by Randy Alcorn
“You’re always backed up. It’s important.”
“It’s always important.”
“Look, I waited a week for prints on that Taurus 9 mil before Phil got me results. I can’t wait a week for this. I need it tomorrow.”
After a drive in pounding rain, Clarence and I ran through the parking lot at Lou’s. We hung his overcoat and my trench coat and fedora to drip dry beside our booth, next to the jukebox. I put in a quarter and pressed “I Get Around,” “Eve of Destruction,” and “A World Without Love.” Clarence put in his own quarter and made his selections more carefully.
Jake arrived two minutes after Clarence and I were both seated. “Weren’t we just here a few days ago?” he asked. “I love you guys and I love Lou’s, but this is going to stretch my waistline.”
Rory walked eagerly to our table. “Welcome to my friends. Mr. Ollie, you return tonight? Dinner with your daughter?”
“Yeah. Eight o’clock. You’ll have vegetables, right?”
“Many vegetables. Abundant lettuce. And fine pastas, without meat.”
My body was at that booth, but my mind was on Noel.
“So, guys, did we do our reading?” Jake referred to Mere Christianity, a book by C. S. Lewis that he’s been trying to get me to read for years. He’d assigned a portion to read, but I don’t take well to assignments.
“Been a little busy,” I said. “Solving murders and all that.”
“Mere Christianity’s opened my eyes.”
“So you’ve said … again and again.”
“You could shut me up by reading it.”
“If I thought it would work, I’d do it.”
“You read detective novels. It’s shorter than most of them.”
“But there’s a big difference,” I said. “I want to read those novels. I’m a believer in free choice. The right to read what I want.”
“Glad to hear you believe in free choice. I hope that means you’re no longer blaming God for giving it to us.”
“You’re becoming a nag, Jake.”
“Can’t friends try to influence each other when they think it’s in their best interests?”
“Say what you want, I’m not reading that book.”
“Why? Afraid it might make sense? As a detective, I’d think you’d want to examine the evidence. Didn’t you read Clarence’s article?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, looking at Abernathy. “Quoting me to encourage people to investigate Jesus? You weren’t trying to send me a message, were you?”
“No different than the message I’ve been trying to send you for years.”
“Hey, I’ve read books. I read The Da Vinci Code.”
They both laughed.
“I know you didn’t like it, but why laugh?”
“Because,” Clarence said, “it’s full of historical errors and false claims that any junior high kid could refute after spending twenty minutes checking facts on Google.”
“Heard of G. K. Chesterton?” Jake asked. “He said that when people stop believing in God, they’ll believe in anything.”
“Heard of W. C. Fields?” I asked. “He said, ‘Everyone must believe in something; I believe I’ll have another beer.’ ”
“Chesterton’s point was that when you reject the truth, you become gullible. You lose your common sense. Somebody writes a book like The Da Vinci Code, and since people don’t know history or the Bible and haven’t bothered to investigate the facts, they end up believing stuff that’s so ridiculous it’s embarrassing.”
“You guys think you know it all.” I pushed back my empty cup.
“I’m well aware of how little I know,” Jake said. “That’s why I choose to trust what God has said in the Bible rather than trust myself.”
“Does it occur to you how judgmental it is to think you’re going to heaven and other people are going to hell?”
“I’m just telling you what Jesus said. He talked about hell more than anyone else, and I think He knew what He was talking about. He doesn’t want us to go there. He died and rose so we wouldn’t have to go there.”
Soon we were munching on cheeseburgers. Clarence’s selections were playing, including Chuck Berry wailing, “No Particular Place to Go.”
“Okay, guys, this time I’ve got something for you to read.” I pulled it out of my coat pocket. “It’s by Bertrand Russell. It’s called Why I Am Not a Christian.”
“You got that from the professor’s,” Clarence said, like I’d firebombed a church.
“I’m borrowing it,” I said. “The professor won’t be needing it.”
“I’m afraid by now he realizes the flaws in that book,” Jake said.
“It’s just one essay by that title,” I said, holding it up. “But there’s lots of stuff in the other essays you wouldn’t like either. So here’s my deal. You read this; then I’ll read your Mere Christianity.”
“Great,” Jake said. “I’ll pick up copies for me and Clarence; then we can all discuss it.” Clarence nodded. Jake reached his right hand across the table and shook mine. “After we’re done, you’ll read Mere Christianity and we’ll talk about it. It’s a deal.”
“You’re really going to read this?” My voice cracked, like a fifteen-year-old’s.
“I look forward to it.”
“But it’s not.”
“Not what?”
“Not … Christian.”
“No kidding?” Jake said. “A book called Why I Am Not a Christian that’s not Christian? Man, I feel blindsided. You should have warned me.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to read it.”
“This book doesn’t scare me a bit. The Bible always holds up to attacks. Besides, I promised to read it. And if a man’s word and his handshake can’t be depended on, well …”
“Speaking of the Bible,” I said around a mouthful of burger, looking at Clarence, “remember that confession on the professor’s computer screen said something about millstones? You said it was from Jesus.”
“But you decided Palatine didn’t write it,” Clarence said.
“He was dying or dead when it was typed. But here’s my point: Isn’t that the sort of thing you guys would say? I mean, you’re always quoting Bible verses.”
“You think we killed the professor?” Jake asked, smiling.
“No, but it seems obvious the killer wrote it. And if he did, that means the killer was a Bible quoter. What do you think about that?”
I liked the bewildered expressions on their faces. I was grinning when I swallowed a large gulp of my blackberry shake. It gave me a brain freeze, but it was worth it.
When Jack Glissan left homicide at 1:40 p.m., I went to Noel Barrows’s workstation and said, “We need to talk—now.” I escorted Noel into the conference room, where Manny and Clarence were already waiting in uncomfortable silence.
“Hi, guys,” Noel said. “What’s up?”
I started on the Seahawks and Rams. He said he was pumped about the big Hurricanes and Gators matchup next Saturday.
I groped for more small talk. “I saw you coming out of the Starbucks by Pioneer Square Saturday morning, didn’t I? I was at Lou’s Diner. Must have been heading off for your tournament, huh?”
He shrugged. “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Why would I accuse you? It’s not a crime to go to Starbucks.”
“Why am I here?”
“Okay,” I said. “There’s no easy way to ask this. Where were you between ten thirty and midnight Wednesday, November 20?”
He studied my face, then Manny’s and Clarence’s. “Is this a joke? Did Jack put you up to this?”
“It’s no joke. Where were you?”
“That was like … two weeks ago.”
“Twelve days.”
“Night before Thanksgiving?”
“Seven nights before.”
He looked down and started mumbling and moving his fingers, apparently trying to sort out what he’d done the last twelve days and what fell on wha
t night.
“That Monday night I was at Jack’s for football—same every week. Going over there tonight. Most nights I watch the golf channel pretty late. I guess that Wednesday could have been one of them.”
“Anybody see you?”
“I have an apartment. People walk the hallways, but I don’t think I came out, so they wouldn’t have seen me. No roommate.”
“Too bad.” I reached into my briefcase and pulled out the gun in its evidence bag. “Ever seen this?”
He looked it over. “Sure, I’ve seen them. Looks like this one’s been around the block.”
“It’s a Taurus Millennium Pro, 9 mm,” I said. “Have you seen this particular gun?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Because it’s got your fingerprints on it.”
A long awkward silence. “I’ve taken guns away from lots of people. I guess they could have my prints on them.”
“This gun’s special. It was used to kill Professor Palatine.”
“And my prints are on it?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s that possible?”
“We were hoping you could tell us, Noel.”
Suddenly the conference room door flew open. I stood, looking at the red face of Jack Glissan.
“What’s going on here?”
“I’m having a private interview with Noel.”
“Private? With Domast? And Abernathy?”
“You read the memo. I have to include him.”
“What’s going on, Ollie?” Jack asked. “I heard the murder weapon has prints.”
“Word gets around.”
“You’re not accusing Noel?”
“His fingerprints are on the gun. It was found in a Dump—”
“I don’t care if it was found under his pillow. He didn’t do it!”
“Were you with him between, say, 10:45 and 11:45 November 20?”
“No, but I saw him at 2:00 a.m. at our murder scene that same night.”
“Two and a half hours after Palatine’s murder? That doesn’t help.” I turned to Noel, whose usually tan face was two shades lighter. “Where were you?”
“I told you. Home. Alone. We were on call, right? I must have gone to bed early.”
“I’ll ask you again: Can anyone confirm your alibi?”
Noel shook his head.
“Hold on,” Jack said. “A week ago Wednesday night? I went out that night and dropped your golf DVD by your place. Around 11:15.”
Noel stared at him blankly.
“Don’t try it, Jack,” I said.
“You’d gone to bed early. Remember, Noel?”
Noel’s chin dropped. He looked at Jack for his next move.
“I dropped by because you’re usually up till midnight. I figured you were gone. So before I got the key from … you know, where you hide it … I rang the bell. And you came to the door. Said I was sorry for waking you up. That’s how it happened.”
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re just going to make it worse. Noel said no one saw him home. No alibi.”
“Don’t you remember, Noel?” Jack pleaded.
Noel raised his hand. “Jack’s telling the truth. That’s how it happened.”
Jack smiled. I looked back and forth between them.
“Except it was on Tuesday night,” Noel said. “I’d been at Jack and Linda’s. I really did leave Jack the golf DVD. I went to bed early, and he dropped it by and rang the bell, just like he said. Except it wasn’t Wednesday night, it was Tuesday.”
Jack’s and my jaw dropped in unison.
“Jack was telling the truth.” Noel turned to Jack, with eyes that said “let it go.” “You just got the night wrong.”
Jack started to argue. But neither Noel nor I was going to let him win.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 2, 8:14 P.M.
I rushed in the door at Lou’s Diner, fourteen minutes late. Kendra was in our booth. On the table sat a beautiful arrangement of a dozen red roses, baby’s breath and all.
“Sorry I’m late,” I told her. “The traffic was—”
She waved her hand, giving me that look that said she’d heard it all before.
“You look nice,” I said. She’d put on weight, but so had I. Pointing to her silver chain necklace, I said, “I like that.”
“Mom gave it to me for my high school graduation,” she said, in a way that sounded like I’d never given her anything. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember.”
I settled in on my side of the booth. “Been waiting long?”
“Yes,” she said. “The man says they have a vegetable plate.”
“Good. Vegetable plates are always good.”
Silence.
“I’d hoped you’d join me for Thanksgiving,” I said, not mentioning that she’d never responded to my messages.
“With all those people? I don’t think so.”
“We could have eaten at my place. Just you and me and Mulch.”
She didn’t look up from the menu.
Rory came to take our order. “It is so nice to meet your daughter, Mr. Ollie. She told me she’d like the vegetable plate. Will you have the usual?”
“The usual” means three different things at Lou’s, depending on time of day. My breakfast usual is a western omelet and hash browns with a giant buttermilk pancake. My lunch usual is a cheeseburger and fries or onion rings. My dinner usual is New York steak with a baked potato and all the trimmings. I pictured large hunks of medium rare meat in clear view of the vegetable plate. It didn’t seem wise.
“I’ve been having so many vegetable plates, I’m thinking tonight I’ll go with a steak salad,” I said. “With Thousand Island.”
Rory looked at me with big sympathetic eyes, but he nodded, took the menus, and left.
The next fifteen minutes were like pulling teeth. I couldn’t get more than a sentence at a time from Kendra. She didn’t ask me anything. The silence between my questions kept getting longer.
“How about those Seahawks?” I asked.
Nothing.
I pulled out a quarter and asked her if she had any favorite oldies. “Nope.” So I chose a few of Sharon’s: “I Got You Babe,” “Never My Love,” and “Cherish.” I saw “Honey” by Bobby Goldsboro, but I knew where to draw the line. Still, Kendra didn’t appear impressed.
Finally, Rory came with the meal. Kendra looked at her vegetable plate and seemed to reluctantly approve. Then she looked at my steak salad.
“How can you eat that?” she asked.
“What? Thousand Island?”
“Animal flesh.”
“I’m having a steak salad because it’s the closest I can get to a compromise between what I’d like to eat and what you’d like me to eat. I thought you’d appreciate the lettuce and tomatoes. Look, cucumbers and olives and these little … jobbers. They’re vegetables, aren’t they? I thought you’d approve.”
“It’s not just what we eat. It’s what we don’t eat. You wouldn’t eat your dog, would you?”
“Mulch?” I dropped my fork. I couldn’t believe the words had come out of my daughter’s mouth.
“Some societies eat dogs,” she said. “That doesn’t make it right, does it?”
“No.”
“Then why do you think it’s okay to eat cows?”
“Well, for one thing … they’re a lot bigger.”
“So it’s okay to eat big dogs?”
“Could we stop talking about eating dogs?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Dogs are like people. Cows are like … pheasants, except not so gamy. And they don’t fly. I mean the aerodynamics … just getting airborne would—”
“I don’t think it’s right to eat animals.”
“Sweetheart, look, you can eat whatever you want. But—and this is just me, okay—I didn’t fight my way to the top of the food chain just to become a vegetarian.”
She scowled. “You need to get more exercise too.”
“I run around all day.
”
“Don’t they have mandatory fitness programs for cops? They should. If you don’t watch it, you’re going to cut ten or twenty years off your life.”
Why would that matter to you?
We ate in silence. She finished her vegetables. I polished off my cow.
Since all attempts at bonding had failed, I took a deep breath and said, “About my investigation—can I ask you a question?”
“You and your investigations.”
“If I were Ichiro, would you say, ‘You and your baseball’?”
“You’re no Ichiro.”
“But what I do isn’t worthless. It saves lives, you know. I mean human lives. Not cows.”
“You didn’t talk with me when I was growing up,” she said.
“We talked more than you remember.”
“There were things I’d ask you about, and you’d never tell me. Personal things, family things. I had to go to Mom to find out. You’d always change the subject. I’d ask you about Grandpa. Nothing. I’d ask you about my br—”
“You were in Professor Palatine’s class?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever make a move on you?”
“A move?”
“Did he get fresh with you?”
“Dad, you’re so out of it.”
“Just pretend I’m retro. Retro’s cool, right?”
She shook her head at me, but I saw a slight smile.
“So … did Dr. Palatine ever show a romantic interest in you?”
“Well, this is certainly awkward.”
“You said we never talked about personal things. I’m making up for it.”
“Well, it’s personal, I’ll give you that.” Her smile evaporated. “No. He only went after the pretty girls.”
“You’re a pretty girl.”
“I mean the really pretty girls.”
I would have hated Palatine for coming on to my daughter. Now I hated him for not considering her pretty enough. The truth is, my daughter’s history with men is … not so good. Her relationships have been many, and with the shelf life of yogurt.
“I didn’t mean to imply you were that kind of girl,” I said, then bit my lip.
“I need to be going.”
“Okay.”
She sat still. Finally I stood. I stepped toward her and put my hand on her shoulder, not close enough for her to bite it.
“Go home,” she said, voice strained. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. I just feel a little dizzy.”
