by David Bell
Before Stynes climbed out of the car, his cell phone rang. He recognized the number and answered.
“I was just thinking of you,” he said.
“Why?” the familiar voice answered.
“I was thinking about being old and retired, so naturally I thought of you.”
“Fuck you.”
Terry Reynolds was Stynes’s first partner. They’d worked the Justin Manning murder together. Stynes would never say it out loud-certainly not to Reynolds-but he owed his former partner a great deal. He learned more about being a cop just from watching Reynolds work than from anything else. Reynolds had been retired for close to eight years. He’d remarried and spent his days playing with his grandchildren and digging in his garden.
“Guess where I am?” Stynes asked.
“A home for bald-headed perverts?”
“I’m at Reverend Arling’s Zion Church.”
“Jesus. Did you do something wrong in a previous life?”
“You know who works here, right?”
“Did you get a message saying I wanted to play Trivial Pursuit over the phone?”
“Your boy, Dante Rogers.”
A long pause. Stynes could hear Reynolds breathing. “Really,” he said. “Shit, I saw in the paper he was working in a church, but I didn’t put it together that it was that one.”
“Someone came in today and filed a complaint about him.”
“What did he do? If he violates, we can send his ass right back-”
“That’s what I’m here to find out, boss.”
“I never understand why these guys don’t move out of state. Everybody in fucking Dove Point knows who he is. If he sneezes on somebody they’re going to call the cops.”
“I was planning on calling you when I was done here,” Stynes said. He looked out his window. Two kids went by on the same bike. One of them pedaled while the other perched on the back. They laughed when they saw Stynes. “I was going to give you an update on Dante, and I wanted to talk to you about some other stuff. You have any time?”
“I have nothing but time, unless Jeannie sends me to the store for a loaf of bread.”
“Or more adult diapers.”
“I saw that story in the paper yesterday, the one with you and the Manning woman.”
“Yeah?”
“Nice of the reporter to make the whole town look racist.”
“She’s a kid.”
“I don’t miss that shit, I tell you.”
Stynes gathered a pad and pen from the center console and slipped them into his jacket pocket. “I’ve got to go in here now,” he said. “But I’ll call you later. We can get together.”
“Sure,” Reynolds said. “And give Reverend Fred a message from me.”
“What would that be?”
“Tell him I said, ‘Fuck you.’ ”
The Reverend Fred Arling stood six feet tall and was rail thin. His mostly gray hair had receded half the distance across the top of his large head. He opened the side door wearing a black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie. He looked at Stynes over the top of small gold reading glasses and smiled.
“Detective.”
“Reverend.”
“Here to be saved?”
The reverend stepped back and showed Stynes down a short hallway into a small room that served as an office. The room was surprisingly clutter free-as opposed to Stynes’s own desk, which swam in paper-and smelled like it had just been cleaned. A new laptop sat open on the desk, and next to it was a well-worn, leather-bound Bible.
“Are you running a special?” Stynes asked.
“Always.”
The two men sat on opposite sides of the desk. The reverend’s posture made him seem even taller than he was, and Stynes wondered what it was like for a member of his flock to sit down in this room seeking guidance or forgiveness.
“I understand you have Dante Rogers working here,” Stynes said.
“Let me guess,” the reverend said. “A woman named Letitia Myers came to see you.”
“Go on.”
“Sister Myers read the newspaper story about Dante, saw that he was working here in my church, and-how do you white folks say it-had a cow?”
“She doesn’t think a convicted child killer should be working in a church around small children.”
“Did she accuse Dante of something?”
“Not directly.”
“Are you here to arrest him?”
“Not yet. But just being around small children could be seen as a violation of his parole. There are restrictions on where he can go and what he can do.”
The reverend removed his glasses and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Let me explain something to you, Detective. Do I look like I’m stupid? Do you think I’d let a man who might harm children, or harm anyone, around my congregation?”
“Why is he working here?” Stynes asked.
“Detective, I’m sure you can imagine what it would be like for a middle-aged black man, three years out of prison, with no education and not much in the way of smarts to begin with, to try to get a job? Don’t you think a church like mine has a role to play in making a brother’s life a little more tolerable? I counseled Dante when he was in prison, and then I continued that work after he got out. About a year ago, I gave him the chance to work at the church part-time, and he never, ever works with or around children. Now, I didn’t make a big deal out of him working here. I didn’t exactly tell any members of my congregation he was doing it. I figured if he wasn’t working with the congregation, then no one needed to know.”
“You might want to reconsider that stand,” Stynes said. “You’re just going to get more complaints. I know you’re not a for-profit operation here, but how are you going to keep the donations flowing in with someone like Dante around?”
“I have a higher calling to answer to.” The reverend raised his right index finger and scooted back.
“Is he here?”
“He is everywhere.”
“I mean Dante. And keep in mind his parole officer already told me he’s working here today.”
The reverend shrugged. “Then I guess this humble servant of the Lord has no choice but to let you by. Dante is back in our literature room right now, stuffing envelopes. When he’s finished, I’m going to treat the brother to lunch and a little Bible study. If you or Sister Myers object, I can’t change that.”
“I would like to talk to him,” Stynes said.
“Two doors down on the left,” the reverend said, pointing. “And go easy, Detective. Dante is a little skittish.”
Stynes stood up. “Dante remembers me,” he said. “And don’t I look like a gentle man?”
“Do you want to investigate a real crime, Detective?” the reverend said. He pointed to his computer. “Three hundred dollars missing.”
“From where?”
“From my accounts,” he said. “We’re a small church here, and we can ill afford to lose even a small amount of money.”
“Sounds like you need better bookkeeping software,” Stynes said.
Stynes found Dante hunched over a stack of envelopes and paper. Two large folding tables filled the center of the room, both of them covered with church flyers and literature, but Dante worked alone. The room smelled musty, like a long-closed closet. Dante didn’t look up when Stynes came to the door.
Stynes had seen the photos of Dante in the paper, but they didn’t convey completely the toll the years had taken on him. At the time of his arrest, Dante’s body had possessed a leanness. He looked like someone who ran track or cross-country. But there was nowhere to run in prison. Even though he was only forty-two, his face bore enough lines to make him appear ten years older, and a puffy double chin hung beneath his gray stubble. His shoulders were slumped. He seemed to be concentrating with great force on each individual task he performed in the “literature room.” Fold. Stuff. Seal. Dull work, but Dante made it look particularly arduous, like each piece of paper weighed fift
y pounds.
“Dante?”
He stopped what he was doing and slowly turned his head toward the door. His eyes had always been big, but they looked sad and pathetic after the prison time. A whipped dog’s eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” Stynes asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me. Who am I?”
“Cop.”
“You know why I’m here?” Stynes asked.
“Checking up on me.”
Stynes came into the room and sat down across the two tables from Dante. Dante followed Stynes’s movement with a slow turn of his head and a wary tracking of his big eyes. Stynes pointed to the piles of paper.
“You like doing this?” Stynes asked.
Dante shrugged. “It’s okay, sir.”
“Reverend Fred treat you okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You messing around with any little kids?”
Dante’s head jerked higher. His eyes widened. “Oh, no, sir. No, sir. Not at all.”
“Lot of little kids in this neighborhood,” Stynes said. “I saw them when I came in. A lot of little kids come to the church. Sunday school. Bible study. Youth groups. This seems like a nice hunting ground for a guy like you.”
“Reverend Fred doesn’t let me around the children,” Dante said. “I don’t want to be around them.”
“Oh, come on, Dante. I’m not an idiot. I know what you did in prison all those years. You didn’t sit around working through your problems and developing coping mechanisms, did you? You sat around fantasizing about getting out again and getting to where you’d see more little kids. You built up twenty-two years of frustration in there, and now you need to let it out.”
“No, sir. I became a Christian in there. I studied the Bible. I learned to deal with my problems.”
“You admit you have a problem?”
“Had, sir,” Dante said. “Had.”
For the first time, Stynes saw some life flash in Dante’s eyes, a hint that more brewed beneath the surface than was immediately apparent. His answer possessed a sharpness that his other speech lacked.
“You don’t want to relive the past?” Stynes asked.
“No, sir.”
“You talked to that reporter. Katie What’s-Her-Face.”
“My PO wanted me to do that,” Dante said. “And I thought I could give my testimony in there. Did you read it? I testified. I spoke about how God has helped me.”
“You said you’re innocent.”
“We’re all guilty of something. Only God can judge.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Dante,” Stynes said. “You said in that story you didn’t kill Justin Manning. Is that part of your testimony? Not taking responsibility for what you’ve done?”
A long pause. Dante considered Stynes from behind the sad eyes. He still held an envelope in his right hand. “I didn’t kill that boy,” he finally said. “But I’ve done other wicked things. My interview in the paper was about that.”
“You mean the little kid you diddled before you killed Justin Manning?”
Dante held the envelope in the air between them. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to get back to work.”
“Do you really know why I’m here? Do you know what prompted this visit? Some biddy from this church came to me and complained about you. She said she didn’t like the idea of a kid killer and a pervert working in a church. Now what do you think about that?”
“Like I said, only God can sit in judgment.”
“Don’t you just want to admit it now?” Stynes asked. “They can’t do anything else to you. You’ve already done your time. But don’t you want to give that family some peace? The Mannings? I saw them just yesterday, and they still wonder about what really happened in that park. They have questions. Wouldn’t God want you to just step to the plate and come clean? Wouldn’t he want you to say, ‘Yeah, I did it, and I’m sorry.’ Couldn’t that be part of your testimony?”
Dante put the envelope down. He used his hands-the fingers long and thin-to straighten some of the stacks before him. He didn’t look at Stynes.
“I’m sorry for that boy’s family,” he said. “I really am. I pray for them and for that boy.”
“Justin Manning. He has a name.”
“I can’t admit to something I didn’t do.”
“Why don’t you sue us then? You were wrongly convicted. Take us to the cleaners. Get a bunch of money and move to the Bahamas.”
“I don’t need earthly treasure,” Dante said. “And besides, I did commit wickedness and needed to be punished for it. Like Christ on the cross, I accepted my punishment.”
“Oh, Jesus, Dante,” Stynes said. “You’re really shoveling it.” Stynes shook his head. The man still didn’t meet his eye, and Stynes figured he had pushed about as hard as he could push against someone so obtuse, such a true believer. “I’m going to have to notify your PO that you’re getting too close to little kids,” Stynes said.
“He knows I work here.”
“I’ll do it just to be a dick. The PO will probably call you in for a piss test. They like doing that to ex-cons, even ones who don’t do drugs. He’ll probably even search your room. You better hope you stashed the porn in a good hiding spot.”
“I’d like to get back to work now, sir.”
Stynes went to the door. He looked back one more time.
“Think about doing that, Dante,” he said. “Think about stepping up and giving that family some peace.”
Dante resumed stuffing envelopes. He didn’t even look up.
Stynes stopped by Reverend Arling’s office on the way out. The reverend had his head bent over the computer screen, the glasses again perched on the end of his nose. He looked up when Stynes knocked on the doorjamb.
“Ah,” the reverend said. “Done hassling the brother, are we?”
“His PO might come by and follow up.”
“There’s nothing to find.”
“I have a feeling that if you keep Dante around, there will just be more of these visits.”
“Jesus ate with the lepers and the tax collectors,” the reverend said. “I can handle one wayward brother in my church. But you know what is interesting, Detective? You come here to hassle Dante, but does anyone hassle you about what ran in that newspaper story?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Dante has done his time, paid his debt, but still you come around. Meanwhile, no one questions that all-white jury, that circumstantial evidence at the trial. Why isn’t Dante afforded the same consideration as a white police detective?”
Stynes had a lot of things he could have said, most of them not appropriate for the confines of a church. He chose to walk away. “Save it for the pulpit, Reverend.”
“That’s right,” Arling said. “Walk away. You won’t even address the crime being committed against me. This hardworking church’s dollars being siphoned away.”
But Stynes was through the side door and on his way to the car. The heat pressed against his scalp and the back of his neck. He opened the car door, slipped off his jacket, and tossed it onto the backseat.
Three hundred dollars? Was it worth it to go back for three hundred dollars?
“Shit.”
Stynes reached into the backseat and grabbed his pen and pad. He walked back to the church, the sweat popping out on his skin.
He couldn’t wait for the day he could just walk away and stay away.
Chapter Thirteen
Janet spent her morning at work and the day before that not thinking about Michael. She attended a campus-wide meeting of office managers. She met with her boss, Dean Higgins, briefly about writing ad copy in order to hire two new work-study students for the fall semester. She answered the usual never-ending stream of e-mail.
And in spare moments-a short bathroom break, a quick visit to the break room for a cup of yogurt-she pushed Michael out of her mind, reminding herself always that she was no longer sixteen and no longer looking to date the
coolest guy in school. Sure, Michael still looked good despite the signs of aging and, sure, she still turned flutter-hearted just being in his presence. But Janet knew who she was-a working single mother with a larger mission in life, one that didn’t involve men. She needed to worry about raising her daughter, excelling at her work. Moving forward.
And while she-mostly-managed not to think about any romantic possibilities with Michael, she couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d told her and she’d told him:
Michael thought he saw his father, Ray Bower, in the woods the day Justin died.
In and of itself, Janet wouldn’t have thought much of the revelation. The Bowers lived close to the park, so maybe Ray was there. Or Michael could have been mistaken, conflating some other memory from his childhood with the day Justin died.
But Janet had told Michael about the man from the porch, and if there was someone else-even this man from the porch-who claimed that the events of that day didn’t happen the way everyone thought, then maybe there was something to it, something to be explored more fully.
And Janet hadn’t even spent much time factoring in the questions asked by the newspaper reporter-
“There you are.”
Janet looked up from her desk. Her mind was drifting too far, letting thoughts that didn’t belong at work grab too strong a hold in her brain.
Madeline stood before her, and as strange as it seemed, Janet wanted to thank her for the diversion, for getting her mind away from problems she couldn’t solve.
“Here I am,” Janet said.
“You seem distracted,” Madeline said. “Ready for lunch?”
“Lunch?” Janet looked at her desk calendar. Lunch with Madeline. Once a week the two of them walked to the student center together and either grazed the salad bar-if they were being good-or joined the students in eating the hamburger and fries special if they felt indulgent. Janet suspected today would be a hamburger and fries day.