“We understand that Graham Wilcox claimed in front of the entire church that you committed adultery. Is that true?”
“Yes, he did. And do you want to know something? Not once did he ever ask me if what my wife said was true. Not once!”
“Was it true?” Harrison asked.
“No! It wasn’t. So not only did I not have sex for over a year because of my damn marital problems, I get in trouble for sex I never had. What a bunch of shit that is, right?”
“Why would your wife lie about you having an affair?” Harrison asked.
“I guess to make the divorce go easier. And because she had a thing for the minister.”
“You think they conspired to make everyone believe you had an affair so that they could be together?” Seitzer asked.
“That’s exactly what they did.”
“How did you know she was interested in Graham Wilcox?” Harrison asked.
“The way she spoke about him, looked at him, the way she dressed when she went to church—I mean, who wears low-cut tops to church? I know she wasn’t wearing that shit for my benefit.”
In a strange way, venting about his wife seemed to stabilize Gregorson’s emotions.
“Did Wilcox reciprocate her feelings?” Seitzer asked.
“It was pretty obvious. I can’t believe no one else saw it like I did.”
From experience, Seitzer knew jealousy distorted people’s power of observation enough to cause them to see things that weren’t there. Gregorson hadn’t exactly convinced Seitzer that he possessed any objectivity on the matter.
“Do you think they were actively involved in an affair?” Harrison asked.
“I know they were.”
“How?”
“Because one night I followed her. She put our kids to bed and then drove over to the church. She parked all the way down the street, so I guess people wouldn’t see her car right in front of the church.”
“How long ago was this?” Seitzer asked.
“A month ago.”
“And what time was it?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Did you go inside and see what they were doing?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“So for all you know, they just talked.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what they did alone at nine o’clock at night.”
“The best conversations happen at night,” Seitzer said.
“That’s not what they were doing.”
“Well, this is where things get interesting, Mr. Gregorson, because a gun registered to your name was found on Graham Wilcox’s desk the night he was murdered. Any idea how that happened?” Seitzer withheld the crucial fact that the gun in question did not kill Wilcox; nonetheless, he wanted to test Gregorson’s reaction.
The man’s face went pale. “I didn’t put it there. I haven’t stepped inside that church since Wilcox accused me of cheating on my wife.”
“When was the last time you saw your gun?” Harrison asked.
“I left it at the house when I moved out. I didn’t think to take it with me. So if it ended up on Graham Wilcox’s desk, Natasha put it there.”
“I want to believe you, George, but you see my dilemma here, right?” Seitzer asked. “You had a pretty strong motive to kill Graham Wilcox. I mean one might argue—and I think you believe this—that he ruined your life. He ruined your reputation, your family, everything.”
“Thing is, I don’t blame him first—I blame her. This was all her plan. She did this to me, to our children. But I don’t want to kill her. I just want to expose her for the lying, cheating bitch that she is, so maybe I can get back custody of my kids. That will be my revenge—to leave her with nothing.” His eyes had gone wild and he leaned threateningly toward Seitzer as if the detective was his ex-spouse.
“Well, Mr. Gregorson, you make many compelling points. We’ll go have a chat with your wife and see what she has to say about all of this. And I’m sure at some point, we’ll have some more questions for you,” Seitzer said.
“I have nothing to hide. You’ve never met a more innocent man than me.”
“We’ll see about that. Thanks for your time.”
The detectives departed from George Gregorson’s apartment and hit the road again.
“Somehow I doubt he’s the most innocent man we’ve ever met,” Seitzer said.
“Didn’t it seem strange how profane he was for a religious man?” Harrison asked.
“Maybe he just went to church because his wife did and it was just something he did to keep the peace,” Seitzer suggested. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he added, under his breath so Harrison didn’t catch it. “Besides, if I thought my wife was having an affair with the pastor, I’d start cursing too. Or maybe I’d even burn the entire church down.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s fair. But if everything George Gregorson is telling us is true, I don’t get what his wife’s endgame is. I know people do some really messed up and inexplicable things in relationships, but beyond humiliating her husband, I don’t see what Natasha Gregorson has to gain from this. Did she think Graham Wilcox was going to leave his wife for her?”
Seitzer’s phone chimed. He took a quick look at his phone and sighed. “Just got a text from Hope Price. Says she has more information and wants me to stop by her house. I guess let’s go.”
Seitzer redirected his car toward the Price residence. Hope was waiting on the front steps when the detectives arrived. Her head angled toward the ground and she never looked up as Seitzer and Harrison approached. She held an unknown object in her clenched hand.
“I’m thinking I should just arrest you for interfering with the case, but that seems like too much trouble to go through,” Seitzer said.
Hope remained silent on the steps. She finally looked up at the two detectives. “My sister is going to hate me for this.”
“Then why do it?” Seitzer asked.
“Someone has to tell the truth about who these people are—they’re not who they say they are.”
“Well, you know, I’ve been doing this job awhile now. You could just trust that I’ll find the evidence that needs to be discovered. Why is it so important that you be the messenger of the truth?”
She extended her hand and spread open her fingers to reveal an SD card. “I copied some messages from Elizabeth Wilcox’s phone that Jason Watkins sent. Something was going on between them.”
“You mean they were having an affair?” Harrison asked.
“Seemed that way.”
“Let me see that.” Seitzer seized the SD card. “Can I look at the messages on my phone?”
“Here.” Hope Price gently took Seitzer’s phone and the SD card. She loaded the card into the phone, navigated through the device using a series of rapid swipes and then handed the phone back to Seitzer. He scrolled through the texts, which dated back a month before Graham Wilcox’s death. Jason Watkins had made the first move: Hey, you ok? You looked down today. Going forward, various texts danced around each individual’s respective problems with his or her spouse and a mutual appreciation for one another. Elizabeth Wilcox complimented him on his ability to lead worship and his genuine demeanor when he played. Jason Watkins recognized Elizabeth’s gracious and gentle nature and her usually upbeat attitude, which made it all the more puzzling to him why she seemed so downcast lately. And each person shared how living in Holy Spirit Tabernacle felt like living in a fishbowl sometimes. Besides the odd emoticon, nothing about the words themselves made Seitzer suspect that something illicit had transpired between the two. Even still, the messages disturbed him.
“I think you’re reaching on this one,” he declared.
“Can I see?” Harrison asked. Without looking, Seitzer handed back his phone to the junior detective.
“Reaching? A good looking guy, a pretty woman with a strained marriage, a bunch of texts … that doesn’t make you suspicious at all?” Hope asked.
“Just leave the detective work for the professionals
. You text me again with anything other than someone trying to murder you and I’m going to ignore it,” Seitzer warned.
The detective stepped away from the girl toward his car with Harrison close behind. Harrison was still perusing the messages on his partner’s phone as they drove.
“We should probably subpoena Elizabeth Wilcox’s phone, see if anything important has been deleted and look at her phone records,” Harrison said softly.
“Yeah, I know.” Seitzer adjusted his visor to block the reddish light from the sinking sun that streamed through the windshield.
“What doesn’t make sense to me, assuming these people really did commit adultery, is why they would risk having an affair so soon before they thought Jesus would return,” Harrison said.
“Maybe having a deadline emboldened them. Or they thought they could repent at the last minute. Besides, Elizabeth Wilcox didn’t seem to believe Jesus was coming back. Maybe Jason Watkins didn’t, either. And who knows what Natasha Gregorson is all about.”
“I guess that’s true. But Graham Wilcox did. What did he think was going to happen if he was right?”
“See, this is why all of you Christians are hypocritical.” Seitzer’s tone became charged. “Don’t you always believe that Jesus is going to return at any moment or you’re going to have to one day stand before God and give an account for your life? So how is Graham Wilcox committing adultery less than a month before Jesus returns different from any other Christian who decides at some point in their life, ‘You know what, screw it—I’m going to do that thing God doesn’t want me to do’?”
Seitzer glared at Harrison, who said nothing, caught off guard by his partner’s sudden attack.
“You Christians want to believe that you’re special, different and washed in the blood. But the evidence I see suggests otherwise.”
Harrison gathered himself enough to launch a rebuttal. “You know, if you’re calling us sinners, we’re way ahead of you. That’s why we believe we need Jesus.”
“Isn’t Jesus supposed to change you, though? I don’t see much transformation going on here.”
“Well, maybe you’re only seeing what you want to see.”
“I’m seeing what’s there. Some things you can only see one way.”
Harrison looked like he wanted to say more, but his partner’s body language indicated he was done with the conversation. They arrived at the station. Harrison disembarked from the passenger side door. Before he made it to his car, Seitzer called, “Rest up. We’ve got another full day tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charity Price had watched from her bedroom window as her sister handed something small to the detectives. By this point, her sister’s betrayal no longer surprised her. Hope possessed her own agenda and didn’t seem to care who in her family got hurt along the way. Then again, maybe that was the agenda.
As soon as Hope came back into the house and disappeared into her room, Charity tiptoed down the hallway. She wore her light brown spring jacket and jeans, ready to go outside. Since her parents were locked away in the prayer room, sneaking out through the front door proved exceptionally easy.
Charity wasn’t violating curfew, but her parents would have vetoed her present mission, especially now that the evening shadows had lengthened into twilight. Riding her bike would have made the trip faster, but she didn’t want to feel like a high school student. Somehow walking gave her confidence and made her feel older, more sophisticated. She knew these thoughts were silly, but that awareness did not dispel their influence on her decisions.
Twenty minutes later, Charity stood in front of an apartment door she had only visited once before, when the music team of Holy Spirit Tabernacle assembled to practice. Her body remained static for a few moments before it finally consented to her brain’s impulses. She knocked. At first, Charity knocked without vigor as if her knuckles were composed of hollow plastic. No one stirred, so she summoned a bit more courage and rapped the door more forcefully. This time, footsteps approached from the inside.
Jason Watkins opened the door. His short hair seemed messier than usual. He wore a white t-shirt and blue track pants.
“Charity?” Jason looked beyond her, perhaps to see if her parents had accompanied her. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s something I need to tell you. Can I come inside?” Charity’s voice fluctuated in strength.
“Yeah, sure.” He stepped aside so she could enter. “I was just about to leave town, though.”
“Where are you going?”
“Uh, I needed to go see my wife. She’s been staying at her parents’ house since last Saturday.” Jason trailed off a bit. He was holding something back, which wasn’t surprising, given the nine-year age gap between the two.
“Jason, my sister got a hold of Elizabeth’s phone. She found the messages you sent and gave a copy of them to the police.” The words came in a rush. She knew no other way to say it.
“Have you seen Elizabeth? Is she okay?” Jason asked, his eyes full of concern as if he missed the part about Hope sharing the messages with the police.
Charity shrugged. “She’s hanging in there.”
He exhaled and paced the room. “I’ve wanted to see her so much and make sure she’s okay, but I’ve been afraid.”
The attraction he and Elizabeth Wilcox shared made sense to Charity. Even if the revelation disappointed her—crushed her, even—she understood. And it wasn’t just his neat jaw line and symmetrical face or her gracious beauty that sometimes lay camouflaged under her modest attire and the stress of motherhood combined with her crumbling marriage. Elizabeth radiated warmth, even under the deepening sadness of the last year. Jason’s wife Theresa, though beautiful, possessed an air that sometimes repelled people, perhaps even her own husband. If Elizabeth occupied her own space on the outskirts of Holy Spirit Tabernacle, it was only because other people had pushed her there. Jason Watkins was someone who would have noticed her. Though a man of passion who had essentially provided the soundtrack for the church’s rapture fever with his soulful expressions and impassioned vocals, Jason Watkins never allowed ideas or theology to obscure the people around him. Graham Wilcox had misplaced his wife somewhere amidst his assignment at Holy Spirit Tabernacle. But Jason always saw Elizabeth, just like he saw Charity, nurturing and encouraging the young girl’s talent. Although Charity understood their mutual affection, she had to face the possibility that these two individuals, who were more than role models for her, might have caused the death of Pastor Wilcox.
“Oh man, this is bad. I have to go see Theresa.” Jason grabbed a backpack and tossed some items inside.
“If you run now, the police will think you did it.”
He stopped. “Did what?”
“They’ll think you might be connected to Pastor Wilcox’s death.” Jason dropped the backpack to the floor. “You aren’t, are you?” Charity held her breath while she waited for an answer.
“What? No, of course not! But I did something really bad, Charity, and I need to make it right. If I can.”
He flew into a flurry of activity again. Charity watched his motion with the same sense of guilt that had gripped her for the last few days.
“Jason, I—” Even though he turned toward her, she couldn’t finish her thought. “I have to go.”
Charity sped toward the exit and disappeared through the door. She hoped Jason was telling the truth, that he hadn’t been the one who shot Graham Wilcox. But she had seen the desperation in Jason’s texts, the unresolved longings. Charity nearly jogged all the way home.
Chapter Twenty-Four
When Daniel Seitzer arrived back home, just enough light peeked through the windows to allow him to navigate to the refrigerator and pull out a bottle of Pepsi. He sat in his usual chair as the night descended around him. Seitzer had spent many evenings surrounded by darkness like this after his wife left. For a time, he had somehow forgotten how to turn the light on when she wasn’t there. Eventually, he remem
bered again to hit the switch, but not on that night.
Fortunately, Seitzer had always opted to stock his fridge with soda instead of other bottles. Those other bottles held a certain allure, a promise that he’d forget the heartache that stalked him on those lonely nights when he struggled to remember how to turn the lights on. Many times, he wondered why he shouldn’t drink something that would medicate his pain. The only consistent reason he came up with was the policemen he watched over the years succumb to the slow decay of alcohol until they lost all effectiveness at their jobs. That effectiveness was the only purpose Seitzer had left.
After his father’s slow death, Seitzer began to wonder if that meager sense of purpose could continue to sustain him. New shadows had fallen across his perspective. Now, when he sat in the gathering darkness, he often found himself contemplating the end of his life. Watching his father linger, a shell of himself, until dementia finally consumed him left marks on Seitzer. At least his father had him to sit by his bedside, to remind the nurses that the person in the bed was a human being, not just a name on a chart and the recipient of medication. However, Seitzer imagined that he would die alone, with no wife, no child to sit beside him. Day after day, he would lie alone in his bed, surrounded by the hum of machines and the glow of the TV, reduced to living in a diaper. Who would remember that he tracked down rapists or busted drug dealers? This prospect of dying alone and unknown—a direct result of his ex-wife’s betrayal—gnawed at him and plunged him back into darkness.
Seitzer pushed those thoughts away by focusing on the Wilcox case. He mulled over calling the local judge to get a warrant to search Elizabeth Wilcox’s phone. The judge would’ve granted him that warrant, even if Seitzer called after hours. The judge knew Seitzer well and respected him. Besides, the priority nature of the Wilcox murder case would have provided the judge with a sense of urgency. But instead of contacting the judge, Seitzer sat in the darkness and pondered why the revelation that Elizabeth Wilcox might have indulged in some kind of extramarital affair bothered him so much.
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