by H. B. Berlow
“With all due respect, Captain, I’m just a beat cop from Ark City.”
Rackler’s head popped up faster than a prairie dog from a burrow.
“You see. That’s what—”
“John!” Sells’ voice pounded the air like shoes on pavement. The look on Rackler’s face was of a bloodhound who just got swatted in the nose.
“What makes you think I’ve got anything to add?” I continued.
“We have seven women murdered in as many months. With all the officers and detectives assigned to this case, we haven’t turned up a single viable lead. I’ve been instructed to find a way to bring this case to a close, and I will use any means to do so. You come highly regarded by your own chief and by Eliot Ness who is mired in a similar predicament.”
“And he’s no closer to solving those killings either.”
“So be it. At least with you, we can say we tried.”
He looked at me with an apologetic frown, the look of a tired and desperate man, not unlike Ness. As he started to leave, I said, “Captain Merton, you don’t get to put this one all on my shoulders. Your men need to carry their weight.”
His lips were tight and his nostrils flared slightly.
“They know that.”
He left faster than Noah on his ark when the rains came. The storm was coming fast.
Chapter Thirty-One
I clapped my hands together to wake these boys up from their lackluster dreaming.
“All right. Let’s get started.”
For the first time in my life, I actually rolled up my sleeves. I imagine it was something Baron Witherspoon, the young farmer, would have done many times. For me, as a dapper teenage kid running with the North Side Gang, you only rolled up your sleeves to prevent blood from getting on your cuffs when you were working a guy over.
I handed them a summary of my previous analysis as well as the conclusion determined by consulting with the Cleveland detectives. Linda Kuchenberg was kind enough to type these up for me in duplicate with carbon paper. It looked professional. This was what I wanted these men to see, same as their counterparts under the jurisdiction of Eliot Ness. Perhaps they would be willing to cooperate so we could catch this beast.
Instead of looking at my face and not being able to see a person, I was trying like heck to make them realize I was a cop, same as them. As much as I disliked Rackler and started to distrust Sells, we were all in the same boat. This had to be done together.
“What you seem to have is a mission oriented perpetrator.”
“A what?” There was breath and spit flying out of Rackler’s mouth. “No, what we have here is a lunatic.”
“Even a lunatic has a purpose, a method to their madness.”
“And just how are we supposed to figure out his method?”
“We get inside his head.”
Sells had a smile on his face. He was glad to put Rackler through the wringer but also pleased to finally understand I would have made a good detective. It was he who got the ball rolling on the discussion, slowly drawing Rackler in by asking him questions and getting him to think about the answers. It was an entirely different approach for this young gung-ho bruiser of a cop who was really a detective in name only. I figured he knew and would need to crack a good case in order to be respected accordingly.
Sells, on the other hand, seemed like the guy from the Bible who was raised from the dead. When I first encountered him, he seemed old and tired. Perhaps I was concerned, maybe even fearful of winding up like him some day. Droopy eyes. Never fully shaven. Didn’t seem to mind his suit wasn’t pressed. Passing for a drunk in a bar rather than a Wichita police detective. This conversation put a gleam in his eye. You could see him thinking and remembering what it was like to actually care.
“So, what is his mission?” Rackler was sounding like a sweet innocent schoolboy.
“For that,” I continued, “we have to see what these victims have in common to make them a target.”
“A young girl who worked in a laundry. Three prostitutes. A dancer in a theater show. The owner of a slop house outside of town. And a wayward revival girl. Doesn’t seem like a whole lot of common ground, Witherspoon.” I could tell Sells was starting to slip back into boredom and frustration. If it wasn’t going to come easy, I might lose him.
“Think. Think of anything. Just say it out loud.”
He nodded his head, willing to give it a go.
“Ok, the prostitutes are motivated by sex.”
“But so was the dancer girl.” Rackler was starting to play the game, too.
“Correct. However, Tangerine Smith wasn’t involved with the profession. And neither was the laundry girl.” I was feeling a bit like Bill Tilden, lobbing the ball back.
“But you said Tangerine Smith was giving drugs to this—” Sells reviewed the report again “—Shirley Meeks. That’s moral corruption.”
“Wait a minute,” Rackler said, holding his hand up like a traffic cop. “The Jessica Rabal kid. Nothing to do with sex or drugs. How does she fit in?”
“She was the first,” I responded as quickly as the thought came to me. “She was the one who got him started.” I paused for a moment trying to get the rest of the thought from the back of my head to my tongue. When I saw Rackler starting to speak, I continued. “He knew her. He must have known her. And she rejected him somehow. After her, he knew what he had to do.”
“Which was what?” Rackler’s tone was almost pleading, as though he desperately wanted to know.
I was starting to see it fall into place. The mission was punishment for what the perpetrator saw as violations of morality, whether by some actual guideline or based on his own personal sense. The last killing, this Carole Cox, was a girl who had traveled with a revivalist. It seemed like a good place to start.
“What have you got on this Cox girl?” I asked no one in particular.
Rackler reached behind him for a file.
“Cox, Carole. Aged 23. Born Ponca City, Oklahoma September 4, 1915. Truancy. Runaway. Arrested for panhandling in Oklahoma City 1936. Shows up working for Sister Celeste off and on for the next year plus.”
“Anything like prostitution or drugs?” It wasn’t panning out. So far.
Rackler went through the file, reading it over twice while shaking his head.
“So how does she fit in?” Sells didn’t sound like he was challenging but he was as eager for answers as the rest of us. I looked back at Rackler.
“What do you have on this Sister Celeste?”
He reached back again and pulled out a substantially larger file. I whistled in amazement.
“Don’t get too impressed, Witherspoon. It’s a lot of talk.” He opened the file. “Clara Dietrich. Born Randolph, Massachusetts, July 3, 1882. Married Dr. Jordan David, thoracic surgeon at Beth Israel Hospital on March 6, 1903. The doctor was eleven years her elder. Apparently, Mrs. David was bored being a young surgeon’s wife, accusations of marital infidelity led to a divorce three years later. Nothing at all for ten years until she emerged as a pacifist encouraging President Wilson to keep us out of war. Since it didn’t work, she seems to have reinvented herself as Sister Celeste David and made her way to this part of the country. There have been claims of liquor sales, procurement of young women for immoral purposes, and shady financial deals. Nothing stuck. She’s got a following as big as an army.”
“Yeah, an army of religious crazies,” Sells chimed in.
“Any one of which could be our guy.” Rackler thought he was half way to solving the case.
I got an idea, went over to the office door, opened it, and called out for my liaison. Officer Roché approached cautiously, uncertain if he should enter. I waved him in.
“Ron, you had mentioned Sister Celeste before as though you were familiar with her.”
“Yes. My mother and I—” He looked up and over toward Rackler and Sells. His face turned slightly red with embarrassment.
“Go on.”
“Well, we’ve been
to her revivals before. My mother actually talked with her at length last time she visited.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know. It was private.”
“You plan on going to see her this time?”
He was looking at Rackler and Sells and not just in their direction. He stood up taller, shoulders held back, chest just a little bit pushed out. No one was going to think poorly or say anything insulting about his mother.
“Mother said she wanted to.”
“Would you mind if I went along with you?”
He looked back to me like a puppy dog with wide eyes, perhaps seeing me as something a bit more than an older brother. I was showing interest in something very important to him.
“Not at all.” We discussed meeting at his house and having a light supper before the revival at the Lawrence Athletic Field. Somehow Sister Celeste could afford to rent out a baseball stadium. The plan was I would be inside the facility trying to arrange for a meeting with Sister Celeste while Rackler and Sells lurked outside, observing the people who were coming to attend, looking for anyone who had a look of suspicion. It was a long shot, to be sure. But we felt if the perpetrator was one of Sister Celeste’s “army” the chances are he would be there, waiting for a sign to continue on his mission.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It would have been out of place for me to wear my uniform. It could be seen as a slap in the face to Sister Celeste and her followers as well as indicating to the perpetrator we guessed would be there. Rackler and Sells thought we did. Even I gave in to the excitement of a possibility. Given the fact there hadn’t been even a lead, our feelings were understandable. It was a step in the right direction.
I couldn’t recall the last time I wore a suit. It dawned on me it was at Beth Handy’s wedding. From her nuptials to tracking down a killer at a revival meeting. I was going to have to either hang up the suit for good or get out to more places.
I was instructed to come for supper at five o’clock. It was to be a light meal so as to not become overly full for the passion of the meeting. The indication was Sister Celeste delivered intense sermons which instilled an energy and vibrancy, some said, delivered by God himself. I knew people of the sort but they were mostly drunks. Perhaps some of the faithful were drunk on something divine.
Deanna Roché was dressed in a white cloth gown with lace trim everywhere. Her hair was pulled back in a large soft bun with just two wispy strands lazily drooping and landing softly on her neck. Her red lipstick made her skin seem whiter than it was. Yet, there didn’t appear to be anything pure about her, especially how her gaze captured my eyes, almost wanting to get inside of me. It was unnerving in a way I hadn’t experienced before. Even facing down a beast like Carson Stankey didn’t make me as uncomfortable as looking at her.
“I am so glad to see you again, Baron.” Apparently, our prior meeting was enough for her to dismiss formalities. “I am even more pleased you will be joining us this evening. Sister Celeste has a way, oh, how shall I say it, a way of helping you redefine your life.” I wondered how her life had been redefined.
“Perhaps I’m ready.”
Cold sliced meat, potato salad, and lemonade made the evening meal feel more like a picnic. However, with everything being served on fine China and the beverages in crystal glasses, Deanna Roché was creating an elegant setting. I knew she didn’t have many opportunities to do so, certainly not with a shy son who was a police officer. Perhaps this is how she wanted her life to be or maybe she was trying to make me believe this is how it always was. For the moment, I was just another performer in her play.
Ronnie drove us in his mother’s car, a Cadillac Coupé, probably four or five years old. It was a dark gray, not quite silver, with a deep maroon leather interior. The car was polished to a mirror-like shine, and it was doubtful if it was used much. Ronnie drove while we sat in the crowded back seat. It felt like some weird Hollywood-style limousine with a chauffeur, the three of us going to a meeting to celebrate the kind of riches money can’t buy. Or maybe a major studio movie premiere.
I caught sight of Sells as we entered, assumed Rackler was somewhere on the opposite side, hopefully paying careful attention to the crowd that was entering the stadium. A tall slender man, balding with sunken eyes, wearing a black suit with a red bow tie, walked toward Deanna. She smiled in recognition as he approached. He held out his arm for her and escorted us to a covered section with better seats. He left us without once saying a word. Whatever passed between them was simply understood.
“Sister Celeste knew we’d be here.” Deanna Roché was proud of her acquaintance with a woman who could save her soul. From what, I wasn’t sure.
At precisely eight o’clock, the lights within the stadium turned off suddenly. There was a collective gasp followed by a buzzing like bees ready to swarm and then a few quieting the others down until a loud “SSSHHH” fell like snowflakes and covered everything. Just as suddenly, spotlights were turned on to a stage in the middle of the stadium. It was perhaps ten feet high and most likely had steps in back. The figure on the stage was dressed in a pure white gown with a garland of flowers in her hair. Her head was lifted to the heavens and her arms raised, reaching for the inspiration. She finally lowered her head and spoke.
“First Timothy. Chapter five. Verse twenty. ‘Them that sin reprove before all: that the rest also may have fear.’ This is how we face evil in our times, my friends. This is how we win the battle. If the archangel Michael can fight Satan over the body of Moses, what kind of effort can we make in the war against wickedness, vice, and immorality? We can do no less, my friends. No less. We must be vigilant. We must be strong. We must have complete faith in the Lord.”
It was exactly this kind of preaching which would arouse someone to take action, make someone believe not enough was being done for the sake of righteousness, convincing them they alone could rid the world of sin. I felt sure the perpetrator was in the stadium right then and there. But as we had gathered from our interviews, he remained in the shadows.
Because of where we sat, we had to look up at the stage. I saw Deanna’s eyes reflecting the bright lights, embracing them, bathing in the glow of what she surely must have felt was a divine blessing. Ronnie didn’t have any particular look on his face, just blank, but he nodded in agreement. It wasn’t easy to tell if he was as passionate about Sister Celeste as his mother or if he was going along for the ride.
“She’s got an interesting background,” I practically whispered leaning over to him.
“I know. I read the file on Rackler’s desk.”
I wasn’t sure at what surprised me more: he was aware of who Sister Celeste really was or he had the nerve to look at the file and risk Rackler’s anger.
It was well over an hour of Biblical quotations, passionate encouragement, call-and-response, recorded music played over the loudspeakers which usually announced the next batter, and subtle references regarding donations. These, naturally, would lead to promises fulfilled. At the end, the lights went out on the stage and then came up slowly on the stadium. Sister Celeste and her group were nowhere to be found. It was then the tall slender man in the black suit came over to us.
“Sister Celeste requests your presence for an audience.” He extended his arm in general. With my hand on her shoulder, I guided Deanna toward him. She took his hand and started walking away but he stood there looking at Ronnie and me. “She would like to meet with all of you.” This was an opportunity too good to pass up.
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was a small room perhaps used for meetings or offices but in this case a waiting area for the faithful. In this case, Deanna Roché and perhaps her son Ronnie. I hadn’t figured out yet how devoted he was to the Lord or to his mother. He appeared to show a degree of embarrassment when he admitted in front of Rackler and Sells he would be attending this event. I always felt as though he stuck close to his mother because neither of them had any one else. It was something I could easily rela
te to.
The silence was almost frightening. It was as though Deanna was expecting the Rapture and Ronnie was witnessing the Crucifixion. I was simply hoping to find a killer. And here we all were together.
The young girl who entered had hair the color of pale rust, a red bordering on blonde. Her robe was as white as Sister Celeste’s but it was made out of cotton without any of the fine lace attached to it. Her smile was as wide as the morning sunrise and as bright.
“How good of you to come. Sister Celeste appreciates you are willing to have an audience with her.” She walked directly over to Deanna, holding her by the shoulders, ready to embrace her as a supplicant. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Katie Moore, Sister Celeste’s personal assistant. I was here for your meeting with her.”
“Yes. Yes.” Deanna may or may not have recalled young Miss Moore but she was not saying at this time. She recollected her profound discussion and the life-changing words she had heard. This was only a guess on my part. I didn’t cotton much to these types of religious zealots, certainly not after all the death and destruction and chaos I had personally encountered in my life. It worked for some and that was all right. At this time, however, we were looking for a monster among the angels.
Whatever bright light came from the smile of Katie Moore was dimmed, a gray cloud compared to the ultimate brightness represented by Sister Celeste David. She burst into the room like a shooting star and all worldly notions vanished. She made them diminish so the only thoughts you would have were of her and her alone. Some peddlers sold ointments and cure-alls, bottles filled with alcohol and herbs and strange ingredients. Sister Celeste sold something even more desperate: hope.
She beheld the awe in Ronnie’s eyes and recognized the devotion of Deanna. But it was me she fixed upon and walked over to as though I had the Holy Grail in my back pocket. Her hands extended and almost pleading, her fingers touched my face and traced the lines of my scars. It was nothing like Dr. Brenz had ever done. It was something closer to a lover’s touch. In this regard, she had more in common with Deanna.
