Color of Justice (10 page)

They stepped into the building and Danny saw that the place had not changed much. They'd kept all the stained-glass windows and the pews were still as he remembered. But the confessionals were gone, replaced by more pews that didn't match the others.

The Holyland Survival Ministry had lost close to a million dollars in New Nubia.com. A lot of money for a church. Holyland was widely viewed as a fundamentalist cult because of its extreme views and practices. Danny was thinking that a disgruntled true believer might have done harm to the Bakers. It wouldn't be the first time someone had killed in the name of religion.

A heavyset black man walked into the sanctuary followed by two other black men. They moved quickly to Danny and Erik, who met them halfway across the expansive room.

“Can we help you?” asked the heavyset man. Danny noticed that all three men wore blazers that had
HSM
embroidered on the front pocket. They
were hard-looking men, not the kind you'd expect to see in a house of worship.

“We're detectives from Special Crimes,” said Danny as he flashed his badge. “We need to speak to the reverend.”

“About what?” asked the heavyset man. Now his voice had an edge of irritation in it.

“The reverend will know,” said Erik.

The heavyset man thought about this for a second, then led Danny and Erik through the church into an annex. They moved quickly into the office of the pastor. It was a nice office, the kind a businessman might have, only it was filled with religious decorations. Crucifixes, portraits of Jesus (black and white), framed passages of the Bible on colorful velvet. It was enough to save your soul just stepping inside.

“Cops here to see you, Rev,” said the heavyset man as Danny and Erik entered.

A tall, well-built man with sharp features stood up from behind the desk. He was dressed in an expensive suit. He looked more banker than minister.

“Thank you, Carl,” said the reverend. The three young men moved to the back of the room and stood, watching.

The reverend smiled at Danny and Erik and motioned them to sit, which they did. Danny preferred to conduct his interviews standing, but there was something commanding about the church, and he couldn't fight it.

Reverend Rashus Boltman was an all-state basketball player in the South during the seventies. He
was a fearsome power forward who was known for hard play and harder living off the field. He graduated from high school and took a scholarship to a college. But when he flunked out of school, he was thrown back into ghetto life without any hope of ever getting out again.

Boltman quickly found the drug crews and that life replaced his lost fame on the court. He lived pretty high for a while, but a bloody gang war killed all of his friends and sent him to prison for ten years. In prison, he found God and a new purpose in life. When he got out, the Reverend Bolt, as he was now called, dedicated himself to his new vocation and started a small storefront church, in the South which grew into a large one. His success led him to Detroit, where ministers were power brokers and community heroes.

“So, what can I do for you gentlemen?” asked Reverend Bolt.

“Unfortunately, we're here on business,” said Danny.

Reverend Bolt smiled at Danny. “You one of us, I see. I got two white members just out of the joint sound just like you.”

Danny didn't know whether this was a compliment or not. He decided the smile on Bolt's face meant it was.

“So, one of my congregation in trouble again?” asked Reverend Bolt.

“No, sir,” said Erik. “This is about the Bakers.”

Reverend Bolt's face showed no change in expression. He sat down and leaned back in his
leather chair, taking just a second to look up at the ceiling.

“My heart is still heavy for the loss of John and his wife,” Reverend Bolt said finally. “I understand that there is an investigation, a tracking of the killer.”

“Yes,” said Danny. “We believe the Internet company New Nubia was somehow involved. We understand that losses incurred by the church's investment resulted in some hardship.”

“Yes,” said the reverend. “We lost some funding—”

“Those people were devils!” said Carl loudly from the back of the room.

“Blasphemers!” the other two young men said.

“That's enough, Carl,” said Reverend Bolt, holding up a hand. The men quieted down obediently. Reverend Bolt turned back to Danny and Erik, pleased with his control over the men. “Excuse them, Detectives. They're full of the holy spirit.”

Danny thought about Reverend Bolt's rise to power and how it was not unlike the rise of a businessman, a politician, or a criminal. No one got to the top of his game by being a nice guy. He wondered what a man of God had to do to reach his pinnacle.

“New Nubia only listed how much money you invested, Reverend,” said Erik. “We need to know what that investment capital came from. So we'll need to see all of your records on the deal if you don't mind.”

“Actually, I do mind,” said Reverend Bolt. “My financial deals are kept strictly private. It's a church rule.”

“But don't you make the rules?” asked Danny.

“God makes the rules,” said Reverend Bolt. The other men in the room clapped at this. “I just do what's necessary to carry them out.”

“We respect that, Reverend,” said Danny, “but everyone else involved is cooperating. I wouldn't want your refusal to raise suspicion.”

“My ministry has taken its lumps,” said Reverend Bolt. “The righteous are always set upon, but God watches over this house, and that's all there is to it.”

Danny realized that he was up against more than a suspect. Reverend Bolt's life was his vocation. The black church's power in the community was legendary and formidable. It was the salvation of blacks from the time they arrived in the country and had produced almost all of its great leaders. The reverend was obviously unwilling to allow anyone to see just how much the Bakers had hurt his institution. He was not going to open up his church to the cops, the IRS, and the newspapers. To that end, he was standing behind God himself.

“If you change your mind, sir, you can call us,” said Danny. He had to tread softly with a man of God. Nothing was frowned upon more in Detroit than harassing a black minister.

“We won't be changing our mind,” said Reverend Bolt. “What's done is done.”

As they started to go, Danny had one more thing to ask.

“I notice a lot of your neighbors are leaving, selling their homes,” said Danny.

“We own those lots,” said Carl. Then he stopped suddenly as the reverend shot him a look.

“We haven't gotten around to removing the signs yet,” said Bolt casually. “This way, Detectives.”

Danny and Erik were not so much shown out as they were dismissed. Danny wasn't sure what the reverend's last statement meant. Were they buying up houses or trying to sell them?

Danny knew that Reverend Bolt had been giving a sermon on the night of the murder, but he still had deep suspicions. Bolt was a man who was not too far removed from the violent tendencies of his past. But he was no fool, and so Danny was more interested in where the three true believers in the back of the room were the night the Bakers were killed.

Cameron Cole hated Detroit. It was a sick, diseased pile of shit, a depraved animal that ate itself, populated by people who were less than human. And he knew this because he was one of those people, a ruthless, violent parasite who feasted on weakness and the good intentions of normal people; then again, this was his occupation and a man had to make a living.

Cameron collected the money from the young girl. She shoved the crumpled green paper into his hands impatiently. The newer bills made that beautiful crackling noise as he grasped them. Cameron counted the money quickly then sent the girl and her date into a back room. The couple smiled behind their wet, druggie eyes and staggered off, using each other for support.

“Wait,” Cameron called to them.

The couple stopped in their tracks, almost tumbling over in the process.

“Here, use this,” said Cameron as he shoved a condom at them.

“Thanks,” said the young girl, grabbing the small package. Then she continued her staggered walk into the back room.

Cameron checked his supply of condoms. He was getting low. He'd bought an economy box of fifty just two days ago and now he was down to ten. He made a mental note to go out and get more. Cameron didn't much care if they had safe sex, he just didn't like cleaning up when they didn't.

Cameron walked through his rented home. It was a large, boxy place with high ceilings and crown moldings that had terrible cracks in the corners. He rented the place from an old Jewish couple who lived in the suburbs. Cameron always paid in cash, on time, and they never bothered him.

As he moved through the house, he heard the moans and cursing attendant to people having sex. Even though he was disgusted by his street clientele, he was still turned on by the sound, and he wasn't above peeking through a door when he needed to.

Cameron ran a sort of motel for local drug-using women. The girls traded sex for drugs, but they needed a safe place to make the exchange. For a small fee, Cameron let them use his place. Business was good. It seemed the only thing people liked more than drugs was sex. And he had witnessed every kind of deviance and depravity you could think of. He even had a trick die in bed with a girl once. It was a
messy affair that had him dumping the body in an alley at three in the morning.

Cameron was a tall, thin man who had just turned fifty-three a few days ago. His hair was thinning badly and he was fond of jeans and T-shirts with logos. Today, he was wearing one that read
BACK THAT ASS UP
.

He was from what most people would call a good family. His father was a trucker and his mother, a postal worker. Cameron and his three siblings enjoyed a nice, peaceful, blue-collar family life. But Cameron, the eldest, was not satisfied with that life. He had shunned his parents encouragement to go to college and taken up with one street crew after another. Inevitably, he ended up in jail at fifteen. After that, he'd spent most of his life in prisons of one kind or another, his hope fading with his morality.

Cameron halted at a room just off the living room. He heard a particularly loud couple inside. He stopped to listen, and realized that it sounded like two men. He grew angry. He knew what that meant.

Cameron opened the door, which he told his girls never to lock. He looked inside and saw two men about twenty or so going at it with a girl who looked to be no more than sixteen. She was bent over by one man and had the other in her mouth. The men were loud and high-fived with each other over the girl's back.

Cameron slammed the door shut and the threesome stopped their activity. The girl pulled the man from her mouth and turned her face away.

“What the fuck is this?” demanded Cameron. “You know this freaky shit is extra.”

“Yo, man, we fuckin' in here,” said the man on the back end of the girl.

“I don't give a shit if you playing poker with Jesus, muthafucka,” said Cameron. “One of y'all snuck in here and that cost extra.”

Cameron waited as one of the men gave him some money. He counted it, then walked out of the room, ignoring the faint curses he heard behind him.

Cameron smiled a little as he went into the big bedroom at the front of the house. This was his room, his sanctuary. He was going to close up for a while, take a break. Setting his own hours was one of the few things about being in this business he liked. He shoved his money into this pocket as he walked inside.

“What the fuck—” said Cameron as he entered and saw the three young men in his room.

Cameron reached for his gun, a 9 mm he kept in his waistband. But before he could get to it, Rimba Bady's knife sailed into his shoulder.

Akema then kicked Cameron in the face and he fell to the floor. Cameron felt hands over his body, searching, hitting. Finally, a foot crashed into the side of his face. He felt a rag being stuffed into his mouth as his hands were bound in front of him and he was sat upright on the floor.

“Wha'sup?” said Muhammad. “We need to talk to you.”

Muhammad motioned Akema to get a waste
basket that was across the room. Rimba turned on a boom box and blasted out a song by the Ruff Ry-ders. Muhammad got closer to Cameron so he could hear him.

“Herman Bady is our father,” said Muhammad.

Cameron's face contorted at the sound of the name. Whatever memories he had of Herman were not good.

“You was his cell mate in Texas,” said Muhammad. “You used to pull jobs together after you both got out, only he'd changed his name by then. You was his boy, probably had sex with him in the joint.”

Cameron shook his head vigorously at this statement.

“No?” said Muhammad. “Well, whatever. I know you keep in touch with him. Where is he?”

Cameron shook his head again. Muhammad sighed, then took off Cameron's belt and wrapped it around his left arm. He then placed Cameron's belted arm over the wastebasket. Cameron began to struggle and shake, acknowledging that he knew what this meant.

Muhammad took Rimba's knife from Cameron's shoulder and cut a deep gash in Cameron's forearm. Cameron winced and grunted under his gag. Blood poured out of the cut, running and twisting in evil patterns through the hair on his arm. The coppery smell of it filled Muhammad's nostrils. The blood stopped as Muhammad pulled on the belt tighter.

“You remember this from the joint, don't you?”
said Muhammad. “The red dam? Tell me where he is or I'll let you bleed.”

Cameron's eyes got bigger as he realized that they meant to kill him. He nodded his head vigorously as Muhammad took off the gag.

“He's here…in Detroit,” said Cameron.

“We know that, nigga,” said Muhammad. “Where?” He loosened the belt and more blood flowed.

“I don't know!” yelled Cameron. His eyes rolled and Muhammad stopped the flow of blood. “Herman sent me a letter when I was locked up in Kentucky,” said Cameron. “Said he had a scam running here in the city or something like that. It came from some place in Detroit….” Cameron fell silent trying to remember.

Muhammad pressed on Cameron's wounded arm making it bleed faster and causing pain. Cameron yelled loudly and twisted his body.

“What place?” asked Muhammad through gritted teeth.

“Damn,” said Cameron. “It started with an
O
—Oasis! That's it. It came from a place called Oasis.”

“Where's the letter?” asked Muhammad.

“I didn't keep the shit,” said Cameron. “It was just a letter from an ex-con.”

“Oasis,” Muhammad said softly. “Is that all?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Cameron. “I swear, that's all I know, man.”

Muhammad pulled the belt tighter until all of the bleeding stopped. He then put the loose end
into Cameron's other hand. Cameron held it tightly and expelled a big breath.

Muhammad stood and held out his hand. Cameron raised his bound hands, thinking Muhammad meant to help him up from the floor. Instead, Rimba handed him Cameron's gun. Cameron's eyes grew wider at the sight of the weapon. Rimba turned the music up full blast as Muhammad aimed the gun at Cameron's forehead and fired.