by Nancy Allen
A drumroll and the clash of cymbals announced the start of the service as musicians took to the stage. A guitarist fiddled with the dials on his amplifier, sending an earsplitting whine into the sanctuary.
Elsie grimaced. “My favorite. A praise band.”
Ashlock elbowed her and she hushed. An overhead screen flashed the lyrics to a praise hymn and the congregation rose to sing.
Elsie was no stranger to hymn singing; she had been herded to the Walnut Avenue Disciples of Christ church every Sunday morning from infancy through high school graduation. But the thrumming beat of drums and bass guitar made her uncomfortable. As the congregation raised their voices and lifted their arms into the air, she found herself longing for the wheezy pipe organ of her childhood church.
The song was interminable. The few lines displayed on the screen weren’t difficult to interpret; but the instructions “Repeat 5 times” grated on her. I’m not feeling this, she thought.
Once they were invited to sit, she let her mind wander. During preliminary matters of church business, the Old Testament reading and the Minute for Mission, she made a mental list of tasks she needed to accomplish on Monday. The list was daunting.
Beginning to fret, she pulled out a pen and started scratching notes on the church bulletin. Underneath the prayer chain list, she scrawled:
#1 Check computer file—autopsy report received?
#2 Need additional testing, Jessie D & baby—AIDS???
#3 Discuss: security for L Paul, in court; in jail; (transfer?)
#4 Contact Tina; set up new meeting with Ivy (AIDS test???)
#5 Other witness? Bruce (last name?) need to locate!
She looked up from the notes. Ashlock caught her eye and furrowed a brow in disapproval. Elsie looked away, unrepentant, and scanned the crowd. The congregation enjoyed a broad demographic sample from the community; silver heads were seated in rows alongside young families. A cluster of high school teens sat together, occupying the far aisles. Elsie wondered why Burton wasn’t among them.
Sweeping her eyes to the opposite side of the sanctuary, she suddenly spotted Holly Hickman, Ivy’s foster mother, seated near the front, with her baby on her shoulder and Ivy at her side. Ivy’s head was bent; Elsie leaned forward to see what the child was doing. She appeared to be scribbling on a sheet of paper with a crayon.
Elsie was so focused on Ivy that she didn’t hear the pastor call the children up for the kids’ sermon. Toddlers and grade-schoolers made their way down the aisle of the nave, some at a run. The foster mother nudged Ivy; Ivy shook her head. Holly sighed; handing the infant off to a dark-haired man on her left—must be her husband, Elsie thought—she took Ivy by the hand and led her to the carpeted steps leading to the altar.
As children gathered on the steps, the pastor, Reverend Luke Albertson, stepped around speaker cords and band equipment to join them. With a beatific expression, he said to the congregation:
“Let the little children come to be, and forbid them not.”
So, Elsie thought. You think you’re Jesus Christ. She snorted.
A woman seated in the pew ahead of Elsie peered over her shoulder with a reproving look. Ashlock pinched her thigh. It was not a friendly squeeze.
Reverend Albertson addressed the assembled children. “Kids, I have a big announcement, and I wanted you up here when I make it. You know we had a dream, a vision, that we would build a new addition to house a gymnasium for our kids to enjoy. Well, that vision is going to become a reality, a lot sooner than we ever hoped.”
He grinned at the congregation. “A member of the community has stepped up and made a commitment to fund it. Not even a member of our congregation—though I hope that will change soon. Brothers and sisters, Riverside Baptist is getting that new addition!”
The women and men in the pews whooped and cheered. Ashlock applauded. Elsie fanned herself with the bulletin.
“This man wants to remain anonymous, and I respect that. But let me just say: he makes the best pulled pork in southwest Missouri.”
Elsie stopped waving the bulletin. No way, she thought. Not Smokey Dean Mitchell.
The pastor looked down at the children. “Alrighty now; let’s get down to business here. How many of you are on a team?”
The hands which shot up belonged mostly to boys. The pastor called on them: three tall boys played in the Mighty Man Pee-Wee football league; half a dozen were in Little League baseball; and a handful of boys and girls claimed soccer. A number of toddlers sat among them, one girl sucking her thumb. One of the tots spoke up in a piping voice, but Albertson ignored it. Only a few of the school-age children remained silent, hands in their laps. Those not claiming a sport were three girls in ill-fitting clothes, a fat boy, and Ivy.
The preacher pointed a finger at the chunky kid. “How about you? You like to play games?” The boy nodded. “What kind?”
The boy hesitated. His hair was shorn into a buzz cut; Elsie could see a flush coloring his features. “Computer games, mostly.”
“Lord deliver us,” the pastor said with a groan. “Computer games!” Playing to the audience, he said, “I see the devil’s hand at work. Sounds like fuel for next week’s sermon.”
The congregation burst into merry laughter as the boy’s neck flushed scarlet. Elsie glared at the preacher with a scowl she didn’t try to hide. Getting a laugh at the kid’s expense. What a jerk.
“Ivy,” he said. Elsie didn’t expect to hear the preacher call the girl by name. “Do you like games?”
Ivy shrugged. He pressed on. “Candyland? Checkers? Chutes and Ladders?”
Damn, Elsie thought; I should pick up Candyland for her at Walmart. It nettled her that the preacher originated the idea.
“Yeah,” Ivy whispered.
“You like those games?”
Ivy nodded.
“Ivy, do those games have rules?”
She fiddled with her glasses. He apparently took the movement as a yes.
“Sure they do! You can’t just take your game piece up to the gingerbread house unless you follow the rules! Kevin,” he said, turning to a snub-nosed boy, “if you strike out when you’re at bat, can you just head out and start running the bases?” Reverend Albertson jumped up and began to run in place. The crowd burst into another round of gleeful hilarity.
“No? Because you gotta follow the rules, right? Well, all of life is like that, you know?”
He squatted on his haunches, reached behind the nearest amplifier, and picked up a maroon bound Bible.
“What’s this?”
“The Bible,” several children chorused.
“Well, that’s right. But it’s also a rule book. A rule book for all Christians to follow. Hey, kids: do you think you get to pick and choose what rules to follow in this book?” There was no immediate response from the children, and he continued: “Or are you supposed to follow all of them? Every single one?”
One of the football boys spoke up. “All of them,” he said stoutly.
Reverend Albertson stood, nodding his approval. “That’s right. From the mouths of babes, huh? This book,” and he held it aloft, addressing the congregation, “is the inspired word of God. We aren’t cafeteria Christians at Riverside Baptist. We don’t pick and choose.” He looked down at the children, still sitting at his feet. “Okay, kids; you can go on back to your seats.”
As the children wandered back to their places in the pews, the preacher continued. “This great country was founded on the rules in our sacred text, hundreds of years ago. But things have changed in the country we love. Nine people in Washington, DC, who wear black robes, have forgotten that. They’ve lost their way.”
Oh shit, Elsie thought. Here it comes.
“Because the Bible is clear. Homosexuality is sin. The Old Testament says so: In the Book of Leviticus, Chapter 20, verse 1
3, the Lord said to Moses that if a man lies with a man, as he’d lie with a woman, that’s detestable! He shall be put to death! Do you think God was joking around when he said that to Moses? Does the Supreme Court of the United States think they know better than the Lord God?”
He flipped the Bible open to a place marked with a gold ribbon. “There’s more to be found on the same topic, in the New Testament. The Apostle Paul had some things to say on the subject.”
Elsie leaned over to Ashlock. “The Apostle Paul was a total asshole,” she said. Ashlock didn’t respond to Elsie’s observation. The woman sitting in front of her gasped, but didn’t turn around.
“Paul condemned the sin of homosexuality in First Corinthians! He said that homosexuals will not inherit the kingdom of heaven. Will! Not! Inherit!”
He raised his voice to a higher pitch. “In the Book of Romans, Paul condemned women and men who commit indecent acts of homosexuality. That’s women and men, friends. An equal opportunity condemnation!”
One man cheered, a few tittered and chuckled. But in large part, the congregation waited for the big finish.
“Oh, but the Supreme Court—those black-robed know-it-alls, who think they can rewrite the morals of our nation, say that homosexuals have the right. The right to marry. The right to sin with impunity. Well, friends, you know what my friend Mike Huckabee says about that. ‘The Supreme Court is not the Supreme Being!’ ”
That was the punch line, and the churchgoers knew it. Those who were able to stand jumped to their feet, applauding. The elderly and infirm lifted their hands into the air.
Elsie kept her seat, crossing her arms across her chest. Ashlock’s son, Burton, stood with the others. Ashlock turned to look at Elsie. With an apologetic shrug, he said, “My ex.”
By the end of the service, she was fuming, conducting extensive, heated arguments in her head in which she took the Reverend Albertson down. When they filed out of the sanctuary, Ashlock tried to herd her toward the side exit, but Elsie was too fired up to make an easy escape.
She waited in line with those who wanted to shake hands with Albertson and touch the hem of his garment. When her turn came, she ignored his outstretched hand.
“Just want you to know,” she said, “I am in total agreement with the court’s decision in Obergefell v. Hodges.”
Reverend Albertson gave her a blank look and didn’t respond. She thought she must have confused him by making reference to the case name.
“The Supreme Court case, declaring that same-sex marriage is a Constitutional right. When the decision was announced, I said, ‘God Bless America!’ ”
Albertson let his hand drop to his side. “You can’t pick and choose, ma’am. You believe or you don’t.”
“You want to know what I believe? I believe in individual freedom. And I believe that there are five people out of the nine on the court who are looking out for us.”
Sadly, the preacher shook his head. “That’s the Lord’s job.” He reached out and took her hand, giving a gentle squeeze. “I hope you’ll be back. I think you have a lot to learn.”
Elsie pulled free and walked out into the warm evening air, facing a scarlet sunset without seeing it. She was chastising herself for not getting the last word. When they reached Ashlock’s car, Burton got in while Ashlock held her back and spoke into her ear in a low voice. “I know you’re upset about the service. But I don’t want to go into it in front of Burton. This is the church his mother wants him to attend.”
“How can you tolerate having Burton under the influence of that preacher?”
“It’s part of the deal. And I’ll do whatever I have to do to keep my boy with me.”
“But Albertson’s a homophobe. And an idiot. And I’ll bet whatever you want to put up—he’s a misogynist.” Elsie pulled her purse onto her shoulder with a jerk. “I don’t give a damn what your ex-wife wants. I am never darkening the door of this pit of snakes again. Never.”
They got into the vehicle and Ashlock drove away from the church, his silent disapproval palpable.
Chapter Thirteen
Dodging the traffic on the town square on Monday afternoon, Elsie made her way across the street to the Barton City Police Department. She’d received an urgent text: the assistant attorney general had arrived, and they were meeting with Ashlock in his office.
She dashed up the stairs, anxious to know whether she’d missed anything important. Bob Ashlock’s office door was closed. She paused a moment to tuck her hair behind her ears and make sure that her shirt was buttoned and her pants zipped.
Then she opened the door. “Good afternoon!”
Madeleine jerked in her chair. “Can’t you knock?”
Rising from his seat, Ashlock greeted Elsie with a warm smile. “Elsie and I don’t stand on ceremony, Madeleine. Come on in; take my seat.”
“Ash, no. Thank you. I can stand.”
“I insist.”
She sat behind his desk, because she knew it would make him uncomfortable if she stood while he sat. He was courtly in some old-fashioned ways. She was a twenty-first-century woman, but couldn’t deny that it was nice to sit down after standing in court all morning.
Elsie shifted her attention to the newcomer in the room. Flashing a smile, she reached across the desk and offered her hand. “Nice to meet you at last, Mr. Parsons. I’m Elsie Arnold, assistant prosecutor.”
“My pleasure. Call me Sam.” He took her hand and gave it a brisk shake, squeezing her fingers a shade too tightly. Elsie knew that message: he thought he’d show her who was boss.
Guess we’ll both get to see what we’re made of by the time this case is done.
Samuel Parsons leaned back in his chair. “Maybe now we can get down to business. The detective here says he’s got his forensic reports back. But he’s a little coy about what they reveal. You ready to show us what you got, Ashcroft?”
Though it wasn’t a crime to recall a name incorrectly, Elsie glanced to Ashlock, to see his reaction.
He smiled, just a little. “The name’s Ashlock.”
“Ashlock? Yeah. What’d I say?”
“Ashcroft,” Elsie said. “You called him Ashcroft. Like the former attorney general.”
Parsons laughed, showing his full set of teeth. Elise took a moment to size him up. Parsons cut an impressive figure, with a luxurious head of salt-and-pepper hair, brushed straight back into a mane. He wore a pair of eyeglasses with black rectangular frames, perched on a broad nose. The vest of his gray suit had a gold chain from which a fob dangled, catching the sunlight that shone in through the window. Staring at the twinkle, Elsie pondered whether the vest covered a paunch.
Glancing at Ashlock’s figure as he leaned against the door frame, Elsie reflected that he never wore a vest. Didn’t need to, she thought, looking at his flat stomach. Nothing to hide.
Ashlock walked over to a gray metal file cabinet in the corner of his office and pulled out a manila file folder. “I made a copy for each of you,” he said, handing off sheets of paper.
“Did you e-mail this?” asked Madeleine. “I don’t think I saw it.”
“Didn’t send it yet. It’s sensitive. I wanted to discuss it in person first.”
“What you got here, Detective?” Parsons asked, adjusting his eyeglasses.
“Forensic report on the deceased, Jessie Rose Dent.”
“The murder victim—the mother? Madeleine, did you tell me she had AIDS? That what this is about?” Parsons asked.
Madeleine leaned in toward the Attorney General, confirming their earlier conversation. Elsie scanned the report that Ashlock handed to her. The words on the pages gave her a sinking feeling in her gut. She looked up at Ashlock; their eyes met.
“Oh shit,” she said, and he nodded in response.
“Elsie!” Madeleine said, but Parsons broke in. Glancing
from Elsie to Madeleine, he said, “We got a problem, Elsie? Tell me it’s not a worse PR wrinkle than the pregnant woman with AIDS.” He pulled a tragic face.
Ashlock said, “Forensic tests showed some surprising facts.”
“Like what? Let’s cut to the chase.” Parsons folded the report in half and focused on Ashlock, looking over the top of his eyeglasses.
“Blood tests show the victim had controlled substances in her system at the time of death.”
“Shit,” Parsons said. Madeleine didn’t seem to notice.
“What kind of drugs?” Madeleine asked. Setting the forensic report on Ashlock’s desktop, she said, “I didn’t bring my reading glasses.”
“Hell getting old, huh, Madeleine,” Parsons said with a jovial nudge.
Madeleine cleared her throat, crossed her legs tightly and focused on Ashlock. “Was it some kind of pharmaceutical substance? She could have a medical condition that would explain it.”
Elsie spoke up. Eyes scanning the report, she said, “Madeleine, it’s here on page two. Methamphetamine. Marijuana. Alcohol.”
“Sheeeit.” Parsons dragged the word out into three long syllables. “So we have a murder victim, eight months pregnant, mother of a young child. But she’s drunk and high on meth at the time of her death.”
Ashlock nodded. “Yep.” He scratched his neck. “We seized a pretty sizeable bag of meth from the trailer when we were processing the murder scene.”
Elsie made a face. “Do you think they were cooking it there, Ash?”
“No. No equipment, no smell. I’d sure like to know where they got it from.”
Parsons said, “Excuse me, folks, but you can work out your drug cases on your own time. I’m here to lend a hand in this murder case. And set me straight again: this woman had AIDS?”
Madeleine said, “We’re requesting additional testing,” but Elsie broke in.
“If the defendant gave that poor woman AIDS, it’s hardly a mark against her.”
Both Madeleine and Parsons began to speak; his voice boomed over hers and Madeleine broke off as Parsons said to Elsie, “Are you stupid? Or just wet behind the ears? Don’t you realize they will attack the victim as their defense to the crime?”
