Ring of Fire IV

by Eric Flint

  Gotthilf nodded. That’s how he saw it, as well.

  “But that doesn’t matter at the moment,” Reilly continued. “We’ve got to get this guy, now, or we’re all going to be deep in the kimchi.”

  “We got a suspect yesterday evening,” Byron said.

  “Who is it?”

  Gotthilf looked to Byron, who gave him a small head motion toward the captain.

  “It’s one of the pastors,” Gotthilf said.

  “Who?” Reilly repeated.

  “Laurentius Demcker, the archidiakon to Dr. de Spaignart at St. Ulrich’s church in Old Magdeburg.”

  “The assistant of the most learned and most political of the pastors? Are you nuts?”

  Captain Reilly didn’t sound pleased, Gotthilf noted. But then, he might be excused at having another political implication loaded onto his plate.

  “Aw, come on, Cap. You saw enough of the televangelist scandals up-time to know that just because a man is a pastor that doesn’t make him a saint.” Byron had a disgusted tone to his voice.

  “Is he the man?” Reilly asked after a moment.

  “Not sure, Cap,” Byron interjected. “But he could be. And if he isn’t, he may be able to give us leads to the real perp.”

  “Chieske, if you finger this guy and he’s not the killer, you’re going to drop us all in the chamber pot. The church will hang us from their crucifixes.”

  “Get us two days, Bill. If we can’t get the guy by then, we’ll deserve to have the troops in the streets.”

  Reilly stared at them both. Gotthilf returned a level gaze to the captain. “All right,” Reilly said. “I’ll talk the mayor into two days, somehow. But if you don’t have me somebody in handcuffs by then, it’s going to hit the fan, and there won’t be any going back after that.”

  “Two days,” Byron repeated. “We’ll get him, Cap. Promise.”

  “Get after it, then,” Reilly said, waving at the door.

  Gotthilf almost trotted to keep up with Byron’s long-legged strides down the hall. They rumbled down the stairs side by side. No one said anything, but the way between them and the outside door cleared almost like Moses parting the Red Sea. They burst outside and down the front steps and came to a stop by the first police vehicle.

  “We’ve got to split up,” Byron said. “I’m going to go hammer this Demcker guy, since I’ve met him. You go talk to the other one that was there, whatsisname.”

  “Schönfeldt,” Gotthilf said.

  “Yeah, him. I’ll meet you in the square by the Rathaus in the old city in three hours and we’ll compare notes. Got it?”

  “Yah,” Gotthilf said as Byron swung up into the first vehicle. The up-timer gave directions and the driver urged his horse into a trot.

  * * *

  As his wagon rumbled down the gravel of Kristinstrasse, Byron tried to remember everything said by the instructor of the class on interrogation he had attended a year before the Ring fell. He’d been an older guy named McPherson, probably in his later fifties, thinning gray hair and a brusque manner; but he’d known his stuff. He should have, having been a criminal investigator first for the Army’s Judge Advocate General Corps, and then the West Virginia State Police, ending as a captain.

  McPherson had walked in front of the instructor’s desk at the front of the room and hopped up to sit on it. He’d held up the textbook and growled, “Read this on your own time. There’s good information in it, and it’s not bad for teaching about interviewing witnesses. But it’s a total failure as far as teaching anything about interviewing suspected perpetrators, and that’s what we’re going to spend most of our time this semester looking at. Here’s the short version, people.”

  Byron remembered students, himself included, scrambling to get pens and notebooks ready to capture what was coming.

  “Your goal is to get the perp talking, and keep him talking by any means you can. The more he talks, the longer he spins out his story, the more he’ll let slip and the more you can get a read on his personality, emotions, and responses.

  “There are two rules, people,” McPherson had said. He’d held up a finger. “First, you’ve got to convince him you’re sympathetic to him, on his side. You’ll have to play on his likes and fears to do that.” McPherson had held up a second finger. “Second, never ask a yes or no question. Never let a perp have a chance to say ‘No’ to anything. That will break the flow, and there’s a really good chance he’ll clam up at that point.”

  McPherson had slid off the desk onto his feet. “If you don’t learn anything else this semester, learn those two things. Clear?”

  Byron came back to his present as the wagon pulled to a halt in front of St. Ulrich’s Church. “Clear, Captain,” he whispered.

  * * *

  The second vehicle pulled up, and Gotthilf climbed aboard the light cart.

  “Where to?” asked the driver.

  “Heilige Geist Church,” Gotthilf said. “As quick as you can.”

  The cart rumbled into motion. As the driver guided his horse down Kristinstrasse toward the bridge into the old city, Gotthilf looked through his notes from yesterday’s interview with the pastors and racked his memory for all the things that hadn’t made it into the notes. They were drawing up in front of the church as he came to the end of that exercise. He still wasn’t sure how he would approach Archidiakon Schönfeldt as he clambered down from the wagon.

  “Wait for me,” he told the driver. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, but if your boss gives you any trouble about it later, tell him to come talk to me.”

  “We will be here,” the driver said as he set the brake and climbed down from the wagon seat.

  * * *

  Archidiakon Demcker rose from his chair by the table in the vestry room as the church sexton ushered Byron into the room. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Chieske?” he asked.

  Byron waited for the sexton to leave the room, then closed the door behind him. “I need to ask you some more questions about the same matters you discussed with Sergeant Hoch yesterday.”

  “Of course,” the young pastor said. “Please, take the chair,” he added as he stepped over and seated himself on a low stool.

  “Gotthilf said there was only one chair in this room,” Byron said as he settled into it.

  Demcker gave a faint smile. “I had a feeling that there might be other conversations following upon yesterday’s, so I asked Sexton Held to find another seat.”

  Byron grinned back at the pastor. “Good thinking.” He sobered after a moment, and said, “The murders of these women are about to stir a passel of trouble in Magdeburg. We have got to find the murderer, and soon.”

  “Murderer? You are so certain that these acts were done by one man?”

  Byron nodded. “Yeah, we are. I can’t reveal evidence to you, but we have evidence collected in analyzing the crime scenes and the autopsies that make it clear to us that a single man committed the murders and mutilated these women.”

  Archidiakon Demcker shuddered. “It is hard enough to consider someone killing young women like that. It is almost unthinkable to think that they would mutilate the bodies in so grotesque a manner.”

  “Except that someone did think of it,” Byron retorted. “Not only thought of it, but did it. Three times.”

  “Which only proves the theological thesis that man is a depraved creature,” Demcker responded sadly.

  “That’s as it may be,” Byron said. “I’m not here to debate general theology. I’ve got to catch a specific killer, soon, before he kills again.”

  Demcker nodded. “I understand. I will help in any way I can. Ask your questions.”

  Byron sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, presenting an air of comfort.

  “Would you say that the men and women of your church get along, Archidiakon?”

  “As much so as any group of people,” Demcker responded.

  “They’re nice people, then?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

&
nbsp; “Do you like the women of your church, Archidiakon?” Byron asked.

  * * *

  Gotthilf encountered Archidiakon Simon Schönfeldt as soon as he entered the side door at Heilige Geist Church.

  “Oh, hello, Sergeant Hoch,” the pastor said in surprise, stopping short as Gotthilf appeared in the doorway.

  “Archidiakon Schönfeldt,” Gotthilf responded. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “About?”

  “The things we discussed yesterday.”

  Schönfeldt’s mouth tightened a bit, then he said, “Come this way.” He led the way to a small room much like the one Archidiakon Demcker had used at St. Ulrich’s Church.

  “Another vestry?” Gotthilf asked with a smile.

  Schönfeldt responded with a smile of his own. “I learned this from Archidiakon Demcker. Our sexton hasn’t learned yet to look for me in here. I can actually have an hour or so for my own study if I step in here when no one is looking.”

  “Ah,” Gotthilf said. “That I can understand.”

  There were two low stools along one of the walls. Schönfeldt pulled them out, sat on one and waved Gotthilf to the other. “What can I do for you today?” he asked.

  “What can you tell me about Archidiakon Demcker?”

  A look of astonishment crossed the pastor’s face. “Laurentius? Why? You don’t think that because he lost his copy of that Bible he…”

  “No,” Gotthilf responded, “this is not about that. Or at least, not only about that. We have testimony that there may have been a connection between him and at least two of the women who were murdered.”

  “Ridiculous!”

  Schönfeldt’s eyes flashed and his face flushed.

  “Laurentius is one of the gentlest souls I know. He would no more be able to murder someone than I could walk on the clouds.”

  “You know him well, then?”

  “Well enough,” Schönfeldt said.

  “How long have you known him?” Gotthilf pulled his notebook out again.

  “A little over two years, since right after I arrived here in Magdeburg.”

  “Ah,” Gotthilf said. “Where did you come from?”

  “Jena,” Schönfeldt said. “I was invited to come by Pastor Jonas Nicolai to serve as his assistant here at Heilige Geist church.”

  Gotthilf jotted notes while Schönfeldt was talking. He looked up and said, “So are you the newest pastor in town?”

  Schönfeldt thought for a moment. “I believe I am. Laurentius came from Hamburg a few months before I did. And I believe the next newest is Pastor Agricola, who is serving St. Jacob’s while Dr. Gronovius is ill.”

  “I see.” Gotthilf added more notes. “So you came from Jena, Archidiakon Demcker from Hamburg, and Pastor Agricola from Saxony, by his voice.”

  “Leipzig, I believe.” Schönfeldt’s voice was flat.

  Gotthilf looked up. “Is there something wrong with Pastor Agricola?”

  Schönfeldt made a face. “Not necessarily something wrong. He is like many young pastors, and not a few older ones, who seem to think that their chamber pots do not stink.”

  * * *

  “What?”

  Demcker looked confused. Byron stared at him, eye to eye, and said, “Do you like women, Archidiakon Demcker?”

  “Inasmuch as they are God’s children and members of the parish, yes.” There was still a trace of bewilderment in the pastor’s eyes.

  “Oh, come now, Archidiakon. You mean you’ve never admired a shapely woman, or admired a well-turned leg in your time here?”

  Now the pastor looked away. “Retro me, Sathanas,” he muttered.

  Oh, touched a nerve here, Byron said to himself. Of course, he knew if he said “No” I wouldn’t have believed him.

  “Do you like to touch women, Archidiakon?”

  Demcker turned white.

  “I mean,” Byron pressed on, “sometimes you have to offer a hand of guidance or correction, don’t you?”

  Demcker started to flush.

  “Soft, aren’t they?”

  “Lieutenant, I…”

  “Really soft,” Byron interjected. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Especially if you have to correct them, put them in their place. They ask for it sometimes, you know. I’ve seen it.”

  Demcker opened his mouth, eyes narrowed, then froze. After a moment, his mouth closed, and he turned away.

  * * *

  Gotthilf looked back to his notebook. “A common failing in humanity, I believe.”

  Schönfeldt sighed, and said, “You are right, Sergeant. I wrestle that demon myself.”

  There was a moment of silence while Gotthilf thought, then he asked his next question. “Is Archidiakon Demcker the type of man who could or would encourage a woman to desire him?”

  Schönfeldt snorted. “Absolutely not!” He leaned forward a bit and spread his hands wide. “Sergeant Hoch, Laurentius Demcker has only one heartbeat, and that is to be a pastor to his people. I’ve never known anyone who has the passion to be a shepherd that he has. His first thought when he wakes up each morning is to pray for someone in his congregation. His second is to think of someone who needs comfort or help, and see to it that they receive it. His last prayer at night is that God will prepare him to minister the next day to those who are weak, wounded, or failing. Of all men I know, pastors or not, he is the least likely to prove to be a wolf who preys on the flock rather than the shepherd who prays for them.”

  “A paragon of pastors, then,” Gotthilf murmured as he made notes.

  “Aye,” Schönfeldt agreed, “far better than I. And perhaps the sad thing is that he will likely remain a simple pastor his entire life, while others will use him as a stepping stool in their climb to rank and renown.”

  “Someone like Pastor Agricola?”

  “Or even myself,” Schönfeldt replied. Gotthilf noted that he didn’t deny the comment about the other pastor.

  “Do you think that rankles him? Archidiakon Demcker, I mean?” Gotthilf asked with interest.

  “No,” Schönfeldt said with a sad smile. “It would me; it does rankle me on his behalf. But Laurentius would probably prefer serving as he does now, for it would mean he would see the people more and see their needs better than he would if his rank were higher.” He shrugged. “I will not claim sainthood for him, but he is a better candidate than most.”

  * * *

  “Come on, Archidiakon,” Byron insisted. “What’s the harm in admitting the truth, here?”

  Demcker turned back to stare at him, head slightly tilted. “Why are you doing this, Lieutenant?”

  “Just looking for the truth, sir.” Byron was a bit nonplussed. Everything he knew, everything he’d seen in other interrogations and in the roleplaying coached by Captain McPherson said Demcker should have been furious by now. Instead, all he was getting was a quizzical look from the pastor, and what looked to be a bit of a sad expression.

  “Well?” Byron prodded.

  Demcker sat up straight, and sighed. “I am only human, Lieutenant. If it gratifies you to hear me admit it, then yes, I have been tempted; am often tempted. But I am called to be a pastor; to be a shepherd. It is my responsibility to watch over the flock, to shield it; not to be a ravening lion that feeds on it. I will not so dishonor my people; I will not so dishonor myself; I will not so dishonor my God.”

  Byron leaned back for a moment and looked at the young pastor. His eyes were clear and steady, his facial expression was not angry, his body language was no tenser than one would expect after being indirectly accused of murder. If this guy was lying, he was the best that Byron had ever seen.

  He leaned forward, good humor gone and deadly serious. “We have a witness who states that the two women from your congregation who were murdered both had the hots for you.”

  “Hots?” Poor Demcker looked very confused.

  “Lust. They wanted to have your babies.”

  Byron almost laughed again as the pas
tor went absolutely white with a most aghast expression on his face. It was obvious that he had been struck speechless. It was a very long moment before Demcker could muster words.

  “I understand what you are saying,” Demcker said the words one at a time, slowly. “I cannot speak to the state of mind of those unfortunates. I will say that if they harbored such delusions, it was not from any enticement or encouragement from me.”

  There was a moment of silence after that declaration, then the young pastor continued in a quiet voice, “On the hope of my salvation and eternal life, as God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit bear witness, I swear to you, Lieutenant Byron Chieske, that I did not commit these awful murders; that I had and have no relationship with any woman in our congregation other than that of pastor and parishioner; and that I have in no way attempted to entice or seduce any woman. So help me God.”

  Byron sat back in the chair, holding Archidiakon Demcker’s gaze with his own. The pastor did not flinch, fidget, glance away, or otherwise in any way betray nervousness. Every instinct that Byron had, every signal that he received, every measurement he could make told him that the young pastor was not lying.

  “So you believe that Archidiakon Demcker had no untoward relationship with either Frau Margrethe Döhren or Frau Anna Seyfart?” Gotthilf returned to his main topic.

  Schönfeldt shook his head, and said in a tired voice, “He could not have; not and be the man and pastor I know him to be.”

  “And therefore Archidiakon Demcker did not murder either woman?”

  Schönfeldt simply shook his head again, wordless.

  “Then who did?” Gotthilf muttered in frustration.

  * * *

  “Let’s say for the moment that I believe you,” Byron said after a moment. “In that case, let me ask you if you can think of anyone else that we should consider a suspect? Anyone at all?”

  Demcker shook his head slowly. “If I suspected one of my brother pastors of something so heinous, I would have already taken it to my superiors. As for one of my parishioners, no, I know of no one who could have done this, and I have no one to suggest.”

  Byron stared at him in frustration. “Right.”