Love Me or Else

by Colin McEvoy

  The church had been without a full-time pastor for about two years, and it was taking its toll on the congregation. The church council’s search committee felt Shreaves was just what they were seeking: an energetic, outgoing person who would reach out to the community and engage his congregation.

  Shreaves sat through several interviews with the council and preached at a few services. By the end of the month, before he was even officially ordained, he was accepting the job.

  Now, three years later, Shreaves was in the room he had been staying in throughout the conference, when someone knocked on the door. He was told he had a call from Jim Nilsen, a past council president from Trinity Evangelical. Shreaves was surprised. Malvern was a good hour and a half away from the church. What could Nilsen need that Shreaves would be able to help him with from out here?

  “You need to talk to the state police right away,” Nilsen said. “This police officer is going to be calling you.” Shreaves hung up the phone to wait for the call, so startled he hadn’t even thought to ask what the problem was. Could it be a fire? he thought to himself.

  A few long minutes later, he got the call from the state police. As Shreaves listened to the news, his stomach sank. He realized the quiet life he envisioned for himself at his small parish had just been forever altered.

  Oh my gosh, he thought. My whole life’s never going to be the same after this.

  * * *

  Trooper Stumpo arrived at St. Luke’s Hospital shortly before 2 p.m. Inside the trauma center he found Trooper Shawn Smith, another Dublin officer, holding two brown paper bags. Inside were the blood-stained clothes Rhonda Smith had been wearing when she was shot, the garments ragged from being cut off her body. The two troopers looked through the bags for any evidence besides the clothes themselves, but found nothing unusual. Smith summarized what the police knew so far and told him Rhonda was still alive, on life support, but that it was not looking good.

  “You know, I guess if you don’t solve one of these in forty-eight hours, it makes it more difficult,” Smith said.

  Stumpo grimaced. “Shawn, I don’t need to hear that right now.”

  After bringing the clothes out to Stumpo’s trunk, Smith led Stumpo into a private room inside the hospital, where Jim and Dorothy Smith sat talking to one of the hospital’s social workers, Linda Watsula. They looked up from their conversation, both with tears in their eyes behind their glasses. Both appeared to be in their seventies, Jim balding with a white beard and mustache, and Dorothy with blonde curly hair. With his weathered brow, tense shoulders, and head slumped slightly forward, Jim looked as if he had a heavy weight on his shoulders.

  Jim and Dorothy’s eyes turned immediately to Trooper Smith, the only one of the pair in a state trooper’s uniform. Stumpo, in his suit, took the opportunity to slide into a seat in the corner where he could observe for a bit.

  Jim read the uniformed trooper’s name tag and felt a small sense of comfort. A fellow Smith, he thought.

  Trooper Smith asked the Smiths to run down their day so far. Jim said Rhonda had called around 8:15 that morning. He asked how she was, and she responded that she was “Up and at ’em.” This was a sign, Jim explained, that she was in a good mood. Whenever she was feeling depressed, she simply said, “I’m up.”

  Trooper Smith asked if Rhonda felt depressed often. Jim explained that Rhonda was bipolar, and had to take a number of medications to treat her disorder. Just last night, Jim said, Rhonda had been feeling down. She had come to the Smiths’ house for dinner and to use their computer because she didn’t have the Internet at her apartment. Jim said she sometimes e-mailed Pastor Shreaves, who had been helping her with some of her problems.

  Everything seemed perfectly normal when they talked to Rhonda this morning, Jim said. She had asked if her parents could do her laundry for her, and they agreed. After Rhonda left for work, the Smiths took the five-minute drive to her apartment in Hellertown to get her clothes, which they took to a nearby laundromat.

  After returning Rhonda’s clothes to her apartment, Jim said he and Dorothy drove to Quakertown for lunch. They passed the church a little before 12:30 p.m. and saw Rhonda’s car was still there. It was the only one in the lot, Jim said. They discussed stopping to take her to lunch, but decided against it.

  Passing the church wasn’t the most direct route to Quakertown, but Jim said he took the long way because he liked to eat after 1 o’clock, when most of the crowds were gone. They were going to go to Applebee’s, but found it too crowded and decided to go to Red Robin instead. They took the direct way home on Route 309, so they didn’t pass the church on their way back.

  Stumpo watched the couple as they talked to Trooper Smith. He noticed that Jim appeared to be doing most of the talking, with Dorothy doing little more than nodding or correcting her husband on a few minor details every once in a while. The two were obviously distraught, but Rhonda was still alive, and Stumpo sensed they were still clinging to some hope, however faint, that their daughter might pull through this. He felt sympathy for them, but knew the questioning had to continue. Stumpo asked whether Rhonda was married or had a boyfriend.

  Jim turned his head toward him and with a quizzical expression, asked, “Who are you?”

  Stumpo suppressed a smile, amused by the man’s candor. Stumpo introduced himself as a state trooper, and Jim told him Rhonda had been dating a man she met online from Philadelphia named Ray Finkel, but that he stopped calling a few weeks ago. She didn’t have a boyfriend now, but had planned to go on a date tonight with a man named Greg, who she met at the Lehigh Valley Hospital Bipolar Support Group. She had also been going to a support group at Unity House, a center for people with mental disabilities, in Bethlehem.

  Stumpo braced himself for the next question. “Did Rhonda own a gun?” Jim immediately shook his head no, she didn’t. About five years ago, during one of her darker moments, Rhonda had once thought about shooting herself at a firing range, Jim said. But she decided it was too loud there, and she left. In June 2007, she talked about doing it again, and she was hospitalized. Rhonda had been in and out of hospitals in the past because of her bipolar problems, Jim said.

  Stumpo asked if he could come by the house some time later and take their computer so the police could look through the e-mail messages for anything useful. Jim and Dorothy nodded. Stumpo thought it would also provide him another opportunity to continue talking with the Smiths about Rhonda, under calmer circumstances.

  Jim walked a step closer to Trooper Smith and said, “I don’t want them to find a gun.”

  Trooper Smith and Stumpo looked at each other. What could he possibly mean? Stumpo thought.

  “But you know what I mean, right?” Jim added. “I want them to find a gun. Later. But not in the church. I don’t want a gun found down there in that church, but I want a gun found.”

  Stumpo now understood: Jim didn’t want a gun found at the church because that would mean Rhonda killed herself, and he couldn’t stand the thought of his daughter committing suicide.

  Jim leaned in a little closer to Trooper Smith and added, almost whispering, “And I also believe in the death penalty.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Stumpo headed over to the church to share what he learned from the Smiths with the investigators. There was Rhonda’s bipolar disease—definitely something to check into—and the fact she used Internet dating sites. There was also Jim’s unusual statement to Trooper Smith. From the way he insisted he didn’t want a gun found at the church, Jim seemed desperate to believe his daughter’s death wasn’t a suicide. Rhonda was a fighter, Jim had said. He was proud of her, and Stumpo could tell he would be bitterly disappointed if she gave up on life that way.

  Police cars were still scattered throughout the church parking lot when Stumpo pulled in, but troopers had concluded the first part of their investigation and found nobody else inside, and no gun. Police dogs were going to be brought in for a more thorough search, and the forensic investigators still had many hours
of work ahead of them. The Springfield Elementary School, located just a half mile away on Route 212, was in lockdown mode in response to the shooting. It would remain in lockdown for the next several days.

  Outside the church, Stumpo met with Dublin station commander Sergeant Ed Murphy; Stumpo’s department supervisor, Corporal Paul Romanic; Corporal Ron Garza, a crime scene supervisor from the Bethlehem barracks; and a couple other supervisors who were at the church. Trooper Gregg Dietz, who worked with Stumpo in the Dublin barracks’ crime investigation unit, reported he spoke with a man named Richard Hari, who lived directly across from the church and maintained an old schoolhouse building on his property. Hari, who wasn’t an active member with the church but knew a lot of the congregants, told Dietz there were no school bus stops in the general area, but that garbage was collected between nine and eleven on Wednesday mornings. Hari did not see anything unusual or hear any gunshots that morning.

  As Stumpo relayed his interview with the Smiths to his supervisors, they were especially interested to learn the Smiths had driven by the church that day. Jim’s explanation about wanting to get to Quakertown after the lunch crowds made sense to Stumpo, but he admitted Jim’s cryptic statement to Trooper Smith at the end of their interview raised some questions.

  After some discussion, a theory developed: Was it possible that Rhonda committed suicide and that her parents stopped at the church on their way to lunch and found their daughter dead? Horrified by the thought of their daughter killing herself, especially in a church, could they have removed the gun to make it look like it wasn’t a suicide?

  Stumpo didn’t think Rhonda had killed herself, and the absence of a gun certainly pointed to homicide in his mind. But he also knew this early in an investigation that it would be foolish to rule anything out. And there was Rhonda’s history of depression to take into consideration, along with the fact that she had contemplated suicide in the past. His supervisors decided he should talk to the Smiths again and ask them more about their drive past the church earlier that day.

  Stumpo and Garza returned to the hospital to talk to the Smiths. Stumpo was pleased to find Dorothy Smith standing alone outside Rhonda’s room. He remembered how quiet Dorothy stayed during their earlier discussion, how she timidly stood back and let her husband do all the talking. If they were lying about not stopping, Stumpo knew it would be easier to break Dorothy than Jim.

  After exchanging a few polite pleasantries, Stumpo delicately asked, “Mrs. Smith, are you sure you guys didn’t stop at the church? During traumatic experiences like this, your mind can forget things.”

  Dorothy shook her head no. “No, no, no, we just went by,” she insisted and began to tell the story again of their trip to Quakertown. Within moments, Jim Smith exited the bathroom and walked over to his wife’s side. Stumpo asked him the same question, and he, too, insisted they did not stop at the church. Their stories were consistent with their previous recollections of their drive to and from lunch.

  Stumpo had interviewed a lot of people during his almost two decades of police work. More often than not, he could tell when someone was lying, and he knew the Smiths were not. Looking into their eyes, he saw no signs of dishonesty. He saw only the pained expressions of two people who were losing their baby daughter.

  * * *

  Judy Zellner and her husband Les came straight to St. Luke’s Hospital as soon as police allowed them to leave the church. The Smiths were waiting in a small room with their son Perry; their nineteen-year-old granddaughter Amber; Pastor Shreaves, just returned from Malvern; and Serena Sellers, a pastor from the bishop’s office. They all looked distraught, especially Amber, who Judy knew was so close to Rhonda she was more than just a niece—she was practically her little sister.

  After a few minutes, Dr. Marc Portner came out and gave them the news they’d been dreading. Rhonda was brain dead, he said. You may notice her body twitching, he said, but that’s only because it hasn’t gotten the full message from her brain. The doctors were keeping Rhonda on life support for the possibility the family might consider donating some of her organs.

  Jim could still barely comprehend the news. But when the doctor asked about the organs, he lifted his chin and nodded with conviction. “I think that’s the thing to do because that keeps Rhonda alive. Part of her is still alive.”

  And then, almost as if saying those words made him realize it was real, Jim recognized he had to let his daughter go. She would have to be taken off life support. He turned to Shreaves and said, “I hope this is the right thing I’m doing.” The pastor nodded.

  Jim and Dorothy started filling out the organ donation paperwork, but were interrupted by word that they wouldn’t be permitted to donate Rhonda’s organs because her body needed to remain intact for an autopsy the next day. They needed all her organs to prove she died of a gunshot wound, which would be relevant in a homicide case, the Smiths were told. The Smiths could still donate Rhonda’s corneas and portions of her skin, if they wanted.

  Jim couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He had no intention of doing anything to harm the investigation, but his daughter had been taken away from him, and now the one chance for part of her to live on had been taken away as well. With no other option, they sadly agreed to the cornea and skin donation.

  And with that, there was nothing else to do but say good-bye. The Smiths, Perry, Amber, Judy, Les, Shreaves, and Pastor Sellers entered Rhonda’s room. Her head was wrapped with bandages and her right eye was red and swollen. Her tongue protruded from her mouth. (The unnerving sight would keep Amber from sleeping that night.)

  It was a far cry from the Rhonda Smith they had all known and loved. The tall brunette had always had such an approachable quality about her, with her kind green eyes and a warm smile that always lit up her friendly face.

  The group fanned out into a semicircle around Rhonda’s bed and grasped hands. Pastor Sellers led the group in prayer. Jim felt the need to say something, but the only thought that came to his mind was an old gospel song his deeply religious mother used to sing.

  “Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home,” he said.

  * * *

  Stumpo and Garza were on their way out of the hospital when they passed a man wearing a clerical collar. They glanced at one another wearing the same quizzical expressions. “You think this is the pastor?” Stumpo asked. Garza shrugged, and the two troopers doubled back.

  “Excuse me, Pastor Shreaves?” Stumpo called out. The man turned and nodded. Stumpo identified himself and asked, “Do you have a minute?”

  Shreaves agreed to be interviewed and the two investigators began asking him about his history with the church and his involvement with Rhonda. The pastor really hadn’t known Rhonda all that well, certainly no more than any given parishoner in the church. He couldn’t even remember when Rhonda first came to the church. However, Rhonda had come to him for counseling and advice on two or three occasions, and told him about a past relationship that included abuse and ended with Rhonda having an abortion. There had been a more recent boyfriend, the pastor said, a man from northeast Philadelphia who Rhonda met on the Internet. But the relationship had fizzled out when he no longer wanted to continue a long-distance relationship, Shreaves said.

  Rhonda also had mentioned that she was dating a married man, Shreaves said, but never revealed his identity.

  A lot of things to check into, Stumpo thought. The trooper noticed that Shreaves seemed a bit nervous: stuttering, his eyes darting back and forth, not making eye contact. It was a difficult situation, of course, as it would be for anybody.

  Shreaves seemed like a nice guy to Stumpo, and he appeared to have been doing his part to help Rhonda during difficult times. But at this point, Stumpo couldn’t tell if the nervousness was just part of the man’s personality, or something more.

  “Are there any guns in the church?” Stumpo asked.

  Shreaves said he knew the church inside and out, and there weren’t any.

  CHAPTER 6

>   Steve Wysocki was still working at Haycock Elementary School when he got the news. The forty-five-year-old second-grade teacher had worked for the Quakertown Community School District for twenty-five years now, and had been Trinity Evangelical Lutheran Church’s choir director and organist for about twelve years. The weekly choir practice was scheduled for later that day, and Steve planned to head straight to the church to start getting ready once his workday was over.

  But then his wife called him with some horrible news: There had been a shooting inside the church, and Rhonda Smith was dead.

  The news shook Steve to the core. He could hardly believe that something like this could happen in his own church. But he had to put that shock aside, at least for the moment. Under the circumstances, there was no way that night’s choir practice could continue, and he had to let the choir members know what had happened.

  Steve and his wife, Debbie, spent the hour between five and six o’clock calling each of the choir members to tell them the bad news and let them know the rehearsal had been canceled. Steve didn’t relish the duty and, indeed, everybody he called was either horrified, in disbelief, or both. By now, some church members already knew something had happened, but they were not sure exactly what or to whom. Some falsely believed it was the new secretary, Megan, who had been shot, but by the evening word of what actually happened was starting to reach much of the congregation.

  With his calls nearly complete, Steve dialed the number of Mary Jane Fonder who, at sixty-five years old, was one of the long-time congregants at the church.

  Steve saved her for last among his calls, in part because Debbie had told him that Mary Jane called the previous week and left a message claiming she was quitting the choir for a while. Something seemed to have made Mary Jane upset, Debbie had told him, although it was unclear to them whether it was related to the church or something else altogether. Steve hoped to talk to her about this and find out what was on her mind.