Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  If things went well, this would be his last trip here, which suited him just fine. Overestimating his own renown, he donned a pair of dark glasses and made his way through the security screening at the entrance.

  Mark Walsh, Parker’s lawyer, was waiting impatiently on the other side, tapping his briefcase against his leg. “Parker, baby. Let’s go! If we’re late, bad things happen. Follow me.” They power walked twenty yards down a side hall.

  “Sorry. I was having lunch.”

  “Right. How could you possibly have foreseen that need? Catches me by surprise every day.”

  “Do you bill extra for sarcasm?”

  Mark came to an abrupt stop in front of a closed door—one of thirty just like it—causing Parker to bounce off of him. The lawyer looked at his watch. “We’re okay. But before we go in, let me warn you. This is not exactly what we were hoping for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s going to be more complicated than we thought. But it’s not anything I could have predicted.”

  “You said one more meeting and we were home free.”

  “Last-minute change. It couldn’t have been predicted.”

  “So you keep saying. Just tell me there’s no chance I’m going to jail.”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. Come on, we’ll be late.” He opened the door.

  The room was smaller than Parker expected, and lit with the kind of fluorescent lighting that made him think of incarceration.

  Three people were already seated at a conference table, papers spread out before them. Parker immediately noticed that the combed-over little weasel from the prosecutor’s office—the one Parker had been dealing with since this thing began—was not there. Instead, Ashley Englesma, the Kent County prosecutor, sat at the head of the table. Next to her was Brynn Carter, the woman who had caused all this. And next to her a man he’d never seen before.

  The prosecutor pointed to the clock. “You’re late, Walsh.”

  “Not by my watch.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please, have a seat. You too, Mr. Saint, wherever you like.” Parker’s knees wobbled as he lowered himself into the faux leather chair.

  She looked him in the eyes intensely. “Mr. Saint, you do realize that this is not an arraignment or any type of official legal hearing. You’re not being formally charged with anything today. There’s no judge and no jury. Do you understand?”

  “So help me God,” he quipped.

  She gave him a dead stare for a moment and then shook her head slightly. “I’d like to start by reviewing the facts. Mr. Saint has been accused of threatening and physically assaulting one Brynn Carter, an employee of SkyTown Airlines, on the eighteenth of August this year.” She pulled a typed statement from a manila folder. “She has indicated that Mr. Saint, quote, ‘Shouted at me in a threatening manner.’ When told that his ticket to DFW was nonrefundable, he asked, ‘Don’t you know who I am? I don’t deserve this . . .’ ”

  “My client knows what Ms. Carter has accused him of. Can we just skip ahead?”

  “No, I’d like to sum up where your client’s case stands, if you don’t mind.”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Englesma, my understanding was that this would be an informal meeting to tie up some loose ends.”

  “Whoever gave you that idea?”

  “You did. I was under the impression from our previous conversation that this was just a formality, and we could lay this matter to rest today.”

  “So you thought this would be an informal formality?”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds . . .”

  “May I continue, Mr. Walsh?”

  “Why not?”

  She found her place in the document. “According to Ms. Carter, Mr. Saint then ‘shoved the contents of the counter in my direction, causing a plastic literature rack and a bottle of hand sanitizer to fly toward me and make physical contact with me.’ He then told her, quote, ‘You’ll regret this. I promise.’ ”

  Parker scoffed. “Miss Englesma, I’ve already told your assistant, this is not how it happened. Was I rude? Yes. Was I condescending? Maybe. Did I ‘assault her verbally’? I don’t know.”

  “Parker, shut up,” his lawyer murmured.

  “I did push her hand away when she stuck it in my face, but I didn’t throw anything at her, I didn’t push anything at her, and this whole thing is just plain stupid. And worst of all, she knows it.”

  Brynn didn’t look up from the table.

  “That was quite a closing statement,” Ms. Englesma said. “But as I told you, you’re not on trial today. I’m just reviewing the details—for my own benefit as much as anything else. Now, I understand that Ms. Carter would no longer like to pursue a criminal case against Mr. Saint. I also understand that, via their private legal counsels, Mr. Saint and Ms. Carter have come to a tentative financial settlement in a pending civil suit stemming from the same altercation.”

  She looked from Parker to Brynn. “First of all, let me say that I’m impressed with how quickly you’ve worked all this out. Just record time. Unfortunately for you, Mr. Saint, any civil action against you is unrelated to these criminal charges.”

  “But you said yourself, she wants to drop the charges,” he protested, his stomach in free fall. “They can’t go forward now, can they, Mark?”

  “It’s highly unusual, but yes, they can continue to pursue the case if they want. Seems like a bit of a suicide mission.”

  The prosecutor leaned her elbows on the table. “We could subpoena Ms. Carter and let her decide whether or not to contradict her earlier written and videotaped statements. But we don’t want to do that.”

  “Of course not,” Mark said. “Now we’re coming to the pitch.”

  Ms. Englesma turned to Brynn and said firmly, “I’d like you to go and wait in the room directly across the hall. I’ll follow up with you shortly.” Brynn gathered her belongings and left without a word.

  When she was gone, Mark placed his palms flat against the table. “Okay, Englesma. What do you want from my client?”

  She gestured to the man next to her. “This is Detective Paul Ketcham of the Grand Rapids Police Department’s Major Crimes Team.”

  Parker exploded. “Knocking over some brochures is a major crime?”

  “No. But interrupting me gets a little closer.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Detective, it’s all yours.”

  Ketcham opened an accordion file folder and retrieved a small stack of papers. “You’ve probably heard by now that another two victims of the so-called Blackjack Killer were found this morning. That makes number three and number four. And according to the newspapers, three makes a spree.”

  “You’ve got our attention,” the lawyer said.

  “Based on the two most recent victims, it’s now clear that the perpetrator of these crimes is motivated by some sort of religious ideology. I would like Reverend Saint to work with me and my team in analyzing these crimes and working toward the apprehension of a suspect.”

  “Are you talking about a plea deal?” asked Parker.

  Ms. Englesma answered, “No, it’s not a plea. We’ve postponed your arraignment three months. Cooperate with Detective Ketcham and his team in the meantime—offer your assistance in his investigation to the best of your ability—and the charges will simply be dropped by the prosecutor’s office. You won’t need a plea deal, and you won’t have a criminal record.”

  “I’d like to discuss this with my client, please,” Mark said.

  “Of course,” she replied. “Detective Ketcham and I will be outside.”

  When they’d left, Mark threw up his hands. “What choice do you have, Parker? I’d grab this in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m still trying to figure out what is going on here. If the so-called victim wants to drop the charges, why would they burn taxpayer money prosecuting me?”

  Mark considered this for a moment. “I think two things are going on. First of all, they know yo
u’re a prominent minister in town. They know you can’t afford to be accused of assaulting a woman. Whether you’re convicted or not is almost irrelevant. You know that, right?”

  Parker nodded.

  “Secondly, both the prosecutor and the detective out there have a vested interest in catching this killer quickly and getting a conviction. It’ll be a feather in both their caps. I guess they see your predicament as an opportunity to get an expert at their beck and call.”

  “Expert? I’m not an expert on killers. Where did they get that?”

  “Maybe they just want to be seen consulting with high-profile clergy—Grand Rapids politics. I don’t know. But the deal she offered was that you help ‘to the best of your ability,’ not that you prove to be useful. If we can get that in writing, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “There’s no other option?”

  “Hey, I’ll be honest. I only stand to gain if we go to trial. I can bill you for another pile of hours, and I know I’d win the case. Heck, she knows I’d win the case. And I don’t think she’s bluffing. That’s why I advise you to just play along.”

  Parker thought about the beating he’d taken from the Christianity in View reporter. He knew that if news of this mess were to hit the papers, the next ten interviews he did would be about his supposedly assaulting a woman for doing her job. Forget a book tour; he’d need a damage-control tour. Everything he’d been working toward was hanging in the balance.

  “Okay. Tell her I’ll do it.”

  Parker phoned Paige while he waited at the corner of Lyon and Ottawa for the detective to pull his car around.

  “How did the meeting with Mr. Walsh go?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

  “Not great, but it could have been worse.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “For starters, it means that you need to cancel the three appointments I have this afternoon and hold off scheduling anything else for the time being unless you coordinate it directly with me.”

  “You’re not going to jail, are you?”

  “No. But for a while we’re going to have to work my ministry schedule around some volunteer police work I’m doing.”

  “Volunteer poli—huh?”

  “It’s a plea deal from the DA. Or it’s like a plea deal. If I do this, the charges go away.”

  Paige stifled a laugh. “No offense, but how in the world are you qualified for any type of police work?”

  “You’ve heard of the Blackjack Killer?”

  “Don’t tell me . . .”

  “They need some help analyzing ‘religious motives’ in the crimes.”

  “Parker, this is incredible for us.”

  “Come again?”

  “If they catch this murderer while you’re working the case—I can’t believe I just said that—if you’re helping with the investigation and they catch him, can you imagine what it will do for book sales? Seriously. I’m going to call Charter House and tell them we may be doing some rewrites to capitalize on this. We’re looking at Good Morning America if this works out. Barry is going to be ecstatic.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I have to go. The detective’s here.”

  Parker surveyed the 1986 Bonneville as he climbed into the passenger seat. The back was full of large, square plastic containers, and the floor in front was littered with empty paper coffee cups, rattling all around Parker’s shoes.

  “Budget cuts, right?”

  The detective shot him a sharp sidelong glance. “This is my personal car. It’s also my office and my friend. Show some respect, Reverend Saint.”

  “You can call me Parker.”

  “Okay, Parker. You can call me Detective Ketcham. And since you bring it up, the reason I drive this classic example of Detroit design and reliability is because I like things that are genuine.” He still hadn’t left the curb in front of the courthouse. “I don’t like new cars, which are basically plastic bubbles. I like cars that have straight edges and are more than fifty percent metal. My car is genuine. And I’m going to be genuine with you right from the get-go. Securing your services was my idea, and I’m hoping you’re the genuine article as well.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He grunted. “I hope you have a strong stomach.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re headed to the crime scene.” Ketcham shifted into drive and merged into traffic. “You don’t mind if I smoke,” he said, drawing a cigar from a plastic tube and striking a match.

  “Well, actually, I’d—”

  “I wasn’t asking.”

  After half a minute of awkward silence, Parker pointed to the containers in back. “What’s in there? Some kind of high-tech, crime analysis equipment?”

  “It’s files.”

  “Oh. That’s a lot of files.”

  “I know. I don’t like computers. I don’t like scans and I don’t like e-mails. I like paper. It’s genuine.”

  Parker had no response but wanted to avoid more silence. “So, did you get into police work because of your name?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Like, there are bad guys out there and I need to Ketcham.”

  “Huh. I’ve never noticed that before. Did you get into preaching because of your name?”

  Parker, who had been born Brian Parker III, had no desire to discuss names any further.

  “Do you think we’re going to solve the crime today?” The moment the question left Parker’s mouth, he realized how ridiculous it sounded.

  “No, I don’t think we will. Detection is more art than science and it takes time. Forget your stupid procedural police shows where they find a flake of the guy’s skin and a supercomputer tells them the perp’s ID ten minutes later. We’ll be talking to a lot of people in the days to come. I need you to be listening, noticing anything that might relate to your area of expertise. I know you’re used to blabbing. Can you listen?”

  “Yes, I’m trained to be a very good listener.”

  “Good. And to answer your question, yes, I will solve this case. I’ve done it before; that’s why it was assigned to me. I’m the one who identified James Patrick Cramer.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He killed four prostitutes a few years ago.”

  “I remember that. He wound up killing himself, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, stop it. You’re breaking my heart.”

  “Paul’s here,” Corrinne announced. “Oh, and he brought a friend! Awww . . .”

  Ketcham tried not to smile. “Parker, this lovely brute is Detective Corrinne Kirkpatrick—”

  “Hey!”

  “—and the guy staring at the dead girl is Detective Troy Ellis. Try to bear with him. He was born without sense.”

  “You’re hilarious, you know that?” Troy was in his early fifties and had the build of a high school athlete who had replaced exercise with beer the moment he turned twenty-one. He was several inches taller than any living person in the room, although the dead man in the doorway came close.

  Parker had been asked to step over the body to enter the apartment. Instead, he’d pressed his back to the doorframe and shuffled past the dead man, his eyes trained on the far wall, much to the delight of the detectives. He was now wishing he could do it over and step confidently over the corpse without flinching, so that he could interpret the step over the body as a metaphorical step into a whole new world of excitement and intrigue.

  But he couldn’t.

  “I think you both know what Parker is doing here.” Ketcham inspected the soggy, chewed end of his cigar. “He’s a minister. He’s been to minister school. What do you call that, Parker?”

  “Seminary.”

  “Right. He’s here to unravel some of this devil-worshiping stuff that’s been carved into our victims. Troy, this is your crime scene, I suppose. What have you got?”

  Parker held up a hand. He wanted to keep the focus off the carnage for a moment longer if he could. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m new to all this, so
I’m just trying to understand how things work. Is a different one of you investigating each separate incident?”

  “Technically we’ve got three crime scenes, so they’ve been assigned to three of us,” Troy explained. “But Ketch here solved the big hooker case, so we’re following his lead.”

  “He’s kind of coordinating things then,” Parker said.

  “That’s right.” Troy nodded. “If I were Corrinne, I’d make some wise-guy comment about him, but I actually think Detective Ketcham is a brilliant investigator.”

  “He has to be nice to him,” Corrinne chimed in. “Paul’s his nephew.”

  “No, he’s not,” Troy said. “Anyway, what I’ve got is this: two young kids with bright futures who should not be lying here at room temperature. Probably the work of one man: a complete sicko who gets off on Satanism. First victim is a twenty-three-year-old female, Isabella Escalanté. Height: five foot seven. Weight: 121 pounds. Race: half black, half Mexican.”

  “Is that the politically correct way to put it?” Corrinne asked.

  “I dunno. How would you say it?”

  “I guess, half black, half Mexican.”

  Troy pointed at Isabella with his clipboard. “Just like the last two vics, cause of death was loss of blood due to a knife wound to the throat. I’m sure Dr. Potter will confirm that. As with the other one, no sign of sexual assault.”

  “What did she do?” Parker asked. “For a living.”

  Troy frowned. “She was a nurse’s aide. By all accounts, she loved what she did and her patients loved her.”

  “Let’s move on to the artwork,” Ketcham said.

  “The upside-down cross isn’t much more creative than yesterday’s,” Corrinne said with a touch of disappointment. “But what’s this word: nex?”

  “No idea. Preacher?”

  “Um, how’s it spelled?” Parker asked.

  Ketcham palmed the back of Parker’s head and directed it toward Isabella’s body. “Remember what I said about listening? Well, looking is just as important with this job. What do you see?”