The Devil of Light

by Gae-Lynn Woods

  “And that means…,” Mitch prompted him.

  “I believe that this man was stunned by a blow to the back of the head, then had his legs bound before being strangled to death. At that point, we believe he was suspended by his legs, his wrists were slit and the top of his head drilled to drain the blood from his corpse.” The room was silent as they took in Bernie’s description. “The absence of blood would explain why decomposition has not progressed as expected, and why the corpse has taken on a mummy-like appearance.”

  Mitch closed his eyes, as if to erase the gruesome image painted by his brain. “If you’re right Bernie, and blood was collected from Garrett and this guy, the same person or people killed both men. What kind of creepy ritual is this? Who would want somebody’s blood? And what would they do with it?”

  Cass started, lips rounded in surprise. She held a finger up in the air and darted from the examination room.

  “What is it?” Mitch called after her.

  “Don’t move,” she answered, voice fading as she dashed toward the front door. “I’ll be right back.”

  CHAPTER 46

  SHE RETURNED WITHIN TEN minutes, tendrils of dark red hair clinging to her forehead and sweat beading her upper lip. She carried a large-ish object wrapped in a white towel. Breathing heavily, she asked Porky to pull out a third examination table and carefully placed the bundle on its surface. “I ran into Sheriff Hoffner, Grey. He wants to know when he can talk to the press. They’re milling around outside your office and on the courthouse lawn. I had to barrel my way in and out.”

  “Not yet,” Grey answered distractedly. “What’s that?”

  Cass unwrapped the towel to display The Church of the True Believer. The others surrounded the table, faces drawn in curiosity. “I didn’t put it together until just now,” she said. “I was flipping through this book last night, and there are several strange things in it. Look.” She flipped to the colorful crucifixion scene portraying blood pouring onto the disciples from Jesus’ wounded side. “Maybe they’re using the blood in some sort of ritual. Washed in the blood of the lamb, see? And those scars Truman saw on their sides? Maybe that’s supposed to be some symbol of Jesus’ sacrifice. Replicating the mark the spear left when it pierced his chest.”

  Grey’s dark eyebrows jumped high on his forehead as he considered what Cass had said. “Interesting.”

  Mitch leaned into a counter, crossing one long leg over the other. “What in the world makes you think Chad Garrett’s death is linked to that book from Lenny Scarborough’s house? That’s a mighty big leap.”

  “I know.” Cass paused, gathering her thoughts. “Lenny’s briefcase was missing from his study, and Garrett had the opportunity to take it. We’re also pretty sure he took that inventory from Elaine’s desk Sunday night. The only people who would be interested in Lenny’s death are the men in those photographs, right? And those pictures were in this book, which means that the members of The Church probably had something to do with raping those girls.” She shrugged. “Even if Garrett wasn’t a card carrying member, maybe he was involved in some other way.”

  “But why would they crucify him? This took some planning, and a pretty devious mind.”

  “Maybe Garrett did something wrong and this is punishment. Or a warning to someone else. The way he was killed has a dark feel to it, like Bernie said. The whole thing does.”

  “Bernie,” Kado interrupted. “Does the mummy have any scars on his chest?”

  “No, he does not.”

  “So he wasn’t part of this group, either. You think he might’ve been involved on the outskirts, Cass?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they needed the blood and he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “What are they,” Mitch snorted, “devil worshippers?”

  “Cass may be right,” Bernie said thoughtfully, examining the picture of the crucifixion. “This could be a bonding of some kind. Think of the blood brother ritual. Individuals were brought into a family of sorts by the mingling of blood and on occasion, the drinking of blood. Perhaps they use it in a rite of passage. Blood is also symbolic of birth, death and even re-birth. Maybe…,” he paused, one finger pressed to his lips. “Cass, is there a description of The Church? Its membership?”

  “I think so.” She flipped through the pages and read. “Given what Pastor Luke told us about cults yesterday, I’m assuming that everything in this book is based on the Bible, but it’s been a little distorted. This is an extract from First Corinthians. It talks about how the members of The Church are of one body, but each has a unique role to play and shouldn’t be jealous of the others. Here’s the structure part: ‘Now ye are the body of Christ, and severally members thereof. And God hath set the design for His perfect Church: the first is The Light, God’s holy vessel; secondly, The Circle of Illumination, who protect The Light and travel the road as steadily as the points on a compass; thirdly, The Brethren, who keep themselves alert and are ever vigilant against the acts of Satan. At no time shall The Church extend beyond the holy number established by Christ Jesus and his disciples, sacred for the taking of the blood and the body. Therefore, outside and with equal honor but anonymous glory are The Way, the blessed eyes, ears, feet and hands of The Church.’” She looked up at Bernie. “Is that what you meant?”

  “Let me think for a minute.” Reaching for a note pad, he began drawing, scribbling out sections and re-writing them. Stopping to chew on the cap of his pen, he tore off a clean page and, checking his original diagram and the text, he drew a three level pyramid of several blocks. Finally, he turned the pages around so the others could see, and smiled.

  “What is it?” Kado asked.

  “A graphic representation of what Cass described. There were thirteen ‘official’ members of Jesus’ group – himself, plus the twelve disciples. They were the only ones at the last supper, where Jesus gave his symbolic body and blood.” Bernie tapped the page as he tucked his pen into a pocket. “Consider this in organizational terms. The top box, or the head of the organization is The Light, accountable to God. Four people report to The Light, this Circle of Illumination. I believe there are only four due to the reference to the points on a compass, and because there were four canonical gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.” Mitch chewed his lip, but remained quiet. “These people called The Way should be excluded from the formal chart, because they are discussed after the number of members is defined and they are referenced as outside and anonymous. That leaves eight available spots from our total of thirteen, which gives us the number of The Brethren.”

  The others nodded slowly as they studied the page. “I guess it makes sense,” said Mitch, stepping away from the table to lean against a counter. “But what about the blood?”

  “We know that Lenny Scarborough was a member of this group due to his possession of the book and the scar on his chest, yes?”

  “Yes,” Cass answered.

  “Then they’ll need to replace him. Perhaps they gather the blood as some sort of initiation, welcoming new members or moving the members from one level to another.”

  “Like a promotion?” she asked.

  Bernie paused. “Possibly, yes.”

  Her eyes widened as she looked to Mitch and Kado. “Do you remember that invitation Munk found out at Lenny’s? Something about being invited to a celebration?”

  Kado answered her with a question. “You think that’s a promotion?”

  “Why not?”

  “Man, this is bizarre,” Kado said, running both hands through his dark hair.

  “And it doesn’t get us any closer to figuring out who these guys are, does it?” Mitch asked in frustration.

  “There’s something else I wanted to show you. I was trying to tell you this morning when Goober came into The Golden Gate,” Cass said, turning the large volume around and flipping to the last page. “Take a look at this.”

  Mitch and Kado bumped heads as they leaned in to read the handwritten words. Kado stood first, gray eyes c
onfused. Mitch followed, mouth open in disbelief. “What is that?”

  “I think it’s a list of the people who have owned this book.”

  Mitch blinked. “These are… I mean… These were some of the most influential families in Forney County in the last hundred years,” he replied, sighing heavily. “Good Lord. You know what this means?”

  Cass nodded. “We’ve got a lead.”

  ____________

  THEY LEFT THE ME’S office through the back door while Minnie slipped out the front to share a cigarette with the reporters. Circling the short block, they trotted quickly through the police department’s parking lot and entered the courthouse through a rear door, avoiding the crush on the front lawn. Glancing in the Sherriff’s office, they found him pacing the room, phone mashed to one ear, the knuckles of one hand white from gripping the handset, the fingers of the other combing through his short, snowy hair. They covered the distance to Elaine’s alcove in the lobby and stood watching as a news van bearing the logo of a station in Dallas pulled to a stop across several parking spaces. A fresh-faced woman jumped from the passenger seat and hurried the burly cameraman and a weedy sound guy climbing through the van’s side door. The trio began pushing toward the courthouse steps. Elaine checked the doors again to ensure they were locked and trudged back to her alcove.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this… this pandemonium,” she said, brushing a curl from her forehead as colored sparks of light twinkled wildly on her telephone. “We’ve shut down all business in the courthouse today, except the critical stuff. I can’t imagine…,” she said in a low voice. “How could this have happened to someone like Chad Garrett?”

  Cass leaned against Elaine’s desk while Mitch stood motionless next to the busy fax machine, watching sheet after sheet of requests for interviews from news agencies spool out and puddle in the receiving tray. Kado scratched his head and leaned into the copier. “How does somebody overpower a trained officer like Garrett? Is that what you mean?” he asked.

  “I guess so,” she answered slowly, dropping her gaze to her lap. “But I’ve heard awful things. That he was crucified, tortured. That he was beaten and even sod –,” she took a breath before whispering, “sodomized.”

  Mitch turned to face the receptionist. “Elaine, I know you’d never do it, but you can’t speak a word about what you hear concerning Garrett’s case. Every scrap of information has to be kept confidential to give us a better chance of finding his killer. If there’s incorrect information out there, that’s fine. It’ll keep this guy guessing about what we really know and what we just suspect. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she answered with a hitch in her voice.

  “Garrett was crucified. He wasn’t beaten, but I’d imagine he was in some pain. He wasn’t sodomized, okay?”

  Elaine caught her breath. “Thank you. I didn’t really know him, but he just seemed like a normal guy, know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I do,” answered Mitch, lips twitching. “I wouldn’t wish this on an abnormal guy.”

  A reluctant smile tugged at Elaine’s mouth. “I stopped by to see Angie Scarborough last night.”

  “How is she?” Cass asked.

  “About like you’d expect. Angry. Sad. Still in shock.” Elaine spun back and forth slowly in her chair. “She’s a tough cookie. Said Mitch told her to call the Pettigrew brothers to come help on the farm, and that’s what she was planning to do this morning.”

  “Life goes on,” Kado said.

  “Hungry cows have to be fed,” Elaine answered as an angry burp erupted from her phone. She lifted her headset and spoke quietly. Disconnecting, she gestured toward the police station. “Sheriff Hoffner’s off the phone. He said to hurry before he gets another call.”

  Cass frowned. “How are people getting around you to call him, Elaine?”

  The other woman smiled wickedly. “Silly man. He’s given out his direct number all over the county. All those election contributions and favors people gave him over the years? Looks like they’re calling them in for information.”

  CHAPTER 47

  THEY STOOD IN SHERIFF Hoffner’s office, waiting. He was pacing again, phone pressed to his ear with one hand while he straightened pictures on the wall with the other. His brow was drawn into an impressive frown, pulling his bushy eyebrows together over his close-set eyes and long, hooked nose. A younger Hoffner stared from a framed photo, auburn hair still vibrant and blue eyes piercing.

  “I understand Ob, but there’s nothing I can tell you until Grey finishes the autopsy.” He held the phone away from his ear as a voice screeched over the line. Hoffner’s scowl deepened and he growled a reply. “Obadiah, I intend for you to have the first interview as soon as I have the information. But if you keep up this attitude, I’ll go with Stanton. Understood?”

  Nodding sharply at the reply, he withdrew a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the ear and mouthpieces before replacing the headset in its cradle. “Obadiah Graham over at the Forney Cater. Been hounding me for a story all morning. Not like he’s going to print until tonight,” he grumbled, re-folding the handkerchief into a precise square and replacing it in his pocket. Hoffner ran a hand over his weary face and drew a deep breath. “What a mess. Garrett’s wife is still knocked out at the hospital. Grey must’ve given her enough sedative to keep a horse down. What have you got?” he asked, plunking into the chair behind his desk and motioning them to sit.

  Mitch leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “What we think happened is pretty screwed up. Hear me out, then poke holes in our theory.”

  Sheriff Hoffner was silent for the twenty minutes it took Mitch to walk through the forensic and autopsy findings; their theories on what the absence of blood in Garrett’s body and that of the corpse found on Monday meant; and lastly, Bernie’s structure chart for The Church of the True Believer and Cass’s interpretation of the crucifixion image. The expression on Hoffner’s face alternated between fascination and horror. Mitch ended his monologue by opening the heavy volume to its last page and turning it to face the sheriff.

  Sheriff Hoffner leaned forward to examine the handwritten names, adjusting the book to align with the edge of his desk. Color flooded his cheeks. “Salter, Peavey, Shepherd? You think these men were fags?”

  Mitch grimaced. “I don’t care about their sexual preferences, sir. I care about whether they raped girls or women.”

  Hoffner grunted. “They’re all dead. What do you propose? Harassing their kinfolk?”

  Mitch ran a hand over his blonde hair as he leaned back in his chair. “Yes, sir, that’s exactly what we propose. These are the kind of men who could convince Lenny Scarborough that homosexuality and child molestation could give him power.”

  “Are you out of your mind? Jed Salter’s a bank president and Peavey, well, how much land and oil does that man own around here? These are powerful men, Mitch, they control money and votes. And John Earl Shepherd? His daddy’s name is in this book, but that boy’s a complete waste of time. He can’t help with any of this.”

  “Respectfully sir, we’ve got a dead officer to think about.”

  “I am well aware of that fact,” he growled, icy eyes narrowed. “This is all speculation. You think this is some sort of generational thing? Passed down from grandfather to father to son?”

  Mitch shrugged, keeping his voice even. “Maybe, although if it were, it seems that the father would pass his book on to the son, rather than to someone else. Maybe there’s no connection between father and son regarding membership in this group.”

  “If not, is there any reason to go upsetting Salter and Peavey?”

  “If there isn’t a connection, it shouldn’t upset them if we ask questions. And they might remember something about their father’s or grandfather’s involvement.” Mitch stopped to eye Hoffner across the desk. He leaned forward again, clasping his hands loosely between his knees. “It’s worth a shot.”

  Hoffner was silent for several moments. Finally, he sh
ook his head. “I can’t leave this building right now; reporters are still on the lawn. Call Sammy and tell him to get over here. Let’s hear what he has to say about this.”

  “Sheriff,” Mitch said, a flush spreading across his cheeks, “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but can we trust him?”

  “You think the District Attorney’s involved?” Hoffner barked.

  Mitch held up his hands as if to ward off a blow. “The Peavey, Salter, Shepherd and Scarborough families’ names are in that book. These men are, or were, pillars in this community. Upstanding, God-fearing, righteous men. Without those names, we never would have considered that men like that could’ve been involved in something like this… this cult, or whatever it is. But with the names,” he said, disgust heavy in his voice, “in what must be their own handwriting, there’s little doubt that they were involved.”

  “What is your point, Mitch?” Hoffner enunciated with care.

  “If men like that could be involved, how the hell do we know who we can trust?”

  CHAPTER 48

  BLACKIE COCHRAN TURNED OFF the rusty, tepid water and stepped gingerly from the shower, trying to keep her head steady. Nana’s plumbing needed serious work, but the woman refused to consider moving to city water. Too expensive, she claimed. And Blackie’s skin was a beautiful nutty brown, just like Nana’s, so a little rust wouldn’t hurt, would it?

  She lifted a wrist to her nose and sniffed, tentatively at first, and then more thoroughly. Satisfied that the mucky smell of the river was gone, Blackie slathered on Nana’s rose-scented lotion and examined herself in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. In spite of her pounding head, she looked pretty good for thirty-something. Gently, she probed her face, satisfied that the worst of the damage was gone. Her skin was again luminous and – she leaned into the mirror – still wrinkle free. She sighed as she pulled on clean clothes from a stash she kept at Nana’s. Life as a prostitute was profitable but unpredictable, a state the beating from her pimp had reinforced. She’d been out of work for several weeks now, but had gotten a call from the DA’s office only yesterday to let her know that they had enough evidence to prosecute. Sammy Mathison believed Brent Small would be a multi-year guest of the state prison system for rape and assault. While frightened of testifying when the time came, Blackie was content.