Until Proven Guilty (9780061758225)

by Jance, Judith A.

  Peters made himself some tea while I paced the confines of my tiny kitchen. “What do you suggest we do with her while we listen to the tape?” he asked.

  “I give up.” I was long on embarrassment and short on ideas right then. I had told Anne she could stay as long as she liked, but I couldn’t have her in the room while Peters and I listened to our illicit tape.

  Peters carried his cup into the living room. He took my chair. I sat on the couch next to a cross-legged Anne. It disturbed me to be next to her. I wanted to touch her, but not in front of Peters. I didn’t want to soften my image—whatever was left of it.

  Peters looked at Anne. “Do you mind if we play a tape?”

  Anne contemplated Peters with her direct, gray gaze. “Do you want me to leave? I can go in the other room.”

  Peters glanced in my direction, then nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”

  Obligingly, Anne rose. “I’ll go get dressed then,” she said. Much to my dismay, she leaned over and gave me a familiar peck on the cheek as she went by. The robe fell open, allowing me a fleeting glimpse of flesh and curve.

  Once she was out of the room, Peters pointed an accusing finger at me. “You assole,” he said. “If you’d told me yesterday, I never would have tagged along with you to lunch.”

  I didn’t feel like explaining that, yesterday at lunch, I hadn’t known either. “Play the tape, Peters,” I said wearily. “Just play the tape.”

  He did.

  At first there were indistinguishable noises, openings and closings of doors that weren’t followed by sufficient noise to keep the recorder running. Eventually, however, there was a murmur of voices punctuated by coughs and clearings of throats, the sounds of a fitful crowd settling itself. Then Pastor Michael Brodie’s voice, stentorian and clear, filled my tiny living room.

  “Brethren, we come together this evening as Believers in the one True Faith, as Partakers of the one True Life. We are the chosen generation, a royal priesthood. Are there any here who doubt that we are the People of God?” There was a pause with no answer. Brodie’s voice was that of a born orator sounding a call to arms.

  “We have come to this place as strangers and pilgrims. There are none of us here who did not once walk in lasciviousness and lust. Our Lord did not come to call the righteous. He came to call the sinners, and those of us who have seen and heard are here, Brothers and Sisters. We are here! Praise God.” A chorus of amens echoed on the tape.

  “Are we going to have to listen to the whole fucking sermon?” Peters asked.

  “Looks that way,” I told him.

  “We have spoken many times how, in the early days, the Romans were the law of the land. In Romans 7:4 it says, ‘Wherefore, my brethren, ye also are become dead to the law by the body of Christ.’ Let there be no mistake about it. That means that once we are in Christ, once we have set ourselves firmly on His path, we are dead to the law of the land. We are apart from it. It has nothing to do with us. And when we return to the law of the Romans, the law of the flesh, we turn our backs on The Way, for it is impossible to live in the world of the flesh and the world of the spirit at the same time.

  “The scripture goes on to say, ‘For when we were in the flesh, the motions of sins, which were by the law, did work in our members to bring forth fruit unto death. But now we are delivered from the law, that being dead wherein we were held; that we should serve in newness of spirit, and not in the oldness of the letter.’

  “Did you hear that, Brothers and Sisters? Did you hear that? It says we are delivered from the law. Delivered! Cut loose! Living under the Roman law shackles us, delivers us to death. It is only by living completely and totally in our newness of spirit that we find Life, Life Everlasting.” Again we heard the echoing amens.

  “He’s really tuning up now. Getting into his act.”

  “Shut up, Peters. I’m trying to listen.”

  “…was in this newness of spirit that we made the leap of faith that brought us here to this city. It took courage for each of us to leave the old ways behind. Each of us left friends and family and possessions. We all made sacrifices to be here, trusting that we had found the True Pathway to Christ. In doing so, each of us has taken a vow to lean not on our own understanding. We have sworn to be subject one to another, to submit ourselves to the elders, to humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God that He may exalt us in due time.

  “We have found that there are those who would revile us for mortifying our members, who falsely accuse us of evil when in fact we who suffer for righteousness’ sake are content and unafraid. There is one of our number here tonight who has brought herself to be purged of sin. In her hour of trial she turned from the teaching and cast herself back into the old ways, turning away from the Law of the Spirit to the carnal law. Sister Suzanne, will you rise and stand before the Brethren.”

  There was a pause and some audible shuffling in the congregation. “Last night, Sister Suzanne stood before you and confessed her sin, that when Angel, her worldly daughter, was missing, she secretly called the police, bringing the power of the Romans back into our midst.

  “We know Jehovah has punished her for this act by taking Angel from her. We know, too, that for breaking her vows she could be Disavowed, cast away from the True Believers in disgrace. Last night she humbled herself before the elders and begged to be allowed to remain. Since yesterday morning at sunrise she has taken no food. She has prostrated herself in prayer at the altar of our Lord, begging His forgiveness, and ours as well.

  “Last night, even as she prayed and wept, the elders met to consider her fate. I would like at this time for the elders to come forward.” There was a shuffling noise and then quiet. “…elders stand before you. Brother Benjamin? Sister Suzanne has submitted herself to the elders for punishment. Have you made a decision?”

  I remembered Benjamin’s work-hardened muscles. “We have, Pastor Michael.” I remembered his voice. It was Jeremiah’s stepfather.

  “And how do you judge?”

  “By the stripes she shall be healed.” The people in the room voiced their approval.

  “Here it comes,” Peters said.

  “If our Lord who was without blemish or blame suffered the scourge for our sakes, then it is only right that we who are sinners should follow in His steps. Sister Suzanne, take comfort in the words given to the apostles who suffered and died in the service of our Lord. ‘Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you. But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings; that, when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy.’”

  Amens were more fervent now as people were caught up in the spectacle. Even on the tape I could sense their excitement, the shuffling feet, the nervous coughs.

  “It is written that ‘the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God: and if it first begin at us, what shall the end be of them that obey not the gospel of God? Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit the keeping of their souls to him.’

  “‘Forasmuch then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourself likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin.’

  “Sister Suzanne, cast all your care upon Him; for He careth for you. It says in First Peter 3:14, ‘But and if ye suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are ye: and be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled.’

  “Do you come here willingly, Sister Suzanne?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll just bet,” Peters said.

  Suzanne’s response had been barely audible, but an exultant “Hallelujah” sprang from the crowd. Maybe if she had said no, that she had been forced, the ceremony would have been canceled and the True Believers would have been denied their blood lust. A baby cried somewhere in the background and was quickly hushed. So the children were there, watching, listening. I thought of Jeremiah. No wonder he was afraid.

  Brodie continued now, his tone no lon
ger that of an orator, but gentler, cajoling, not wanting to frighten Suzanne into backing out at the last minute. “Do you know, too, that those who will smite you do so only as tools of your salvation, bearing you no malice or ill will?”

  “I do.”

  “I think I’m going to puke,” Peters said. “She really let them do it to her.”

  This time there was no sound from the True Believers. They were holding their collective breath in anticipation. This was the sword Brodie wielded over his congregation. Not only had he inflicted bodily punishments, he had provided them for the vicarious enjoyment of his followers. Sickened, I resumed listening. Brodie was speaking again, his tone moving, hypnotic, molding her to his will. If Suzanne Barstogi would willingly hurt herself because Brodie asked, would she have resisted beating her own child?

  “‘Being reviled we bless; being persecuted we suffer it.’ Will you then, Sister, bless and forgive each of those who stand here tonight to be the instruments of your redemption?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was nothing more than a whisper. The recorder detected no shifting, no sound from the crowd. They were ready.

  “Brother Amos and Brother Ezra, hold her wrists.” There was the sound of people moving. “Brother Benjamin, rend her garment.” We heard the sound of her dress tearing, the snap of her brassiere, and then, after a pause, the sharp crack of a lash biting into flesh. Reflex made me count the blows, seven in all, each one slow and deliberate. Suzanne made one involuntary cry at the outset. After that she was silent.

  The tape went on. There had been an out-pouring of amens and hallelujahs, but now that was silenced. Brodie was speaking. “Sister Suzanne will spend yet another night in prayer, not in the Penitent’s Room, but here, at the altar, where she can feel our Lord’s forgiveness. In the morning we shall come again to welcome her return to the fold. Go with God. It is finished.”

  I heard some murmur of talk as people filed out. The next sound was that of someone weeping. “Suzanne?” Brodie’s voice.

  She made no response, although the weeping subsided. “Suzanne. Look at me. I have something for you. It’ll make it hurt less.” A pause, then he continued, his voice soft and cajoling. “Don’t try to cover yourself from me, Sister. I’ve come to minister to your wounds. It’s a local anesthetic.”

  Again the silence. I could imagine him running a fleshy finger across her bleeding breasts, administering some kind of ointment.

  “Thank you,” Suzanne said softly.

  “I want you,” he said.

  “No, please.” There was no audible spoken answer although we heard the sound of the study door closing. I was taken aback. He had asked, and Suzanne had denied him. Even the pastor himself was subject to some rules and prohibitions. It was obvious what kind of additional comfort and forgiveness he had intended to offer.

  The tape clicked on and off, running only when there was sufficient sound in the room to sustain it. There was no way to tell how much time elapsed each time the voices stopped and started.

  “…of-a-bitch” The voice was a man’s, muffled and indistinct. It sounded as though it might have been coming through a closed door, maybe the study.

  I strained to hear. “Turn it up,” I said to Peters, and he did.

  “Get out!” I could recognize Brodie’s voice.

  The other man was speaking now. “…her alone. She’s my wife, not one of your whores.”

  I heard the familiar menacing tone in Brodie’s voice. “You seem to forget, my word is law here.” The door slammed. The visitor’s hard-soled shoes stormed through the sanctuary. The front door slammed heavily behind him.

  Now we could hear the mumble of Suzanne’s voice alone. It rose and fell. It was a prayer of some kind, but the words themselves escaped us. It continued for some time, on and off, intermittently reactivating the machine.

  Then suddenly, sharply, “…t do you want?”

  A sharp report of a pistol answered her, followed by the sound of an opening door. We could hear Brodie’s voice. “What happened? Suzanne?” A gunshot was his answer too, followed by silence as the machine shut itself off.

  The next voice was that of Sarah, the cook: “…my God,” and the sound of hurrying footsteps. Then came the sound of another door and more footsteps, followed by Peters’ voice: “He didn’t nickel-dime-around, did he?” The recorder was switched off before anything further was said.

  “That was Carstogi!” said Peters, his voice tense with excitement. “It has to be.”

  “How can you be sure?” I asked. “I don’t think it sounds like him at all.”

  Just then Anne asked permission to return to the living room. She was wearing the same blue suit she had worn the day before, only now her hair was pulled back and fastened in an elaborate knot at the base of her neck. She looked like a ballerina. The similarity wasn’t just in looks. I knew that her external beauty concealed the finely tuned, well-conditioned body of a professional dancer.

  “Beau, I’m going to take off now,” she said, moving toward the door. She nodded to Peters. “Nice to see you again, Ron.”

  Peters stood up apologetically. “I hope you’re not leaving on my account.”

  She smiled. “No. I have lots to do.”

  I followed her to the door. “Can you come back tonight? I don’t know what time I’ll be back, but I can give you a key so you can let yourself in.”

  “Do you think you can trust me?” She was laughing as she asked the question. I rummaged through the kitchen junk drawer to locate my spare keys.

  I handed them to Anne, and she dropped them into her jacket pocket. “Thanks,” she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.

  I walked with her to the elevator lobby, where she turned and kissed me, a full-blown invitational kiss that sent my senses reeling. The elevator door opened. There stood three of my neighbors.

  “That wasn’t fair,” I protested.

  “It wasn’t, was it?” she agreed. The elevator door closed, and she was gone.

  Chapter 14

  Peters, still intent on the tape, was playing it again as I came back into the room. “So much of what Brodie says sounds like he’s quoting directly from the Bible.”

  “Probably was. Taken out of context and given a forty-degree twist, you can use the Bible to justify almost anything.”

  Peters’ tea was gone. I brought him another cup. We listened to the tape, not once but several times. “There’s a clue in here somewhere, if we could just put our fingers on it,” Peters said as he switched off the recorder for the last time. He stood up. “I guess we’d better get back over to Faith Tabernacle. The place is probably still crawling with people. Watty will be climbing the walls.”

  “What about Carstogi?” I asked.

  “What about him? I’m sure the trail leads back to him one way or the other.”

  I remained unconvinced. I said, “Let’s get a description of the hooker and put vice on it. Or maybe we could track down that cab.”

  “You’re determined he didn’t do it, aren’t you? But you’re right; we should check it out.” Peters glanced down at the tiny machine in his hand. “What about this? Erase it?”

  “No, don’t. We’ll want to listen to it again. If there’s something in there that we’re missing, maybe we’ll catch it next time. Leave it here.” I took the recorder from him and placed it in the top drawer of the occasional table beside my leather chair. “That way it won’t leak into Cole’s hands.”

  Back at Faith Tabernacle Sergeant Watkins was running the show, directing a small army of officers who scrutinized every inch of the church and took statements from anyone who looked remotely related to the case. At the moment we drove up, Watty was standing next to the front door, supervising a kneeling lab technician who was making a plaster cast of something behind a row of decorative bushes.

  “What’s up?” Peters asked him.

  Watkins glowered at us. “Where the hell have you been?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “We f
ound some tracks here. The footprints have been obliterated, but we should get good casts of the bicycle tires. Someone parked a bike here during the night.”

  “You think the killer used a bike for his getaway?” I asked, shaking my head.

  “You have a better suggestion?” Watty snapped.

  I had to admit I didn’t have one. “Where’s the father?” the sergeant asked.

  “He’s back at the Warwick. We’ve got a guard on him.”

  “A guard!” Watkins exploded. “What I want on him are cuffs and orange coveralls. We’ve got three people dead so far. We’d better arrest someone pretty goddamned soon.”

  “Carstogi didn’t do it,” I said.

  “What? Are you his goddamned character witness? I understand he was out all night. Where was he?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Doesn’t know!”

  “He went to the Palace for a sleazy, X-rated movie and got himself picked up by a hooker. He doesn’t know where they went. He’s from out of town.”

  Watkins examined my face as though he thought I was a raving lunatic. “That’s the shakiest goddamned alibi I’ve heard this week!” He turned to Peters. “You agree with him, Detective Peters?”

  Peters shifted uneasily under his gaze. “No,” he said at last. “Beau and I differ on that score. I think Carstogi is our prime suspect.”

  Watty turned back to me, a look of smug satisfaction spreading over his face. “I’m glad somebody around here has some sense. Majority rules. Now I suggest you get off your ass and nail it down.” He walked away.

  Peters looked at me for a reaction. “He asked my opinion, Beau.” It was part apology and part justification.

  “That’s why they have two detectives on this case, remember?” We went inside.

  The bodies were gone and the crime lab folks were pretty much finished. One of them tossed Peters a bulging manila envelope. “You can cross robbery off the list of motives,” he said. “There’s seventeen thousand dollars in cash in that baby. It was in a bottom drawer in the study. We’re taking it down to the department for safekeeping.”