Surgical Precision

by Patrick Logan

  “Yeah, murdered Bentley Thomas, but somehow beat the charge. He was so overcome by guilt that he’d killed himself. Good riddance, piece of shit.”

  Crumley raised an eyebrow.

  “I’ll admit, no great loss there. Not our finest moment, either; both men charged with molesting and murdering a young boy, both set free. Anyway, Winston lived in the same trailer park as Wayne Cravat.”

  Yasiv was taken aback by this; he must have missed it while going over the man’s file.

  “Really? Did they know each other?”

  “Probably. We could never find a solid connection, but, you know, these guys tend to group together. If you’ve been to Happy Valley, then you’ve probably already seen that, met some of the local yokels.”

  Yasiv pictured the man coming out of his trailer brandishing a baseball bat.

  “Pleasant bunch. So, if Wayne’s not hanging out at the trailer park, where might he be?”

  Detective Crumley took a bite of his donut, chewed twice, then swallowed.

  “Either at the church or the bar. The devil or the angel, you decide which is which.”

  “You got an address for both?” Yasiv asked.

  Crumley took another bite of his donut.

  “The church is called Harvey Park in Queens on Chevy Chase Road, while the bar is a place called Local 75. It’s in East Harlem, on Fifth, I believe.”

  “Thanks for your help, Detective Crumley,” Yasiv said, extending his hand. This time, Crumley jammed what was left of the donut in his mouth and then shook it.

  “No problem,” he said with a spray of powdered sugar.

  Yasiv turned to leave when Dunbar spoke up again.

  “One more thing; you wouldn't happen to have a copy of the court proceedings for Winston or Wayne handy, would you?”

  Crumley waved a hand toward the back wall indicating stacks of boxes.

  “Twenty-one boxes. You're more likely to have at it.”

  Dunbar gaped.

  “Really? And with all this, you still couldn’t convict either of them?”

  Yasiv cringed. The man was trying to help them out, and yet Dunbar seemed to be looking for a fight. Thankfully, Crumley didn’t take the bait.

  “It looks like a lot, but for Wayne, at least, there wasn’t that much substance there. All we really had is that video. To be honest, I’m surprised that the DA went ahead with the case, but I guess they were getting pressured from someone above them. Not surprising, what with Winston Trent beating his charge. I think the DA was just hoping to wrap it up quick, take some of the attention away from the heroin smuggling fiasco.”

  There was really nothing in the man’s words that Yasiv could find fault with. In addition to being helpful, Crumley also seemed level-headed and rational, two things that didn’t often go hand-in-hand with being a police officer, SVU or otherwise.

  “Yeah, I know how it is. Are you still investigating both cases?”

  Crumley sucked his teeth.

  “On the record? Sure. Off the record? Winston Trent killed that boy. As far as I’m concerned, that case is closed. As for Will Kingston, we’re still looking into it, but the DA directed all our resources into Wayne Cravat. When that didn’t pan out the way they’d hoped, we gotta start from scratch. It’s a slog.”

  “I bet. Again, I—”

  “Do you have the Coles Notes on the Wayne Cravat indictment?” Dunbar interrupted. Yasiv shot his partner a look, but Crumley was once again unfazed.

  “I'll tell you what, I’ve got the notes that I initially gave the DA, pretty much sums up what he had on Wayne—’bout ten pages. You wait here, and I'll get it for you.”

  “Thanks, you have been a great help.”

  Detective Crumley started to walk away, but then he stopped.

  “I don't know if Wayne Cravat killed Will Kingston, but if he broke his parole, then I hope you catch his ass and put him back in prison.”

  “Me too,” Detective Dunbar growled. “Me too.”

  Chapter 20

  “Would everyone please put their hands together and join me in welcoming Bethany Anne Guthrie to the stage.”

  Beckett watched as a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties was hoisted up next to Rev. Cameron by several of his aids.

  Most everyone in the audience erupted into cheers, but Beckett refrained; he had no idea what they were clapping about and doubted they did either. But he wasn’t surprised; he’d already suffered through a half hour of this nonsense in which people cheered when the Reverend so much as broke wind.

  “Bethany Anne, please tell the crowd how old you are.”

  “Twenty-three. I’m twenty-three years old.”

  Jesus, you should stay out of the sun, sister.

  “And will you please tell the crowd what you were diagnosed with just three short months ago?”

  “Oh yes, do tell, Bethany Anne,” Beckett grumbled. “Was it presbyopia? Or maybe traveler’s diarrhea?”

  Suzan hushed him, but she was grinning at the same time. This whole day was annoying, and Beckett was beginning to regret his decision to come to South Carolina in general. Rev. Alister Cameron was nothing more than a charlatan, a snake oil salesman. The only sinister thing going on here was separating these poor folks of the cash in their wallets.

  But his eyes…

  Beckett leaned over and took a sip from his flask.

  “Three months ago, I was diagnosed with a very rare genetic condition. A condition called Werner Syndrome.”

  Beckett suddenly sat up straight.

  What the hell? Benjamin fucking Button?

  “Yes, that's right. And why don't you go ahead and tell everyone what this condition entails,” Rev. Cameron encouraged.

  “It's a genetic disorder that causes premature aging. Basically, I age three times as fast as everyone else.”

  “Yes, and, unfortunately, this aging comes with everything that you might expect: heart disease, dementia, osteoporosis. It truly is a disease that robs one of their adolescence and early adulthood.”

  Beckett was so shocked by the Reverend’s words that his mouth swung open. He’d expected the man to ramble on about non-existent conditions like chronic Lyme disease or gluten intolerance. But Werner Syndrome? Werner Syndrome was an exceedingly rare condition. Not only that, but it appeared as if the Reverend knew what he was talking about. Minus the curing part, that is.

  “He's done his homework, I’ll give him that,” Beckett muttered. This time he was hushed by the elderly woman with the big hair.

  Beckett stuck out his tongue and she looked away.

  “The prognosis was grim, to be sure,” Rev. Cameron continued. “But please, share with us the good news.”

  “I'm healed,” Bethany Anne said softly. Then she raised her eyes and seemed to glare directly at Beckett. “I'm healed!”

  With this second proclamation, not only did the entire place erupt into applause, but people rocketed to their feet.

  When Suzan also started to rise, Beckett resisted the urge to pull her back down.

  “I've cured death! The Lord gave me the power to cure death!” Rev. Cameron's screams could be heard over the roaring cheers.

  Soon, Beckett was the only one who remained seated. He couldn’t even stand if he wanted to; he was suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

  And this is how Jim Johnson got everyone to drink the Kool-Aid, he thought. And then, in an ironic gesture, he raised his flask in a toast to the man and took two hefty swallows.

  Chapter 21

  “Well, I'm clearly in need of repenting, but I’d rather check out the bar first, if it’s all the same to you,” Yasiv said as he smoked. When the detective didn’t reply, he turned to the man in the passenger seat. “Dunbar? You even listening to me?”

  “Huh?” Dunbar pulled his head out of the file that Crumley had given him. “What?”

  “I said, we’re going to the bar first. That okay by you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s fine. Sure.”


  “What's so interesting in there, anyway?”

  “Did you know that Wayne Cravat was brought up in an orphanage? That they found him living with his drug-addicted uncle after his mother and father just abandoned him when he was six?”

  Yasiv shook his head.

  “I don't know anything about this Wayne Cravat guy, save the fact that he was accused and acquitted of raping and killing Will Kingston and that he missed out on two parole meetings.”

  Dunbar didn’t even acknowledge the comment.

  “Yeah, after being shipped off to an orphanage, it looks like he was picked on a lot. In and out of therapy.”

  Yasiv took a left and then checked the street signs to make sure they were still headed in the right direction.

  “Doesn't justify what he did,” he said absently.

  “No, of course not,” Dunbar shot back. “Get this, when Wayne was fifteen, he was convicted of molesting an eleven-year-old girl. Claims he was tormented by her, and when he lashed out, he accidentally tore off her shirt. Scratched her chest, that sort of thing. No one could corroborate his story. When he was nineteen, he was caught masturbating outside the window of a seventeen-year-old girl.”

  Yasiv thought about this for a moment.

  “That’s it? Nothing with other boys? Nothing between the masturbating thing and Will Kingston’s murder? How old is he now?”

  “Thirty-one. There are no other charges listed here, but we know how these sexual predators are. They don’t just stop, they escalate. The sicko’s probably responsible for dozens of unsolved sexual crimes over the years.”

  Yasiv didn’t necessarily agree. He was no profiler by any stretch, but the two crimes that Dunbar had just recounted didn’t necessarily indicate a sexual predator. A confused, probably angry teenager perhaps, but not the next Ted Bundy. Besides, by all accounts, Wayne Cravat wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, and to go under the radar for more than twelve years with the sexual inclinations that Dunbar suggested?

  Highly unlikely. Not impossible, but improbable.

  “What evidence do they have on him for the Will Kingston murder, anyway?”

  Dunbar flipped through the sheets of paper.

  “Mainly, the tape that surfaced online of him finding the body. He couldn’t explain what he was doing in the woods, given that he admitted to never being there before. And yet, he just happened to find the boy’s body, even though it was off the trail and buried in leaves. There was also an eye witness who picked him out of a lineup, says he saw Wayne hanging around Will’s elementary school the day before he went missing.”

  Yasiv took all this in but refrained from commenting. Dunbar’s anger was clearly mounting again.

  “Yeah, and they still acquitted him. What a fucking joke.”

  Dunbar slammed the folder closed and tossed it on the dash.

  Yasiv let the man stew in silence until he found a parking spot out front of Local 75.

  “Technically, we’re off the clock, Dunbar,” Yasiv said as he stepped out of the vehicle.

  Dunbar nodded, catching his drift.

  “Good,” he replied, pressing his lips together firmly. “Because I could sure use a drink.”

  “So could I,” Yasiv admitted. “So could I.”

  ***

  “You ever seen this man in here before?” Yasiv asked as the bartender returned with his drink. The man didn't even look at the photograph until Yasiv produced a badge and placed it on the counter. “Just want to know if you’ve seen him in here, that's all.”

  The bartender, the man with a handlebar mustache and tattoos on his neck, looked at the photo and then nodded.

  “Yeah, I seen him. I seen him in here and on the news.”

  “When's the last time you saw him in here?

  “He's usually here every Monday, sometimes on the weekend. Always orders the same shit. A vodka with Sprite.”

  In his periphery, Yasiv saw Dunbar scribble this down.

  “And last Monday? Two days ago? Was he here?”

  “No, he wasn’t here Monday.”

  Yasiv looked around, focusing on the area behind the bar.

  “Any security cameras in here?”

  The bartender shook his head.

  “Nope. Lots of cops come in here, though, I figure that’s security enough.”

  Yasiv raised an eyebrow.

  “Really? From what division?”

  The bartender shrugged.

  ““No idea.”

  “Then how do you know they’re cops?”

  The bartender stared at Yasiv and made a face.

  “I can tell,” he said simply.

  Fair enough.

  “Last time this man was in here; did you notice anything different about him?”

  “No, same. He just orders his drink and sits down. Keeps to himself. One time, somebody recognized him from the news and started giving him shit, he just up and left. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with that.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  The man’s serious expression said it all.

  “Did the cops know who he was? What he was accused of?”

  The bartender shook his head.

  “No, probably not. Like I said, that guy kept to himself. Cops come here to get loaded, forget about work, not put in overtime, if you know what I mean.”

  Yasiv thanked the man and paid him, making sure to leave a considerable tip. Then he turned to Dunbar.

  “You get all that?”

  Dunbar sipped his beer.

  “Yeah, I got it. Don't understand it, though. What the hell was he doing coming here?”

  “Drinking Sprite and vodka, apparently.”

  They fell quiet for a few minutes and Yasiv’s thoughts turned inward.

  Something wasn’t adding up. Why would an accused child molester and murderer go to a bar frequented by cops? Local 75 wasn’t exactly in Wayne’s neighborhood; he had to go out of his way to come here. But why? Either the man was rubbing it in the NYPD’s face that he beat the Will Kingston rap, or he was just too stupid to realize where he was. And if the former was the case, why run away? If a cop assaulted him here, why not videotape it and keep it as ammunition for the next time he was charged. Because if Wayne Cravat was a sexual predator as Dunbar claimed, there most definitely would be a next time… wouldn’t there?

  Yasiv finished his beer and was about to order another one when a hand came down on his shoulder.

  He turned, surprised to see PO Tully Salzman looking down at him.

  “Detective Yasiv, Detective Dunbar, I’m surprised to see you guys here.”

  “Likewise,” Yasiv said, shaking the man's hand.

  The bartender was right; apparently, this was the place for cops to grab a drink after work. But that still didn’t answer the question of why Wayne Cravat would come here.

  And why the hell the man would be drinking vodka and Sprite, of all things.

  Chapter 22

  “Come on, Beckett, let's go back to the Airbnb, get changed, go for a nice dinner,” Suzan pleaded. At times like this, she seemed like the mature one, and Beckett a whiny teenager.

  “I don't think that you appreciate the magnitude of what has happened here, dear child,” Beckett said in a thick British accent. “This man, this servant of God, has curethed deatheth. The power of the Lord has been bestowed upon this man. I must shake his hand and converse with such an impressive healer.”

  “Jesus Christ, Beckett. Please, don't embarrass me.”

  “Why? You think maybe you'll have to come back here to be healed by this master of the mystic arts? Are you afraid that I might piss his holiness off, and he will be unable to cure you of toxic shock syndrome?”

  Suzan threw up her hands. Beckett knew that her patience was wearing thin, but he was unable to help himself.

  She started to walk away from him, but Beckett couldn’t let her go.

  “Something's not right here, Suzan,” he said, taking a serious tone for once. “Let me just talk to
the man, then we’ll go for dinner and drinks. Just stick by my side, please.”

  Suzan huffed and puffed, but eventually agreed. He could tell that while she was incredibly annoyed, she was also curious.

  They had to wait, of course; everyone wanted to touch Rev. Cameron’s hand like he was the Dalai Lama or some shit.

  It took forty-five minutes before most everyone had cleared out of the church, leaving only a few stragglers—one of whom was the police officer.

  Beckett took a deep breath and approached Rev. Alister Cameron.

  “Child of the Lord, it’s my pleasure to meet you,” the man said. He was large, both in stature and in personality. At six-foot four and two-hundred and twenty pounds, if Beckett was inclined to hazard a guess, the man had thick, meaty forearms and hands that matched. His hair was a sandy blond and he had crow’s feet around his eyes, from the sun and not stress, most likely. Rev. Cameron was also younger than he appeared in photographs. But perhaps he hadn’t stopped at curing the prematurely aged but aging in general.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Beckett said with a grin. He held out his hands, palms up. “Should I bow and kiss the ring, Rev. Cameron?”

  Suzan elbowed him in the ribs and he stood up straight.

  “No need; I'm not some sort of Savior. I'm only a vessel, a conduit for our Lord.”

  “My apologies, Reverend. I'm just not used to being around someone with your… power.”

  The Reverend held his palms out to his side in a grand, sweeping gesture.

  “I am but a servant of the Lord, as are you. Now, what might I be able to help you with?”

  Beckett immediately raised his hand, showing off his nub of an index finger.

  “I'm afraid I might have dipped this into the holy water as I stepped through the doors… can you… can you fix it? I mean my girlfriend really misses it, she—”

  Another elbow, this one hard enough to make him cringe.

  And yet Rev. Cameron seemed unfazed.

  “Ah, a skeptic. That's fine, I do not hold it against you. I agree that what is happening here, what the Lord has done, is difficult to believe.”