Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  But oh, my goodness, the books!

  Dr. May’s secretary invited us to sit and wait for Dr. May, who would join us shortly. I could tell Jazz was impressed.

  “Nice digs.”

  “If I ever marry, I’m going to spend my honeymoon here.”

  “Where’s the bed?”

  “Don’t start no stuff…”

  “And it won’t be none. Thank you, Great-Grandmother Brown. Hey, tell her to make you stop saying provocative things to me.”

  Just then my spiritual papa walked into the room.

  “Provocative?” Dr. May’s deep baritone voice thundered. The sound cheered me. “Little Bella, are you leading this nice young man into temptation?”

  Jazz laughed. “Since the first moment I saw her, sir.”

  Pop laughed, a big booming sound.

  I love that guy. He is a tall and sun-loved brown man, with springy white hair and compassionate eyes as black as crows. He could be a black angel. He’s got a brilliant, theological mind to boot.

  “He’s not nice, Pop. He’s…”

  “I can see what he is. I’m almost seventy years old. I see stuff folks don’t think I see. Stuff folks don’t even know is there sometimes.”

  Jazz extended his hand to shake it. “I’m Jazz Brown, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Mason gave his hand a vigorous shake. “The pleasure is mine, son. So, you’re the one.”

  “The one, sir?”

  “You be good to her. I’ve got a gun and a good eye.”

  I had to stop him before he incriminated himself, or me, any further. “I hope you’ve got a permit for that gun, Pop. Jazz is a detective. He’s not ‘the one.’ Whatever that is. He wants to ask you about a case he’s working on.”

  “Oh, he’s the one, all right, and I do have a permit. I guess God hasn’t let the two of you in on what He’s doing yet.” He walked around the desk and sat in the big leather chair. “Have a seat, and tell me about this case.”

  Jazz and I sat in the red chairs.

  Pop looked at me and chuckled. “Honeymoon in my office. Lord, have mercy. You’re gonna have your hands full with this one, Detective Brown.”

  “I’m starting to believe I will,” Jazz said.

  “You don’t understand, Papa. We just met yesterday. We’re not…”

  “No you don’t understand, pumpkin.” He directed his attention to Jazz. “How can I help you?”

  “Bell,” Jazz said, sneaking a look at me, probably because he was unlawfully using my middle name, “said she investigated someone for you years ago. The house is on the east side of Detroit.”

  “East side. Round about where the Hare Krishna temple is? I’ve got a big file on them.”

  “No sir. It’s a private residence near Seven Mile and Dequindre. The parents of Jonathan Vogel own it. He and his roommate, Damon Crawford, were found dead last night.”

  “Jonathan Vogel.” Pop’s hand went to his forehead. “Dear God. His father, Jonathan Vogel Senior, went to church with me years ago. He asked me to get some information on the man who was influencing his son. Ended up leaving the church, his heart was so broken.” Dr. May shook his head, his eyes revealing sadness. “And now his boy is dead. Merciful Jesus.”

  “So you remember, Pop?”

  He slowly nodded. He turned his gaze to Jazz. “Okay, young man. You’re a detective. What’s the first thing you ask yourself when you get to a scene?”

  I was horrified. He’s going to test Jazz like he’s his professor?

  Jazz seemed a little taken aback. “Uh. The first thing I ask myself is, How did it happen? The crime scene usually tells me that.”

  “What did the scene tell you?”

  Jazz leaned closer to Mason. “No sign of forced entry into the house. Two bodies: Vogel and Crawford. Both young. Thin but healthy. One on the couch. One on the floor. Bodies indicate death by strychnine poisoning, but there’s none in the house. We did find a Bible and a few notebooks full of references to ‘Father.’ But it’s not the Father God of the Holy Trinity.” He made the sign of the cross.

  Mason May leaned back in his chair, his expression serious and thoughtful. “What’s the next question you ask yourself, son?”

  “I ask why someone would kill them. If the good Lord is with me, the answer to that question will lead me to who did it, and that’s why we’re here.”

  “So how can I help you?”

  “Tell me about cults. I don’t know this kind of killer.”

  “Tell him about cults, Bell.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Cults, pumpkin.”

  “Oh.” I turned to Jazz, snapping out of my reverie. “‘Cult’ is a loaded word. It means different things to different people.” I had to make myself focus. I’d been engrossed in trying to figure out what Pop meant about Jazz being “the one.”

  “How so?” Jazz asked.

  It’s really hard to pay attention to someone when you look at his face and start thinking about how his lips feel. “I mean what you call a ‘cult,’ someone else may call their ‘religion’ or their ‘family.’”

  “So how do you know what a cult is?”

  “For practical purposes, let’s begin by saying that a cult is an organization with some common goals and objectives. They can be large or small, and believe me, small can be just as destructive as large. Sometimes small cults are worse than large ones. And they’re not always religious.”

  “Go on.” He smiled at me like he was enjoying seeing me do my thing. He leaned in my direction.

  An unfortunate hormonal surge slanted me Jazzward. “The organization centers around a charismatic leader, and when I say ‘charismatic’ I don’t necessarily mean they speak in tongues and shout.”

  He looked a little uncomfortable when I mentioned speaking in tongues. “I get it,” he said, with a curt edge in his voice. “So the people are into the leader. How is this different from any other religious organization? Your own church, even?”

  I chuckled to think of my own pastor, Rocky. He was the antithesis of a cult leader, but I went on. “The leader usually claims to have access to something the group finds desirable.”

  “What religion doesn’t?”

  “They usually boast of special knowledge or revelation—some more special than others. It could be anything. The leader could promise to lead you to outer space where your soul will find peace and you’ll live forever.”

  “And people buy it?”

  “Yes. There are thousands of these groups in the United States alone.”

  Mason jumped in. “The problem with these aberrant groups is that they yield to only one authority—their leader.”

  “The dependence is pathological, baby,” I said to Jazz. “Cults are totalitarian. What the leader says goes. For the most part, ‘do as he says and not as he does’ is the rule. You aren’t allowed to ask questions. Eventually the leader is deified.”

  “You called me baby,” Jazz said.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. Didn’t she, Dr. May?”

  “You did, pumpkin. Now finish telling your baby about cults.”

  I cleared my throat and proceeded as if I had not made a colossal Freudian slip. “What was I saying?” I asked, cheeks burning.

  “You said, ‘The dependence is pathological, baaaybeeee.’”

  I glared at Jazz.

  He got serious. “How do regular people become dependent on a cult leader?”

  “Gradually. You’re aware of battered woman’s syndrome, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “How does an ordinary woman become a battered woman?”

  “Her abuser isolates her from her friends and family. She trusts him but doubts herself. I’ve seen all kinds of psychological terrorism in those situations.”

  “Not just psychological. Batterers control everything: the money, the time, even her thoughts. Eventually, he ravishes any authentic sense of self she has. What’s left is what
the leader dictates.”

  Jazz seemed to ponder what I said.

  “Think about the crime scene. It was totally different from when I was there years ago. Everything was stripped away, as if the house mirrored the mind-set of the victims. Empty.”

  The three of us grew quiet for a few moments. Jazz broke the silence. “Who is this Gabriel?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Gabriel is totally unfamiliar to me.”

  Pop agreed. “Jonathan Vogel was under the leadership of a man named Michael.”

  “That’s right,” I said. It all came rushing back to my memory. “I remember him now. Michael Wright. He was a piece of work.” A thought came to me, and I posed the question to Dr. May. “Could Jonathan have broken camp with Wright and gotten involved with another group?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Pop said, running his hand through his fuzzy hair. “That kind of loyalty runs deep. I think if he were no longer involved with Wright, he’d stay clear of that type of group, period. Of course, it would depend on why they parted ways.”

  “Could Wright have changed his name?” Jazz asked.

  Pop paused before answering. “That’s possible, too. It’s not much different from Saul in the Book of Acts changing his name to Paul after he’d encountered Christ on the road to Damascus. Wright may have believed that he’d progressed to another level spiritually. He could have changed his name to reflect his new identity.”

  “Lord, have mercy,” I said, alarmed.

  “What is it?” Jazz’s eyes were full of concern.

  “Michael Wright was obsessed with the number seven. He kept his group limited to seven adults.”

  Jazz chimed in. “Isn’t that unusual? I thought cult leaders liked a large group of followers. I’m thinking of somebody like Jim Jones.”

  “Jim Jones liked hundreds of followers, but remember what I said about how some cults are small. Michael Wright could have many reasons for a small group. It all depends on what he wants. It could be he’s too paranoid to let a lot of people in—not enough control. Big numbers weren’t his thing before—and they still might not be.

  “When I investigated, the group consisted of Wright, two men—one of them had to be Vogel—and four women. He excluded children in the count. If the two men are dead…”

  Jazz finished the chilling thought, “Where are Wright and the women and children?”

  “If we’re dealing with Wright at all,” Pop said.

  Jazz moved to the edge of his chair to get closer to Mason’s desk. “Dr. May, tell me your impression of Vogel Senior.”

  Mason ran a hand over his soft white hair. “He seemed to love his family. They came to church regularly, but he worked a lot.”

  “Would you say he was a workaholic?”

  “I think I would have said that years ago. But a few years after his son got involved with Wright, the man seemed to be a mere shell of his former self. He took sick after that. Never did get better.”

  “How did Jonathan get involved with Wright?”

  “I don’t think the circumstances were unusual. Wright simply gave Jonathan what his own father didn’t: attention and, most likely, discipline.”

  “Do you think Vogel Senior is capable of murder?”

  Mason’s eyes registered surprise. “Is he capable of murder?”

  Jazz didn’t repeat himself. We waited in a pause that seemed pregnant with the mysteries of the human heart.

  Finally, Mason answered. “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: Who can know it?”

  Jazz nodded. “I appreciate your time and insight. Both of you.” He stood.

  Pop rose from his leather chair, walked over to Jazz, and shook his hand.

  “Let’s pray.”

  I took my place beside the men, and the three of us clasped hands. Mason May called a little bit of heaven down with his vibrant, powerful invocations. His prayers sounded as melodic as psalms, and I felt goose bumps as the music of them rose and fell over us like waves. He prayed for us to have wisdom and favor with God and man. He prayed for protection and justice. He prayed for guidance and for us to experience perfect love.

  When he finished, Papa embraced each of us, starting with me. “Godspeed, pumpkin. How does it feel to be thirty-five?”

  “It feels good. Thanks for the gift. Tell Mama Genevia to save me a sweet potato pie this Thanksgiving,” I said, squeezing him.

  “Tell her yourself. She’s expecting to see you before then.”

  He hugged Jazz next, with a manly slap on the back. Pop pulled away and looked at him, his expression somber. “God is not punishing you, Jazz.”

  Jazz opened his mouth as if he were going to speak but said nothing.

  “He knows the desire of your heart. He put it there. That one, too, son.”

  “Excuse me?” Jazz said.

  “You think what you asked for this morning is wrong.”

  Jazz looked surprised.

  “It’s not wrong to want to be loved.”

  Jazz stayed silent.

  “Live as if it were done, and do not sin. God will bless you. He will enlarge your tents, and your seed will be called the Lord’s own. It will surely come to pass.”

  He embraced Jazz again, and we said good-bye to Mason May.

  On the drive back to the Love Bug, Jazz spoke to me only once, to ask me where I’d like to eat lunch. I declined.

  We had just pulled up to the parking lot where I’d parked my car when I found the courage to ask about what had been bothering me since we left Mason’s office. “He spoke God’s heart to you, didn’t he?”

  “I’m not familiar with your Christian jargon. What are you asking me?”

  “You’re familiar with your Pentecostal mama. I think you know what I mean. Did he tell you something that only God could have revealed to him?”

  “What he did was scare me.”

  “He said your seed would be blessed.”

  “I don’t have kids, if that’s what you’re getting at. Maybe he got his wires crossed.”

  “Not Mason May.”

  “I thought you wanted to keep things professional,” he said. His posture was rigid.

  “I do.”

  “Let’s stick to that.”

  “Just one more thing.”

  He sighed. “The last time you wanted to play Columbo, you tossed your cookies on my gators. You sure you wanna try that again?”

  “It worked for Peter Falk. He did those Columbo movie specials until he was three hundred years old.”

  Jazz chuckled. “Yeah. I think I saw one a few months ago.” His expression turned grim. “What difference does it make? I can’t offer you what you want.”

  “How do you know what I want?”

  “I have to understand human behavior for a living, too.”

  “Tell me what the deal is with you, Jazz.”

  “It’s like you said at your apartment. I’m not available, Amanda.”

  It actually hurt to hear him say my name. I should have left but I didn’t. “I’m Amanda now?”

  “You asked me not to call you Bell.”

  “But you kept on. Why stop now?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything from you, Jazz.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said, softly.

  He frustrated me. I didn’t respond softly. “Of course I do. You picked me up and carried me up three flights of stairs. Don’t you think you led me on a bit?”

  “I wasn’t trying to lead you on.”

  “You literally swept me off my feet.”

  “Okay, so I started something. I’m attracted to you. I kissed you—no, I responded to you kissing me. I flirted a little. I smelled vanilla and sweet amber on your skin, which, by the way, I’ll never forget. Forgive me for being a man.”

  “Consider yourself forgiven, and consider me out of here.”

  “Don’t go yet.”

  “And I’m staying for what?” Jazz didn’t say anything
. I started humming and tapping my foot. “I’m waiting, and you are staring at the windshield. Why have you asked me to stay?”

  “You’re mad at me.”

  “I don’t have any reason to be mad at you.”

  He turned and grinned, wagging his finger at me. “Very good way to avoid telling me that yes, you’re mad.”

  “Why should I be mad at you?”

  “Do you do that to your clients?”

  Of course I did. If he wanted to play verbal gymnastics, I’d beat him like a slave. “That doesn’t answer the question,” I said.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes. I do that to my patients.”

  He frowned. “That wasn’t the question I wanted an answer to.”

  “You didn’t ask me a question. You made a statement regarding my emotional state, which I responded to with a statement of my own. Now,” I said, “answer my question.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t even remember your question. You confuse me, woman.”

  “I asked, ‘Why should I be mad at you?’”

  He turned his gaze back to the windshield and waited a few moments before answering. “Okay. We could talk about last night and about how I responded to you, and you to me, but you already know all that. I think you’re mad because you want more. I want more, too, but I can’t give it to you.”

  “Jazz, I’m not mad. I’m disappointed. Maybe a little exasperated. But I’m not going to pressure you. You’ve made yourself clear. You’re unavailable. Good-bye.”

  He grabbed my hand. “Wait.”

  “What now?”

  We sat there, staring at each other while Jazz cradled my hand. He sighed. “Would a general ‘I don’t want you to go yet’ make you stay a little longer?”

  “No.”

  “Sit here with me for a little while.”

  “Why are you unavailable, Jazz?”

  “Can we just hang out without you asking that?”

  “No, we can’t. I deserve to know why. At least, if you want to keep hanging out and holding my hand, I do.”