by John J. Lamb
“I can’t as a private citizen. However, you as a peace officer can and you can also authorize me to do so as your official agent.”
“Okay, you’re authorized, but that still doesn’t solve our problem.”
“I know. Do you have a micro-cassette recorder?”
“No.”
“Probably just as well. I’d have to put it in my pocket and even then it would be almost impossible to conceal.”
“How about a cell phone?” Ash said. “We could call Tina at a number with a recorder attached to the line.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I said.
“But you’d have the same problem as with the cassette recorder. The Holcombes might see the phone was on. Besides, the cell phone reception is lousy in there.” Tina shook her head. “So what do we do?”
“We call our local expert in espionage.” I pulled the telephone from my pocket and pressed the number for Sergei’s restaurant.
Sergei picked up on the fourth ring. “Pinckney’s Brick Pit, how may I help you?”
“Hello, I’m looking for the Red Menace.”
“Speaking. Hello, Bradley, and I want to congratulate you on whatever campaign of terror you’re running. The sheriff and Trent both came back to the station about a half-hour ago and then they stood out in front of the building arguing before going inside.”
“Are they still there?”
“So far.”
“Good. Hey, I’ve got an Aquarium pop-quiz question,” I said, and Ash and Tina exchanged puzzled looks.
Sergei made an amused sound in the back of this throat. “It’s a shame I don’t know anything about tropical fish, but go on.”
“I want to secretly record a conversation inside the sheriff’s office. A micro-recorder isn’t an option and neither is using a wireless phone as an impromptu bug. Obviously I don’t have a body-mike, so how would I go about doing this?”
“You need to get a body-microphone.”
“There’s some expert advice! Oh, yeah, I’ll just run over to Garber’s and pick up a wire transmitter and base-receiving unit. I think he keeps them behind the cans of bug spray.”
“No, you borrow mine.”
“Some company equipment you forgot to turn in when you quit your last job?”
“I’m stung at the suggestion, old boy. It actually does belong to me. I bought it because we could never depend on the Soviet-made garbage they issued us. Come by and I’ll give you my house keys and directions where to find the equipment.”
“Can I send Deputy Barron? We’re about to pay a visit to Pastor Poole. Ash just heard the racy rumor that’s been circulating through town and she’s really looking forward to discussing it with him in brutal detail.”
“I’d pay to watch that.”
“You could if you had one of those little TV cameras.”
“Sorry, you’re out of luck.”
“Too bad. I guess you’ll have to hear the bloody details over cigars and whiskey. Thanks, Sergei.”
“You’re welcome, but a word of advice. Watch yourself when you meet with Holcombe and Trent. The son is a murder-suicide looking for a place to happen. You might want to consider having a gun.”
“I’ve given that some thought, but I think me having a gun would just increase the chances of him going postal. I’ll just have to rely on my empathetic conversational skills to maintain the peace.”
“Can I cater your wake?”
I chuckled. “Go to hell, you Bolshevik spook. I’ll talk to you later tonight.”
Once I disconnected from the call, Ash said, “Okay, you’ve officially lost us. What does an aquarium have to do with anything?”
“It’s the nickname of the building where he used to work and someday when we have more time—and with his permission—I’ll tell you more.”
“You have something for me to do?” asked Tina.
“Yeah, you need to go over to the restaurant and pick up Sergei’s keys and make a speed run up to his house. He’s loaning us a body wire. Meanwhile, we’re going to go receive some spiritual guidance from the esteemed Reverend Poole.”
Chapter 20
As Tina departed, we led Kitch into the house and put him inside his crate. I took some more ibuprofen, power-chugged a can of Diet Coke for the caffeine boost, and hit the bathroom. Five minutes later, we were on the road to town.
Ash tapped out an arrhythmic beat on the center console with her finger. “Okay, so how do you want me to act when we get to Poole’s?”
“Surprised, a little disappointed, and secretly wanting to be convinced that we’ve misjudged the poor man.” I couldn’t help but notice that Ash was no longer calling him Pastor Marc.
“So, when do I get to throttle him?”
“Not until we get done. Think of it as dessert.”
“Yeah, a nice fiery dessert, like cherries jubilee or crepes suzette—something that will cause third-degree burns.”
“And here’s something else to be prepared for: He’s undoubtedly going to tell us lies, so at first you can’t react with any disbelief. We want lies so we can use them later as leverage. If Poole tells us that he’s the grand high emperor of Alpha Centauri, you nod in agreement,” I said, turning west onto Coggins Spring Road.
“Does he really think we’re that stupid?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact he does. Look at it from his point of view. He’s already fooled us once by pretending not to know Thayer. Keep in mind that some of the aspects of his type of personality are above-average intelligence, an ability to manipulate others, and extreme arrogance.”
“And what sort of personality type is that?”
“Borderline sociopath. If we can be patient and engage his craving for adulation, Poole will eventually tell us the truth.”
We drove into town and I saw two patrol cars parked in front of the Sheriff ’s Department, which hopefully meant that Holcombe and Trent were still there. It being a Sunday afternoon, there weren’t many people on the sidewalks, but those few I saw seemed to stop and watch us go by with an inordinate amount of interest. Apparently word of our investigation had begun to circulate among the townsfolk. As we passed Pinckney’s, Ash waved at Tina who’d just emerged from the restaurant and was returning to her cruiser. A moment later, I turned into the driveway of the Apostolic Assembly.
Poole’s home was behind the church. It was an unprepossessing single-story brick rancher with white trim and black vinyl shutters. The yard was depressing: a lawn that seemed mostly composed of yellowing crabgrass and a three-foot tall yew tree cut in the shape of a coffee canister that stood forlornly in a small planter surrounded by dying day lilies. Off to the side was a cement birdbath and the basin was drier than a life insurance agent’s dissertation on actuarial tables.
Parking the truck, I looked at Ash and noticed she’d undone her topmost blouse button, exposing a tiny bit of cleavage. I took her hand and said admiringly, “That almost isn’t fair. He won’t be able to concentrate at all.”
“Oh, you think he’ll like it?”
“It’ll drive him to distraction and you want to know the best part? Poole will be just like Moses . . . he’ll be allowed a glimpse of the Promised Land from afar but never get there.”
Ash gave me a sassy grin. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to watch you take that fraud apart like a two-dollar watch.”
We got out of the truck and went to the front door. Giving Ash a nod of encouragement, I rang the doorbell. I heard the approach of footsteps on a hardwood floor and the door opened. Poole stood in the doorway and his eyes flicked from my face, to Ash’s chest, and then to Ash’s face. I couldn’t blame him. If I’d been in his shoes, I’d have been admiring that view—and wouldn’t have been anywhere near as subtle.
“Why, Brother Brad and Sister Ashleigh, I am so glad to see you. I was just about to call you.”
“Really? Why?”
“I’ve heard about the brave thing you’re trying to do and I want to help.” Poole’s head fel
l and he looked downward and away. “Yesterday morning, I did something quite shameful by lying to you. I was frightened, but that’s no excuse.”
I wasn’t particularly surprised by Poole’s spontaneous and ostensibly heartfelt prelude to a confession. Sometimes crooks offer their version of a story before any questions are asked, hoping it will be accepted as the truth because it is seemingly unsolicited. More often than not, such a “confession” is a blend of disinformation and harmless facts. In short, this was a fairly clever interrogation defensive tactic I’d encountered in the past. My task was to allow Poole to believe I could be manipulated into believing his tale without making myself appear a total moron. He knew me better than that.
I heaved a mighty sigh of relief and said, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. Can we come in? This might take a little while.”
“Of course. Please, come in.”
He held the door open for us and we went inside. He led us through the characterless living room, down a shadowy corridor and into his office—a converted bedroom with a couple of windows overlooking the pasture behind the house. The room’s only decorations were Poole’s Doctor of Divinity diploma hanging in a cheap burnished steel frame on the wall and an artificial ficus tree in a straw basket in a corner. Both badly needed dusting. A pair of thirty-year-old Danish-modern chairs, upholstered in high-grade burlap and dyed the same shade of orange as a road crew worker’s safety vest, faced an old wooden desk. Behind the desk were sagging shelves loaded with Bibles, theological volumes, and dozens of religious-themed books about marriage counseling, premarital sex, domestic violence, alcoholism, drug addiction, and child abuse. The remedy for almost every form of social malady was represented, with the exception of preachers who’d strayed from the ethical reservation.
“Please, sit down.” Poole gestured toward the chairs as he moved behind the desk.
The decision to conduct our conversation in the office and his assigning of seats were also techniques calculated to place Poole in a position of unspoken control. Rather than sit in the living room and talk as equals, Poole had placed himself behind a powerful authority prop—the desk—while we were instructed to sit in the chairs customarily occupied by people seeking guidance.
We all sat down and I took out my notebook and pen. “I’m ready whenever you are, Pastor.”
Poole leaned forward to rest his chin wearily on his hands. “When I pulled that man from the river, I recognized him but didn’t say anything. I’ve felt awful ever since because I lied to you and Deputy Tina.”
“So, who is he?”
“His name is Robert Thayer and he lived with Elizabeth Ewell.”
I wrote the name down. There was no point in advertising how much I actually knew this early in the interview. I turned to Ash. “Liz Ewell? Isn’t that the lady you told—”
“Yeah, that’s her and she’s no lady,” said Ash, flawlessly supporting the ruse that this was all new information to us.
I looked back at Poole. “I’ve got to tell you, Pastor Marc, I’m a little surprised at your behavior.”
“You’re being charitable. Actually you’re disgusted. That’s all right, I am too.” He looked broodingly out the window.
“Why didn’t you tell us you knew him?”
“As I said at the door, I was very afraid. I suppose I need to back up a little to explain.” He turned back to us and I pretended not to notice his eyes lingering for a second on Ash’s bust as she leaned forward attentively to listen to the explanation. Poole cleared his throat and continued, “When Robert came here, Miss Ewell told me that he was what you’d call a career criminal—a burglar. Miss Ewell asked me to intercede and try to bring him back to the Lord.”
“Did you make any headway?”
“Not enough. I think Robert wanted to follow the path of our Redeemer, but the old habits were too strong.”
“Does that mean he continued to steal things?”
“I believe so.”
“What caused you to think he was committing burglaries?” Other than the fact he was delivering truckloads of swag to your house every freaking week, I wanted to add, but suppressed the urge and waited with my pen poised.
“I don’t have any direct proof. It was just a feeling. As a minister, you learn to trust your instincts about people.”
“So, what made you afraid?”
Poole looked as if he were struggling mightily to control his temper and then shouted, “That pair of robbers across the road! Sheriff Holcombe and his son Trent are out of control and have been for some time. They told Robert they’d kill him if he didn’t pay them protection money.”
“How do you know that?”
“Robert told me on Friday afternoon. He came by the church just terrified and said he’d been stopped by Trent and threatened with death unless he was paid that night. And, God forgive me, I told him not to worry because I didn’t think the Holcombes would be so stupid as to harm Liz Ewell’s nephew. I was so very wrong.” Poole looked upset and his voice was full of self-reproach, yet I noticed his eyes again drifting toward Ash’s blouse.
I let his gaze rest there for a moment and then said, “But you still haven’t explained why you were frightened enough to help conceal the identity of a man you knew had been murdered—a man who’d come to you in search of salvation.”
Poole had the disheartened sigh down to an art form. “I know. The fact is, when I saw Robert’s body I immediately suspected he’d been killed by Trent and I knew that if I said anything . . .”
“You’d have been the next victim. It’s a perfectly natural reaction. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”
“Thank you for saying that, but we both know I acted about as cravenly as possible. I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. But thanks to you, I can try to atone for my failure.”
“Does that mean you’d be willing to testify to what you just told me in court proceedings against the Holcombes?”
“I’m still scared, but I’ll use your bravery as an example.”
Now I wanted to retch, but his unctuous Eddie Haskell impression told me that he’d come to the conclusion that I’d buy any bill of goods he had to sell, including brazen flattery. Fortunately, I didn’t need to collect any more lies and it was time to have some fun. I said, “There are just a couple of things I don’t understand and I’d like to clarify them before I write my report.”
“I’ll answer all your questions.”
“Great, then I’d like to go back to your ‘feeling’ that Robert hadn’t stopped engaging in his nasty habit of pillaging homes. Would you say that ‘feeling’ was based on the fact that you routinely bought stolen property from him and then sold it at the church flea market?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Poole looked to Ash for moral support.
“Just answer the question and stop leering at my boobs, you hypocrite.” She buttoned the blouse.
“Let’s try an easier one. While you were baring your soul a moment ago and begging for forgiveness, why didn’t you tell us about how Robert was supposed to meet you on Friday night so that you guys could deliver the Mourning Bear to the auctioneer in Harrisonburg?”
Poole’s mouth hung open.
Ash said chidingly, “I’ll bet it was because he was so afraid of Trent.”
“Don’t know the answer to that one either, huh? Okay, how about this question: What did Lorraine Cleland pay you for the bear, and how much of that do you have to give to the Holcombes?”
“How can you accuse me of such things?”
“Oh, man, listen to yourself,” I said with a humorless laugh. “Think carefully about the words you just used. You aren’t denying a single thing I’ve said. You just want to know how much information I have and who my sources are. Take it from me, they’re impeccable sources and I know enough to ruin your day—the rest of your life in fact. So, how much did she give you for the bear?”
“I really think you should leave.” Poole began to stan
d up and I noticed that his face had grown hard.
“By all means. The Holcombes are waiting for us over at the Sheriff ’s Office and I’m certain they’re eager to tell us all about how you led them into temptation—not that I don’t think they’re perfectly capable of finding it themselves.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s a shame because we’re at that delightful point in a multi-suspect criminal investigation when the crooks begin pointing fingers at each other in the hope of being the penitent offender who gets the light sentence. I enjoy it because I get to play Monty Hall and decide who gets to make the deal.”
“What deal?”
“To betray your partners in crime. It’s obvious that you’re by far the smartest of the bunch, so I was going to give you first shot.” I made to push myself up from the chair. “However, if you’re not interested I’ll take my offer across the street, where I’m certain it will be accepted.”
Poole slowly sat back in his chair. “What do I get out of it?”
“No reduction in charges, if that’s what you’re thinking. However, you will have the opportunity to cover yourself in advance from the Holcombes, who are going to accuse you of murdering Thayer.”
“I didn’t kill him!”
“I know that, but it will be the word of two witnesses against one, and they can point to your theft of the Mourning Bear as the motive.”
“So, how can you help me?”
“Cooperate and we can show it was the Holcombes that contacted you after Thayer’s death. You might even be able to argue that, believing that Trent had murdered Robert, you went forward with the deal to sell the bear under duress. Perhaps even because the Holcombes threatened to kill you unless you assisted.”
Poole nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
“And it also eliminates the possibility of being charged as an accessory after the fact to homicide.”
“What about full immunity from prosecution?”
“I’m not in any position to make you that offer and I wouldn’t offer it even if I had the authority.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t tell me anything specific about the murder.”
