The Killing of Bobbi Lomax

by Cal Moriarty

  ‘The Spirit chose the Prophet to hear his words, and for Rebecca to transcribe them. The Voice of the Spirit came unto the Prophet while at the Crystal Arch, a language only he heard, and, as he repeated the Spirit’s words, Rebecca transcribed them into a written language. She said later she could not control her arm, her movements. The Spirit was within her and he controlled her, to bring the Voice of the Spirit to the world through the vessel that was our Lord Prophet so that he would enable us, the Children of Satan, to be delivered from ourselves.’

  ‘Amen,’ said Ron.

  Rod must be practicing for his new role in the Faith. Clark must have heard that sermon thousands of times. Or at least, the over-long, tedious sermon it was a very small part of. ‘Amen,’ said Clark. And, as both Ron and Rod had, he raised his clasped hands to his chest as a mark of respect to the Lord Prophet.

  ‘Clark, I think this could be part of the Testament of Faith. The original.’

  ‘The original? The one that Rebecca transcribed?’ said Ron, his mouth so open it was catching flies.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Rod. ‘Very possibly.’

  Want over reason, thought Clark as he watched Rod stride over to the telephone.

  ‘I need to get an expert down here.’

  ‘Now?’ said Clark.

  ‘Right now,’ said Rod.

  ‘It’s almost eight pm. Who’s going to come out now?’

  ‘For this?’ said Rod. He was punching in numbers out of an address book. ‘Any sane person. This . . . this could change lives.’

  ‘Who you calling?’ said Ron.

  Rod ignored him, put one hand over his ear and pressed the handset up against the other.

  ‘Clark, where did you say that traveling salesman got this?’

  ‘Nevada. Reno, I think.’

  ‘Reno. That’s where Rebecca Bright went after Robert Bright’s death. Her family were from there. That must be how it got there.’

  Want over reason.

  Want. Want. Want. Over reason.

  19

  November 2nd 1983

  Abraham City Police HQ

  ‘Rise and shine, I got breakfast.’ Marty opened his eyes and saw a foil-wrapped taco being waved in his direction. Al dumped the taco and a large carton of OJ down on Marty’s desk. Marty had the floor last night; Al had slept on his chair, feet up on his desk, until one of the rookie detectives, Hobbs, woke him up a few hours ago. Al was back at his desk now, facing Marty. From all the stuff piled on top of both the desks it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. The only thing that set them apart was that Al’s had an electric typewriter on it. Marty couldn’t type for shit and Al was pretty fast. He would have made someone a great secretary. Still might.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ said Marty, twisting himself up off the floor.

  ‘Someone ran a stop light, over by the freeway.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘I’ll let you know when they find ’em. They smashed into a drugstore and then took off. A passing trucker said one of them went out the windscreen, was bleeding bad, so sometime soon he’s gonna need a hospital.’

  ‘Or the morgue,’ said Marty.

  ‘I put the call out. They wiped out the drugstore.’

  ‘Robbed it?’

  Al shook his head. ‘No. Fireball. Place is incinerated. Lucky the two of them didn’t fry.’

  Marty smiled. ‘Maybe they just took a wrong turn.’

  ‘Yeah, straight to county jail.’

  Marty picked up the taco. Unwrapped it.

  ‘Casa Alvarez.’

  Marty, his mouth full of its flavors, said, ‘Five-star. Thanks, Maria.’

  ‘We got the name of the driver off the engine plate, that was about all that was left. I sent Hobbs and Carvell over to the owner. It was stolen, earlier in the night, off some old couple. They’re headed back.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘For that shit? Did you want the call?’

  ‘Not really. Sleep’s better than chasing down a couple of punks. When did you make it home?’

  ‘Just after. I thought I’d see the kids before they headed off to school. They were fighting over something or other. I shouldn’t have bothered.’

  Marty rolled up the silver foil, tossed it into their shared waste-basket. ‘I’m glad you did.’

  *

  By the time Marty had showered and was headed back to his desk the room was full again, ready for the morning briefing. Not that there was much to report, but Marty wanted a word with Gary Hobbs first. On Day 2, after the Sheriff’s press briefing, Marty had tasked Hobbs and his partner, Carvell, with interviewing the one per cent of the disgruntled three thousand who had lost the largest investments in the Lomax company, figuring that they were probably higher on the motivation Richter scale than the rest of the list. It would be good to see what questioning might bring. Marty stopped at Hobbs’ desk. ‘How’s it going, Gary?’

  ‘The bomber, right, not the drugstore cowboys?’

  ‘Yeah, the former.’

  ‘Well, it’s promising, that’s for sure. Might all turn to crap soon, but right now it’s promising. We got four guys flagged up we could bring in, I was going to do some background checks on them last night, but then the cowboys finished that.’

  ‘What did they say, in the interviews?’

  ‘Yeah, well, Mart, that’s it: they didn’t show up for the interviews.’

  ‘You gave them notice, right?’

  ‘Sure. Carvell did the ring-around. Gave them all appointment times. And these guys were just no-shows.’

  ‘They know each other, you reckon?’

  ‘Small town, Mart, most everyone knows everyone or knows someone who does. Between us yesterday we knew most of the investors.’

  Marty smiled, it was too small a town. He had never figured out why the crime rate here was so high. He guessed no one here had heard the expression, ‘Never crap on your own doorstep’.

  ‘Next time, pull the records and do the research before you get them in.’

  Hobbs nodded. He knew it was a screw-up. He was only two years as detective and in his defense this was the first time Abraham City had ever had anything that might be described as a murderous bombing spree.

  ‘Anyone bring a lawyer?’

  ‘No. And we saw twenty-four investors. All men. Two were away on business, out of the country.’

  ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘Before the bombings, according to secretaries and wives. They’re going to contact them and get them to call me. I said it was urgent. The ones we spoke to yesterday were all seasoned investors, seemed resigned to the loss of their money. It’s crazy: some lost almost a hundred grand. Didn’t even bat an eyelid when I said that was good motive for murder. Win some, lose some was the general attitude.’

  Arnold Lomax had certainly lost, that’s for sure. Not to mention his wife and Peter Gudsen, and Houseman all mangled and still in a coma.

  ‘Just the four no-shows? Nothing else suspicious about any of the others?’

  ‘Not at interview. You want us to dig deeper now?’

  ‘No, wait. Track down the no-shows first.’

  ‘Yeah, hopefully it’s one of them because otherwise we got about two thousand, nine hundred and seventy others to interview.’

  ‘Put a BOLO out on the no-shows. And when you do their backgrounds put any of them with military experience to the top of your list, particularly ordnance.’

  They’d be top of the list for property search warrants also. But first they’d need probable cause.

  Hobbs was a promising detective and he was connected, Abraham City style. Which had its advantages and disadvantages, but as long as the information was flowing into the department, not out of it, it wasn’t a problem. Hobbs’ father, Eric, was the Senior Brother in the Supreme Chamber, a kind of Disciples B-team should one of the Disciples shuffle off the mortal coil without much notice and before they could call an internal election with bishops att
ending from all around the world. Disciple was a job for life, not something anyone ever quit from.

  ‘Thanks, Marty. We’ll get on it right after the briefing.’

  ‘Forget the briefing. Start it now. You and Carvell. Grab a couple of the other guys and get it done as soon as.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  *

  Marty was back at his desk now, not that he could see it for paper and throw-away coffee cups.

  ‘Somebody just dropped this off for you, sir.’ It was Campbell, one of the young uniforms who worked the reception desk. He held out a small white box. Marty looked at the kid. Didn’t take it.

  ‘At least it doesn’t have red ribbon around it,’ said Al from his desk opposite.

  ‘We had it checked, sir. It’s OK.’

  ‘Maybe the guy changed his modus operandi, Al.’

  ‘Or just ran out of ribbon,’ said Al smiling.

  ‘Aren’t you and Tex just gonna fry that Houseman guy?’

  ‘Maybe. There’s not been any bombs since Houseman on Halloween. That’s over forty-eight hours. There was only thirty-three hours between the second and third ones, and just fifty-two minutes between the first two, Lomax and Gudsen. So maybe it’s over.’

  ‘We won’t need that new computer if you keep that up, Al.’ Marty took the package off Campbell. ‘Thanks. I think.’ Marty began to search the desk for a scissors. The package was so bound up with masking tape the sender must not have wanted anyone to open it up. At least not fast. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘My point is, man, that no matter what way you look at it the guy is lying low, either lying in the hospital or lying in wait for his next one.’

  ‘And we don’t know which?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like it. Not for sure.’

  ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

  ‘Yeah, but nobody blew it up, either,’ said Al.

  ‘Yeah, but they did set fire to it.’

  ‘And fiddled while it burned.’

  ‘What you trying to say, Al?’

  ‘I’m trying to say I wish we had the answers already.’

  ‘Answers aren’t always . . .’

  ‘Yeah, yeah I know. I need a piss. Good time to ship out anyhow: it was nice knowing you.’ Al got up and moved towards the restrooms.

  Marty had hacked his way into the package. Inside was a bulk of bubble wrap, already split open with his heavy-handed scissoring. He prised it open. Right at the heart of it all was a tiny book. He looked at it, flicked through it. It was the Old Testament, in Hebrew. Just like the one that Peter Gudsen had bought for Marion. He looked down at the discarded outer packaging. He could see a small envelope. He opened it up. Inside was a handwritten card.

  Detective Marty, I think Peter would have liked you to have this.

  Take care of it, and yourself. Yours, Marion Rose.

  Above the handwriting was a heavily printed line and above that it read: FROM THE DESK OF MRS MARION ROSE. Underneath was printed her home address and a telephone number. He looked at the phone on his desk. He could call her, right now. What would he say? Here in the precinct, with everyone listening in. Thank you would be a start. He picked up the handset.

  ‘Hey Marty.’ It was Johnny Carvell, stood right next to the desk. ‘I almost forgot. I took a call for you last night. Some guy called Burkeman. Said he’s got some information about the bombings. He’s gonna call you back.’

  ‘That it?’

  Carvell shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I don’t know any Burkeman, that the name?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘The case. He’ll call back. He was en route to Cali.’

  ‘What did he say about it?’ You always had to drag everything out of Carvell.

  ‘That he had some information.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to take it down?’

  ‘I asked. He wasn’t very . . .’

  ‘Forthcoming?’

  ‘Yeah, that. Said he only wanted to talk to you. He sounded high or something.’

  ‘It gets better. A high informant heading out of state.’

  ‘The gift that keeps on giving.’

  ‘Did you get a number?’

  ‘I told you: he’s traveling.’

  Marty hung up the receiver. Hobbs was beside Carvell now.

  ‘Hey Marty, I can go over to the Faith for you later if you want – once we’ve done the checks,’ said Hobbs. ‘I heard you had to cancel your appointment with Laidlaw.’

  The Faith jungle drums reach far.

  ‘Postponed it. A bit later. High noon. Don’t worry. I got it.’

  ‘If you’re sure. I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’m good. Thanks, Gary. Keep an eye on Carvell here and the rest of them. Page me when you get something interesting.’

  ‘Sure.’ Gary Hobbs and everyone connected with the Faith knew that Alan Laidlaw, the second highest member of the Order of the Twelve Disciples, blamed Marty for the loss of his daughter, Sherri. Lost her to another place, another state, far away from here. But mostly Alan Laidlaw directed his venomous, all-consuming hatred at him not because of Sherri, but because he had ‘lost’ his only granddaughter, Liss, while she was, ostensibly, in the care of Marty, her father.

  Just after that, Sherri had moved to Vegas with that lawyer she’d been having an affair with for over a year. He had a small law firm off the Strip specializing in contracts for cabaret artistes. Cabaret. She had taken Drew, her and Marty’s son, with her.

  Marty had heard rumors in the Precinct that old man Laidlaw believed he had something to do with Liss’s disappearance. For sure, some people didn’t look at Marty the same way any more. And it wasn’t just pity.

  20

  The Mission

  Not for them the theatre of sweeping through the high entrance with its magnificent gilded gates that opened onto the Faith’s glorious cathedral and its towering golden spire. Instead, the Rooks’ discretion decreed they not head that way, not this time of night with tourists and the Faithful gathered at the gates, pushing their Kodaks through the wrought iron to catch the twinkling multicolored light show that lit up the golden spire as it reached out shimmering to heaven. Clark silently agreed. It was never a good idea to catch the attention of the camera-wielding curious. Instead, the Rooks’ Oldsmobile Cruiser rumbled towards the side gate and parked right alongside the only other car in the lot.

  Clark was so near now he made sure to control everything, his breathing, every movement of his limbs, his speech. Nothing could give him away. The Rooks trusted him, he knew that. They wouldn’t be looking for a tell, but their contact might be. Who knew how many documents he saw a year claiming to be this and that? How many he and the Faith rejected? But Clark couldn’t have the taint of rejection. Not now. Not when he was so close.

  With Rod leading, the three of them soon found themselves through the Mission’s discreet side door and inside, near the back of a closed and probably locked door marked ‘Sacristy’ with a bronze plaque in faux-Victorian Gothic etching. There was no one to greet them. Clark was grateful, he could feel the sweat on his palms. Following Rod, he held a door open for Ron and with both men in front of him Clark moved his hands slowly into his chinos pockets and left them there, sweat soaking into the lining.

  Rod led them past the sacristy into a long brightly-lit corridor with numerous rooms off of it, doors all shut tight and probably firmly locked. At the end of the corridor a door was ajar. Light bled out from it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Rod say, ‘He’ll be in there,’ and watched as his pace picked up. Clark knew on the other side of that door was a man who would either make or break his life. He slowed his breath down and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.

  Inside the room, hand outstretched and headed straight for Clark, was a short, trim man who looked no more than thirty. Clark set his face to full beam.

  ‘You must be Clark Houseman. Welcome to our magnificent Fa
ith library, Clark. And thank you for coming here at this hour. I’m Peter. Peter Gudsen.’

  Clark already knew that. He had made it his business to know. Peter Gudsen. Thirty-six. Accountant. Married. Of course. Four young boys. The Faith’s chief archivist. A man with a penchant for Faith history and a care for its words. Clark knew that such a responsible position must be chosen from within the Church’s circle of trust and so, as the Faith’s rising star, Peter Gudsen was the perfect conduit for Clark’s ambitions.

  ‘Thank you for inviting me, Mr Gudsen.’

  ‘Peter, please.’

  ‘I hope we haven’t ruined your evening, Peter.’

  ‘On the contrary, from what Rod tells me you and he might be about to make my century.’ He beckoned for the others to follow him and then he walked quickly back towards the center of the room. ‘While I was waiting for you, I took a little time to gather together some copies of our existing Testament of Faith. Which, as you know, is just a copy of the original. No one alive has ever seen the original. We just have these.’ He talked fast. Excited. He wouldn’t be good at poker.

  Gudsen guided them over to where he now stood, at a tall table in the middle of the room. What looked like a large jigsaw made up of three huge pieces was already laid out on it. Clark would have recognized the document immediately, even without Peter’s preamble. He could see the oversized Xeroxes of the extant copies of the Testament of Faith – the original of which had been transcribed by Rebecca Bright. The original was believed lost, and only these three copies had ever been found, possibly taken from a copy salvaged from Robert Bright’s person before or after death. Days after capture Bright had been slain by his captors, who grew impatient waiting for the Federal Government forces to arrive and take him away. He was wanted Dead or Alive, so they’d get their money anyhow. Now he just didn’t need feeding.

  Clark’s guess was that the Federal Government, who considered Bright and his flock heretics, had already caught up with the safe-keeper of the original Testament and dispatched him to an early rendezvous with his maker. That was why, for the past 150 years, no credible stories were told of where the original had gotten to, and why there was no evidence it had survived beyond the life of its bearer. Rebecca Bright made no mention of it in subsequent correspondence either before or after she reached the sanctuary of Reno.