Summer People

by Aaron Stander

  Ray turned onto the two-track. The area was low and swampy until they reached a large clearing. A long, low, coarsely constructed building stood in the center of the clearing. A cross made from two small logs, lashed together with yellow nylon rope, stood near the entrance at the center of the building. The building was covered with rough-cut, unpainted siding. A pickup truck stood under a large oak at the side of the church. The truck’s engine was suspended from an overhead branch by a jerry-rigged system of ropes and pulleys.

  At the right of the clearing stood a second building. The front of an old mobile home poked out of one end of the collection of tacked-on additions, giving the impression of a caterpillar covered by cancerous appendages.

  Ray parked near the front door at the center of the church. The slamming of the car doors brought Reverend Tim rolling out of the church. Tim—clad only in large bib overalls, which he filled completely, and a small, short-billed denim hat with Harley-Davidson stitched across the front—wiped his hand on his overalls and extended it to Ray. His hands and short, thick arms were covered with grease. He also had several streaks of grime across his face.

  “Sheriff, glad ya come. I’d a been in to see you if this dang motor hadn’t given up.”

  “We are happy to come to meet you. This,” Ray motioned to Sue, “is Deputy Lawrence; she will be making notes of this conversation.”

  “Nice ta meet you, Miss,” said Tim with a gesture that approached a bow but not offering a hand. “Why don’t we sit over there, Sheriff?” Tim led them to a small circle of benches, planks nailed to the tops of stumps.

  Ray pushed ahead, “Reverend Tim, you said on the phone that you know who is responsible for the Hammer killing. We tried questioning Mrs. Hammer last night, but she was too upset to help us.”

  “No, wonder. That poor child.” The words, although sympathetic in context, had a condemnatory tone. He paused and looked at Ray. “If she had stayed with Jesus, this would never have happened, but she is a prisoner of Satan. She will tell you she loves Jesus, but I know who really owns her soul.”

  “Can you tell us what you know?” prodded Ray.

  “I’ve knowed her since she was a child, and there was always that wildness. You can see it in her eyes. She’s possessed. There’s always been a battle to keep the devil at bay, but I guess we’ve been losing it for a long while.”

  “You’re talking about Kit Hammer?” asked Ray.

  “Who do you think I’m talking about, Sheriff?” he responded crossly. “She’s always been under his control. You don’t know how many times I’ve prayed over that girl, but my power just isn’t strong enough. The devil is able to creep into some folk. He’s in their bones, he’s in their muscles, he’s in their brain, he’s in their guts, he’s even in their blood getting pushed around their body with every beat of their heart. You can do battle with Satan and almost defeat him, but he’s just hiding in some corner. As soon as you’re not watching, he comes rushing back. He takes the heart, takes the soul, and the rest is easy. He’s had her since she was a little girl.”

  “Are you’re saying that Mrs. Hammer is the murderer?” Ray asked.

  “You’re not listening, Sheriff. I didn’t say that. What I said was that she is an agent of the devil. The devil worked through her to make this happen.”

  “I’m still not following; can you tell me who the killer is?”

  “Well, I knowed it was going to happen. Last Sunday we was having a group confession and praying for the sinners. This one wasn’t going too good; it takes a while for the folks to get it going, if you know what I mean. We get a lot of little sins confessed to until folks get worked into it a bit. Burt Watson confessed to selling a car with a bad engine, and the congregation prayed for Jesus to forgive him and prayed that the engine might be healed so the buyer wouldn’t suffer none. I hate it when stuff like that happens, like Jesus has nothing better to do then go around fixing old Chevrolets, but in this business you got to put up with that until folks get going and start talking about more interesting sins. Then Sarah Johnson tells the congregation about how her old man and her was poaching deers last winter. Everyone knows they need that meat to live, it ain’t no big sin. I can tell people was getting pretty bored with this.

  “Fortunately, Minnie Pfeiffer jumps up about then and starts speaking in tongues. This always gets everyone going cause they know the Holy Spirit is now in the room—most folks feel better about confessing their sins when they know for sure that someone is listening. Minnie, she goes on for a long while, and people were getting more and more excited to cast off their sins.

  “About this time Kit Hammer comes to the front and starts screaming and yelling to Jesus to forgive her for her dreadful sin. I asked her to tell us about her sin, tell us which one of God’s commandments she broke, but she won’t for the longest time. I gets the congregation to chant ‘Tell Mr. Jesus, tell Mr. Jesus’ over and over until she says, ‘I am guilty of adultery, please save my soul.’ I wish you could have been there Sheriff. I wish you could have felt the presence of the Lord.”

  “I wish I had been,” Ray offered. “Then what happened?”

  “I asked her who she had sinned with so God would know who to punish.” He stopped and looked at Ray, “God knows, but I wanted the brothers and sisters to know because God sometimes needs agents on earth to help do his work. She tells us it’s Lennie Buck, and she tells us where he lives. I could tell that we were ready to do God’s work. I got the men; we piles into four or five trucks and drives to Buck’s trailer, he only lives a couple miles from here. We busted the door, pulled that sinner out of his bed, dragged him out and beat him real good. I wished we could have stoned him, but I know you just can’t get by with that anymore. Then we came back here and thanked the Lord that he had let us do his work.”

  “How do you connect this to the death of Hammer?”

  “When we went to punish this sinner, we held Buck while Hammer beat him up, not that he done it alone, most of us got a few good ones in. As we was leaving, Buck yells that he’s gonna get even. I know what you’re thinking, Sheriff, making threats doesn’t mean anything, but Buck hollered that he was ‘going to get a fucking machine gun and turn us all into hamburg.’ That’s what he said, and that’s what he done.”

  Ray looked over at Sue who had been making notes during the conversation. “Do you have any questions for Reverend Tim?”

  “About what time did this happen?”

  “Service started about nine. It was probably ten thirty or eleven when Kit made her confession. I knowed we were back here by lunch time.”

  “Could you provide the names of others who could corroborate your story?”

  “Well there was Jamie…,” Reverend Tim went on to name eight men who accompanied him to Buck’s trailer.

  25

  They were sitting on the deck facing the lake, a bottle of wine on the floor between them. Lisa, in one of Marc’s chambray shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, bare legs pulled up under her, holding a wine glass mid-stem, was peering far out into the lake. Marc, shirtless, in faded khaki shorts, with bare feet pushed out in front of him, looked at her intensely as she spoke.

  Ray came around the corner of the cottage, paused for a moment and observed the scene. He felt uncomfortable interrupting.

  “Well, while the rest of us have to work, it looks like you are having a relaxing day,” he said with a note of humor in his voice as he climbed the steps onto the deck.

  They both jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine?” asked Marc as he rose. “Can’t, on duty. We’re about to make an arrest. I can’t smell like wine when I talk to the press, can I?”

  “An arrest at last. That’s terrific, your arrest rate was starting to look like Detroit’s,” said Marc. “You nabbed a Mafia hit man.”

  “Wrong murder. This is last night’s murder off Indian Hill Road. Aren’t you lovers aware of what is going in the world? Didn’t you see me on the l
ocal news this morning?”

  “Lisa’s plane was delayed. It didn’t get in until after midnight. I’m afraid we missed the morning news.”

  “Let’s hear it, Chief,” said Lisa playfully. “Tell us about the crime; how did you solve it so quickly?”

  “Let me tell you—I wish the other was like this,” said Ray. “Last night about 10:30 we got a call about a shooting. Bob Kretchmer was in the area and got to the scene in a few minutes. The poor bastard had been ripped almost in two by a burst from an assault rifle. I got there ten or fifteen minutes later. At first the widow was hysterical, and couldn’t tell us anything. When she finally did settle down a bit, she was very uncooperative.”

  “Why?” asked Marc.

  “Just wait, let me give you the story in sequence. There was a lot of evidence around. We found where the murderer parked; we got footprints, tire treads, couple dozen of shell casings. Even without the murder weapon, we’ve got loads of physical evidence. This morning I got a call from a local minister who said he knew who the killer was. He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone because he said Satan had his phone tapped. I went out and questioned him. He gave us the motive—motive of sorts, the name, address, the whole nine yards. I’ve got the suspect’s place staked out; I’m on my way over there. State Police are coming to back us up with some heavy artillery in case the suspect decides to shoot his way out. ”

  “How did the minister know?” asked Lisa.

  “I did use minister, didn’t I; let me amend that. He calls himself Reverend Tim….”

  “Reverend Tim—that sounds pretty down home?” interjected Lisa.

  “Let me tell you,” said Ray trying to affect a twang, “this here is a real preacher man. There is a little church on Deadstream Road—Freewill Bible Synod of God: the Only True Followers of Jesus—don’t ask me where or how they got the name. It’s a little log and slab-wood building way back off the road. You’d never find it if you didn’t know exactly where it was. The stream runs behind the church; they’ve dug out the stream and widened it so they can get the congregation in the water when they do baptisms.”

  “How do you know all this?” asked Marc.

  “I had to investigate them a few of years back. A summer kid from Birmingham got involved with the group and moved in with the minister and his family. The kid’s family charged that he had been kidnapped by what they termed a ‘satanic cult.’ The family was well connected, and we got put under a hell of a lot of pressure to find out about the church.”

  “So is it a satanic cult?” asked Lisa.

  “Hell no. They spend a lot of time talking about Satan. They seem to believe that Satan and his henchmen are lurking behind every bush and tree. But it’s really just a Bible thumping group Reverend Tim put together. Seems Mr. Jesus—that’s the term Reverend Tim uses—talked to him one day when he was cutting wood and told him he was to start this church, even told him where to put it and how to build it.”

  “And he has a congregation?”

  “Of sorts, about sixty or seventy people. Mostly old and poor, they live in shacks and old trailers in the area. It’s a real flannel shirt and dirty jeans crowd.”

  “Don’t expect they pull many from the summer set,” Marc threw in sarcastically.

  “Well, I don’t think he pulls the yuppie crowd,” responded Ray with a smile. “But they do get a few fudgies. In the summer they put out a big, hand-lettered sign by the road that reads, ‘Jesus loves Bikers.’ And some of the over-the-hill Harley crowd seem to worship there.”

  “The what?” asked Lisa.

  “You’ve seen them. They probably took up biking after they saw Brando’s film. They’ve got to be in their fifties or older, ride beat-to-shit Harleys with the leather fringes on their saddle bags dragging on the road. They all seem to have big guts and usually have women of about the same size riding behind them. I don’t know how the bikes can take all that weight.”

  “And they go to this church?” asked Marc.

  “In the summer they seem to be part of the congregation.

  But let me get back to my story. I had to check out this church—I even sat through services a number of times. Reverend Tim is quite mad, but he’s good with words; his description of the wages of sin could rival Cotton Mather’s. And when he really gets going, the congregation goes wild, people speak in tongues, and yell and scream and beg for forgiveness. And his harangues last for hours…”

  “And the kid from Birmingham?”

  “Well, he was pretty freaky, too. But he was eighteen, and he didn’t seem to be held against his will—we questioned him carefully. His parents wanted us to physically remove him and have him deprogrammed. And when we wouldn’t, they were really pissed. But what the hell, they don’t vote here, they just pay taxes.”

  “So what does this have to do with the murder?” asked Lisa.

  “Well, Brother Tim called this morning. Seems the deceased and his wife were members of the congregation. During last Sunday’s service they were having a special group confessional and praying for the sinners. This guy’s wife, the wife of the now deceased, tells the congregation about how she’s been seeing this other man. Well, Reverend Tim gets her to tell all and after the service some of the men in the congregation, led by Tim and including her husband, go over to this guy’s trailer and gave him a good beating. As they were leaving he makes lots of threats. So when Reverend Tim heard Joe Hammer got murdered, he called and asked me to come out so he could tell me about what had happened.”

  “The guy’s name is Hammer. Any relation to….”

  “You got it, Lisa. First cousin.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Lisa. “And the rest of the story—is the murderer a local?”

  “No, he’s an unemployed auto worker—got laid off from a plant in Pontiac and moved up here. He’s been a suspect in some cottage break-ins, but we’ve never been able to nail him.”

  “Are you going to have trouble arresting him?” asked Marc. “I don’t know. If he’s really in his trailer, he’s in an impossible situation. Watch the news.”

  26

  The staging area for the assault on Lennie Buck’s trailer was at an old cemetery about a mile down the road. Ray stood in the center of the small circle of his deputies and State Police Troopers.

  “First, I don’t want any of you wounded or killed. We will take our time; we have all of the advantages. The trailer is in the open, and you can drive off the road to take your positions. Stay behind your cars because there is no other cover.

  “Second, I want to take Buck prisoner. If possible, I don’t want him injured. We know he has an AK-47. We don’t know how much ammunition. So please be careful.

  “Once we are all in place I’ll try to talk him out with a bull horn. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try some tear gas. Again, be careful. This man has nothing to lose. He’s very dangerous.”

  The old trailer stood in the middle of a flat, sandy field. An old car was parked near the front door. One by one the police cars rolled off the road and formed a distant circle around the trailer. The police took cover behind the cars. Ray positioned his car across from the door of the trailer.

  Ray got out of his car looked over the hood at the trailer. He lifted the bullhorn. “Lennie Buck, we know you’re in there. We have the place completely surrounded—there’s no escape. I want you to open the door wide and come out slowly with both hands high in the air. And I want you to keep those hands high.” Ray tried to think about what might be going through Lennie’s head as a way of thinking about what he should prepare for. A vision of Jackson Prison flashed before Ray. If he were in Lennie’s shoes, he would rather die than go to Jackson.

  The instant Ray heard the glass break he dropped behind his car. A short blast from the assault rifle raked his car and sent puffs of sand flying on the surrounding ground.

  “Are you all right, Ray?” someone asked on the radio. “Yes. Put in some tear gas.”

  Ray heard the shot and then
heard, “Shit, I missed the window.

  I’ll fire a second one.” He heard the second shot and then, “That one’s in and smoking.”

  “Nothing happening,” came another voice.

  “Put in another one.” said Ray.

  He heard the third shot. He looked over his hood and watched the smoke roll out of the windows.”

  “There’s a fire,” came a voice.

  Ray saw the flames pushing out of the front window of the trailer. The door of the trailer opened a crack and stopped. The deputies tensed, ready to fire. Then the door slowly opened the rest of the way. A man emerged, staggered a few feet and fell to his hands and knees. The fire quickly engulfed the whole trailer; the man crawled forward away from the heat. Ray approached him from one side. Bob Kretchmer approached from the other side; he pulled a pair of handcuffs from a case on his belt and secured Lennie’s arms behind his back.

  The man was limp. Ray pulled Lennie to his feet and dragged him away from the burning trailer and back behind his car. The fire roared through the flimsy structure, burning through the aluminum skin on the roof. Ammunition exploded in the flames.

  Buck, in dirty jeans and a black T-shirt with Shit Happens in block letters on the front, slouched against the side of Ray’s car. His head was down as if he were examining his shoeless feet. His figure, long and lean with round shoulders suspended on a narrow frame, hung with a look of defeat. A thin nose separated two small, watery blue eyes. A long, shaggy beard framed the pale-white face.

  Ray read Buck his rights; the prisoner nodded as if he understood, but said nothing. Ray motioned to Bob Kretchmer. “Get him out of here.”

  Ray walked back toward the trailer. The roof had collapsed, and as he watched the wall near him peeled away, like someone doing a back dive in slow motion. The wall on the other side of the trailer soon followed in the opposite direction. By the time the volunteer fire department arrived, there was little to do but dampen the remains and put out a few small grass fires near the ruins of the trailer.