A Specter of Justice (10 page)

“I'm really sorry,” I said.

“Thanks.” The word choked in his throat. He faced me and blinked back tears. “I guess you heard Molly and I used to be together.”

“Nakayla mentioned it.”

He stepped closer. “I'm going to be the one to get the bastard, Sam. It's my case.”

The warning to me was clear. Efird took my presence at his crime scene as proof I was an intruder. He appreciated my theory, but not my involvement.

“You know who booked the room?” he asked.

His question was rhetorical. I knew he meant to surprise me with the answer.

“Hewitt Donaldson,” I said.

A scowl eclipsed the dawning triumph on his face. “Who told you that?”

“Hewitt Donaldson.” I stated it like everyone in Asheville knew.

“Did he say why? And don't give me any of his lawyerly bullshit.”

I wasn't about to betray Hewitt before he could give his reasons to Newland. But, if I clammed up, Efird would shut me out of any information he might have.

“He negotiated with Grove Park to be one of the sponsors of the fundraiser. I guess it included a room for Lenore to change for her pink lady portrayal.”

“For two nights?”

“Maybe the costume was supposed to be delivered earlier in the day. Maybe there were other props to be stored. You'll have to ask Hewitt.”

“Oh, I'll ask him all right.”

I looked across the open atrium to where the gurney disappeared around a corner. “How are they exiting?”

“The manager showed us a route to a service elevator. The inn is public enough without parading Lenore's body through the front door.”

“Could the killer have used the service elevator?”

“Maybe. But it's keyed. That doesn't mean someone didn't have a duplicate. Firemen carry them to override control in an emergency.”

“Video surveillance?”

“Some, but there are gaps in coverage areas. If our guy scouted the place, he could work around them. We did see the van that new lawyer Peterson drove parked in the lot last night so his alibi for Molly checks out. He didn't leave till after Molly's body appeared. The time matches to when he showed up trying to get to the bridge.”

I remembered both he and Nathan Armitage came to the roadblock.

“Have you searched for any tire treads here?”

Efird nodded. “Yeah. The room's getting a thorough exam. The housekeeper backed out the door as soon as she saw Lenore. No one else entered until we came.”

Getting answers from Efird was like pulling teeth. “So, did you find any?”

“No. But any loose dirt could have come off between the killer's vehicle and the room.”

And gurney wheels could be confused with wheelchair wheels, I thought. “Where was the body?”

“She was face-up on the floor, arms and legs splayed.” Efird looked over the balcony. “Like she'd fallen from a great height.”

I stared at the courtyard below. “Like the Pink Lady.”

“I wonder why he didn't throw her over for real?” Efird said. “Like he did Molly.”

“Too dangerous. The atrium is well lit. Someone could unexpectedly come out of any room on any level or walk through the Palm Court no matter the hour.”

“You think he's done?” Efird asked.

“I don't know. What do you think?”

Efird rubbed the back of his neck, trying to press out his exhaustion. Then his eyes bore into mine with unrelenting determination. “Sam, we'll know if he's done when we learn why he began.”

Chapter Eleven

I usually spent Sunday mornings with coffee and the
New York Times
. Occasionally, when the Spirit and Nakayla moved me, I would join her for services at Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, one of the larger African-American churches in Asheville and where her family had been members for generations. But on the Sunday after the two murders, I suggested Nakayla accompany me to the Church of the Righteous to get a first-hand view of the preacher, Horace Brooks, and hear for myself if he could have been the mystery caller who left that offensive voicemail.

“We don't want to draw attention,” I said. “So, when they pass the snakes, handle them like it's no more unusual than passing the offering plate.”

Nakayla laughed. “If the snakes come out, the only fear I have is that you'll trample me running for the door. I think we'll draw more attention as an interracial couple than novice snake handlers. Some of these ultra-conservative churches consider us an abomination.”

I exited off I-40 onto Highway 23, following the directions posted on the church's web page. The Internet site had been more sophisticated than I'd expected with links to prayer chains, daily devotions, and, of course, a donation icon.

“Do you know anybody who goes there?” I asked.

“When I worked insurance investigations, a couple tried to pull a scam with fake medical bills from a minor car wreck. I'd caught them dead-to-rights, but they didn't want us to press charges because they said they'd planned to give the money to their church, the Church of the Righteous.”

A light rain started sprinkling. I flipped on the CR-V's wipers. “Sort of a reverse of the devil made me do it. The preacher made me do it.”

“Yeah. That was the first time I'd heard of Horace Brooks.”

“Was he implicated?” I asked.

“That's the funny thing. When I told them I'd check on any church collusion, they panicked. Made a full confession that they'd devised the fraud on their own.”

“Were they scared of Brooks?”

“Maybe. More likely they didn't want the humiliation that would come with the expanded investigation.”

“What happened to them?”

“They paid a fine and received suspended sentences. I never thought about them again until now.”

I took my eyes from the road and saw a wry grin on her face.

“What do you bet we sit in the pew right beside them?” she asked.

“I'm not taking that wager. Think they'd recognize you?”

“Probably. But I'd bet my last dollar you'll be recognized. Your picture was in the paper for both the Atwood trial and Molly's death.”

I hadn't thought about my sudden notoriety. In my mind, we'd slip into the church on a back pew or chairs, and then get an up-close look at Brooks after the service. I figured like most preachers, he'd glad-hand his congregants as they left through the front door.

“Maybe you ought to go in alone,” I suggested.

“Oh, no, hotshot. This was your idea. You're seeing it through.”

The rain intensified and I leaned closer to the windshield. “Then we'll hide under an umbrella.”

“Slow down,” Nakayla ordered. “The turn to the church is coming up. It's a left.”

“What's the street name?”

“Heavenly Way.”

I couldn't have missed the celestial road if I'd tried. Left lane traffic stopped as no fewer than ten cars lined up to make the turn across the highway.

“Maybe we're backed up because they charge for parking,” I said. “Or Heavenly Way is a toll road.”

“Don't be snide,” Nakayla admonished. “Just because it's not our cup of tea doesn't mean there aren't good people coming here. Horace Brooks must be tapping a need.”

“Yeah. And tapping their wallets at the same time.”

Nakayla scowled at me.

“Okay. I'll be on good behavior. Let's just get inside without having to talk to anyone.”

The cars suddenly moved forward. At the turn, an off-duty sheriff's deputy held up oncoming traffic.

“Better than a light,” Nakayla said.

Heavenly Way appropriately ascended the side of a ridge for at least a quarter mile until the trees gave way to a clearing. In the center stood a large metal building that could have been a warehouse, a gymnasium, or an airplane hangar. Money had gone for maximum square footage and not for architectural design. The only clue that the structure was a church came from the stone facade framing double front doors and extending about twenty feet away from the main wall. This entry served as the base for a blood-red cross mounted to its roof. At least the cross wasn't neon.

Umbrellas populated the parking lot like mushrooms and flowed back and forth from the church to the arriving vehicles. I realized my low-key entrance would be impossible. Greeters weren't simply saying hello at the door. They were out in the rain escorting people from their cars.

“They get an A for customer service,” Nakayla said.

“Let's park at the far end where it's more isolated,” I said. “We can hide under our umbrellas before we're surrounded by good Samaritans.”

I pulled next to a dumpster in the back corner. “There's an umbrella on the floor behind you.” I scrambled out and retrieved the second umbrella on my side. The rain now blew at an angle and I cursed myself for not wearing a raincoat over my sport coat and tie. I clicked the release button and the umbrella sprang open.

“Sam, we can't use these.” Nakayla tilted her umbrella toward me.

I'd forgotten Jerry Wofford had given out these complimentary umbrellas to the volunteers on Friday. His Crystal Stream logo and a pint of golden lager adorned the surface. Beneath the beer in bold, yellow lettering was the tag line: Divinely Devised, Devilishly Delicious. I looked over my shoulder and saw a man and woman headed for us.

“Too late. Angle it away and let's move.”

The greeters quickened their stride to intercept us. To my surprise, the man was African-American and the woman, Latina.

“Good morning,” the man said. “The Lord be with you.” He appeared to be around thirty. The woman might have been ten years older.

I wasn't sure how to respond. Fortunately, Nakayla answered, “And also with you.”

The woman looked at my CR-V. “You could have parked a little closer.”

“We wanted to save plenty of spaces for those who might not be as able-bodied,” Nakayla explained.

I had to admire how easily she handled the situation, all the while moving us closer to the door.

The man extended his hand, first to Nakayla and then to me. “Very considerate. My name is Earl and this is Roberta. Glad you are joining us on this,” he looked up to the heavens, “day of aquatic rejuvenation.”

“That's one way of putting it,” I said, feeling like I should at least demonstrate that I had vocal cords. “We're glad to be here. Please don't let us keep you from others who need assistance.”

Roberta nodded. “We just wanted to say, welcome. We're all family here.” They turned and headed for a van with a handicapped tag dangling from its rearview mirror.

More greeters lined the steps to the front door. It was like running a gauntlet of good wishes. As we walked into the sanctuary, I expected to be handed a bulletin and escorted to a seat. Instead, an elderly gentleman in a worn gray sport coat asked us if we needed hearing assistance.

“No,” I said. “We can sit in the back.”

“Sit where ere ya like,” he drawled in a soft mountain twang. “I've got these if ya need 'em.” He moved to one side and revealed a table piled with electronic over-the-ear headsets, the wireless kind I'd used for those self-guided museum exhibition tours. “Let me take those wet umbrellas,” he insisted. “I'll put them in the draining rack just inside the door. Don't want any puddles the old-timers could slip in.”

The guy had to be in his late eighties. His old-timers must have been one year younger than God.

“Come see me afterwards,” he said. “I'll fetch 'em for ya.”

Nakayla and I handed him the beer logo umbrellas, now collapsed into non-distinguishable colors, and looked for seats.

There were no pews. Instead, about five hundred cushioned, folding chairs were arced in a huge semicircle around a stage. Two main aisles split the rows into three sections. Nakayla and I moved to the left and found two seats at the far end of the last row. She let me sit on the outside where I could stretch my prosthetic leg for comfort. I already felt a little dampness from the rain that had seeped between the stump of my limb and the device.

Unlike the Presbyterian church in which I grew up, the seats were filling from the front. As the time neared eleven, it became apparent that no one else would probably sit in the three or even four last rows. So, instead of hiding in a crowd, Nakayla and I managed to catch the eye of everyone walking down our side of the sanctuary.

Most people smiled or nodded a welcome, understanding that we were visitors dipping our toe in their congregational pool. If anyone recognized me, they masked their reaction well. That was until Cletus and Nelda Atwood arrived.

“Look away,” Nakayla whispered.

Of course, I did the opposite and stared straight into their faces as they passed our row. Nelda paled while Cletus' cheeks burned red as hot coals. He took a step toward us, but his wife grabbed his arm.

At that moment, an electric guitar chord resounded through the room. The worshipers rose to their feet and I saw a band in place to the right of the stage. A choir filed in from both wings and met in the center. Purple curtains that framed the back wall and stage wings parted to reveal large projector screens. Lights dimmed as the screens brightened. Video of a brilliant blue sky and puffy white clouds filled all three screens. The point of view matched a pilot's perspective as a jet climbed swiftly. Then, in the distant heavens, a cross the color of the one over the church entrance, the same blood-red hue as the choir's robes, grew larger. When it filled the screen, gold rays bloomed behind it and the band struck the downbeat of a praise hymn I didn't recognize.

Words began rolling up the video screens and I understood why there were no bulletins or hymnals. What I'd assumed was a backwoods mountain church turned out to be a temple of technology.

People raised their hands over their heads and joined the choir. The lyrics were simple and the tune hypnotic—“Jesus is good to me, he wants good for me, if his I will always be, Jesus will take care of me.” That was the chorus with the verses being only slight variations.

I'm not the most schooled in theological matters, but I am a theist and respectful of any faith devoted to a benevolent God. One of my closer friends in the military, Randy Moffit, had been a chaplain in Iraq. I attended his services sporadically, but really enjoyed one-on-one conversations over a couple of beers. Randy summed up this hymn, what I suspected to be this church, and what he called Prosperity Gospel in one sentence—“Jesus is my boyfriend and he's going to buy me presents.”

The final chorus ended with a long, exuberant Amen. As the congregation sat, Horace Brooks strode on stage, his image magnified three-fold by the giant screens. There was neither podium nor pulpit. The preacher stood in the center wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt, and striped yellow tie. He smiled and stretched out his arms.

“God is in this place.” His voice boomed through the speakers so loudly I wondered why anyone would ever need the headsets dispensed by the old gentleman. On the TV close-up, I noticed a wireless microphone clipped just below the knot in his tie. The earpiece in his right ear must have provided program feedback.

“Amen!” shouted the congregation.

“Jesus is in this place,” Brooks proclaimed.

“Amen!” responded the congregation.

“And the Holy Spirit moves among us.” Brooks made a rippling motion with his hands like the current of a mountain stream.

I offered a hearty “Amen!” But the congregation in unison said, “Open my heart to receive him.” I decided to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the service.

“Then let us go to our God in prayer.” Brooks bowed his head.

I closed my eyes and the preacher launched into a five-minute prayer that my friend Randy Moffit called a “just wanna.” “Lord, we just wanna praise you.” “Lord, we just wanna thank you.” Randy wasn't mocking or belittling either the prayer or those who pray it. He was rebuking a fellow chaplain who made a disparaging remark about some of the more fundamentalist believers he encountered. Randy pointedly said at least they prayed and did so with a degree of humility often missing from those who simply mouthed words from a prayer book.

My mind snapped back from that Baghdad debate when I heard Brooks say, “And Lord, we just want you to deliver us from the demons in our midst. Those who would destroy marriages, those who would destroy families, those who would cause others to destroy themselves.” I wanted to open my eyes and see if he was pointing at Nakayla and me. If everyone had turned around to gaze upon the two demons in their midst. Was Brooks pumping up his congregation for a good stoning?

“Drive out those demons of alcoholism, of adultery, of persecution, bullying, and poverty that destroy hope and nurture despair. We ask these things in the name of the one whose spilled blood demonstrates love and forgiveness. We who are unworthy yet valued in the Kingdom of Heaven pray, “Our Father …”

The congregation completed the Lord's Prayer with a jubilant “Amen.”

Brooks seamlessly went into the recitation of scripture, quoting from the first chapter of the Gospel of Mark telling of Jesus' confrontation with demons possessing a man in the synagogue. How they sought to reveal his identity before the proper time. Brooks directed our attention to the screens where the Bible words appeared, some in black and some in red. We were instructed to read the ones in black aloud, the words of the demons. The ones in red, Jesus' words, were dramatically spoken by Brooks. It was a good technique, a creative way to engage everyone with the passage.