James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  “Do you know anything?” I said. After the words, I realized my tone may have come across harsh.

  “Geez, Michael, we just met. No need to be an ass to me. You’re not one of those chauvinists are you? I earned my spot on the force.”

  “He’s just antsy,” Reid said. “When we fill you in, you’ll understand. So, Mack hasn’t told you anything about this case?”

  “Only that he wanted me to assist him. I assumed it had to do with that woman at the Body Farm.” Jill pulled the car to a stop at the back alley entrance to a hair salon. “Mack told me to park here, and walk through the alley to the south entrance of the church. If the media gets wind that the famous Reid Hoffman is here, this place will be a circus.”

  Mack Root was a brilliant man, but I started to think bringing the woman with a schoolgirl crush was a bad idea for all involved. I stepped out of the Chevette and stretched. Reid and Jill got a head start walking down the alleyway littered with empty bottles and trash. It only took me a few long strides to catch up. As we neared the church, the commotion around the front of the building grew louder. Between buildings I could see a line of news vans parked across the street. Reporters lined the sidewalk just in front of the yellow tape, each armed with a pad and paper, and flanked by a cameraman. Tape draped across the front entrance to the alleyway to make sure no one snuck around to the back.

  “It’s already a circus,” Reid said.

  “It’s not every day two priests are brutally murdered in their church,” I said.

  Jill stopped. “Wait. This isn’t about the girl at the Body Farm?”

  I looked at Reid, hoping he would take the lead. Before he could answer, Mack Root walked out of the back of the church. “Reid.” He motioned us in. “I’ve seen a lot in my day, Reid, but this is up there.”

  An average-sized cop stepped between us and the doorway to the priests’ office.

  “Sheriff Harold Barnes. And this is my crime scene. I didn’t ask for the FBI’s help. You’re here as a guest. Got it?”

  We were all too stunned by the verbal marking of his territory to say anything.

  “If you start making trouble for my investigation, I’ll boot your ass out.”

  Reid chuckled.

  “Something funny, Mr. FBI?”

  Reid curled his bottom lip and shook his head side-to-side.

  “Good.” Sheriff Barnes turned to leave.

  “Sheriff,” Reid said. “Just so we are clear, if I make one call this is no longer your investigation. If I make two calls, you’re no longer sheriff. Now this can go smoothly or it can be choppy waters. That choice is yours. But I am here to get answers. You and your ego are not going to stop me. Got it?”

  Sheriff Barnes kept walking like he didn’t hear Reid. I looked at Jill. She was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, shall we get down to business?” Mack said.

  He led us into the office. Even though the bodies were removed, the smell of death hung in the air with a force that made me want to retch. The odor was too much for Jill, who ran by me and out the back door. The sounds of her vomiting made me want to join her, but I held on.

  The room was ransacked. Papers strewn all over the floor. A bookcase turned on its side with a pile of religious study books scattered in front of it. Written on the wall to the right of an Oak desk were the words, “With Each Firefly My Light Grows Brighter” in what looked to be blood. I pointed at it.

  “Still has to be analyzed, but I’d bet that’s the younger priest’s blood. The older one had his neck snapped. You tend to bleed more when you have a letter opener jammed in your skull,” Mack said. He walked behind the desk. “Most of the evidence was already bagged when I got here. But look at this.” He moved a stack of papers to reveal a Bible opened to Isaiah 14. “I may have tampered just a bit.” Mack placed his finger over highlighted text in the book. “Morning star is underlined.”

  “Did you find out anything more about Father Frederick?” Reid asked.

  “Born and raised in Ohio. He moved to Statesville with his mother after his parents got divorced. But you already knew that."

  “Why were they divorced?” Reid asked.

  “No clue yet. I’m going to put Tanner on that if she’s still alive after she finishes puking her guts up.”

  I walked around the room and closed my eyes hoping to see the crime. It worked before with Barbara’s help. But nothing. Just darkness. A sudden tap on my shoulder and I opened my eyes.

  “Sorry, we didn’t get properly introduced,” Mack said, sticking out his hand. “Mack Root.”

  “Michael Callahan.”

  “So this Morning Star is your father?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “Talk about being born under a bad sign.”

  Nineteen

  Cleveland, Ohio

  Sanford almost drove past the plain one-story house. One would think a man known for his flashy sermons and fast talking would live in a home more reflective of his personality. There were times, while preaching, that Reverend Barrett bawled tears of joy at the wonders of the Lord and other times Barrett took on the personality of an underdog prizefighter determined to go twelve rounds with the Devil to show his congregation and the ten thousand people who watched him on public access television that this soldier in God’s army packed one hell of a right hook.

  No, the house was boring. Cliché. The white picket fence began just in front of the HVAC unit on the side of the house and continued in an L- shape around the backyard. Oddly enough the fence didn’t connect to the other side of the house. The burgundy shutters spoke in a whisper, almost with shyness, in an effort not to attract attention to the house. Reverend Barrett had no say so in the design, this was all Sidney.

  “You mean that loudmouth jackass we watched on TV earlier lives here?” Sanford asked.

  “I think it has character,” Hella said. “It’s cute.” She turned to Norman, who sat in the backseat of the Cadillac. “But Sasquatch is right. You sure Captain Almighty lives here.”

  Norman sat in silence, looking out the window at the home. The grass, perfectly landscaped, was as green as he’d ever seen. A little girl appeared in the yard. A small black poodle chased her. She ran, hopping over the sidewalk, to the other side of the lawn. The dog followed. She hopped back to the other side. After a few more passes, a boy appeared. He looked to be a few years older than the girl. The boy was tossing a ball into the air catching it in a worn baseball glove. After one toss, the boy dropped the ball. The poodle ran to the ball, trying to grip it in its small mouth. The children laughed until the front door swung open.

  “Well, kids, it looks like you’ll go hungry tonight. Your mother’s out whoring again,” a husky man said, stepping onto the porch.

  The little girl started to cry. The boy dropped the baseball glove. The poodle picked it up and ran.

  “Is he doing that meditation thing again?” Hella asked.

  “Don’t think so. He’s eyes are open,” Sanford said.

  Norman blinked. There were no children. No dog. Only bright green grass. “I’m not meditating.”

  “You feeling all right, boss?” Sanford asked, noticing the sudden paleness that caused Norman’s complexion to blend with his graying beard.

  “I’m fine.” Norman cleared his throat. “What time is it?”

  “Almost eight,” Sanford said.

  “Are we really doing this at the house?” Hella asked.

  “We have to do it at the house.” Norman's tone was stern. “The sun will set around 8:30. Shortly after, Sanford, I need you to find a way in through the back. But you must be quiet and no suspicions can arise. This has to happen tonight. At this house.”

  Twenty

  Saint Louis, Missouri

  I sat alone, at the oval table made out of cheap wood, staring at the white cinderblock walls. The air filled with disinfectant and the low hum of a man’s voice on television. The last time I was in a place
like this I was about to become a father. And this time. This time, I was thinking of how I would react when I came face-to-face with my own father. Would I be able to kill him if it came to that? When it comes to protecting your family, a father will go to any extreme to ensure their safety. Irony tasted bitter sweet — the only true way to protect my family was to kill the person that brought me into this world. Could I trust that a jail cell would keep us safe? I doubted it.

  Reid returned with two cups of coffee. It was cut and dry for him. Norman Wallace had to die.

  “I’m not sure that I can do it,” I said, taking a Styrofoam cup from Reid.

  Reid took a sip, made a face that Michelle usually made when I told her broccoli was on the menu, and sat the cup down. “Do what?”

  “Kill him.”

  Reid took another sip of coffee. His reaction was less animated this time. “I’m not going to put you in that position.”

  I took a swig of the coffee. The bitterness caused my salivary glands to work overtime. I fought my gag reflex. “You didn’t warn me.”

  Reid laughed. “Didn’t you see my face? I’m grooming you to be a profiler. You should have known right away not to drink this crap.”

  I smiled and pushed the coffee away. “No chance of the justice system working this one out, huh?”

  “Bars cannot hold a man back that the world doesn’t believe in.” Reid paused to take another sip of coffee. “The official word is Wallace died thirty years ago. You can’t trace him back to a bad childhood. You can’t trace him back beyond the early fifties. If man has the ability to become invisible, it’s this man. In the eyes of the justice system invisible means no threat. You and I both know this isn’t true. Like Baudelaire said, ‘The Devil’s finest trick is to persuade you that he doesn’t exist.’ Anyone that comes in contact with Wallace is in danger.”

  A slamming door caused us both to turn around. Mack Root walked toward us with a manila envelope swinging from his right hand and a cup of coffee in his other hand.

  “Sorry about the door, my hands were full,” Mack said, placing the envelope on the

  table. He brought the cup to his lips.

  “About the coffee,” I said. It was too late. Mack took a big gulp.

  “Jesus Christ. Why didn’t you warn me about this mud water?” He made indescribable noises with his mouth to try to scare the taste away. “Anyway, I got some news. The blood on the wall belonged to Samuels. But we already knew that.” Mack picked up the cup, brought it to his lips, but put it down before taking a sip. “Prints came back on the letter opener. Belong to a Patty Cline.” He tossed a mug shot onto the table.

  “The singer?” I asked.

  “That’s Patsy Cline,” Mack said. “But that’s what I thought too. No, these prints belong to a twenty-six-year-old hooker from Detroit. Actually, she left Detroit a few years ago after a couple of Johns ended up dead.”

  “She kill ‘em?” Reid asked, holding his breath and taking another sip of coffee.

  “Not sure. Both are cold. Miss Cline turned up in Chicago earlier this year. She was picked up twice in March for solicitation.”

  “Makes sense,” Reid said. “Wallace was in Chicago.”

  “And here’s the best part. Miss Cline now goes by the name Hella Goode.” Mack laughed. “I can’t make this stuff up.”

  I chuckled, but Reid sat stone-faced. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I got a partial on Frederick. Belongs to Richard Lick.” Mack tossed another mug shot on top of Patty Cline’s photo.

  “Dick Lick?” I asked, trying to hold back the kid trying to break out of me. "Are you serious?"

  “Can you believe it?” Mack asked. “Like I said, I can’t make this up. Mr. Lick has a nice little record — everything from petty theft to assault with a deadly weapon. Here’s the kicker, he was set to serve fifteen for the assault, but disappeared from holding. That was five months ago.”

  I held up the mug shot. The guy’s head resembled a cinder block. He had no visible neck. Lick smiled in the photo, as if it were school picture day.

  “Where’s Lick from?” Reid asked.

  “Barlow, Kentucky, but he spent the last ten years in Statesville, North Carolina.”

  Mack’s words hit my gut like a stiff punch. Connecting the dots wasn’t necessary. My father knew Lick. But the scary thing was Norman wasn’t an hour from me and my family. How long had he been there? Had he been watching us? “What do you know about the assault?”

  “Looks like Lick got into a bar fight. Beat some guy to within an inch of his life with a pool stick. And then, and I’m quoting this, ‘threatened to shove the stick up my ass, twist my intestines around it like Lady and the Tramp.”

  “Eloquent,” I said.

  “There’s more,” Mack said, pulling another photo from the folder. “A friend in Chicago Homicide sent me this.” He handed the photo to Reid. “This is Peter Miller. A rich kid — college drop-out with a penchant for hard drugs. The gaping hole in his neck is courtesy of Mr. Lick. Prints on a gun left at the scene ID’d him.”

  Reid examined the photo. “This kid had no idea he was going to bed with the Devil.”

  “Sleeping with the worms now,” Mack said, picking up the cup and taking a sip before realizing it. He frowned and spit the coffee back into the cup. “I knew that joke was beneath an entomologist.”

  The door slammed again. The loud clank was followed by hurried footsteps. We all turned to see Jill Tanner running towards us with a smile that stretched across her face.

  “Don’t drink the coffee,” Mack said, wiping his tongue with a napkin.

  “Hate the stuff,” Jill said, taking a seat next to Reid. She placed a stack of papers on the table, put her hands on top of them, and with the nervous excitement of a kid at Christmas, said, “I found something.” Her fingertips tapped the stack before handing a paper to Reid. It was a copy of a page from a high school yearbook.

  “What’s this?” Reid asked.

  “It’s a page from the 1943 Withrow High yearbook in Cincinnati. Look,” Jill said pointing to one of the thumbnail size pictures. “The name.”

  “Harold Frederick,” Reid said.

  “The one and only,” Jill said. “That’s Father Frederick.”

  “OK, what does that have to do with any of this?” I asked.

  Jill smiled and pulled out another page and slid it in front of me. This one was a copy of a newspaper article with the headline, ‘Blasphemy: Pastor runs away with organist.’

  “Frederick’s father skipped town with the church organ player, Mary Beth Milton.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And...I researched Mary Beth. Shortly after she ran off with the priest, her husband, and real estate mogul, J.R. went crazy and killed himself in front of one of his kids.” Jill took a breath and pulled out another piece of paper. “This is an article where the Milton kids were sent to foster homes. BUT, each was left an enormous trust fund that they couldn’t touch until their eighteenth birthday.”

  “Keep going,” Reid said.

  “This one took a little more digging.” Jill handed Reid another paper. “About ten years after his eighteenth birthday, Jackson Milton transferred a large sum, to the tune of two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars, in three transactions to Walter Shanks.” She pulled out another newspaper article. “A week after the last deposit, Jackson Milton died in a hunting accident.”

  “You’re losing me,” I said.

  “Well, keep up.” Jill winked at me. “The day before the accident, Milton transferred fifty thousand dollars to Earl Garnett, editor of the local paper, Cincinnati Now.” Jill looked at me. “Still with me?”

  I nodded.

  Jill tossed another news article onto the table. “A year later, Walter Shanks was arrested for helping a guy, who was facing tax evasion charges, fake his own death. Shanks, who was bald-headed, went by the nickname Eraserhead.”

  “So, you think Shanks helped Milton fake his death?” Mack
asked.

  “I’m sure of it,” Jill said, placing the next paper on the table. It was as if she were playing the card game War. “Eraserhead made a living helping people escape from the law.”

  “Was Milton running from the law?” Mack asked.

  “Not that I am aware of. But, get this; Shanks died a week before he was set to go to trial. Paper says heart attack, but I have my doubts. Not two months later Norman Wallace sunk a large sum into pacemaker research. Get it? Pacemaker? Heart attack?” She waited. No one said anything. “OK, that’s the first record I can find of Norman Wallace anywhere. It’s like he just appeared.”

  “So, what you’re saying is…”

  Jill cut Mack off so that he didn’t spoil her reveal. “What I’m saying is,” she placed the last paper on the table. It was another page from a high school yearbook. She pointed to a picture. “This is Jackson Milton. Or you probably know him as Norman Wallace.”

  “I’ll be damn,” Reid said.

  I held up the page from the yearbook. I saw it in the nose. In the eyes. This was the first time I’d ever seen my father. I never saw a resemblance in Father Abraham. But this was undeniable. This was the man that brought me into this world. The man that was making my time in this world a living hell. I wanted to cry. I wanted to tear the paper to shreds.

  “Well, you got your father’s nose,” Mack said, trying to ease the tension.

  I feigned a smile.

  “Hey, look on the bright side; at least you didn’t get his personality.” Mack tapped me on the knee. He turned to Reid. “What’s next?”

  It took Reid a moment to answer. I’m not sure he even had an answer. Just as he was about to speak, Jill interrupted him.

  “Wallace has a sister. I think she is in danger.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Call it female intuition, but Wallace had Frederick killed. I’m afraid he is erasing any part of his past that can come back to haunt him.”