by Paul Spencer
“A couple of days later, a car pulled alongside her while she was walking down the street. A guy jumped out and tried to drag her into the car. She managed to fight him off. She recognized the guy – he was one of the Elders’ sons, one of the ones who used to force feed her. So she took off for Denver, and she’s been keeping a low profile ever since.”
“Jesus, that’s sick.”
“Yeah, I know. There’s a lot more than that, too. She knew about the faith healing case. Apparently that stuff went on all the time. No one ever took their kids to the doctor. It was all just prayer and hope. It’s still almost impossible to find anyone who will talk to me, but what I have been able to verify is consistent with her story. And that manslaughter case bears it out. Oh, there’s something else, too,” she said.
“What?”
“After your call I did some research on Aaron Jones and his family. They’re all still in the church. Except his little sister, that is. She died three months ago. She was fifteen.”
“How did she die?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t get a cause of death. But I checked accident records, crime reports, that kind of thing. There wasn’t anything about a fifteen year old Oregon City girl dying violently around that time.”
“You think she died of an illness?”
“Correct.”
“And that her death was preventable? Another faith healing case?”
“Correct again. Give the man a prize.”
I rubbed my face. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.”
“I just remembered something. The night he died, when we were at the bar Aaron made some comment about my old friend telling me about his sister dying.”
“Did he say which old friend?”
“No, but he had to be talking about Larsen. There’s got to be a connection here. Aaron’s sister dies, and three months later he’s killed.”
“Keep going. I think you’re going to end up in the same place I did.”
“Well, you have to figure Aaron knew how his sister died. What if he was threatening to go to the police? Larsen wouldn’t like that at all.”
“Exactly. It would be interesting to know whether Mr. Jones had been in contact with anyone at the church lately. Maybe your investigator friend who’s so good with phone numbers could check to see if he’d made any calls.”
“Yeah, I’ll talk to Tony about that. There has to be something more, though. Even if it is another faith healing case, why would Larsen care enough to kill Aaron? All he’d really be facing is some more bad press.” I thought of something. “Hold on a minute. I’m going to make a call.”
I took out my phone and called Jan Derks. He answered right away.
“Jan, it’s Mick Wray again.”
“Michael! No contact for years and now twice in a couple of days. I assume you’re calling me about our religious friends?”
“Yeah. I think there might have been another faith healing death recently.”
“That would not be a surprise. Surely you didn’t call to tell me that?”
“No. What I didn’t mention before is that a guy I knew who used to be in the church ended up murdered recently, and I’ve got good reason to believe Arnold Larsen is involved. I just found out that my ex-acquaintance’s sister died at the age of fifteen, and it wasn’t in a car crash.”
“My, this is becoming quite the story. Tell me more.”
“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me more.”
“Michael, I told you already. My hands are tied.”
“All right, I’ll speculate. If Larsen is concerned enough to have someone killed, he’s in a lot deeper than just being a caring preacher.”
“I’d speculate that you are correct.”
“Maybe he’s involved in the cases. Preventing the families from seeking medical help, something like that.”
“You can do better than that, Michael. You know that wouldn’t make him criminally liable.”
“Yeah, you’re right. So he has to be in deeper.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
“Jesus, Jan, throw me a bone here.”
“I’d love to, my boy, but I’m afraid I have to go. Is it just me, or is it getting warm?”
He hung up. Linda looked at me expectantly.
“Well,” she said, “what did you find out?”
“He confirmed that we’re on the right track. The reason Larsen had Aaron killed is connected to the faith healing deaths. It’s nothing to do with Aaron’s crimes, real or imaginary. But I still haven’t figured out what the connection is. And I’m still not clear where I fit. It doesn’t explain why Larsen wants me dead.”
“Is it something to do with when you represented him?”
“At first I thought it was, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, it ended badly, but not that badly.”
“I’m intrigued,” she said, and finished her drink. “Tell me more.”
I’d known it would come up, but I wasn’t looking forward to telling the story all the same. I stalled by signaling for the bartender, and ordering us both a gin and tonic. I avoided Linda’s eyes while he made our drinks, but when I turned back, she was still looking at me.
“Well?” she said.
I sighed. “Okay, here’s the Cliffs Notes version. I was defending him on a racially motivated arson charge. I knew he was guilty, but I couldn’t prove it, and they don’t let you ditch a client mid-trial just because you have a bad feeling about him.
“Meanwhile, the DA made a dog’s breakfast of the prosecution case. I couldn’t stand to see the prick go free, and my life was falling apart anyway, so I showed up in court drunk so the judge had to declare a mistrial. I got disbarred, and he got a guilty verdict and a short jail sentence at the retrial.”
“Wow,” Linda said. “That’s either the most noble thing I’ve heard in a long time, or one of the worst excuses for a fuckup ever.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I see what you mean, though. It’s not enough to kill you for.”
“No. And that’s where I’m stuck. My only other connection to Larsen is that I knew Aaron. That isn’t enough either.”
“It can’t be that. It has to go back to your relationship with Larsen. Something connected to the faith healing deaths. We’re assuming he killed Mr. Jones because of what he knew, something he was threatening to reveal. He must think you know something too.”
“But what? My memory of that time might not be great, but I’m sure I would have remembered anything he said about people dying.” I took a drink, and suddenly it hit me. I pulled out my phone and dialed Tony.
“What is it, Mick?”
“You know the self-storage place in the old warehouse at Second and Morrison? Under the east end of the bridge?”
“Yeah, I think so. Why?”
“Meet me there in a half hour. I think we might be able to find out why Larsen wants me dead. I’ll explain when we get there.” I hung up.
“What was all that about?” Linda said.
“Larsen doesn’t think I have information on him,” I replied, and gulped down my drink. “He knows I do.”
Chapter 22 – Back in the Day
“You coming?” I said to Linda, as I fished some cash out of my pocket and threw it on the bar.
“Coming where?”
“I keep my old files in a storage unit. There’s a bunch of boxes from when I represented Larsen, including a lot of church documents. Larsen knows what I have because he gave it to me. Now we have to find it.” I pulled my jacket on. “Well?”
“You’re driving,” Linda said, and headed for the door.
We got in my car and headed east down Everett. I took a short cut through Old Town to avoid the Burnside traffic. As usual, a large crowd of homeless people lined the block by the Rescue Mission. Most of them huddled close to the buildings, trying to stay out of the rain. But some people just lay on the sidewalk. The lucky ones had blue plastic tarps to cover themselves. Portland
had more homeless people than you could shake a stick at. You’d think a liberal paradise like this one would find a way to give some shelter. Instead we were stuck with meaningless City initiatives and a bunch of sheltered rich people whose idea of helping out was buying tickets to gala charity dinners at two hundred bucks a pop. I shuddered involuntarily as we drove past the aimless crowd. Like a lot of people, I’d basically ignored homeless people for much of my life. But a few years ago I came all too close to joining their ranks, and now each time I drove through this part of town it reminded me of my narrow escape. I turned to Linda, mostly to distract myself.
“Tell me more about yourself,” I said. “Where do you live? Where are you from?”
“Well, that’s direct,” she replied. “Are you sure you’re not still a lawyer?”
“I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay, I’m just teasing. I’m from California, originally. Sacramento. But I moved up here about ten years ago. Now I live in Goose Hollow, in a townhouse that my mother’s life insurance bought me. And to save you the discomfort of asking, yes, I live alone.”
“Okay,” I said quickly. I decided to move to safer ground. “Do you write for anyone, or are you freelance?”
“I’m freelance. I hopped on the digital bandwagon early, so I have a good online client base. I’m doing okay, even though the print markets are drying up.”
We crossed over the Morrison Bridge, then swung around back towards the river. I parked in an angle spot on the disused rail tracks under the bridge. A cold wind whipped at my clothes as I climbed out of the car. It was dark in the shadows of the bridge. I shivered and zipped my jacket, then grabbed a flashlight out of the trunk.
“It’s over here,” I said, and pointed at a dimly-lit doorway in the western end of the warehouse building across the street. There weren’t any street lights, so I used the flashlight to guide us across the badly potholed pavement. Another car parked alongside mine as we reached the doorway, and Tony jumped out.
“Mick, what’s going on?” he said as he jogged across the street to join us. “Who’s this?”
“Tony, this is Linda Barton, the journalist you found.”
“Linda,” Tony said, and held out his hand.
Linda shook it with a wry smile on her face. “Nice work on the phone number. I think I’ll ask AT&T for my money back on the unlisted entry, though.”
“Yeah, well, you get what you pay for,” Tony said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Enough of the chit chat, you two,” I said. “I’m freezing out here.”
I punched my combination into the keypad on the door, and swung it open. There were no lights on inside, as usual. I flicked the switch by the door, but nothing happened. There was a reason this was the cheapest storage place around. The flashlight gave off enough light for me to lead us down the hall to my storage unit. I hadn’t been here in about a year, but nothing looked different. I unlocked the padlock on my unit’s door and opened it, then pulled the light string. A single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling lit up, swirls of dust motes dancing in its harsh glow.
My unit was a ten by six space, the walls lined with ceiling-high stacks of bankers’ boxes, and it smelled of damp cardboard. The space in the middle was cluttered with miscellaneous junk. A couple of lamps, an end table, a box of shoes. Just about everything Sarah had let me keep in the divorce.
“How are we going to find what we’re looking for?” Linda said. “There has to be a hundred boxes here.”
“Believe it or not, they’re organized alphabetically.” I shoved the end table aside and shone my flashlight on the boxes on the far wall. “Larsen should be about here.”
It only took a minute to find the boxes labeled “Larsen, A.” There were five of them, and fortunately they were near the top of the stack.
“Tony, give me a hand over here, would you?” I said.
Tony squeezed past Linda. Between the two of us we pulled out the Larsen boxes and stacked them in the hall.
“Now what?” Linda said.
“We go back to my place and start digging through this lot,” I replied. “Somewhere in here is the reason Larsen wants me dead.”
“Let’s take them to my place,” Tony said. “There’s more room to spread out.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Give me a hand getting these in the car. Linda, you can ride with me.”
I shut off the light and locked my unit. Tony and I took two boxes each, and Linda took one. I wedged the flashlight between my arm and a box so we could see our way to the door.
When we got outside the cold wind hit me like a slap in the face. We loaded the boxes into my trunk as quickly as we could. Tony ran back to his car, and I opened the passenger door for Linda. She raised her eyebrows at me as she got inside, but I didn’t say anything.
We drove over to Tony’s place and carried the boxes inside. Tony went to the basement to fetch wine while I lined the boxes up on the dining room floor.
“Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here,” I said, and took the lids off the first two boxes. “Linda, can you give me a hand?”
She frowned at me. “Isn’t this violating attorney-client privilege or something?” she said.
“What are they going to do – disbar me? Come on.” I pulled a stack of papers out of the first box. “Ignore anything double-spaced or formatted like this,” I said, and waved a document at her. “That’s the legal stuff. Depositions, pleadings, court transcripts, and the like. Anything in those is public record, so I doubt Larsen would want to go after me for it. But there should be a ton of other stuff in here.
“I defended Larsen on First Amendment religious freedom grounds, and to do that I had to prove that his church qualified as a bona fide religion. He gave me piles of church documents for that part of the case. I’m guessing at the time he didn’t realize that what he gave me could come back to haunt him. Let’s see what we can find.”
I grabbed a pile of papers out of the first box and put it on the table in front of her, then grabbed another stack for myself. Tony brought in a bottle of Abbot’s Table red and poured three healthy glasses, then grabbed some papers and joined in.
“Ignore the pleadings and exhibits,” I told him. “Focus on whatever hasn’t got a Bates number.”
We worked mostly in silence, flicking through piles of paper, putting some aside and reading others more deeply. Every now and then one of us would get up and grab another stack of papers, start again. After a couple of hours, we were halfway through the fourth box and deep into our third bottle of wine. Linda slammed a handful of papers down on the table.
“Mick,” she sighed, “I have no fucking idea what I’m looking for.”
I pushed my chair back and ran a hand through my hair. “Neither do I,” I admitted, “but it has to be in here somewhere. What kinds of documents have you found so far?”
“All kinds of things. Property records. Copies of sermons, attendance records for their school and church, financial ledgers. Nothing I’d want to kill anyone for. Maybe kill myself out of boredom, though.”
I knew how Linda felt. I’d had the same experience. Plenty of meaningless records, nothing of any significance.
“How about you, Tony? You find anything?”
“Nah, not really. Some medical records for Larsen and a couple of the other Elders. I took a look through those. A couple of interesting diagnoses, but nothing worth killing for. It’s not surprising that their religious objection to medical treatment doesn’t extend to themselves.”
“Look, we’re nearly done. Let’s get through this last box tonight. You never know.”
Tony and Linda looked at me skeptically, but kept going. I took another pile of papers and tried to focus. It was getting late, and the wine didn’t help. One page blurred into the next. I found myself skimming over several sheets at a time, not really taking in any of what was on them. I pushed on through the remaining documents without expecting much, and I wasn’t disappointed.
&nb
sp; “Well, that was a waste of time,” Linda said.
“We must be missing something,” I replied, without much conviction. “It has to be in here.”
“Maybe you’re right, but I’m done looking for the night. It’s after midnight.” She took her phone out of the purse.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling an Uber.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“Not after that much wine, you won’t. Don’t worry; I’m not quitting the team. Call me tomorrow. Maybe we can get together when you’re done with work.”
“Okay.”
I couldn’t believe we hadn’t turned up anything. I had been certain that the incriminating information had to be in my files. Now I didn’t know where to look. Still, at least Linda wanted to see me again. That made me feel guilty about my hookup with Robin the night before. It was done now, though. Time to push on.
I looked at my empty wine glass. “Tony, you got any more of that bourbon?”
Chapter 23 – Bad News
I woke up with a storming hangover, my head pounding and my stomach feeling like a bucket of acid. Tony and I had taken a second pass at the documents after Linda left. We didn’t find anything useful, but we did kill the best part of a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle.
I stumbled into the bathroom for a long leak. A haggard face stared back at me from the mirror as I washed my hands. I gargled some water, spat out the worst of the acid, then went back into the bedroom and got dressed. I was tying my shoes when my phone rang.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Wray, it’s Detective Buchanan. Where are you?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. We need to talk to you.”
“Why?”
“Because Elder Walter Robbins of the Servants of Christ Church was found murdered this morning. That’s why. Now where are you?”
“What? You’re kidding!”