Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “What does that mean?”

  “Let’s just say I knew him before he made detective. He was the most serious cop I ever met. His shoes were always polished so you could see your face in them. He had more gadgets on his belt than Batman. He never called in sick or came in late, nothing like that. Then, the day he made detective, he became this hard-boiled investigator. He must have gone to a secondhand store and bought a trench coat that looked like it had seen some mileage, started smoking those cheap cigars.”

  “Those cigars,” Troy laughed. “They must be a nickel apiece. He buys them by the gross.”

  “Oh, they’re terrible,” Corrinne agreed, “but it’s the image he wants to project. I think he wishes he had an alimony-hungry ex-wife and a teenage daughter he never sees, just to make him all the more grizzled. Of course, he’d barely be old enough to have a teenager.”

  “Does he keep a bottle of Scotch and some tumblers in his desk drawer?” Parker asked.

  “Nope,” Troy answered. “He doesn’t drink.” He and Corrinne both pointed at their heads and in unison recited, “Got to keep it swept clean.”

  The two detectives laughed.

  Corrinne led Parker down a hall and up to a door marked Interview D.

  “Stay,” she ordered. “I’ll tell Paul you’re here. And remember—you repeat anything we said in the car, and I’ll have you picking up trash on the freeway in an orange jumpsuit, capisce?”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  She winked at him and disappeared behind an unmarked door. Almost immediately, Ketcham emerged.

  “Parker, you’re coming into interrogation with me,” he said. “Are you okay with that?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And just so we don’t have a replay of this afternoon, let me lay down some ground rules. You do not speak unless I give you the signal, understood?”

  “What’s the signal?”

  “I’ll look at you. And I won’t be talking. And it will be obvious that I want you to talk. That’s the signal. Otherwise, you do not interrupt. You don’t try to steer the conversation. You don’t speak unless you get the signal.

  “Or, if the suspect should start to make a connection with you, which is really unlikely in this case, I’ll just find an excuse to leave the room. If that happens, don’t worry. I’ll be right on the other side of the glass, listening and watching. In that case, just keep him talking. Any hint of a threat, and we’ll be at your side in a heartbeat.”

  Parker swallowed hard. He felt some dread building in his gut. “Is he in there already?”

  “Yeah, we like to let people cook by themselves for a little while before we start any questioning. Something I’ve learned: people have a habit of knocking down their own defenses if you leave them alone with their thoughts long enough. They stare into that mirror and start to second-guess the stories they’ve concocted. Hopefully that’s what he’s doing.”

  “Do you really think he could be the killer?”

  “Never ask that, Parker,” Ketcham chided. “What’s the matter with you?”

  Damien was tipping back casually in the institutional gray chair, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “Detective, I’m glad to see you again,” he said with mock excitement. “I was getting bored. And who have we here?”

  “Don’t worry about my associate, Mr. Bane. We’re not here to talk about him. We’re here to talk about you and Ben Ludema.” He sat across from Damien and motioned for Parker to take the seat next to him, their backs to the one-way glass.

  Damien’s smile vanished. “I already told you. I barely even knew the kid.”

  “But you did know him.”

  “Yes. Barely.”

  “You already said barely.”

  “Because I barely knew him.” He pointed at Parker. “Seriously, what’s he doing here? You think I don’t know who that is?”

  “He’s just sitting in on our conversation if that’s okay with you. If not, I can ask him to leave.”

  “What about separation of church and state? Are we dropping all pretense now? The police department is now an unapologetic member of the Christian Imperialist Elite?”

  “Parker is not on the police payroll. He’s here as a consultant because of his area of expertise. If you’d rather he step out, that’s no problem.”

  “Nah, let him stay.” He flashed a dark smile at Parker.

  “Fine,” Ketcham said. “Now, what were you telling me about Ben Ludema?”

  “That I barely knew him.”

  “But you know that he died.”

  “It was on the news.”

  Ketcham tilted his head. “How did he die again?”

  “I believe his throat was cut.”

  “And the killer painted some pictures on the boy with his own blood. Don’t forget that. Some Satanic stuff—your kind of stuff, I understand.”

  “You people are so small-minded. I don’t even believe in God, but you think I worship the devil? A literal devil?” He gave a derisive laugh.

  “So you’re not a Satanist?”

  “Not the way you mean it. I’m not into mainstream religions of any kind, much less pentagrams and six-six-sixes.”

  Ketcham perked up. “Who said anything about pentagrams? That wasn’t on the news.”

  “You told me. In the car on the way here. There was a pentagram on the dead girl.”

  “No I didn’t. How did you know about the pentagram?”

  Damien smoldered. “You told me.”

  “Mr. Bane, we did not have a conversation on the way here. The cruiser’s recorder will bear me out. On the drive over, I asked you several questions, which you did not answer. You just sat in the back and pouted. No one mentioned the pentagram.”

  Damien glared. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Tell me about your phone call to Ludema’s mother.”

  “I never called her. She called me. She told me to back off, that Ben was finished with all of us ‘freaks’ and that we’d never see him again. I said fine, but he owed me money.”

  “And then you threatened them both.”

  “I don’t do threats and I don’t do violence. I do occasionally employ curses and spells.”

  “Spells? By the look of you, I’d be surprised if you could spell.”

  “I’m a college graduate, Detective. I’m a scholar.”

  “Of course you are. Did you put a curse on Ben Ludema, then?”

  “Is that illegal?”

  “Not in itself. At least, I don’t think so. But have you heard of motive? Intent? If you put some kind of a curse on the victim two weeks before he was killed, that would show both. And we’ve got a statement from the victim’s mother indicating that you did. All we need now is opportunity and this case is looking good for us.”

  Damien was drumming his fingers quicker and quicker against the table. “Can I smoke in here?”

  “I can’t even smoke in here. Not anymore.” Ketcham tipped a file folder in his direction and perused the information Troy had gathered. “You’ve got a couple aliases, it seems. What’s your real name?”

  “Knowing a man’s name gives you power over him.”

  “I’ve got power over you either way, and I can find out. Let’s save some time here so you can go home.”

  “My name is Legion!” He slammed his palm against the table, causing Parker to jump six inches out of his seat.

  Ketcham chuckled. “Legion? You’re going with that? That’s the tiredest answer in the book. Everyone says ‘Legion’ when they’re going for the scary vibe or an insanity plea. I honestly expected better from you.”

  Damien bared his teeth. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

  The detective sighed. “Okay, Legion—do you mind if I call you Lee for short? Let’s get to the point. Where were you Sunday morning between the hours of two and five-thirty, Lee?”

  “I was home. I have witnesses. Lots of them.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

/>   “I’d like to call my lawyer.”

  “Do you really have a lawyer?”

  He hesitated. “Not yet.”

  “Are you nervous about something, Lee?”

  Damien shrugged. “I don’t trust you and I don’t like being here. That may be what your amazing skills of detection are picking up.”

  Ketcham reached into his worn sport coat and pulled out an antique, metal cigarette case. “I tell you what,” he said. “You can’t smoke, but I find it helps me think if I chew on one of these.” He flipped it open to reveal about fifty wooden toothpicks inside.

  “I think I’ll pass,” Damien said.

  “Suit yourself.” Ketcham set the case on the table, open. “How about if I just ask you a couple more questions, then we call it a day?”

  “I don’t think so, Detective. I’m growing tired of you. But maybe you’d let me talk to Parker here for a while.”

  Ketcham rolled the request around in his head for a moment. Under the table, Parker grabbed the detective’s sleeve and held firm.

  “That’s fine by me, Mr. Bane. Parker, I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He scooped up the file folder and freed his sleeve with a hard yank.

  In a few seconds, the two men were alone.

  Damien studied the minister. “I scare you, don’t I, Parker?”

  Parker set his jaw. “Of course you don’t scare me.”

  “We watch your show sometimes at the house. Speak It into Reality.” He snickered. “Your little sermons are a drinking game. Did you know you’re a drinking game? The boys do a shot every time you say destiny.”

  “That’s not as funny as you think.”

  “Who said it was funny? You don’t make me laugh; you make me sick. The other preachers on TV—the homophobes and the antievolutionists and the hellfire-and-brimstone types—at least they believe in what they’re selling. At least they have some conviction. You’re just selling it for profit. You epitomize the hypocritical elite.”

  Parker could feel his face reddening. He cleared his throat. “I don’t have to sit here and listen to you drag my good name through the mud,” he said defiantly. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to check on something with Detective Ketcham.” He got up from the chair and walked purposefully to the door. It was locked. He stood there awkwardly for a moment before returning to his seat.

  Damien didn’t laugh. “He told me about the pentagram in the car, you know. He really did.” He picked a toothpick out of the case and began chewing on it.

  “No offense, but I’ll believe a highly decorated police detective before I believe the likes of you.”

  “Why? Because I have long hair and tattoos? Because I don’t fit in to your little picture of what society should look like? Your society demands a scapegoat when something like this happens. I’m an easy scapegoat, aren’t I?”

  “Mm hmm. Some kind of vast conspiracy. What did you call it, the Christian Imperialist Elite? Somehow I doubt that.”

  “Do you know where the word scapegoat comes from?” It was a test and Parker knew it.

  “It’s from Leviticus chapter 16. The high priest would confess the sins of the people over a goat and then send it out into the desert.”

  Damien nodded slowly. “How enlightened is that? How very sophisticated. You can’t really believe in that nonsense. A goat?”

  “I do believe it.”

  “Do you believe in hell, Parker?”

  “That depends on what you mean. I believe that people tend to make their own hell.”

  “You don’t believe in eternal conscious torment though, do you? I didn’t think you would. Why do you bother to preach from that stupid book of fairy tales when you don’t even believe what it says?”

  “I do believe it,” Parker repeated. “My father taught from that Book and so did my grandfather, and I won’t be second-guessed by a grown man in makeup.”

  “You know what my father taught me? He taught me how to dodge an ax handle in the hands of an angry drunk.”

  The edge left Parker’s voice. “I’m sorry to hear that, Damien.” He was expecting a wave of compassion to flood over him, but it didn’t. So he tried to force it. “Our earthly fathers can let us down, but the good news is you do have a heavenly father.”

  “My father broke two of my ribs when I was nine. He hit my mother so hard that she permanently lost the vision in her right eye. Do you really think I’m longing for another one of those? One who beats me over the head with commandments and guilt and shame instead of a stick? You think I’ve got some God-shaped hole in my heart? I don’t.”

  Parker was at a loss. “I’ll pray for you,” he said feebly.

  “You know what you can do with your prayers?” Damien’s answer was specific, if not inventive.

  “There’s no need for that kind of talk.”

  Damien leaned across the table, filling Parker’s field of vision. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you think this was the conversion scene? Is that how your mind works? You thought I’d find my scapegoat, cut my hair, put on a suit, and start living for Jay-zus? Let me tell you something, Saint: once you accept there’s nothing but dirt and decay on the other side, it’s all uphill from there.”

  The door opened and Ketcham reentered, skimming a sheet of information.

  “Forget Lee,” he said. “I think I’ll call you Daniel. Or how about Danny?”

  Damien clenched his fists. “Don’t you dare.”

  Ketcham resumed his seat. “But that was your name, wasn’t it? Daniel Banner? Until you legally changed it four years ago.” He locked eyes with Parker. “Seems everyone’s changing their name these days.”

  “Daniel is a Judeo-Christian label,” Damien ground out through clenched teeth. “It describes a slave to the Christian imperialists. You know what it means?”

  “It’s Hebrew,” Parker answered. “It means ‘God is my judge.’ ”

  “God will have to wait in line,” Damien said.

  Parker’s phone began to vibrate loudly. Ketcham kicked him in the shin. The caller ID showed a 410 number. Father Michael again. He pressed Ignore.

  Damien stood suddenly and asked, “Am I under arrest, Detective Ketcham?”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Then I’m going home now. I’ll have a friend pick me up.”

  “That’s fine.” Ketcham said, standing as well. “I can take that for you.” He held out his hand and gestured to the toothpick.

  Damien deposited his saliva-laden toothpick into Ketcham’s hand, and the detective unlocked the heavy door to let him out. When Damien had gone, he returned to the table, took the seat across from Parker, and pulled a small plastic ziplock bag from his coat pocket, carefully depositing the toothpick.

  “And now we’ve got something to match DNA against,” he said with a smile.

  “Brilliant.”

  “You did a good job with him, Parker. You had him off-balance. Stupid nanny state did us in. If that guy had an ashtray and a full pack in front of him, he’d still be sitting here talking to us, and we could have been a little more discreet about the saliva sample. But nice work on your part.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Troy’s been in the observation bay watching this Bane guy’s video channel on the Internet. It’s called The Devil’s Humanist. The guy claims to be indwelled by a ‘spirit guide,’ goes off on long, paranoid rants with no point, makes veiled threats against city employees, loves spells and curses and such. This is exactly the kind of stuff we brought you in for, Parker. I’d like you to watch some of those videos tonight and bring us a report tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d be—” His phone rang. The 410 area code again.

  SEVEN

  PAIGE FOUND HERSELF A BIT CONFLICTED ABOUT HER EMPLOYER’S extended absence. While certainly less than ideal, it did have its upside—namely that Parker’s office was at least two and a half times larger than her own and was feng shuied to perfection with top-of-the-line office furniture and an air purifier that added a s
ubtle hint of vanilla to its output. Whenever Parker left for a day or more, which was rare indeed, Paige relocated. She scrunched and stretched her toes in her nylons and smiled at the sight of her feet up on the mahogany desk. Parker wouldn’t mind—far from it—but it was still fun in a semirebellious way.

  She could just barely make out the deep red nail polish through her dark stockings. She’d removed and reapplied the polish again last night, though she was unsure why. No one but she had seen her bare feet in months. Despite being a short drive from the picturesque shores of Lake Michigan, yet another summer had come and gone without a single trip to the beach. She told herself it was because redheads don’t tan well, but she knew it was really because her entire life was wrapped up in this place. This job. This man.

  It would be worth it, though. She could feel the stars beginning to align. The increasing visibility. The syndication deal on the horizon. The book. Parker had the vision for it all, but they both knew it was Paige who made things happen. At least twice a week he posed the question, “What would I do without my Paige?”—aloud, to no one in particular—but Paige wondered it silently far more often than that. When their time came, she knew he would reward her loyalty. For now, though . . .

  The phone rang.

  “Parker Saint’s office,” she said. Even with her feet propped on the enormous desk, the headset Paige wore made her feel like an overqualified receptionist.

  “This is Mason Fitch calling on behalf of Pastor Joshua Holton.”

  “Hi, Mason,” Paige chirped. It was her own private game to see how cheerful and personable she could be with Holton’s robotic assistant. “How are things down there in Texas? Still hot, right? We’re just starting to—”

  “I’m calling to let you know that Parker missed his weekly call this morning.” Mason left a window of silence, as if he were letting the news of a train wreck or air raid sink in.

  “Okay . . . ?”

  “Yes. And I don’t think I need to tell you that Mr. Holton takes his time very seriously.”