The Witch and the Englishman
“I can if you’re acting like one.”
“Look—”
“Or maybe I make you nervous?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I think I make you feel uncomfortable. And you don’t like anyone coming in here and making you feel uncomfortable because you’re a big, bad cop.”
“I’m not that big.”
“No, you’re not,” I said. He was only an inch taller than me.
He opened his mouth to speak, and his mustache shivered in anticipation. Then he closed his mouth again, thought about what he wanted to say, and said, “I’m sorry. Can we start over?”
“Apology accepted, and yes.”
Smithy’s fingernails were mostly dirty and one or two were uncommonly long, especially his pinkie nail. I wasn’t sure what that was all about. That he didn’t appear to belong in this polished and gleaming building in Beverly Hills was without a doubt. That he was probably the best cop on the staff was a given. That he could give a shit about how he looked was another given. Maybe the biggest.
“This is an ongoing investigation, and you ain’t even a cop. I’m not supposed to talk to you about any of this,” said Smithy.
“But you will anyway, she says with a glimmer of hope,” I said. My voice rose a little…and so did my eyebrows.
“Only if you quit talking about yourself in the third person. It’s weird.”
“Deal.”
“Like I said, I’m not supposed to talk to you about any of this, but I figure you and I have some secrets between us anyway.”
“Like the fact that I’m a witch.”
He looked away and cleared his throat. Both were true signs that he was still a tad uncomfortable with calling me a witch. “Yeah. that. Just as long as we’re clear.”
“We’re clear.”
“This is what I know: Liz Turner was found at the scene of a burglary, at Gems Unlimited here in Beverly Hills. She was found standing over the shopkeeper, who’d been shot in the chest. Witnesses say she was pressing her sweater into the wound, to staunch the bleeding.”
“But it didn’t help.”
“No,” said Smithy. “The old man died en route to the hospital.”
I said, “She doesn’t sound like much of a killer, if she’s trying to save him.”
“That’s the way I see it, too. Except there’s no reason for her being in there after hours. Gems Unlimited is a gem wholesaler. It’s located on the fifth floor of the Montgomery Building. She had no explanation for why she was there.”
“He was shot with a pistol?”
“Yes.”
“Did she have the gun with her?”
“Yes.”
“The same gun that killed the shopkeeper?”
“Yes.”
“Was there residue on her fingers?”
“You’re watching too much CSI, and yes, she had gunpowder residue on her. A lot of it.”
“So, she fired the gun?”
“She doesn’t remember. It seems likely.”
“Her fingerprints on the gun?”
“Yes.”
“Did she own a gun?”
“No. It was registered to someone else, someone who is now deceased.”
“Deceased how long ago?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“So, the gun has, presumably, traveled from person to person, illegally, for the past 15 years.”
“A safe presumption,” said Smithy.
“Does the gunpowder residue match the gun?” I asked.
“No way to know for sure. There was a high particle count on her hands—which means she had recently fired a gun. But she claims she shoots at a local range, too.”
“Do they rent guns there?”
“They do.”
“How long does gunpowder residue stay on one’s hands?”
“Longer than you would think. Weeks, sometimes.”
“And the longer the time frame, the lower the particle count?” I asked.
“Right.”
“How does she explain the gun?”
“She doesn’t know how she got it.”
“How does she explain being in the gem shop, after hours?”
“She hasn’t given us a satisfactory answer. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She’s our only suspect. Unless, you’ve seen something different that can change that.”
“Seen?”
“Yeah, you know. With your third eye, or whatever the fuck you whackos call it.”
“Whackos?” I said. “Care to rephrase that?”
“Sorry. That slipped out. I’m still a dick, remember?”
“And, I’m still a witch, remember?”
“Point taken. So, tell me, is the girl guilty or not?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“Hey, I ain’t the psychic one.”
“No,” I said, “but you have a keen sixth sense. Even I can see that. You trust your gut, which is a form of psychic intuition. So, what does your gut say?”
“That she did it. But something doesn’t seem right.”
“And what’s that?”
“For one…she says she doesn’t remember doing it.”
“Seems like that might be a common excuse.”
“Not exactly,” said Smithy. “Most will say they didn’t do it. Not that they didn’t remember doing it. It’s strange as hell.”
“Does she have a mental disorder?” I asked. “Schizophrenia?”
“We’re having her examined. So far, there’s nothing conclusive.”
“But…” I heard his voice trail off, or I sensed there was something more that he wanted to add.
“She claims she talks to a demon of some sort.”
“A demon?”
“Yeah. She says it tells her what to do.”
He looked at me long and hard, and then took in a lot of air. That his mustache rippled like a caterpillar having a seizure should not have made me laugh. But it did.
Dammit.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Nothing, sorry. Okay, it’s your mustache.”
“What about my mustache?”
“It’s bushy and a little crooked and sort of moves on its own sometimes.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Have you considered…never mind.”
“How about we stay focused on a young girl who may or may not be possessed?”
“Right, sorry.” I collected myself and said, “I want to talk to her.”