The Boys in the Church

by Chris Culver

  I parked in the driveway and went through my front door. There were three whiteboards on easels in my living room and a white cardboard banker’s box full of documents on my coffee table.

  I put away the food and vodka in my kitchen before organizing the documents. When I finished, I had ten stacks on my couch, floor, and coffee table. Some held forensic reports, while others held transcriptions of interviews with Paige and Jude’s friends, and others held printouts of bank accounts and credit cards. The information probably wouldn’t help find our killer—or killers—but it wouldn’t hurt.

  Once I finished organizing things, I put on a pot of coffee and grabbed a granola bar from my pantry. After that, Trisha and Harry knocked on my door with two more boxes of documents.

  “That’s a lot of stuff,” I said.

  “We’re just getting started,” said Harry. And he was right. As our department’s liaison to the task force, George Delgado had access to every scrap of information the FBI produced during their investigation. Delgado wanted a copy of everything, but he refused to copy anything himself. He passed that duty on to Trisha. It wasn’t hard for her to make an extra copy of everything for us.

  “I made coffee.”

  “Got any beer?” asked Harry.

  “Yeah. Later,” I said, nodding to the boxes he and Trisha were carrying. “For now, let’s work.”

  This round of documents came from other police departments about the other missing kids. We read and organized for about an hour in relative silence before Harry ordered a pizza and raided my fridge for beer. After that, we took our first break and ate dinner.

  “So, what do we have so far?” I asked.

  “Not a lot,” said Harry. “Twelve victims, six male and six female, all between sixteen and eighteen years old, and all romantically involved.”

  I looked around before finding a dry erase marker.

  “Give me their names again,” I said. As Harry read from his notepad, I wrote the names down on a whiteboard. Beneath the names, I wrote the ages of the corresponding victim. “They’re the same age, and the boys are named after apostles. What else do they have in common?”

  Trisha shuffled through some papers.

  “Olivia King and John Rodgers were sexually active. Amy Hoffman and James Tyler’s parents suspected their kids were, too.”

  “So are Tayla Walker and Matthew Bridges and Nicole Moore and Andrew White,” said Harry.

  Paige and Jude were, too, so I wrote sexually active beneath the names.

  “So at least five of the six couples were sleeping with one another,” I said. “It’s a safe bet the sixth couple was, too. Who would they tell about their sex lives?”

  “Their friends,” said Trisha. “Possibly siblings.”

  “A doctor would know,” said Harry. “None of these are big towns, but they’re all within driving distance of St. Louis. It’s possible they all saw the same doctor in St. Louis.”

  I thought and shook my head.

  “The kids from Decatur would have driven to Urbana, and I bet the kids from Mountain View would have driven to Springfield.”

  “That’s where they’d go for a regular appointment,” said Trisha. “These kids were sleeping with each other. What if they looked into abortions? They might see somebody in St. Louis for that.”

  It was a possibility, so I nodded and wrote abortion? beneath each couple’s name on our whiteboard. “What else?”

  For a few minutes, we flipped through papers and read. Most of the police departments had done outstanding work compiling information about their missing teenagers, but a minority took a more lackadaisical approach. Two of the missing boys played football, one wrestled, and three played no sports at all. Three of the girls played volleyball, one played softball, and one was a cheerleader. None of our documents listed clubs in schools.

  I wrote the new information down and stepped back from our board. The wrestler was an outstanding athlete who had already won two state championships. He had signed a letter of intent to attend the University of Missouri on a scholarship. The other kids might have been good high school athletes, but none looked like they’d continue playing sports in college.

  “How about colleges?” asked Trisha. “They’re all high school seniors. What are they doing after high school?”

  “According to their parents, Paige and Jude are both looking at the University of Missouri,” I said. “As best I can tell, it looks like Olivia King and John Rodgers are both going to Loyola University in Chicago. I don’t know about the other kids.”

  “Tayla Walker and Matthew Bridges are going to Mizzou. Nicole Moore and Andrew White are going to Centre College,” said Harry. “That’s something we can add. The kids are going to different places, but it looks like they all plan to go to college.”

  “If that’s the only thing these kids have in common, we’re in trouble,” I said. “Our killer has to know them all somehow.”

  “He doesn’t have to know them the same way, though,” said Trisha. “He could have met John and Olivia while driving to see the Mark Twain sites in Hannibal. He could have met Jude and Paige while at the Spring Fair here. For all we know, he’s going to a town, eating in the restaurants, or having his car washed, and picking the first kids who meet his criteria.”

  I sighed and crossed my arms to stare at the whiteboards again. Trisha was right. We had just started this case, but already I could feel the pressure mounting. Our killer wouldn’t stop until we caught him. He picked up Jude and Paige six weeks ago. If he stuck to his schedule, we had two more weeks before he took another couple. Considering the job ahead of us, two weeks didn’t seem like a lot of time.

  “Do either of you read Angela Pritchard’s blog?” I asked.

  “I try not to pay any attention to her,” said Harry, rolling his eyes.

  Pritchard was a reporter with a television station in St. Louis. I didn’t care for her, but someone close to our investigation was feeding her information. Though none of her reports had made it to TV yet, she updated her blog often. It wouldn’t take other stations long to pick up her stories.

  “We need to pay attention to her,” I said. “She’s smart, and she knows as much about this case as we do.”

  “She’s calling our killer ‘the Apostate,’” said Trisha. “It’s a good name. It’ll stick.”

  “I’ll check her out later,” said Harry, sighing and glancing at his watch before standing. “Other than that, it’s getting late. Irene will worry if I don’t get home soon.”

  Trisha pulled out her cell phone and raised her eyebrows. “It is late, and I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. We’ll have more tomorrow evening.”

  I nodded and stood to walk them out. “We’ll meet tomorrow and see what else we can learn. I appreciate you both coming.”

  Trisha touched my elbow and smiled as she left. She was a hugger. I liked her, but I didn’t hug. It wasn’t personal, and I sensed she knew that.

  “Good night, Joe,” said Harry as he passed.

  “Night, Harry,” I said, shutting the door behind him. I watched them climb into their cars before going to my kitchen and putting ice in a cup and pouring myself a couple shots of vodka. I liked having company over, but I had been waiting for that moment since I came home. The cold liquor danced down my throat and made my entire world feel right.

  Now that I was alone, I put on a John Coltrane album and plopped down on the couch to drink and relax. My house normally had one rule: no murder allowed. When Harry and Trisha had proposed that we work this case off the books, I’d agreed without hesitation. Unfortunately, we needed somewhere private in which we could work, and both of their houses had too many people around. I lived alone in the middle of nowhere, so my place was perfect, my one rule aside. With their departure, I could banish death again.

  Once I finished my first drink, I poured myself another and sank into the couch. I might have fallen asleep there, but my phone rang at a little before eleven. I recognized the number, b
ut I didn’t know why he’d call this late at night.

  “Hey, Blatch,” I said. “It’s late. What’s going on?”

  Detective Matthias Blatch worked homicide in south St. Louis County. Like me, he was the youngest detective in his squad. Unlike me, most of his colleagues seemed to like him. We had worked a case together not too long ago that put a lot of bad people in prison. He was bright and dedicated to the job, and he laughed easily. I liked him, which I couldn’t say about many people.

  He paused before speaking.

  “Sorry, Joe. I’m working in the basement, so I lost track of the time. You want me to call you at work tomorrow?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head and then taking a sip of my vodka. “What can I do for you?”

  “This is a courtesy call,” he said. “Every two years, my station goes through our cold-case files to make sure they’re still unsolvable. I read your name in an old homicide case. Thought you’d like to know.”

  I took another drink and then shook my head. “I assure you I’m still alive and well.”

  “You’re not listed as the victim. You’re the next of kin. The victim was Erin Court.”

  I hadn’t expected to hear her name, so I sat straighter.

  “Erin was my biological mother. She died of a drug overdose.”

  Blatch hesitated. “Who told you she died of a drug overdose?”

  “My adoptive mom,” I said. “Captain Julia Green of the St. Louis County Police Department. Your file says someone murdered Erin?”

  “Yeah,” said Blatch, hesitating once more. “This must be a mistake, though. Captain Green wouldn’t have gotten this wrong. Sorry I called you.”

  “Don’t hang up, Matthias,” I said. “What’s your file say?”

  “It doesn’t matter what the file says. It’s a mistake. If Captain Green said she died of a drug overdose, she died of a drug overdose.”

  “Mom’s retired,” I said. “She was a taskmaster when she was with the department, but she can’t tell you what to do anymore. What does your file say about Erin’s cause of death?”

  Papers rustled, and Blatch drew in a breath.

  “You sure you want to know?” he asked. “You sound upset.”

  “Just tell me,” I said. “And I’m not upset. I’m fine.”

  He paused. “Someone shot her twice in the chest, once in the shoulder, and twice in the abdomen with a .45-caliber round.”

  I gave myself a moment to process that.

  “Five shots with a .45 is overkill. That’s personal.”

  “That’s possible,” said Blatch. “Like I said, though, it’s a mistake. Don’t worry about it. And sorry I called so late. Next time, I’ll look at the clock before I dial.”

  “Sure, thanks,” I said. Blatch apologized again and then hung up. I stared at my phone, wondering what that was about. Then I opened the messaging app and sent my mom—Julia—a text message, asking whether she was awake. She didn’t respond, so I let myself sink back in my couch to think.

  The St. Louis County Police Department kept its records in massive warehouses. They even employed their own librarians to manage all the data. Blatch was the most meticulous detective I knew. He wouldn’t have called me if he had even the slightest doubt about the identity of the woman in his file.

  Someone had murdered Erin Court. Julia, my mom, had lied about it to protect me. I wasn’t mad at Mom. Her heart was in the right place, but it wasn’t necessary. Erin didn’t deserve to die, but her death didn’t bother me. It was like learning that an annoying neighbor had died. Murder was always awful, but sometimes it was more awful than others.

  I downed the rest of my drink and then crunched on the ice before turning out the lights and locking my front door. I had better things to think about than Erin Court. She wasn’t worth my time or worry, not when I had my own case to work.

  4

  I slept fitfully, but I woke up sober at a little before seven. Until recently, a massive bullmastiff woke me up almost every morning. Roger had passed away a little over a week ago, but he had slept at the foot of my bed for so many years I had forgotten what it was like to sleep alone. I didn’t miss his terrible breath or his noxious farts in the middle of the night, but I missed my friend.

  I swung my legs off the bed and yawned as I stretched. On a normal morning, I jumped into the shower and grabbed breakfast on my way out the door so I could make it to the morning briefing on time. Today I had other responsibilities.

  Around the same time Roger died, I fired my weapon at work while trying to arrest two bad men. I would have taken a week or two off afterwards to unwind, relax, and get my head on straight, but with a serial murderer running around, I didn’t have that kind of time. Too much was at stake.

  Instead, my department had arranged for me to see a therapist during work hours. The appointments wasted everyone’s time, but Sheriff Delgado, in his infinite wisdom, told me to go. He liked having me out of the station for a while. So, instead of dressing for work, I put on some yoga pants, a sports bra, and a T-shirt, and I went for a run in the woods behind my house. After half an hour, sweat poured off me, my heart pounded, and bits of dried leaves and dirt clung to my skin and hair.

  After cooling off in front of a fan at home, I showered and dressed in work clothing before driving to my therapist’s office in downtown St. Augustine. Over the years, I had seen almost a dozen therapists. This was my first meeting with Dr. Taylor, but I doubted she would be different from the others. I appreciated that she wanted to help me, but I didn’t need a therapist. I was just fine. After she called me into her office, I sat on a recliner and crossed my legs.

  “So,” I said, raising my eyebrows. “How are things?”

  Dr. Taylor was forty or forty-five. A wooden clip held her straight black hair in a cute bun, and the morning sunlight glinted off her alabaster skin, making her look almost like a doll. She wore a demure green pencil skirt and a white sleeveless button-down shirt. A simple gold wedding band—the only piece of jewelry on her person—adorned her left hand, while tasteful makeup accentuated her high cheekbones and lips. She probably turned a lot of heads when she walked down the street.

  “I’m excellent,” she said, smiling and settling into the seat kitty-corner to mine. “Let’s talk about you. Sheriff Delgado gave me your service record. It’s impressive.”

  “Thank you,” I said, smiling. She waited for about thirty seconds before speaking again.

  “You became a police officer at twenty-two after graduating from college. Then you became a detective at twenty-eight. That’s faster than most people progress through the ranks.”

  I raised my eyebrows but said nothing.

  “You have nothing to add?” she asked.

  “No. Sounds like you’ve got all the answers.”

  She recrossed her legs and then leaned forward. “Okay, then. You’ve not had an easy life. After your mother’s second overdose, the courts ruled that she was unfit to raise you, leaving you to grow up in the foster care system. While in the foster care system, you were raped by one of your foster fathers. Would you like to talk about your mom or your assault?”

  “Nope.”

  She smiled, but it didn’t reach past her lips. “What do you want to talk about?”

  I shrugged. “You follow baseball?”

  She shook her head. “You know why you’re here, and it’s not to talk about baseball.”

  I laced my fingers together and shrugged once more. “I’ve talked to enough therapists to realize I don’t need therapy.”

  “Since the county’s already booked the full hour, I’d like to keep talking, all the same. Your department lost an officer lately.”

  “Two,” I said, locking my eyes on hers. “Nicole died, and Preston lost a lung after being shot.”

  “That makes you angry,” said Dr. Taylor, nodding.

  I crossed my arms. “Yes.”

  “You were there when they were shot. Do you feel guilty?”

  “
No,” I said. Dr. Taylor looked at me without blinking. Neither of us said anything for almost thirty seconds. I knew what she was doing because I did the same thing during interrogations. If you sat in a room with someone and stayed quiet long enough, the other person was bound to talk. Nine times out of ten, the technique worked to start a conversation. It didn’t always get me what I wanted in an interrogation room, but I imagined it worked well for a therapist. Dr. Taylor didn’t realize I liked silence.

  I looked out the window and watched as St. Augustine came to life.

  “I’m not your enemy, Joe,” she said. “You don’t mind if I call you Joe, do you?”

  “No,” I said, smiling at her. “Just don’t call me Mary.”

  “You don’t like Mary?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against Mary, but it’s not my name. It’d be like me calling you Sylvester. Would you like me to call you Sylvester?”

  “No,” she said, her lips cracking into a gentle smile. “Your mom named you Mary Joe, right? Was it a family name?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Erin didn’t talk about her family much. I never met them.”

  She nodded. “Do you want to talk about that?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to talk about Preston and Nicole? I can’t imagine how hard it must be to lose colleagues.”

  I shifted my gaze from the window to the doctor. “They were friends, not just colleagues.”

  “Do you want to talk about your friends?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Okay,” she said, drawing the syllables out. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Since you shot down baseball, I’m fresh out of ideas. You got a favorite TV show?”

  She closed her notepad and sat straighter.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”

  “I don’t need help,” I said. “I’ve seen therapists my whole life, so I understand how this goes. If I say something of substance, you’ll poke and prod at it until I feel uncomfortable, and then I’ll stand up and leave. I won’t get credit for a day of therapy, and the county won’t pay you for the session. Nobody wins that way. If we sit here and talk like normal people, though, we’ll both get what we need. I’ll finish the six therapy sessions my station requires, and you’ll get paid for six hours of therapy. Deal?”