Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars Page A

reached up to his chest and fingered a
silver Pentacle hanging about his neck as if he had forgotten it
was there.
    “It’s not what you cops think...” he
started.
    “Whoa,” I stopped him and jerked my thumb
over my shoulder at Ben. “He’s the only cop here. My name’s Rowan
Gant.” I held my hand out to him. “I’m a Witch too.”
    “Rowan Gant,” he repeated my name as he took
my hand and shook it. “The Rowan Gant that Ariel studied with?”
    “Yeah,” I returned. “That’s me. I’m just here
as a consultant.”
    “Ariel talked about you and your wife all the
time,” he continued. “She even had a picture of all you guys
together on a camping retreat you took.”
    I smiled slightly, remembering the trip well.
Felicity and I had taken Ariel and a number of other Wiccan friends
on a weeklong retreat to the Shawnee National Forest in southern
Illinois just over two years ago. We had camped, studied nature,
and become closer to Mother Earth as well as one another. We had
ended that trip with a ritual circle on Summer Solstice, one of the
religion’s four Lesser Sabbats.
    After what I had experienced in the apartment
less than an hour before, the memories of that holiday were
pleasant and very welcome.
    “I’m glad it was a happy time for her,” I
told him.
    “I thought she told me you were into
computers or something like that,” he said.
    “I am.”
    “Then what are you consulting with the police
about?” he queried.
    “You probably didn’t notice the walls in her
bedroom,” I started carefully. “There were some symbols left
behind. Her death is apparently related to The Craft in some
way.”
    “Devon!” he screamed suddenly. “I’ll kill
him! I’ll kill the son-of-a-bitch!”
    With that, he once again bolted past both Ben
and me as he ran full speed up the small space between the
buildings with my friend on his heels. Being shorter of stature and
much wirier, R.J. was able to negotiate the cramped alleyway with
slippery ease, quickly widening his lead and bursting out on to the
street. I, with my throbbing skull, arrived in front of the
building just in time to see Ben trying to yank open the door of a
gold Trans Am.
    R.J. gunned the engine, and the car jumped
away from the curb, tires squealing against asphalt. Ben managed to
follow alongside for a few steps before losing his grip on the
handle, and choosing discretion over valor, back-peddled from the
vehicle as it sped away.
    “Are you all right?” I called to him as he
jogged toward me.
    “Yeah, I’m okay,” he nodded. “Did ya’ catch
what he said?”
    “He said he was going to kill someone named
Devon,” I replied. “I seem to have triggered it when I told him
Ariel’s death was somehow connected to The Craft.”
    “Well,” he said walking toward the back of
the house. “Let’s get back to the van and get his plate number out
over the air. I’m thinkin’ maybe we need ta’ find out who this
Devon guy is.”
     
    * * * * *
     
    Using the police radio in his van, Ben was
able to get R.J.’s license plate number, as well as a description
of the car and him, out to the on-duty patrols. We were just
pulling into the parking lot of the medical examiner’s office when
a call blared over the tinny speaker stating that he had been
picked up. Ben quickly instructed the arresting officer to bring
him to the M.E.’s office where we would be waiting.
    Ben was thumbing through his notes as we
walked across the lot in the general direction of the entrance.
After flipping back and forth between pages a trio of times, he
settled on a particular scribble and glanced over at me.
    “What’s an at-tommy?” he queried as he
searched his breast pocket for a writing implement.
    “Athamè,” I corrected. “It’s a Witch’s
personal knife. It’s used in rituals and the practice of The Craft.
Why?”
    He quickly added the words “Witches Knife” to
the scrawled notation.
    “When you were doing that thing, whatever