“Of course, Mr. Stevenson. Thank you for your time and cooperation.”
Seitzer and Harrison shook hands with the CEO. “It was my pleasure, Detectives. Good luck on the rest of your investigation.”
Jack Walton led Seitzer and Harrison out of Stevenson’s office. “What’s your take on all of this?” Seitzer asked the Head of Research Division B. “Do you believe in this search for alternative forms of energy?”
“Of course, I believe in the project. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be working on it,” Jack Walton said, as the three entered the elevator.
“The money doesn’t hurt either, does it? I’m sure you get paid well to be the head of the department. It just seems like the end game is a little unrealistic.”
“Many things appear unrealistic or unlikely until you achieve them. I have great plans of my own as well. If we’re successful in our research, we might be able to better measure the chemical functioning of the human brain. And that would make prescribing antipsychotic medication less of a trial-and-error process, which would offer a great deal of benefit to the world of mental health.”
“That sounds like a noble goal,” Seitzer said. The elevator reached its destination, the lobby of Stevenson Industries. “We can make it on our own from here. Thank you for your time.”
Harrison and Seitzer stepped into the grand lobby where the open space, running water, and tropical plants made them feel like they had reached an oasis. Soon, however, another sight caught their attention. A short, curly-haired brunette wearing a pea coat was just being waved on by the security guard. Because she was staring down at her phone, she didn’t see the two detectives approaching her. By the time she looked up, Seitzer could read her laminated name badge.
“Felicia Monroe, Research Division B,” Seitzer read out loud.
The journalist stopped in her tracks.
Seitzer smiled. “Why Ms. Monroe, I think you’ve been holding out on us.”
Chapter Twenty
Elizabeth Wilcox’s house was full. Everywhere Charity Price turned, people congregated in groups of threes and fours. Most people at the funeral had migrated from the cemetery to the parsonage for the post-funeral luncheon. Even though they spoke in hushed voices, the sheer quantity of people resulted in a chaotic soundscape. Charity squeezed through another small group she didn’t recognize and emerged into the kitchen where Elizabeth Wilcox hurriedly prepared a tray of sandwich meat to go out to the table.
When the widow saw Charity she gave her a measured smile.
“Can I help?” Charity asked.
Elizabeth Wilcox at first seemed too busy to think of something for Charity to do, but a sudden epiphany changed her mind. “Actually, it would be really great if you could keep an eye on Titus and Abigail. They were out back playing with some of their cousins, but I just want to make sure this isn’t completely overwhelming for them.”
“Okay, I’ll go find them,” Charity said. The young girl worked her way through the crowded playroom toward the back door. She saw her mom and dad, clustered with most of the contingent from Holy Spirit Tabernacle. It seemed like an invisible line separated the members of the two different churches present, as neither side intermingled with the other. The one person absent from the proceedings was Hope, a fact that made Charity anxious—anxious enough that she struggled back through the crowd to reach her mother.
“Mom,” Charity said softly during a break in the conversation between Glenda Price and a few other women from Holy Spirit Tabernacle, “do you know where Hope is?”
“I think she had to use the restroom, dear,” Glenda Price said before entering into a new conversation with the women around her.
Charity made her way to the stairs. Once she climbed the steps to the second floor, the house became much quieter. All of the bedroom doors were closed. Charity could hear running water in the bathroom, so she waited outside. After another minute, the water stopped and the door handle turned. But an older gentleman, who gave Charity a warm smile, emerged from the bathroom.
Charity crept down the hallway to the master bedroom, wondering if Hope could really be so audacious. Of course, she already knew the answer to that question. Charity slowly opened the door to Graham and Elizabeth Wilcox’s bedroom. A gentle thump from the inside told her someone was there. But as Charity pushed the door open, she didn’t see anyone. She almost left but decided to investigate further before retreating. She stepped delicately to the other side of the bed. No one was there, either. Charity gazed at the closet. This time, she forcefully swung the door open. Sitting on the floor of the closet was Hope.
“Charity, thank God it’s only you!” she exclaimed.
“What are you doing here?” Charity demanded. She caught sight of a black Samsung phone in Hope’s hand. “Is that my phone?” Charity swiped her hands across her pants, feeling the telltale bump in her left pocket that confirmed Hope had not lifted it.
“It’s Elizabeth Wilcox’s phone,” Hope said matter-of-factly.
“How did you get it?”
“She left it on her nightstand to charge.”
“Why are you looking at it?”
“I’m looking for evidence.”
Charity’s voice elevated. “Do you honestly think Elizabeth had something to do with Pastor Wilcox’s death?”
“I don’t honestly think anything, yet. But I found some interesting stuff here. Really interesting.”
“Why can’t you just stop snooping? No one wants you to do this! You just want to hurt other people!”
“That’s not true. I told you in Dad’s office why I’m doing this. You should never be afraid of the truth coming out. And if you are, then you’re hiding something.”
“It’s not your job to find this stuff out!”
“You’re right. That’s why I’m giving what I find to Detective Seitzer. He can decide what he wants to do with it.”
Charity gave Hope a withering glare. “I swear if you do that, Hope, I will never speak to you again!”
Hope cocked her head. “You know about this, don’t you? You know about Jason Watkins and Elizabeth Wilcox!”
“Just stop it! You think you know things, but you don’t!”
“Then tell me, what don’t I know? What are you so afraid of people knowing?”
“Just give me the phone!”
“No. I’m taking a copy of the messages to Detective Seitzer.”
Charity reached down and tried to wrestle the phone away from her, but only succeeded in leaving a nasty scratch on her sister’s arm. After yelling in pain, Hope fended off Charity’s attempt to liberate the phone, stiff-arming Charity with her other hand.
“I’m going downstairs and I’m telling Mom and everyone else what you’re doing!”
Hope shook her head. “No, you aren’t. That’s not something you would do. You’re too scared. You wouldn’t like the way people would stare at you. And you’re too afraid I would just say what I know in front of everyone else.”
Charity surrendered, but not before she locked eyes with Hope and said, “I hate you. I hate you so much! I never want to see you again!”
“Sometimes you need to tell the truth, Charity,” Hope called out as her sister stalked out of the room. As Charity descended the stairs, she looked out the window. Jason Watkins stood in front of the house. At first, she didn’t recognize him because his face was partially obscured by the black hoodie he was wearing. Charity’s first instinct nudged her to walk out the door and talk to him. But before she could react, he started moving and vanished down the street.
Charity felt like crying. She didn’t know the whole truth, but she did know part of it. And she saw no way that the revelation of even that partial truth could do anything else but destroy people.
Chapter Twenty-One
Seitzer and Harrison sat down with Felicia Monroe in the corner of the atrium-like lobby. The security guard at the front desk didn’t even attempt to disguise his suspicion as he watched them. For the first time in th
eir relationship, the journalist seemed anxious. She made no smart-alecky comments and her leg bobbed up and down in rapid movements.
“So, Ms. Monroe, what is it you do for Research Department B?” Seitzer asked.
“Just a little freelance work on the side.” Her eyes darted over to the security guard.
“What kind of freelance work?” Harrison asked.
“I’m not really supposed to speak about it,” she said. “I signed a contract to that effect.”
“I could see why your employer might be a little on the nervous side—seeing as how you’re a reporter and all. But you can relax. We actually just spoke to your boss—both of them, actually. Jack Walton and Robert Stevenson ended up being quite helpful,” Seitzer said. Felicia gave them a surprised look. “Of course, all we really wanted to know was why they contacted Graham Wilcox. I don’t really care about their unconventional quest for alternative energy.” Felicia Monroe remained silent, perhaps because Seitzer hadn’t asked any questions, a phenomenon that he promptly remedied. “Why didn’t you mention that Graham Wilcox had been a target of Stevenson Industries’ research?”
“I didn’t see why it mattered. Nothing happened here with Graham Wilcox. He came in for an interview, it didn’t really go well, and that was the end of that.”
“Except for the fact that Wilcox’s church ended up demonstrating at Stevenson Industries. Didn’t that make you wonder?” the older detective asked.
“Graham Wilcox and his church protested lots of organizations, including the municipal government, several department stores, and others that I can’t remember off the top of my head. So that wasn’t exactly a red flag to me.”
“I’m curious, Ms. Monroe, when you did that feature story on Wilcox and his church, were you recruiting him for Stevenson Industries?” Seitzer asked.
“Not exactly. When Jack Walton heard about my assignment, he asked that I find out if bringing Graham Wilcox in for an interview would be worthwhile.”
“And you thought he was worth interviewing further? What made you so sure? It seems like Jack Walton dismissed him pretty quickly.”
“Saying that Graham Wilcox was worth interviewing was hardly my seal of approval that he possessed any supernatural abilities.”
“You must’ve seen something that made you consider the possibility,” Harrison said.
“Well, something unusual did happen one Sunday that I visited the church.” Felicia Monroe paused to sweep a lock of hair away from her forehead. “In the middle of Wilcox’s sermon, this guy stands up and starts yelling gibberish. It wasn’t that different from some of the nonsense they call speaking in tongues, so I didn’t immediately think it was a problem. I figured it was just something that happened there. The guy started getting more and more agitated. When he turned around, his eyes definitely seemed crazy. Then Graham Wilcox commanded that the man ‘stop in the name of Jesus’. He demanded whatever demon was afflicting the man to come out of him. As soon as Graham Wilcox said those words, the man’s face became peaceful. He sat down, folded his hands in his lap, and that was it. Everything was normal.”
“Do you think it was some kind of parlor trick or was it real?” Harrison asked.
“I don’t know. I wanted to interview the man, but he just left afterward. Wouldn’t even turn around and look at me when I called after him. No one else in the church seemed to know who he was.”
“What did Wilcox say about it? Did he know the man?”
“No, the guy was a stranger. Wilcox said that sometimes these power encounters—that’s what he called them—were necessary. He thought that the number of demonic experiences would skyrocket as the second coming of Jesus got closer.”
“Did he have these kinds of encounters often?”
“Wilcox said he did, but he wouldn’t get into specifics with me. He did say that people online had reached out to him for help and that he got emails from people who were oppressed by demons.”
“The man that Wilcox confronted in church—did he have a dragon tattoo or wear a hoodie?” Harrison asked.
“No. At least, I didn’t see any tattoos. And he definitely wasn’t wearing a hoodie.” Felicia’s journalistic curiosity was piqued by Harrison’s question. “Why do you ask?”
“Jim Thompson said he saw a man fitting that description in church a few weeks before Wilcox was killed. Did you ever see anyone who looked like that?”
“No, never.”
“Never mind that,” Seitzer said. “Why didn’t you think any of this would be relevant to our investigation?”
“Why would it be? You and I both know that Graham Wilcox was most likely killed by someone he knew, someone in his church. Probably over some scandal, which no doubt you’ve already uncovered or will uncover soon enough.”
“Maybe he was. But I can’t help wonder what would happen if a power encounter went south. If Graham Wilcox was attracting people who were mentally unhinged, then it seems like all kinds of stuff was possible,” Seitzer said. “Anyway, you didn’t say anything about this because you were covering your ass. You didn’t want to admit you had any connection to Stevenson Industries.”
Felicia rolled her eyes. “And this surprises you somehow? It’s not like you and I tell each other everything.”
“While Graham Wilcox was here for his interview, did he come into contact with anyone else?” Harrison asked, interrupting the staring contest Felicia and Seitzer had begun.
“I don’t think so. But I don’t work on that end of things and I wasn’t there that day.”
When neither detective asked a follow-up question, Felicia Monroe asked, “Are we done now? I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I doubt that very much,” replied Seitzer.
“Something else you want to know?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of something later.”
“So can I go? I’m late.”
Seitzer nodded slightly, just enough so that Felicia Monroe felt the freedom to stand up. Before she was able to gather all of her things, Seitzer stopped her. “How’d you get involved in this? I’m pretty sure you didn’t see an ad for this job on Craigslist.”
“Jack Walton is my uncle. He thought I would excel at doing some of their research that required fieldwork.”
“So, what—you fly around the country tracking down people who interest your employer?”
“Occasionally. Most of the stuff they need me to do I can finish by email, phone, or some other way. I’m more of an appointment setter if they have any leads.”
“Where do they get these leads from?” Harrison asked.
“I’m sorry, I can’t really get into that. We’ve moved past information that might be relevant for your case now.”
“I’ll be in touch if we have further questions,” Seitzer said.
“Bye, Detective.” She began walking toward the elevator but stopped after a few feet. “Not that I really think you’d do this, but could you not mention this to the newspaper? I’m not sure they would approve of my part-time job.”
Seitzer nodded abruptly. He and Harrison watched her disappear into the elevator.
“Well, that’s a lot of information to digest,” Seitzer said once they were alone in the atrium.
“What do we do with it all?” Harrison asked.
“We could check Graham Wilcox’s email again, see if he’s been talking to anyone online. Or maybe on some of the other online outlets where he was active. You make any progress on the YouTube videos they posted?”
“Some. I can check again, see if anything turns up, or if Lansky found something.”
“Since we’re talking about computer stuff, did you get a chance to look over the financial records that the Price girl gave us?”
“I started to, but I felt a little out of my expertise, so I handed it off to an accountant friend I had. I hope that’s okay.”
Seitzer nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine.” The detective’s phone chimed. “Interesting,” he said as he read the text.
<
br /> “What is it?” Harrison asked.
“Justin, our tech guy, just texted me. Turns out the gun that Titus Wilcox found on his father’s desk belonged to George Gregorson.”
“The guy Wilcox called out in front of the church for cheating on his wife?”
“The one and only. Alright, let’s go talk to him.”
The two detectives left the Stevenson Industries lobby, which seemed to greatly please the security guard. Maybe meeting Felicia Monroe there had just been an irrelevant coincidence. Or maybe Seitzer and Harrison had stumbled onto a deeper thread of connection that would solve Graham Wilcox’s murder.
Chapter Twenty-Two
George Gregorson didn’t live far from the Thompsons. Like them, he had moved into an apartment after occupying a larger house. The conditions of each party’s move varied immensely, though. The Thompsons had willingly sold their house and business so they could fund the church’s mission to tell as many people as possible of Jesus’ return on April 24 and became the example par excellence of sacrifice at Holy Spirit Tabernacle. Gregorson had been forced out of his family home and the church because he had cheated on his wife.
Any question of George Gregorson’s emotional state was swiftly answered as soon as Seitzer and Harrison identified themselves as police. The tall and stocky man had just gotten out of his car and was about to climb the steps to his second-floor apartment when the two detectives intercepted him. Once he saw their badges he became livid.
“If that bitch told you I hit her, she’s lying! Just like she’s lied about everything else. I never laid a hand on her!” His unruly dark hair and unsettled brown eyes suggested he wasn’t far from his breaking point.
“Calm down sir,” Seitzer said in as soothing a tone as he could muster. “We’re not here because your wife sent us. We’re here because we’re investigating the murder of Graham Wilcox.”
Gregorson appeared as though he wanted to use some choice words to express his thoughts on the deceased minister but thought better of it and remained quiet.
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