Desperate Measures

by M. Glenn Graves

  “The tip of the iceberg. Moloch or Molech or Milcom, Melkom, Malec, or Malik are just a few of the variations of the name. In one way or another, these variations appear in many religions of the Middle East. Molech, in Islam, means King. They all stem from the idea of a fire-god worshipped in the ancient Near East and North Africa by such groups as the Canaanites, Philistines, Arameans, Phoenicians, and other Semitic groups. They used different names, but the idea behind the names were similar. Connected to Molech was the fertility goddess Ashtoreth which called for the practice of male and female prostitution in their worship.”

  “Probably kept people from sleeping in church,” I said.

  “No doubt. Since Molech carried the idea of the male side of life and reproduction while Ashtoreth represented the female principle of fertility, you can readily see how the two balanced one another in their rather sensuous worship experience.”

  “Rather. Tell me more. I am titillated.”

  “Well, this should calm your libido a bit. The large, brass statue of Molech was depicted with the head of a bull and a body of a man. The belly of the man-portion was sufficiently large and resembled what you might call a pot-bellied stove. The hands of this bull-man extended in front of him as if he might be receiving a gift from the worshippers. The whole thing was likely two to three times the size of a normal person.”

  “The pot-bellied stove you mentioned was not just a metaphoric description, was it?”

  “No, dearie. Nor was the fire in his belly, a.k.a., the stove. The arms I spoke of were extended with a slight upward angle so that when the worshippers placed the child in the arms of the waiting Molech, the child would naturally roll down in the opened door of the belly and be sacrificed as a gift to the god of fertility.”

  “Lots of screaming and hair-raising yells, I would imagine,” I said.

  “Perhaps some music with accompanying drums performed by the people drowned out those cries,” Rogers said.

  “Altogether a very lovely scene.”

  “Depends on your taste.”

  “The fertility rites, the sacred intercourse practiced at the altar, these acts of procreation and hopeful fertility, were done with the priests and priestesses?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “This all begs a question for me,” I said.

  “What’s your question?” Rogers said.

  “How does some ancient, fertility based religion coupled with human sacrifice connect with the idea of the end of the world and some notion of a rapture?”

  “I have no idea, but I will seek out the answer and get back to you,” Rogers said.

  “You found nothing in your historical search of those names?”

  “Nada. Apparently, the Molech model of worship was more of a living in the moment kind of religious experience with a hope for some good vegetables and fruit along with another child or two in the not too distant future.”

  “Maybe just another case of blending traditions in our world,” I said.

  “Or perhaps it is the rather ubiquitous philosophy that says, if it feels good, then do it. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  Sam and I jogged for close to five miles and returned to Uncle Walters’ place just in time to find him fixing breakfast. Waffles, eggs, and bacon along with a selection of juices and black coffee awaited us. Sam shared in the waffles, eggs, and bacon fixings, but passed on the juices and black coffee.

  “I taped the news for you this morning. You shall find it interesting.”

  “Coverage of the fire yesterday?”

  “Plus an interview with the good Reverend Fletcher and some parishioners,” Walters said.

  “Can my stomach stand the act of watching and eating together?”

  “Depends upon the strength of your constitution,” he said.

  “Let’s begin the meal first and then add the media coverage.”

  “So we shall,” he said and handed me the bowl of eggs and a plate of biscuits to take to the table. He carried the bacon and the waffles.

  Fifteen or so minutes into our delicious mid-morning meal, I finally felt as if I could stomach whatever might unfold from the television report of the church-house fire.

  I nursed my coffee while Uncle Walters keyed up the recording of the news coverage. I handed Sam another scrap or two of leftover bacon trimmings along with a small bit of waffle soaked with maple syrup. I would have sworn that Sam was smiling after he had eaten the syrupy waffle.

  “This is the scene yesterday in the city of Weston where a fire destroyed most of the facilities of the Church of the Real End. The fire remains under investigation by the City Fire Marshall and police. Arson is suspected, but as yet the authorities have no suspect. The Reverend Reginald Fletcher was taken into custody for questioning but was released after a few hours. The police said that he remains a person of interest, but they have no evidence connecting him to the fire. We caught up with Mr. Fletcher as he was returning to his home,” the unseen reporter rattled on as the camera showed the vastness of the fire before finally cutting to the front door of the home of Reginald Fletcher.

  Fletcher had a faint smile as he stood with the female reporter just in front of his front door.

  “Did you have any information to provide the police and the fire department regarding this horrible tragedy?” the reporter asked.

  “I told the authorities all I knew,” he said innocently.

  “The police believe that this was arson,” the reporter said.

  “I cannot believe that someone would deliberately destroy a house of worship,” Fletcher said. “I know that some people do not agree with our practice and theology, but I cannot imagine why they would want to destroy our buildings. This is a sad day for religion in America.”

  “Brother,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Did you provide any information to the authorities concerning this tragic event?”

  “I told them that there was a private detective snooping around our church facilities and asking a lot of questions recently. She was the only suspicious person I could recall in recent days who might have had access to our church,” Fletcher said.

  “That son-of-a …,” I said and stood up.

  “Breathe, my dear. It’s not the end,” Walters said.

  “How are your parishioners handling this whole event?” the reporter said.

  “We are planning a late-night vigil at the ruins. Gathering for prayer and solace from one another as we seek to find direction now that our church has been destroyed,” Fletcher said.

  “Do you plan to rebuild?” the reporter said.

  “That decision is out of my hands,” he said and walked away from the reporter and entered his home.

  “This is Jan Ferguson reporting live from Weston, Massachusetts where the authorities are searching for this mysterious private detective who may have information concerning this horrible fire,” she said and the image froze.

  Walters put down the control after he had paused the recording.

  “Cryptic line from Fletcher, huh?” Walters said.

  “Yeah, it was. He turns the investigation towards me and then says that the decision to start again is out of his hands. Begs the question, if you ask me.”

  “To say the least. He’s the chief cook and dishwasher of this whole group,” Walters said.

  “That’s what I thought,” I said.

  “You going back to Weston?”

  “Without a doubt. I have no choice. I must clear my good name.”

  “You want me to ride along?”

  “I do. Just in case.”

  “Just in case?” Walters said.

  “They arrest me.”

  38

  Sam and I arrived at the police station in Weston, Massachusetts before lunch. Despite our predawn breakfast fare, I was not overly hungry upon arrival there. Sam, however, had this ravenous look about him. I got the message, so I had pulled into a fast food gas station, where I filled both my car’s tank and Sam’s as well. Two
double hamburgers without the fries for him and seventy dollars worth of hi-test for the vehicle likely stayed the emptiness on both accounts.

  Uncle Walters didn’t make the trip with us. At the last minute, someone called him and he had a business engagement that took precedence. Walters was still very much involved in business dealings despite his age and decades of success.

  Sam waited in the car after his meal while I entered the police station to turn myself in, so to speak.

  “My name is Clancy Evans,” I said to the sergeant at the main desk. “One of your investigators is looking for me. I thought I’d save you some search time.”

  He stared at me without speaking. Picked up the phone and dialed an extension. Forty seconds later, give or take, I was surrounded by three uniformed policemen, and one detective was giving me my Miranda rights.

  “Why’d you turn yourself in?” he said without feeling.

  “I saw the news.”

  “The news?”

  “The report on the arson investigation. Channel 38, I think it was.”

  “And that’s why you came in?”

  “Do I need a better reason?” I said.

  “Yeah, try something like the guilt got to you and you came to confess.”

  “No such luck. I didn’t do it.”

  He pointed to a chair in front of his desk as he closed his office door. The three uniforms remained outside as if I might try to make a run for it.

  My hands were cuffed behind my back, so sitting was a little difficult in any comfortable manner. I sat on the edge of the chair to keep the blood circulating.

  “Relax,” he said. “We’re all friends here.”

  “I don’t know you. How could we be friends?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. You’re in a lot of trouble.”

  “I doubt that, but I’ll go along with it for awhile,” I said.

  “You act like you’ve been in trouble before.”

  “I follow it around some.”

  The door opened and a young female officer came in with a sheet in her hands. She handed it to the detective whose name plate on his desk read, Owens, M.A., Senior Detective. She left as quickly as she had entered.

  “So, you’re a former cop,” Owens said.

  “That a question?” I said.

  “Observation. It says Norfolk Police. Down south.”

  I made no reply. He looked up at me. No smile, no gesture, no feeling. I imagined that he was a good interviewer for the criminal mind-set.

  “You a Southern Belle?” he said with a slight sneer.

  “Hardly. Just happened to be born in Virginia. Southern Belle was too much a reach for me. I opted for wise-ass.”

  “Think you’re pretty clever, huh?” Owens said as he walked around his desk, unlocked my handcuffs, and tossed them on his desk. They landed with a thud and a chink.

  “Clever? Not really.”

  “Then why you up here, Belle, working my district?” Owens said.

  “A client asked me to check into a strange death.”

  “Client got a name?” Owens said.

  “He does.”

  “You gonna give it to me?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s see, strange death ... that would imply unusual, so it must be that suicide that occurred a few weeks back down in Boston. Fire and gunplay, that the one?”

  This guy was no stupid policeman. He was quick at connecting dots himself.

  “That would be the one,” I said.

  “So, the young woman in that suicide was somehow related to the Church of the Real End?”

  “I think you’re onto something, Detective M.A.,” I said.

  “Call me Owens.”

  “Don’t use M.A.?” I said.

  “Not unless we’re intimate.”

  “Owens it is.”

  “What did she have to do with the church?”

  “Still researching that one.”

  “So, you had no reason to burn the church down,” he said.

  “Didn’t much like the priest/preacher, nor the few congregants I ran into; but, no, I didn’t have a good solid motive for torching the place.”

  “How’d you know it was torched?”

  “Television news said it was torched.”

  “Get your clues from the evening news?”

  “More like midday news coverage,” I said.

  “Hmph,” Owens said.

  “The Fletcher guy pointed a finger in my direction. I thought it best to come in and talk to the authorities.”

  “Decent and upstanding citizen that you are, right?”

  “Decent might be a stretch,” I said.

  “I think you know more than you are tellin’.”

  “A girl has to keep some secrets.”

  “Not in an ongoing investigation,” he snapped.

  “If I knew something pertinent, I would tell you.”

  “Yeah, and pigs fly every other weekend.”

  “You could do worse than work with me on this,” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re both wise-asses.”

  “Don’t leave town,” he said.

  “You guys need to come up with a better line that that.”

  “Okay, I have my eyes on you and you will remain a person of interest until this thing is solved. Clear it up a bit?” he said.

  “Does the parameter of town include Boston?”

  “Is that where you’re stayin’?”

  “I have an uncle who resides just outside of the city limits. My base of operations. Drive out, snoop some, drive back.”

  “Impressive. Give me his name and number.”

  I obliged, and Senior Detective M.A. Owens let me go after his repetitively thorough questioning. At least I had the good sense to be consistent. I also told the truth. For the most part.

  Sam and I headed to the home of the Reverend Fletcher. I was hoping that he might be more open to a talk with me.

  39

  “Back to insult me some more, Miss Evans, I believe,” Reverend Fletcher said as he surprised me by opening the front door of his super-sized mansion.

  “The butler out gathering virgins for the next sacrifice?” I said.

  “What do you want?” He looked at Sam then back at me.

  “I want to know what your involvement was in the death of Melody Legrand,” I said. “Could we talk inside?”

  I moved quickly through the open door before Fletcher could object or slam it in my face. Sam quickly followed my lead and scurried into the entrance. Fletcher closed the door behind us and then proceeded down the long hallway. Sam and I followed.

  “Okay, follow me. I might as well tell you the truth since you refuse to go away. Does the dog go everywhere with you?”

  “Pretty much, but sometimes he prefers to sleep. I try to allow him to decide when it is not essential.”

  “Essential?”

  “He works as a deterrent. Sometimes I insist that he join me.”

  “Attack dog, huh?”

  “I wouldn’t classify him that way.”

  “So I shouldn’t fear him losing control and coming after me?”

  “Losing control? Never. Coming after you? Hold that thought. He likes you as much as I do.”

  “Anti-religion, like you?”

  “Good judge of character or, more to the point, discerns when there is a lack of,” I said.

  “As long as he is potty trained.”

  “Nice diversion you pulled off with the police, but they didn’t buy my torching the palace,” I said.

  “I was hoping that they might detain you for a few days,” his sinister smile was more humorous than threatening to me. He gestured to one of the two chairs in front of his massive fireplace. I sat on the left side. Sam sat down close to me. Fletcher sat down on the right across from me and lit his pipe. It appeared to be the same one he had smoked on my last visit.

  “So, you want to know of my involvement in the death of Melody Legrand, as
you phrased it,” he said and puffed away blowing smoke rings above his head. Showing off.

  “I prefer that you be candid with me, you know, the illusive truth, as if I could trust you,” I said.

  “That’s the wonder of relationships, right? You will just have to trust me. Or you could verify the voracity of my words by using your skills as a detective.”

  I didn’t like the way he said the word skills. I comforted myself with the fact that better men than Fletcher had dissed me.

  “Let’s see how that goes. Tell me what you know.”

  “I wanted to marry Melody. I wanted her to become my priestess in the church. I wanted her to be my right hand and go off into glory with me,” he said.

  “Speaking metaphysically, right?”

  “Indeed not, if you are referring to the word glory.”

  “I am.”

  “Indeed, Miss Evans. My religion believes that the end of the world is imminent and that we will all be taken, as it were, either to glory or to devastation. Since I am the manifestation of Cronus here and now, I will be taken to glory, to be with him forever. My wife likewise will be in glory with me. It is our doctrine.”

  “Convenient for the new Mrs. High Priestess. What happened to you plan?”

  “I discovered that she was not a virgin, that she was, in fact, pregnant.”

  “Thus endeth the courtship,” I said.

  “Something like that. Except it is a little more serious in our religion. She was ousted from our church.”

  “So much for the forgiving spirit.”

  “Has nothing to do with forgiveness. She was chosen and ultimately failed the test after her selection. She was found to be impure. She knew that requirement all along.”

  “And she went along with this?”

  “You mean the selection process and the testing?”

  “Whatever you call it,” I said.

  “Yes, she did.”

  “But she had to know that she would fail the pregnancy angle,” I said.

  “One would think that. Not sure what her thinking was in that regard.”

  “And the two of you had not slept together,” I said.

  He stopped puffing on his pipe and glared at me. He stood up and walked over to the fireplace, knocked his pipe gently against a large stone set just above the opening, and watched the ashes fall to the rock floor. He kicked the ashes into the fireplace.