by Jim Laughter
* * *
Duncan Morris sat alone in a corner booth at the McDonald’s on 13th Street in Northwest, Washington D.C. In front of him was his usual Big Mac combo, onion rings, and a medium coke. He hated going home to his empty apartment in Triangle Park. The place was so empty. He hated living alone. Besides, he didn’t cook except for TV dinners and microwave meals. He envied Keller and Benjamin for their apparent stable marital relationships.
Morris reviewed the information Benjamin had uncovered about the series of interstate murders. Why he hadn’t made the connection himself concerned him. After all, he wasn’t a total heathen. He’d been raised in a Catholic family, and had even been an altar boy as a child. Guess there’s just some stuff you don’t learn as a common member on the pew.
A yellow legal pad lay on the bench beside Morris. He always kept a package of legal pads in his car, a ten-year-old Ford Taurus. He’d lost almost everything else in his second divorce, only managing to escape with his clothes and books, a small personal stereo, a 20-inch Panasonic TV/DVD combination, and his old Ford Taurus. His ex-wife still lived in their house in Arlington not too far from Keller’s house, and she still drove the new Cadillac he’d purchased just before she announced her intention to leave him.
“Bitch!” he muttered. Of course, he was stuck with both the car and mortgage payments which was included in the monthly alimony the court drafted from his pay. The words of Jerry Reed’s old song, “She Got the Goldmine, I Got the Shaft” ran through his mind.
Morris picked up the yellow legal pad and examined his notes. Who the hell can this be? And what could possibly set a man on a killing spree as bizarre as this one? The apostles, for cryin’ out loud! Why not professional athletes or movie celebrities? Better yet, why not ex-wives that cheated on their husbands? Throw in their scum-suckin’ lawyers for good measure.
* * *
After spending over an hour in bed with Latrice, snuggling at first followed by several minutes of passionate love-making, Benjamin took a shower then returned to his small kitchen table. Latrice slipped on a dainty little apron over her luscious naked body, along with a pair of high-heeled spiked shoes. While Benjamin unloaded the case files from his satchel onto the table, she puttered around the kitchen, naked all except for her shoes and apron.
“You’re trying to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”
Latrice flashed her best newly-wed bride smile. “How’d you guess?”
“You know I have work to do.”
“So do I,” she said, turning again toward the bedroom. “And it doesn’t include murder files.”
Benjamin closed the file he had just opened, shut the flap on his satchel, and stood to follow Latrice to the bedroom. Some things were just more important than work.
Chapter Nine
Duncan Morris parked his Taurus in his usual spot at the FBI building. It was 2:20 a.m. Saturday but he couldn’t sleep. He’d gone back to his apartment and tried to relax after his visit to McDonald’s, but the more he thought about the crime pattern that Benjamin had revealed, the more he anguished over his inability to solve the case. Had innocent people died because he’d overlooked clues for a damn half-year that a seminary student had spotted in five minutes? Had his investigative skills diminished to the point of non-affect? He’d thought about retirement. Could this be a sign that he should hang up his spurs and shoot his horse?
“Hell no,” he muttered to himself. “Ain’t no damn nut-job with a religious fetish gonna put me out to pasture.”
Morris opened the door to the FBI building. Carl Stanza at the reception desk looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading, surprised to see Morris at this hour. “Workin’ late, Agent Morris?” Stanza asked. “We don’t see you ‘round here much this time of night.”
“Got a burr under my saddle, Carl,” Morris answered. “Thought I’d try to get on the computer and do a little diggin’. See if I can turn up anything on a case that’s drivin’ me nuts.”
Stanza pushed the release button that opened the door to the hallway Morris would have to take to the upper level elevators. “Elevators are unlocked, and I made coffee earlier in the lounge. Should be a cup or two left.”
“Thanks, Carl,” Morris said. “My eyeballs are floatin’ now from all the coffee I’ve drunk tonight, but I reckon another cup or two won’t kill me.”
“Hell, no. That’s what coffee’s for, to keep old farts like you and me alive long enough to work ourselves to death.”
Morris laughed. “Is anybody else up in the office?”
Stanza shook his head. “Nobody with any sense,” he answered. “Just old fools like you and me out here this time of night.”
Morris waved at Stanza who had turned back to his newspaper. He saw that Carl had a pencil in his hand and was trying to work the crossword puzzle but didn’t seem to be making any progress. A large clock over the desk revealed the time. Damn near 2:30. What the hell am I doin’ here? I ought’a be home in bed like normal people. Morris rode the elevator to the third floor. He thought about Keller and Benjamin asleep in their beds and the kid snuggled up against some Nubian beauty with a big ass and great tits.
“Morris?” a voice said when he stepped off of the elevator. He looked up to see Lewellen Truck, the division chief, just exiting the lounge, a cup of coffee in his hand. Well, there goes the coffee! “What the hell are you doing here at this time of night?”
Morris just shook his head. “Well, I come for a cup of coffee but I see you beat me to it.”
“Smart ass,” Truck said. “And just for your information, I poured out that crap Carl made and put on a fresh pot.”
“Damn, I knew you were good for somethin’ around here besides polishin’ a chair with your ass,” Morris said. “Let me find my cup and I’ll join you. Two old farts sittin’ around swillin’ mud at damn near 3 o’clock Saturday mornin’. Ain’t we a pair?”
Morris joined Truck in his office after finding his coffee cup and filling it with the fresh brew Truck had just made. He really didn’t want any more coffee since he’d already finished off a pot at home this evening. What the hell? Might as well be sociable.
“That case keeping you up?” Truck asked. “Can’t sleep for thinking about it?”
Truck and Morris had been partners for over five years. They knew each other as well as any two men could and still keep it respectable. Truck understood the obsession that drives a man like Morris. He knew Morris hated unanswered questions, and this case was of full of them.
“Just can’t get this crap out’ta my head,” Morris answered. “I’ve been workin’ this case for damn near six months and didn’t see it, then this fresh fish puts it together in a day.”
“He seems like a pretty sharp kid.”
“Damn sharp,” Morris answered. “Can you believe he carries a Bible in his jacket pocket?”
“A Bible?”
“New Testament. Kid whipped it out like there was nothin’ to it and turned right to that passage of verses he read at the briefin’. Knew right where it was.”
“I’ll be damned,” Truck said.
“Oh, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. Then he takes out his cell phone and calls his daddy.”
“His daddy?”
“Yeah, and here I am all the time huffin’ and puffin’, just about to blow a fuse. You know how I get.”
Truck nodded while he sipped his coffee.
“He says he has a hunch so he calls his daddy who’s some kind’a Bible professor at some religious university in Oklahoma and asks him how the Apostle Thomas died.”
“Thomas? As in Thomas Waverly?”
“Exactly. Damn kid made the connection based on that calamine lotion that was smeared on Waverly’s body.”
“The lotion?” Truck asked. “I don’t see how...”
“Seems the Apostle Thomas was killed in India at a place called Calamine.”
“Damn, that’s good,” replied Truck. “And the kid knew that right off the top of his head?”
; “Pieced it together right there on the spot, then told me I had my head stuck up my ass.”
“What? He told you what?”
Morris sipped his coffee again. “Oh, you know me.”
Truck nodded again.
“I run off at the mouth at him and jumped on him for wastin’ our time. He said he had to get back to his desk in fraud, so I went off on him again and demanded he tell me what this hunch of his was.”
“And that’s when he...”
“And that’s when he told me I had my head stuck so far up my ass I couldn’t hear his explanation if he yelled it through a bullhorn.”
Truck leaned back in his chair and roared in laughter. “That’s the funniest damn thing I’ve ever heard. Was Keller there?”
“Hell, yeah, she was there. Damn near floored her. I thought she was gonna bust a seam in her girdle she was laughin’ so hard.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Truck said again. “Kid’s got moxie too.”
“Yeah, I must be losin’ my touch not to have made that religious connection.”
“Hell, no, you’re not losing your touch,” Truck countered. “Sometimes it just takes a fresh pair of eyes to see what’s on the table.”
“Don’t start makin’ sense now, Lew,” Morris said. “Can’t you see I’m wallerin’ in self pity?”
“So you want me to tell you what a dumb-ass you are and that you should just quit and go home?”
“Well, maybe not in those exact words.”
“I’ve been telling you that for what, ten years? It hasn’t done any good yet.”
Morris and Truck sat and sipped their coffee, neither of them sure which way to take the conversation.
“You want something a little stronger than that coffee?” Truck asked.
“You still keep that bottle of bourbon in your bottom desk drawer?”
Truck acted surprised that Morris knew about his private stash.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know I knew,” Morris said. “You ain’t that damn clever.”
Truck reached into this lower right desk drawer and removed a fifth of Jack Daniels Kentucky Bourbon. Morris noticed that it was about half gone. “Looks like you’ve been workin’ late a lot.”
“Yeah,” Truck answered. “The pressures of command. But that’s why they pay me the big bucks.”
“Doris kicked your ass out’ta the house again tonight, didn’t she?”
“Naw, she was having one of those damn home decorator parties and the house was full of cacklin’ old women, so I did the brave thing. I cut and run like any sensible husband would do.”
“So why are you still here at three in the damn mornin’?”
“Hell if I know, Dunc.”
Morris reached his coffee cup across to Truck who poured a generous amount of bourbon into the coffee. “Whoa there partner,” Morris protested. “I’m drivin’ tonight.”
“Don’t give me that crap!” Truck answered. “You know as well as I do that you’ll stretch out on the couch in the lounge.”
Morris sneered. “Pass out is more like it,” he said. “What I need to do is throw a good drunk so I can clear some of these cobwebs out’ta my brain.”
“What you need is a good swift kick in the ass to get your brain jump started.”
Morris raised his coffee cup to Truck in mock salute. “Here’s to old farts that have run out’ta gas.”
Truck raised his cup in answer to Morris’ toast, then both men upended their drinks, the bourbon having cooled the coffee off enough to make it drinkable.
Truck refilled their cups again, this time without coffee, and the two men sat in the bureau chief’s office talking about this and that, him and her, and just anything else that came to mind.
Chapter Ten
Preach heard a knock on the door of the RV. He looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was already past 8 o’clock. He rarely slept this late on Saturday morning. He wondered who could be knocking on his door so he rolled out of bed and put on his housecoat and slippers.
Whoever was at the door knocked again. “Just a minute!” Preach called out. When he opened the door he saw his son, Simon, standing alone on the outside pavement. “Something wrong, son?”
“No sir,” Simon answered. “I just thought you might like to go have some breakfast with me. Spend some time together.”
Preach pushed the door the rest of the way open and invited Simon in. “Nothing would make me happier, son. We don’t get to do that much anymore, do we?”
“Not lately, sir,” Simon Preston answered. He closed the door behind him and looked around the RV, admiring its clean, quality lines. “The old bus is holding up pretty well, isn’t she? Considering the miles you put on her?”
“Yeah, she’s a dandy alright.” Preach turned and walked back to his bedroom where he put on a pair of slacks and long-sleeve shirt, then pulled on his cowboy boots and reached for his felt fedora. “Just a minute while I get my wallet.”
“No need, Dad,” Simon answered. “It’s on me and we’ll take my car.”
Preach suspected that Simon wanted to talk to him about something, but not here in the motorhome.
The two men rode together to a Family Diner not too far from the church. “How’d that concert go last night, son?”
Simon smiled at this dad. “It was good.”
“Big crowd?”
“Big enough. Lots of young people.”
“Yeah, I guess the kids enjoy that sort’a thing,” Preach said. “It’s just too cotton-pickin’ loud for me. When I can’t hear the words because the music is so loud, I don’t consider it a song.”
“It’s a matter of taste, Dad,” Preston answered. “People have just grown away from the old hymnals and the music we grew up with.”
Simon and Preach sat down at an empty table. A young waitress not more than sixteen years old approached them.
“Hey, Pastor Simon,” the girl said when she saw who it was. “That was a great concert last night. Skillet is so cool.”
Simon and his dad exchanged knowing glances. The girl’s comment just reinforced what Simon had said. “And hello there, Mr. Preach. I’ve not seen you around the church for a while. Did you make it to the concert?”
Preach shook his head. “Sorry darlin’, but I missed it. Maybe next time.”
“Could we get some coffee, Stacy?” Simon asked.
“Sure thing. Do you want to order breakfast too?”
“In a minute.”
Stacy returned to the counter to get the coffee pot. “The kids call you by your first name?” Preach asked his son.
“Uh-huh.”
“That would’a never happened when I was pastoring,” Preach said. “Everyone called me Reverend or Brother Preston. None of this first name business, especially with the kids.”
“It’s a different day, Dad. The old ways are a thing of the past.”
“Only if you let them be, son. People will do whatever you tell them to.”
“It’s not like that anymore, Dad.” Simon sipped at the coffee Stacy had poured while the two men had been talking.
“People want a certain degree of independence. And young people are smarter now than they’ve ever been. There are more college educated couples in the church now than ever before. They’re not blind followers like they used to be.”
“They’ll do what they’re told and believe whatever they’re taught!” Preach snapped. “Most people don’t have the capacity for individual thought.”
“But Dad...”
“People are sheep and they’ll follow a shepherd!” Preach pointed at his son. “You can’t let’em run wild. And if that shepherd stops leading, they’ll go astray. Next thing you know they’ll be smokin’ and drinkin’, goin’ to movies and casinos. It takes a firm hand.”
Stacy returned to the table and took Simon and Preach’s order. She’d heard what Preach had said about church members being sheep. She had no idea he felt that way about the members of the church
she attended. But he was old, so she ignored his attitude.
“What did you want to talk to me about, son?” Preach asked. He was anxious to change the subject away from their current conversation.
Simon set his coffee cup aside. He was now reluctant to bring up the subject he’d discussed with his wife while his dad had been away on his last trip. “Just an idea we had, Dad.”
“Uh-huh?”
Simon bit is lower lip. “Well, sir,” he began. “What would you think about coming back to work at the church as an associate pastor?”
“Associate pastor? Me?”
“Yes sir,” Simon answered. “I need some help, and the people like you. You could settle down; get off the road for a while.”
Preach knew his son was sincere. But he also knew he’d never fit into the modern church paradigm that his son had created. Besides, he was on a mission, and he only had a few months left to finish it. How could he complete his mission if he were to settle down?
Preach laid his hand on Simon’s arm and leaned across the table so he could speak privately to his son without anyone else hearing him. “Simon, could I ask you a personal question?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Does God ever talk to you?”
“Talk to me, Dad?”
“Do you ever hear from God?” Preach asked. “Does he ever speak to you?”
“Well, not verbally. But I believe he speaks to me about sermon texts and other matters pertaining to the ministry.”
“But he never speaks directly to you where you know it’s his voice?” Preach persisted. “He never lets you know that he has something specific for you to do? Maybe a mission or a certain task he wants you to perform, even if you don’t fully understand his will?”
Simon leaned back in his chair and stared across the table at his father. He could see that his dad was sincere in his questioning.
“No, Dad,” he answered cautiously. “Nothing like that. Why? Have you heard from God about going on a mission’s trip or something?”
How can I confide God’s call in my life? How can I tell my son that God has embarked me on a mission of martyrdom that nobody will believe or understand and that will eventually end in my death or imprisonment?