showing "Actual Occult Symbols Carved into Murder Victim in Scranton PA!!!" The idiot who put it up there explained that this was somehow a sign of the oncoming Apocalypse.

  Whoever he was, I hoped he was wrong.

  "How the fuck did some asshole get hold of these?" Lacey said from the back seat.

  "Lots of possible ways," I said. "Somebody at the coroner's office, a guy doing night shift at the morgue, the funeral home people – could've been anyone. Almost everybody's got a cell phone these days, and almost every one of those has a built-in camera."

  "Yeah, be a piece of cake," Karl said. "All you'd need is some decent light and about a minute of privacy."

  Lacey had her forearms crossed over the back of the front seat, her chin resting on them. "So some 'fearless vampire killer' decided to make his work look like it was done by Sligo – or whoever's been going around knocking off vamps – to throw us off the scent. That what you're saying?"

  It was quiet in the car for a few seconds.

  Lacey bit her lower lip for a second or two, then shook her head. "Doesn't make any sense, Stan," she said. "Mostly these Van Helsing types want publicity for their deed, if not their name. See themselves as big holy heroes. They wouldn't want a serial killer to get the credit."

  "Yeah, I know," I said. "It doesn't fit the pattern. If it's a vigilante, that is."

  "But what's left?" Lacey asked. "If it's not the wizard, or a fucking vampire slayer...?"

  I looked over at Karl and raised my eyebrows. He saw me, and nodded slowly.

  "Lacey, listen: far be it from me to tell the great Michael Twardzik, Lieutenant, Pennsylvania State Police Criminal Investigation Division, how to run one of his cases."

  "Apart from the fact that he'd tell you to fuck off as soon as you opened your mouth," Karl said.

  "There's that too," I said. "But he seems to like you, Lacey. Kind of."

  "He's got fantasies about getting in my pants," she said, "which should be filed under G for 'Good fucking luck.'"

  "Whatever the reason, he at least lets you talk to him," I said. "Which is more than Karl and I can say."

  "I know about you and the academy thing," Lacey said, "but what did Karl do to piss him off?"

  "Guilt by association," Karl said, with a grin.

  "Anyway," I said, "the next time you have the lieutenant's ear, you might whisper in it that he should take a good hard look at the kid's parents."

  Lacey just stared at me.

  I said, "If it were me, I'd want to know where both parents were at the kid's time of death, whenever the coroner says that was," I said. "I might also check trash cans and storm drains in a ten-block radius, looking for some bloody clothing that somebody might have tried to get rid of. And check the sink traps in the house for blood residue – you know the routine."

  "'Course I do," she said, "and I'm aware that in most murder investigations you look at family first. But why...?"

  "When we were in there, I counted six nails sticking out from the walls with nothing hanging from them, and those people are too neat just to leave nails there for no reason. That's where they hung the crucifixes, the paintings of the Sacred Heart, the little frescoes of the Virgin Mary, all that. If you looked, you'd most likely find all that stuff stashed in a bureau drawer. And I'll bet that all of it will be back on the wall tomorrow, or the next day."

  Lacey shook her head again, but not as if she was disagreeing with me. "I can imagine how hard it is to deal with someone in your family who's been changed," she said. "But to off your own kid in cold blood..."

  "You're Catholic, aren't you, Lacey?" I asked her.

  "I was raised that way, but I'm in recovery," she said with a tiny smile, which is all that old joke deserved.

  Karl turned and looked at her. "You're shittin' me," he said. "How can anybody do this kind of work and not believe in God?"

  "I didn't say I don't believe in God, Karl," Lacey said. "Although, if you ask me, all supes prove is the existence of the devil. I just walked away from all the Catholic bullshit. No offense, if that's your thing."

  "Even so," I said, "you know the Church's views about supes – vamps, weres, goblins, the whole crew."

  "Anathema," Karl said. "The pope says they're cursed by God, all of them."

  "Yeah, and that's one of the reasons I took a hike," Lacey said. "Give some old man a tall hat, and all of a sudden he speaks for God? I don't think so."

  "You may not be with the program any more, Lacey," I said, "but I'm betting the Dwyers were. From all indications, they were hard-core Irish, and, especially in this area, that means hard-core Catholic."

  "You think they drove a stake through their own kid because some fucking priest told them to?"

  "Possible, but it didn't have to happen that way. If they figured the Church would have wanted him dead, that might have been enough. It would be, for some people I grew up with. They probably told themselves they were saving his soul." I turned my head and looked at the night as it pressed against the car windows. "Who knows? Maybe they were."

We were approaching the on-ramp for 81-North when I whacked the steering wheel with one hand and said, "Damn!"

  Karl was bent forward, fiddling with the radio. "What? What's wrong?"

  "Just remembered something else the Staties ought to be doing: check the computer in the kid's room."

  "For what – to see if he was downloading vamp porn?" I couldn't see Karl's smile in the dark, but I knew it was there.

  You can find porn catering to every taste on the Internet – most of it legal, some not. Where there's a niche market, somebody will come up with product to fill it: gay, straight, bi, gimp, albino, human, nonhuman. It's all there someplace, and I guess vampire porn's been around the Internet as long as all the other kinds. I once had to check some of it out for a case I was working. I hope never to have to look at it again.

  "No," I said, "I'd be more interested in finding out whether any Google searches had been done for those symbols we found carved on our first vic. If it was Mom or Dad, or both, who carved them in the kid, they had to find them first."

  "Yeah, that could be useful," Karl said, "although there's no way to tell who was doing the search, if there is one. Hell, the kid could have done it."

  "Not if it took place during daytime, he didn't. Anyway, it's kind of a reach for the kid to be researching symbols that later end up carved on his own corpse, isn't it? I'm pretty sure he didn't carve himself."

  "You got a point there." Karl found a radio station he liked and sat back. "But what you did back there with Twardzik was pure fucking genius, Stan."

  "Thanks. Too bad they don't give out Nobel Prizes for conniving."

  All I'd done was suggest to Lacey that she tell the lieutenant that I was convinced James Dwyer was the latest victim of the serial vamp slayer, and in my opinion the investigation should focus on that aspect of the case and exclude all others.

  Which guaranteed that Twardzik, while following the vamp slayer angle, would also spend plenty of man-hours treating the case like just another homicide. If there was any evidence of the parents' involvement, he'd find it. And then figure out a way to let me know about it, bless his little head. Both of them.

We were about a mile out from Scranton when Karl said, "Getting late."

  I glanced at the dashboard clock. "Yeah, double shift is almost over. The chief won't pay for triple overtime, even if I had any energy left to do it. Which I don't."

  "Yeah, I guess what-his-name, Jamieson Longworth's 'pad' will have to wait until tomorrow night." Karl scratched his chin. "Unless he has his pet wizard drop a boulder on us while we're asleep."

  "If he was able to do that, he'd have done it by now."

  "You hope."

  "Yeah. I hope. But if you think about it, he probably hasn't–"

  The police radio crackled into life. "Car 23, car 23, this is Dispatch. Do you copy? Over."

  Whoever's riding shotgun handles the radio, so Karl reached out, snapped off WARM 590 AM, and picked up the mike.

  "This is 23," he said. "Copy just fine. Over."

  "That isn't Sergeant Markowski, is it? I'd know his voice. Over."

  "No, this is Renfer, but Markowski can hear you. He's driving. What's up? Over."

  "I've got a phone call just come in for Sergeant Markowski. The lady says it's urgent. Do you want me to patch it through to your vehicle? Over."

  Turning my head a little, I could see Karl looking at me. "Ask if she's got a name," I said, "or knows what it's about."

  "Did the caller ID herself?" Karl asked. "Over."

  "Affirmative. Says her name is Joanne Gilbert."

  "Doesn't ring a bell," I told Karl. "Have her leave a number, and I'll–"

  The radio dispatcher spoke again. "Caller says she's Rachel Proctor's sister."

  I checked the mirror, then put my foot on the brake and began easing us over to the shoulder of the road and a complete stop as I said to Karl, "Tell them to put her through."

"Hello? Hello?"

  "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski speaking."

  "Oh. Uh, hi. My name is Joanne Gilbert. Rachel Proctor, who I guess works with you, is my sister."

  Her voice did resemble Rachel's. Joanne Gilbert sounded like someone who was trying very hard to stay calm.

  "Gilbert would be your married name, then," I said.

  "That's right. I live in Warwick, Rhode Island, but I've got a... message... for you from Rachel."

  "Is she there with you now?" My fingers were suddenly tight around the microphone. "Because I really need to–"

  "No, sir. I haven't seen Rachel in a couple of years. We were going to get together at a big family thing last Christmas, but then one of my kids got sick... you know how it is."

  "Yeah, I guess I do. So, how did Rachel get in touch – email, phone call, what?"

  Silence. I let it go on for a little bit, then said, "Mrs. Gilbert? You still there?"

  "Yes, I'm here. It's just that this is a little... what happened was, Rachel got in touch by making me write the message down with my own hand."

  This time the silence was on my end. Joanne Gilbert didn't let it last long. "Detective, if you work with Rachel, I guess you must know something about witchcraft."

  "More than I ever wanted to," I muttered.

  "Excuse me? What?"

  "Sorry, Mrs. Gilbert. I got distracted for a second. Yes, I'm pretty familiar with witchcraft."

  "Then you know that the basic Talent is genetic. You're either born with it, or you're not."

  "Yeah, I'm aware of that."

  "But the Talent itself is practically useless," she said, "unless you get training in how to use it."

  "Right."

  "Rachel made the decision to develop her Talent. I didn't. I wanted a normal life. But we've both got it. The Talent, I mean."

  "And all this has something to so with the message you got from Rachel." I was in no mood to listen to lengthy explanations about stuff I already knew.

  "It has everything to do with it, Detective. Look, when we were kids, Rachel and I used to play around with our ability. Nothing serious, just for our own amusement. One of the things we could do, anytime we wanted, was what they call automatic writing. We didn't even know it had a name."

  "One person writes what the other one is writing, even though they can't see each other."

  "Exactly. I gather it's a form of clairvoyance."

  "So, this is how you got Rachel's message, through automatic writing?"

  "I was sound asleep. What is it now, almost three? This was like twenty minutes ago. Rachel showed up in my dream, which isn't all that unusual. But all I could see was her face, and she was looking right at me. Wake up, Jo-Jo, she said, very seriously. Wake up and get a pen and paper. She kept saying it over and over, and finally I did wake up."

  "I guess 'Jo-Jo' is some kind of pet name?" I asked.

  "It's what our family called me when we were kids. So, I got out of bed, put my glasses on, and stumbled downstairs. There were some pens in the kitchen, and a pad of notepaper. I got them, and sat down at the kitchen table. As soon as the tip of the pen touched the paper, my hand started moving – writing – of its own accord."

  "Do you and Rachel communicate this way often?"

  "Not since I was twelve, or thereabouts."

  "So, what did you write down?"

  "I'll read it word-for-word." I could hear paper rustling, then she said: "Urgent you call Det. Stan Markowski, Scranton P D 717-655-0913. Tell him: Stan, I didn't hurt those poor cops. Kulick did. I was his instrument. He's very strong. I can only regain control like this for brief periods. You must stop him. We're hiding...

  "And that's all of it," Joanne Gilbert told me. "As soon as I wrote hiding, the ink line was yanked away, right off the edge of the paper. I waited a little while, to see if she was going to come back, but she didn't. So I figured I'd better get moving and do what she asked me to. Rachel doesn't use words like urgent very often."

  "Mrs. Gilbert–"

  "I guess you might ahis was lill call me Joanne."

  "Okay, fine. Joanne, would you please repeat the message again, slowly?"

  "Sure." She read it again. It didn't sound any better the second time around.

  In the pale green light from the dashboard, Karl and I looked at each other.

  "Joanne, if you hear from Rachel again, anything at all, I want you to call me at my private number. It's very, very important." I gave her my cell phone number. "If I don't answer, please leave a message in the voicemail box, and I'll call you back as soon as I possibly can."

  "All right, I'll do that," she said. Then, after a moment, "Detective?"

  "May as well call me Stan."

  "Stan, she's in trouble, isn't she? Bad trouble?"

  I tried to keep the sigh out of my voice, but I don't think I succeeded, completely. "Yes she is, I'm sorry to say. It's pretty bad."

  "Can you get her out of it?"

  "I have to," I said. "I'm the one who got her into it."

• • • •

After four hours of restless sleep, I went back to work. Telling McGuire about my phone call from Rachel's sister was at the top of my to-do list, but when I walked into the squad room I could see that he had visitors.

  Two men in gray suits stood in front of McGuire's desk, talking to him. One was middle-aged, and average size; the other one was younger, and bigger. I could tell their suits were expensive – better quality than most cops wear, even the federales.

  Minding my own business is usually something that I'm pretty good at, but the hairs on the back of my neck were bristling, for a reason I couldn't pinpoint. It could have been the expression on McGuire's face, which made him look like a man who's just had to swallow a medium-sized turd. Or maybe it was the way the two strangers held themselves – still and yet tense, like piano wire stretched tight. And piano wire is what they use in a garrote.

  I wandered over to the back of the big room, thinking I'd stick my head into the reception area and ask Louise the Tease if she knew what was up. But before I could reach her desk, McGuire looked up, saw me, and motioned me over.

  I stepped inside McGuire's office and closed the door behind me. The two guys in gray had turned to look at me, and that's when I saw that each of them wore a clerical collar.

  Priests wear black suits, which meant these guys were Protestants. But my work brings me into regular contact with the local clergy, and I knew every one in the area by sight, no matter what denomination.

  What did a couple of out-of-town ministers want with McGuire – or, for that matter, with me?

  It didn't take long to find out.

  "This is Detective Sergeant Markowski," McGuire said. His voice was flat, as if he had squeezed all feeling out of it. "He's the lead detective on the case."

  To me he said, in the same detached tone, "This is Reverend Ferris," with a head gesture toward the older guy, "and his associate, Reverend Crane."

  I figured I ought to shake hands – what else was I going to do? I was extending my hand toward the younger guy, Crane, as McGuire continued, "The reverends, here, are witchfinders."

I froze for a second. Witchfinders. Fortunately, Crane's hand was already on its way to mine, and I clasped and pumped it a couple of times by reflex. Then came the older guy. I was moving okay by then, but Ferris held the handshake longer than you'd expect, staring at me intently.

  After he let go, the st continued for a moment longer before he said, "You have the odor of witchcraft about you, Sergeant."

  Before I could say anything, Ferris gave me a little smile and went on, "But that is to be expected of any guardian of the public order who must deal with these abominations on a regular basis. Certainly it is nowhere near as strong as we find in a true practitioner of the black arts."