Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Harrison said as he waited for Wilcox’s computer to boot up.

  “Thank you.” Seitzer turned on the phone. Without a password to protect it, one swipe gave him access to all the information he needed. “Did you know that up to 67% of people don’t password protect their phones?”

  “Was it sudden?”

  “No.” Seitzer’s father’s passing was the furthest thing from sudden. For years, he had languished under the mental decay of Alzheimer’s. There wasn’t much left to claim of the man when death finally took him.

  “Do you have any siblings?” Harrison asked.

  “I have a sister.”

  “Does she live nearby?”

  “No. She lives in Oregon. We don’t see each other much. Looks like Graham Wilcox wasn’t much of a texter,” Seitzer said, surveying the various messages on the victim’s cell phone. “He mainly texted his wife.”

  “Did they send sweet nothings back and forth to each other?” Harrison asked, scrolling through Wilcox’s Facebook page. As he had hoped, the password was saved on the computer, granting him easy access.

  “No, not really. They never climb much higher than polite on the affection scale.”

  “He wasn’t much of a social media guy, either. The only thing he seemed to do on Facebook was wish people happy birthday. People didn’t write on his timeline or send him personal messages, either. As far as I can tell, he never used Twitter, Instagram, or any other form of social media.”

  “What about his email?” Seitzer asked.

  “I’m getting to that now.” The younger detective scanned through Wilcox’s search history and spotted a Gmail account. He clicked on the link; once again, the password had been saved. “Shoot. He’s got over ten thousand messages in here. This is going to take forever to sift through.”

  Seitzer ignored Harrison’s complaint. Harrison moved from the email to investigate Wilcox’s file folders. He glanced down at the web camera mounted at the top of the laptop, staring back at him like a Cyclops, and remembered Gary Price’s claim of YouTube death threats. Inspired by that recollection, he navigated to the video folder on the laptop. A number of videos titled with the date of recording popped up. One video, in particular, caught his eye because it coincided with the night of Wilcox’s murder; the time stamp read 1:12 am.

  “Seitzer, come here,” Harrison said. “I found a video on Wilcox’s laptop from the night of the murder.”

  Seitzer put down the phone and hurried over to Harrison’s desk. The young man clicked on the play button. An image of a man with a widow’s peak and glasses flashed on the screen. He appeared disturbed, but resolute. Though the camera was rolling, he didn’t speak and intermittently glanced down at his feet. After a minute of silent footage, Graham Wilcox finally spoke.

  “I misunderstood the voice of the Lord. I thought today would mark the salvation of our Lord from the coming evil. But I now understand that God did not give me these visions because he planned to deliver his people from this evil; no, he gave me these visions so I could expose this evil—”

  A noise off-screen distracted Wilcox, cutting off his thought midstream and the video stopped.

  “The time stamp on this video was 1:12. We had about a minute and a half of footage, which would make it 1:13 or 1:14 when he stopped the video. That noise was the killer, wasn’t it?” Harrison asked.

  “Looks that way,” Seitzer said. “Unfortunately, the video doesn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know.”

  Harrison played back the video so they could once again watch the last moments of Graham Wilcox’s life unfold. The detectives watched for even the smallest shadow to fall across the screen or any other sound that would yield the slightest clue. But there was nothing.

  “We could only be so lucky,” Seitzer muttered.

  “It’s funny,” Harrison said. “When you juxtapose what Pastor Wilcox was saying right before he was killed, it almost seems like whoever killed him wanted to stop him from saying whatever he was going to say next.”

  Seitzer glared at his partner. “You aren’t going to go all paranoid Christian on me, are you?”

  “No. I said it was the way it seems.”

  “Well, the video was a nice find.” Seitzer ambled back over to his desk. “Keep looking, though. Maybe there’s something else in those videos besides Wilcox’s delusional ramblings.”

  Just as Seitzer sat back in his chair, the gangly form of Justin Lanksy, with his jet-black hair and olive complexion, walked past the two detectives.

  “Lansky, you’re just the person I wanted to see,” Seitzer said, despite the fact that he could have easily sought out the internet crimes officer before. “We could use your help.”

  Lansky stopped by Seitzer’s desk. “What’s up, Dan?”

  “We need your help going through the electronic evidence for this homicide case we just picked up.” As the resident Woodside Police technical expert, Seitzer knew Lansky could efficiently sift through the plethora of information Graham Wilcox left behind.

  “Oh yeah, I heard about that. A Pastor got killed, right?”

  “That’s right. And he supposedly left a lot of info online—YouTube, email, maybe a blog …”

  “Yeah, no problem. Just drop off his hard drive and I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thanks, Lansky.” The officer—a contemporary of Harrison’s—nodded and resumed his trek across the office.

  Seitzer went back to work. After an extended period of silence during which Seitzer had cross-referenced some of the phone records, he threw out an alternative line of evidence. “Can you search through Wilcox’s emails for something from Natasha Gregorson?

  “Sure. Wasn’t that the wife of the guy that Wilcox called out in church for adultery or something?”

  “Yeah, that’s her. Wilcox made and received a number of phone calls from her. Most of them didn’t last much more than a minute.”

  Harrison typed the name into the search bar on the pastor’s Gmail account. “I don’t see anything here. Not anything personal, anyway. She shows up in some mass messages he sent, and he has her contact info, but that’s it. What were you hoping to find?”

  Seitzer shrugged. “Maybe he was just counseling her. But maybe it was something more.”

  “You mean an affair? For all we know, Natasha Gregorson is fifty and overweight.”

  “Why don’t you see if he’s friends with her on Facebook?” Seitzer suggested. Harrison responded with a few strokes of the keyboard.

  “Okay, I found her. She’s not fifty and overweight.”

  “Is she a likely candidate for an extramarital affair?” Seitzer asked.

  “I don’t think I’m qualified to answer that question.”

  “Fine, I’ll be the judge.”

  Seitzer jumped up and looked over Harrison’s shoulder. Natasha Gregorson’s smiling profile picture stared back at him. She wore glasses on her pleasant, roundish face; her body was shapely enough.

  “Not bad,” Seitzer said. “I don’t think she’s worth throwing away his marriage on purely aesthetic grounds, but then again, these things don’t always revolve around looks.”

  “See anything else interesting in the phone records?”

  “Nothing from the night of Wilcox’s death. He didn’t make any calls at all that day. Guess he was busy waiting for Jesus to return. I mean, in the last few months he called lots of people—most seem like church people or family. The only other number of interest was a number that comes up as Stevenson Industries.”

  “Stevenson Industries?” Harrison asked, his voice slightly elevated.

  “Yeah, it’s the biochemical manufacturing business in town. It’s owned by Robert Stevenson, the billionaire guy.”

  “No, I know what it is. I saw a video on Wilcox’s computer of the Holy Spirit Tabernacle protesting outside Stevenson Industries.”

  “Protesting? Over what?”

  “You’re going to think it’s just so
me crazy Christian stuff,” Harrison warned.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Wilcox believed that Stephenson Industries was a hub of demonic activity.”

  “Oh boy. And what led our scholarly minister to believe such nefarious activities were transpiring right in his hometown?”

  “Well, in the video, he didn’t say anything specific—just that Stevenson Industries was meddling into things that it shouldn’t.”

  “What could he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. Stem cell research maybe? Cloning? I don’t really know the extent of what Stevenson Industries does.”

  “So when the Holy Spirit Tabernacle protests things, what do they do?”

  “Looks like the standard stuff. Here—see for yourself.”

  Harrison rotated the laptop around so Seitzer could see it from his desk. The older detective squinted to make out the crowd of people holding signs and praying very loudly. He shook his head.

  “What do the signs say?”

  Harrison zoomed in on the video. “One of them says, ‘Resist the Devil.’ Another says ‘In the Name of Jesus.’”

  “When was that video from?”

  Harrison checked the date and time stamp. “Last weekend. Must’ve been important to them. It was the way they spent their last weekend before they expected to be raptured. When was the last phone call with Stevenson Industries from?”

  “Two weeks ago. I see at least four other calls between the two. It looks like Stevenson Industries contacted Graham Wilcox first.”

  “Hmm. Interesting—what do you make of it?”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing. But since things are a little wide open now, we should follow up on it.”

  Seitzer exhaled. One of these leads had to pan out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Charity Price breathed a sigh of relief, her school day finally over. As a homeschool student, she could’ve justified taking the day off due to the recent tragedies in her church. However, Charity’s teacher—her mother—insisted on getting back into a normal routine as soon as possible. Glenda Price said she didn’t want to give the devil a foothold through idleness—one of many such activities, including listening to secular music, watching TV, and bowling that opened one up to attacks from the Evil One.

  After her mom released her from school, Charity went upstairs to her room. She passed by her sister’s room. The door was mostly shut, but Charity pushed it open. Hope sat on her bed, Indian style, with her eyes closed and an open Bible to her right.

  “What are you doing?” Charity asked, surprising her sister.

  Hope’s eyes sprung open. “Don’t you guys knock around here?”

  “Were you reading the bible?” Charity asked.

  “Me? No.” Hope shut the book. “This is just where I keep my drugs at home so no one finds them. You know, kind of like how that guy hid his rock hammer in his bible in Shawshank Redemption?”

  Charity looked at her sister, perplexed.

  “Oh right. You don’t watch any movies unless it’s one of those crappy Christian ones. Never mind. And I’m just kidding. I would never hide my drugs in my bible. It would be the first place Mom would look for them because she’d think, ‘What is Hope doing with a bible?’”

  Charity continued to regard her sister uncertainly. Glenda Price’s loud voice interrupted their conversation.

  “Charity, I’m going to take some food over to Elizabeth Wilcox and visit with her for a while. Would you like to come?”

  The high school girl hesitated to answer. She was concerned about Elizabeth, but also nervous to see her. Before Charity could reply, Hope leaped out of bed and shouted, “I’ll come too!” Hope threw a sweater over her tank top and pulled some loose fitting sweats over her shorts.

  “Why do you want to go so badly?”

  “Because I’d like to help. I’m sure Mrs. Wilcox is going through a very difficult time.”

  “You don’t even know Elizabeth.”

  “Maybe not, but I know you and Mom. And I figured you guys might need the company.” Hope ran her hands through her hair to straighten it out. “Did you not want me to go with you?”

  “It’s fine,” Charity said curtly, suspicious of her sister’s intentions. She exited Hope’s room so she could change her own clothes.

  After Hope endured another round of interrogation from her mother regarding her motivations for wanting to visit Elizabeth Wilcox, the trio set off for the widow’s house. They walked because the weather continued to be mild and Gary Price had taken the family car to work. Ten minutes later, they traveled down the familiar dead end street that housed the church.

  Elizabeth Wilcox’s mother opened the door. “Can I help you?” she asked, her tone and expression guarded.

  “We’re the Prices from church,” Glenda said, flashing a sympathetic smile. “We made a casserole for Elizabeth and the kids. We also hoped we could visit with them for a bit.”

  Elizabeth’s mom did not answer right away, her face indicating she was considering whether or not to open the door so the Prices could enter. Finally, after another moment of deliberation, she swung open the door. “Of course, come in.” Once they were inside, the elder woman called out, “Liz, you have company.”

  They heard footsteps from the back of the house before Elizabeth Wilcox emerged into the living room.

  “Hi, Elizabeth. We’re so sorry for your loss,” Glenda said, exaggerating each word. “We made this in case you guys needed food.” Glenda extended the casserole out to Elizabeth.

  “Thank you,” Elizabeth replied as she received the covered dish. The widow placed it on a nearby counter.

  Without the dish standing between them, Glenda stepped forward to embrace Elizabeth. “If there’s anything we can do for you during this time, just let us know.” The younger woman maintained a certain rigidity while Charity’s mom hugged her.

  After Glenda relinquished her grasp on Elizabeth, the woman turned her attention to the youngest Price visitor. “Hi, Charity.” Once acknowledged, the high school girl spontaneously moved toward her friend and threw her arms around her. As she did, Charity burst into sobs.

  “Charity,” her mother scolded, “we’re supposed to be here to comfort Mrs. Wilcox.”

  “It’s okay,” Elizabeth said. She held the young girl and rubbed her back affectionately. “I’m glad you’re here, Charity. The kids have been asking about you.” There was no stiffness in this embrace. “Are you ready to go see them?”

  Charity’s bout of emotion subsided almost as quickly as it came on. She wiped her eyes and took another moment to compose herself. As she did, Elizabeth noticed Hope.

  “Hi, I’m Hope. Her sister and her daughter.” Hope pointed to each family member respectively. “Sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, Hope. It’s nice to meet you.” Elizabeth Wilcox turned her gaze back to Charity. “The kids are in the back room, go right on in.”

  Charity left her mother and sister with Elizabeth and walked to the back room where the kids often played. She wondered if she should acknowledge their loss and give the kids a chance to talk about their experience or just let them play.

  As soon as Charity appeared at the door of the playroom, Abigail came running over to her. “Charity! Come play with me!” called the little girl in the cadence unique to toddlers that made every word sound like a miracle. Abigail took Charity by the hand and led her into the room.

  “Hi, Abigail. What do you want to play with?” The toddler took her over to a pile of Duplo blocks that she had been assembling into some sort of castle. Titus sat in the corner of the playroom. He glanced up at Charity when she first entered but soon turned his gaze elsewhere.

  “Hi, Titus,” Charity said, fabricating as jubilant a smile as she could.

  Titus gave her a slight bob of his head before returning to his pile of Legos. He moved them around with no discernible purpose.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Charity and Abigail played with
the Duplos. Abigail played like it was just another day. Every so often, Charity stole glances in Titus’ direction, but his activity never changed.

  “Do you want to play with us, Titus?” Charity asked. Even on the best of days, Titus played alone, unless they were playing games he liked.

  Titus shook his head.

  “We could play tag or hide and seek?”

  “No. I don’t feel like it,” Titus said, his voice barely audible.

  Charity elected not to push the boy too hard. Titus had to feel his way into a conversation before he could participate. She gave him his space. After another few minutes, the boy spoke up.

  “Can I show you something, Charity?”

  She attached the block in her hand to the rest of the toy wall she and Abigail were building and turned toward Titus.

  “Sure. What do you want to show me?”

  “Can I see too?” Abigail asked.

  “No. You’re too little,” Titus said. Abigail made a pouting face. “Besides, you’d be too scared—it’s down in the basement.”

  Abigail’s displeasure at being excluded instantly faded with the mention of the basement.

  Charity placed her hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Abigail, why don’t you stay up here and finish our castle? I won’t be long. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Abigail resumed her construction work without further protest.

  Titus stood up and led the way to the basement. “You won’t be too scared going down there, will you?” he asked, just before he opened the door.

  Charity smiled at the boy. “I don’t usually like basements, but I’ll feel braver if you’re there with me.”

  Her answer must have satisfied him because Titus promptly turned the knob and opened the door. He felt along the left side of the wall for the light switch. Once he found it, a soft yellow light illuminated the wooden steps leading down. The basement of the Holy Spirit Tabernacle parsonage was really a cellar, with dirt floors and rough stone walls. Very little natural light found its way into the confined space.