Everyone Was Left Behind

by Steve Armstrong

  “I bet George Gregorson won’t be at Wilcox’s funeral,” Harrison said.

  The jealous husband killing his wife’s paramour was one of the more common story arcs in human history. Perhaps it was the narrative that punctuated Graham Wilcox’s life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Charity Price lay awake on her bed with the light on. It was ten o’clock at night and her parents expected her to be asleep. However, since her mother retired at 9 pm and her father followed suit within another half hour, her parents had lost any real power to enforce their daughter’s bedtime. Usually, they confiscated Charity’s phone before they went to sleep so she couldn’t go on all night texting binges with friends, or worse, boys. Due to the atypical events that transpired at the Wilcox home earlier in the evening, Glenda Price had forgotten to take Charity’s phone.

  Any other night, Charity might have been delighted to indulge in her new found liberty. That night, however, she lay with her head on her pillow and the phone a foot away. The phone buzzed. She had already collected two unread texts from Kevin. Charity reached for her phone and gave it a quick glance—as she suspected, another message from Kevin. She placed the phone back in its previous spot without reading his latest entreaty. Charity wasn’t really angry with Kevin. She just wasn’t interested in him at the moment.

  The girl’s thoughts wandered to the people she was interested in. She thought of Elizabeth Wilcox, who seemed resolute and composed until she had followed her son into a place she knew nothing about. Charity didn’t know what Elizabeth had learned, only that when she returned from the church, her face was an ashen white complexion. Charity compared Elizabeth’s reaction to her own parents’ response to the horrific tragedy that had shaken the church. The girl had seen shock and fear in her parents’ eyes, but not grief. It seemed to Charity that her parents considered Graham Wilcox’s murder another situation that needed to be controlled. Meanwhile, Elizabeth possessed a quiet sadness that lingered in her eyes and marked her features, even if it didn’t explode in hysterics.

  Then there was Jason Watkins, the guitarist who had walked out of the previous Sunday’s service before it began. Charity didn’t think Jason and Pastor Wilcox were close. To her knowledge, Pastor Wilcox wasn’t close to anyone in the church. Somehow, he always remained distant from his congregation, even as they devoured his words and threw themselves headlong into his teaching about the return of Jesus and the end of the world. Of course, Jason didn’t need to be good friends with Pastor Wilcox to be hit hard by the minister’s death; the event was significant enough on its own to impact everyone in the church. However, she suspected he struggled with the murder for a different reason—one that filled Charity with dread.

  Charity grabbed her phone and rattled off a text to Jason. Hey. Are you playing at the funeral tomorrow? She touched send and waited for a response. After a moment, she felt silly and put the phone down. Almost as soon as she did, the device buzzed. It was Jason. Sorry, I can’t. He offered no reason or excuse. Are you okay? Charity replied. No response came. Charity waited five minutes and when she could take the waiting no more, ventured out into the hallway.

  Her sister’s room was dark. Charity couldn’t believe Hope would respect her parents’ strict bedtimes, so she crept down the stairs to investigate further. The first floor was dark too, except for a faint sliver of light coming from her father’s office room. Charity had heard her father’s heavy footsteps pass her closed bedroom door an hour earlier, so she doubted that it could be him in the office, which happened to house the only computer in the Price residence. She pushed the door open enough to see her sister seated in front of the computer.

  “What are you doing on Dad’s computer?” Charity asked in a harsh whisper.

  Hope jumped off of the seat and gasped before she realized it was Charity.

  “Really? No knock again? What is it with you people?” Hope demanded in a low voice as she slumped back down in the chair. Charity caught a quick glance at the screen, which displayed a spreadsheet of numbers before Hope minimized the window and the usual wallpaper reappeared.

  “How’d you figure out the password on Dad’s computer?” Since Charity’s parents feared the myriad temptations the World Wide Web offered, they did not have wireless internet and restricted internet access to the password protected computer in the office.

  Hope waved her hand dismissively. “There are ways around that.”

  “What were you looking at?”

  “Me? Oh, I was just doing some homework.”

  Charity gazed skeptically at her sister. “What were you really doing?”

  Hope crossed her arms. “Are you sure you want to know? You might not like it.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Okay, fine. I was looking to see if Dad had any financial records from the church on his computer.”

  “Why?”

  “When there’s some kind of scandal in a church, what is it usually about? Sex and money, right? So I just wanted to see if there was any evidence of something shady happening.”

  “You don’t think Dad had something to do with Pastor Wilcox’s death, do you?”

  “Nah. But I figured he might have something to do with the finances of the church since he pretty much runs the place.”

  “But I heard Dad tell the police that the church doesn’t keep detailed financial records.”

  “Is that what Dad said?”

  “Yes, I was there when he said it.”

  “Then Dad lied. Take a look at this.” Hope restored the document she had been inspecting. Charity took a closer look. It was a spreadsheet with detailed counts of each week’s offering collection. Hope clicked on different tabs of the document so Charity could see that the information covered the entire year.

  Charity furrowed her brow. “Why would Dad tell the detective he didn’t have this information if he really did?”

  “I guess there’s something here that Dad didn’t want them to know.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “No idea. I’m a criminal justice major, not an accounting major.” Hope saved the document to a flash drive that she had inserted into the computer. “I’m going to give this to Detective Seitzer. He’ll know what to do with it.”

  Charity’s expression shifted from surprise to anger. “Why are you doing this? Are you just trying to get back at Mom and Dad?”

  “Maybe. But what’s that verse they like to quote sometimes, ‘The truth will set you free’? Doesn’t it bother you that when they say that, they only seem to mean their truth or the truth that they want others to know? Doesn’t it ever seem like Mom’s and Dad’s faith is more about controlling other people than it is about bringing freedom? So yeah, I’d like to know the truth. Wouldn’t you?”

  “But what if the truth hurts Mom and Dad and the rest of the church?”

  “Charity, there’s a chance that if there’s anything on this file that’s not kosher, it might have something to do with Pastor Wilcox’s murder. So maybe the truth has already hurt people. Besides, maybe hurting Mom and Dad is the only way to set them free.”

  “What do you mean, set them free?”

  Hope pulled the flash drive from the computer and closed the documents. “You’ll see.” She shut down the computer. “Goodnight Charity.” She slipped by her sister and left the room. Charity remained in the dark until the buzzing of her phone interrupted her brooding.

  Yeah, I’m fine, the text from Jason read. A pit formed in Charity’s stomach as she pondered whether freedom was possible, truth or no truth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A layer of fog shrouded the ground on the day of Graham Wilcox’s funeral, or home-going, as many in the church called it. The service convened in the same Methodist church where Holy Spirit Tabernacle met the previous Sunday. Once again, Daniel Seitzer fought off the lingering memories of being in church with his ex-wife as he and Harrison stood vigil in the back of the sanctuary. Just before the service began, Felicia Mon
roe joined them.

  “Good morning, Detectives.”

  “Good morning, Ms. Monroe,” Harrison said.

  Seitzer nodded at her, too engrossed in his observation of the various persons of interest in their case to pay much attention to Felicia. The journalist traced his gaze to the front of the sanctuary, where Elizabeth Wilcox, dressed in a demure black dress, received mourners.

  “So who’s the prime suspect so far? His wife? His wife’s lover? His lover? His lover’s husband? A bitter ex-member? A marauding stranger?”

  “We’re still tracking leads,” Seitzer said.

  “Anything about the case you’d care to share so far?”

  “Only that we’re doing everything in our power and following every possible lead.”

  The journalist glared at him. “Well, aren’t you full of information.”

  Seitzer ignored her remark and resumed watching the proceedings. When the service began, it was Reverend Wesley, not Gary Price, who welcomed people to the funeral. In fact, Gary Price, Jim Thompson and the rest of leadership team of Holy Spirit Tabernacle played no role in the service at all. The only Holy Spirit Tabernacle members who participated in the service were the musicians and singers, which ended up being Charity and Amanda. They led the congregation in a few hymns that touched on God’s provision in the face of human suffering. Reverend Wesley delivered the message. He broached the usual funeral topics of life after death, Jesus being the way, truth and life, and celebrating the life of the deceased.

  After Wesley’s message, the reverend gave people a chance to eulogize their deceased minister. Many people from Holy Spirit Tabernacle shared some memories of their fallen pastor. The most common epithets they used were “man of God,” “prophet,” and “visionary.” The reflections lacked a certain warmth. Few personal stories emerged during the sharing. No one claimed that Graham Wilcox “lit up the room” or was “full of life.” Elizabeth Wilcox said nothing other than offering a brief word of thanks to the audience for caring for her family during their time of grief. Seitzer had already witnessed the conflicted grief of Wilcox’s widow, but the overall tenor of the reflections mildly surprised him. Then again, how much fun could a man obsessed with demons really be?

  By the time the mourners escorted Graham Wilcox’s body to the cemetery, the sun had chased the fog away from the valley and pushed it into the surrounding woods. The pallbearers carried the casket from the hearse to the rectangular hole in the ground, located just a hundred feet from the mist-veiled trees that marked the boundary of the cemetery.

  As Reverend Wesley led people through a variety of verses about life after death, Harrison tapped Seitzer on the shoulder. The younger detective pointed at a figure on the periphery of the woods behind them, dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie.

  “Did you see that guy at the funeral?” Harrison asked.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you think maybe he’s the guy with the dragon tattoo?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then who is he?”

  Seitzer shrugged. “Maybe he was just some guy going for a walk, and when he saw the funeral, stopped to see what was going on.”

  “I want to talk to him.” Harrison walked off in the direction of the man with the hoodie.

  “What’s he up to?” Felicia Monroe asked, watching the scene unfold next to the two detectives.

  “He just wanted to talk to someone. I should go with him. Excuse me.” Seitzer followed Harrison. The man in the hoodie stood still, his hands stuffed into his pockets as they began their approach. Once he turned his head and saw the detectives drawing closer, he turned around and disappeared into the woods.

  Harrison picked up his pace; Seitzer followed suit. By the time they entered the foggy woods, the man in the hoodie was nowhere to be seen. A twig snapped ahead of them. Harrison moved toward the sound. The fog prevented them from running as they could barely see the various shrubs and trees in front of them. Refusing to abandon hope of catching up to the mysterious stranger, Harrison pushed through the fog until he emerged from the woods. Both he and Seitzer now stood facing the back of Holy Spirit Tabernacle. The air was clearer here, but the man in the hoodie was gone.

  “Where’d he go?” Harrison asked, surveying the street.

  “I don’t know. He could’ve gone another direction and stayed in the woods. Whatever the case, I think we lost him.”

  “The way he avoided us was weird, right?”

  “A little.”

  “Do you still think there’s nothing to Jim Thompson’s story?”

  “Just because we saw a man in a hoodie today doesn’t mean he was the same man Jim Thompson saw. And we still haven’t verified with anyone else that Jim Thompson’s story is true. Without some new information, this guy in a hoodie is a dead end.”

  Harrison continued to watch the street.

  “Come on, let’s get back to the funeral.” Seitzer began to trace the trail back to the cemetery through the fog. Harrison took a few more fruitless minutes to watch the area, in hopes that their target became visible again. When only an old lady walking her dog came into view, Harrison ceased his surveillance and followed his partner.

  The graveside service was wrapping up when the detectives returned. People had either begun to walk back to their cars or come forward to pay their respects to Elizabeth Wilcox and her children. Seitzer considered approaching her too. But there could be no repeat of the moment they shared in the empty church, at least not in the cemetery, where dozens of people waited to express their sympathies to her. Seitzer knew most of those condolences would be worthless—mere words offering no salve to heal her pain.

  “So what was that little chase scene all about? Was the guy in the sweatshirt a suspect?” Felicia Monroe had crept up on Seitzer while he observed Elizabeth Wilcox.

  “That? Just a curiosity Harrison had. Nothing more than that.”

  “Okay, I’ll believe you for the moment. Just remember who to call when there’s some information you’d like to put out there, okay?”

  “I doubt you’ll ever let me forget.”

  Felicia grinned. “Probably not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to grab a few interviews. Hopefully, they’ll be more interesting than you were.” Felicia ventured off to insert herself into the throngs of mourners.

  “I’m pretty sure none of them will be that interesting,” Seitzer said as he watched the reporter depart. He imagined most of the people would produce the same clichés as everyone else did under such circumstances.

  Out of the crowd of people surrounding the Wilcox family, a solitary redhead caught Seitzer’s eye. She returned the detective’s gaze, waved at him, then began walking in his direction. Now she would have been an interesting interview, Seitzer thought. He would have introduced Hope Wilcox to Felicia Monroe if not for his suspicion the two might meld into a dangerous combination.

  “I have something for you,” Hope said. The girl reached into her black jeans and wrangled a flash drive from her pocket. “You’re welcome.” She handed it to Seitzer.

  He took the device from the girl. “What’s this?”

  “Information. Financial records from the church.”

  “I believe I respectfully declined your assistance on this case.”

  “I do a lot of things I’m not supposed to.”

  Seitzer stared at the device for a moment. “Your father told me there weren’t any official records on the church’s finances.”

  “I think he lied to you.”

  “You know I won’t be able to use this as official evidence in the case, right?”

  “If the information is helpful, you can get a warrant later, right? Who knows when my dad might delete this stuff if he really is trying to hide it.”

  Seitzer slipped the drive into his pocket. “Okay, but no more snooping for you. That’s an order, young lady.”

  “Oh, of course not,” Hope said in a tone that did little to convince Seitzer she would comply
.

  “Did you do the one thing I asked you to do—try to get your sister to talk to me about Elizabeth Wilcox?”

  “No, not yet. Charity’s very defensive about her.”

  Seitzer spotted Charity standing alone about twenty feet away, her arms crossed against her body. She swiveled her head, looking for a group of people to belong to. “Maybe I should just ask her myself.”

  “You can. But she won’t tell you anything.”

  Seitzer disregarded Hope’s pessimism and approached the younger Price girl. “Hi, Charity.” He caught her off guard. “I’m Detective Seitzer. Do you remember me?”

  The girl nodded.

  “You have a really beautiful voice.” He smiled at her.

  “Thank you.”

  “So how are you dealing with all of this? I’m sure it’s a hard thing to handle.”

  Charity shrugged. “I’m okay.”

  “Your mom said you were a fixture at the Wilcox home. Is there anything that happened there that made you feel uncomfortable?”

  “Uncomfortable?”

  “Maybe something Graham Wilcox did, or the way he and his wife got along? Anything at all that seemed off to you?”

  The girl averted her gaze from the detective. “Pastor Wilcox was never there when I was. So I never really saw them together. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” The detective decided to change tactics with Charity. “You’ve become really close to Elizabeth Wilcox, haven’t you?”

  The girl nodded as her expression turned sorrowful. “Whoever killed her husband might have reason to hurt Mrs. Wilcox, too. I know you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  Seitzer saw real fear creep into the girl’s eyes. That had been the point.

  “Is there anything else that you know that maybe you didn’t want to tell me in front of your parents? Believe me, I just want to help Elizabeth Wilcox and her children. So, is there anything else at all you’d like to say to me?”

  Charity swallowed hard and shook her head vehemently.