The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  Benjamin shifted his attention to the Zewenski brothers. “Peter and Andrew Zewenski were commercial fishermen from Galilee, a small fishing village in Rhode Island.”

  “So you’re saying the mere fact that these men shared the same names and occupations, it made them a target for this killer,” Director Wheeling said.

  “Yes sir. And if you’ll notice, they were all from Galilee.”

  “But what about the fact that they were killed in different states?” Lewellen Truck asked. “And that they were both crucified?”

  “That’s another interesting point, sir,” Benjamin answered. He clicked the remote again, replacing the list of names on the screen with the murder scene pictures of Peter and Andrew Zewenski. He enlarged the image of Peter Zewenski.

  “If you’ll notice, sir,” Benjamin said, shining a laser pointer on the picture, “this man has been tortured. With exception to his underwear, his body is naked. It shows markings of where he’d been whipped numerous times with some kind of multi-lash device, probably a cat-of-nine-tails, a common device used in ancient Rome. His face and body are severely bruised where someone beat him with a club or some other blunt object, and his side shows a puncture mark, probably caused by a knife or sword.” Benjamin shifted the laser pointer to Zewenski’s hands and feet. “More importantly, his body was found in a wooded area just outside of Rome, New York, nailed to a wooden cross made of six-by-six posts.”

  “So?” asked Harlan Michaels.

  “The Apostle Peter was crucified in Rome, Italy by the Emperor Nero in the year 67 A.D.”

  The men and women around the table studied the image on the screen. “You’ll notice one more thing,” Benjamin said, again training the laser pointer on the image of Peter Zewenski. “He was crucified upside-down.”

  The senior agents all seemed to recognize this fact at the same time. “Are you saying this is how the Apostle Peter was crucified?” Director Wheeling asked.

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin answered. “According to an ancient church historian named Origen, when Peter’s sentence was announced for him to be crucified, which by the way was a common form of execution in those times, not just something specific to Jesus Christ, Peter requested to be crucified upside-down because he didn’t feel worthy to die in the same manner as Jesus Christ.”

  “Dear Lord in heaven!” Wheeling exclaimed. “What kind of madman do we have running around out there?”

  “A determined one, sir,” Benjamin said. “And someone who understands not only the Bible, but who has studied church history that is not recorded in the Bible.”

  Truck and Wheeling, along with two of the other department heads, stopped to have a brief conversation among themselves. After a few minutes, Wheeling asked Benjamin if there was anything else they needed to know about the Zewenski brothers.

  “Well sir, as for Andrew Zewenski, his body was found in Athens, Georgia.”

  “So?”

  “The Apostle Andrew was killed in Greece. He wasn’t killed in Athens, Greece which is their capital. He was killed in Patrae in Achaia, a province of Greece. But he was crucified on an X-shaped cross in the same manner as Andrew Zewenski. And neither of the men were nailed to their crosses.”

  “They weren’t?” asked Harlan Michaels.

  “No sir. Both men were tied to their crosses using lengths of rope after being severely beaten and their legs broken.” Benjamin pointed the laser pointer at the rope securing Andrew Zewenski’s arms and legs to his cross. “I believe forensics will find this rope matches the rope used on Thomas Waverly.”

  “What’s the significance of that?” Michaels asked.

  “It was a slow form of torture used by the Greeks, sir,” Benjamin replied. “With their arms and legs spread out and tied to the cross, it forced the victim to pull up with his arms so he could breathe. But with his legs broken, he had no lower support. It took a while, usually several hours, but the victim would eventually either suffocate or his lungs would burst and he’d drown in his own fluids.”

  “So the fact that both men were killed in similar places is important too?” asked Robin Gross, this time in a less superior manner.

  “Well sir, if it’s a single killer doing this, which we think it is, and he captured both Andrew and Peter Zewenski and killed them 960 miles apart, he would first have to overpower them somehow then have a means to transport them from state to state and keep them secure during transport. And remember, these were strong men, commercial fishermen. He would have to incapacitate them somehow and keep them under control. Drugs maybe.”

  “We know he uses chloroform on them, but he wouldn’t be able to incapacitate them with it initially,” Keller interjected.

  “The killer must have a truck,” Gross offered.

  “Or a van or camper of some kind,” Michaels countered. “Something that other people can’t see into.”

  “Maybe a motorhome,” Wheeling said.

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin agreed. “A motorhome would be ideal. It’s self-contained and he could transport a victim a thousand miles and never arouse suspicion.”

  The Director stood and said he’d heard enough and that Morris and his team had certainly discovered the key to solving this case. “You did a fine job, son,” he said to Benjamin.

  “Thank you, sir, but there’s a lot more information we haven’t covered yet.”

  “I’m sure there is, son. You fellas hash it out and let me know what you come up with.”

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin said.

  Morris leaned in close and whispered to Keller. “Must be lunch time at the stuffed-shirt buffet.”

  “Shut up, Dunc,” Keller admonished Morris, then broke out in a huge smile. “Guess our boy did okay, huh?”

  “Damn right he did,” Morris said. “Did you know all that crap he was talkin’ about?”

  “Sorry, I failed Sunday School 101.”

  “Oh, it takes more than Sunday School to know this stuff,” Benjamin said from behind Keller and Morris. “And truth is, I didn’t get to the really good stuff.”

  “Really?” Keller asked.

  “Yep. It gets weird from here on out. But it doesn’t look like we’re going to get to it here, does it?”

  After Wheeling left the room, Lewellen Truck turned back to the meeting. “Morris, you and your team put together a working plan to catch this son-of-a-bitch.”

  Morris nodded.

  “You’ll have whatever resources you need to solve this case. Nothing else matters.”

  “Yes sir,” Morris answered. “Does that include a key to the executive washroom?”

  Truck sneered at Morris. “Why would it? You never wash your hands after taking a leak anyhow.”

  “Oh, you’re sharp today, Lew,” Morris said. “Must’a rubbed off while you were snuggled up against Wheeling.”

  Truck turned to Harlan Michaels. “If that smart ass didn’t know all of my dirty little secrets, I would have run him off years ago.”

  Benjamin watched the banter between the two senior agents. He could tell they were good friends but he wondered how far Morris could push the bureau chief. “Just catch the bastard!”

  Morris nodded his head. “Now that we’ve got somethin’ to go on, we’ll get him soon enough. Me, Keller, and Reverend Jackson here. You’ll see.”

  Lewellen and the rest of the senior staff left the room. Keller turned to Morris. “Reverend Jackson?” she asked, shaking her head at Morris.

  “It was a compliment!” Morris exclaimed. “Ain’t he some kind of a hero for the oppressed blacks of this country? The social voice of the under-trodden minority?”

  “You’re impossible, Dunc,” Keller said. “Just friggin’ impossible.”

  Morris turned to Benjamin and told him he’d done an outstanding job and that he was happy he’d joined the team. Then in his usual gruff manner, he told Benjamin to disconnect the laptop and hurry back to the office. He wanted to hear the rest of his theory so they could get a working model together befo
re the suits upstairs exploded from their own self-importance.

  Chapter Six

  Preach tinkered around his motorhome making sure the sewer and water connections were tight and the electricity plug was secure. He popped out the extended cabana room that made the living area of the camper larger by another three feet. You wouldn’t think that three feet would make that much difference, but you’d be wrong. Three feet can make all the difference in the world to a man that spends three out of every four weeks on the road.

  Opening his small laundry closet in the RV, Preach stuffed two sheets and a pillowcase into his stacking Kenmore washer/dryer unit. He also tossed in a hand towel, then poured in a generous amount of laundry detergent and bleach. He ran the water hot before starting the washing machine. He wanted to be sure every trace of chloroform washed out of the material.

  After starting the laundry, Preach inspected the mattress on the pull-out bed on which Thomas Waverly had been strapped. He wanted to be sure Thomas had not wet or soiled the mattress the way the man before him had done when he’d panicked at the thought of giving his life for the plan of God. Some people have no appreciation for propriety.

  Preach knelt down and tugged on the metal rings attached to the floor of the RV. Thomas Waverly had yanked repeatedly at the straps, so Preach wanted to be sure he hadn’t loosened the rings from their anchors. Satisfied the rings were still solid, he tucked them down into hidden compartments he had built himself. He closed the little trap doors over them, concealing them from view.

  The parking lot of the All Faith Worship Center on Aurora Avenue in Denver, Colorado was beginning to fill for the concert starting in just over an hour. Since it was free to the public and being used as an outreach into the community, people had started arriving early to have good seats. The gospel rock band, Skillet, had arrived around noon, their tour bus parked adjacent to the church side entrance door so the band’s crew could unload their equipment. Preach watched the crew unload equipment container after equipment container, from the storage compartment under the bus. He couldn’t imagine how loud the music, if that’s what you wanted to call it, was going to be. He suspected that he’d be able to hear the racket all the way across the parking lot, where he planned to be instead of inside the church.

  Preach was watching the road crew unload another amplifier from the bus when he saw his son’s bamboo pearl colored Lexus RX330 pull into the church parking lot, followed by his wife’s white Nissan Armada. Both cars stopped under the portico covering the pastor’s private entrance. Preach just shook his head and wondered why his son refused to buy American-made cars. “Can’t beat a Ford,” he muttered. “It’s one thing to send missionaries to Japan to try to help those people. But do we really need to send them American jobs and money too?”

  The passenger door of the Lexus opened and Preach’s grandson, Robbie, climbed out. He waved when he saw his grandpa watching him from the front window of the RV. “Can I go see Grandpa, Daddy?” Robbie asked.

  “It’s not can I go see Grandpa,” Simon Preston corrected his son. “It’s may I?”

  “Then may I go see Grandpa?”

  “Sure, go ahead, but don’t get in his way. And you come to the concert in about an hour.”

  “Okay, Daddy. I will.”

  When Abigail, who had been riding in her mother’s Armada, saw Robbie crossing the parking lot toward their grandfather’s RV, she said that she was also going to visit her grandpa. She ran up behind Robbie and tapped him on top of his head, “Race ya!” she said, then took off running.

  “That’s not fair!” Robbie yelled. He ran after his sister but his short legs couldn’t make up the distance she had already gained on him.

  “What’cha doin’, Grandpa?” Abigail asked as she climbed into the RV and gave Preach a hug and kiss.

  “Just cleaning up a little. Doing my laundry. That sort of thing.”

  “I would have done your laundry for you at our house yesterday if you would’a said something.”

  Robbie reached the RV and climbed the steps entering the main cabin. “Hey, Grandpa! What’cha doin’?”

  “Oh, just pluckin’ a chicken for my supper.”

  Robbie looked around the cabin but didn’t see any signs of a chicken. “Oh, Grandpa. You’re just foolin’.”

  “Duh!” Abigail responded. “Since when do people keep chickens in a motorhome?” Robbie stuck his tongue out at his sister. “Boys can be so dumb.”

  Preach opened the small refrigerator in the kitchen of the RV. “You two want a soda pop?”

  The two Preston children looked at each other then back at their grandfather. “I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Mother says...”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  Robbie laughed. “Got any root beer?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “Dr. Pepper for me,” Abigail said. She peered out the window to be sure her mother wasn’t watching them from the parking lot but she’d already gone inside the church building.

  Preach removed the two cold sodas from the fridge and handed them to his grandchildren. He wondered how many more times he’d be able to spend time like this with them before he finished his mission. He was already half way through the list of names outlined by God on his mission of apostolic sacrifice. But unless the Lord intervened and kept his identity secret, he knew the civil authorities would eventually discover who he was and track him down. If he were going to finish his mission, he’d have to work with more diligence and greater speed. He reasoned that he was doing this for his grandchildren and for a generation that had lost the ability to hear the voice of God.

  “So are you ready for your Frying Pan concert tonight?” Preach teased Abigail.

  “It’s not Frying Pan, Grandpa. It’s Skillet.” She rolled her eyes at him, knowing he was playing with her. “You sure you won’t come? I’ll save a seat next to me.”

  Preach just shook his head. “No, darlin’. I don’t think my old eardrums could handle that much fun.” He smiled at his granddaughter and grandson.

  Robbie smiled back at him while he sipped on his forbidden root beer.

  Chapter Seven

  Keller, Morris, and Benjamin returned to their office on the third floor of the FBI main building in Washington, D.C. Morris cleared off a long work table that was piled high with old office equipment, files, and a myriad of other old junk. He told Benjamin to lay out the case file folders and to hook up the laptop so he could show him and Keller the rest of his theory about the interstate murders.

  “You really had old Truck and Wheeling eatin’ out of your hands, kid,” Morris laughed. “God, I thought Gross was gonna to slip a gear when Truck told him to shut up.”

  “If you’ll recall,” Keller said, “he also told you to keep quiet.”

  “I know, but he tells me that all the time. It don’t mean nothin’ when he says it to me,” Morris laughed again. “But old Gross ain’t used to that kind’a treatment.”

  “So why do you antagonize them so much?” Benjamin asked Morris. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll get onto you.”

  “Get on to me? Hell no! What’s the worse they could do? Shave my head and send me to the ass end of the world?” Morris answered. “I’m already as bald as a watermelon and I live in D.C. How much worse could it get?”

  Morris watched George Benjamin power up the laptop computer and activate the PowerPoint Presentation. He’d never learned to use any of the advanced features on the computers. He could type a report on one, and even search criminal databases if he had to, but he didn’t care for the way computers were taking the place of real hands-on police work.

  “You said there’s a gap in the list of names,” Morris said to Benjamin. “Is that what you meant yesterday when you said we might be missin’ three victims?”

  “Yes sir. Would you like me to explain what I meant?”

  “Hell, yes, I want you to explain it,” Morris snapped. “You may not know this, rookie, but I’m still the lead inve
stigator around here, so I might ought’a know what the hell’s goin’ on.”

  “Yes sir. Give me a minute while I sort this out and get my notes together.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’ll go get us some coffee,” Lynn Keller said. “You sure you don’t want a cup, George?”

  “Yes ma’am, I’m sure. But I’ll take a cup of hot tea. Sweet with milk if they’ve got it.”

  “My God!” Morris muttered. “A black man in the United States that don’t drink coffee, alcohol, smoke, cuss, or chase women. You’ll give the rest of your people a bad name. You know that, don’t you George?”

  “All I know is that you don’t know me or my people very well,” Benjamin answered.

  “You boys go ahead with your piss and moan contest for a few minutes while I run to the cafeteria,” Keller said. “If you’re still alive when I get back, we’ll try to solve this case.”

  “There’s coffee in the coffeepot in the break room,” Morris said. “You don’t need to go all the way to the cafeteria.”

  “But there’s no tea in the break room,” Keller countered. “Besides, that coffee is probably a week old.”

  Morris and Benjamin watched Keller leave the room. Morris had admired her for years, but from a distance. He knew she was happily married to a wonderful man that didn’t interfere with her career, and who didn’t display any type of jealousy about her spending so much time with him here at the office and sometimes overnight working a case. Dixon Keller knew his wife was faithful to him, which was more than Morris could ever say about his own relationships with his two ex-wives.

  “She says what she’s thinking, doesn’t she?” Benjamin said.

  “Yeah, she tries to keep me in line, but it ain’t workin’.”

  Benjamin didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure about his relationship with Morris. He thought the man was warming up to him, then just when he’d think they were on solid ground, Morris would make some wisecrack or racial remark and they’d slide back to their attitudes about each other being a rookie show-off and a redneck Neanderthal.