The Boys in the Church

by Chris Culver

  She considered me. “You tell me. You’ve worked this case. Where would Saunders go?”

  “Wherever he can hurt the most people,” I said.

  She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “You don’t think he’d go after a specific target?”

  “I have no idea anymore.”

  She nodded and then looked over her shoulder to Sheriff Delgado. He glared at me but walked over.

  “How many officers do you have?”

  “Forty-four,” said Delgado. He looked at me before locking eyes with Director Koch. “You know what happened the last time Detective Court suggested we put officers in the field, right? Saunders might be setting us up again. Has anybody thought of that?”

  Koch looked at me. “Has he contacted you?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s not setting us up.”

  “I still don’t like it,” said Delgado.

  “Too bad, George,” I said. “We’re police officers. It’s our job to protect people who can’t protect themselves.”

  “Okay,” said Delgado. “Since you’re so sure of yourself, where should we send them? We have no idea where this guy will attack. If he’s even planning an attack. If it were me, I’d be getting out of town now.”

  “We’ll keep officers near the interstates,” said Koch. “We also need to send officers to any locations where large numbers of people gather. I’m talking shopping malls, schools, offices, anywhere with a large number of targets in a small area.”

  “This is St. Augustine. We don’t have shopping malls or big office buildings,” said Delgado. “The schools are closed, too. He could be anywhere.”

  “Who are your major employers?” asked Koch.

  “There will be a couple hundred people working at the plant at Ross Kelly Farms, but they can lock that down quickly,” I said. “Reid Chemical is closed, so we don’t have to worry about them. The local school system is out for the summer, but Waterford College is open. We should call its Office of Public Safety. Its officers will know how to protect their property better than us.”

  “Good,” said Koch. “Where else?”

  “Club Serenity has a lot of foot traffic,” I said. Koch furrowed her brow. “It’s a strip club near the interstate. There’s a truck stop next door, so it does a good business. We should have a team downtown, too.”

  Koch nodded. “This is good. Can you think of anywhere else we should deploy, Sheriff Delgado?”

  Delgado exhaled a slow breath before tilting his head to the side. “There’s an event at the Boy Scout camp off Highway 62. Dave Skelton’s there now with his boys.”

  That got our attention.

  “How many people are there?” asked Koch.

  Delgado blew out a long breath and shrugged. “Couple hundred. Boys from all over the state have come in.”

  “That’s our priority,” said Koch. “Get in touch with your officer in the field, and tell him what’s going on. We’ll send men down there. I’ll work with your dispatcher and my own teams to get officers elsewhere around town.”

  Delgado nodded and walked to his cruiser. I watched him and then looked to Director Koch.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She looked toward the school.

  “Do you have tactical training, Detective?”

  I blinked and then slowly shook my head. “No more than most officers.”

  “Then you and Agent Costa are working a double homicide,” she said. “You’re more valuable here than you would be in the field.”

  My shoulders slumped, but I forced my expression to stay neutral. Homicides were among the toughest, most important investigations a detective could undertake. I should have been proud that Director Koch would ask me to work one alongside one of her own investigators. It was among the highest compliments she could give me, but it still made me feel like a kid whose basketball coach had ordered her to come off the court and ride the bench.

  “I’m on it,” I said, smiling. “Agent Costa and I won’t let you down.”

  The corners of her lips curled into a tight smile.

  “I know you won’t, Detective,” she said. She paused. “You look like I punched you in the face. Buck up.”

  I stood straighter. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

  She and most of the other agents left a few minutes later, leaving me alone with Agent Costa. The FBI forensics team was busy at Camp Water’s Edge—where they had found a second kill room in a second cellar—so Darlene McEvoy and two uniformed officers with forensics training came from our station to work the scene. Darlene was an excellent lab scientist, so we were in good hands.

  While Costa supervised them, I walked around the exterior of the building to check the other doors and windows. I also noted the security cameras near the roof. Assuming those cameras were recording at the time of the shooting, we’d have video of Saunders pulling into the lot, breaking into the front door, and walking to the administrative offices. We wouldn’t have footage of the murder itself, but with the hammer found by the front door and the fingerprints we were likely to find inside, we’d have ample evidence for a conviction.

  After circumnavigating the building twice, I joined Agent Costa inside. Dr. Sheridan and Sam, his assistant, were wheeling Berry’s body out. I nodded hello to them both before looking to Costa.

  “Every door and window is secure and locked, and there are cameras every thirty or forty feet outside. There’s one right above the door Saunders broke. We’ve got him,” I said, watching the street as a car rolled past before focusing on Costa. “Unless you’ve got an objection, I’ll drive by Mr. Berry’s house and see whether I can talk to his family before they hear about the shooting on Twitter.”

  Costa nodded. “Good luck.”

  I nodded and thanked him before walking to my truck. With so many bodies on the ground lately, it was easy to forget that each victim was an individual tragedy. Each victim had family and friends. In life, they had hopes and dreams. In death, they had nothing. Saunders had stolen everything that mattered from them. No matter what he had done, Mr. Berry didn’t deserve the fate that had befallen him.

  This needed to end soon. I didn’t care if Saunders surrendered or went down in a blaze of gunfire. I wanted him out of commission. He had ruined enough lives.

  41

  Blowing his boss’s head off had been one of the greatest experiences of Glenn’s life. Even twenty minutes later, he could picture the stupid, surprised look on Finley’s face when he and Mary Joe walked in. He could smell the burnt gunpowder; he could feel the pressure of the trigger beneath his finger; and he could hear Mary Joe’s encouraging words in his ear. He’d remember killing Finley for the rest of his life—however short that might be.

  He squeezed Mary Joe’s hand and smiled.

  “You’re in a good mood,” she said, smiling at him and squeezing his hand in return and winking. “Get lucky this morning?”

  The memories of the things he and Mary Joe had done made him smile even wider. They stood beside one another in the basement of Finley Berry’s house. The principal’s gun safe was open, and Glenn had laid the firearms on the ground in front of him so he could make his choice. He turned toward Mary Joe and drew her into a soft kiss.

  “I wish we could stay like this forever,” he whispered.

  “Me too, but we’ve still got work to do,” she said, nodding toward the firearms. “Have you chosen yet?”

  Back to reality. He sighed and knelt.

  “The AK-47 would work,” he said. “It takes a 7.62 NATO cartridge, and Finley’s got plenty. It’d do the job, but it’s heavy and inaccurate.”

  Mary Joe knelt beside him and put her hand on the firearm.

  “Accuracy doesn’t matter as much when your targets are close,” she said. “The good thing about the 7.62 cartridge is that it’s likely to punch right through your opponent. If they’re bunched up along a fence, you might hit two or three people with one round.”

  He raised hi
s eyebrows and nodded.

  “That’s true, but it feels so boorish,” he said. “The AK is all brute strength. There’s no finesse.”

  Mary Joe narrowed her gaze at him and nodded.

  “You’re thinking the AR-15, aren’t you?”

  He nodded and ran his hand over the sleek rifle. “An AK-47 is great when you’re in the field and might need to shoot through a cinder-block building, but we’ll be shooting housewives in bathing suits. This’ll be one shot, one kill. Given what Finley has, the AR-15 feels like the best choice.”

  “This will be fun,” said Mary Joe, touching his shoulder and smiling. “Make sure you grab all four magazines. We don’t want to run out of ammunition before we run out of targets.”

  Glenn nodded, grabbed Finley’s four thirty-round magazines, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he took the rifle and stood. Glenn had only met Finley’s wife twice at holiday parties at work, but she had talked to him incessantly each time. He had hoped to find her in the house and shut her up, but she must have been out. It was a pity. At least he got one of the duo of dunces.

  Before leaving, he put Finley’s rifle on the rear seat of his car. Then he sat beside Mary Joe in front. He put his hand on her knee. She put hers on top and smiled at him.

  “This is it,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m not walking away from this one.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Mary Joe. “We’ve had a good ride, haven’t we?”

  “We have,” he said, taking his hand from her and twisting his key in the ignition. He backed out of Berry’s driveway and started the short trip to Sycamore Park and the public pool it held. As he drove, a red Dodge Ram pickup caught his attention. It was old, but its chrome front bumper and grill gleamed. Someone loved and cared for that truck. A blond woman sat in the driver’s seat, but she was driving in the opposite direction on the road.

  “Pretty girl?” asked Mary Joe.

  “Yeah,” said Glenn, shaking his head and focusing on the road in front of him again. “For a second, I thought that was your truck.”

  She reached over to touch his shoulder.

  “I’m right here, sweetheart. You’re not getting rid of me.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Let’s finish this. I’m tired of fighting. I’m ready to go home.”

  Mary Joe squeezed his shoulder. “Soon every voice will grow quiet.”

  Pendimethalin

  Finley Berry lived in a two-story brick home with a wide front porch and big dormers on the second floor. The grass lay across the front yard like a thick carpet, while someone had trimmed the hedges beneath the front windows into perfect cubes. The porch swing swayed in a lazy summer breeze, and the front door hung open. An uneasy pit grew in my stomach.

  I parked in front of the house and kept my hand over my firearm as I crossed over the lawn to the front door. Nothing inside the house moved.

  “Sheriff’s Department,” I called into the foyer. “Anybody home?”

  No one responded, so I called again and waited. Then I heard a door shut.

  “Sheriff’s Department,” I called for a third time as I removed my firearm from its holster. “If someone is in the house, please tell me now.”

  “I’m here. I’m Cassie. I’m the homeowner. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Meaning she was Finley Berry’s spouse. I holstered my firearm because it sounded as if she were on the verge of tears.

  “I’m on your front porch. Is everything all right?”

  “No,” she warbled. “I’m coming up.”

  I waited another moment until a woman in her early forties stepped out of a side door and onto the tiled entryway. Her straight black hair framed a thin, pale face. When she saw me, she covered her mouth with both hands and trembled as she walked backwards. She looked like a flower that had bloomed and then wilted. I didn’t want her to fall, so I held up a hand.

  “It’s okay,” I said, looking over my shoulder and stepping back. “I’m here to help.”

  She lowered her hands from her face, allowing me to see her quivering lower lip. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “They weren’t lying,” she said. “If you’re here, Fin’s dead.”

  I drew in a breath and lowered my chin. “Who told you that?”

  “Is it true?” she asked, wiping tears from her eyes. I said nothing, so she nodded. “You don’t have to answer. I know. They killed him.”

  I held up a hand, hoping she’d answer my questions.

  “Was someone here?”

  “Yes,” she said, her face crumbling as she blinked tears from her eyes. “It was Glenn Saunders. He works with my husband.”

  “Did you talk to him?” I asked.

  She shook her head and ran her hands through her hair.

  “No. I was doing laundry. They kicked down the door, so I hid. I didn’t even see them, but I recognized Glenn’s voice. He was looking for me. He kept saying he wanted to kill me, too, so he could have the whole Berry set.”

  I lowered my voice. “You’re safe now. He’s not here.”

  She said nothing and slid down the nearest wall. Then she brought her knees to her chest and sobbed.

  “I know this is hard,” I said, “but we need to talk. Who was this other person with Glenn?”

  She didn’t answer, so I repeated the question. Then she shook her head.

  “Somebody named Mary Joe. She didn’t talk, and I never saw her. I was hiding in the laundry room.”

  I snapped my head up. “Are you sure it was Mary Joe?”

  She nodded and rubbed her eyes but said nothing. It could have been a coincidence, but it was unnerving.

  “Can I walk through the house to make sure we’re alone?”

  She nodded, so I took the stairs to the second floor and pulled out my cell phone to call Agent Costa. After I told him what had happened, he agreed to call his boss and send help. Then, I cleared the first and second floors before searching the basement. There, I found firearms and boxes of ammunition strewn on the ground. It wasn’t a huge gun collection, but it had two tactical rifles and three handguns.

  I went back upstairs. Mrs. Berry still sat on the floor, but she had stopped sobbing. I cleared my throat, and she looked at me.

  “Do you store all your firearms in the gun safe?”

  She blinked and then closed her eyes.

  “Yes. My husband was a responsible gun owner.”

  That was why Saunders had come, then. He killed his boss for his keys and then raided his gun safe.

  “Can you come downstairs with me and tell me if anything’s missing?”

  “Can’t I stay here?”

  I softened my voice. “I know this is hard, but I need your help.”

  She shook her head but stood and walked with me down the stairs. When she saw the firearms, she sighed.

  “The AR-15 is missing. There’s at least one pistol missing, too, but I don’t know which one.”

  “He wouldn’t have taken the weapon without reason,” I said. “Did he or Mary Joe mention where they were going?”

  She said nothing, but she licked her lips as if she were trying to speak. I repeated the question.

  “He said something about shooting housewives in bathing suits.”

  “Housewives in bathing suits,” I said, frowning. I almost asked where he expected to find housewives in bathing suits, but then it seemed obvious as it hit me. I pulled out my phone and called Agent Costa.

  “Finley Berry’s wife is here. Saunders has a partner, and they took an AR-15 and pistol from the house. They talked about shooting housewives in bathing suits. They’re going to a pool. Call your people and tell them to get to the country club on Pinehurst. I’ll send my people to the public pool at Sycamore Park.”

  Costa paused. “You sure about this?”

  “There are no guarantees in this business, but it makes sense. The pool’s surrounded by a fence, and there’ll be a big crowd. It’s a soft target.”

  Costa swore un
der his breath. “All right. I’ll call this in.”

  “Do that,” I said, hanging up. I looked at Mrs. Berry. “I’ll head out. You stay here. You’ll be safe. Saunders isn’t coming back, and uniformed officers are on their way.”

  She begged me to stay, but I was only three blocks from Sycamore Park. Saunders could have been there already. I had to stop this. I ran to my truck and threw it in reverse before flooring it out of the neighborhood.

  While holding the wheel with one hand, I called my station’s front desk. Jason Zuckerburg answered.

  “Jason, hey,” I said. “I’ve tracked down Glenn Saunders and need you to send every officer we’ve got to the pool in Sycamore Park. Saunders is well armed and dangerous. The bureau’s sending officers to the country club. He’s going to one of these two, and he’ll kill a lot of people unless we stop him.”

  Jason typed. “How do you know this?”

  “A witness heard Saunders talking,” I said. “Who’s the nearest officer?”

  Jason grunted. “We’re scattered around the county. We’ve got a team at the high school, we’ve got a pair of teams near the interstate, and we’ve got almost twenty people way out by the river for the Boy Scout thing. No one is near Sycamore Park.”

  I swallowed and nodded. “Send whoever you can and tell them I’ll be on site. Then call the pool and tell them to get everybody inside the locker rooms. And do it now. Tell them to lock the doors once people are inside.”

  Jason paused. “I’m routing officers now, and I’m looking up the number for the pool.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up and tossed the phone to the seat beside me, hoping and praying I wasn’t already too late.

  42

  At fifteen acres, Sycamore Park was one of the smaller parks in St. Augustine County’s parks system. The town had set aside the land almost seventy years ago, making it the oldest park in town. Before Helen had disappeared, she had played in a girls’ softball league organized by their church. Once or twice a month, the family would drive to the park so Helen could practice batting at the park’s baseball field. Edward would pitch while Glenn fielded balls.