The Last Con
Page 36
“Yeah, maybe. Anyway, this changes the profile altogether. I don’t think I’m jumping to conclusions when I see some definite religious overtones here. That’s new.”
“Hmm.” Ketcham scribbled some notes in a pocket-sized spiral notebook. “And if we’re not dealing with playing-card imagery, the whole thing about expecting four victims is out the window too.”
“That was pretty thin anyway. I think Channel 8 came up with it. My real takeaway here is that our whole ‘new gang’ theory is probably off base. Gangs rarely employ Satanic rituals and symbolism, am I right?”
“I wouldn’t think so.” He rubbed his chin. “This whole thing is off. Two victims in two days. Ritualized killings. Looks like the work of a serial killer, but I’d expect another girl in that case.”
“Why is that?” Corrinne folded her arms.
“Oh, save the feminism. We’re talking about a murderer here. Guy’s slicing people up; I doubt he cares whether his choice of victim is politically correct.”
“And why exactly does the killer have to be a man?”
“If you’re trying to advance the cause, I think you’re doing it wrong.” He turned his attention back to the body. “What have we got on the victim?”
She perused her own notepad. “His name is Benjamin Ludema. He was a senior at Central High. No arrest record. We’re waiting to hear back from a school representative. I’d like to interview all of his teachers tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, that’s good. Let me know if you need help.”
“Now that you mention it, I was hoping you two might have some classes together. Are you friends with any upperclassmen?”
“Funny stuff.” He pointed to the design on the boy’s chest. “Did the lab ever confirm that the blood from yesterday’s image was the victim’s?”
“Type matched, but we’re still waiting on DNA confirmation. I wouldn’t stand on one leg until it comes in. I’ll make sure they do the same tests on young Ben here, with a few unique samples.”
“What’s your guess at time of death?”
“Definitely within the last four hours. I’d be real surprised if it were any earlier.”
“Sheesh. Killing for the devil on Sunday morning.” Ketcham shook his head. “What’s the world come to?”
“I know what you mean. In my day all the Satanic murders happened during the workweek. Between this and all the churches getting tagged, this town’s really throwing in with Beelzebub.”
He gave her a chuckle. “Those two vagrants out there waiting to give a statement?”
“No, they’ve been handled. Pretty much worthless.”
Ketcham was beginning to sweat. It was early October and still too warm for the lined trench coat he wore. “Techs should be here soon,” he said, checking his watch. “You mind babysitting while I start the paperwork?”
“Of course the woman has to do the babysitting.”
“You’re a regular Gloria Steinem, you know that?”
Parker Saint had just seen a tear trickle down a cheek in the crowd, cutting slowly through a thick layer of foundation. This was important. A wet cheek was one of the last checkpoints on The List. He still carried an index card bearing The List in his jacket pocket, despite having long since committed it to memory. It was something of a good-luck charm.
For six years Parker had been preaching against an ultratight television schedule, and he prided himself on impeccable timing. A large digital clock, glowing red at the back of the auditorium, displayed the number of minutes remaining in the broadcast, and Parker knew where in The List he needed to be in relation to the number on the clock.
His sermons were twenty-eight minutes in length every week, not varying by thirty seconds. He always began with a joke, usually something a little on the folksy, heartwarming side. After that he would establish the vocabulary of the message: not theological jargon, but something catchy and appealing like “Unleashing Your Full Potential” or “Tapping into Your God-breathed Dreams.” Today it was “Moments of Majesty.” Next, he would bring up some scriptural texts, weaving together several Moments of Majesty in the lives of biblical characters, all the while solidifying a principle around them.
When the clock read 0:14, he began identifying at least two practical action points. In his early years he had announced, “Now for the action points,” but these days he brought them in more seamlessly. Finally, with six minutes left in the broadcast, the music would come in, all-but-inaudible at first, slowly swelling as Parker told a touching story—sometimes a personal experience, but more often something he’d read in a book or online.
This was the most delicate part of the process, and it made him grateful for the live audience before him. Parker would slowly turn up the emotional intensity until he saw a single tear on the face of a parishioner, then back off. In this case, the tear rolled down as he elaborated an account of an elderly married couple with dementia, living in a nursing home, reenacting their first date. It appeared just as the clock changed to 0:03. The credits would roll at 0:02.
Perfect.
The final checkpoint on The List was what he called “tying the bow,” which meant summarizing twenty-eight minutes in a single statement. Parker was a master of tying the bow.
“My friends, God wants you to embrace your Moments of Majesty,” he intoned, his words oozing with manufactured sincerity. “You may not recognize God’s breath on your life today. The majesty of your destiny may be eluding your sight, but mark my words: your greatest Moments of Majesty are in front of you. Thank you for joining us today. And remember, God is awesome . . .”
“And so am I!” came the enthusiastic reply from the congregation, some 4500 voices strong. Parker beamed. The brilliant simplicity of his catchphrase never failed to delight him. He strode confidently from the stage, leaving the band to execute a bright praise song under the television credits.
Backstage he was met by his assistant, Paige, who gushed, “Seriously, Parker, that was one of your best messages yet!”
“You say that every week.”
“It’s true every week.” She quickly took the wireless mic from him and smoothed his hair with several saliva-dampened fingers. “Houselights in less than a minute. You better go.” She hugged him briefly. “Great job this morning. Seriously.”
In the atrium after the service Parker stood behind a long table and greeted his admirers, as he always did. On either side of him volunteers sold DVDs of previous messages, but the real line was of people wanting to talk with Parker for just a moment. Many asked for an autograph on the morning’s bulletin. With everything on large projection screens, there was really no need for bulletins except that Parker loved signing them. In a couple of months, though, he planned to phase them out altogether, as he would have something much more substantial to autograph.
“I can’t wait for your book, Pastor Saint,” a flustered, matronly woman said. “I’m planning to buy lots of copies and giving them away—give them away, I mean. For Christmas and such.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you so much.” He smiled, consciously flashing some tooth. He’d successfully quit smoking six months earlier at his mentor’s insistence and was seeing improvement in the whiteness every day.
The line had begun to dwindle when Paige approached silently. “Parker, you’ve got an appointment in your office in five. The man from Christianity in View. He’s in the greenroom now.”
“I forgot about that. Thanks. Get me some water, would you, Paige? I’m parched.” He lifted a hand to what remained of the line. “Sorry, folks, I’ve got to go! Remember, God is awesome and so are you!”
The adventure continues in Playing Saint by Zachary Bartels.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Zachary Bartels is the author of Playing Saint. An award-winning preacher and Bible teacher, he serves as pastor of Judson Baptist Church in Lansing, MI, where he lives with his wife, Erin, and their son.
You can find Zachary online at www.zacharybartels.com.
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