by Blake Pierce
“Yes,” the man said. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes, as if trying to swipe away the last remnants of sleep or a bad dream. He then offered his hand and said, “I’m Dave Wylerman, by the way. I’m head of the music department here at Living Word.”
“There’s a music department?”
“Yeah. We have a rotating ensemble of about fourteen musicians that make up three worship bands.”
“So you’ve worked closely with Pastor Woodall in the past?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’m in meetings with him at least twice a week. Outside of that, he’s become a dear family friend to my wife, my kids, and I over the past decade or so.”
“Can you think of anyone who might have been capable of doing this? Anyone who might have some sort of a grudge or grievance against Pastor Woodall?”
“Well, it’s a big church. I don’t think there’s a single person that works here that knows everyone that attends. But as for me, no, I can’t think of anyone right off the top of my head who was angry enough with him to do this…”
The early morning darkness had hidden Dave Wylerman’s tears to this point, but when he looked up into her eyes they were quite clear. He looked troubled, as if he were struggling to figure out how to say something.
“Do you have a moment to talk in private?” Mackenzie asked.
“Yeah.”
She waved him forward to follow her. She stepped away from the concrete entryway to the church and headed back to her car. She opened the passenger’s side door for him, figuring it might do him some good to get off his feet and feel relaxed. She got in the driver’s side and when she closed her door, she could tell that Wylerman was struggling to keep himself together.
“Has the rest of the church body been informed?” Mackenzie asked.
“No, just the elders, myself, and a few of those close to Pastor Woodall. But calls are being made. Everyone will know within an hour or so, I’d imagine.”
Good, Mackenzie thought. They’ll personally receive the news from someone they know rather than hearing about it for the first time on the news.
“So, correct me if I’m wrong,” she said, “but it looked like you were struggling with something back there by the church. Is there something you can tell me that you didn’t want to share in front of everyone else?”
“Well, as you know, it’s a big church. On any given Sunday, if you count both services we hold, there’s anywhere between five thousand and seven thousand people that attend. And with such a large group, we require several elders to handle the business and concerns of the church. Here at Living Word, we have six—well, we had six. One of them had started to sort of raise some concerns among the others before he left. I don’t think he would have it in him to do something like this but…I don’t know. Some things he had been insinuating…it sort of caught everyone else off guard. Other elders…employees…”
“What’s his name?”
“Eric Crouse.”
“And what sort of things?” Mackenzie asked.
“He kept spouting off about how things left in the dark will come to the light and how that light could be blinding. That maybe being burned by the light is exactly what Living Word needed.”
“And how long had he been behaving this way?”
“About a month or so, I’d say. From what I understand, he left of his own accord about two weeks ago but there was talk before that among the other elders and Pastor Woodall about releasing him. But the thing of it is that everything Eric was saying was scripturally accurate. Things Jesus said, things that most people that attend Living Word believe. But…and I know this is going to sound dumb…it was the way he said the things. You know? Like, he had some hidden context to them. More than that, he never spoke like that before. He was an elder, sure, but never one to just spout off scripture or starting giving these hellfire-and-brimstone-type talks.”
“So if you don’t think he was capable of murder, why are you mentioning him? Was it just the sudden personality change that alarmed everyone?”
Wylerman shrugged. “No. Some people started to notice that Eric was doing everything he could to avoid meetings or small groups where Pastor Woodall would be in attendance. They’ve never been best friends, but always got along. Then all of a sudden, when he started talking about all of this light shining in the darkness stuff, he also seemed to distance himself from Pastor Woodall.”
“And you say he left the church two weeks ago?”
“Yeah, give or take a few days. I don’t know if he’s attending somewhere else now or what. And what’s strange is that it’s almost as if Eric knew Pastor Woodall’s schedule. He had just gotten back from a retreat a few days ago.”
“A retreat?”
“Yeah, it’s this little getaway he takes twice a year. It’s a really quiet little island off the coast of Florida.”
“And how long had he been back?” Mackenzie asked.
“He and his wife got back home five days ago.”
Mackenzie thought about this for a moment, cataloguing it in her mind. She then turned matters back to the man Wylerman had mentioned—the former elder, Eric Crouse.
“Would you happen to know where Crouse lives?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ve been in his house a few times for small groups and prayer.”
Mackenzie wasn’t sure why, but something about this creeped her out. The timing of Eric Crouse leaving Living Word was nearly perfect for the type of suspect she was looking for. To imagine this grieving man clasping praying hands together with a man who might have been responsible for three deaths over the last few days was unsettling.
“Can you tell me where?”
“I will,” Wylerman said, “but I’d really rather you not tell him that you got the information from me…or anyone else at Living Word, for that matter.”
“Of course not,” she said.
A bit reluctantly, Wylerman gave her directions to Eric Crouse’s house. Mackenzie typed them in on her phone, noticing that while Wylerman might have been interacting with her, his mind was very much still with his grieving friends out by the church. He was looking in that direction now, wiping tears from his eyes as he looked at them through the passenger window.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Wylerman,” Mackenzie said.
Wylerman nodded without saying anything else. He then got out of the car. He hung his head low before he even reached the small crowd of people. She could see him trembling. She had never understood how people could have deep faith in an invisible God, but she did respect the sense of community that was evident among those who shared a common belief. She felt very bad for Dave Wylerman in that moment, as well as those who attended Living Word and the void they would feel on Sunday morning.
With that sense of sympathy pushing her, Mackenzie pulled out of the Living Word lot and headed west, to what looked to be the first solid lead this case had churned up.
CHAPTER NINE
It was 6:40 when she arrived in front of Eric Crouse’s home. It was located in a well-to-do neighborhood where the houses were more important than yards, each house pressed in tightly against the other. The garage was closed, making it impossible to know if anyone was home—though given the early hour, she assumed there would be someone there to answer the door.
As she made her way to his door, Mackenzie wished she’d picked up another coffee from somewhere. It was hard to believe that it was not yet seven o’clock. She did her best to shake the vestiges of sleep from her face as she rang the doorbell of the Crouse residence. Right away she could hear footfalls behind the door. Seconds later, the door opened just a crack and a woman peered out.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, clearly suspicious.
“Yes,” Mackenzie said. “And I do apologize for the early hour, but this is pressing. I’m Agent Mackenzie White with the FBI. I’m looking for Eric Crouse.”
The woman slowly opened the door. “That’s my husband. He’s…well, he’s received some terrible news this morn
ing. I assume that’s why you’re here? About the murder this morning?”
“It is,” she said. “So if I could speak with him…”
“Of course,” the woman said. “Come in, come in.”
Mackenzie was ushered inside to the smell of cooking bacon and freshly brewed coffee. The Crouse home was beautiful not overly so. There were high ceilings, crown molding, hardwood floors, and granite counters and a bar space in the kitchen. In the kitchen, the woman led her to a large dining room table; this was the type of kitchen that served as a dining room as well. A man and a boy of about ten sat at the table. The boy was eating a bowl of cereal while the man sipped at a cup of coffee and read something from a laptop.
“This lady is here from the FBI,” Crouse’s wife said.
Crouse looked up, blinking in a what’s going on kind of way. He then got up and walked to Mackenzie. He smiled tiredly at her and she could see from his face that he, just like Dave Wylerman, had been doing his fair share of crying this morning.
Crouse extended his hand for a shake and Mackenzie obliged. She watched his face the entire time, looking for some flaw in what was either a great disguise of emotion or a front to fool her. She could not see either and, therefore, could not decide if he was hiding any guilt.
“I assume this is about Pastor Woodall?” Eric asked.
“Yes,” Mackenzie said. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Um, yeah,” Eric said. He looked at his son and patted him on the shoulder. “Can you and Mommy run to the bathroom and finish getting ready for school? Get those teeth good, okay?”
The boy looked at his cereal, clearly not finished, but obeyed his father. So did the wife, as she escorted their son out of the kitchen and toward a hallway that sat off to the right. When they were out of sight, Eric looked at the coffee pot on the counter and asked: “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. That would be fantastic, actually.”
Eric walked into the kitchen and Mackenzie followed. Eric grabbed a cup from a cupboard and filled it with coffee from the pot on the counter. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black is fine,” she said. She was pretty sure he was stalling, but at the same time, also trying his best to seem pleasant and hospitable.
When he handed her the coffee, she gave her thanks and sipped. It was good and strong—just what she needed.
“So, how did you find out about Pastor Woodall?” she asked.
“I got a call from one of the elders. I suppose if you’re here to speak with me, you already know that I was an elder there until very recently.”
“Yes. I was aware. And I understand there was a bit of hostility and disagreement just before you left.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Would you care to elaborate on what you meant by the comments you made about the dark and the light? About Living Word being burned by the light?”
Eric hesitated, taking a drink from his coffee. “You see, the difficult thing here is that had you asked me that very same question yesterday, I would have gladly answered you. But things are different now.”
“Well, Mr. Crouse, I had no reason to ask you that yesterday. But right now, I have a dead pastor that you were disagreeing with rather harshly…a pastor you worked closely with for several years and suddenly started to apparently not care for very much.”
“That’s fair,” he said. He leaned to the right a bit, peering down the hallway as if to make sure his wife and son were still out of earshot. When he was confident that they were still gone, he stepped closer to Mackenzie. “Look…I discovered something about Pastor Woodall three months ago. At first, I refused to believe it but then I saw proof. And I couldn’t deny it anymore. I…well, I guess I didn’t know quite how to handle it.”
“And what did you discover?”
“Agent White…he’s dead. Recently dead. What kind of man would I be to speak ill of him? The last thing I want is to smear his name after he’s dead.”
“I’ll keep it discreet then,” she said. “No one other than my supervisor and two or three additional agents will know.”
“I have your word on that?”
“Yes,” she said. “Although, from what I understand, you wouldn’t have cared much about dragging his name through the mud a few weeks ago.”
Eric actually sneered at this. “You expect this shit from small-town churches…rumors and gossip. Yes…I probably did not do the best job at staying quiet. I said some not-so-subtle things that might have raised eyebrows. But believe me…with what I know, I could have gone public. I could have smeared his name right away. But I didn’t.”
“And why not?”
“Because it’s not my job to judge. He’s dead now and God will judge him.”
“Judge him for what?” Mackenzie asked. “What’s the big secret?”
His eyes were welling with tears as he spoke and it was that one simple indicator that told Mackenzie that Eric Crouse was not only not the killer, but that despite his recent behavior, he had once cared for Pastor Woodall.
“I had a young man come to me in confidence about three months ago. From time to time, I’d help with the teen classes at Living Word. This was a kid I’d talked to off and on when he was younger…sort of helped him with his spiritual journey, answered the tough God questions, things like that. So he comes to me and it’s been…I don’t know…maybe a year since I’ve had a real conversation with him. He asks if we can talk in private, so I took him to my office. He tells me that for the last year or so, he’s been having a homosexual relationship. So I’m prepared to talk it out with him, to see where he’s at mentally and everything. But then he finishes the comment…the relationship was with Pastor Woodall.”
“And you believed him, just like that?” Mackenzie asked.
“Hell no. It actually made me mad that the guy would even insinuate such a thing. But then he showed me his cell phone. There were texts and pictures. And I hated him for showing it to me. I hated him for it and not Woodall.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No. I didn’t know what the hell to do. If I exposed him, that could be the end of Living Word. And besides that, the guy asked me not to. He’d just wanted to come to me about it to confess his sins. But in the back of my head and heart, I always thought he’d told me about it with a quiet hope that I would go public. Some of those messages were…well, they insinuated abuse.”
“How so?”
“The guy was wanting out of it. And Woodall told him if he stopped seeing him or told anybody about what was happening, he’d start spreading lies about the guy. There were some other things that were said that sort of suggested unwanted sex. Maybe not rape, but…ah God. This is terrible.”
“You’re sure about all of this?”
Eric nodded. The tears were flowing now, dropping from his face. “I’m glad you came. God, I needed to tell someone and—”
He bit back a sob here and looked down at the floor.
“Mr. Crouse…please understand that I have to speak to this young man.”
“I can’t give you his name. I can’t…”
“Mr. Crouse…Pastor Woodall is one of three religious leaders that have been brutally killed within eight days. This is a serial case and we have no way of knowing who is next. Any and every lead I have at my disposal, I need to use. And speaking to a boy who could very well be a victim of abuse at the hands of the most recently murdered religious figure is too in-your-face to ignore. At the risk of just tossing guilt at you, your refusal to provide a name could very well hinder this investigation and lead to more deaths.”
“Chris Marsh,” Eric said, the name coming from his mouth like a strangled hiss of pain. And then he let out a moan of anguish that was nearly as loud as a scream.
This was followed by the sound of his wife from the back of the house. She was running through the hallway, calling his name. When she reached the kitchen, she gave Mackenzie a look of pure venom.
“What happened?” she asked, near
ly screaming at Mackenzie.
“Not her fault,” Eric managed to say. “But oh God, there’s…there’s something I have to tell you…”
There was no graceful way to make an exit. Mackenzie gave a thanks that was drowned out by Eric Crouse’s grief. When she left the house she did so without any fanfare. The wife gave her only the most half-hearted of waves as she headed for the front door.
As she closed it behind her, all she saw was their ten-year-old son, creeping back down the hallway to see why his father was crying so loud.
In every case, Mackenzie felt there was one thing she would see or hear from someone that lit a fuse in her—that made her more determined than ever to bring a case to a close.
For this case, it was the sight of that uncertain little boy walking down the hall, hearing his father cry from the result of horrors he did not yet know and probably would not understand. The boy wasn’t even aware that Mackenzie had spotted him but she burned that image into her mind as she bounded down the Crouses’ porch steps and back to her car.
As she reached the car, her phone rang from within her coat pocket. She took it out and her heart managed the slightest bit of joy when she saw the name Ellington on the display.
She answered the call, doing her best not to sound as relieved as she actually was. “Ah, so you didn’t forget about me!”
“Of course I didn’t.”
“All jokes aside,” Mackenzie said, “McGrath got you out of town pretty quickly. And he wouldn’t tell me a damned thing. What’s he got you working on anyway?”
She was in her car now, starting the engine. Even over that sound, though, she was able to clearly hear Ellington’s deep sigh. “Yeah, I figured he’d leave that part to me.”
“What’s that mean? Ellington, what’s going on?”
“Early yesterday morning, the Omaha, Nebraska, field office called McGrath. One of the agents down there is working with a private investigator, sort of under the radar and—”
“Is it Kirk Peterson?” she interrupted.
“Yeah. There’s been some movement on that newer case that’s linked to your father.”
