The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

“He’s going to kill again. If he holds to his pattern, it won’t be for another three weeks, so we have time to alert all agencies what to watch for.”

  Morris turned toward Benjamin. He laid the photographs on the table.

  “You a psychic too, rookie? How the hell do you know what to tell them?”

  “No sir, I’m not a psychic. But I know something you don’t.”

  “Do tell?” Morris said. “Okay smart ass, shuffle off some of that United Negro College boy education and see if you can deal an old gambler like me a hand I can play.”

  “I thought we had an agreement about the racial remarks. You were supposed to stop your African American wisecracks.”

  “African American my ass,” Morris said. “I’ve been around black people my whole life and I ain’t never met an African American.”

  “Now, Morris,” Keller said, “don’t start.”

  “Start what?” Morris asked. “I just don’t understand why black people in this country think they have to identify with Africa, that’s all.”

  Morris waved at Benjamin.

  “Take Benjamin here, for example. He’s no more African American than I am Irish American. Hell, I know where my ancestors came from but I don’t hang on to it like it’s the holy grail of my existence. Africa is a damn big continent. I’ll bet my pension right now that this boy can’t tell us what country in Africa his ancestors came from, can you George?”

  “You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be black in America, do you Agent Morris?” Benjamin asked. “You don’t have to wear the stigma of slavery on your face every day.”

  “Slavery? You wanna talk about slavery? Boy, you ain’t got one damn idea about slavery.”

  Morris sat back down on the couch and propped his feet up on the small coffee table.

  “If you wanna know about slavery, you better study this country’s history concernin’ the Irish that immigrated to America durin’ the potato famines in Ireland. Thousands of ‘em showed up on these shores without a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. They worked eighteen hours a day buildin’ cities and layin’ roads, workin’ for pennies a day with families to support and children to feed.”

  “Maybe so,” countered Benjamin. “But at least they were free to move on if they wanted to. They weren’t chained to a master’s wagon and sold and bartered like cattle.”

  “Sold and bartered?” Morris asked. “Son, do you even know how slavery started in this country?”

  “Sure I do. Slaves were brought here from Africa in ships…”

  Morris interrupted him. “Son, white men didn’t sell the black man into bondage. Slavery was started in Africa. Tribal chiefs sold the young men and women of their tribes to slavers for personal profit and gain. The African caste system created slavery as a supply and demand market, so if you wanna blame someone for blacks in America havin’ to live with the shame of slavery on their faces, you better blame your own great-great-grand pappy back in Africa, not me or mine.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” Benjamin exclaimed. He could feel anger boiling up inside of him.

  “You’re a Bible-reader, George,” Morris answered, unaffected by Benjamin’s outburst. “Read in there sometime about the Hebrews bein’ taken into slavery in Egypt.”

  “So?”

  “So Egypt is a country in Africa. Don’t believe what you see in the movies, boy. Yul Brynner wasn’t the pharaoh of Egypt. Black men enslaved the Jews long before blacks were ever slaves in America.”

  Benjamin just shook his head at Morris’ wild speculation.

  “And here’s one more little thing I’ll tell you that I know, even though I’m just an old Texas redneck,” Morris continued. “If you are indeed descended from slaves, you ought’a get down on your knees every night and thank God that your old grand pappy needed a new axe or string of beads, because otherwise you might still be in Africa runnin’ around the jungle naked chasin’ monkeys with a stick and spear instead of livin’ high on the hog here in the good ol’ U S of A.”

  Morris leaned back on the couch and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “Yes sir, in my opinion, slavery is probably the best thing that ever happened to the black man. He got a free ride to the shores of this country, got free room and board that my ancestors never got, and now has the NAACP, Jesse Jackson, and Al Sharpton lookin’ out for ‘em. Hell, they’ve even got a half-black cousin in the White House.”

  Morris raised his hands to Benjamin.

  “What more do you people want?”

  Keller laid her hand on Benjamin’s arm. “You’re not going to win this argument, so you might as well quit while you’re ahead.”

  “Ahead?” Morris asked. “Hell, he ain’t ahead. Don’t you know you can’t win an argument when you base your foundation on racism?”

  “But you just…”

  “I just what? I just clarified the fact that bigotry works both ways, and when a race starts believin’ that someone else owes them somethin’ because of the color of their skin, they’ve already lost the argument.”

  Morris leaned forward on the couch and pointed at Benjamin.

  “And I sure as hell don’t owe you somethin’ just because my great grandpa might’a owned your great grandpa. One thing ain’t got nothin’ to do with the other, so don’t give me none of that poor me African American bill of goods crap, because I ain’t buyin’. Try bein’ just plain ol’American for a while and lay down your crutches. You gotta make it on your own steam, son, and so do I.”

  Keller nudged Benjamin again.

  “You were going to tell us how you know what to tell the other agencies to watch for on our next victim.”

  Benjamin nodded. Damn! Why did this old fool have to make so much sense? Just when I was fixing to kick his ass out into the street, he says something intelligent in spite of his ignorance.

  Benjamin opened the PowerPoint presentation on the laptop computer, pulling up the list of apostles and victims. He added the name of Philip Carroll next to the name of the Apostle Philip. The next line on the list of victims was blank beside that of the Apostle Bartholomew. Thomas Waverly’s name was next to the Apostle Thomas.

  “We have to assume, LK,” Benjamin said to Keller, still amazed that Morris had hammered him on his African American heritage, “that the next victim will be someone named Matthew.”

  “You mean Bartholomew,” Keller said, still looking at the list of names on the computer screen.

  “No, LK. Matthew. We must assume that Bartholomew is already dead.”

  “That’s quite a leap of logic,” Keller said. “We don’t have any evidence that anyone named Bartholomew has been killed by this man.”

  “We have all the evidence we need,” Benjamin said. He tapped the laptop screen. “This man is killing people in the same order the disciples are named in the Bible.”

  “So?”

  “So Thomas, the seventh apostle is dead–killed this month. We have to assume that Bartholomew’s body hasn’t been found yet, or that we’ve missed his case in our search.”

  “Okay, Professor,” Morris said. “Tell us about Matthew. What should we be lookin’ for?”

  Benjamin flipped open a yellow legal pad lying on the table. Now was the time he hoped his seminary education and childhood training would reap rewards.

  “Well, first off, Matthew was a publican.”

  “A republican?” Morris asked. “How the hell…”

  “Not a republican, sir,” Benjamin interrupted, “a publican.”

  “What the hell is a publican?”

  The new words and phrases Benjamin was using had Morris wishing he was back with the Texas Highway Patrol where all he had to worry about were speeders, drug traffickers, and the occasional illegal Mexican border hopper.

  “A publican is a civil servant,” Benjamin explained.

  “Kind’a like us, right George?” Cooper asked.

  “Shut up, Cooper,” Morris ordered.


  “Actually, he’s right,” Benjamin said. “Matthew was a tax collector and accountant for the Roman government before Jesus Christ recruited him as a follower.”

  “An accountant and tax collector?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “The Apostle Matthew was a bookkeeper? He was an accountant for the Roman government?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “So what are you saying, George?” Keller asked. “That we should be watching for a victim named Matthew who is also an accountant?”

  “Or an IRS agent. Something like that.”

  “Then again,” Morris cut in, “his profession might not matter at all. Thomas Waverly didn’t have anything in common with the Apostle Thomas except his first name.”

  “Yes and no,” Benjamin replied.

  “Yes and no?” Keller asked.

  “Dear Lord in heaven, here we go again,” Morris said.

  Benjamin ignored Morris.

  “Thomas Waverly had more in common with the apostle than you think, and it had everything to do with his last name.”

  Keller laid her ink pen aside and marveled at Benjamin’s words.

  “You’ve figured something out that we don’t see, haven’t you George?”

  Benjamin had given the murder of Thomas Waverly quite a bit of thought since it was his murder that had prompted his assignment to this case.

  “Yes ma’am,” Benjamin said, unaware that he’d called her ma’am. “I believe Thomas Waverly was killed specifically because of his last name.”

  Morris propped his feet back up on the coffee table. “This I gotta hear.”

  “If the killer is really a minister of some kind that believes he’s on a mission from God, he would consider Thomas Waverly as confirmation of his mission.”

  “How’s that?” Keller asked.

  “His last name, LK. Don’t you see? The Apostle Thomas was called Doubting Thomas because he refused to believe in the resurrection of Christ until Jesus allowed him to touch his wounds.”

  “So?” Morris asked.

  “I get it!” Cooper exclaimed, leaping up from the table. “Damn! That’s brilliant!”

  The DC agents watched Cooper while he waved his hands in the air.

  “It’s as obvious as my red hair!”

  Morris groaned. That’s all we need—another rookie who thinks he knows what he’s doin’.

  “Sit down, Cooper!” Morris yelled. “You’re makin’ me dizzy!”

  Cooper sat back down at the table and leaned on his elbows toward Keller.

  “Don’t you see it, ma’am? Doubting Thomas—Thomas Waverly?”

  Keller had no idea what Cooper was talking about, and she doubted if he did either.

  “George,” she said, “tell me what the hell Woody Woodpecker here is talking about.”

  Cooper’s sudden outburst had given Benjamin the time he needed to gather his thoughts.

  “What Grundy is trying to say is that Thomas Waverly’s name literally means to doubt.”

  “Doubt?”

  “Uh-huh,” Benjamin answered. “It hit me when I remembered that note you wrote to Agent Morris in the car.”

  “Note? What note?”

  “I O U B T. Remember? I owe you big time?”

  “Sure but…”

  “I thought you had written doubt. D O U B T.”

  “So?”

  “So Doubting Thomas—Thomas Waverly,” Benjamin answered. “It occurred to me that this preacher probably made the same connection and considered it a sign from God.”

  “A sign?” Morris asked. “What kind’a sign? What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

  Benjamin knew that Morris didn’t see the connection between the Apostle Thomas and Thomas Waverly.

  “It’s a play on words, sir,” he explained. “To waver is another way to say to doubt.”

  “So?”

  “So Doubting Thomas and Thomas the doubter.”

  “My Lord,” Keller said. “I see it too.”

  Morris just shook his head.

  “So you think the killer made the connection and took it as a sign from God?”

  “That’s exactly what I think.”

  “A sign from God for what?” Morris yelled. “What the hell kind’a sign are you people talkin’ about?”

  “A sign, sir,” Grundy Cooper interjected, “that God provided his sacrifice and legitimatized the killer’s mission of murder.”

  “Not murder,” Benjamin corrected Cooper before Morris could say anything. “Martyrdom. He believes God has set him on a mission to martyr people in the same way the original apostles lost their lives.”

  Morris stood, crossed his arms, and began to pace the floor.

  “Let’s just say I buy this theory of yours,” he said. “I’m not sayin’ I do, but let’s just say I do.” Benjamin nodded.

  “If this nut-ball thinks he’s on a mission from God, and that God is leadin’ him to his victims, where do we go from here? How do we find his next victim before he does?”

  Benjamin keyed the laptop to the FBI’s database of most wanted criminals.

  “I say we send out a nationwide interagency bulletin and tag all missing persons’ reports for the name Matthew. We can even use keywords such as accountant or bookkeeper, IRS agent, that sort of thing.”

  “And hope something hits, right George?” Cooper asked again. Morris threw the rookie another menacing glare.

  “It’s a place to start,” Benjamin said.

  “What we need to do is identify this maniac and throw his ass in jail before he can send poor Matthew to the promise land,” Morris said. “And we’re not gonna do that by sittin’ here on our asses talkin’ about a victim that won’t happen for another three weeks.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We need to get this joker’s picture out to every agency and to the national media as a person of interest. Somebody out there knows him, or has seen him, recently.”

  “If he’s driving a motorhome, he’ll have to stop at overnight RV parks, won’t he?” Cooper asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Benjamin answered. “Most motorhomes are self-contained now, the better ones anyway, but that’s a good point.”

  “If he was driving it in Hot Springs, maybe someone at that church saw him and can describe it to us,” Keller said. “We need to contact that pastor.”

  “I’m on it,” Benjamin said.

  “Why are you on it?” Morris asked Benjamin.

  “You said it yourself, sir,” Benjamin answered. “I’m a Bible thumper. I speak their language.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Utah State Trooper drove past the black Kia for the second time this evening. He checked the clock on his dashboard. 10:30 p.m.

  Trooper Bobby Johnson noted in his log that the car had been parked in the truck parking area when he’d driven through the Ogden rest stop at 7 p.m. He really didn’t care if people parked away from the visitor center but he didn’t like it when cars posed a safety hazard to other traffic.

  Damn good way to get your little black car smashed by a big red truck this time of night.

  Johnson nosed his blue and white Chevy Impala close to the Kia so he could shine his high-beam swivel light onto the car. There didn’t appear to be anything unusual about the car except that it was parked in the wrong place and its owner had apparently decided to leave it there overnight.

  Could be broken down. Korean.

  Johnson stepped out of his patrol car, and with flashlight in hand circled the Kia, shining his light through each window. He lifted the handle on the driver’s door. It opened. The green flashing light from a Blackberry cell phone on its charger caught his eye, and a GPS unit attached to the windshield just below the rearview mirror would have been a tempting target for any would-be thief.

  Damn good way to get your stuff stolen, buddy.

  Business cards and other paraphernalia littered the car. A half cup of cold coffee stood in the console cup holder. Johnson picke
d up one the business cards off the passenger seat.

  “Matthew Barnes, Certified Public Accountant,” he muttered. “Damn strange.”

  He lifted the cell phone off of the charger and saw where a dozen calls from Barnes’ wife had been missed, the first call coming in at 8 p.m. and the last one only fifteen minutes ago. He pressed the call key on the cell phone, knowing it would dial the number of the last person to call it.

  “Matt!” a female voice answered. She sounded worried. “I’ve been calling all night. Where are you?”

  “Mrs. Barnes?”

  There was a short pause before anyone spoke.

  “Who is this?” the lady asked. “Where’s my husband?”

  This could be bad.

  “Ma’am, this is Utah State Trooper Bobby Johnson.”

  “Oh my God!” Dena Barnes exclaimed. “Is Matt hurt? Has there been an accident?”

  “No ma’am,” Johnson said. Why the hell did I call this number instead of dispatch?

  “Then why…”

  “Ma’am,” Johnson began. “I found your husband’s car parked at a rest area in Ogden.”

  “He had an appointment at six o’clock,” Dena Barnes said. “What do you mean you found his car? He’s not there?”

  “Do you know who he was supposed to meet, ma’am?” Trooper Johnson saw no reason to alarm the woman prematurely.

  “Just some man in a motorhome. A preacher from out of state.”

  “A preacher in a motorhome?”

  “Yes sir. I spoke with Matt just before he left his office. He said he’d be home between 7:30 and 8 o’clock.”

  “What time was that, ma’am?”

  “Around 5:30, I guess.”

  Dena Barnes’ voice choked. “You’re not telling me something. Is my husband alright?”

  Johnson could tell Mrs. Barnes was on the edge of hysteria. “Ma’am, have you filed a missing persons report with the local police?”

  “Missing persons report? No, I…”

  It wasn’t unusual for Matt’s appointments to run long but she’d never had cause to think he was ever in danger.

  “What’s your address, ma’am?”

  “3572 Glen Cove Drive in Ogden,” she said. “Officer, I don’t understand what’s…”

  “I’m going to call the city police and have them send an officer to your house, ma’am,” Johnson interrupted. He wrote the address on the back of the business card “They’ll file a missing persons report for you.”