“Do you want another Nixon?”
“I don’t see Morgan going bananas. It’s not his style.”
“Being well-groomed and earnest doesn’t mean he’s not harboring ugly secrets. Don’t they teach in police academy that con artists are the most charming, upstanding, trust-inspiring people?”
Fran laughed. “They teach that about politicians too.”
“Morgan’s beyond the pale.”
“Why? Everyone’s entitled to a few religious illusions.”
“Baptizing the nation’s heroes after stealing their personal info from government computers?”
“There’s no proof of that.”
“How about probable cause? Aren’t you supposed to investigate reasonable suspicions of a possible crime?”
“I run the Hate Crimes Section. Not the Hate-mongering Section.”
“Wow!” Ben watched her for a moment. “Are you afraid?”
“I’m not afraid, but I’m not suicidal either, professionally speaking. Any investigation of candidate Joe Morgan would become national news instantly. Starting something like this requires a really solid basis. I would have to go to the top for approval before doing anything, or I’d get fired on the spot.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Go to the commissioner with what? With your suspicions? The journal on the iTouch, which might be complete fiction, the grumbling of a disgruntled and confused man who can’t even ride his motorcycle safely?”
“And what if it’s true? What if Morgan did do what Zachariah said?”
“What if? The statute of limitations has run out several times already, so we couldn’t prosecute Morgan even if it’s true. And according to the journal, Zachariah stole the data, not Morgan.”
“Morgan only stole souls.”
“Wooooo!” Fran made like she was scared. “The souls are angry! They’re coming after Morgan!”
“It’s not a joke.”
“Isn’t it? Do you believe sloshing around in water while chanting incantations and yelling names actually does anything to souls of dead people?”
“Of course not.”
“Then nothing happened. It’s meaningless.”
Ben approached the window and looked out. No one stood by his motorcycle now, and the rain had resumed. “Don’t you care about poor Zachariah, getting railroaded by Morgan and his saints?”
“It’s a free country. He could have quit the Mormon Church.”
“And lose his wife and kids?”
“You’re exaggerating.”
Ben leaned on her desk. “We’re not talking about the Protestant Church here, or the Lutheran, or even Catholic, where an unhappy customer can leave and go worship Christ in another church down the street. Mormons live all-inclusive denominational lives. Their spiritual past, present, and future depends on serving the LDS Church in good standing. Their livelihood depends on fellow Mormons. Their children’s daily activities are run by Mormon volunteers. Their underwear is holy, their diet is righteous, their family relationships are celestial, and their social circle is joyously Mormon. Every aspect of their lives is totally intertwined with other Mormons and is strictly governed by the LDS Church, its rules, and its authority. How could Zachariah Hinckley leave? The journal shows how he was trying to remain a good Mormon and do the right thing at the same time!”
“By enforcing a supposed revelation from God?”
“Mormons believe in revelations,” Ben said. “A revelation for a Mormon is like an order from the police commissioner for you.”
“No commissioner would order an officer to pressure Joe Morgan to make a confession that could derail his run for president.”
“But it’s the truth! Don’t we have a moral obligation to finish what Zachariah started?”
“Why should voters be told about rituals Morgan might have conducted as part of his religious duties many years ago?” Fran waved her hand in dismissal. “Your biker dude was having a midlife crisis, manifested as a religious spat with his former bishop. Maybe he was jealous of Morgan?”
“Jealous?”
“Of Morgan’s wealth, of his rise to the top, of his running for president while Zachariah remained a lowly government employee. Maybe the divine revelation was inspired by envy, and Morgan was right to blow him off, which left Zachariah depressed, causing him to ride his Harley off the cliff.”
“It’s a theory,” Ben said, “that doesn’t fly when you factor in the Ducati.”
“It doesn’t exist.”
“And if I find it?”
“You won’t. It’s a ghost. And this whole baptizing stuff will never become big news and make you lots of money.”
“It’s not about money.”
“Fame. Whatever. I’m telling you that his journal is not enough evidence to go on the air, and even if it does come out, people will see it as political smear and religious bigotry.”
“I can defend my integrity. I’m an independent freelancer, and Ray will vouch for it. My job is to bring out the truth so people know about it.”
“It doesn’t matter. Joe Morgan has neutralized the whole Mormonism factor. People already know he’s a ‘Saint.’ They accept his different way of worship, including the Mormon baptizing of the dead. It’s a curiosity, an oddity, that’s all. Voters want to know that Morgan can be an effective president—run the country, deal with Congress, fix the economy, defend America—these are the real issues voters want to know about, not his personal religious practices. Nobody cares.”
“Well,” Ben said, “I care.”
In his office, Porter plugged Zachariah Hinckley’s iTouch into a wall outlet using a universal USB cable and adaptor. He let it charge for a few minutes, turned it on, and waited for it to boot up. When it did, he unplugged it and slipped it into a glass of water. The screen twitched and several applications opened rapidly before it died.
Through the window he saw the reporter walk across to his black-and-yellow motorcycle. He put on a matching yellow riding jacket, helmet and gloves, and mounted the bike. Porter was ready with his binoculars as he rode off, and jotted down the license plate number. Signing into the Motor Vehicle Department database, it took less than a minute to obtain the address.
Using a non-police pager, he copied Ben Teller’s address and sent it as a text message. The reply came seconds later:
Already traced him yesterday after news/photos came out.
Lives w. a negro dancer/med student. Vulnerable.
Porter smiled. It was a pleasure to work with a professional. He typed a reply:
U R efficient.
Make him go away.
Chapter 34
Ben didn’t expect Palmyra Hinckley to answer the house phone herself so soon after her husband’s death, but he hoped someone else would answer. Instead, there was a recorded message in a man’s voice: “God’s blessing upon you. This is the Hinckley residence. If you are calling about funeral arrangements, please check again later. If you wish to offer your prayers, please join us at the Silver Spring Ward today at noon. Thank you.”
It was 1:10 p.m., and Ben had stopped at a Subway for a quick sandwich, which he almost finished. Dumping the rest in the trash, he got back on the GS and headed down to Rockville, taking Rt. 29 South to the new Intercounty Connector toll road—a luxury he allowed himself only due to the brief window of time he had to catch Palmyra in a prayerful and, hopefully, talkative mood.
Having seen the incredibly elaborate spires of the imposing Mormon Temple near the beltway, he assumed the local ward would congregate in a smaller version of the temple. Instead, he found himself walking up a few steps to a one-story building that could have passed for a modest office or a warehouse. There was no cross outside, only a sign that said:
The Church of JESUS CHRIST of Latter-day Saints
Silver Spring Ward
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The letters for JESUS CHRIST were much bigger and bolder, standing out from the rest of the sign. It reminded Ben of Zachariah’s description of the techniques taught at the Mormon missionary training camp about how to approach Christian prospects with a mild pitch that the Book of Mormon was merely another testimony of Christ.
He pushed the door and entered. The foyer was empty, and he went through another set of doors into a meeting room. It was full despite the midday hour. The men all wore short hair and formal suits, probably on lunch break from their government or business jobs. The women, however, wore colorful dresses with longish sleeves. They were mostly blond or redheaded, their hair long and pulled back in a wholesome style.
Ben walked to the back of the room, taking a seat next to an elderly couple. The man reached over and offered his hand, which Ben shook. The wife smiled and nodded in approval when Ben slipped off his yellow riding jacket and tried to tidy his hair, which was long and unruly, unlike every other man in the room. And he could do nothing about his few days of not shaving.
Up front, a teenage boy stood at a lectern and, regaining his focus, returned to reading loudly from a book. He was speaking English, but the syntax was biblical.
At two p.m. sharp, a bespectacled man stood and went to the podium. The boy stopped reading, glanced at the man, who pointed at his wristwatch, and leaned closer to the microphone to give his testimony of faith, as Ben remembered reading in Zachariah’s journal: “I know that Joseph Smith is a true prophet, that the Book of Mormon is true, that the Church is true, and that the Gospel is true.”
The men departed quickly, and the ladies lined up to hug and kiss a woman and her children, including the boy who had read from the podium.
When the room finally emptied, Ben approached. “My condolences,” he said.
As upset as she was, her eyes red and puffy, Palmyra was still an attractive woman. She looked her age, and the wide hips told of having delivered the eight children who now circled her protectively. They were between six and nineteen years old, boys and girls who resembled their parents’ light coloring and long limbs.
“My name is Ben Teller. I was riding with your husband yesterday.”
Palmyra glanced at the yellow riding jacket he was holding. “Satan made him buy that bike. I knew it would ruin him.”
One of the girls, twelve or so, began crying. An older sister hugged her.
“The bike didn’t kill him,” Ben said.
Palmyra looked at him, waiting.
“Do you know why he went riding yesterday?”
“What do you mean?”
“He never rode on Sundays. Why did he go yesterday?”
She looked at her kids. “My husband was…a good father…but he had problems.”
“With Joe Morgan?”
She inhaled sharply. “Who are you?
“I’m a friend of Zachariah. Maybe his only friend.”
“I’ve never heard of you.”
“I have!” It was the oldest son, by his looks. “You’re the guy who reported from the accident. I saw it on the Internet!”
“Excuse me!” The bespectacled man returned to the meeting room and approached with a raised finger pointing up, either as a warning or an indication toward the heavens. “What is going on here?”
“This man is bothering Mom,” the older boy said.
“Sir!” The man inserted himself between Ben and Palmyra. “I am Bishop Canaan Linder!”
“It’s an honor, Bishop.” Ben bowed. “I was offering my condolences to Zachariah’s family. Is that forbidden?”
“This is a sacred place of prayer and love!”
“Tough love?”
“Come, dear.” The bishop held Palmyra’s arm. “Nora brought the car around.”
Ben dropped a business card into her purse. “Your husband was a brave man. He deserves the truth to come out. Call me.”
The bishop led Palmyra and her children outside, where a blue Suburban was waiting by the steps, a woman at the wheel. The Hinckley clan piled in, and they were gone.
“Bishop Linder,” Ben said, “can I ask you a couple of questions?”
“I’m sorry.” He locked the front doors of the ward house. “I have to get back to my office.”
“You’re a CPA, correct?”
He hurried to his car—a white Honda Accord that was parked in a tight spot between the wall of the meeting house and the next building.
“It must be very hard,” Ben said. “Tax advice and spiritual advice require very different skills.”
The bishop fumbled with his keys. “Who told you about me?”
“Zachariah said you were a good friend. How did you feel about his trial?”
“Dear Lord!”
“Losing temple privileges is very painful, isn’t it?”
“I must go!” He found the key fob and unlocked the car. “I have a client waiting!”
“It’s a heavy punishment for a father,” Ben said. “Humiliating, don’t you think?”
Bishop Linder got in, slammed the door, and locked it. But rather than drive off, he took out a phone and made a call.
Ben waved at him through the front windshield and went to his motorcycle. He pulled out his iPhone and texted Ray:
Accident yesterday developing; potential big story.
Need 2 talk 2 U. In person. ASAP.
Ray’s instant reply: Meet face-2-face? R U going low tech on me?
Ben typed a reply: Cut the bull. Can U meet? Or I go elsewhere.
That got her attention: 9 a.m. 2moro @ our global HQ
Ben laughed. The global headquarters of NewZonLine.com was Ray’s basement in the rural part of Montgomery County, and she was the only employee. Not bad for a news site that attracted several million visitors every day.
A new e-mail popped on his iPhone. His mother was replying to his message from last night. She didn’t write anything, only put in a smiley face. It made him laugh.
Next he called Keera. She was probably busy with a patient as his call immediately went to her voice mail.
He left a message. “It’s me. I’m running around, getting somewhere, I think. I’ll tell you later. My mom’s expecting us at six. Can you make it home by five thirty? I’d rather drive together. Love you.”
The rain stopped and the sun appeared between the clouds. Ben took his time getting into his jacket, helmet, and gloves. The GS was parked perpendicular to the sidewalk, which required backing up into the street, always a strain on his legs with such a tall bike. As he was about to ride off, a car appeared and blocked his way. It had an oversized We Believe! bumper sticker in the GOP colors and a smaller one that said: Joe Morgan 4 America’s Soul!
The four young men were clean cut and neatly dressed. They looked like high school kids, maybe early college. He recognized at least two of them from the ward.
Ben switched off the engine, lifted the helmet’s face shield, but stayed on the bike.
One of them stepped forward. “We’re here to ask you to leave Sister Hinckley alone.”
“Did she send you?”
He pointed at the ward house. “Sir! This is a sacred place of—”
“Of prayer and love. Yes, I know. Your CPA bishop has already advised me.”
They looked at each other.
“Can you tell me about Joseph Smith?”
“He was a true prophet of God,” one of them said.
The leader hushed him with a hand and addressed Ben. “Sir, we’re asking you politely. Please leave the Hinckley family alone. They are grieving!”
“Are you a missionary?”
He nodded.
“Doing your mission in Rockville, Maryland, must be a real treat, compared to Iraq or Afghanistan, right?”
“Sir, we’re not looking for trouble. Please stop disturbing�
��”
“I heard you. Anything else?”
He shook his head.
“Then move out of my way.” Ben turned on the engine.
“Sir!” He held up his finger, resembling Bishop Linder. “I’d like an answer. Are you going to leave them alone?”
Ben gripped the accelerator and revved the engine.
“I demand an answer!”
“Look.” Ben pointed at the guy’s neck. “Your holy underwear is showing.”
His young face became red. He signaled the others and they turned to leave, but suddenly he turned and kicked the front wheel of the motorcycle. It was a strong enough kick to cause the GS to tip sideways. Ben struggled to keep it up, but all he managed to do was slow the fall as the bike dropped on its side.
Ben expected the four missionaries to jump into their car and escape, but they didn’t. Instead, they circled the GS, trying to figure out how to lift it up. Ben pointed at the rear rack and grabbed the handlebar himself.
When the GS was back up, Ben put down the kickstand and looked for damage. There was none.
The one who had kicked the bike held both hands up. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to cause harm.”
“Go away before I cause you harm.” Ben got back on the GS and rode off.
Chapter 35
“What’s this, Mom?” Ben had just entered his mother’s small apartment and was helping Keera out of her coat when he saw the unlit candles, wine bottle, and braided challah bread on the dinner table. “Why are we celebrating the Sabbath in the middle of the week?”
“Do you ever come here on a Friday night?” His mother kissed him and Keera.
“You know we can’t,” Ben said. “Keera works Friday nights.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Teller,” Keera said.
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