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

in Saint Louis. It doesn’t
matter anyway,” I shook my head. My hand had crept back over and
with a mind of its own was once again scratching my arm. “The
majority of those executed for the so-called crime of WitchCraft
weren’t Witches either. If the killer perceived her to be a Witch,
then to him, that is exactly what she was. A confession would
merely be a formality, and the torture, a means to that end.”
    “Maybe so, but all this Inquisition
stuff...”
    “Come on, Ben,” I implored. “You know you
don’t really believe that this was just some bondage game gone too
far. If you did, you never would have asked me to look at that
marking.”
    “Okay. So say you’re right, and there is a
wacko runnin’ around playin’ judge, jury, and executioner against
Witches.” Ben was desperately seeking a way out. I knew he didn’t
want to accept the fact that we were dealing with another serial
killer, especially since only six months had passed since the
demise of the last one. “Then why didn’t he burn ‘er at the stake
or somethin’. I thought that’s how they executed Witches back then.
You yourself keep callin’ the whole thing the Burnin’ Times.”
    “Yes, burning was done in some parts of
Europe, and it is the very
reason modern day Witches call it the Burning Times. But it was
only one form of execution and not the most common at that.
Witches, and those accused, were often garroted, hung,
disemboweled, drowned, or even slowly crushed to death.
    “In this case, he was trying to see if she
would save herself instead of facing such a death.”
    “Whaddaya mean ‘save herself’? She never had
a chance. He chucked her off a fuckin’ balcony.”
    “That wasn’t just an execution, Ben, it was
also a test to verify the validity of her confession.”
    “A test how?”
    “He wanted to see if she could fly.”
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    “T he Empress Chicken
combination plate is pretty good,” Ben was telling me as he cranked
the steering wheel and arced us through the intersection in a left
turn that went far too wide for comfort. Fortunately, there was
nothing in his way, and he serpentined the vehicle back into the
middle of the lane. “But ya’ hafta tell ‘em ta’ lay off the
MSG.”
    We were back in his van and making our way
down a near deserted, snow-packed street in the direction of lunch.
He had produced a crumpled menu from the depths of the glove box
and offered it to me before we left the parking lot of the city
morgue. The tri-fold piece of paper screamed neon yellow in between
the scribbled lunch orders, phone numbers, and smudges threatening
to completely cover its face. In the center of the outer fold, it
bore a caricatured cartoon likeness of a balloon-headed Asian man
in a tiny car, gleefully rushing to some unknown destination off
the page. The name of the restaurant emblazoned above the line
drawing read “Happy Wok Express—We Deliver.”
    “I’ll probably just have some vegetables and
steamed rice,” I told him after half-heartedly inspecting the list
of specials. “I doubt if I need to eat anything very spicy at the
moment.”
    “Vegetables and rice?” He glanced over at me
and chuckled. “Are you serious? Don’t ya’ want any real Chinese
food?”
    “Actually, Ben, vegetables and steamed
rice are probably closer to being real Asian food than your suggestion of Empress
Chicken.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit.”
    “Hmmph. Well, I’m still gonna have the
chicken.”
    “I figured you would.”
    Doctor Sanders had arrived in her
office shortly before we left the morgue. Much to my surprise, she
remembered me and made it a point to ask about Felicity’s well
being. Of course, it hadn’t been that long since we’d met.
Considering that we had seen each other several times due to the
body count of the last case, there was no real reason to be
shocked. Truth be told, by the time local media finished trying to
make me into an overnight celebrity—Self