Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “That’s a member of the Christian Imperialist Elite.”

  They closed in on him like a pack of hyenas, their eyes red and their breath foul. The malice in the group was almost tangible.

  “I heard that if you hit these guys, they can’t hit you back.”

  “No, that’s Amish, man.”

  “Priests too.”

  “Let’s find out,” the tall, ruddy one said, taking a last drag on his cigarette and flicking it into the darkness of the railroad crossing. “How about it, Grandpa? Can you take a hit?”

  He wound up and slapped the priest’s face, sending him staggering back two steps. This brought a chorus of laughter from the trio.

  “You gonna turn the other cheek, Padre?” He slowly pushed his dull red locks from in front of his bloodshot eyes, then backhanded the older man with a sudden jerk of his arm.

  “Lemme try, man.” The fat one in the hoodie jostled past his friends and gave the priest an experimental shove.

  “Hit him, Jared,” the others urged.

  Jared shoved the priest again, harder. “Where’s all that wrath of God I keep hearing about?” He balled a fist and swung it at the priest’s jaw.

  The punch never connected.

  Jared noticed the dull, bitter taste of the blacktop before the sharp pain in his shoulder, where the ball and socket were making the best of a long-distance relationship.

  Father Ignatius poked his pistol against the fat man’s temple. “Thou shalt not put the Lord your God to the test.”

  The ringleader reached frantically into his faded army jacket, his hand groping. He didn’t see Father Michael moving silently up the train tracks behind him.

  Michael gripped the punk hard around the throat and held his own handgun up at eye level.

  The third punk looked from one priest to the other and put his hands in the air, sending his pants down around his ankles. He reached for them.

  “Leave your dignity on the ground,” Ignatius commanded.

  “Please,” Jared pleaded, “don’t go all Crusades on me.”

  “Crusades? My order had no part in the Crusades,” the old priest answered evenly. “The Inquisition, however—that was ours.”

  Michael yanked the redhead’s coat down past his shoulders, pinning his arms, and snatched the revolver from his inside pocket. He shoved him toward his exposed friend.

  “Makes you feel tough, preying on the weak,” Michael said, a gun in each hand. “I bet you just love violating the sanctity of a man’s home, too. Giving him a good scare.” He stuffed the battered revolver into his coat pocket. “Parker doesn’t know we’re talking to you like this. Suffice it to say, he wouldn’t approve.”

  Ignatius took two steps back from the young man heaped at his feet. “You will not bother Mr. Saint again. If you do, there will be consequences. This goes for your friend Damien as well. You may know where Parker lives, but we know where you live.”

  TEN

  “TIME TO GET UP.” FATHER MICHAEL WAS STANDING NEXT TO Parker’s bed, shaking him roughly.

  “My head hurts. Give me five more minutes.”

  “No, you don’t even have time to shower. It’s 7:35. Do you want to be late?”

  Parker was too miserable to notice the oddity of the situation—a priest he’d met two nights earlier waking him for work. They had brought Parker home at nearly two thirty in the morning and given the house a thorough sweep, just to be sure. Michael had offered to keep watch on the first floor during the night. Parker’s objections had been feeble and quickly melted away. He had fallen into a fitful sleep at about four.

  “Ugh. My stomach feels like a clenched fist.”

  “I told you not to get those tornado fries,” Michael said.

  “Volcano.”

  “Whatever. Here, I made some coffee. The grounds were stale, but the caffeine’s still good.”

  “I’m not supposed to have coffee.”

  “I’ll leave it on the nightstand in case you decide you want it,” he said. “And I mean it—get up,” he added over his shoulder as he left the room.

  Parker slowly sat upright on the edge of the bed. He stared at the coffee mug, steaming and inviting. He decided it was worth compromising his principles to take the edge off his headache. He took a long gulp, immediately regretting it as his stomach began to bubble and percolate. He fell back on the bed and lay for another two minutes.

  Michael banged on the door. “Are you up? It’s almost twenty till.”

  Parker hurriedly dressed and dashed out the door. By five minutes to eight he was parking his car in a municipal lot near the police station. He entered the elevator with two minutes to spare.

  “I know about your little rendezvous last night,” Ketcham said, his face as stern as his tone.

  Parker’s stomach tightened all the more. His mind groped for a way to spin the events in the church, the guns, and whatever had happened in the distance beyond Damien’s house.

  “I was . . . I mean, I can explain.”

  The detective laughed. “No need. And don’t bother resisting. What that one wants, she gets. Believe me.”

  “Oh, you mean Corrinne.”

  “Yeah. She’s a predator, that one. Watch yourself.”

  Parker felt a sudden urge to defend his new friend, but fought it back down. “We just had some drinks and talked for a while. That’s all.”

  “Mm hmm. Well, you look like garbage, Parker. I didn’t think preachers were supposed to party.”

  “I wouldn’t say I partied.”

  “I really don’t care, just as long as you don’t let it affect your work with us. There’s way too much of that in law enforcement. It’s unprofessional to come in functioning at 35 percent because you spent the night chugging liquid depressants. That’s why I don’t drink.” He pointed to his head with two fingers. “Got to keep it swept clean.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Good. I need you to keep it together this morning. We’re going to an autopsy at ten.”

  “Whose autopsy?”

  “Melanie Candor, the first victim. We’re sparse on anything useful with this girl. Hopefully Dr. Potter can give us something new to go on.”

  “But why do I have to go?”

  “What are you, ten years old? You’re going. You’re going because you chucked a fax machine at an airline stewardess.”

  “But isn’t an autopsy for when you don’t know how someone died? Melanie Candor’s throat was cut. We already know that. Can’t we just skip it?”

  “Actually, that’s not up to us. The county medical examiner determines when an autopsy is necessary. In this case, he believes it is. We’re attending in order to preserve and protect evidence of the crime and to learn everything we can about this killer and how he operates.”

  “Fine,” Parker pouted.

  “By the way, did you do your homework?” The detective raised an eyebrow like a stern schoolmaster.

  Parker had been debating whether to tell him about Damien’s phone call and the midnight visit. He’d decided to keep the details sparse, in order to avoid opening a door to the events at St. John’s. Worlds, as they say, were in danger of colliding.

  “I was working on it last night when he called me.”

  “Who?”

  “Damien. He said he was putting a curse on me.”

  “He called you at home?” Ketcham’s voice raised a touch.

  “On my cell.”

  “And you didn’t think to call and tell me?”

  “I didn’t have your number. Besides, what could you do? He blocked the caller ID. It’s my word against his.”

  “Did he identify himself?”

  Parker thought. “Not in so many words.”

  “But he was trying to intimidate you.”

  The image of a burning animal on a pike flashed into Parker’s mind. “I would say so.”

  Ketcham seethed. “I’m going to nail this little mutant to the wall.”

  Troy and Corrinne b
reezed into the conference room, all smiles.

  “We’ve got something for you, Detective Ketcham,” she said, beaming. “Last night—”

  Ketcham cupped his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to know about last night!”

  Corrinne’s lips twisted into a little smile, and her eyes met Parker’s for a moment.

  Troy chuckled. “This is work, Ketch. There was a community memorial service for Ben Ludema at Central High School last night.” He set up his laptop on the conference table. “We got video of the crowd. Wait till you see this.”

  He loaded a clip and hit Play. The lighting was low and so was the video quality—probably a cell phone, Parker thought. The video had been slowed down and was continually looping a pan down the second to last row of seats.

  “They’re all Goth,” Ketcham observed.

  “I don’t think ‘Goth’ is a thing anymore, is it,” Troy said, more a statement than a question.

  “You know what I mean. Emo. Whatever.”

  “Yeah, that doesn’t mean what you think,” Corrinne said.

  “They’re all dressed like it’s Halloween,” Ketcham said emphatically.

  “They’re definitely together,” Troy agreed. “Watch how they act.”

  “There’s Danny Boy.” Ketcham pushed a finger onto the screen. “And this guy answered the door yesterday.” Parker’s pulse quickened at the sight of the red-haired man, whom he’d last seen walking down the street, away from Damien’s house, at two in the morning. For a moment he wondered if he was looking at the image of a dead man.

  Corrinne paused the video on a frame where all eight faces were visible.

  “We ran this by a school administrator at Central,” she said, “and she was able to identify everyone pictured here with Damien as either a current student or a dropout or graduate from the last five years. I’ve got names, Paul.”

  “Names are good,” he allowed. “But Damien already admitted to knowing Ludema. He’ll say he was just paying his last respects.”

  “There’s more,” Troy said, suspending his large frame over the computer and pecking at the keys. “They had a candlelight vigil for Melanie Candor at Kensey Sunday night.”

  “No one waits for funerals anymore,” Ketcham said.

  Troy pulled up another video file. “We got the security footage.”

  “That was my idea,” Corrinne said. “And we barely got it too. They would have overwritten the tapes today.”

  “I don’t know that it was all your idea,” Troy mumbled. “Okay, check this out.”

  The footage was black-and-white and the angle was bad, but Corrinne zoomed in with the mouse until the screen was filled with just three people.

  “This is Damien.” She pointed with her pen. “There’s no doubt of that.”

  Ketcham grinned. “We’ve got a dumb one, folks!”

  “Yeah, going to the memorials is stupid. Or else maybe he wants to get caught. Remember, he talked about a lawyer yesterday, but didn’t demand one.”

  “Good point.”

  “He doesn’t want to get caught,” Parker said with authority.

  Ketcham threw his hand up. “There you have it. From a trained criminal profiler.”

  “You don’t need to be a psychologist for this. It’s simple. On his website Damien claims to be a secularist, a humanist, and a Satanist. Satanism is—practically speaking—just a celebration of self-indulgence and pride. For Damien to get caught and incarcerated is detrimental to both. Can you imagine how a guy like that would be treated in prison? No, he’s shoving what he’s done in your faces because he doesn’t think you can pin it on him. He’s convinced he’s the smartest man in any room and everyone else is just sheeple. If you think about it, that’s your edge.”

  There was a pause while the three detectives took this in.

  Ketcham whacked Parker between the shoulder blades. “We’re keeping this guy.”

  Corrinne directed their attention back to the screen. “There’s one more thing on the tape. We’ve got a mystery man here. I’m pretty sure this big guy next to Damien is the ginger we met at the door. His name is Dylan Eiler, by the way—juvie record as long as Parker’s mailing list. But who is this kid?” She tapped the image of a sullen teenager with a collection of lip rings and a crusty blond spike.

  “We checked with three schools,” Troy said. “Nobody can identify him.”

  “And he wasn’t at the service for Ludema yesterday.” Ketcham furrowed his brow in thought. “There may be more than one defector in the group.”

  “That would possibly put this kid in some danger,” Troy said.

  Parker half-raised his hand. “Don’t you have facial recognition software or something?” He felt silly the moment the words left his mouth.

  Ketcham scoffed. “You watch too much TV, Parker.”

  “I don’t, actually. I never watch TV.”

  Troy closed the laptop. “Let’s just keep an eye out for him. He might have been sick yesterday. Or maybe it was his turn to stay home and stir the cauldron. Who knows?”

  “Either way,” Ketcham said, sitting back in his chair, “we’ve got a real suspect now. He’s in the crosshairs for the time being. I want to match any partial prints from the crime scene. I want DNA. And maybe you two could head back over to the Monster Mash house later today and get some statements from any ‘witnesses’ who want to cover for Damien during the Ludema murder. If there’s anyone credible there, I need to know.”

  “Where are you going?” Corrinne asked.

  “Autopsy.”

  The first thing that hit Parker was the smell—like a high-end butcher shop in which every surface had been scrubbed down with ammonia. It got exponentially stronger as Ketcham led him into a windowless room, somehow nondescript and macabre at the same time. The fluorescent lights were thrumming loudly, bathing the place in a sickly greenish glow.

  Parker put his hand over his nose and mouth.

  “Here,” Ketcham offered, holding out a baby-food jar full of brown mush.

  “What is this?”

  “Coffee grounds. Put some in your nostrils. If you think it smells bad now, just wait.”

  Parker tried not to look at the counter against the wall, filled with a collection of electric saws and cutting implements, but he couldn’t help it. His stomach began to accordion again.

  He redirected his eyes to the steel table—the most prominent feature in the room—and tried not to think about what would soon be happening there, just several feet from where he stood. The table was built at a slight angle, Parker observed, thinking that it would make more sense if it were constructed level. Then he noticed a series of built-in drains and realized why. The room was a little cooler than was comfortable, but Parker was starting to sweat.

  An obese man in a lab coat came bustling into the room, his eyes glued to a clipboard. He looked up, startled to see the two men.

  “Oh, great. The fuzz is here,” he deadpanned.

  “Choke on it, Uncle Fester,” Ketcham said.

  They glared at each other for a moment, then broke out in smiles and shook hands heartily.

  “Dr. Potter, this is Parker Saint. He’s a TV preacher and, for the moment, special consultant to the Grand Rapids Police Department.”

  The doctor gave a slight bow. “Reverend,” he said, “good to have you here. I’m agnostic, but I have enormous respect for your kind.”

  “My kind appreciates that.”

  “Terri’s getting the subject now,” the doctor said, looking at his watch. “She should have been here already.” He opened the door and poked his head into the hall. “Terri!” he bellowed.

  “Quiet as a morgue has lost its meaning,” Parker mumbled.

  “Here she comes.” The doctor smiled like a proud father presenting a gift to a child.

  A young woman wheeled a bagged body into the room on a gurney. Dr. Potter helped guide it up next to the table and then began to unzip.

  It suddenly occurred to Parker t
hat this young woman would be naked; he’d seen enough police procedurals to know that. His discomfort level increased threefold. He was thinking less about himself—although he did have a policy of avoiding female nudity—and more about the girl in the bag who had already died a desperate, undignified death.

  As a pastor, Parker had been around dead bodies many times before, having done his share of funerals—particularly early on in his ministry, while an associate at Hope Presbyterian. But those encounters had done nothing to prepare him for this. If anything, they’d done the opposite. A pastor’s involvement with the dead takes place after all the grisly preparations, when the deceased has been drained, treated, embalmed, and is wearing a nice suit or a dress and pearls. His or her dignity is protected in those situations with mafioso vigilance. And Parker was used to being part of the dignity protection racket.

  Terri peeled the bag away from the feet first and then the head, as if removing the plastic wrap from a Twinkie, Parker thought.

  Melanie Candor was not naked; only her shoes had been removed. Parker breathed a sigh of relief, though he knew this only postponed the inevitable. Dr. Potter and Terri carefully moved her body to the table on a three-count with speed and gentleness, like two paramedics afraid of further hurting an injured patient.

  Parker grimaced. “So, ‘toe tag’ isn’t just an expression.”

  “No, Parson. That’s how we keep track of them. Can you think of a better place to put it?”

  “Not really.”

  Terri read the name and serial number from the tag, while Dr. Potter confirmed it on the clipboard.

  “That’s our girl,” he said. “Look at that birth date. So young. What a sad thing.” His face fell momentarily before regaining its shine. “Ah, we’re getting tattoos on the bottoms of our feet now,” he observed.

  Parker noticed a small, star-shaped design next to where the toe tag rested. He realized anew that this body on the metal table had been a vital, living woman just a few days earlier—with a beating heart, a sense of humor, and a favorite restaurant. He couldn’t help but think that the little star looked like an asterisk, referring the doctor to some fine print.