Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “Church and state, reunited,” Damien proclaimed. “How touching.” He flipped a page in his book.

  “Hands where I can see them!”

  “They are where you can see them.”

  “Put them on your head!” Ketcham took two threatening steps closer to Damien. “Interlace your fingers. The last thing you want to do right now is give me cause.”

  Damien complied. “Be careful. This is a hundred-and-fifty-year-old book of curses. It’s worth more than Parker’s shoe collection.”

  Three SRT members ascended the ladder into the attic, swept the open room, and trained their weapons on Damien.

  “Shut your mouth and don’t move a muscle,” Ketcham said. “Not a sneeze. Not a twitch. In just a few minutes you’ll be coming with us.”

  “For what? Is my religion illegal now?” His smile sickened Parker.

  “No, but drugs and murder are. We’re executing two search warrants as we speak.”

  “Show them to me.”

  “No.”

  “You have to show them to me. The Supreme Court said so.”

  “No they didn’t, and no I don’t. If you think our search is illegal, you can bring that up with your attorney. For now, shut your mouth and stay where you are. I won’t tell you again.”

  All was quiet for fifteen or twenty minutes as the search continued below and all around him. To occupy his mind, Parker studied his surroundings, looking for anything that resembled a dingir, a crown, a serpent, or anything else that might bear out the theories of the Jesuits Militant. Nothing jumped out at him.

  “You won’t find anything,” Damien announced, breaking the silence. “I don’t use drugs. And I don’t need to murder people. I have more sophisticated methods of dealing with my enemies. By the way, how’s that curse going, Parker? Anything bad happen yet?”

  Parker said nothing.

  “Very effective, curses, but impossible to prove in a court of law. And I’ve got a never-ending supply. Plenty to go around for the detective and his Christian Imperialist thugs.”

  Ketcham spoke into his radio. “Give me a status update.”

  Three responses came, all reporting an as-of-yet fruitless search of the main floor.

  Damien laughed. “You won’t find anything,” he repeated. “I operate on a higher level, a metaphysical level. I create reality with my words. Just ask Ben Ludema.”

  With a burst of rage Ketcham wound up and kicked the table in front of Damien. Parker jumped as the antique book flew across the room, followed by the dislodged tabletop.

  Ketcham instantly regained his composure. “Please be quiet, Mr. Bane.”

  “What is that?” Damien asked, his eyes wide and round, glued to what remained of the table. Built in to its skirt was a shallow shelf, upon which were lined bag after bag of white powder and a neat row of five throwing knives.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Ketcham recited.

  “Those aren’t mine.”

  “You have the right to an attorney.” He was twisting Damien’s wrists behind his back and securing them in handcuffs.

  “Those aren’t mine! You corrupt, lying, hypocrite pigs! You put those there!”

  The detective yanked him to his feet.

  “If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  For just a second, Parker caught Damien’s eye. And forced a smile.

  NINETEEN

  “YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES, PARKER. NO MORE,” KETCHAM SAID, his tone sharp. “I can justify this because you conducted yourself well when we first questioned the suspect. But if you go nuts on him in there, you could endanger the whole case. He could walk.”

  “I understand.”

  Ketcham touched his ID card against a plastic sensor. The door to the interrogation room unlocked with a click. He held the door for Parker, and the two men sat in the same chairs they had occupied three days earlier. Across the table from them, Damien slumped, a combination of rage and defeat.

  “Are you comfortable?” Ketcham asked. “Is there anything we can get you?”

  “I’m not saying one word until I have a lawyer.”

  “You need a lawyer to tell you if you’re comfortable?”

  Damien glared.

  “That’s okay. I’ll talk. You just listen. What you’ll be charged with is capital murder. I just wish Michigan still had capital punishment to go with it. You’re going to spend the rest of your life in a maximum-security prison, where you’ll relive the nightmare of high school for the rest of your life, only the bullies will be gang members and hardened killers. You have no idea what’s waiting for you inside. I don’t tell you this because I want to make a deal or get a confession—I just want you to think about it. Honestly, I want you to cry all night tonight. That’s my speech. My colleague has something to tell you as well.” He fixed Parker with a firm warning look before exiting the interrogation room.

  Damien stared at the table, his expression empty.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” Parker said slowly, “that I’m not praying for you anymore. I’m praying against you.” He stood, sending the chair skidding along the floor. “And for the record, I do believe in hell. And I hope you burn there.” He strode to the door and smacked it once with his palm. The lock buzzed open.

  Ketcham was waiting in the hall. “Let’s go debrief,” he said.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend,” Troy said, rising from the conference table in the Command Center. He shook Parker’s hand, firmly but gently. “We’re going to make that little ghoul pay, believe me. DNA comes back today. Tomorrow at the latest. You can rest easy tonight.”

  Parker flopped down into a desk chair. “But can’t he just pay some bail and get out until the trial?”

  “No,” Ketcham answered. “This is a capital crime. Bail has to be set by a judge at the arraignment, which won’t even happen until next week. And with the nature of these charges, it’ll be through the roof. There’s very little chance Danny will be seeing the light of day anytime soon.”

  Troy smiled. “Sounds like good news, don’t you think, Parker?”

  “Good news. That’s not my area anymore.”

  Ketcham exchanged a look with Troy then changed the subject. “Turns out you were right about the graffiti,” he said brightly. “We found almost a hundred empties down in his basement. All the right colors in the right proportions. If you want, I’ll even do some chemical tests against the samples from the churches.”

  Parker shook his head. “It doesn’t add up for me. How could Damien be smart enough to mastermind this whole thing, but dumb enough to incriminate himself like he did? I don’t get it.”

  Ketcham stirred some clumped powder creamer into his gray coffee. “I think it goes back to what you said before, Parker: it’s pure arrogance. Everyone else was an idiot but him. In the end, that took him down.”

  Troy adopted a fatherly tone. “It’s normal to feel like this, Parker. There’s always something about every case that doesn’t quite fit, and it can get inside your head if you let it. You have to just accept that it’s not like on TV, where everything from the bullets to the pollen traces on the victim’s lapels points to one person and then a last-minute surprise witness clinches it just before the credits roll. In real life we have to settle for good enough, and we’ve got that here. We’ve got more than good enough. Even if, by some strange twist of bad luck, these murders don’t stick, the drugs will put him away for ten years.”

  “But did he actually seem like someone who was on drugs to you?”

  “No, of course not,” Ketcham said. “And his urinalysis came back clean. He wasn’t taking the drugs himself, he was using them to control those kids. That’s even better for us—trafficking, contributing to the delinquency of a whole soccer team’s worth of minors. And we can add harassment if you feel like filing a complaint.”

  “No. I honestly don’t feel like . . . anything.”

  Ketcham studied him for a moment. “Detective Ell
is, could you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Sure thing,” Troy said, patting Parker’s back on the way out.

  When they were alone, Ketcham said, “You can’t do this, Parker.”

  “Do what?”

  “You can’t let Damien take your faith from you. This is exactly what he wants.”

  “He hasn’t done a thing to my faith.”

  “I can see it happening. We all can. We all liked you the way you were, Parker. That’s all I’m saying—don’t get hollowed out like us.”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m stronger than you think.”

  “That’s just it. I’d say that. You’re supposed to be a man of God.”

  “With all due respect, Detective Ketcham, you don’t know me.”

  “Maybe not,” he said, turning his attention back to the gray coffee. “But I know what it’s like to lose someone close to you and to rage against God. You know I’m not exactly a churchgoer anymore, but there’s a hymn that I often remember when I think I’m nearing bottom: ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.’ You know that one?”

  “Yes.”

  “It reminds me that I may not be stronger than everyone thinks, but the Big Guy is looking out for me. There’s this one line: Deep guile and great might are his dread arms in fight; on earth is not his equal. It’s always been a comfort to me.”

  “That’s about the devil,” Parker said.

  “What? No, it’s not.”

  “Yes, it is. The old and evil foe now means us deadly woe. Deep guile and great might are his dread arms in fight; on earth is not his equal. That verse is about Satan.”

  “Oh.”

  “I appreciate your concern. I really do. But I’ve got to go through this on my own.”

  “I understand. But let me tell you something. And this might help raise your spirits—”

  Troy burst in the door, out of breath. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need you, Ketch. We need you both.”

  “We’re busy right now, Troy.”

  “Trust me. You’re going to want to see this.”

  “His name is Chad Humbert,” Corrinne said, handing Ketcham a printout of the boy’s particulars. Parker and the three detectives were standing at the one-way glass in the observation bay peering in to Interview Room D, where a slight teenaged boy with blond hair sat, bouncing his legs nervously at the table.

  “Okay. Who is he?” Ketcham asked.

  “He’s our mystery man from Melanie Candor’s candlelight vigil.”

  Ketcham squinted through the glass. “Right. Was he at the house this morning? I didn’t see him.”

  “No, he walked in the front door ten minutes ago,” Corrinne said. “Said he wanted to talk to Parker.”

  “Could be a sleeper cell,” Troy suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “As in, Damien tells this kid to stay below the radar unless we start to close in, then he’s supposed to come in here and . . .”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know, pour rat poison in the coffee, stab one of us with a shard of glass—you tell me.”

  “That’s just stupid,” Corrinne spat.

  “It’s stupid,” Ketcham said, “but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. We’re not sending Parker in there alone. We’re all going in.”

  They paraded out through the hall, into the interrogation room next door, silent and solemn. Parker and Corrinne took the chairs. Ketcham and Troy stood on either side of the table, arms folded. Chad looked up and gulped.

  “This is Parker Saint,” Corrinne said. “What do you want to tell him?”

  “No. No cops. I said I wanted to talk to him alone. Unofficial and stuff.”

  Ketcham planted a palm on the table and leaned down to eye level. “No cops? Son, you just walked into a police station of your own free will.”

  “Never mind,” Chad said. “This was a bad idea.” He made a move to stand.

  “Sit,” Ketcham ordered. “We’ve been looking for you, and you’re not leaving until you tell us something we want to know.”

  Chad backed up against the wall. “Why would you be looking for me?”

  Ketcham ignored the question. “And you’re going to tell us everything you know about Damien Bane or you’re going to share a cell with him tonight.”

  Chad’s face twisted as if to tighten the valve on the tears that were building up.

  “I wonder,” Parker said, “if you three would excuse us for just a few minutes. I’d like to talk with my new friend here alone.”

  Troy and Corrinne looked to Ketcham. He nodded and buzzed them out, the three filing quickly back through the hall and into the observation bay.

  “Have a seat,” Parker invited warmly. “I’m here to help.”

  Chad sank back into the chair, noticing the large mirror for what it was for the first time. “Why would they be looking for me?” he asked again.

  “You were with Damien at a memorial service for a young lady earlier this week. We think he killed that girl and several others.”

  “How do you know I was there?”

  “I think we should talk about what you know,” Parker said, almost able to feel Ketcham’s approval through the wall. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard they arrested Damien for those murders.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “I didn’t know what to do. There was always a little fear in the back of my head, like a chance that Damien had done it. But if the police think so too, that’s . . .” His voice failed.

  “Scary.”

  “Yeah. I’m scared, man! Where else could I go? What if he comes after me too? What if he sends Dylan and TJ to my mom’s house?”

  “How do you know Damien?”

  “Ben was my best friend.”

  “Ben Ludema? Did you go to school together?”

  “No, I go to Catholic Central. At least I did until this year. I kind of dropped out. I met Ben through War of Ages.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an online multiplayer video game. You play with people over the Internet. I haven’t really had many friends for the past couple years, and Ben and I started hanging out. Then like three months ago, he flakes on me and starts practically living at Damien’s house all the time. He thought he was in love with this girl who went to all the parties out there. Anyway, all of a sudden, if I wanted to hang with Ben, I had to hang with Damien. I hated it there.”

  “Was Ben into drugs?”

  “Drugs? No, that was totally not Ben’s thing.”

  “Did you ever know Damien to give drugs to his followers?”

  “Followers?” His face twisted up again. “I never thought of us as followers.”

  “Well, what would you call all those folks? Are they all Damien’s friends? Does he treat them like equals?”

  “No.”

  “Does he give them drugs?”

  “Unlikely, man. I mean, yeah, he encouraged all of us to experiment with drugs or with anything that might ‘break the chains of the Christian Emperor Elite’ or whatever he called it, but I never saw him give anyone anything. Especially not something expensive like drugs. He freaked out on Dylan one time because he ate his favorite cereal.”

  “But you never actually lived with him, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you weren’t exactly part of his inner circle.”

  “I’m pickin’ up what you’re throwin’ down,” Chad said. “Maybe he was giving everyone drugs all the time. I don’t know.”

  “Did you cut yourself off from Damien as soon as Ben was killed?”

  “No, I went back there a couple times after Ben died, but things were getting strange.”

  “Strange how?”

  “It’s like Damien started to believe his own lies. He told everyone that Ben died because he had put a curse on him. If people were a little freaked out by him before, well, after Ben died—let’s just say Damien liked having everyone scared of him like that. He started talkin
g about spells and curses a lot more. Like, all the time.”

  “And you just got tired of it?”

  “Pretty much. One day I realized that Ben was the only one down there who knew where I lived or my phone number or anything—and he was dead—so I just stopped going.”

  “Did Damien talk about knives a lot, or did you ever see him practice throwing knives at a target?”

  “No. But he’s really private. Who knows what he does in the attic? No one’s allowed up there but him. Still, though, he hates guns and knives and weapons. He thinks they’re below him. That’s why he hates cops and soldiers and stuff. He says weapons are for weak people who can’t speak their own reality into existence.”

  “ ‘Speak reality?’ He says that?”

  “Yeah.” Chad laughed through his nose. “I think that’s one reason he hates you so much. You guys use a lot of the same phrases. When we started playing your drinking game—no offense—he’d hear you say things that were so close to what he said, and he’d go on these long rants. It was actually kind of funny.”

  “Five dead bodies are funny, are they?”

  Chad stopped short. “No. I’m just . . . Do you really think he did it?”

  “You tell me, Chad. In your gut, do you believe Damien Bane is capable of murder?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The door clicked open, causing Parker and Chad to flinch. Corrinne walked in.

  “Parker, Paul needs to talk to you,” she said. “I’ll take over here.”

  He saw the discomfort in the boy’s face. “Chad, this is Corrinne. You can trust her, okay?”

  Chad nodded. “Okay.”

  “What I was trying to tell you,” Ketcham said, leaning back against the conference table and flipping through a legal pad, “is that I called the prosecutor’s office this morning and informed them that you’ve fulfilled your obligation to this investigation. The charges against you no longer exist.” He looked up at Parker. “You don’t have to remain involved any longer.”

  “So I don’t have to. But I need to. I need to see this through to the end.”