by Lee Strobel
“Yeah, he did.”
“You’re sure?”
“I know for a fact that he had pastoral counseling from the associate pastor of Diamond Point Fellowship — Art Bullock.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I
The auditorium of Diamond Point Fellowship was designed to resemble an upscale concert hall, with a neutral color scheme and 5,588 plush, theater–style seats, guaranteed by the manufacturer to remain comfortable for a minimum of three hours at a stretch. The supplier, who typically serviced opera houses and Broadway theaters, said the contours of the cushioning were intended to give a “subtle hugging sensation for the patron.”
They came with a premium price. At the time they were purchased, Eric Snow figured they were worth it.
The vast main floor, sloping gently toward the stage, was divided by four aisles and overhung by three balconies. At strategic locations around the periphery were inconspicuous slits, through which volunteers could peer undetected at the crowds to count any empty seats and thus compute a precise number of how many people were in attendance at every service and event.
The fully carpeted stage was immense — more than sixty feet wide by thirty feet deep — and was backed by dark brown curtains that stretched all the way to the industrial–chic ceiling, with its exposed beams, pipes, ductwork, catwalks, and bank upon bank of high–tech lights — hundreds of LED, moving, and conventional fixtures.
Enormous screens flanked the stage on each side; a third screen could be electrically lowered in front of the center curtain when needed. Their razor–sharp images would be the envy of any professional sports arena; in fact, their resolution is so detailed that some speakers would apply facial makeup to smooth out any blotches or blemishes before they took the platform.
The walls featured copious amounts of brushed aluminum and tinted glass. Although the windows were originally designed to overlook the surrounding bucolic farmlands, thanks to development over the years the view was now dominated by a nearby neighborhood of cookie–cutter tract houses. Expensive cookie–cutter tract houses.
On this Tuesday afternoon, with soothing natural light streaming through the windows and the undulating drone of a vacuum cleaner in the distance, the auditorium was vacant — except for two figures scurrying around the main floor.
Larry Butterman — always kinetic, constantly fretting about something, an inveterate planner — chattered away to Art Bullock as they moved around the auditorium: pointing here, gesturing there, pausing to imagine how the massive room could be properly staged for what could be one of its most challenging and unpredictable services ever.
As the technical director for Diamond Point’s services, Butterman oversaw sound, lighting, and the general setup of the auditorium. “I’m telling you, we need to figure this out now or else it’s going to be chaotic and frustrating for everybody,” he implored the now–acting senior pastor.
Aware that Butterman tended to exaggerate obstacles and difficulties, Art took the man’s concerns in stride. But he knew some advance planning needed to be done — and fast. The next Elders Prayer service was coming up Friday night, and if the church’s constantly lit switchboard and ever–buzzing website were any indication, there would be a capacity crowd.
Garry Strider’s article not only electrified the congregation, which previously had only heard vague rumors of some amazing occurrences at the two most recent prayer services, but it also captured the imagination of others throughout the Chicago area and beyond.
Calls came in from people all around the country — the blind, the deaf, the paralyzed, the bankrupt, the unemployed — who were planning to visit in their quest for a healing or some other divine intervention. The church’s communications director, Vicki Bauer, had been inundated by inquiries from the news media, wanting to know if they could capture the service on video.
“The issue is how we stage this thing,” Butterman was saying. “When the Elders Prayer service is held in the chapel, it’s informal and intimate, which is perfect for that kind of gathering. But in the big room here, we run the risk of it looking like a performance or a show. Speaking of which, are we going to let the media film it?”
“I’m leaning against it,” Art replied. “The whole vibe of the service should be personal; the cameras would be intrusive and might make people feel self–conscious or exploited. We can’t have that.”
Butterman gazed up at the lights, trying to figure out how he would illuminate the event. “Will the elders be praying with people in the aisles, like in the chapel? Won’t that violate the fire code? How can we light them without making it look like a three–ring circus? Are we going to mic them? How will the production team know whose mic to turn up and when, so we don’t inadvertently pick up someone’s private comments?”
Now he was on one of his infamous rolls; Art tried not to be overwhelmed by the exhaustive — and apt — list of questions that he now faced as leader of the church.
“Do we need security in case there’s a disruption? What about wheelchairs? If we get a lot of wheelies, where will we park them? Do we need to make provisions for any seeing–eye dogs? I assume we’re going to need ushers in the auditorium and traffic control folks in the parking lot. Have we arranged for off–duty cops to direct traffic at our entrances? Are we going to receive an offering? How about paramedics? There will be a lot of sick people here; what if someone passes out or needs a doctor? Should we put a standby ambulance in the parking lot? Should we rope off a place for camera crews in the lobby? What about overflow? If we max out the auditorium, where are we going to put people?”
Art experienced a touch of vertigo. Eric had always had an intuitive sense for how to stage services; for Art, such details and contingencies seemed overwhelming. It didn’t help that his mind kept flashing back to his encounter with Reese McKelvie earlier that day; his stomach still knotted at the thought.
Art was about to tell Butterman, “Just figure it out,” when their eyes caught a man and woman striding toward them down the side aisle. They halted their conversation until the pair caught up with them.
“We’re from the Cook County sheriff’s department,” announced the woman, flashing identification. “Are you Arthur Bullock?”
Startled, Art quipped, “What’s up? I thought I paid those parking tickets.”
Mark Bekins and Sarah Crowley didn’t allow a smile. “We need to speak to you in private,” Bekins said.
Butterman, though anxious to find out what was going on, excused himself and headed back toward his office behind the stage. Art claimed one of the seats, while the two detectives stood over him in the aisle.
Once Butterman was beyond earshot, Crowley asked, “Did you know Thomas O’Sullivan?”
“What do you want to know about him?”
“Did you ever meet him?” Bekins pressed.
“There’s really nothing I can tell you about him. I’m sure you understand clergy–penitent privilege. I’m precluded from discussing whether I have ever counseled anyone or, if I did, what was disclosed in the course of our conversation.”
Crowley put her hands on her hips. “You know that Mr. O’Sullivan was killed in a holdup, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as I recall the reporter saying on the radio. It’s really too bad about him and the owner of the place. As you know, we don’t get much violence like that around here.”
“Pastor Bullock,” said Bekins, “we’re not a hundred percent sure that this was just a robbery.”
“You’re not? That’s the first I’ve heard of that. What else could it have been?”
“We’re investigating whether the gunman’s real objective was to kill Mr. Gamos or Mr. O’Sullivan for whatever reason. We’ve done a pretty thorough job of checking into Mr. Gamos’ background and, frankly, we don’t see anyone having a motive to eliminate him. Now we’re investigating Mr. O’Sullivan for the same reason.”
Art was confused. “Wait a minute — Phillip Taylor told me the gunman shot Mr. Gamos first. Are you suggesting his real target was Tom O’Sullivan but he shot Mr. Gamos just to cover up his intentions? That seems far–fetched to me.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Bekins replied.
“Do you mean someone might have murdered another human being just to throw you off his trail? That’s inconceivable!”
“Maybe you live a sheltered life in this place,” Crowley said. “But there are people who wouldn’t hesitate to do something as heinous as that. We know Mr. O’Sullivan was deeply involved in gambling. We know he represented some thugs with ties to the crime syndicate. If he was in debt to the mob, well, who knows? That’s why we need to find out what he said to you.”
A chill coursed through Art’s body as he thought about the implications of what he was being told. Now his conversation with McKelvie took on a whole new ominous dimension.
Could McKelvie or his accomplice — what was his name? Bugatti?—really have been involved in a murder like this? If so, what would that mean for his own safety? Or did he protect himself sufficiently by telling them the incriminating tape would go public if something happened to him? Sidetracked by his thoughts, he found himself gazing out the window.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Crowley said.
Art refocused on the conversation. “Did Phillip Taylor tell you that I met with Tom O’Sullivan?”
“He volunteered the information,” Bekins said.
“Nothing wrong with him discussing that,” Art replied. “Obviously, he believes — as I do — in cooperating fully with the authorities. But I can neither confirm nor deny that I counseled him. It’s not because I’m trying to hide something or be difficult; it’s just the nature of pastoral ministry.”
“Wait a minute,” said Bekins. “Tom O’Sullivan is dead. Doesn’t that release you from confidentiality?”
“A death does not lift the veil on a counseling session. A promise of confidentiality is a timeless vow that a pastor cannot break — ever.”
Crowley spoke up. “Phillip told us Mr. O’Sullivan was deeply troubled by something — apparently, it was something for which he felt culpable or responsible. He was afraid if he mentioned it in his group that someone might get subpoenaed and be forced to disclose it. Therefore, we believe it may have involved illegal activity. We need to know what that was. It could have a bearing on our investigation.”
“I’m sorry. I’d like to help, but there’s nothing I can do.”
At that point, Bekins’ demeanor shifted from good cop to bad cop. “We could haul you before a grand jury.”
“I’d invoke my privilege to remain silent.”
“We could lock you up for contempt.”
“That’s not what my lawyer says. Do you want me to call him? Maybe he should continue this conversation with you.”
Bekins’ jaw stiffened. “I don’t know what Tom O’Sullivan told you. But whatever that secret is, he may have been murdered in cold blood over it — and another man may have needlessly died as a result. You’d better give that a lot of thought.”
“You now harbor a life–threatening secret,” Crowley stressed. “If whoever killed O’Sullivan finds out that you know it, then do you really think that he’ll just pat you on the head and say, ‘Oh, it’s okay — since you’re a pastor.’ “
“It used to be that there were three groups of people immune from reprisals in Chicago: cops, pastors, and reporters,” said Bekins. “The last newspaperman murdered by the mob was Jake Lingle in 1930 — and they later found out that he had secretly been on Al Capone’s payroll. But there are no rules anymore. Ask Mr. Gamos; he may have just been an innocent bystander — a diversion, snuffed out just to throw us off the gunman’s trail.”
Outlandish, Bullock thought to himself. This can’t be. It was just a holdup gone awry. As tragic as that is, it was nothing more.
Bekins paused while his words sunk in. “You have a duty as a citizen to help us in any way you can.”
“I have a duty as a pastor as well. If people think the secrets they entrust to a pastor might leak out — even after their death — then they’ll be deterred from confessing their sins, which is a cornerstone of Christian doctrine. Confidence in the clergy would be eroded. People need to feel absolutely certain that whatever they confess to their pastor goes no further than that.”
“That’s hypothetical,” Crowley retorted. “We’re talking about a concrete crime here — a double murder.”
“And I really hope you’ll be able to solve these horrific killings — but I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
Bekins tapped his partner on the shoulder to signal it was time to give up for now. “Well, Reverend, let me tell you this: we’re sorry we can’t help you,” Bekins said as they were turning to leave. “Because it might be too late to come running to us for protection if something happens.”
II
John Redmond usually didn’t show up at going–away bashes for Examiner employees who had been laid off, mainly due to his discomfort over the fact that he was often the guy who had delivered the bad news in the first place. But he did make an appearance when a group from the newsroom gathered down the street at O’Dougal’s to honor departing federal courts reporter Kurt Feldman.
Feldman was different because he had been one of Redmond’s favorites — a defector from the Tribune who had been personally lured by Redmond because he had been so impressed by an article he had written about corruption in a suburban municipality.
The rest of the newsroom considered Feldman to be Redmond’s “golden boy,” who was being fast–tracked through a series of reporting assignments to prepare him for an eventual editor’s role. So his layoff had been highly symbolic. It told the rest of the newsroom that the Examiner’s austerity program was serious and that nobody was immune from the cost–cutting.
Feldman’s fete was different too, because he was the rare instance of someone who had already landed another job — he had been quickly snatched up by National Public Radio as a Midwest correspondent. Consequently, his party, unlike most of the others, had a festive and even a congratulatory vibe.
In a backroom at O’Dougal’s, a noisy tavern that catered to journalism and advertising folks, the crowd was standing around drinking beer while colleagues roasted Feldman. Redmond got up to tell a few jokes at Feldman’s expense and then talked movingly about his contributions to the paper. He wished him well, even though he was technically now a competitor.
Redmond circulated briefly and then ducked out a side door — where he immediately came face–to–face with Garry Strider, who was coming late to the gathering.
“Hey, let me talk to you,” Redmond said, pulling him by the sleeve into a small patio area that was closed because of threatening weather. Although the wind was swirling and the air felt damp, the expected rain was holding off. “The Snow investigation — where’s it at?”
“You gave me two weeks.”
“That was before Barker pleaded guilty,” he said, referring to the Senator’s career–ending court appearance the previous day in which he admitted evading taxes and was sentenced to eighteen months in the Federal Prison Camp in Duluth, Minnesota, ranked in the top five “Best Places To Go To Prison” in Forbes magazine. “The governor could make his appointment at any time.”
“Is the paper still thinking of making an endorsement?”
“Possibly. But even if we don’t, now’s the time to spring whatever we’ve got on Snow. So have you made any progress?”
Strider removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead as if trying to staunch a headache. “Not really,” he said, slipping the wire rims back on. “I did the story on the miracles — or whatever you want to call them — but beyond that I haven’t found anything major to pin on him.”
“Are you saying he’s clean, or are you saying you just can’t prove anything?”
“I’m always reluctant to say that anybody’s to
tally clean.”
“What about the woman with the sex allegation?”
“Her story fell apart. I wouldn’t feel comfortable writing about it unless the suit is filed, and there’s no news on that front.”
Redmond glanced to the side at nothing in particular as he thought for a moment, and then he looked full again into Strider’s face. “Garry, I got a disturbing note the other day,” he said.
“Disturbing? From who?”
“It was anonymous, but it came in the intra–office mail, so it’s apparently from somebody in the newsroom. Usually I don’t give much credence to anonymous allegations, but I feel I’ve got to address this.”
Color drained from Strider’s face. “What kind of allegations?”
“This person said that your fiancé is a member of Diamond Point Fellowship and that’s why you’ve been going soft on Snow.”
“You gotta be kidding me! Someone actually said that?”
“Is it true?”
“You know me better than that!”
“Garry, is it true?”
“Well, first of all, she’s not my fiancé; we used to live together but that’s over.”
“So you’re not seeing her anymore?”
“We’re … friends. I’ve seen her; we’ve had coffee together, but that’s about it. And second, she’s not a member of Diamond Point; she just attends there, along with more than ten thousand other people. And third, this hasn’t influenced my investigation one bit. I knew she attended the church when I started looking into the place; it hasn’t deterred me from turning that church upside down.”
“But you haven’t found a story — at least, not beyond the piece on miracles, which, by the way, was positive publicity from the church’s perspective.”
“If I haven’t found a scandal, it’s because there’s none to be found. It’s not for a lack of trying.”
“Don’t you see this as a conflict of interest?”
“Not if it doesn’t influence my reporting. You know there’s nothing that can stop me from writing anything about anyone if I had the goods on him.”