Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “Should we tell them what happened to their father?” Harrison asked.

  “I don’t really think that’s our place,” Seitzer replied. “Let their grandparents do it.”

  Harrison appeared displeased with his partner’s answer. “Are we at least going to tell them their mom is okay?”

  Seitzer watched the children for a moment. He would have preferred an armed shootout to the kind of delicate, emotional conversation looming over them—even if he only had to update the kids on their mother’s condition.

  “You should talk to them,” Seitzer said to Harrison as they neared the kids. “I’m no good with kids. I’ll probably end up making them cry.”

  Without hesitation, Harrison stepped in front of Seitzer and crouched down to their eye level. “Your mom is okay guys. But she’s really tired, so we’re going to let her sleep.”

  “Where’s our dad?” the boy demanded. The kid’s expression indicated he knew something was wrong. Harrison glanced at Seitzer, silently asking for permission to disclose the terrible news usually reserved for parents or grandparents to reveal. Seitzer nodded, then turned away and strolled into the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that your dad was hurt tonight and he died.” Harrison uttered these words with devastating simplicity. The little girl, holding a stuffed lamb, blinked a few times. She offered no further reaction. But the boy vaulted off the couch, his eyes filled with rage.

  “You’re lying! He’s not dead!” He bolted toward the door. By the time the officers reacted, the boy had pulled the door open. Glass and Harrison pursued him.

  “He’s headed for the church!” called out Glass.

  Seitzer pulled out his radio.

  “Lindsey, the victim’s boy is heading your way. If he happens to make it to the church, please keep him away from the body.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  Kelly remained with the girl, speaking soothingly to her. Seitzer brought up the rear of the chase. By the time he made it outside, Harrison had grabbed the boy and picked him up. Across the lawn, Lindsey peeked out of the church’s doorway, making sure the boy was safe.

  “I want to see him!” the boy wailed, pushing against Harrison’s chiseled arms.

  “Sorry buddy, but you can’t see him now,” Harrison said in a low voice.

  “He can’t be dead! I know he’s still alive!” By now, the boy had ceased his struggle and allowed Harrison to carry him back into the house.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. I’m really sorry.”

  Glass followed the two in and shut the door. Harrison placed the boy down on the couch. The kid rolled into a ball and cried. His sister’s expression remained vacant. Seitzer wondered if her youth shielded her from the full impact of the news.

  “Detective Seitzer,” Harrison said, keeping his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “is it okay if I call my fiancée and have her come over? She’s a licensed psychiatrist. Maybe she can help.”

  Seitzer shrugged. “Sure. As long as she doesn’t mind getting woken up in the middle of the night.”

  “She won’t mind. She’s got a big heart.”

  Harrison stepped outside to make the call. When he did, the little girl spoke for the first time since learning her father had died.

  “Did Daddy go to heaven with Jesus?” she asked to no one in particular.

  Mike was closest to her, so he fielded the question. “Yeah. Your daddy went to live in heaven.”

  The little girl frowned. “How come Jesus didn’t take all of us to heaven?”

  Mike placed his hand on hers. “Because it wasn’t time for you to go to heaven, yet. But don’t worry about your daddy. He’s in a good place now.”

  While Mike served his lukewarm platitudes, Seitzer walked outside. Harrison had just hung up with his fiancée.

  “She’s coming over. We’ll stay until the grandparents get here.”

  “Okay, Harrison. I’m going to check in with Lindsey before I take off. Let me know if you need anything tonight. And be ready tomorrow, because bright and early we’re going to start interviewing people.”

  Harrison nodded and then walked back into the house. Seitzer traversed the lawn until he reached the church property. Lindsey was still inside, documenting the crime scene.

  “What happened here, Lindsey?”

  “A man was shot and killed,” she answered without looking at him.

  “Good thing I have you to tell me insightful things like that.”

  “You’ll get my report when it’s done. Now leave me alone so I can finish.”

  Seitzer left her again to do her work unencumbered. He walked out the back door of the church, which brought him to the edge of a sloping, undeveloped swath of forested land. Seitzer wasn’t certain where the uncultivated area led, but its thick rows of trees hinted at deeper mysteries and perhaps had offered a path of escape to the killer.

  The detective exhaled. For him, the long night was over. Tomorrow, the real work would begin. Whatever story had been written that night—whether the killer was the embittered spouse, angry parishioner, or a random perpetrator—Seitzer had seen and heard every tale. And he was tired of them all.

  Chapter Four

  The light filtering through Charity’s bedroom window woke her. Her back ached, a sure sign that she had stayed in bed too long. The clock only read 8 am, which wasn’t late, but did mean Charity had been in bed for nearly twelve hours. She sat up and pushed her matted and crusted hair away from her face. Though a little light-headed, Charity’s nausea had passed and her appetite had returned. After a thorough shower and a change of clothes, she went downstairs.

  Charity’s mom Glenda flitted about the kitchen, humming a song. Her short blonde hair bobbed up and down as she moved her head gently to whatever song she hummed. Finding her mother in a good mood in the morning was hardly a surprise under normal circumstances. Glenda claimed not to be a morning person by nature, but that her sweet time of fellowship with Jesus in the wee morning hours cured whatever grumpiness might have followed her into the new day.

  “Good morning, sweetheart! Feeling better?” Glenda strode over to Charity and placed her hands on her daughter’s face. “You look better.” The older woman smiled, deepening the creases on her face.

  Charity nodded. “I’m mostly better. Just a little weak.”

  “Well, that’s probably because you’re hungry. Let me get some food for you.”

  Glenda moved to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of apple juice, which she poured into a cup for her daughter. Charity would have expected at least a little bit of emotional downturn from her mom, given that Jesus had stood her and everyone else up the day before and Glenda had stayed awake well into the morning hours conversing with him about that fact.

  “I think you should eat some oatmeal,” Glenda suggested. “Something bland that won’t be hard to digest. Does apples and cinnamon sound okay?”

  “Yes, please.” Charity emptied her glass and checked her phone while her mom prepped the oatmeal. Kevin, the boy who liked her, had texted again to say he was sorry for his actions the day before. Since Kevin’s previous verbal apology had been of the drive-by variety and she was sick during his first remorseful text, she hadn’t actually acknowledged his mea culpa. It’s okay, she wrote back, placing a smiley face at the end of the statement, even though he was beginning to get on her nerves. In the grand scheme of things, a boy who gently suggested they have sex because he thought the world was going to end was hardly an unusual sin. Besides, he bore no shame that she didn’t share, even if her shame took on a different complexion. Glenda approached Charity with a bowl of steaming oatmeal, causing the teen to shove her phone into her pants pocket.

  “Here you go! Eat up!”

  Not only had Glenda’s cheerfulness remained undiminished on this anticlimactic Saturday, it seemed to Charity that her mom had ratcheted up her usual enthusiasm.

  “Mom, aren’t you a little upset today?” Charity asked between spoonfuls of oatmeal. />
  Glenda stared at her daughter, confused. “Why would I be upset, dear? This is the day that the Lord has made; I will rejoice and be glad in it!”

  “But aren’t you disappointed Jesus didn’t come back?”

  “Of course, I am. Wouldn’t you rather be living in eternal paradise where there are no more tears and no more pain?”

  Not really, Charity thought, which seemed like a silly way to respond after her mom’s breathless description of heaven.

  “But that wasn’t in God’s plan for us today. And I’ve learned over the years that God’s plan for us is always best.”

  Like when He allowed Faith to die? After seven years, Charity was still waiting to see how that long standing fact would turn out for the better. In these moments of undaunted belief, Glenda’s soul became opaque to her daughter—unknowable and inaccessible.

  “Excuse me, dear. I need to use the bathroom,” Glenda announced before standing and walking away from the table.

  Charity consumed the rest of her oatmeal in silence until a hard knock on the front door seized her attention.

  “Could you get that Charity?” her mother called.

  “Okay.” Charity wondered where her father was and why he couldn’t answer the door. Before she got up, Charity propped up her spoon on the side of the bowl so the handle wouldn’t slide into the oatmeal. When Charity opened the door, the sweet, cool air of late April rushed in around two men dressed in sport coats and ties.

  “Good morning,” said the man standing in front, manufacturing a thin, somewhat forced smile. Tiny creases marked the skin around his eyes. His short hair—neatly parted on the left—synced with his smooth face and athletic build. “We’re from the Woodside PD. Is this the home of Gary Price?” he asked while flashing Charity his badge.

  “Yes,” she replied, taken aback by the presence of law enforcement officers at her door.

  “Can we come in? We’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  Charity didn’t answer but stood aside so the two men could enter. As they walked by, she got a better look at the second man, who appeared younger and a little less severe. “Thank you,” he said to Charity as he entered the house, with a much more earnest smile than the first, older man. Or maybe it was simply his blue eyes and good looks that left a gentler impression on her than his partner had.

  Glenda materialized from the bathroom and joined Charity and the two police officers in the entry way.

  “Hello,” she said, an uncertain smile forming on her mouth. “Can I help you two gentlemen?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Detective Seitzer and this is Detective Harrison. We’d like to ask Gary Price some questions. Is he home?”

  “He’s downstairs in the basement. Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

  Seitzer appeared annoyed before repeating his earlier sentiment. “We’d just like to ask him some questions. Could you call him for us or point us in his direction?”

  Before Charity’s mom could comply or press for more details, the sound of footsteps reverberated against the stairs leading up from the basement. The door to the staircase squeaked open and her dad appeared in the doorway, dressed in an ill-fitting sweatshirt and cuffed sweatpants that too prominently displayed the pounds he had packed on over the years.

  “Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  Seitzer introduced himself and Harrison a second time. “Does your family attend Holy Spirit Tabernacle on Grove Street?” Seitzer asked.

  “Yes,” replied Gary Price.

  “Graham Wilcox is the pastor?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Then I regret to inform you that sometime last night, Pastor Graham Wilcox was shot and killed in your church.”

  Charity gasped. Glenda covered her mouth with her hand. A look of shock twisted Gary’s features. The detective’s gaze emitted no sympathy. If anything, he seemed more interested in gauging her father’s reaction to this news than in conveying condolences to the family.

  “Perhaps you’d like to sit down?” Harrison asked, gesturing toward the adjacent living room.

  Without speaking, the Prices sat down on their couch, while Harrison occupied a nearby easy chair. Seitzer opted to prowl around the room, inspecting the walls of the living room for unknown information. Gary Price sat between his wife and daughter, an arm around each one. Charity’s thoughts turned to the Pastor’s wife, Elizabeth, and her two children, Titus and Abigail.

  “Pastor Graham is dead? How can that be? What happened?” Charity’s father asked the detectives.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Harrison said, his face sober and sympathetic. “We don’t know what happened yet. That’s what we’re trying to figure out. When was the last time you saw Pastor Wilcox?”

  “Last night at the church,” Charity’s dad replied.

  Seitzer turned away from the wall toward the family on the couch. “What were you doing at the church—waiting for Jesus?”

  A sheepish look formed on Gary’s face. “We did believe Jesus was going to return yesterday, yes. Obviously, He didn’t.”

  “When did you leave the church last night?” Seitzer asked, commandeering the interrogation from his partner.

  “I left around 12:30 am.”

  “Was anyone there with you when you left?”

  “Yes. A group of us were there together.”

  “Can you tell me who?”

  Price scrunched his forehead together as he tried to remember. “Jim and Nancy Thompson, Jason and Theresa Watkins, myself, Paul and Carol Jones—I think that was it.” The usual people thought Charity. All the names her father listed comprised the core leadership group of Holy Spirit Tabernacle.

  “And you all left at the same time?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the vibe last night when it became clear that Pastor Wilcox had been wrong?”

  Charity thought her father looked more unnerved as the detective’s questioning proceeded. He shifted in his seat and his fingers tensed behind Charity’s shoulders. She had asked him the same question the night before and her father’s reaction had been much the same.

  “What Pastor Wilcox predicted—Jesus coming back —was something we had all been anticipating. As you might imagine, people were a little confused and disappointed last night.”

  “Were they angry?”

  “I would say they were more just … emotional in general. There were a lot of feelings on display.”

  Detective Seitzer finally sat in the last unoccupied piece of furniture in the room, a dilapidated armchair. “See, I would’ve figured that people were angry last night. Because I read this newspaper article about Pastor Wilcox and your church and I learned some interesting things.” He took out his phone and tapped the screen. “According to this article, some people in your church believed in Pastor Wilcox’s prophecy so much that they actually sold off some of their possessions and gave the money to the church, because they thought they wouldn’t need it any longer. Like, Jim and Nancy Thompson. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t Jim and Nancy Thompson two of the people you named who were at the church last night?”

  Charity’s father’s face grew pale, but he answered the question anyway. “Yes, they were there. But they left when we left. I watched them get in their car and drive away.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t sell their car, too,” Seitzer said. “What happened to all of the money that was donated? Did it go into Pastor Wilcox’s pockets?”

  “No,” Gary Price objected. “Any money collected went into getting the word out about Jesus’ return. No one in the church got rich from any of the donations.”

  “We’ll need to speak with your bookkeeper,” Harrison interjected.

  “We didn’t really have a bookkeeper,” Gary Price said, with an expression that indicated he expected to get berated over that admission.

  The older detective stared down Charity’s father. “You didn’t keep records of your contributions
?”

  “No.” Price’s eyes became pleading. “You have to understand, up until a year ago, we were just a small church of a dozen or twenty people meeting in our house. It wasn’t until then that attendance picked up and we hired Pastor Graham full-time and got our own building.”

  “So how do you collect money, pay your bills and whatnot?” Harrison asked.

  Price shrugged. “A few of us took turns counting the money each week. We’d pay the bills, make deposits, and pay Pastor Wilcox. He never collected anything more than his salary.”

  “Well, we’ll be looking into that,” Seitzer promised.

  Harrison cleared his throat. “How about Pastor Wilcox and his wife—were they having any problems that you knew about?”

  Charity’s mom jumped into the conversation, perhaps rankled by the stream of questions about people in her church that seemed to imply some kind of wrongdoing. “You can’t be serious! Do you really think she could have killed her husband?”

  Charity thought she could see Detective Harrison shrink back under her mom’s withering gaze. She expected some sort of redirect from Detective Seitzer, but he just watched the scene unfold, his lip curling into the slightest of smiles.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. We have to consider all the possibilities in a case like this one.”

  Glenda Price ignored Harrison’s qualification. “Elizabeth Wilcox is a modest, godly woman who honored her husband and raised her children well. In fact, Charity went over to their house three or five times a week to help Elizabeth with her children.” She turned to her daughter. “Tell them what kind of family the Wilcoxes are, dear.”

  Charity—initially surprised that her mom defended a woman she frequently found fault with—now felt the full weight of the detective’s suspicious gaze fall on her. She tried to formulate an answer but failed to find the appropriate words or even her voice. More than her employer, Elizabeth Wilcox was one of the few people at Holy Spirit Tabernacle who didn’t pile expectations on the young girl. They watched movies together after the kids went to sleep and painted their toenails. Elizabeth Wilcox was a voice of reason in a sea of zealotry. But Charity knew a few other things about her that the detectives would have been interested in.