“I hear little Complacency has been banished for failure and the Ba-al is in a rage.”
Tal chuckled. “Hogan has come to life like a dormant seed. Nathan! Armoth!” They were there immediately. “You have more warriors now. Take as many as you need to surround Marshall Hogan. Greater numbers may intimidate where swords cannot.”
Guilo was visibly indignant and looked longingly at his sheathed sword.
Tal cautioned, “Not yet, brave Guilo. Not yet.”
RIGHT AFTER MARSHALL’S call to Harmel, Bernice’s phone nearly jumped off the wall. Marshall didn’t ask her, he told her, “Be at the office tonight at 7, we’ve got work to do.”
Now, at 7:10, the rest of the Clarion office was deserted and dark. Marshall and Bernice were in the back room, digging old issues of the Clarion out of the archives. Ted Harmel had been quite fastidious; most of the past issues were neatly kept in huge binders.
“So when did Harmel get run out of town?” Marshall asked as he flipped through several old pages of a back issue.
“About a year ago,” Bernice answered, bringing more binders up to the big worktable. “The paper operated on a skeleton crew for several months before you bought it. Edie, Tom, myself and some of the college journalism majors kept it going. Some of the issues were okay, some of them were a lot like a college paper.”
“Like this one here?”
Bernice looked at the old issue from the previous August. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t look too closely.”
Marshall flipped the pages backward. “I want to see the issues up to the time Harmel left.”
“Okay. Ted left in late July. Here’s June … May … April. Just what are you looking for?”
“The reason why he got run out.”
“You know the story, of course.”
“Brummel says he molested some girl.”
“Yes, Brummel says a lot of things.”
“Well, did he or didn’t he?”
“The girl said he did. She was about twelve, I guess, a daughter of one of the college regents.”
“Which one?”
Bernice probed her brain, finally forcing the memory out. “Jarred. Adam Jarred. I think he’s still there.”
“Is he on that list you got from Darr?”
“No. But perhaps he should be. Ted knew Jarred pretty well. The two of them used to go fishing together. He did know the daughter, had frequent access to her, and that helped the case against him.”
“So why wasn’t he prosecuted?”
“I don’t think it ever went that far. He was arraigned before the district judge—”
“Baker?”
“Yes, the one on the list. The case went into the judge’s chambers and apparently they struck some kind of deal. Ted was gone just a few days after that.”
Marshall gave the worktable an angry slap. “Boy, I wish I hadn’t let that guy get away. You didn’t tell me I’d be putting my fist through a beehive.”
“I didn’t know that much about it.”
Marshall kept scanning the pages in front of him; Bernice was going through the previous month.
“You say this all blew up in July?”
“Mid to late July.”
“The paper’s pretty quiet about it.”
“Oh sure. Ted wasn’t going to print anything against himself, obviously. Besides, he didn’t have to; his reputation was shot to pieces anyway. Our circulation dropped critically. Several weeks went by without any paychecks.”
“Oh-oh. What’s this?”
The two of them zeroed in on a letter to the editor in a Friday issue from early July.
Marshall scanned, muttered as he read, “‘I must express my indignation at the unfair treatment this board of regents has received from the local press. … The recent articles published in the Ashton Clarion amount to nothing less than blatant malfeasance of journalism, and we hope our local editor will be professional enough to check his facts from now on before printing any more groundless innuendoes …’”
“Yes!” Bernice brightened with recollection. “This was a letter from Eugene Baylor.” And then she slapped her hands to either side of her face and exclaimed, “Oh …! Those articles!” Bernice started flipping hurriedly through the June binder. “Yes, here’s one.”
The headline read, “STRACHAN CALLS FOR AUDIT.” Marshall read the lead: “‘Despite continuing opposition from the Whitmore College board of regents, College Dean Eldon Strachan today called for an audit of all Whitmore College accounts and investments, still voicing his concern over recent allegations of mishandling of funds.’”
Bernice’s eyes rolled up and scanned the heavens as she said, “Hooboy, this may be more than just a beehive!”
Marshall read a little further: “‘Strachan has asserted that there is “more than adequate evidence” to justify such an audit even though it would be costly and premature, as the board of regents still maintains.’”
Bernice explained, “You see, I never paid that much attention when all this was going on. Ted was an aggressive sort, he’d gotten on the bad side of people before, and this just sounded like another mundane political thing. I was just a reporter on the innocuous human interest staff … what did I care about all this?”
“So,” said Marshall, “the college dean got himself in hot water with the regents. Sounds like a real feud.”
“Ted was a good friend of Eldon Strachan. He took sides and the regents didn’t like it. Here’s another one, just the week after.”
Marshall read, “‘REGENT MAULS STRACHAN. Whitmore College Regent Eugene Baylor, the college general treasurer, today accused Dean Eldon Strachan of “malicious political hatcheting,” asserting that Strachan is using “deplorable and unethical methods” to further his own dynasty within the college administration.’ Heh. Not exactly a harmless little tiff between friends.”
“Oh, I understand it got bitter, really bitter. And Ted probably stuck his nose out a little too far. He started catching the crossfire.”
“Hence Eugene Baylor’s angry letter.”
“Along with political pressure, I’m sure. Strachan and Ted had many meetings and Ted was finding out a lot, maybe too much.”
“But you have no details …”
Bernice only threw up her hands and shook her head. “We have these articles and Ted’s phone number, and the list.”
“Yeah,” Marshall mused, “the list. A lot of college regents on it.”
“Plus the chief of police and the district judge who cooked Ted’s goose.”
“So what became of Strachan?”
“Fired.”
Bernice flipped through some more old Clarions. A loose page fluttered out and dropped to the floor. Marshall picked it up. Something on the page caught his eye and he perused it until Bernice found what she was looking for, an article from late June.
“Yes, here’s the write-up,” she said. “‘STRACHAN FIRED. Citing conflicts of interest and professional incompetency as their reasons, the Whitmore College board of regents today unanimously called for Dean Eldon Strachan’s resignation.’”
“Not a very long article,” Marshall commented.
“Ted put it in because he had to, but it’s obvious he held back any damaging details. He firmly believed Strachan’s cause was just.”
Marshall kept flipping through the pages. “Ehhh, what’s this one here? ‘WHITMORE COULD BE MILLIONS IN ARREARS, SAYS STRACHAN.’” Marshall read that one carefully. “Wait a minute here, he’s saying the college could be in big trouble, but he isn’t saying how he knows.”
“It kept coming out in bits and pieces. We just never got all of them before Strachan and Ted were silenced.”
“But millions … you’re talking real money here.”
“But you see all the connections?”
“Yeah. The regents, the judge, the police chief, Young, the comptroller, and who knows who else, all connected to Langstrat and very quiet about it.”
“And don
’t forget Ted Harmel.”
“Yeah, he’s quiet about it too. I mean, real quiet. The guy’s scared out of his socks. But he wasn’t a very loyal member of the group if he sided with Strachan against the regents.”
“So they rubbed him out, so to speak, along with Strachan.”
“Maybe. So far we have just a theory, and it’s foggy.”
“But we do have a theory, and my being in jail fits the pattern.”
“Too nicely just yet,” Marshall thought aloud. “We need to realize what we’re saying here. We’re talking political corruption, abuse of process, racketeering, who knows what else? We’d better be really sure of ourselves.”
“What was that page there that dropped?”
“Huh?”
“The one you picked up.”
“Mm. It was out of order. It’s dated clear back in January.”
Bernice reached for the proper binder on the archive shelf. “I don’t want the archives all mixed up after—hey, what’d you fold it all up for?”
Marshall shrugged a little, gave her a very gentle look, and unfolded the page.
“There’s an article about your sister,” he said.
She took the page from him and looked at the news story. The headline read “KRUEGER DEATH RULED SUICIDE.” She put the page down quickly.
“I figured you wouldn’t want to be reminded,” he said.
“I’ve seen it before,” she said abruptly. “I have a copy at home.”
“I read the article just now.”
“I know.”
She pulled out another binder, opening it on the worktable.
“Marshall,” she said, “you may as well know everything about it. It might come up again. The case is not resolved in my mind, and it’s been a very difficult battle for me.”
Marshall only sighed and said, “You started this, remember that now.”
Bernice kept her lips tight and her body straight. She was trying to be a detached machine.
She pointed to the first story, dated mid-January: “BRUTAL DEATH ON CAMPUS.”
Marshall read silently. He wasn’t prepared for the horrible details.
“The story isn’t entirely accurate,” Bernice commented in a very guarded tone of voice. “They didn’t find Pat in her own dorm room; she was down the hall in an unoccupied room. I guess some of the girls used that room to study by themselves if it got too noisy on the floor. No one knew where she was until someone spotted the blood running out under the door …” Her voice cracked, and she shut her mouth tightly.
Patricia Elizabeth Krueger, age nineteen, had been found in a dorm room, naked and very dead, her throat slashed. There was no sign of a struggle, the entire college was in a state of shock, there were no witnesses.
Bernice flipped to another page and another headline, “NO CLUES TO KRUEGER DEATH.” Marshall read it quickly, feeling more and more like he was invading a very sensitive area where he had no business to be. The article stated that no witnesses had come forth, no one had heard or seen anything, there was no clue to who the assailant might be.
“And you read the last one,” Bernice said. “They finally ruled it was a suicide. They decided that my sister had stripped herself and cut her own throat.”
Marshall was incredulous. “And that was that?”
“That was that.”
Marshall closed the binder quietly. He had never seen Bernice looking so vulnerable. The feisty little reporter who could hold her own in a jail cell full of hookers had one part of her still laid bare and wounded beyond healing. He put his hands gently on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s why I came here, you know.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers, reached for a nearby tissue to wipe her nose. “I … I just couldn’t leave it at that. I knew Pat. I knew her better than anyone. She just wasn’t the type to do such a thing. She was happy, well-adjusted, she liked college. She sounded just fine in her letters.”
“Why … why don’t we just pack it up for the night?”
Bernice didn’t acknowledge his suggestion. “I checked the dorm layout, the room where she died, the roster for the names of every girl living in that building; I talked to all of them. I checked the police reports, the coroner’s report, I went through all of Pat’s personal effects. I tried to track down Pat’s roommate, but she’d left. I still can’t remember her name. I only met her once when I was here for a visit.
“I finally decided just to stick around, get a job, wait and see. I had some newspaper background, the job here was easy enough to land.”
Marshall put his arm around her shoulders. “Well, listen. I’ll help you out, any way I can. You don’t have to carry this whole thing by yourself.”
She relaxed a bit, leaning into him just enough to acknowledge his embracing arm. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me. Listen, as soon as you’re ready, we can go over it, recheck everything. There might still be some leads somewhere.”
Bernice shook her two fists and whimpered, “If I could just be more objective about it!”
Marshall gave her a gentle, comforting chuckle and a friendly squeeze. “Well, maybe I can handle that end of it. You’re doing a good job, Bernie. Just hang in there.”
She was a nice kid, Marshall thought, and as far as he could remember this was the first time he’d ever touched her.
CHAPTER 13
For obvious reasons the congregation of Ashton Community Church was much smaller and fragmented this Sunday morning, but Hank had to admit that the whole atmosphere was more peaceful. As he stood behind the old pulpit to open the service, he could see the smiling faces of his supporters peppered throughout the small crowd: yes, there were the Colemans sitting in their usual spot. Grandma Duster was there too, in much better health, praise the Lord, and there were the Coopers, the Harrises, and Ben Squires, the mailman. Alf Brummel hadn’t made it, but Gordon Mayer and his wife were there, and so were Sam and Helen Turner. Some of the not-so-actives were there for their usual once-a-month drop-in, and Hank gave them special glances and smiles to let them know they were noticed.
As Mary banged out “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name” on the piano and Hank led the singing, another couple came in the back door and took a seat near the rear, as new folks usually did. Hank didn’t recognize them at all.
Scion remained near the back door, watching Andy and June Forsythe take their seats. Then he looked up toward the platform and gave Krioni and Triskal a friendly salute. They smiled and saluted back. A few demons had come in with the humans, and they were not happy to see this new heavenly stranger even lurking about, let alone bringing new people into the church. But Scion backed nonthreateningly out the door.
Hank couldn’t explain why he felt as joyful as he did this morning. Maybe it was having Grandma Duster there, and the Colemans, and the new couple. And then there was that other new fellow, the big blond guy sitting in the back. He had to be a football lineman or something.
Hank kept remembering what Grandma had said to him, “We need to pray that the Lord will gather them in …”
He got to the sermon and opened his Bible to Isaiah 55.
“‘Seek the Lord while He may be found; call upon Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts; and let him return to the Lord, and He will have compassion on him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon … For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways My ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, and making it bear and sprout, and furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater; so shall my word be which goes forth from my mouth; it shall not return to Me empty, without accomplishing what I desire, and without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it. For you will go out with joy, and be l
ed forth with peace; the mountains and the hills will break forth into shouts of joy before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.’”
Hank loved that passage, and he couldn’t help smiling as he began to explain it. Some people simply stared at him, listening out of obligation. But others even leaned forward in their seats, hanging on every word. The new couple sitting in the back kept nodding their heads with very intent expressions. The big blond man smiled, nodded his head, even shouted out an “Amen!”
The words kept coming to Hank’s heart and mind. It had to be the Lord’s anointing. He stopped by the pulpit from time to time to look at his notes, but most of the time he was all over the platform, feeling like he was somewhere between heaven and earth, speaking forth the Word of God.
The few little demons lurking about could only cower and sneer. Some did manage to stop the ears of the people they owned, but the onslaught this morning was particularly severe and painful. To them, Hank’s preaching had all the soothing effect of a buzz saw.
On top of the church, Signa and his warriors refused to bend or back down. Lucius dropped by with a sizable flock of demons just in time for the service, but Signa would not step aside.
“You know better than to tamper with me!” Lucius threatened.
Signa was sickeningly polite. “I’m sorry, we cannot allow any more demons into the church this morning.”
Lucius must have had more important things for his demons to do that morning than try to hack their way through a wall of obstinate angels. He delivered a few choice insults and then the whole bunch roared off into the air, bound for some other mischief.
When the service ended, some people made a beeline for the door. Others made a beeline for Hank.
“Pastor, my name is Andy Forsythe, and this is my wife June.”
“Hello, hello,” Hank said, and he could feel a wide smile stretching his face.
“That was great,” Andy said, shaking his head in amazement and still shaking Hank’s hand. “It was … boy, it was really great!”
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