A lone fisherman stood way out on the jetty, his rod in a holder, his hands in his pockets. He heard Ben’s boots on the wooden planks, glanced at him, and turned back to face the dark water. But he must have been listening carefully to the steps because, when Ben got within a few steps of his back, he suddenly swiveled, launched himself at Ben, and shoved him against the railing while pointing a long, serrated knife at his neck.
Ben grabbed the hand with the knife. “Hey!”
“You following me?”
“I’m…sightseeing!”
“Don’t lie!” He pressed the tip of the knife to the skin.
“Are you nuts?”
“Talk, or I’ll spill your juice and feed you to the fish!”
“I’m a reporter.”
“And I’m a ballerina!”
“It’s about your friend, Zachariah Hinckley. I need to talk to you, okay?”
Rex didn’t let go. His bearded face was up close, and his breath smelled of garlic. “How did you find me?”
“Ironman Cycles, then Best Buy. A kid on a motocross told me you come here to fish.” Ben lowered his hands. “I want to talk, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“I was at the ride yesterday. Zachariah passed us, speeding like crazy as if someone was chasing him.”
“You’re lying.” There was less confidence in Rex’s voice, but his grip remained tight, holding Ben’s upper body out over the railing and the dark water.
“He was in trouble with his church, right? The Mormons?”
“Shut up!” Rex sheathed the knife, still holding on to Ben, swiveled him around, and patted him from head to toe.
“I’m not packing anything,” Ben said. “Will you answer a couple of questions?”
Rex stepped back and looked around. He pulled his fishing rod from the holder and started rolling back his line.
“What are you afraid of?”
With the fishing rod in one hand and the bucket in the other, Rex jogged toward land.
Ben stayed with him. “He was your friend. Don’t you care about the truth?”
“I care about staying out of other people’s business.”
“Your dead buddy isn’t your business?”
They reached the Chevy pickup, and Rex dropped his stuff into the bed.
“Talk to me. You’ll feel better.”
Rex got in the driver’s side and unlocked the passenger door. “Two minutes. That’s it!”
“Okay.” Ben sat down and shut the door. “Nice truck.”
Rex turned on the engine. The vertical part of the dashboard, which normally would hold the radio and climate controls, instead had a flat piece of gray steel that covered the whole area from the glove compartment to the steering wheel. He pressed his thumb to a fittingly small pad, and after a few peeps, the steel plate clicked open and slid aside, revealing a touch-screen filled with icons. It was held in place by a solid-looking steel frame. He pressed an icon for an application, and a series of bars appeared, rising and falling like a music synchronizer. On the side was a small image of the truck with a line going through it repeatedly like a scanner. A red light began to blink in the spot representing the passenger seat.
“Fancy,” Ben said. “Best Buy sells this stuff?”
“Are you recording?”
“No.” Ben pulled out his iPhone. “This is the only electronic device I’m carrying and it’s not recording right now.”
“It’s traceable. Turn it off.”
Ben complied. “Traceable by whom?”
A few more applications came up, and loud music—opera, of all things.
“Great sound system.”
Rex scanned the area through the windows and side mirrors. “You may not mention my name to anyone, or I’ll—”
“Fish food. Got it.”
“I knew Zachariah from his mission years in New York. My family hosted him for occasional dinners, gave him some leads on prospects for tracking, stuff like that. I was a couple of years younger, so we weren’t close, didn’t keep in touch or anything. But I ran into him one day at Ironman Cycles, so we caught up on life, family, bikes, technology, the military.”
“You served too?”
“Long time ago.” Rex rubbed a service ring on his index finger. “We started riding together on Saturdays, maybe once a month, nothing too formal. Neither of us rode on Sundays, so it worked out good, became a regular thing.”
“Yesterday was a Sunday.”
“It’s a first. Zachariah never missed Sunday services with his family.”
“And you?”
“I work on Sundays. It’s our biggest day, lots of customers come in.”
“Are you also a Mormon?”
“I’m a Jack Mormon. Do you know the phrase?”
“Someone who cheats on the rules?”
For the first time, Rex smiled. “Let’s say that I like my coffee too much. An occasional smoke too.”
“And Zachariah? Did he keep the rules?”
“Never saw him drink coffee, tea, or alcohol, if that’s what you mean. I’d offer him a cigarette every time I lit up myself, but he wouldn’t try it. Women batted their eyes at him all the time too, but he wouldn’t even flirt. Drove me nuts, being single myself, you know?”
“Did he ever express doubts about his faith?”
“Look, we weren’t close. Rode together some Saturdays, took breaks, had a meal on the road, nice conversations, that’s all. I could tell he was under pressure. Family, eight kids, volunteering, but he kept it together. Very organized. Serious.”
“In what way?”
“Bike always clean, riding boots shining, gas tank topped off.” Rex fumbled with the touch screen. “He insisted on fueling up every sixty miles, like a clock. God forbid he had less than half a tank of gas.”
“That’s odd.”
“You had to know the guy. He remained a Marine, you know?”
Ben nodded.
“Are you a veteran?”
“Football injury.” Ben rubbed his shoulder. “Not fit for service.”
Rex turned and measured him up and down. “You’re too skinny for a football player.”
“I’m intense,” Ben said. “If Zachariah was such a straight arrow, what happened to him? Why did he ride on Sunday, speed up recklessly, get himself killed? It doesn’t fit the description you’ve just given me.”
“He wasn’t doing well the last few weeks.”
“In what way?”
“He was in some trouble.”
“With whom?”
Rex shifted uncomfortably. “With the Church.”
“What trouble?”
“I don’t know. A disagreement.”
“Really?” Ben kept an even tone as if he knew nothing. “About what?”
“He had something they wanted. They talked to his wife, put him on trial, suspended his religious status—”
“In what way?”
“He lost the right to enter the Temple. He was very upset about it. Also during Sunday services at the local ward, he had to stay in the back, not included in anything. Can you imagine? The guy has all these kids, they go to services together, and Dad has to sit in the corner like he’s wet his pants.”
“Sad.”
Rex craned his neck, scanning the area. “Look, I don’t know much more—”
“You know enough to be scared. Why?”
“They broke into his house, messed it up. Same with his car. Even his office at Veterans Affairs.”
“Did he call the police?”
“File a complaint against other saints?” Rex laughed. “Disputes are resolved by local bishops or someone higher, like the stake president or an official back in Salt Lake City. Mormons don’t trust the Gentile authorities.”
“Still, if it was so bad, he should have sought help. The police could—”
“Even if he did, there are people inside who would make sure the interests of the Church are protected.”
“Really?”
“It’s a century-old strategy, ever since the US Army marched on Utah and forced the great compromise on Brigham Young—renounce polygamy and give up the dream of an independent New Zion. The LDS Church learned its lesson.”
“What lesson?”
“Like the cliché—If you can’t beat them, join them. Look around you! Mormons control huge corporations, banks, the media, even Congress.”
“That’s the same ugly stuff bigots say about Jews.”
“Jews are nothing compared to us. Jews have no central authority, no hierarchical structure, no single strategy they must follow. Jews are individual entrepreneurs. Jews go after personal goals, their own ideas and opinions. Latter-day Saints can’t do that. We’re told to obey our bishop. The Mormon Church is like an army with a clear chain of command and an army of loyal soldiers. Where do you think Harry Reid and Orrin Hatch get their marching orders? Or the thousands of Mormons in key positions in the FBI, CIA, and every other branch of the government? And the White House is next!”
“How’s Zachariah connected to this?” Ben watched Rex’s reaction. “Was he disobedient?”
“No,” Rex said. “The guy was a good Mormon. Totally.”
“So why was he in trouble?”
“I don’t know. Really. He never told me.”
“Do you think they killed him?”
Rex held both hands up. “I didn’t say that!”
“But you suspect—”
“You draw your own conclusions.” He reached across and opened Ben’s door. “If I were you, I’d drop the whole thing.”
Ben stepped out. “What about his bike?”
“What about it?”
“You said that they broke into his house, his car, his office. But you didn’t mention his bike.”
“It was sitting in his garage. They pushed it over, but that’s it.” Rex engaged the reverse. “Good-bye!”
“One more thing. Did he ever mention a suspicious Ducati?”
For the first time, Rex’s expression showed fear. He reached over, grabbed the handle, and slammed the door shut. A moment later, he was gone.
Back on his bike, Ben lingered for a moment in the empty parking lot. The rain was falling steadily now, and he looked out to the Chesapeake Bay, which merged into a gray mist of water and rain, hiding the opposite shoreline.
Chapter 33
Fran’s office at the Maryland State Police headquarters looked out over the parking lot. Ben glanced through the window at his GS, which had attracted a few state troopers. One of them pointed at the air-cooled boxer engine and explained something to the others.
“There’s nothing here about a floppy disk,” Fran said, looking up from her computer screen. “They would have put it into the accident report.”
“Does it say anything about the search?”
She scanned the report again. “It’s all basic, routine. Here’s the list of personal belongings retrieved from the body: wallet with cash, credit cards, driver’s license, an ID card from the Department of Veterans Affairs, keys, sunglasses, a tube of sunscreen, and a mobile phone—basic AT&T phone service with no data, e-mails, or web surfing capacity. That’s all they found on him.”
“I’m telling you,” Ben insisted, “that Inspector Porter pulled something from the back of the victim’s pants that looked like a floppy disk.”
Her finger hit a few keys on the office phone.
A male voice answered. “Community Liaison Section. Inspector Porter speaking. How may I help you, Lieutenant DeLacourt?”
“Can you come over to Hate Crimes? I have a visitor from the press who’d like a word with you.”
“Sure.”
When Fran hung up, Ben said, “Who said I wanted a word with that creep?”
She grinned. “Aren’t you a type-A investigative reporter?”
“Don’t tell him about the journal or about my meeting with Rex.”
“Why not?”
“He might be involved.”
“Inspector Porter? Don’t be ridiculous!”
“How well do you know him?”
Fran sat back, exhaling. “He’s new to Maryland, but he’s got an impressive law enforcement résumé, from what I hear. Came highly recommended.”
“Humor me.”
She rubbed her cropped hair. “Fine. But I won’t lie if he asks me, and neither should you.”
Inspector Porter arrived with a friendly smile. “Mr. Teller, isn’t it?”
“You remember my name.” Ben shook his hand. “I’m impressed.”
“This is for you, Inspector.” Fran handed him the iTouch. “Teller poked around the accident site after you left and found this. You can add it to the inventory.”
“Thank you,” Porter said. “Did you turn it on?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “Interesting music selection, if you like country. Or silly games. The battery is drained so you’ll need to charge it first.”
“Appreciate your dropping it off.” Porter turned to leave.
“Quick question,” Fran said. “Ben is following up on the accident. He was asking about an object that he saw you remove from the body.”
“He’s right.” Porter smiled. “It’s in my office. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he left, Ben said, “Why did you tell him? Now he’ll—”
“He’s a state trooper. He won’t risk his job to steal from a corpse.”
“How do you know?”
“Don’t be paranoid.”
Porter reappeared with a brown envelope. He shook it over Fran’s desk, and a DVD case fell out. It was black, with the movie title in red: The Apprenticeship of Debbie Cravey.
“Enticing,” Ben said. “Have you watched it?”
“No one has watched it.” Porter pointed to the sealed plastic wrapping. “I added it manually to the inventory in the paper file, but kept it out of the electronic records.”
“Why?”
“As the ranking trooper on the scene, I had to make a decision. The deceased had a wedding ring on and looked like he could be a father.” Porter rested his hand on the DVD. “Next thing, a nosey reporter would find out and put it up on the Internet. The family is suffering enough, don’t you agree?”
“Isn’t it part of the evidence in the case?”
Porter shrugged. “What case? It was an accident.”
“It’s standard procedure,” Fran said, preempting Ben’s next question. “We’re sensitive to families’ feelings, especially when there’s no suspicion of a crime.”
“None.” Porter slipped the DVD case back into the envelope. “The traffic investigator measured the tire marks, calculated trajectories, and so on. It was a straightforward situation of lost control. No doubt about it.”
“Really?” Ben met his eyes. “No doubt?”
“Recklessness, that’s all. Typical for bikers, wouldn’t you say?”
“In what way?”
“Taking unnecessary risks.” He smiled again. “How about you, Mr. Teller? Do you take unnecessary risks?”
“Define ‘necessary.’”
“That’s enough,” Fran said. “Thank you, Inspector.”
“You’re welcome.” Porter turned to leave.
“Wait,” Ben said. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“How come you showed up so quickly after the crash?”
“My job is to liaise with the community, to be the face of the state police with civic organizations, churches, etc. That includes attending public events, making sure everything goes smoothly.”
“Especially
with reckless bikers?”
Porter took a deep breath, filling his chest, which made him look as if he stood at attention. “I take special interest in events involving my fellow veterans.” He turned on his heels and left the office.
“What branch?”
“Excuse me?” His departure interrupted for the second time, Porter’s veneer cracked. “Are you talking to me?”
“Your service,” Ben said. “What branch of the armed forces?”
After a pause, he blurted, “US Army Police.”
Only when the sound of Porter’s steps died down the hallway did Fran burst out laughing. “You’re such a jerk!”
“He’s lying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Is he a Mormon?”
Fran dropped into her chair. “I don’t know. There are hundreds of people working in this building. A few of them are Mormon, I assume. Some are Muslims, some are Jews, and some are dykes like me. Don’t ask, don’t tell, you know?”
“I ask and tell for a living.”
“And I fight hate crimes for a living. I also give seminars about tolerance. Okay?”
“Point taken,” Ben said. “And thanks for not telling him about the journal.”
“What journal?”
“Exactly. Can I get a close look at that DVD?”
“You want to see Debbie in action?”
“Do you?”
“Ha!”
Ben laughed. “I just want to see if I can trace it to a store. They might remember Porter buying it.”
“Here we go again.”
“There’s no way Zachariah Hinckley watched porn.”
“He was a guy, wasn’t he?”
“I’m a guy and I don’t watch porn.”
“Because you have Keera, who could beat you up if she wanted—which might not be a bad idea, actually.”
“I agree. But what about this case? It could be explosive.”
“Not really. Who cares if Joe Morgan got into a bath in his underwear and acted out being baptized for dead guys?”
“He’s running for president!”
“And other candidates go to their churches and participate in their unique rituals, which might seem weird to outsiders. Wasn’t George Washington a Freemason? And Nixon a Quaker?”
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