Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “No one doubts that I’m black, Jazz.”

  “You don’t think you’re tall enough or dark enough, do you? You want to be a statuesque ebony queen, but you’re a sixteen-ounce jar of Jif.”

  “I’m golden bronze, and make that a ten-ounce jar. Besides, choosy moms choose Jif.”

  “My mom chose you,” he said.

  “Can I finish the story?”

  “If you must.” He stretched, shifted his weight, and made himself a little more comfortable.

  “Nemesis punished Narcissus for the death of Echo by making him fall in love with himself.”

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Then he pined away for himself and turned into a flower.”

  Jazz frowned. “The ending is a little anticlimactic.”

  “Yes, but my point is this: Narcissus was into himself.”

  “Can you put that into more clinical terms, Dr. Brown?”

  “Oh, I’m Dr. Brown now?”

  “Hey, I’m trying to get my flesh under control here. Work with me.”

  “Move your arm then.” I willed my voice to sound steely.

  He slid his arm back to his side and shifted away from me.

  I continued. “Here is the narcissist in a nutshell: inflated sense of self, lack of empathy, and grandiose ideals, including thoughts that they are above the laws of God and man.”

  “Sounds more like a nutjob than a nutshell.”

  “Michael Wright was a nutjob, all right. If I remember correctly, he also had this whole apocalyptic thing going on. He believed he was chosen to lead his people to the new world.”

  “You think Michael Wright is his real name?”

  “Could be. I’m certain he was self-absorbed enough to use his real name, but I also got a sense that he was paranoid. Let’s look at the name, Michael Wright.”

  Jazz stood and walked to my door. “Wright is pretty easy; drop the W and the man thinks he’s a god.”

  “Exactly,” I said, stretching my legs out. “In the Bible, Michael is the archangel of God for Israel in the last days. I think Wright believed he would lead his little tribe to God.”

  “So why would he be Gabriel now?”

  “Gabriel is God’s messenger. He interpreted visions for Daniel and Jeremiah. He was also the angel of the Annunciation. My guess is he changed his name to express what he felt was his growth. No longer just a deliverer, he may believe he speaks directly for God. Of course, according to Vogel’s notebooks, Gabriel’s people call him Father. He probably thinks he is God, or at least God’s equal.”

  Jazz unchained the door and opened it. A delivery man stood there, looking baffled.

  “Oh, uh. I didn’t even knock,” the deliveryman said.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Twenty-five even.”

  He paid the man thirty-five dollars and watched him leave before he closed the door. “Always tip and intimidate.”

  “Why do I have to intimidate delivery people?”

  “Because you don’t know which ones are sociopaths. I don’t recommend the bean pod for letting people know you mean business.”

  “Leave my bean pod out of this.”

  He took the food to the dinette. My nose and tummy compelled me to meet him there.

  He went into the kitchen, and I could hear him opening and closing cabinets. I peeked into the kitchen and watched him for a moment. He sure was a lot of man for my little apartment, and I wondered how long I’d be able to contain him.

  I rushed back to the table and sat before he came back.

  He returned carrying plates. “You checking me out again, Bella?”

  “How do you do that? You know when the food is here before the poor guy can knock; you know I’m looking at you when you’re not supposed to know. What are you, the psychic detective?”

  “You’ll find that I’m very perceptive, but it helps that you’re so completely obvious.”

  “Shut up and eat,” I said. “Then go home.”

  “I will, after the locksmith comes. You may not be safe.”

  Was he kidding? It wasn’t the rapists I was worried about.

  And the locksmith never showed up.

  Chapter

  Nineteen

  I WOKE UP THINKING , Thank God it’s Sunday. Rocky wouldn’t have to worry about my attendance today. I planned to beat a path to God’s house. I almost wished I went to a good, old-fashioned Pentecostal church instead of the Rock House. I’d rush the sanctuary in one of my dainty Sunday suits, looking all prim and proper, and yet be allowed to wallow at the altar like the biggest sinner in town.

  Oh, God, deliver me from Jazz.

  Rocky doesn’t have emotional services. Church is simple; come as you are, worship, praise, hear the Word, and handle your business with God. No yelling, no running the aisles, no prostrate moaning and begging forgiveness. God is approachable at the Rock House, like a pal whom you can just chill out with. But the music—now, that’s special. It’s not called the Rock House for nothing, and frankly, I play a fierce tambourine. It’s not quite the same as crying out to God in the modern-church equivalent of sitting in sackcloth and ashes. But it’s home, and it would have to do.

  Before I went to service, I stopped at the staff house to check on Susan Hines. She sat in a wicker chair alone on the porch. When she saw me, she gave a subtle nod of her head in what I assumed was a greeting.

  “Good morning, Susan.”

  She didn’t speak.

  “It’s a beautiful day.”

  Duh. Like she couldn’t tell.

  “I hope you’ll join us at the worship service.”

  “I don’t think I should,” she said in almost a whisper.

  I tried to act like I wasn’t surprised she was capable of speaking. “Why not?”

  “I don’t remember Jesus.” She dropped her gaze.

  “He remembers you, Susan.”

  “I love him,” she said with the innocence of a child.

  “Jesus loves you, too.”

  She was quiet for a few moments. “I mean I love Father.”

  So much for my evangelism.

  “Why did you leave?” I asked, trying to keep any inflection out of my voice that might suggest judgment.

  “I didn’t want to leave. Father made me.”

  Now this was interesting. It put a whole different spin on matters. “Why did you come to the Rock House?”

  “What does it matter? Where do I go without Father’s love?”

  That didn’t sound good. It sounded worse than catatonic mutism, which she didn’t have. The girl had a serious Gabriel jones, and clearly was still grieving his loss. I had my work cut out for me. I figured I’d start with the basics. “Susan, who told you about the Rock House?”

  “Jonny. He said you would take care of me.”

  “Who is Jonny, Susan? Do you mean Jonathan Vogel?”

  She nodded.

  Okay. I wasn’t expecting that. How did Jonathan Vogel Junior know about our services for people fleeing cults? It’s a very informal setup. To my knowledge, most people believed we had stopped taking people in. I doubted if even Vogel Senior knew what we did. Why would Vogel Junior endorse us if he was devoted to Gabriel?

  Susan continued without me prompting her. “Jonny said he thought about coming here himself.”

  Did Vogel Senior know that? “Why didn’t he come?”

  “His father.”

  “Gabriel knew he wanted to leave?”

  “Jonny’s earth father knew.”

  If Vogel Senior knew his son had been considering leaving, why would he stop him? His son’s leaving would be the answer to his prayers. Maybe Jazz was right. If Vogel Senior needed to collect on the insurance policy, the logical solution would be to make Gabriel the fall guy. It was a good setup, but I still had my misgivings. I waited for Susan to say more, since I was not sure of where she was going with this.

  She nearly growled, “You’re better off dead. I should kill you myself.” Her vo
ice didn’t sound like her own. I didn’t know if her dissociation mimicked Gabriel or Vogel Senior. She grabbed me, her nails scratching my arm. Her voice was her own again. “You have to warn him. You have to tell him he’s coming to kill him.”

  “Who’s coming to kill who, Susan?”

  “You have to tell Father that he’s going to kill him.”

  “Who’s going to kill Father?”

  “Jonny’s father.”

  Then she shut me out again.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  I LED SUSAN INSIDE the house and into the sunny kitchen. I made chamomile tea for the two of us and sat with her. As we sipped the warm, calming tea, I pondered what to do with her.

  From our brief conversation, I could see Susan’s condition improving—she’d even touched me. From what Rocky said about her habits, she posed no obvious threat to herself or anyone else. And I’d finally made some progress. I wanted her to feel a little more comfortable with me, and then I would see if she got better or worse. According to Rocky, she’d been calm and quiet at the house. She showered, dressed herself, ate, and used the bathroom without incident. She just wouldn’t talk to anyone.

  On the other hand, the things she said troubled me. She seemed desperate, and that, in my mind, made her unpredictable. I knew I had to get her talking a lot more if I was even to begin to help her. I felt like I was flying blind, and still, so much depended on what she could tell us. People’s lives were possibly at stake. I had to tread very carefully.

  At the Rock House we give the few who come to us from cults plenty of time to reflect and regroup. We offer prayer, support , Bible study, and counseling—both group and individual. It’s nothing like the deprogramming techniques that gained popularity in the seventies. We don’t kidnap people, deprive them of sleep, or batter them with the Bible until they finally surrender. If safety, love, prayer, the Word of God, and absolute support don’t help them, they don’t want to be helped. At the Rock House, you have to want it. We don’t force anyone to come or stay. God doesn’t trample on free will, so neither do we.

  I continued to reflect on the things Susan had told me, convinced that the voice she imitated belonged to Vogel Senior. You’re better off dead. I should kill you myself. The words bounced like a rubber ball inside my brain. How could a father think such a thing?

  How could a mother?

  I said something about my family. He told me I had no family. “I am your father, your mother, your husband. I am your God.” He slapped me soundly on the mouth. “Do you understand that?”

  I nodded, feeling my lip swell, tasting blood I didn’t dare spit out.

  He’d gotten the idea to slap our mouths out of a book—a book written by a black Muslim woman. She touted her book as a guide to understanding the black woman. If your woman says something wrong, the sister advised, slap her soundly on the mouth.

  I remember how my eyes burned with tears when he read that to us.

  I wished I wasn’t pregnant. I closed my eyes and clasped my shaking hands together, remembering Jesus. The loving, gentle Savior. Not Adam’s distorted view of Yahweh with harsh vengeance—a mirror image of himself. I remembered the God-man who said, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I shall give you rest.”

  Jesus, I prayed silently, don’t let me have this baby. If I have it, I’m going to stay here. It’s better off dead. If I had the nerve, I’d kill it myself. I’m sorry about all this.

  Susan stared at me over her teacup. I realized I’d said “I’m sorry about all this” out loud.

  I left Susan at the staff house and tried to find some shelter for myself inside the church.

  The first two verses of the Ninety-first Psalm from The Message hummed in my weary soul:

  You who sit down in the High God’s presence,

  spend the night in Shaddai’s shadow,

  I will say this: “God, you’re my refuge.

  I trust in you, and I’m safe!”

  I’d missed most of the hour-long service. Rocky sat in the center of the stage strumming his guitar and calling the worshippers to prayer.

  I moved to the rear of the sanctuary. Rocky had set up something of a station there, complete with a seven-foot-tall wooden cross and a few folding chairs and floor pillows to lean on. The lighting back there is softer than in the rest of the sanctuary. The space is made for quiet reflection and doing some serious business with God. I found our single station of the cross empty and sat in one of the folding chairs, glad to be alone. It gave me the freedom to pray in a quiet voice.

  “Abba, my Daddy, God. I know I’ve asked You this before, but please forgive me for that terrible thought I had about my baby girl. Take care of her. I hope she’s happy in heaven with You. Kiss her for me, and tell her I’ll be there whenever You bring me home.”

  I grew quiet, closing my eyes.

  Sometimes I just don’t know what to pray, so I sit in God’s presence, speaking to God in sighs. He understands that language. I love the Lord for that.

  The worship music calmed me, and after a while I felt ready to talk to God about more practical matters. The rest of the congregation seemed to disappear, and I became engrossed in the presence of God.

  “Jesus, I’ve got this situational challenge. Susan told me some information that Jazz may need to know, but I don’t know if it’s reliable. In one way she’s getting better, talking and all, but in another she’s getting worse, and I’m asking You to help her and to help me know what to do for her. I’m also a little confused about what’s going on inside of me. Please reveal my motivations to me. This is all starting to feel personal. The flashbacks are upsetting me, Lord. Help me remember that this case isn’t about me and Adam.”

  I took a breath—just one more thing to talk to God about. I hesitated, even though I knew the Lord’s mercy endures forever. Best to dive right in: “And Lord, I’ve got this little lust problem, and I’m hoping You’ll help me. Actually, it’s a love-slash-lust combination, and that’s not good. Did You have to make Jazz so beautiful? How am I supposed to resist him? I hate to sit here in church talking about my baser instincts, but if I can’t tell You, who can I tell?”

  “You can tell me,” a male voice said.

  Uh-oh.

  Did you ever say one of those futile prayers that you know will not, no matter how strong your desire, be granted? At that moment I did. My silent prayer shot to heaven. Oh, God, please let that be an auditory hallucination.

  It wasn’t.

  I cautiously opened one eye and peeked at Jazz.

  “It’s me again,” he said, his grin melting me. “Long time no see.”

  I couldn’t look at his face. I zeroed in on the name tag affixed to his chocolate brown suit. He’d scrawled “JB” on the tag underneath “Hello my name is.”

  “Didn’t we spend enough time together last night?” I moaned.

  “Not enough for me,” Jazz said. “Looks like I missed most of the service. I expected you Pentecostals to meet for at least three hours.”

  “How much of my prayers did you hear?”

  “I heard that boring stuff, starting with Susan, who told you things that you should definitely tell me. Then things got really interesting.” He nudged me. “When this case is over, I’ll tell you about my prayers. They’re surprisingly similar.”

  I leaned over and told him in a stage whisper, “I don’t want to hear about your prayers. I don’t want to think about your prayers. I don’t even like my own prayers. Can’t you see that I’m struggling here?”

  “We’re struggling. Why do you think I’m here instead of at Mass?” He clasped my hand in his.

  “That’s against the rules.”

  “Going to church together?”

  “Touching. We’re in the house of God. Control yourself.” I snatched my hand away from him and stood to leave. Unfortunately, at the same time, Rocky had asked the visitors to stand.

  I heard Rocky laugh into the microphone. “I know
you’ve missed a few Sundays, but you don’t have to start all over.”

  Every eye in the building zoomed in on me, standing in front of the cross, with a mortified expression on my face. I grabbed Jazz as fast as I could. Fortunately, he took the hint and stood, facing what felt like our judges.

  “Uh,” he said. Either he wasn’t comfortable with public speaking, or he wasn’t comfortable at church. “You’re not going to pray for me, are you?” Jazz said.

  Rocky laughed. “Would that be a problem?”

  “Yes,” Jazz said, looking terrified.

  “We won’t do it to your face,” Rocky said. The congregation laughed, and I hoped that would put Jazz at ease.

  Rocky is kind. He didn’t ask Jazz any more questions, and I sat down to let Jazz know it was okay for him to sit, too. Rocky read a few announcements, then asked the congregation to stand so he could say the benediction.

  Jazz used the opportunity to grab my hand. I shot a hard look at him.

  Rocky’s voice urged us: “Be careful for nothing, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”

  Amen, I prayed silently, and I forgot to mention, thanks.

  “Amen,” Jazz said.

  For a long time he continued to hold my hand.

  Chapter

  Twenty-one

  WE COULDN’T HAVE LEFT the sanctuary faster if we’d been shot out of a gun. Jazz still looked spooked, and I allowed him to hold my hand while I led him to one of the Sunday school classrooms—which had emptied for junior church—where we could talk alone. The walls were decorated with a whimsical mural of Noah’s Ark—fat, smiling animals rendered in vivid primary colors. He sat on a yellow, plastic kid’s chair, and I watched him try to adjust those long legs to get comfortable—an impossible task—until he gave up and stretched them out before him, crossing his ankles. He also crossed his arms.

  “What’s the matter, Jazz?”