Voodoo Daddy vj-1

by Thomas L. Scott

  A landscaper was spreading fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules and they crunched under my boots as if I were walking across a crushed shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the deep south. Four sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick pillars fronted the building, and when I was less than ten feet away they all opened at once as a throng of people exited the building and made their way to the parking lot. The scene reminded me of quitting time at the factory where my grandfather had worked his entire life. My mom or my grandmother would sometimes take me along to pick him up and we’d sit at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was on fire and about to explode.

  I had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of people to pass before I could get inside the building. The lobby area of the church was bigger than I expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request to God before they left the building. There was a cafe of some sort along the eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants, and the aroma of the prepared treats washed over me and made my stomach rumble. Small tables with open umbrellas in their center holes lined a vertical railed enclosure where people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their heaven on earth. Next to the cafe was a bookstore where still more people browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. I turned back around and looked at the doors through which I had just entered feeling a little like Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a mystical place that made no sense to her at all.

  A number of the children and younger adults wore beaded bracelets on their wrists, the ones with WWJD on them and even I knew the letters stood for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ Though I am not religious by nature, I thought if Jesus were here, he would in all likelihood wait until everyone had safely left the building and then burn it to the ground.

  I turned in a slow circle, looking for the office area or an information kiosk and that’s when I noticed two men as they approached me. They both were very large and very ugly. Well, Jesus loves us all. Their biceps bulged hard against their matching sport coats. Though one was slightly taller than the other, they looked almost exactly the same. Shaved heads, thick necks, bulging muscles, and arms that seemed just a bit too long. Mouth breathers.

  The shorter one spoke, like maybe the taller one didn’t know how. “Reverend Pate is in his office and is expecting you. Follow us please.” The smaller of the two men took two steps forward and motioned me to follow, but the larger man, the one who spoke, positioned himself behind me. I glanced up at the ceiling and for the first time noticed the cameras mounted inside tinted plastic domes, the kind you would see in a casino or a bank. I was sure we were being watched, but by whom or how many remained a mystery to me. The three of us walked through the lobby area and then down a short corridor and into the administrative office area of the complex.

  Pate was seated at his desk and on the phone when we walked in. He motioned me in with an exaggerated circular arm movement then pointed to a chair in front of his desk and into the phone he said, “Yes, yes he’s here now. I’ll call you later.”

  After seeing the size of the lobby and its carnival-like atmosphere I suspected Pate’s office would be large and extravagant but I was wrong. The room was no bigger than my office downtown and it was modestly decorated in muted tones, a contrast so stark from the rest of the building I was almost more amazed by its utilitarian form and function than I was of the lobby just down the hall.

  Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people will carry a look of the profession they practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled at me, I noticed his eyes held a certain light which felt both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and I noticed both arm pits of his shirt were soaked through and damp from perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform I suspected they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.

  Pate stood to greet me, but before he did he affixed the metal bands of his arm crutches around his forearms, grasped the handles, then pulled himself out of his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, pointed to the chair with the end of one of the crutches and said, “Welcome Detective. Please, have a seat.”

  We shook hands and when Pate squeezed my fingers harder and longer than necessary, I said, “That’s an impressive grip, Mr. Pate. Please release my hand.”

  He chuckled as if caught in a polite fib, the kind one might tell to save another of an unnecessary embarrassment. “I prefer Reverend, if you please,” he said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve spent years moving around with the aid of these crutches. It tends to build up one’s musculature, wouldn’t you agree? I often forget my own strength. How exactly may I help you, Detective? My wife said you wanted to speak with me about Franklin’s unfortunate passing.”

  I noticed two things right away: Like his wife, Pate had referred to the victim by his first name, which is indicative of a certain level of familiarity beyond a business relationship, and two, he had referred to Dugan’s murder as a ‘unfortunate passing.’ I decided to go for some shock value.

  “The victim was shot to death in his own driveway, Reverend. The top of his head was blown off and you could use what’s left of his skull for a gravy boat. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate passing.”

  Pate seemed to ignore my statement in its entirety and said, “There is a war going on out there, Detective. I witness it every day. The book of Revelation speaks of what is to come and the fate that will befall those who choose to ignore the word of God. The script is already written, the players already cast. The outcome for those who follow the teachings of the bible is a foregone conclusion. The only real question left to ponder, the only real way to fight the war, is to ask yourself, where do you stand in the eyes of the Lord, Detective? Do you stand in the light of God, or in the darkness like those who would murder a man in his own home? You come to my office with intentions of questioning me over something I know nothing about regarding I man I knew as a professional, a friend, and a member of this church. I find your behavior and your demeanor not only questionable but repulsive.”

  I pointed my finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you preach to on TV, Reverend. I’m not here to be your witness. When was the last time you saw Franklin Dugan?”

  I did not think Pate would answer, and when he did, the fire had gone out of his voice and his eyes seemed to dull a bit. “I saw him last week, at the taping of the show. He was here, as he always was.”

  “When was the last time you were at his home?” I asked.

  “I have never been to his home, Detective. Ever. Let me ask you something, if I may. Franklin was one of our biggest benefactors. Why in the world would I or anyone from this church for that matter want to see him harmed?”

  “That’s a fine question, sir. It’s also one that I don’t have the answer to. But here’s an even better one
; Why is it, do you think, Reverend, that the man who was personally responsible for the approval of a five million dollar loan to your church was murdered just days after you got the money? Better yet, how is it sir, that you were able to obtain that kind of credit using an all but condemned building as collateral? Is any of this starting to make sense to you, Reverend? Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of the investigation currently being conducted by the Texas Department of Insurance regarding your former ministry in Houston?”

  I thought he might try to defend himself, but he surprised me with his next statement and left me unable to speak. “My wife tells me of her past relationship with you when you were schoolmates. She’s an interesting woman, is she not? We’re having a viewing party this Saturday, here at our facility. We watch the broadcast with a select few members of the congregation to try and get a feel for how well our message will be received the next day. She’s asked me to invite you to attend. Would ten a.m. work for you, Detective?”

  I left the Pate Ministry with more questions than answers. As I headed downtown for a court appearance on a previous case I spoke with both Rosencrantz and Donatti to get a feel for any information they might have gathered from their canvass of the double murder. Rosie’s voice crackled in my ear on a bad cell signal. “Found a paperboy who says he might have seen the van. He’s just a kid. Sort of a punk, little bit of smartass in him, but just a kid nonetheless. Or hell, maybe he’s completely normal and I’m just getting old. Either way, he didn’t see anything of value. No plate, no make. Says he forgot one of the houses along his route and had to double back. That’s when he saw the van. But there’s nothing there.”

  “You sure?” I said.

  “Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”

  “No shit?”

  “I shit you not, oh wise one.”

  “Prints?”

  “Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”

  “Alright, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”

  “Already on it.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Just spec if you want it.”

  “Let’s have it,” I said.

  “Alright, if you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Barney, so that leaves the banker, right?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank-”

  “Stay with me here, Rosie.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Barney was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”

  I thought about this for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “Alright, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”

  “You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”

  “No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. Probably the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.”

  “You got it, Chief.”

  I killed the phone, parked my truck and headed into court. I was fifteen minutes late. If the court was running on time, the Judge would not be pleased.

  CHAPTER TEN

  From the moment of birth, the hunger of death feeds from an army of life. Day by day it creeps ever closer, a silent, merciless hunter, its endurance without end, its clemency non-existent. It chews on the mind, feeds on the body, digests the spirit, and regurgitates the soul. It is the single, inescapable, inevitable end of everyone, and no one knew that better than Rhonda Rhodes.

  Rhonda worked six days a week as a home Hospice nurse where she currently served nineteen patients, all of them in their final battle with the Big C. It was a gut-wrenching way to make a living, but Rhonda knew, just knew, down to what she called her ever-lasting soul, that what she did for a living was the reason she was ever set down on God’s green earth.

  Rhonda and her ever-lasting husband, Tom, had been married for twenty-seven good years. Tom, a career fireman for the city of Indianapolis had retired only three months ago, and already the spare time was all but eating him alive. He wanted Rhonda to retire as well, but Rhonda was a Hospice nurse when they met, and, as she so often told anyone who might ask, ‘probably will be till the day I die.’

  Her days tended to start late and run later, a sore spot for Tom that just didn’t want to heal. “The Big C works on its own schedule,” she always told him, just as she did now. Tom was on his hands and knees in the middle of their driveway, pulling the weeds out of the cracks in the aging cement, the sleeves of his t-shirt damp from the sweat he wiped from his forehead.

  “Won’t be long and we’re gonna have to replace the drive,” he said to her without turning around. She stood just behind him in the driveway, ready to leave for work. Rhonda still wore the traditional nurse’s uniform-white skirt and blouse, white hose, and white leather shoes. It may have been a throwback from years past, but she refused to dress in those silly scrubs everyone else was wearing these days. It seemed every week one of the other nurses was going on about this new print or that new design. It was as if somewhere along the way nursing had become secondary to making a fashion statement, and a bad one at that. Rhonda would keep her whites, thank you very much. Besides, she thought the patients always seemed to appreciated her attire. More than a few had told her so over the years, and if it worked for them, bless their ever-lasting hearts, it worked for her.

  “The Wimberley’s down the street had theirs done a couple of weeks ago,” Tom said. Rhonda realized she’d drifted a bit. Tom was talking about something the Wimberley’s had bought. A new car? “Got a deal from Bill. You remember Bill? From over at the three-two?”

  “I’m sorry dear, what was that? The Wimberley’s bought a car from Bill?”

  Tom dug at a particularly stout weed that did not want to give its ground, and when it did finally let loose, he scraped his knuckles across the jagged edge of a crack in the cement and tore the skin off the tops of three fingers. He yelled loud enough that the next door neighbor’s dog began to bark. Tom stuck the back of his fingers in his mouth, sucked off the blood, then pressed them into the side of his jeans. “No, they didn’t buy a car from Bill. He poured their new drive for them.”

  “Let me see your hand,” she said.

  “Are you listening to me?” Tom said. “I’m trying to tell you we need a new driveway.” His knees popped when he stood.

  “Tom, you’re bleeding. Let me see.”

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing. You going to work?”

  “Yes. I’ve got four patients today. One of them is new, that little girl I was telling you about last night, God bless her. She’s first, and I’ll probably be there for most of the ever-lasting day, then I’ve got follow-ups on the other three. We can have left over’s or I can stop and get us something on the way home.”

  Tom pulled his hand from the side of his pants and inspected his knuckles. “Either way,” he said. Then he softened his voice. “It wasn’t so bad when we were both working, but I miss you not being here with me.”

  “I miss you too darling, I do. But my patients need me.” Rhonda watched the blood fill the cracks in the broken skin of Tom’s fingers and saw that her husband needed her too. “Tom, really, let me see your hand. I’ve got bandages in the trunk. Let me patch that up for you.”

  “Go on to work, Rhon
da,” he said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll live.”

  Tom was right.

  He lived.

  The Sids batted the idea back and forth-this was a week ago-right before what they called ‘Go Time.’ Junior wanted to be creative. Senior wanted to be practical. Junior argued that creativity could be useful and work to their advantage. If they varied their methods enough, the fucking cops would be running around chasing their tails and probably wouldn’t put two and two together right away, if ever. It would give them all the cover they’d need.

  Senior argued that creativity could, and probably would lead to mistakes and missed opportunities. “Besides,” he had said in the end, “With this many killings, you’re talking about a lot of creativity. Be better if we keep it simple. We’ve got the guns and the silencers, and the van is ready. Let’s just take our shots and be done with it.”

  “Those fucking silencers are pretty cool,” Junior said. “Gotta love Indiana…legal silencers and all.”

  “That might end up changing,” Senior said.

  “Yeah, probably will,” Junior said. “Too late now though.”

  So they settled on practical. That was a week ago. But now, they sat in the van across the street from Beans Coffee shop, Junior at the wheel, Senior at the trigger, and they watched as Rhonda Rhodes pulled to the curb and walked inside. The glare of Rhonda’s stark white nurse’s uniform was almost too bright for the scope. Senior had to squint to keep from being temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the damned thing. He followed her track into the store, but did not pull the trigger. He’d catch her on the way out. That was the plan.