Douglas stopped the car in front of where McConnell stood. McConnell opened the door and got in. As Douglas drove away from the curb, he glanced at McConnell. “Are you spending the night?”
“Yeah. I have to find someone. Roxanne Majors. She was a reporter for the university’s newspaper twenty-six years ago. Have you heard of her?”
Keeping his eyes on the traffic, Douglas nodded. “I’m familiar with the name. She writes a column about celebrities and dignitaries for the Baltimore Ledger.”
McConnell smiled. “I wonder if it’s the same Roxanne Majors.”
Douglas laughed. “How many Roxanne Majors work in journalism?”
McConnell didn’t respond at first. He thought about his friend’s question. “Good point,” he finally said. “Would you mind driving to the Baltimore Ledger?”
Douglas laughed. “I was wondering how long it would take you to ask.”
McConnell laughed, too. “I’m a slow learner.”
Douglas glanced at him. “I doubt that.”
* * *
Douglas parked the car in a vacant space. He and McConnell got out and walked into the building. Offices as well as large open areas with desks and computers occupied part of two floors. Douglas mentioned that he knew several reporters by name as they walked to the managing editor’s office.
Before they entered, Douglas turned to McConnell. “Let me do the talking.”
McConnell nodded.
Douglas tapped lightly on the glass and then opened the door. He stepped into the office. “Are you the managing editor?” he asked.
Jeffrey Taylor, who was on the telephone, covered the mouthpiece. “Yes, I’m the managing editor. I’m Jeffrey Taylor.”
“I’m Detective Douglas and this is Detective McConnell.” Douglas turned slightly and nodded at McConnell who was standing by the open door. “We need some information.”
“All right. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Douglas nodded and followed McConnell out of the office. Douglas closed the door and turned toward McConnell.
“I hope his conversation is short,” Douglas said.
“I hope so, too,” McConnell said. “I’d like to speak to Miss Majors this evening, if possible.”
The detectives stood about a foot from the door and talked. Both glanced at Taylor through the glass, but he was still on the phone.
A minute later Taylor put the receiver in its cradle. Douglas glanced at him through the glass and noticed he was motioning to them.
Douglas opened the door and entered the office, with McConnell on his heels.
“May I see some identification?” Taylor asked.
Douglas approached the man behind the desk and pulled out his wallet, revealing his identification.
Satisfied, Taylor nodded and asked, “What’s this about, Detective?”
“We need to speak to Roxanne Majors,” Douglas replied. “It’s very important.”
Taylor, who was dressed in a crumpled white shirt, loosened red tie, and gray pants, had short white hair, large ears, light blue eyes, and a double chin. His nose turned up slightly. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here. She turned in her column several hours ago and left.”
“Do you know where she can be reached?”
Taylor frowned. “Yes, but―”
“It’s very important,” Douglas interjected.
Taylor hesitated. He had a rule about not bothering members of his staff once they left the building. However, because the detectives were asking for Roxanne Majors, he believed Roxanne would be mad if he didn’t help the detectives by calling her. Besides, Roxanne may be able to write a column about whatever information the detectives share or need, he reasoned. “Oh, all right,” he finally said. Then he looked at a pad on his desk. He picked up the receiver and dialed. After several seconds, he said, “Roxanne. Taylor.” He glanced at the detectives. “There are two detectives in my office. They need to speak to you.” Taylor nodded. “All right. Goodbye.” Taylor put the receiver in its cradle. “Roxanne said that she can be at Sparky’s in an hour. She said to tell Jimmy, one of the bartenders, that you’re expecting her. He will make sure she gets the message.”
Douglas smiled. “Thanks for your help.”
* * *
Douglas informed McConnell that Sparky’s was a popular bar and grill that attracted an older and professional clientele. When they entered the establishment, about five minutes to seven, McConnell realized that Douglas’s comment about it being popular was an understatement. People were everywhere, from one wall to another. Douglas and McConnell made their way through several groups of people until they reached the bar. They ordered bottled water, and told Jimmy, one of the three bartenders, that they were expecting Roxanne Majors. Then they noticed two people leaving a small table in one of the corners. They told Jimmy where they would be sitting.
Douglas and McConnell discussed their jobs, sipped their water, and glanced at their watches. Finally, after fifteen or twenty minutes, an attractive brunette, who appeared to be in her late forties, approached their table. She was wearing a green pants suit and white blouse.
“Hello. I’m Roxanne Majors.”
Douglas and McConnell stood. Since Douglas was closer to Majors, he pulled a chair from under the table. Roxanne sat down.
“Thanks for coming, Miss Majors. I’m Detective Ron Douglas and this is Detective Michael McConnell. He’s working on a case and he needs to ask you a few questions.”
Roxanne Majors studied McConnell. “Okay, Detective McConnell.”
“I’ll be at the bar,” Douglas said to McConnell.
“You don’t have to leave, Ron,” McConnell said.
“I know, but I see someone I haven’t seen in some time.” He glanced at Roxanne. “Excuse me.”
McConnell and Roxanne watched Douglas walk toward the bar. Then they smiled at each other.
“Care for a drink or bottled water?” McConnell asked.
“No, thanks.” Roxanne studied McConnell’s face again. “Detective McConnell, what do you need to know?”
“Miss Majors, did you attend Carrington University?” McConnell asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Were you a reporter for the university newspaper?”
Roxanne nodded. “Yes, but how―”
“Do you remember writing stories about a particular club?” McConnell interjected. “A club that seemed unusual?”
“Yes, but―”
“Do you remember what the club was called?” McConnell interjected. “I couldn’t find the name in the articles I read.”
“Yes. It was called the Paradise Club, or, rather, the Paradise Coven.”
“Which was it? The Paradise Club or the Paradise Coven?”
“The latter.” Roxanne noticed that McConnell was shaking his head. She patted his hands, which were on the table. “Detective, according to Anton Marks, the club’s so-called president, the word Paradise was used because he had enjoyed reading “Paradise Lost” and “Paradise Regained” by John Milton, the English poet. The reason you didn’t find the name in the articles is because Marks asked me not to include it.”
McConnell shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Majors, but I didn’t major in English. What are these poems about?”
Roxanne shrugged. “The first is about man’s fall from grace. The second is about man’s salvation,” Roxanne said. “Of course, in reference to the club, I think the word “Paradise” represented something entirely different.”
“Like what?”
“Like Hell, Detective.”
McConnell shook his head. “Hell? Can you be more specific?”
“Yes. The club’s members―there were only a few, by the way―dressed in dark clothes, especially on certain days of the year. They also had unusual pets. Bats, black cats, black snakes. When I asked Anton Marks about the club’s unusual pets, he merely shrugged his shoulders and said, ‘So what?’ I asked him about the dark clothing. His response was the same. Yet, the unusual animals and the dark clothing are used by people who worship Satan.”
McConnell bit his lower lip. “You mean witches?”
Roxanne nodded. “Yes.”
“But I thought witches were women.”
Roxanne shook her head. “Actually, Detective, witches can be women or men. Male witches are usually known as warlocks. Do you know what witchcraft is?”
McConnell shook his head. “Not really.”
“Let me tell you. Men and women practice witchcraft for the purpose of receiving supernatural powers. Of course, those who practice witchcraft have to have certain beliefs. For instance, they have to believe that Satan and his subordinates are real and have power in the world. They have to believe that people can have physical relations with Satan and his subordinates. They have to believe that people can have contracts with Satan and his subordinates.” Roxanne noticed that McConnell was about to laugh. She shook her head. “Don’t laugh, Detective.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Majors,” McConnell apologized. “Please continue.”
Roxanne studied him for a minute. “Detective McConnell, when I investigated the club, I read everything I could about witchcraft.”
McConnell arched his eyebrows. “I said I was sorry.”
Roxanne nodded. “Okay. Apology accepted.”
“Please. Continue.”
“All right. If persons or witches serve Satan they receive certain powers. For instance, they may be able to cause or cure illness. They may be able to make rain or drought, or cause storms. They may be able to produce impotence in men and sterility in women. They may be able to arouse love through the use of specific potions. They may be able to cause harm or even death by sticking pins into a wax image of the victim.”
“I’m confused, Miss Majors,” McConnell said. “I thought sticking pins into wax figures was voodoo?”
Roxanne nodded. “On particular islands, particularly those in the Caribbean, this practice is part of voodoo.”
“What else do you know about witchcraft?”
“Well, in Europe, especially during medieval times, witches were organized into covens of twelve members, mainly women, and a leader, usually a man. The leader was the vicar of Satan and was regarded by many as Satan, himself. He dressed in black or in the guise of a goat or stag. The meeting was called an Esbat. Regional meetings were called Sabbats. The two most important Sabbats were held on the night of April thirtieth and the night of October thirty-first. Sabbats also occurred on the night of July thirty-first and February first. The Sabbat usually ended in a sexual orgy. Black Mass, which was a travesty of the Catholic Mass, was for general worship. At least, this is what I’ve read.”
“How old is witchcraft?” McConnell asked.
“No one knows. It’s been around since the beginnings of history. Egyptians, Hebrews, Babylonians, and others mentioned the subject in writings.”
“To be perfectly honest, I thought witchcraft appeared in the sixteen and seventeen hundreds,” McConnell said. “I remember reading something years ago about the Salem witch trials.”
“Actually, hunting witches began when the Catholic Church grew―from the tenth century to the end of the seventeenth century. Thousands accused of being witches were killed, usually by fire. In this country, witches were killed by hanging.”
McConnell glanced at his watch. “Although I find the subject fascinating, I need to learn about the club.”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember anything else that was unusual?”
“Yes. The club held its meetings near the grave of Edgar Allen Poe.”
McConnell shook his head in disbelief. “Are you serious? Did you actually witness such a meeting?”
Roxanne shook her head. “No, but several people told me.”
“Anything else?”
Roxanne glanced around as if she knew the most important piece of information in the world and was afraid someone was about to beat it out of her. “Yes. Several members of the club were responsible for another member’s death.”
“Do you know the deceased’s name?”
“Her name was Patricia Heller. She was a graduate student, just like the others. Her nude body was found one morning in a field. Her throat had been cut. The police never found the weapon or the perpetrator. I think she was killed because she had agreed to talk to me about the club.”
“Who do you think killed her? Anton Marks, David Ross, or Theodore Brooklyn?”
Roxanne, surprised, studied him for a minute. “You’ve heard of David Ross and Theodore Brooklyn?”
McConnell nodded. “Yes. I’ve met them.”
Roxanne shook her head again. “Be careful, Detective. If they killed Patricia, they’d kill anyone.”
“But you don’t know that they murdered Patricia, do you?”
Roxanne studied him another minute. “No, but think about what I’ve told you, Detective.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
“No.” She patted his hands again. “By the way, you have gentle hands. Are you a gentle person, Detective?”
McConnell smiled. “I try to be, Miss Majors. At least, to women.”
“That’s good.” She glanced at her watch. “I must go. I’m seeing someone.”
“Miss Majors?”
“Yes?”
“Did you send a letter to the Columbus Police Department?”
She stared at McConnell. Finally, she nodded.
“Why didn’t you sign your name to the letter?”
“McConnell, you would have investigated me, right?”
McConnell nodded.
“You would have learned that I was a reporter. I ask you, would you have taken me seriously? Or would you have thought that I was making the story up in an effort to get an exclusive?”
She had a point. Finally, he thanked her, watched her leave, and then went to find Ron Douglas.