She unlocked a filing cabinet just inside the back area and took out the sales records. She found the ones from Tuesday.
“Oh, yes,” she said, “here are the names of a few customers that were in that day.” She wrote down a few names and phone numbers from her records and gave them to Mihdí. “They actually all overlapped, I think, so they should provide a pretty good account that I was here in the store the entire time. And I stopped in to get a coffee from Mr. Muhammad next door as I was leaving. No, wait, it was Mr. Muhammad’s nephew—Azam, or something like that. He may or may not be able to verify the time. But I said something to him about how late I was returning downtown, so he might remember. And I went straight back to the Chicago store, which didn’t take long at that time of day, so it wouldn’t leave too many minutes unaccounted for.”
“Thanks for that,” Mihdí said. “Sounds like you would make a lousy suspect, but I have to consider all possibilities.”
“I understand,” Plante said. “Best of luck in your investigation.”
“Thank you very much,” Mihdí said. “I’ll keep both of you in my prayers.”
Mihdí left HisStory and walked down to Hoffman’s deli. It was a bit after noon by that time, so he decided to get some lunch. Harry Katz didn’t seem to be working, and Mihdí didn’t see Neil Hoffman, either. He ordered a corned beef sandwich with potato salad and chatted with the worker who was preparing it for him. When he went to find a seat, he saw an old friend at one of the tables and asked to join her. He took a break from his investigation to catch up with his friend. They talked for about an hour, until Mihdí had to leave in order to meet Scott Craig.
Craig’s office was not actually in Pine Bluff but was located two suburbs over. The traffic had not started picking up for the day yet, though, so Mihdí made good time. He got to the right building and entered. There was a directory that showed that Craig’s office was on the fifth floor, so Mihdí took the elevator up. The receptionist’s desk was empty when he arrived, but there was a bell on the desk. A woman in jeans and a loose-fitting Chicago Bears sweatshirt came out through a secured door in answer to his ring.
Mihdí pointed to her sweatshirt and said, “The Bears didn’t do so well on Sunday, did they?”
The lady sighed. “It’s been a long season already,” she said, “and they’re just not improving. But they still have a chance against Kansas City next week.”
“Anything could happen,” Mihdí offered.
“What can I do you for?” the lady asked.
“I have an appointment with Scott Craig at 1:30,” he said.
“I think Scott has left for the day,” she said. “Hang on a second while I go check.”
She went back through into the main part of the office, using her key card. She was only gone about two minutes. “His secretary said Scott wasn’t feeling very well and went home at lunchtime,” she said when she returned.
“Hmm,” Mihdí said. “I guess he forgot to write down our appointment or didn’t feel up to giving me a call. It’s no big deal. I’ll catch up with him later, I guess. Thanks for your time.”
“No problem,” the lady said. “Sorry you came for nothing.”
“Not for nothing,” he said. “I got a hot tip on the Bears game!”
They were both laughing as Mihdí left to make his way back down to his car. The detective did not rule out the possibility that Craig was actually feeling ill but thought it was more likely that Craig’s absence indicated he was avoiding Mihdí for some reason. Mihdí didn’t think Craig was a flight risk. He decided that if Craig was worried about something he’d let him worry for another day, and if Craig was truly ill, the detective would give him a day to recover.
Mihdí checked with dispatch to get a number for Faith Tabernacle, which turned out to be in Romeoville. He called the number and got an answering machine that said the pastor, Rev. Elijah Crestwood, would return his call. He left a message with his name and number, saying that it was a police matter.
Charlie Richardson’s alibi was a couple that he had escorted around Pine Bluff to look at houses on Tuesday. Since Richardson himself had supplied their name and number, Mihdí decided it wouldn’t hurt to talk to them. He called the number that Richardson had given him. It turned out that the couple, Barry and Meredith Grant, lived in Des Plaines. They said they would be home, and Mihdí felt that he might as well make a trip up there. While a phone call might suffice, he thought that meeting them in person might provide more information than he could get over the phone. Plus, he never minded spending time in his Mini.
The drive took him about forty-five minutes, so he arrived at the Grants’ house a bit after 2:30 p.m. When he rang the doorbell, a young white man with neatly trimmed red hair came to the door carrying a small child who was perhaps a year old and a shade or two darker than her father. Mihdí showed his badge and identified himself and was ushered into the house. A young black woman joined them from the kitchen. Both she and the young white man were dressed in jeans and t-shirts. There were some boxes around the walls—mostly empty—but a few were already packed.
“You are Barry and Meredith Grant?” Mihdí asked.
They nodded.
“I’m investigating a crime in Pine Bluff,” Mihdí continued. “I understand that you were in the area last Tuesday, looking at houses.”
“Yes, sir,” said Barry Grant. “We spent all afternoon there. Say, we’re both beat from a day of packing and wouldn’t mind sitting down. Come on into the living room. Can I get you a Coke or something?”
“No, nothing for me, thanks. I won’t be long.” Mihdí came with them to the living room and took a seat. “Can you confirm that Charlie Richardson was with you without a break from about 12:30 p.m. until 6:00 p.m.?”
“That’s right,” Barry said. “We met him at a shopping center in the north part of town, which turned out to be very close to the first property we went to see. We went in his car for the rest of the day until he returned us to our car a few minutes after 6:00. I think we saw twelve houses.”
“So you’re considering buying a house in Pine Bluff?” Mihdí inquired.
“Absolutely,” Barry said. “I’m starting a job down there after the new year, and it’s too long a commute from here. We actually saw two houses that we might be interested in, so we’re planning to go down next Wednesday morning for another look. We’re hoping to look at a few other houses first, then revisit the two we liked.”
“Did you have your child along with you last Tuesday? I don’t remember Richardson mentioning that, although it might have slipped his mind.”
“No, no, no, no, no,” Meredith Grant replied with a smile. “We left Chelsea with Barry’s mother here in Des Plaines while we looked at houses. Chelsea would never have made it through a whole afternoon of house-shopping. We’re going to leave her there again next week when we go back to Pine Bluff.”
“Sounds like a good choice,” Mihdí replied with a smile. “Did Mr. Richardson talk about his business at all while you were with him?”
“It depends on what you mean by that,” Meredith said. “He talked about real estate the entire time. He told us stories about terrible and special houses he had seen. He talked about the school system down there, too. That’s one of the reasons we chose Pine Bluff, because we had heard they have exceptional schools there. Charlie confirmed that for us. He said his own kids attend Bluff Point Elementary and that he loves the teachers there. One of the houses we especially liked is in the Bluff Point school area. But he said all the schools are pretty good.”
“That’s my impression, too,” Mihdí said. “My son goes to Abbott Elementary, and I certainly am happy with the staff there.”
“That’s further south, right?” Barry asked. “We didn’t see anything in that area that really turned us on.”
“Well, I hope you can find something that’s perfect,” Mihdí said. “I’d better start heading back towards home. The traffic will only get worse as it gets later.”
Mihdí decided his next step would be to talk to Brent Wiegand. He got back to Pine Bluff at about 3:45 and drove to the address for Wiegand that Darla Brownlee had in her files. Mihdí noted that Wiegand’s apartment was just a few blocks from the high school that Andy Sapp attended.
A pale, thin young man answered the door when Mihdí rang the bell. The man kept the security chain fastened and peered through the crack. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m Detective Mihdí Montgomery of the Pine Bluff Police,” Mihdí replied, showing his badge. “I am investigating the involvement of one of your friends in criminal activity and I would like to talk to you about him.”
“What friend?” Wiegand asked.
“Andy Sapp,” Mihdí said. “May I come in?”
Wiegand closed the door, released the security chain, and reopened it to let Mihdí enter.
“What’s Andy done?” Wiegand asked, as soon as Mihdí was in the room. Brent Wiegand was probably five foot ten and very thin. His skin had the pallid tone of someone who rarely spent time outside. He had prominent tattoos on both sides of his neck, as well as some down each arm, all the way to the wrists. His left eyebrow and his nose were both pierced. When he spoke, it turned out that his tongue was also pierced. He wore a dark t-shirt and black pants. He was barefoot. The television was blaring in the corner of the room, and there was an open beer bottle on a low table next to a ratty couch.
“That has yet to be determined,” the detective replied. “There’s been a murder and some vandalism, and I need to find out whether Andy is involved and how. Do you know anything about the crime at Beth Shalom synagogue, Mr. Wiegand?”
“Are you asking about me or about Andy?” Wiegand asked, suspiciously.
“Well, obviously anything you know would be relevant,” Mihdí said. “I’ve talked to Andy about it, and he mentioned that he spends a lot of time with you, so I wanted to see if you knew anything about it.”
“I don’t know a thing,” Wiegand said. “I saw it on the news, but I don’t know nuthin.”
“In any of your conversations with Andy,” Mihdí persisted, “has he mentioned any criminal activity that he’s been involved in or was contemplating?”
“If he did, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you about it, would I?” Wiegand said. “Some friend I’d be if I ratted on my own buddies.”
Mihdí hadn’t expected to get any information about illegal activity from Wiegand, but had mostly wanted to put him on notice that the police had an eye on him.
“Andy had some anti-Black flyers at his home that he said he had gotten from you.”
“There’s no crime against flyers, is there?” Wiegand said. “I got freedom of speech.”
“For many people it seems to be a short step from racist beliefs to discriminatory or even violent action,” Mihdí said. “While there’s no law against expressing your views, there are laws against putting some of them into action.”
“Well, I ain’t done that,” Wiegand stated, “and neither has Andy. Is that it?”
“Sorry, no,” said the detective, “I need to ask where you were on Tuesday afternoon.”
“I was at work until 3:00 p.m., then I took the bus home. It gets to my block about twenty minutes or a quarter to 4:00, just like today. I got to the house no more than two minutes before you did.”
“Can anyone verify that information for Tuesday?” Mihdí asked.
“You can check my timecard if you want,” Wiegand snapped back.
“Could anyone on the bus confirm that you rode it on Tuesday?”
“How would I know? I don’t talk to people on the bus. I wouldn’t be able to pick any other passengers out of a lineup. How would they be able to confirm I was there on some particular day? Are we done?”
“Yes, thank you, that’s all for now,” Mihdí said. “I’ll be in touch if I have further questions.”
“You do that, police dude,” Wiegand responded. He got up as Mihdí opened the door to leave and slammed the door behind the detective.
Mihdí couldn’t help but chuckling to himself. Over the years, he had found that most of what he learned about people came from the way they reacted rather than what they actually said. He returned to his office, passed Stephanie Plante’s list of customers to Kurt Childs, and asked him to check with them. He then called Beth Carr to see if she had turned up anything new in processing the evidence from the synagogue, but she had nothing to report. After speaking with Officer Carr, he completed his paperwork for the day and headed for home.
Mihdí picked up the kids on his way home from work, and they each found something to play with in the living room while Mihdí broiled some salmon and cut up and steamed some broccoli to go with it. He heated up some leftover rice in the microwave. Andrea came home from a workout just as he was placing dinner on the table. While they were eating, the children told their parents about their day at school. Lua had discovered the day before that one of her front teeth was a little loose, and she was very excited about the prospect of losing her very first tooth. Andrea and Mihdí took turns wiggling it and expressing their congratulations to their youngest.
They were just finishing up dinner at about 6:30 when Mihdí got a call on his cell phone that turned out to be Rev. Elijah Crestwood from Faith Tabernacle. Mihdí excused himself to the study to talk.
“Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier,” Rev. Crestwood said. “I work a regular job during the week, and I only just got home.”
“That’s no problem,” Mihdí told him. “Do you have a few minutes now that I can ask you some questions?”
“Yes, sir,” the minister said.
“Do you know a young man named Matthew Skefton?” Mihdí asked him. “I believe he’s a member of your congregation.”
“Yes, of course I know Matthew,” the pastor replied. “He’s one of my most faithful members. Is he in trouble of some sort?”
“Would that surprise you?” Mihdí inquired. He didn’t particularly want to give the pastor any information until he had gotten some answers.
Crestwood didn’t reply immediately. After a short pause, he said, “You haven’t told me if he’s in trouble. If he is, I would like to know so I can help him. He’s like a son to me.”
Rather than face the minister’s concern head-on, Mihdí tried once again to ignore the question, “Could you please describe Matthew to me in your own words? And I’m not talking about physical description, but character and temperament and such.”
“Listen, Mr. Detective,” the minister said. “I have asked you twice if Matthew is in trouble, and you have not told me. I want to know what’s going on.”
“I appreciate your concern, Rev. Crestwood,” Mihdí replied, resigned to the fact that he could no longer brush the pastor’s concerns aside, “but I’m afraid I need you to answer my questions before I answer yours. If you cooperate, I will tell you what I can about the situation. If not, I won’t tell you anything. Are you ready to cooperate now?”
“You don’t seem to be leaving me much choice. Ask your questions.”
“Please describe Matthew Skefton for me, if you would,” Mihdí asked.
“Matthew is a very dedicated Christian,” the pastor stated. “I haven’t known him all that long, but he reads the Bible daily and works at applying its lessons to his life. There is nothing he wouldn’t do for Jesus. And there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for the sake of his church, either. I wish I had more parishioners who are so committed to what we’re trying to do at Faith Tabernacle.”
“And what are you trying to do, exactly?”
“We’re carrying out the Great Commission, Mr. Montgomery.”
“As in, ‘Go therefore and make disciples of all nations . . .’?”
“I teach the King James version,” the minister said, “‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost . . .’”
“Same thing,” Mihdí ventured. “One translation
is as good as another.”
“No, they’re not as good,” the pastor replied. “God inspired the translators of the King James Version, and that is why it has endured for so many years while the others pass in and out of favor.”
“If Matthew felt it was God’s will that he kill someone, do you think he would do it?” Mihdí asked.
“Of course not,” the minister replied. “God said, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ That’s a commandment, not a suggestion.”
“So you do not believe in war or capital punishment, then?”
“Don’t play games with me, Detective,” the minister snapped. “Ask your questions and tell me what’s going on.”
“You’re right,” Mihdí said. “I apologize. That was out of line. How long has Matthew been a part of your church?”
Crestwood paused for a few moments. “Well, let’s see. He came to me maybe four or five months ago. He had gotten into a little bit of trouble, and they had suggested that he might want to find a church.”
“They?” Mihdí questioned. “A judge suggested he find a church?”
“Oh, no,” the pastor replied. “Matthew never went to court. It was just a matter of tagging—you know, like graffiti—on a building. He got caught in the act. His case was diverted to the Victim-Offender Reconciliation Program. A mediator worked with him and the victim to try to reconcile them without Matthew having to get a criminal record. Matthew has told me this story a few times, so I know the details. He had to clean off the graffiti as well as he could, then repaint that side of the building. Oh, and apologize, of course.”
“I’m aware of VORP’s work through my wife,” Mihdí said. “Was that in Romeoville?”
“No, I believe it was in Joliet. But since Matthew is from this area, I believe he worked with a VORP representative from Pine Bluff. It was actually a young rabbi from there. I can’t remember his name, but I met him at the time.”
“Jacob Klemme, by any chance?” asked Mihdí.
“That’s the one,” Rev. Crestwood confirmed. “Do you know him?”
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