Incendiary Designs

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  The leisurely pace gave Caleb time to observe the doctor and examine his office. He was left-handed and wore a gold wedding band. His hands were long-fingered and carefully manicured, but strong-looking, with fine, pale hair covering the backs. His voice was deep and melodious, but projected just enough to cross the space between them. It gave an impression of intimacy, though his reserve discouraged familiarity. He reminded Caleb of a cat. His credentials were displayed in the usual manner. He’d graduated with honors from Loyola Medical School, specializing later in internal and family medicine; and he’d been certified by the appropriate medical boards. There were medical tomes in the tall bookshelf behind him, and on the desk, a portrait of the perfect family—Dr. Morgan and his statuesque, blond wife; lovely, teenage daughter; and model-beautiful son.

  When he seemed satisfied with Caleb’s history, Morgan asked about the “accident” that was Caleb’s presenting complaint. Caleb abbreviated the event as much as possible, but Morgan’s eyes widened. “That was on the news! You’re the Good Samaritan who saved the policeman!”

  “I’d prefer to keep that between us.”

  Morgan returned his attention to the chart. “Yes, of course. Did they take X rays?”

  “No. It didn’t seem necessary, but they did have to suture some of the lacerations.”

  Morgan nodded. “And how are you feeling today? I notice you’re limping.”

  “As if I’d been run over by a bus.”

  “What did they give you?”

  “Tylenol with codeine.”

  “How’s that working?”

  “I haven’t taken any yet. I thought I’d try getting by with aspirin first—fewer side effects.”

  Morgan nodded and made another note on the chart, then stood and said, “If you’ll come this way, Doctor?” He led Caleb to an adjacent examining room and produced the ubiquitous paper gown. “Please take everything off but your briefs and put this on. I’ll return in a few minutes.”

  The examination was as thorough as the history. Morgan peered into Caleb’s eyes and ears and down his throat, giving the impression that he had nothing else to do all day. He felt Caleb’s neck and throat with fingers as gentle as his voice. Caleb felt a little, involuntary thrill of pleasure at the touch, though there was nothing in the doctor’s manner to suggest anything unprofessional.

  As he listened to Caleb’s heart, he lowered his gaze and seemed to focus his entire attention on what he was hearing. Caleb was reminded of a devout congregant, involving his whole being in his prayer. Morgan moved the stethoscope again, and as he concentrated, Caleb noticed how his long lashes lay against his cheeks. His expression gave no hint of what he was discovering about the state of Caleb’s health, but Caleb had many times seen just such a rapt expression on the faces of symphony-goers—suggesting that all they needed for sustenance was what they were imbibing through their ears. The doctor’s every movement was careful and deliberate, as if from long habit he moved in a way least likely to distress a nervous patient.

  Morgan repositioned the stethoscope and said, “Breathe in slowly and deeply.” Though there was nothing suggestive in his manner, Caleb felt himself responding as if to a lover’s touch. He wished that he could meet someone like this, but someone who wasn’t straight or married. And then he forced himself to think of borderline personality disorder and income tax audits.

  Sixteen

  At 8:30 A.M. Evanger invited Thinnes to come into his office and bring him up to speed; Oster tagged along. They left the door open so Evanger could keep an eye on the squad room. Unnecessary. Everybody was keeping busy.

  “What’ve we got on this church?” Evanger asked.

  “Established three years ago by the Reverend Lewis English,” Thinnes told him. “Aka Brother John English, aka Rude Lewis—that was before he saw the light. Used to be a dedicated con artist. He bought up the church building at a tax auction and had it rehabbed. No information on how he financed either deal, but somehow he got it a tax-exempt status.”

  “Figures,” Oster said.

  “Carl,” Evanger said. “Find out who gets the property now that he’s dead, will you? See if he left a will?”

  “Yeah, sure…”

  Viernes stuck his head through the doorway. “Thinnes, one of the tac cops just reported activity at the church. They’re keeping an eye on things ’til you get there.”

  The sign on the door said DIVINE CONFLAGRATION CHURCH — ALL ARE WELCOME so Thinnes didn’t think they needed a search warrant to enter. Besides Oster, he’d brought Swann, Viernes, Ryan, Ferris, three of the property crimes dicks, and two tactical officers—the team that’d been watching the building.

  The cops stood against the back wall. The interior was dim. Except for rows of folding chairs instead of pews, and regular clear glass windows in place of stained glass, it was a pretty standard small church. The lectern was where the sanctuary would have stood if there’d been a sanctuary.

  A service was in progress. The thin young man behind the lectern was lit dramatically by an overhead spotlight and didn’t seem to notice as they filed in. He was Caucasian, and had thick, black hair with the odd strand of gray, and hazel eyes.

  “An opal holds a fiery spark,” he announced, “but a flint holds fire.” It was the kind of line amateur actors usually got off on. He should have shouted it. He was doing his best to imitate the speaking style of the late Brother John, without succeeding. He didn’t have the confidence or polish. Or the practice. And he was reading his remarks, not reciting them.

  “In the coldest flint there’s hot fire. You must be flint. You must kindle the fire of belief in others. Then you’ll see how great a matter a little fire kindleth.”

  Standing next to Thinnes, Swann muttered, “Kindle not a fire you can’t put out.” Swann was the Area’s resident expert on scripture. He obviously wasn’t impressed.

  “When your heart is on fire, sparks will fly from your mouth…” He finally spotted the cops and trailed off. “Can I…what is it?…”

  “Sorry to interrupt your service, Reverend.” Thinnes had to raise his voice to carry across the space. “But we’re conducting a murder investigation and we need your help.”

  “Er…sure.”

  An example of how a heater case burns up the usual objections to paying overtime, there were almost as many cops as there were worshipers—half a dozen men and eleven women. Thinnes used the standard divide-and-conquer routine for the interviews—separate the subjects and question each separately. They dragged the chairs around to make little conversation areas, and each interview team set up shop in a different spot around the room. The three church members Thinnes and Oster interviewed personally were typical of the group.

  The preacher’s name was Gary Oddman. He claimed he’d never heard of Officer Banks. He’d been preparing his Sunday sermon at the time she was being killed, preparing to deliver it while her remains were being dumped. He knew Brian Fahey slightly, but he hadn’t seen him for a couple days. Fahey was one of several regular church members who’d been absent Sunday, the same members—excepting Charlie—who were absent today. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know Brian Fahey well.

  “What’s Fahey’s part in the church?” Thinnes asked.

  “He’s the caretaker. And he runs errands. He used to be Brother John’s chauffeur.”

  “Did he have any particular hatred for the police?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you ever hear of him starting fires?”

  “Only in a symbolic sense.”

  “The phrase ‘Fire next time’ mean anything to you?”

  “It’s from the Bible. God destroyed the world for men’s wickedness by flood the first time. The next time it will be by fire.”

  “Who else is missing—your regulars?”

  “Besides Brian, John and Abel Smith, and John Mackie, Ron Hughes and Sister Serena. But her attendance has been sporadic at best since Brother John passed away.”

  “Tell m
e about Serena.”

  “That’s not her real name. I don’t know her real name. She’s schizophrenic—not that you’d have known it when Brother John was alive, but she must’ve quit her medication. She’s gotten real withdrawn—at first she wouldn’t look at you when she talked to you. Lately, she won’t even talk to anyone. And she hasn’t been coming to services…”

  “How did you get to be minister?”

  “I was elected.”

  Thinnes pointed around the room. “You mean they voted you in?”

  “No, I mean elected in the sense of chosen.”

  “Who by?”

  “Brother John, of course. He named me in his will.”

  “Any chance we could see a copy?”

  Gary seemed suddenly at a loss. “I don’t know. I don’t have it.”

  “Who does?”

  “The church’s business manager.”

  “Where do we find him?”

  “That’s just it. I don’t know. He called me up after Brother John’s death and told me the church was to continue and I was to be acting minister until further notice. He said all the bills would be paid and everything taken care of. He sounded so reassuring, I didn’t think to ask his name. And I didn’t realize ’til he’d hung up that he hadn’t left a number.”

  Thinness handed him his business card. “Next time he calls, you be sure to get his name and number. Then call me.”

  Next they interviewed a twenty-seven-year-old female Cauc who looked like a high school girl, down to her baggy overalls and platform shoes. Thinnes asked for her name and address—Gayle Slevin, Lakeview. Oster wrote everything down. She told them she was living with her parents and worked as a receptionist for a veterinarian, and she was supposed to be at work in twenty minutes, so could they please be quick.

  “Tell me about the church,” Thinnes said.

  “We pray and fast and do good works.” Thinnes waited. “We have meetings and vigils. Sometimes we do community work.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, we all have regular shifts at the soup kitchen. And we take turns working at the church store. Sometimes we rally for Jesus or picket godless businesses.”

  “Like when Brother John got arrested?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “No.” Her answer seemed defensive—as if it was something to be ashamed of. “I wanted to be, but they wouldn’t do it.”

  “The police wouldn’t arrest you?”

  “Yeah. They took Brother John away and told the rest of us to move along.”

  Thinnes waited. When she didn’t elaborate, he said, “So you did what?”

  “We went home to wait for further instructions.” She pouted. “Brother John told us to. He said another would come to lead us into the millennium. It’s only five years away, you know.”

  “This other that’s s’posed to come,” Oster said. “Who’d he be?”

  She looked at Oster. “I don’t know.” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “That’s the tragedy—he never told us.”

  The last girl made Thinnes think of an overeager waitress. He was almost surprised when she didn’t say, “Hi, I’m Kathie. I’ll be your server.”

  He asked her the same questions he’d asked the others. When he got to who, of those who usually attended services, had been missing yesterday morning, she told him Sister Serena, and brothers Ron and Charlie, the two Johns, and Abel. She didn’t know any of their last names.

  “What about Brian Fahey?”

  “Is that his name? Fahey? He doesn’t usually come to services, ya know?” She started to twist her finger absentmindedly in her hair. Habit.

  “What does he do for the church?”

  “He runs errands and, um, drives Brother John…” They waited. “Used to drive him, ya know? Just stuff.”

  “He a believer?” Oster asked.

  “Well, you know? What else would he be?”

  Oster looked at Thinnes and didn’t answer.

  “What’s he like?” Thinnes asked.

  Her face went blank for a fraction of a second—she’d never really looked at him, Thinnes would’ve bet. Finally, she said, “I dunno. I mean…He’s older, kinda quiet. Ya know? I used to think he was a dirty old man. I mean, before Brother John died he was…He used to stare, ya know? But since…he’s been, ya know, kinda like almost scared of something.”

  Thinnes could feel Oster’s irritation as he fought his own urge to strangle her. “So what do you think he’s afraid of?”

  She shrugged. “You got me. Ya know?”

  “Who’s been running the church since Brother John died?”

  “Brian. Sort of. I mean…ya know? He said Greg should lead the prayers and, like, the business manager said we’d all get paid and whatever. Ya know?”

  “What do you get paid for?” Oster demanded. His tone made it perfectly clear he couldn’t see paying her for anything.

  Thinnes shot him a look, then rephrased the question. “You work for the church, Kathie?”

  “Yeah, I mean. We all do, ya know?”

  Thinnes was getting tired of “Ya know?” If she wasn’t actually clueless, she was a terrific actress. “One more thing, Kathie. Have you met this business manager?”

  “Um…no.”

  “Know who he is?”

  “You’d have to ask Brian. I mean, I’m not into any of that, ya know?”

  “Where can I find Brian?”

  She shrugged.

  “Did you ever hear him threaten anyone?”

  “No, I mean. I don’t think I ever heard him say five words, ya know? Um, what’s he done?”

  “We’re lookin’ into that,” Oster said.

  Thinnes said, “Tell us about Brother John.”

  “He was special, ya know? He listened. I mean, he made you feel like he understood you better than anyone in the world…” Her eyes began filling with tears. “…and, um…if you’d just listen, ya know, he’d give you all the answers.”

  Seventeen

  Sister Serena, aka Maria Cecci, lived in the first floor apartment of a two-flat that had JESUS LOVES YOU and JESUS IS ALIVE posters in the front window. She didn’t answer when Thinnes rang the bell. After a couple minutes, he knocked, in case the bell was out. Still no answer. While they waited, Oster looked over the neighborhood.

  They finally had the building super let them in. The apartment would’ve embarrassed a fraternity, and the super stood inside the door shaking his head in disbelief. Besides looking as if it had just been tossed by the DEA, there was garbage and dirty dishes everywhere, drug paraphernalia and a dozen empty wine bottles. “This ain’t right,” he said. “Maria’s lived here five years. Last time I was in the place, you could’ve eaten off the floors. And she ain’t a boozer. This ain’t her.”

  “Well it’s somebody,” Oster said. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and said, “Where do you start?”

  Thinnes crossed to the bedroom doorway and looked in. Like the front room, it was filthy and disorderly. Except that the closet door was shut. Nothing else was closed—not the shades or dresser drawers. The bed was unmade. What’s wrong with this picture? he asked himself. He took out his .38. He held it up and ready as he crossed to the closet door. His move caught Oster’s attention. He followed Thinnes into the room, drawing his weapon, too. He covered as Thinnes stood to one side of the closet door and turned the knob. He yanked the door open.

  A woman was sitting on the floor of the closet, with her legs drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. She gave Thinnes, or maybe his gun, a terrified look and let go of her legs. She buried her face between her knees. And she clasped her fingers together over the back of her neck with a sob.

  No threat.

  Thinnes holstered his weapon and said, “Maria Cecci?”

  Oster said, “We’re not gonna hurt you ma’am,” as he put his gun away. “Get up. Now.”

  The woman didn’t move. Oster took her by one wrist, Thinnes by the oth
er. They pulled her hands apart and lifted her to her feet. Thinnes let her go.

  A closer inspection showed a Caucasian, about five-three, brown-eyed and bleached-blond. She looked about forty-five, was wearing a dirty Salvation Army store wardrobe—white T-shirt under a camouflage flack jacket, and a full, mid-calf-length skirt. White socks showed above her combat boots. There was a rhinestone-studded crucifix around her neck. She pulled her hand from Oster’s grasp and grabbed the crucifix, holding it out on its chain as if warding off a vampire. She didn’t look at Oster as she said, “Don’t touch me!”

  “You gonna stand still and talk to us, Maria?” he asked.

  “My name is Serena. I used to be someone else. Now I’m serene, serene, Serena.”

  “You ever been arrested, Serena?”

  She started humming. Her fingertips beat a drumroll on the sides of her legs.

  “Where were you yesterday morning, Serena?”

  “Doin’ the Lord’s work.”

  “What would that be?”

  She just looked away.

  “We’d like you to come with us to answer a few questions,” Thinnes said.

  “No! You got no warrant! I mean no cause.”

  “We have probable cause to arrest you for conspiracy to commit aggravated arson,” Oster told her. He took hold of one of her wrists and had it behind her and cuffed before she could react. Thinnes took her other wrist, holding on until Oster got the cuff around it. Then he radioed for a policewoman.

  She didn’t resist. But she kept up a steady drumming with her fingers against her backside. And she started singing, “Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, storm and tempest. Storm and tempest. Fire next time.”

  She was wound up so tight, Thinnes wondered if she was on speed. They left her “hanging”—cuffed by one hand to the wall in the Area interview room. Though alone in the room, she’d shake her head as if replaying an inner argument in her head and disagreeing violently. A couple of times, she started to get up and was stopped by the cuffs. She seemed startled, as if she’d forgotten them. Then she’d sit back down and drum against her thigh with the fingertips of her free hand.