by Chris Culver
About twenty-five minutes after I called Trisha, my phone rang again. I didn’t bother looking at the caller ID before answering, nor did I bother masking my annoyance.
“Yeah?”
“Detective Court, this is Special Agent Bryan Costa. Your dispatcher showed me the picture you took. I’ve got a small team at the house of Paul Rubin. Are you still on the property?”
Costa’s voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t pair it with a face just yet.
“Yeah,” I said. I gave him directions. “I’ll see you in a few.”
“We’re on our way. In the meantime, I’d appreciate if you kept your photographs to yourself and stayed off the radio. Until we know what we’ve got, I’d like to keep this quiet.”
The public deserved to know what happened in their community, but Costa was right. This would make people panic. Parents would pull their kids from school, but worse than that, people would carry their guns around town instead of stowing them in their cars and homes. Normally, I had no problem with civilians carrying guns. With a serial murderer running around, though, innocent men and women could seem threatening to a panicked parent. Nobody would win if this came out.
“I agree. See you in a few.”
I hung up, stood, and brushed leaves from my clothes. Three men in suits traipsed through the woods a few minutes later with Dracula, one of the special agents who had questioned me in my station yesterday, in the lead. I nodded to him and smacked my neck as a mosquito landed on my skin.
“Detective,” he said, nodding. “I appreciate you calling this in. How did you find this place?”
I told him everything that had led me to finding the church and my conversation with Paul Rubin, the property owner. Dracula dispatched one of his agents to pick Rubin up and drive him to our station for questioning. I doubted Rubin had anything to do with the church or body dump, but he was our best suspect at the moment.
“Who have you told about this?” he asked.
“You, Sheriff Delgado, and Trisha Marshall, our dispatcher.”
Dracula nodded. “Nobody else?”
I nodded my confirmation.
“Thank you for your discretion,” he said. “Walk me through the scene and show me everything you touched.”
I followed him, but I didn’t like it. Inside the church, the bodies didn’t hit me as hard this time, but they still shocked me. Agent Lawson had told me yesterday that every man on his task force had at least a decade of experience working complex homicides, but the scene seemed to chill even them.
“I stayed near the altar and tried not to touch anything,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as I heard footsteps approach. Sheriff Delgado stepped through the open door to my right and onto the platform.
“Sheriff,” said Dracula, nodding toward him. Delgado looked out over the sanctuary and swore under his breath. “You’re our local expert. What is this place?”
Delgado rubbed his chin but said nothing. The agent repeated his question.
“It’s just an old church,” he said, shrugging. “The county’s population has been shrinking ever since St. Louis lost the Chrysler plant ten years ago.”
“You guys had that many commuters?”
Delgado shrugged again. “St. Louis didn’t just lose Chrysler. A lot of other companies depended on that plant. A company in St. Augustine made parts for the cars’ interiors. When Chrysler closed, the company in St. Augustine closed, too. We lost almost four hundred jobs. People moved away.”
Dracula nodded. “Have you heard about this specific church?”
Delgado shook his head. “No, but it looks like a convenient spot to dump a body. It’s out in the woods and away from the main road. The county’s full of places like this.”
Dracula nodded, seemingly agreeing. I had kept quiet so far, but they were wrong.
“It’s more than a dump site,” I said. “Look around you.”
Dracula looked at me with his brow raised. “You got something to add, Detective?”
“Open your eyes, guys. This was a church twenty years ago, but it’s not today. Someone’s removed the stations of the cross, the priest’s vestments, the communion chalice, and the baptismal font. Someone removed God from this building and inverted every cross.”
Dracula looked around and nodded. “Okay. What’s that get us?”
“Nothing until you look at the victims. Their killer burned them. Not only that, they’re in agony. They’re being punished. And smell the air. There’s gasoline, there’s burned skin and hair, but there’s something else, too. I didn’t recognize it at first, but the building stinks like rotten eggs. That’s sulfur, I think.”
Delgado looked at me as if I were crazy, but Dracula nodded and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Put this together for me.”
“This isn’t just a dump site,” I said. “Everything in this room is meaningful—the burned, tortured bodies, the inverted crosses, the smell…this is hell. The guy who dumped the bodies is creating hell on Earth.”
Nobody said anything for a moment as they took things in, but by the glare Delgado shot me, I’d get a lecture later. I didn’t care. I was right. The sheriff broke eye contact with me and looked to Dracula.
“Please excuse Detective Court. She has a flair for the dramatic.”
Dracula held my gaze for a moment and then nodded before looking to Delgado.
“The young always do. Let’s get out of here before we contaminate the scene further.”
I cracked the knuckles of my right hand but kept my glare to myself. Delgado held his hands toward the door, ushering us outside. I wanted to punch both Delgado and Costa, but that wouldn’t have helped anything. Once we were back in the sunshine, Delgado glanced at me and then nodded toward the road that led out of the woods. Agent Costa walked away to make a call.
“Head home for the day, Joe. I’ll take over here.”
“You need help on this,” I said. “Paul Rubin’s not the only property owner around here. We need someone to interview them, we need someone to research the history of the property and church, and we need somebody to work traffic. This place will get busy.”
“I’m giving you an out,” he said, sighing. He furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Recreating hell on Earth? Jesus, Joe. Life isn’t like the movies. You’ve embarrassed yourself and this department enough. They already think we’re inbred hicks. Go home before you say anything else that’ll make us look stupid.”
I balled my hands into fists. “I found this site. It’s my case.”
“No, it’s not,” he said. “You’re off this one. Now get out of here. I’m tired of asking. If you refuse to leave, I’ll escort you from the property and write you up for insubordination.”
I clenched my jaw so I wouldn’t tell him off. Then I reminded myself that I only needed to put up with him until the next election. St. Augustine would vote someone new in, and Delgado would disappear. And if my fellow residents didn’t vote in someone new, they deserved the asshole they got.
I walked toward my truck but stopped as I walked out of the woods. A news van from St. Louis had parked alongside the road, and an attractive woman a few years older than me stood outside, directing a cameraman to set up near the fence. When she saw me, Angela Pritchard’s eyes lit up.
“Detective Court,” she called. “Can we talk for a minute?”
Even with minimal traffic, St. Louis was a good hour from St. Augustine. That was why Delgado had taken an hour to get to the crime scene and why he hadn’t bothered calling in the FBI. He wanted the cameras there when he arrived. It made sense, too. The County Council had appointed him sheriff when the previous sheriff stepped down, but Delgado hadn’t run for office in his life. Outside our department, nobody even knew his name. The church would give him exposure he couldn’t buy.
“I’ve got no comment,” I said, not bothering to look at her or to slow down my gait.
“Is it true that your team found several charred bo
dies inside the church?” she asked, hurrying to catch up.
“What church? This is a company barbecue,” I said. “I’d get you a hot dog, but I’m not sure how many more people will show up. We may not have enough food. If you want in, call Sheriff Delgado. I’m sure you’ve got his number.”
She turned and walked to her van, where her producer had put a drone with a camera attached to its underside on the ground. I swore under my breath and pulled out my cell phone. Special Agent Costa’s number was on the top of my call list. His phone rang twice before he picked up.
“Agent Costa, this is Joe Court,” I said. “How thick are the trees above your church?”
“Not very,” he said. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got a camera crew from St. Louis on the road, and they’ve got a drone.”
“Aww, damn.”
I couldn’t have put it any better myself.
8
Even though Delgado had kicked me out of the crime scene, I still needed to write an after-action report and return my cruiser. So I drove back to town. Since it was the middle of the day, most of my colleagues were out on calls, leaving me my choice of parking spots near the station. That was nice, at least. Trisha smiled hello as I walked in, but she must have sensed my mood because she didn’t press for a conversation. I nodded to her and went to my desk, where I spent the next hour and a half filling out paperwork and cataloging the photographs I had taken of the church.
When I finished that, I would have driven home like Delgado had ordered me to do, but before I could, two men began shouting in the lobby. From that distance, I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but if there had been a real problem, Trisha would have flicked a switch beneath her desk to signal an emergency in the station.
I saved my documents before weaving through the maze of desks in the bullpen. The closer I came to the lobby, the clearer the voices became, and I realized why Trisha hadn’t triggered the alarm. One speaker was Sheriff Delgado, while the other sounded like Agent Lawson.
I slowed before stepping toward the fray.
“I don’t care about her rights as a journalist,” said Lawson, his face red. “That crime scene was in the middle of nowhere. She shouldn’t have found it.”
“She’s probably got a police radio,” said Delgado. “We don’t own fancy encryption equipment like you feds do.”
Lawson may have heard him, but the moment I stepped into the lobby, he looked up at me.
“Get over here, Detective,” he said. I hesitated and considered. My paychecks came from St. Augustine County. Agent Lawson’s came from the United States federal government. I could have ignored him and walked back to my desk, but I’d never see a piece of evidence in this case again. Paige and Jude were my victims. Agent Lawson was probably a good investigator, but I knew Paige and Jude’s families. I knew this community. These were my people. I needed to stay with them through the end.
So I sucked it up and walked.
“Afternoon, Agent Lawson.”
The special agent narrowed his gaze at me.
“You found this church and called it in, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then what?”
Delgado stepped between me and the special agent.
“She’s my officer, and she did her job,” he said. “She’s already talked to Agent Costa. I don’t appreciate you speaking to her in that accusatory tone.”
It would have been a rare sign of leadership and support from the sheriff but for one simple fact: He wasn’t trying to protect me. He was protecting himself. He didn’t want me to tell Lawson the truth because that would jeopardize Delgado’s access to case material and might even land him in jail for interfering with a federal investigation.
“Sheriff Delgado’s correct,” I said. “I spoke with Agent Costa at the crime scene and led him through my findings and thoughts. I also took photographs, which I have been cataloging since I returned. I planned to forward my after-action report to the sheriff as soon as I finished.”
“I look forward to seeing that,” said Lawson, crossing his arms and staring into my eyes without blinking. It was an aggressive, intimidating posture from a man who weighed at least thirty or forty pounds more than me. In an interrogation room, it likely scared people. Out here, it pissed me off. He had no right to lord over me in my station, and I didn’t plan to back down an inch.
“Glad to hear,” I said, crossing my arms.
We stayed like that for twenty or thirty seconds. Then, he drew in a breath.
“After you found the church, who did you call?”
I blinked but didn’t soften my posture or expression.
“Sheriff Delgado. I explained to him the situation and asked him to contact you.”
“And what time was that?”
I shrugged. “I’d need to look at my phone.”
Lawson waited a moment. He raised his eyebrows when I didn’t move.
“Check.”
“It’s at my desk,” I said. “When I heard you two shouting, I thought Trisha might need help, so I hurried here. We rarely get shouting matches between police officers in this station, and when we do, we try to de-escalate the situation.”
Lawson nodded toward the bullpen.
“Get your phone and check the time.”
“She doesn’t need to do that,” said Delgado. Lawson glared at him, so I shook my head and sighed, already growing annoyed at the chest thumping.
“It was about two,” I said. “If you want an exact time, I’ll check my phone. After our first phone call, I texted him a picture I had taken of the scene. He returned my call to tell me not to touch anything.”
Lawson nodded. “That was your first phone call. Did you make more?”
I nodded. “I waited for about twenty minutes and called him back when he hadn’t shown up. Sheriff Delgado must have been in a dead zone because he didn’t respond to my call. I then called Trisha, our dispatcher. She got in touch with Agent Costa on my behalf. Agent Costa arrived at the scene shortly thereafter.”
Again, Lawson nodded. “Angela Pritchard showed up at our crime scene at three. It takes an hour to drive from St. Louis, so she likely left her station at around two in the afternoon. According to your statement, Detective Court, only two people knew about this crime scene at two in the afternoon: you and Sheriff Delgado. Did you call Ms. Pritchard?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“And you claim you didn’t, either,” said Lawson, looking to Delgado.
Delgado shifted his weight from one foot to another and shook his head.
“No, I did not, and I resent your question.”
“If neither of you called her, how did she show up outside my crime scene an hour after you discovered it?”
Delgado said nothing. I had nothing to say. Lawson raised his eyebrows.
“You think she showed up by chance?”
Again, neither of us said anything.
“Fine,” said Lawson. “Show me your phones.”
I stepped back and almost chuckled. Delgado shook his head.
“I’ve indulged this for long enough,” said Delgado. “You and your people are guests in my station. I don’t appreciate you accusing me or my detective of a crime.”
“Okay,” said Lawson, looking to me. “The sheriff won’t show me his phone. You want to show me yours? I’d consider it a personal favor. Agent Costa spoke highly of your work at the church. You can’t stay in St. Augustine forever. My recommendation would open a lot of doors for you in law enforcement in St. Louis and Kansas City.”
I opened my mouth, but I was too surprised to say anything. Then Delgado and Lawson started arguing again. The politics in my department were venal, and every politician in the county held his hand out and his wallet open twenty-four hours a day. Still, St. Augustine was my home. I had never thought about leaving, but with Lawson’s recommendation, maybe I could.
Showing him my phone wouldn’t have been unethical. At
this point, it was a piece of evidence, nothing more. Besides, Delgado would have thrown me in a burning dumpster if it helped his career. He didn’t deserve my protection.
I started toward my desk, but the sheriff called out before I took more than a step.
“You stop right there, Detective,” he said. I looked to Agent Lawson and then Delgado. Delgado focused on the special agent. “Detective Court’s phone is the property of the St. Augustine County Sheriff’s Department. She can’t turn it over to you without my permission any more than she could turn over one of our cruisers. That’s not her call. If you want to see her phone, you get a warrant. I’ll talk to the county attorney and see how to proceed from there.”
Lawson appraised the sheriff.
“Think about what you’re doing,” said Lawson, raising his eyebrows.
Delgado turned his chin up. “I already have.”
“All right, then. I’ll contact the US Attorney’s Office and get the ball rolling.”
“You do what you’ve got to do,” said Delgado.
Lawson hesitated before taking the stairs to the second floor. Delgado and I watched him go. Once Lawson left, the sheriff turned.
“He approaches you like that again, tell me. I’ll handle it.”
I held his gaze before looking to the ground. Trisha was typing at her desk, avoiding looking at us.
“You’re a moron,” I said.
When I looked up, Delgado had put his hands on his hips and stared at me with a dumbfounded expression on his face.
“Excuse me, Detective?”
“Your head’s so far up your ass you don’t even understand what you’ve done or why Lawson’s pissed,” I said. “We’re trying to find a serial murderer. We found where he dumps his victims. This place was important to him. We could have put cameras up, and we could have stationed a surveillance team nearby. Even if he didn’t visit for weeks, he would have come eventually. We would have arrested him.