Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “Pleased to meet you,” Dr. Creswell said, shaking hands with Ketcham. His Minnesota Nice accent complemented his easy manner. He turned his attention to Parker. “And you too, young man,” he said, locking eyes. “A pleasure.”

  Parker squelched a gasp. Dr. James Creswell was not a philanthropist from the North Star State. Under a generous helping of pomade, Father Ignatius was now shaking hands with Parker.

  “The pleasure’s mine, Dr. Creswell. I’ve been on a few mission boards myself. Which agency did you say you were with?”

  “I’m here on behalf of Midwest Ecumenical Baptist Outreach.” The words of the Jesuit Oath, a Protestant among Protestants, echoed in Parker’s head.

  They began the tour, but Parker’s mind was preoccupied with what on earth Father Ignatius might be doing there. The detective’s mind was clearly wrapped up in Melanie Candor and the details of her last night alive—as evidenced by his many questions. Only Dr. James Creswell seemed to enjoy the tour for its own sake, posing questions and voicing approval at all the right moments.

  H.I.S. Youth Center did incredible work as far as Parker could tell. Born and raised in Grand Rapids, he had spent literally no time in this part of town. While he was aware of child hunger, the lure of gangs, and the dangers of the streets as abstract concepts or statistics, it was comforting to simultaneously encounter the reality of the stories Sara shared and this place that addressed those problems. He decided that, whatever Dr. Creswell’s fictitious organization determined about sponsoring the youth center, he would be sending a fat check.

  As they neared the end of the tour, Sara brought them all to a set of double doors under twin glowing exit signs.

  “This is a new part of the tour,” she said, her voice growing somber. “This is where I point to the bloodstains on the carpet. These emergency exits are locked from the outside, but anyone can open them from within. Fire code and all that. There used to be an alarm when these doors were opened, but it hasn’t worked in more than a year. And the lock sticks.

  “Two weeks ago some local teenagers came in here and attacked one of our fifth graders. They said he had squealed. I don’t know the whole backstory, but I know that what we do here is needed more than ever in order to give these kids a positive alternative. And yet we still haven’t fixed the door lock or the alarm because we can’t afford it.”

  “Have you had a locksmith out?” Parker asked.

  “No. We’re operating in the red right now. To be quite frank, we might lose the building in another two months if we don’t get some sizeable gifts. There are a lot of little projects like this one that simply can’t be addressed right now.”

  Parker felt a pang of guilt as he considered his own real estate situation. He owned the former shopping center that housed Abundance Now Ministries free and clear. The building itself had been donated—under the condition that it be used as a church or charity—and Parker had been able to pay off the surrounding land inside a year, careful to keep his name, not the church’s, on the deed. He rented the space to the church for a dollar a year.

  Joshua Holton had insisted on this arrangement, warning him not to trust boards of elders and trustees. Nearly a million dollars in renovation had been required to transform the defunct shopping center into a state-of-the-art church and soundstage, but those funds had been borrowed by the congregation and were all but repaid.

  How many months could the youth center subsist off of a single week’s giving at Abundance Now, Parker wondered. He wished he could partner with them, organize trips to come and fix the doors, read to children, give them hope—but with his burgeoning national reach, and with Holton’s strict regulations about diluting one’s brand, that was not possible.

  And Parker knew it.

  The three detectives and their clergy consultant sat around the conference table in the Command Center, sharing information and strategizing. Parker had grabbed the seat next to Corrinne and tried to reestablish their chemistry, but was unsuccessful. When he apologized for not returning her call, she waved it away, and when he asked about the hilarious event he’d missed, she decided it hadn’t really been all that funny unless you were there.

  As the other detectives settled in, they matched their colleagues’ malaise. There was a general sense of disappointment in the air, and basic agreement that the investigation was in something of a rut.

  “I need to hear what you two came up with on Damien’s background. Wow me.”

  Corrinne held up a file folder. “The guy’s childhood was a nightmare,” she said. “Father abused him, then killed himself. Mother renounced all parental rights when he was nine years old. He bounced around from foster home to foster home. Booted from one for starting fires and fights, pulled from another because the foster parents sexually abused him. The foster parents. That’s some bad luck, am I right?”

  Everyone nodded, but Parker sensed a collective hesitancy to start down the road of sympathizing with the suspect.

  “Have a look at these,” she added. “Definitely possible seeds of violence later in life.” She handed a file folder to Parker. He got the impression it was supposed to make the rounds, and wondered if it would be bad etiquette not to have a look inside. Maybe just a glimpse to appear engaged.

  Parker cracked the folder and let out a little girlish gasp. The photograph on top was labeled Daniel Banner, Age 6. The boy in the picture was unmistakably Damien, his little face a mixture of sadness and anger. Both of his eyes were black, and his arm hung in a sling.

  “He had a broken collarbone in that one,” she explained.

  “That’s horrible,” Parker said quietly, handing the folder to Ketcham.

  “We’re dealing with a troubled man,” the detective said, nodding. “That angle will be attractive to his attorney.”

  “But he beat the odds and went to college,” Troy said. “Got a bachelor’s degree in philosophy. What kind of job can you get with that?”

  “Not much,” Corrinne answered. “Might push me into devil worship too.”

  Ketcham stood. “Okay, let’s pause here a minute. I want your gut feelings. You too, Parker—are we convinced that Damien Bane is involved in these murders?”

  Corrinne nodded emphatically. “Involved? Yes.”

  “I agree,” Troy said. “But there’s something missing. I don’t know what, but I think we should consider the possibility that a number of people are involved. Maybe Damien has a partner—someone smoother, a little more connected, a little more ‘on the grid.’ ”

  Ketcham grunted his agreement. “I was saying the same to Parker this morning. It’s almost like Damien’s too obvious a suspect. I’ve been in this line of work long enough to get nervous when something’s too obvious. Although I’m sure the preacher here disagrees, don’t you, Parker? A guy looks like the devil himself, of course he’s doing the devil’s work, capable of all manner of evil. End of story, right?”

  “Not at all,” Parker answered. “In fact, the Scriptures tell us that Satan masquerades as an angel of light and his servants as servants of light. Anyone could be doing the ‘devil’s work.’ ” He thought of Evert Carlson’s distinction between the lion and the serpent. “In fact, he specializes in not obvious.”

  “So you’re saying that, according to the Bible, everyone’s a suspect?” Ketcham asked.

  “I don’t know if I’d put it like that, but sure.”

  “I like that. You could be the killer, Parker. You’re a messenger of light, aren’t you?”

  “Parker’s not our killer,” Corrinne assured, her pep coming back. “If he was, there’d be little piles of puke at every crime scene.”

  Troy bellowed a laugh, uncomfortably loud in the small room. “And we’d find him passed out next to the body!” The laughter rose a notch.

  “Oh, look at the time,” Parker said, tapping his watch. “I’ve got some police work to do. You kids have fun.”

  “Eight sharp, Parker!” Ketcham called out after him.

  SIXTEE
N

  THE AIR WAS BRISK AS PARKER MADE HIS WAY UP MONROE Center, past vendors, boutiques, and a herd of large people on rented Segways. It was just a few blocks from police headquarters to Rosa Parks Circle, a small amphitheater situated between the art museum and the Grand Plaza, surrounded by fountains, trees, and several alleged pieces of public art.

  Parker spotted Geoff Graham sitting on a bench a ways off. He wore a bulky jacket—the kind one might buy for a trip to Alaska, with a ring of faux fur around the hood—unzipped, revealing a bright red Hawaiian shirt. He spotted Parker a moment later, broke into a grin, and stood to envelop him in a bear hug.

  “Good to see you, Parker,” he said warmly. He smelled mildly of mothballs and Altoids, a smell that propelled Parker back to his undergraduate years—memories of sitting through early morning classes like Logic and the Philosophy of Religion. And not just sitting through them, but loving them.

  He looked almost exactly as Parker remembered him, except a little swollen around the middle and under the eyes. They sat on the bench and looked out at the city, beautifully fringed with orange, red, and yellow foliage.

  “I’d like to catch up on the past fifteen or twenty years, Parker, but I already know what you’ve been up to, and I’m more than intrigued by all your talk of murder and demon possession. So let’s skip the formalities and get to the meat.”

  Parker tried to channel Ketcham’s authoritative tone, saying, “You have to understand that what we discuss today is completely confidential.”

  Dr. Graham smiled—the beginning of a laugh—but then backed off at Parker’s grim expression. “Okay,” he said. “Confidential.”

  “I’ve been working with the police department as a consultant for the Blackjack Killer investigation.”

  “The what now?”

  “The serial killer. He’s murdered four people in the past week.”

  “I’ve been in Chile for ten days. I’m afraid I’m a bit out of the loop.”

  “I can fill you in on the details, but here’s the short version: four people killed by having their throats cut and Satanic symbols and that sort of thing all over the crime scenes. And our prime suspect claims to be indwelled by ‘spirit guides,’ which sounds like demon possession by any other name. I called you because I’m in over my head. I remembered that you taught the class on cults, and I thought you could give me some pointers.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t be much help, would it?”

  “Come again?”

  “A class on cults would be irrelevant to your investigation. Luckily, the class you’re thinking of was Contemporary Occultism. That’s a whole different field of study.”

  “You see? I’m learning already.”

  “Why don’t we start with what you think is going on here, Parker? You were always one of my sharper students. What’s your take?”

  “My take is a very fluid concept right now. I’m trying to nail it down. But, of course, it’s hard to nail down something fluid. I was hoping you could rehash the highlights of your teaching on the subject. You know, the twenty-minute version of a semester-long class.”

  Dr. Graham puffed his cheeks and exhaled. “Where to start . . .”

  “How about demon possession?” Parker could not shake the memory of that low growl under Damien’s voice on the telephone. “I remember you joked that your kids called you the Christian Reformed Exorcist; how does that work?”

  “My kids called me that to get under my skin. I’m not an exorcist, I’m a missiologist. I used to run a ministry that specialized in setting people free from spiritual bondage. That’s a far cry from being an exorcist by trade.”

  “But you had stories about possessed people.”

  “I’ve always tried to avoid that term, actually, but yes, I have certainly seen enough during the course of my career to know that there are spiritual powers out there, and that they are working counter to the gospel. Haven’t you?”

  Parker waffled. “I do believe people can become trapped by their own demons.”

  “Their own demons? You don’t believe in real demonic beings—personal, spiritual beings—like Scripture teaches?”

  “I sure don’t believe in the horror-movie version. The little girl whose head spins around while she spews pea soup all over the place and can throw grown men across the room. That’s just embarrassing.”

  Dr. Graham’s face darkened. “That’s your inexperience talking, Parker. I’ve seen demonized people do incredible things when cornered or challenged. No spinning heads, but certainly showing strength they did not have in the flesh.”

  Parker leaned in, intrigued. “Go on.”

  “I’m not going to indulge you with ghost and goblin stories, Parker. If you really want to discover the truth about these things, open your Bible. The Gospel of Mark, chapter five. Jesus and his disciples are in the middle of a missionary speaking-slash-healing-slash-deliverance tour, crisscrossing the Sea of Galilee in a fishing boat.” He pulled a worn, thinline Bible from the inside pocket of his enormous coat and quickly flipped to the right page.

  “Then they arrived at the region of the Gadarenes, and the evangelist tells us that a man with an evil spirit lived there among the tombs. This guy was a local legend. People had tried to chain him up, shackle his hands and feet, and yet he always tore the chains apart and broke the leg irons to pieces.”

  “I’m familiar with the story,” Parker said.

  “It wasn’t weight lifting that made him strong enough to break chains. It was the unclean spirits. But look what Jesus did.” Dr. Graham began to read aloud.

  “Seeing Jesus from a distance, he ran up and bowed down before Him; and shouting with a loud voice, he said, ‘What business do we have with each other, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I implore You by God, do not torment me!’ For He had been saying to him, ‘Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!’ And He was asking him, ‘What is your name?’ And he said to Him, ‘My name is Legion; for we are many.’ ”

  “Damien said that to me,” Parker interrupted. “He said his name was Legion.”

  “Who’s Damien?”

  “Our suspect.” Don’t use names, Ketcham had ordered.

  Dr. Graham frowned. “Take it from someone who’s been around the block a few times: that’s a red flag.”

  “Red flag for what?”

  “A poseur. And not even a very slick one. That’s not the real thing.”

  “What does the real thing look like?”

  “There are more than forty indicators by my count, but most of them can be faked by someone looking for attention—things like blasphemous tirades, self-mutilation, and the like. The unmistakable signs are harder to counterfeit—the kind of superhuman strength Jesus encountered in the Gadarenes, for one. Speaking in a language he or she couldn’t possibly know, or having knowledge of future events.”

  Parker squelched a laugh. “You’re serious?”

  The old professor flipped some more pages. “Let’s look to God’s Word again and see what it has to say. In Acts 16 Luke, writing about his missionary journeys with Saint Paul, says,

  “It happened that as we were going to the place of prayer, a slave-girl having a spirit of divination met us, who was bringing her masters much profit by fortune-telling. Following after Paul and us, she kept crying out, saying, ‘These men are bond-servants of the Most High God, who are proclaiming to you the way of salvation.’ She continued doing this for many days. But Paul was greatly annoyed, and turned and said to the spirit, ‘I command you in the name of Jesus Christ to come out of her!’ And it came out at that very moment.”

  “Our suspect is oh-for-three so far.”

  “What makes you think he’s demonized to begin with?”

  “He told us as much when we brought him in for questioning.”

  “Another red flag. Anything else?”

  “Well, if he’s the one who killed those four people, there’s that. And the bodies were covered with symbols, like pentagrams and inverted crosses.
Those are occultic, right?”

  “That’s not a word, but . . . yes.”

  “And there’s the way he dresses and all his piercings and such. I mean, I try not to judge people, but look at this man.” He pulled out a photo, printed from Damien’s website, and handed it to the professor.

  Dr. Graham’s face drained of color. His mouth fell open. “I think I’ve dealt with this man,” he said quietly.

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I’m not sure. But the hair, the dark eyes, the black clothes. He looks an awful lot like a man who walked into Broken Bondage Ministries shortly after we founded it. He told us he’d been on drugs and that he heard voices. He manifested a number of very unusual signs of demonization—the sort of things that don’t even occur to the fakers. My partner and I tried to hold him down while we prayed for the demons to leave him, which they eventually did. Then we counseled him for a time, walked him through the gospel, gave him our contact information, and asked him to keep in touch.”

  “Let me guess; you never saw him again?”

  “No, that’s the strange thing. He never called us, but I did see him again, maybe three years later. I was visiting my brother in Lowell, and we attended his little storefront church. And this same man was there visiting, looking exactly the same. He stuck around after the service and asked Jerry and the elders to pray over him. Of course, considering my work, Jerry invited me to join them, and we cast the demons out again. It was like déjà vu. He fell to the ground, and the spirits came out, and he responded with the same sense of gratitude and peace, even the same words he’d said to me years earlier—almost verbatim.”

  “So he was a poseur.”

  “No. He was the real deal.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Dr. Graham was flipping again. “You remember Luke 11. When Jesus’s enemies publicly accused him of serving Satan, he asked them, ‘If I drive out demons by Beelzebub, by whom do your followers drive them out?’ Then Jesus gives what I believe is a description of what happens when the Pharisees—or anyone—drive out demons without the demonized person putting faith in the Savior. Listen: