Free Never Burn A Witch: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars

of the
snow-covered venue, the concept of normal became quickly
obsolete.
    Street crews had cut a double-wide swath from
the park entrance to a point thirty or so yards past the easiest
access point to the main pavilion, effectively clearing a small
avenue to allow ingress and egress for the multitude of emergency
vehicles present. Mounds of the wet winter precipitation were piled
unceremoniously in the center of the road exactly where the plows
had left them, and there they would stay until removed slowly by
the process of thaw.
    Ben plugged in his magnetic bubble light and
positioned it on the dash before nosing the Chevy through the crowd
of onlookers. He flashed his badge to the uniformed patrolman
blocking the entry and was told that we were expected. Once we were
waved through, he pressed the van forward up the salted drive and
carefully edged it in next to a row of county police cruisers then
levered the gear shift into park and switched off the engine.
    Wide strips of bright yellow plastic
tape—repetitiously imprinted CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS—were strung
between pillars and trees, forming an official barrier against the
spectators and the unauthorized. Mother Nature dispassionately
ignored the carefully erected boundary, sending icy gusts of wind
to tear angrily at the tape and to blow swirling white devils of
crystalline snowflakes throughout the pavilion.
    Nearby, arctic-suited maintenance workers
were laboring with shovels to dig out the first vehicles that had
arrived on the scene. Small levees of snow had been piled to their
rear bumpers by the passing plow. Ben and I buttoned up then
climbed from the warmth of the van into the frigid winter
afternoon. The sky was still marbled splotchy grey, and the second
round of the predicted snowfall was barreling down upon us from the
northwest. Even at this distance, along the frosty backbone of the
crisp air, I could detect the sickly sweet odor of scorched flesh.
I knew it would only get worse as we drew nearer.
    I had to remove my thick glove in order to
sign the homicide scene log before entering the area. I was just
dragging it back onto my frozen hand when I heard my and Ben’s name
called out across the snow-whitened landscape.
    Detective Carl Deckert was a fiftyish,
portly, grey-haired man possessing at once a boyish charm and a
grandfatherly demeanor. He had been the only member of the Major
Case Squad, aside from Ben, to accept me when I was first brought
in as a consultant on Ariel Tanner’s murder all those months ago.
It didn’t take long for us to form a strong friendship. He was
trundling toward us now, bundled in a heavy topcoat with a matching
scarf. A brown fedora sat perched atop his head, threatening to
take wing on the chilly gusts. His nose and ears glowed red from
the early stages of mild frostbite, giving an immediate visual
indication of how long he’d already been out here.
    “Ben! Rowan!” He greeted us again as he drew
closer and thrust out his gloved hand. “Sorry I called you guys out
in this mess, but I gotta tell ya’, I’m sure glad you’re here.”
    “Hello, Carl.” I shook his hand heartily.
“Good to see you too, though I wish it were under different
circumstances.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “Carl.” Ben followed suit, shaking his hand
as we continued walking. “So, whaddaya have here?”
    Carl reached up to press his hat back down as
a prickly sideways surge of wind sought to rip it from his head. He
proceeded to fill us in as we headed briskly for the negligible
shelter of the picnic pavilion.
    “Near as the coroner can tell from what’s
left, it looks like we’re dealin’ with a female. Looks to be about
five-six, five-seven and pretty well developed, so we’re most
likely talkin’ adult. She was secured with chains and a padlock to
what appears might have been a piece of a telephone pole.”
    The acrid stink of burnt flesh mingled with
the putrid smells of urine, feces, and vomit to form a