Free Mother of Demons by Maynard Sims

In his hand was a long surgical knife, slightly curved. It glinted in the fierce overhead light. Duncan McBride looked like a slightly malevolent dwarf, a psychotic Doc from Disney’s Snow White. “I’m sorry,” he said in his soft Edinburgh burr. “I have a hectic schedule today, so I had to make a start. Come closer. You’re not squeamish, are you?”
    Susan took a breath. “No,” she said. “I’ve seen dead bodies before. This isn’t my first postmortem.”
    “That’s right, it isn’t,” McBride said. “You came down for that really nasty rape and homicide last year. I remember now.”
    “What was it you wanted to show me?”
    He stood aside, revealing the body of the girl they had recovered from the banks of the Thames. The only difference now was that she had a Y-shaped incision stretching from her pubis to her shoulders.
    “I was just about to open her up. Want to watch? You’ll have to gown up, of course.”
    “I’ll pass. What was it you wanted to show me, Professor?”
    He looked a little disappointed. “Shame. I rarely get an audience—apart from Phillip here. And he’s seen it all before…many times. The novelty’s worn off now, hasn’t it, Phillip?” Phillip, his assistant, looked around at them, grimaced and carried on checking the scales.
    “It’s this,” McBride said and pointed to the wound on the girl’s breast. “What do you make of that? Look at the shape.”
    Susan leaned forward and looked at the wound.
    “It’s deep, about six inches,” he said. “But the shape. Weirdest thing.”
    “It’s a star,” Susan said.
    “Yes, a star. Made by a knife with five blades. Five blades somehow joined together to make one weapon. I took a photo of the wound.” He walked across to the desk in the corner and came back clutching an eight-by-ten-inch color print. He handed it to Susan Tyler.
    “When I first examined the body, I thought then that it had all the hallmarks of a ritual killing. The bound wrists and ankles, marks where the head was restrained, and now this.”
    It not only showed a blown-up image of the wound, but McBride had taken a pen and connected the points of the star. She looked at the shape he had formed by joining them.
    “It’s a pentagram,” she said.
    “Indeed it is. Are there any covens active in the area?”
    “Not that I’m aware.”
    He looked disappointed again. “And then there’s this.” He pointed to a wound about three inches long, just above and to one side of the pubic bone—the crescent Miriam Jackley had pointed out to her at the riverside.
    “Yes,” she said. “Miriam showed me earlier.”
    “It was inflicted postmortem. The girl was dead when someone carved this into her. The shape of the stab wound, the crescent carving and the coin in the mouth indicate to me that there is an occult link to this. And you’re not aware of a coven operating around here?”
    “I’ve had nothing across my desk suggesting there is.”
    “And then there’s this. A small stamp on the back of her hand.” He lifted up the limp arm for Susan to see. On the back of the hand was a small, circular ink stamp.
    “May I have a photo of this, and the wounds?”
    “Of course,” McBride said. “Phillip, fetch the camera.”
    Ten minutes later the photos were dropping into the printer’s collection tray.
    “I wanted to show you firsthand,” McBride said, handing her the prints. “It might aid the investigation and help you find her killer.”
    “How old do you think she was?”
    “Sixteen. No more. Could be younger. Tragic. I hope you catch whoever did this.”
    “Well, I’m going to try. Can I have a copy of your report?”
    “Of course. I’ll get it sent over as soon as it’s typed up.”
    Susan went back to her car and drove back to the station. She was starting to get a bad feeling about this case.

Chapter Twelve
    “Vi, have you heard of the Children of Hecate?” Harry said. “It’s the name Markos’s followers give to