God Told Me To

by C. K. Chandler

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  She smoked and waited to be asked a question. A few seconds passed before she blurted out, “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Which I fully believe, Miss Forster.”

  “Really?” She forced ice into her voice. “I thought the reason two officers took me from my job was to prevent my possibly warning him. You think I know where he is. You think you can wheedle that out of me.”

  Hendriks chuckled without humor. “The days of the rubber hose are over.” His tongue darted out and circled his lips. “But you were living together, were you not?”

  “Which you certainly know because two officers knocked on my door within minutes of that first news story hitting the street. I am deeply worried about Peter’s safety. I am no longer his old lady. I accepted the fact we were over the day I came home and found he’d taken his clothing.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two, three weeks ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I think it’s rather sorry that the whole New York police force can’t locate the most famous man in town.”

  “We shall, Miss Forster. For his sake, as well as ours.”

  “You’re worried he’ll make more statements, give another interview.”

  “Yes, that is among our reasons. What he has said is dangerous to the public safety. It’s also complete nonsense, as I’m sure you recognize.”

  Casey took a last drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out in a stone ashtray which Hendriks had pushed near her. She immediately reached for another smoke. When Hendriks started to lean toward her with the lighter, she took it from his hand.

  “Whatever I may think about Peter’s statements, I won’t say or do anything which will help you lock him up.”

  “But Miss Forster, he’s done nothing wrong. He’s broken a few departmental regulations, but has committed no criminal offenses.”

  “I didn’t mean prison when I said lock up.”

  “Treatment, Miss Forster. Rest and psychiatric help. Certainly you agree that a man who goes around talking about God all the time . . .”

  “You mean anybody who really believes in God would have to be certified insane?”

  Harshness slipped into his tone. “That is not what I mean. I’m a firm believer myself.” He caught himself, paused, and after a moment switched tactics.

  “Perhaps if we knew more about him we could better understand.”

  “You have his records.”

  “I mean his personal history. Childhood, things of that nature. For instance, why would a man such as himself go into police work.”

  “He wanted to steal apples.”

  “Please. I am trying to understand.”

  Casey stared at him, wondering whether he was putting her on. He kept silent as she decided there would be nothing wrong in telling what she knew of Peter’s background. She stood and paced back and forth while she talked.

  “His father developed a serious illness and couldn’t work. Peter gave up college and became sole support of the family. A mother, two brothers, and a sister. Foster brothers and sisters, actually. He put both boys through college. You know, you must know Peter was adopted. The Nicholas family took him when he was around five years old. They had thought they’d never have their own kids. Then after they took Peter—well, suddenly their children happened. They were good to Peter, but he’s told me that he never felt like a natural child. Maybe he always thought they would send him back to the home. But they kept him. And when the father became sick . . . well, I guess he felt he owed them.”

  The Deputy Commissioner respectfully said, “Quite a chore on a policeman’s salary. Doctor bills, supporting the others.”

  Casey snapped. “He never stole so much as a dime!”

  “I am not suggesting that. I’m simply in awe. Where are the others now, would you happen to know?”

  “Both parents dead. Sister’s married and lives in California. One brother’s an engineer working in Iran. The youngest boy was killed in Vietnam.”

  Hendriks nodded and rubbed his nose. “While you were together. Did you happen to notice any nervous disorders?”

  Casey refused to answer.

  “Did he sleep well?”

  “Why don’t you ask his wife.”

  Hendriks began to show his impatience. Quickness entered his voice. “Because he hasn’t spent a night with her in the past five years. We’ve already spoken with her, Miss Forster. I might add she was more cooperative than yourself.”

  “Yeah, she’s a good broad. Peter always spoke well of her.”

  “There’s no need to become snippy. Did he continue to attend Mass every day while he was with you?”

  “That’s between him and his God.”

  “And how did he speak of his God?”

  “You should wear red robes. Like the Inquisition.”

  Hendriks began to rise to his feet.

  “The last time Peter and I were together, he told me about you! About his case and about you, Deputy Commissioner. He told me you were ambitious and had only allowed him to pursue his case because you thought there would be some glory in it for yourself.”

  “Not true, young lady.”

  “This isn’t a bad office. But you want more. You don’t want the word deputy in front of your title!”

  Hendriks worked hard to hold his temper. His eyes threatened to pop out of their narrow slits.

  “Listen to me, young lady. Whatever you think of me, however wrong your thoughts may be, it’s the Nicholases who cause the problems. People who are too goddamn religious make trouble.”

  She fought to hold back the tears which were beginning to burn her eyes.

  “He was always alone. Estranged from everyone. His wife. His parents. His co-workers because he was too damned straight. Everyone but his God. He truly believes and that’s all he’s ever had. I won’t help you to use that against him.”

  “You! You helped to ruin him.”

  She started for the door. Hendriks hurried after her. He caught her arm and swung her around, putting his face near hers. His heavy whisper sounded clogged. Words slid loose from his throat one by one.

  “You. What sick guilt it must have caused him. Living in a state of immorality with you.”

  Casey pulled away from him. With all the force she could muster, she slapped him.

  Emile Lukas’s next article began:

  VICTIM or MARTYR

  Police Department spokesmen today announced that Detective Lt. Peter Nicholas has officially been listed as a missing person.

  Dew crept over the soles of Casey’s sandals and chilled the bottoms of her feet, as she crossed the lawn. She shivered slightly and wondered whether she was right in coming here. A light burned above the front door, as if the person inside expected someone. Feeling like a thief, Casey edged silently through the darkness to the house and peeped through a window.

  A dark-haired woman was sitting on a living-room couch, distractedly scratching the ears of a yellow dog that lay with its head in her lap. The woman appeared to be listening closely to something, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the room.

  It was the first time Casey had seen Martha Nicholas, but she recognized her immediately.

  She’s heavier than me, Casey thought, older and darker. But there is a resemblance between us.

  As she stepped back from the window, she kicked against a child’s toy piano that had been left on the grass. The toy made a slight noise, but it brought a gasp from Casey, as if she’d stepped on an alarm. Inside, the dog raised its head from Martha’s lap and lazily looked toward the window. Martha, though, remained listening intently.

  Casey picked up the piano and pressed it against her belly to keep it from sounding again. The dew on the toy dampened her shirt and she shivered again. She went quickly to the door and rang the bell.

  They looked each other up and down.

  Casey said, “
Do you know who I am?”

  Martha nodded. “I think so. You’re Casey.” She moved back a step and opened the door wide. “Come in.”

  Casey hesitated.

  “Please,” Martha said.

  She remembered she still held the toy piano. Awkwardly, with embarrassment, she held it toward Martha.

  “I found this on your lawn.”

  Martha smiled and took the toy. The movement of the toy leaving her hands seemed to pull Casey into the house.

  “Neighborhood kids are always leaving their things on the grass.” Martha led the way through the short foyer into the living room. A radio was playing. The yellow dog still lay on the couch. It gave Casey an unconcerned glance. Martha put the toy on a coffee table and switched off the radio.

  “I was listening to the Long Tom talk show. His guest is that Emile Lukas. You can guess what they were talking about. I’ll turn it back on if you want.”

  Casey shook her head, “I’m reaching a point where I don’t want to hear any more.”

  Martha nodded in silent agreement. Her smile was hesitant but warm. She brought her hands together in a soft clap and said, “Well, uh . . .” She pointed toward the dog. “That’s Burger. He wandered up to the back door one day and I fed him some hamburger. Been here ever since. I, uh . . .” She clapped her hands again. “You look like you could use a drink. Can I get you one?”

  “I’ve had a few already. I needed some courage to drive out here.”

  “Another one or so won’t hurt. If it does . . . well, you can sleep here, Casey.”

  Casey was left alone while Martha went to the kitchen to prepare their drinks. She walked around the living room, noticing how neat everything was, and that there were more mementoes of Peter here than at her apartment. There was a comfort and peace to this home but it was colorless and too still, and Casey got the impression there was never any change here. She always kept movement in her small place, and bright, cheery things. Here there was an absence of joy, and Casey felt sure it had been this way before Peter left. She found it strange to believe the same man had lived in both places. And she resisted the urge to wander through the house and find the bedroom where he and Martha had slept.

  She sat on the couch and petted the dog.

  She reached to the coffee table and began to finger the keys of the toy piano. Only four keys sounded. She was making a metallic melody, which reminded her of the wind chime that used to hang above her bed, when Martha returned.

  “Bourbon and water. All I could manage. ’Less you want some Coke or 7-Up with it.”

  “This is fine.” Casey took a swallow. She was a scotch drinker and the bourbon tasted too sweet. She watched Martha sit down in a green armchair that had white doilies pinned to the arms. Without thinking, she said, “Antimacassars.”

  “What?”

  “Antimacassars. I just thought of that. It’s what they call the doilies you pin on chairs and things.”

  “Most people don’t use them anymore.”

  “I do a lot of crossword puzzles. That’s how I know the word.”

  “I still use them.”

  The second swallow of bourbon tasted better to Casey. She asked, “When was the last you heard from Peter.”

  “It’s what we have to talk about, isn’t it?”

  Casey nodded.

  “A few weeks ago. He called from a pay phone somewhere. He didn’t make too much sense.”

  “Must be about the same time he called me. I hung up on him. Next day I came home and he’d taken his clothes.”

  “He must’ve called me after. He told me he left you. Then he got confused. It was like he didn’t know if it was you or me he was talking to. Kept saying he was sorry, there was something he had to do and he was sorry about it all.”

  “I wasn’t surprised when he left me. Disappointed, but . . . We talked about marriage. But I’d known a long time it was he, not you, who didn’t want a divorce. At first I thought it was some sort of religious guilt, only the way things have happened . . . Do you think there’s anything . . . ?”

  “Do I think he’s insane?” Martha shook her head. “No. But he’s a driven man. You must’ve noticed that yourself.”

  Casey swallowed more bourbon. She wanted a cigarette but she saw no ashtrays in the room. She was sure Martha would run and find one, but she didn’t ask her and reached over to the toy piano.

  Martha continued, “I’m not real good with words. I wish I could explain him. I used to once in a while get a feeling. It was like he thought his life wasn’t his own. Was it ever that way with you?”

  Casey nodded. “I always thought it had something to do with his religion. I was very loosely raised Protestant and never had any religious training. I just thought, or maybe rationalized, that Peter’s thing was his just being a heavy Catholic.”

  Martha watched Casey pick out her tinny little tune on the toy. She wasn’t about to spend the rest of the night trying to explain Catholic theology. And she couldn’t help but feel a certain jealousy toward the younger, prettier woman. She looked at Casey’s fashionable blond coif, and unconsciously raised a hand and touched her own hair.

  “You weren’t the first woman after me. There were a few in between.”

  Casey pretended not to notice the bitter note that had entered Martha’s voice. “I know. I just thought I might be the last.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound that way. Peter did love you. Very much, and when all these problems of his are solved he will go back to you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He’ll need somebody.”

  “Probably. But will he admit it.”

  Casey picked up her glass and drained it in a single long swallow. Martha did the same with her drink, quickly grabbed up both glasses, and went to refill them.

  Casey continued to plunk the little piano.

  When Martha came back, and after both had swallowed more bourbon, Casey said, “Peter always worried more than myself about my getting pregnant. Only what with him so devoutly Catholic, I always wondered why he wasn’t bothered by my using a diaphragm. Then I thought it was because I was the Protestant, I was the sinner. But like he seemed to have a real hang-up about kids. Whenever I mentioned them he would get kind of vague. But you and he, I’m sure you never used anything. So why weren’t there any kids?”

  A pained look crossed Martha’s features.

  “I had three pregnancies. The doctor said nothing was wrong with me. They never could find the reason for the miscarriages. Always in the fifth or sixth month. I wanted them so bad.”

  “Peter never mentioned it, Martha. I’m sorry.”

  “He wasn’t sorry. Oh, he said the right things. But he was always frightened of them. When the babies weren’t born, I could tell he was relieved. The doctor convinced me it would be better if we didn’t take any more chances. So I had myself operated on. But why should a man not weep when his children aren’t born?”

  Casey had no answer. She played the piano. It made a lonely sound. The sound of metal rain.

  The Long Tom show is the most popular of all New York City radio interview programs. Long Tom is famous for debunking hoaxes, equally famous for promoting his own often odd ideas which range from the dangers of fluoridation to the unquestioned fact of Abraham Lincoln’s ghost haunting the White House. The format of the show is simple. Long Tom will discuss a topic with one or two guests for a couple hours, then invite listeners to phone in their opinions or questions. Emile Lukas is a frequent guest whenever the topic involves a scientific phenomenon.

  Detective Jordan had tuned in tonight’s show while driving home. He chuckled and laughed. After pulling into his parking space in the basement garage of the Bronx co-op where he lived, he sat in his car and listened an extra twenty minutes until the show was over. Chuckling, laughing all the while.

  “This is Long Tom reminding you once again we’re discussing the ‘Voice of God’ murders. Hello, there. You’re on the air.”


  “Long Tom? Am I on? I just want to say I don’t think God is calling the shots. But I sure would like to hear this Nicholas fella. Where is he?”

  “Thank you for calling, sir. That’s the question uppermost in everyone’s mind. We’ve only a minute left, and I’m going to ask my guest, columnist Emile Lukas, to comment on Lieutenant Nicholas.”

  “Where is the man? I have no idea. It’s been suggested that the police are holding him in isolation. Perhaps. But are we in the midst of a hoax? Let me say this. Peter Nicholas is a man with the obsession to lay out the truth. If the ‘Voice of God’ murders are a hoax, then the victim of that hoax is none other than Nicholas himself.”

  Jordan laughed and snapped off the radio.

  If only those clown callers knew, he thought, where the man with the Godly message was living.

  He got out of his car, locked it, and started toward the ramp that led to the elevators. He was passing a large steel stanchion when a black man wearing sunglasses and a floor-length raccoon coat stepped from behind it and confronted him.

  “Greetings, Mr. Jordan.”

  “Zero, I fucking told you never to come near my home.”

  Jordan started to reach for his weapon. He stopped when he noticed Zero’s right hand was in a coat pocket. The hand looked to be pointing the barrel of a gun.

  “Weather’s still warm for that big a coat, Zero.”

  “You know us black folks, Jordan. We like a little flash.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “Bad vibes are going down.” Zero made a motion. “Walk you to your elevator. We can discuss all that needs discussing on the journey.”

  They headed up the ramp with Jordan in the lead.

  “I’ll get you for this, Zero.”

  “You been getting too much too long. Raisin’ the ante like you did. That didn’t go down none too swift.”

  “Told you at the time. I was just taking orders.”

  “Uh-huh? From who? My people are still gettin’ busted. My associates’ people are getting busted. The Mr. Who can’t be too big.”

  “Christ, if you’re talking about this past week.” Jordan started to swing around but was stopped by Zero gesturing with the hand still in his pocket. “Every so often there have to be a few arrests. We need statistics. For the Commissioner, the public, the fuckin’ FBI. You know how it works.”