Injecting Faith

by Patrick Logan

  Cystic fibrosis was a terrible, deadly disease for which there was no cure, regardless of the man’s claims.

  The crowd suddenly moved to one side as two of the Reverend’s aids pushed a wheelchair to the front of the church. Then they helped the teenager onto the stage.

  She was wheezing terribly and had to continually dab at her mouth to clear it of mucus. Her hair was damp with sweat and hung in strings in front of her pale face.

  Rev. Cameron quickly went to her aid, wrapping his big arm around her waist and helping her to the center of the stage. The wheezing was so pronounced that Beckett could hear it from nearly twenty feet away.

  Jesus, this is bad. This is really bad.

  “Brittany, I want to praise you for your courage in coming here today. It's not easy to be vulnerable in front of all those people, but it is necessary. Before I begin, I must make it clear that it is not I who has the power to cure death, but the Lord who works through me.”

  With this final sentence, Rev. Alister Cameron closed his eyes.

  Beckett grimaced.

  Just don’t do it… don’t do it. This poor girl.

  But if he just stood there and did nothing, this girl would be the first of a parade of sick teenagers. Teenagers who were unfit to travel, accompanied by parents who couldn’t afford the airfare.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, before raising his hand high in the air. “Hold it! Hold it!”

  Rev. Cameron's eyes snapped open and his cold stare eventually met Beckett's.

  “May I come and inspect the patient?” Beckett asked, realizing how stupid that sounded, but unable to come up with anything better on the spot. And yet, it was better than collapsing on the ground after speaking in tongues, which he’d done last time.

  Rev. Cameron offered a grand sweeping gesture, and the seas parted for Beckett.

  Maybe he is the chosen one.

  “I want to now welcome Dr. Campbell to the stage. You see, my people, Dr. Campbell is a nonbeliever.”

  Beckett was surprised by the smattering of boos that followed, but he ignored them. His only concern was this poor girl now.

  “Extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence,” he mumbled as he climbed onto the stage.

  Peering out at the hostile audience, he wondered if they would chase him and Suzan out of town with pitchforks should he say the wrong thing.

  What the fuck are you doing, Beckett?

  “Come on now, we are an inclusive faith. I expect that there will be many non-believers out there, people who consider the good work of the Lord just a hoax. But after Dr. Campbell, a well-respected doctor from New York, confirms that what we are doing here is very much real, it will only further legitimize the Lord’s work.”

  Beckett tried not to roll his eyes.

  This was theater at its best. And well-respected? Him? Dr. Beckett Campbell, ME? Rev. Cameron really was talking out of his ass now.

  “Please, offer our guest a hearty welcome.”

  There was a smattering of half-hearted applause, which Beckett barely acknowledged. He was busy trying to size up Brittany. She was quite sick, and the mucus that dripped from her nose and eyes and mouth was very real.

  As was the terrible wheeze that accompanied every breath.

  Beckett pulled a buccal swap from his pocket and approached the girl cautiously.

  “Brittany, is it all right if I take a swab of your cheek?” he asked. This clearly wasn’t the right place to ask for consent, and he probably wasn’t even permitted to practice in this State, but what the hell. He was Beckett, after all.

  The girl raised her pale blue eyes to Alister for support.

  “It's fine, Dr. Campbell. She is fully willing—”

  Beckett moved between the Reverend and the girl.

  “Brittany? Do you mind?”

  Brittany looked at him and nodded.

  That was consent enough; besides, it was just a buccal swab.

  “Okay, I’m going to need you to open your mouth wide for me. Can you do that?”

  Another nod and Brittany opened her mouth. While it wasn’t exactly wide, it was sufficient for Beckett to insert the cotton swab. He rubbed it gently on the inside of her left cheek, making sure to do a long sweeping motion to collect as many epithelials as possible. When he pulled the swab out, he saw that he’d gotten plenty; in fact, the tip was coated with mucus and skin cells. He retracted the swab into the case and clicked it closed. Then he slipped it into his pocket.

  “Thank you, Brittany.”

  Beckett turned to the crowd. They were looking at him with confused expressions on their faces, unsure of how to react, whether they should cheer or clap or just do nothing.

  They opted for the latter.

  All but one; a woman who looked like Suzan suddenly turned around and left the church.

  In fact, Beckett was fairly certain that it was Suzan.

  “How long does this cure take?” he asked Rev. Cameron out of the side of his mouth.

  He expected the man to reply with something obtuse, something along the lines of the Lord works on his own timetable or some bullshit, but the man was full of surprises.

  “With the others, it was a single day,” he said with authority. Then he turned to the crowd, falling seamlessly back into character. “When I touch this poor girl's forehead, the power of the Lord will course through me and I will heal her of her condition. Death, my people, is just a disease, and I am the cure.”

  And then Rev. Cameron reached out and grasped the girl's forehead. His hand was so large that it almost engulfed her entire head.

  An audible gasp ripped through the crowd, and Beckett felt sick just watching this charade. They truly did expect lightning bolts to fly from the Reverend’s fingers and zap the cystic fibrosis out of her.

  Shaking his head, Beckett slid off the stage and hurried to the door that he’d seen Suzan leave through moments ago. Everyone was so enthralled by the spectacle that they barely noticed him. For some reason, when he was already half outside, Beckett felt inclined to look back one final time.

  Rev. Alister Cameron was staring directly at him, his eyes dull like lumps of charcoal.

  Beckett shuddered. This wasn’t just a charade or a game or some sort of act. There was something sinister going on here, he just wasn’t sure what.

  Chapter 40

  “What do you know about Brent Hopper?” Yasiv asked SVU Detective Crumley.

  “Not much, actually. I know that he was an associate of Wilson Trent, that they grew up together. But unlike Trent, Hopper was squeaky clean. About six months ago, he was caught shoplifting a video camera. Got paper and a fine, even though the camera mysteriously went missing. That’s pretty much it.”

  Yasiv indicated for Dunbar to write this down, which he did.

  “But he wasn't a suspect or anything like that? In Bentley Thomas’s or Will Kinston’s murders?”

  Crumley shook his head.

  “No; he had an alibi for both days.”

  Yasiv strummed his fingers on the desk.

  “You remember off hand what his alibi was?”

  Crumley pulled open a drawer and rooted through it, eventually producing a file. He quickly scanned several pages.

  “Yeah, it says here that he was at some sort of meeting at a church… Harvey Park Church in Queens. PTSD meeting or something. The guy who runs the show, Franklin Burnett vouched for him.”

  Yasiv looked over at Dunbar, and his partner stared back. No words were exchanged, but it was clear that Dunbar had met this Franklin Burnett.

  And there was yet another connection between the three men: Winston Trent, Brent Hopper, and Wayne Cravat were all friends who attended the same meetings at the church.

  Now one was dead, and one was missing.

  Which left only Brent Hopper.

  “I gotta say, I don’t mind helping y’all out, but now the DA is breathing down our necks, wanting us to get somewhere with the Will Kingston case. You guys come across anything tha
t might be helpful?”

  Yasiv expected as much. Mark Trumbo was a man on a mission, a man who desperately wanted to keep his job when the public just wanted to clean house.

  “Sorry about that.”

  Crumley shrugged.

  “It’s all right. Professional hazard.”

  “Well, we don’t know anything for sure,” Yasiv began, “but all three men are connected. I think maybe—”

  “Our working theory is that Brent Hopper is responsible for killing Winston Trent and for Wayne Cravat’s disappearance,” Dunbar said excitedly.

  Yasiv frowned. That wasn’t a working theory, that was wishful thinking.

  “Yeah, that’s a bit of a stretch,” Yasiv interjected, shooting Dunbar a look. “But what we know for certain is that Brent has been paying the other two’s rent. Paid up until the end of the year, in fact.

  “Sounds like a payoff to me,” Crumley admitted.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Dunbar agreed, returning Yasiv’s stare.

  “So, all three of them murder Will Kingston, but only Wayne is charged with the crime. As a reward for keeping his mouth shut, Brent takes care of his rent. Maybe Winston has some dirt on Brent, so he pays his rent, too. Then Winston asks for more, Brent can’t or won’t pay, so he kills Winston and makes it look like a suicide. Wayne figures this out, or maybe he wants more money, too, so Brent makes him disappear, as well. That sound about right?”

  Yasiv’s eyes bulged.

  The man hadn’t just taken a thread and run with it, he’d tied it to the back of a helicopter and done a tour of the Grand Canyon.

  “Well, I—uh—I mean—”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly it,” Dunbar offered.

  “It’s a stretch, but it’s more than we got,” Crumley said. “You got eyes on Brent?”

  Yasiv knew that Dunbar was glaring at him now, but he didn’t take the bait.

  “No, we pulled him in for questioning a couple of days ago but cut him loose. Nothing to hold him on. We’re trying to locate him now, bring him back in. Put the needle to him.”

  “What about Wayne’s trailer? You search it yet?”

  Yasiv shook his head.

  “No grounds for a warrant.”

  “I’ll tell you what, even though Wayne was acquitted of Will’s murder, he’s still part of the case. And now that you’ve connected him to Winston Trent, I can pull some strings. The DA wants this thing wrapped up, so I’m guessin’ I can get a warrant pretty quick.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah; gimme twenty-four, forty-eight hours and I’ll get the warrant.”

  After being snowballed for days, it was a relief to actually move forward with something, as outlandish as their theory might be.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem and if anything comes up please keep me appraised, and I’ll be sure to do the same.”

  “Of course,” Yasiv said.

  They shook hands and then Yasiv and Dunbar left Detective Crumley’s office.

  Dunbar was smiling and despite knowing better, Yasiv couldn’t help but ask why.

  “I’m not the type of person to say I told you so, but you heard the man; he’s on board with my theory.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Oh, and Yasiv?”

  Yasiv turned.

  “Yeah?”

  “I told you so.”

  Chapter 41

  “You couldn't just let it go, could you?” Suzan asked the moment Beckett opened the door and stepped inside the Airbnb.

  Beckett froze.

  “I thought I saw you there. So now you’re spying on me, is that it?”

  Suzan ignored him.

  “What were the results of your tests, Beckett?”

  “Oh, nothing serious; my PMS is just acting up, he prescribed some Midol and told me to watch some angsty teen movies.”

  Suzan threw her arms up in frustration, and Beckett decided to take it easy on her. She was close to her breaking point.

  “Sorry, I won't know for a few days.” He reconsidered his lie. “Maybe a week. In the meantime, Dr. Blankenship said to drink lots of beer, have lots of sex, and just generally act irresponsibly. I mean, that was just one man’s opinion, and I don't know how they teach medicine here in the Carolinas, but quite frankly I’m appalled.”

  Suzan stared at him.

  “Did you mail the damn swab away, at least?”

  Beckett grinned.

  “I overnighted it to Doogie Houser back in the lab. Grant said he’d submit it to genetic testing right away. Rev. Cameron said his magic touchy-feely thing takes a day, so I’ll swab the poor girl again tomorrow. In a couple of days, we’ll be able to call him out for the fraud that he is.”

  “And then what? And then can we have a real vacation? Please? You owe me, Beckett. Seriously.”

  Beckett reached for her, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her tight. She tried to push away, but he wouldn’t let her. Then he leaned in close and kissed her full on the lips.

  “We can start that vacay right now if that's what you want.”

  “Fat chance of that,” she shot back, successfully pulling away. “I need to be wined and dined first.”

  “So, dinner it is! Taco Bell or Burger King?”

  Suzan didn’t even turn around.

  She’s going to kill you, Beckett.

  “Kidding! Kidding! Chicken and waffles for the win. And maybe a Shirley Temple for the little lady?”

  ***

  “Wow, that artery-clogging mess was delicious,” Beckett exclaimed, licking the gravy off his fingers. Suzan gave him a look and he apologized and used a napkin. But then she giggled and went ahead and licked her own fingers.

  They were having a good time, just enjoying each other's company and chatting.

  They talked about medicine, about Suzan's plans, and then she started to talk about her mom, about Drake, about her new stepbrother.

  Beckett listened mostly. He was a good listener when he wasn't interrupting with sarcasm and jokes, that is. Most of the time, this was a defense mechanism, a tool he used when he didn’t know what to say. But with Suzan, he didn’t feel the need to say anything. She just got him, understood him in ways that no one else had.

  When she was finally done speaking, Suzan blushed and sipped her cocktail. Normally, this would be the time when Beckett made a joke, but he was well into the sauce himself and his guard was down.

  “Why are you with me, Suzan?”

  The question caught her by surprise, and she looked at him for a moment as if he were playing another one of his games.

  “Seriously, why are you with me?”

  “Because you have a big—”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “You're young, smart, beautiful. You’re funny and have the patience of the Pope. And yet you’re with me: an old man with tattoos and dyed hair and a twisted sense of morality. Why?”

  Suzan took her time before answering.

  “Because you don't give a shit, Beckett, and yet you care.”

  Beckett scratched his head.

  “Sorry, I was never any good at mental Sudoku. What the hell are you talking about?”

  “What I mean, is that you don't give a shit what other people think about you. You’re not into Instagram fame, you don't care if other doctors look at you funny because of your hair and tattoos, or because you don’t fill the stereotype of what it means to be a doctor. Either people like you, or they don't. You don’t lose sleep over it. And in a world where social currency is determined by the number of likes, or shares, or tweets, or twats, you just stick to your guns, to what you think is right. That's the thing, when you care about something, when you believe in something strongly, there’s nothing anybody can say—not even me—that can convince you otherwise. I admire that.”

  Now it was Beckett's turn to blush. He wasn’t used to being analyzed in this way and, quite frankly, wasn’t sure he liked it. It was too… revealing.

  “And yo
u got a big dick,” Suzan added.

  Beckett laughed.

  That night he put his considerable member to good use, and they had the best sex of their lives.

  Chapter 42

  “Cigarette Lady is not going to be happy that we’re back here,” Dunbar remarked as they pulled into Happy Valley for the third time in two days.

  “Yeah, well, this time we’re not gonna tell her, are we?”

  Yasiv drove past Wayne’s trailer and headed to 116: Winston Trent’s.

  Detective Crumley was still working on getting a warrant to search Wayne’s trailer, but Yasiv had flagged Winston Trent’s case. A flag wasn’t the same as re-opening it—that was something he wasn’t keen on doing—but it made the trailer an active crime scene again… sort of. He just hoped that the DA would consider his methodology for gaining access to the man’s trailer as creative instead of criminal.

  Besides, the man was dead and had no family to speak of. Who would complain?

  “Good point,” Dunbar replied as they walked up to the door. “What are we looking for, exactly?”

  “I have no idea,” Yasiv admitted.

  The door was predictably locked, Yasiv tried the window in the front. It too wouldn’t budge.

  “I’ll be back,” he said to Dunbar as he walked around to the other side of the trailer. The first window he tried opened just wide enough for him to weasel his way inside.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell. Winston Trent might be paid up until the end of the year, but after that? Whoever took possession of the place next year was in for a surprise.

  Covering his nose and mouth with his shirt, Yasiv made his way to the door and unlocked it.

  “Come in, Dunbar. Let's be quick.”

  The lights didn’t work; clearly, Brent’s generosity didn’t extend to paying the utility bills. Still, there was enough light coming in through the window that they could walk around without tripping over the scattered refuse.

  They also had their flashlights, which came in handy.

  As Yasiv shone his flashlight at the approximate area that Trent’s body had been found, Dunbar focused on the kitchen.