Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  At three fifteen he hit the treadmill, running three miles. Then a shower. He finally drifted off a little after four.

  SIX YEARS AGO

  The woman sinking into the swamp was number sixteen.

  The first three had been spread over a decade. The rest had happened in half that time. He was beginning to discern a rhythm involving the exorcisms, the returns, and his compulsion to kill.

  It was as if each time They returned, They tightened a spring inside Danny. When it was as tight as it could get, he needed release. Twelve women and four men had died to provide it. Each time, They made sure to tell Danny exactly how, who, and when to achieve it.

  But each time They returned, They wound the spring a little tighter than they had the time before, and the increasing frequency of the killings was a cause for some concern. Danny was already being proactive, though, implementing a system for managing the situation. He had kept his head through all of this, if not his soul.

  He watched the body disappear from view. His black trench coat flapped in the wind. He was dressed specifically for the occasion, every element designed to shock and terrify. When he’d begun The Project (back when it was a project, before it had become his life), dressing all in black—with black eyeliner; long, greasy hair; and mismatched, color contact lenses—was a pretty common cultural phenomenon, showing up on horror movie posters and heavy-metal album art. It had come and gone from pop culture, but Danny still found it effective in eliciting the desired response from his victims.

  The woman now slowly making her way to the bottom of the swamp, three cinder blocks chained to her waist, was a member of a church Danny had visited two years earlier. She’d given him a look full of judgment when he settled into his pew, then flip-flopped with the rest of the sheep when he had responded favorably to their offers of prayer. She was all smiles after that and made a show of hugging him several times, although he could tell by the way she tensed up that she hated every moment of it, suffering through it for show.

  Danny hadn’t thought of the woman in months when They brought her to his mind one Tuesday afternoon. They wanted her, and Danny was more than happy to deliver. He had enjoyed the shock of recognition on her face. He had savored her tears, which welled up when he recounted her hypocrisy and how he’d noticed her playing to the crowd, even as he had played the same crowd.

  Tomorrow Danny would go in to work, and no one would suspect that he had killed a woman less than ten hours before. No one would look at him with a newfound sense of awe or fear or disgust. But he hadn’t done it for his colleagues and co-workers. He hadn’t even done it for himself.

  As with everything in his life, he did it to please Them.

  FIFTEEN

  “HE’S NOT HERE,” SAID A WORMY, LITTLE MAN OF INDETERMINATE rank and function, hunched over his desk filling out a stack of forms, “but he wants you to wait for him in the conference room.” He looked up at Parker with undisguised glee. “He was not happy.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Parker had awakened with a start at 8:05, his head buried in the folds of a comforter under piles of pillows, oblivious to the racket blasting from his alarm clock. As he entered the Command Center, he felt decidedly like a kid doomed to wait outside the principal’s office for a tongue lashing. The effect was enhanced by a sneering Officer Jason Dykstra tipping back in a chair at the head of the table.

  “Billy Sunday,” he said.

  “Officer Dykstra,” Parker said with a nod. “How are you this morning?”

  “I’m doing just fine. Getting paid to sit and wait for Detective Ketcham because he insists that I put this right into his fingers.” The cop held up a piece of ruled notebook paper, upon which he had scrawled a list of superficial similarities between the two crime scenes.

  “I’m sure you’ll get an A,” Parker said, taking a seat at the far end of the table.

  Dykstra waited for him to settle, then held a Styrofoam cup up to his lips. “Do me a favor, Parker. Say destiny.”

  “Destiny? Why?”

  The cop threw his head back and drained what remained of his coffee. He laughed derisively. “You didn’t know? You’re a drinking game. I found it on the Internet.”

  “You’ve been reading about me.” Parker felt his pride rising up in self-defense. “Funny, I haven’t thought about you once since we met.”

  The officer sneered and flung his empty cup at the trash can. It went wide.

  “Is today the day you’re gonna crack the case, Preacher?” He laughed again, the way a schoolyard bully laughs at a mark.

  “I think we’re making some progress. I’m probably not supposed to share any information with you, though. Need-to-know basis—you understand.” Parker prayed he’d never be pulled over by Officer Dykstra. A ticket would be the least of his worries.

  Dykstra fiddled with the retention snap on his holster. “You know you don’t belong here, right? You went to college and learned about—what?—fairy tales. Now you think you’re a detective? Ketcham doesn’t need you. You’re just a gimmick.”

  Parker knew Joshua Holton would object to diluting his brand on an audience of one, but he couldn’t resist. “It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve heard people refer to the Bible as a book of fairy tales before. But it makes no sense. Fairy tales take place in unspecified magical kingdoms, long ago and far away. They aren’t stories about historical people in real places at specific times, like we find in the Bible.”

  Dykstra folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t think Jesus is historical. Most people don’t anymore. He’s as make-believe as they come.”

  Parker chuckled. “You might as well say that Alexander the Great never lived. We have infinitely more evidence from the life of Jesus.”

  “Maybe Alexander didn’t. You don’t know. You’ve never seen him and neither have I. Can’t go dig up his grave, can we?”

  “What about George Washington?” Parker asked. “I’ve stood at his tomb on Mount Vernon, but I’ve never looked inside. Have you?”

  “No, but that’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Because we live in America. Because there is an America. We aren’t bowing to the queen and speaking English and all that stuff. That’s because of George Washington.”

  “We don’t speak English?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Sure. You mean that everywhere we look, we see firsthand the effects of his life.”

  “Right.”

  “I rest my case.” Parker’s phone rang and he ducked out.

  “Parker Saint.”

  “Hello, Brian. Or Parker—sorry. This is Geoff Graham.”

  Parker suddenly remembered his old professor with absolute clarity—his ticks, his quirks, his sense of humor. He could see his baby face, his Hawaiian shirts, and his bony hands full of ink from permanent markers, which he used instead of chalk, taping newsprint up all over the room.

  “Dr. Graham, it’s great to hear from you. Thanks for returning my call.” Parker held the phone close and spoke quietly.

  “My pleasure. As I said on the message I left, I got a call from your secretary. I’ll admit, I’m curious. What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to get together and discuss some things. Soon, if you’re available. Kind of a long story, best done in person. It’s right up your alley: devil worship, spirit guides, church burnings, even murder. I’m afraid I’m in a little over my head here.”

  “Were you thinking today?”

  “Today would be good, but I’m tied up for the time being.”

  “Are you at your church?”

  “No, I’m actually going to be downtown for meetings all day.”

  “I’ll tell you what—I have to run some errands and have lunch with a friend. What say I meet you at Rosa Parks Circle? About two forty-five?”

  “That should work.”

  “Parker, put that phone down!” Ketcham’s voice filled the detective’s unit.

  “I’ve got
to go, Dr. Graham.” He ended the call and stuffed the phone into his pocket, instinctively backing into the Command Center to avoid a public dressing down. Ketcham followed him in and slammed the door behind them.

  He was flushed with anger. “When I give you the afternoon off, that’s a gift. It doesn’t mean you can start showing up late, chatting on your phone, wasting my time!”

  “I know. I’m sorry, sir.” Parker felt at least three flecks of the detective’s spit resting on his face, and it took every bit of willpower not to wipe them away.

  “Do you think it makes sense for me to sit here waiting for you to roll in when we’re overdue for another dead body?” He poked a finger at Parker’s chest.

  “No, sir. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “What are you smiling about?” Ketcham demanded of Officer Dykstra, who had been thoroughly enjoying the show.

  “Just in a good mood is all. Here’s the report you wanted.” He handed the wrinkled page to Ketcham.

  “This is your report?” Ketcham scanned the handwritten list with a mixture of anger, disgust, and pity.

  “That’s it.”

  “Fine, you’ve delivered it. Now get back out there. You’re not paid to sit in here with that stupid grin on your face.”

  The patrol officer left slowly, eyeing Ketcham with concern.

  When they were alone, the detective crumpled the paper and tossed it into the trash, then rested his chin in his hand and studied Parker silently.

  “Are you waiting for me to say something?” Parker finally asked, unable to take the awkward silence.

  “No, I’m deciding if I’ve yelled enough.”

  “You have. Again, I’m very sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Why do you have to put it like that? Geez, Parker—you’re a preacher; I have to forgive you. Come on, let’s go.”

  Lecture over, Ketcham beckoned him to follow.

  “I spoke with Ben Ludema’s mother again this morning,” Ketcham said as they zipped down US 131, southbound.

  “What did she have to say?”

  “Nothing useful. But she was a lot more forthcoming this time.”

  “I would imagine. That woman really did not like the sight of me.”

  “It wasn’t you. In fact, she made me promise I’d pass along an apology on her behalf. It’s like I told you, Parker. You can’t take any of this stuff personally.”

  “Right.” Parker was generally the poster child for not taking things personally. But he’d been avoiding any thought of Meredith Ludema and her rebuke, and had no desire to discuss her now. “You haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  “To interview the last person who saw Melanie Candor alive. Apart from the guy who killed her.”

  “I thought that was her boss at the convenience store.”

  “So did we, until yesterday afternoon. Come to find out, not only was she beautiful, smart, talented, et cetera, but the late Miss Candor volunteered twice a week, reading to kids at a community center on Division. Half an hour here, forty-five minutes there. She stopped by Saturday night. I want to know if she mentioned anything about where she was going or her plans for the night.”

  Ketcham reached into his backseat, selecting one large file case from his not insubstantial collection. He hefted it onto Parker’s lap. “And as penance for being late,” he continued, “you’re going to spend the afternoon going through all these crime scene photos and incident reports from the church vandalism cases. Let’s see if you can turn your hunch into something a little more concrete.”

  “You sound skeptical,” Parker observed. “Don’t you think it sounds like something Damien would do, to have his minions spray-paint church buildings, stick it to the ‘Christian Imperialist Elite’?”

  “Sure, sure. But when you charge someone with four ritualized murders, you don’t usually bother to add five counts of vandalism. When we were running around blind through needle-in-a-haystack country, I thought the church connection might help us find our suspect. But now we’ve got a suspect.”

  “So my penance is pointless busywork.”

  “Maybe not.” Ketcham framed his words carefully. “Just between you, me, and the stack of dead bodies at the morgue, we don’t have quite as much as you might think on Danny Boy. Sure, he knew one of the victims, went to a couple of their memorials. But it’s all circumstantial. It’s the very definition of circumstantial. We’ll have preliminary DNA results tomorrow. If Damien’s a match, we’re on track. If not, what do we have? A trollish little guy we don’t like because he looks weird and talks about magic spells? The prosecutor’s office won’t touch it.”

  The detective picked up and shook three empty plastic tubes from the floorboards, where they’d been rolling around his feet, before finding one that contained a cigar. He lit the stogie and gave a few thoughtful puffs. “It really feels like there’s something else holding it all together,” he said. “Something else or someone else—in addition to Damien—that can tie a bow on this whole thing.”

  “And you think the answer might be in these crime scene photos.”

  “Not really. It’s a Hail Mary, but you’re not on the payroll anyway, so what do we have to lose? I skimmed through the reports myself last night—reminded me why we chalked it all up to gang activity.”

  “Why?”

  “Granted, I’m not an ordained minister or anything, but I saw very little along the lines of devil worship or occult crime—some possible religious overtones, but mostly overlap with common gang symbols: five-pointed stars, pitchforks, crowns, that sort of thing.”

  “Crowns?” Parker’s pulse doubled.

  “Right, the People Nation uses a five-pointed crown as an identifier. There’s a lot of photos in there. I hope you have a long attention span.”

  “The longest.” Parker was looking forward to a research project, having missed his extensive web searches for the past two nights.

  “Good, because it’ll probably take all afternoon. The real glorious side of police work.”

  Parker suddenly remembered his appointment with Dr. Graham. “This may be the worst possible timing, but about this afternoon—”

  Ketcham flicked a sharp sidelong glance at him. “You’ve just reentered my good graces. Step carefully.”

  “No, you’ll like this. I got a call back from a friend of mine this morning, a college professor. His name’s Geoff Graham, and he teaches classes about cults and that sort of thing. He just got back into town, and I set up a tentative appointment with him for two forty-five.” He tapped the file case in his lap. “I can show him these photos and bounce some of these symbols off of him.” He sensed that Ketcham wasn’t biting. “He’s really an expert. He would see a lot more than I would, looking through something like this.”

  The detective exhaled loudly. “Don’t mention names, and make sure he knows this is all confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  “And this doesn’t get you off the hook. I still want you to go through every photo in that box yourself, and I want you to check up on Damien’s Internet videos. Troy said there were a couple new ones. Were you planning on coming back to the office after your meeting?”

  “I . . . I guess I could. It’s just, I have this revival thing tonight—I forgot to tell my assistant about it—and they usually want me to—”

  “Fine. Take the afternoon, but I want reports on this meeting and on those photos—written and verbal reports—on my desk tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. And by eight o’clock, I mean eight sharp. You got all that?”

  “How can I put a verbal report on your desk?”

  “Shut up, Parker.”

  H.I.S. Youth Center, near the corner of Franklin and Division, was an old converted movie theater, still sporting the long row of cinematic lights—most bulbs missing or broken—and a marquee, which now read Loving Children—Changing Lives.

  Ketcham rang a buzzer at the door. The words “How may I help you?” or something close blare
d from a distorted, old speaker.

  “I’m with the Grand Rapids Police Department. I called earlier.”

  “Come on in.” The door clicked and buzzed.

  The foyer was polished and restored, compared to the façade. A large mural full of rainbows and smiles covered the near wall, and the smell of buttered popcorn filled the space. A college kid with an intentional gait approached them. “We didn’t call the police today,” he said. “Everything’s okay.”

  “I’m a detective with the Major Case Team,” Ketcham said, flashing his gold badge, “and I’d like to speak with the person who supervises the volunteers.”

  “That’s Sara. Hang on.” He freed a walkie-talkie from his belt and said, “Sara, this is Ryan. Are you available right now?”

  “I’m about to start a tour for a donor,” came the reply.

  Ryan lowered the radio. “Can you gentlemen wait for a while, or would you like to come back later?”

  “Tell her we’ll join the tour,” Ketcham said.

  Within thirty seconds of receiving the message, Sara whooshed into the foyer, followed by an elderly man in a powder blue suit.

  “I’m Sara Morse,” she said, matching the firmness of Ketcham’s handshake and then some. “I understand you’d like to see the facility.”

  “You understand correctly. I’m Detective Ketcham, GRPD, and this is Mr. Parker Saint; he’s helping us out with an investigation.”

  “May I ask what investigation?”

  “The Blackjack Killer.”

  She momentarily deflated. “Oh. You’re here because of Melanie.”

  “Yes. But we really would like the tour. I haven’t been here since I was a patrol officer.”

  She forced a smile. “Gladly. I never get tired of showing off our facility. And we do value our relationship with the police department. By the way, this is Dr. James Creswell. He’s with a mission organization looking for a worthy cause, so I’d appreciate a lot of oohs and ahhs to help win him over.”