by Blake Pierce
“I’ve got one last hunch I want to check on,” she said. “After speaking with a woman at that meeting in Alexandria, I’m starting to think that the murders aren’t acts of revenge. I think it’s a form of glorification.”
“Come again?”
She explained to him about the preacher who had referred to himself as glorifying the young people he had abused—of those teens taking the place of Jesus. She then referred to the brief conversation she’d had about the theory with Benjamin Holland.
“And what’s your hunch?” Ellington asked.
“I’m wondering if maybe the killer is someone who really looked up to these men that he has killed. He crucified them in the same manner as Christ. Some he respected more, perhaps; that’s why the wound in the side wasn’t present on all of them. I’m wondering if we’re looking for some type of disgraced priest or preacher. Someone with that sort of reverence toward these men…”
“Yeah, that seems to work out,” Ellington said. “Keep me posted.”
“I will.”
“At the risk of seeming small-minded, I have to ask: do you know if you’ll be back at the apartment at any point tonight?”
She wanted to be frustrated at the question but she felt it, too. That spark of lust and joy that comes with the peaks of any relationship. They were on a peak now, a peak that seemed to be coasting along nicely. But it just so happened that they both had very demanding jobs that came first more often than not.
“I don’t know. We’ll see. If you get there before I do, keep the bed warm.”
“Can do. Be safe out there.”
She smiled, nodded, and ended the call. She then gathered up Benjamin Holland’s book and headed right back out the door.
Outside, night was falling over DC. But Mackenzie had a funny feeling that her day was just getting started.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Because of the high stakes of the investigation, Mackenzie was able to get the phone number she needed with just two simple requests. And although the phone number she was seeking was fairly high profile, it was handed to her almost flippantly. As she made the call to Auxiliary Bishop Whitter, the ease in getting his number made her realize just how much McGrath and the entire bureau were relying on her.
Whitter answered on the third ring and when Mackenzie introduced herself, he seemed absolutely livid.
“Agent White, I think I made it quite clear when we last spoke that I wanted nothing to do with you.”
“Yes, sir. You did. And I—”
“Oh, you can stop right there,” Whitter said. “You’ve been quite rude and insulting to my faith. Be advised that I will be contacting your supervisor and filing a formal complaint.”
“That’s great, actually,” Mackenzie said. “Because he’s the one who has given me full authority over this case. So if you call him to complain about me, be ready to answer some questions about obstructing information about the case.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Oh, I’m afraid not. If you want, I’ll give you his name, number, and extension right now.”
Whitter hesitated for a moment before finally responding. His voice was low and almost like the hiss of a snake. She could imagine him clenching his fist around his phone and speaking through his teeth on the other end.
“Fine. There’s a coffee shop on Georgina Avenue. Cuppa Joe, it’s called. You know it?”
“Coffee,” she said dreamily. And then, because she felt like she was on a roll and simply could not help herself, she added: “Hallelujah!”
***
The good people of Washington, DC, liked their coffee, as was evidenced in the ridiculous line in the coffee shop. Mackenzie spotted Auxiliary Bishop Whitter right away, sitting in the back of the shop. Resisting the tempting scent of a brewing dark roast, Mackenzie headed to the back to meet him.
He looked pissed when she sat down across from him. She racked her brain, trying to figure out what she had done that might have upset him so badly the last time. Apparently the higher-ups in the Catholic Church did not appreciate having the dirt of their brethren thrown in their face in such a blatant way.
But Mackenzie had never been in the business of softening her words to save a few hurt feelings. Especially not now that she felt she was closing in on solid answers.
“I take it you’re still at a loss on the current case?” Whitter asked.
“Actually, I’ve recently come across a promising theory,” she said. “We’re taking steps toward what we think is finalizing a plan. However, one can never have enough leads. Because of that, I was hoping to run something by you.”
“More deplorable accusations?” Whitter asked, incredulous.
“No, actually. I am starting to believe that these murders are not murders of hatred or revenge. I believe the killer has a skewed sort of respect for the victims—that he is using the act of symbolism of crucifixion as a way to glorify his victims. He believes they deserve the same death and reverence as Jesus.”
The thought seemed to land hard on Whitter. His anger slowly dissolved into something else. Sadness, maybe, or horror.
“We also believe the killer is mimicking the path of the so-called Jesus Trail, another indication that the killings are a show of respect rather than vengeance.”
“I see,” Whitter said, his attitude a bit softer now. “So how do you believe I can be of service to you this time around?”
“Well, the ample dedication and adoration from such a man leads me to believe that we’re not talking about a regular person with a messed up theology. Someone this driven must know and love Christ intimately…albeit while also having some sort of mental imbalance.”
“You think it’s someone within the church?”
“I think it’s a strong possibility.”
“You don’t think you might be trying to demonize men of the cloth in this little hunt?”
“With all due respect,” Mackenzie said, “at this point in the investigation, things like jobs and religious preference isn’t a factor. I don’t care who he is, I don’t care what he believes, and I really don’t care where he chooses to worship. So no…I am not demonizing anyone. I’m simply trying to nail down a profile.”
“So I ask again: how do you expect me to help?”
“I need to know if you can think of any priests—or preachers or pastors or whatever—in the area who have often been frowned upon because they might have been a little too overzealous. Maybe someone with a shady history that they were never really all that up front about?”
She could tell right away that Whitter had a name in mind. She could see it in the way his eyes instantly trailed away from her one second after she asked the question.
“You understand,” he said, “that this is difficult for a man in my position. It is, to borrow a reference from the Bible, pointing out the splinter in my brother’s eye when there is a plank in my own.”
“Yes, but withholding information that might allow this killer to carry out another murder is only going to make that plank larger.”
Whitter let out a shaky sigh and looked like he might actually break down in tears. Mackenzie could actually see the internal conflict working itself in the expressions that showed on his face.
“About five years ago,” Whitter finally said, “there was a man named Joseph Hinkley. He came to DC from some place in Alabama. He was a Baptist who was absolutely on fire for the Lord. He had a post here in town at a very small church, and it only lasted a few months. He was one of these hellfire-and-brimstone preachers, wanting to get people saved by the fear of damnation rather than the love and promises of Christ. He took a lot of that Old Testament stuff seriously. Adulterers should be stoned, a woman has no place working or in the pulpit, things like that.”
“You said he only lasted a few months with that church,” Mackenzie said. “Was he released?”
“Yeah. Rumor has it he tried serving as an interim pastor at a few other churches. Honestly, I never paid
it much mind. Catholics don’t generally concern themselves with Baptists. However, he did place himself on my radar when he started approaching Catholic churches. He tried convincing a few—Blessed Heart was one, if I recall correctly—to allow him to speak here and there.”
“I assume no one ever took him on?”
“Correct. Although word has it that he pops up at revivals every now and then. The kind where it’s all under a tent and there’s a lot of yelling and threatening the sin out of people. I suppose some say he’s a former disgraced preacher. But the thing of it was…he seemed to be fascinated with not just Christ, but the men who spoke about Him. He felt that the people that communicated the truth of Jesus to the masses deserved nearly the same acclaim as the messiah.”
“And is that not common in religious circles?”
“No. It’s blasphemous. And whenever someone comes close to behaving in such a way, they usually repent of it. But Joseph Hinkley used it as the crux of his message, from what I understand.”
“Any idea where he lives, by any chance?” she asked.
“No. I do believe he’s still around DC, though. I hear his name pop up from time to time. And not in any good ways.”
“Thank you,” Mackenzie said. “I know it pained you to speak with me again.”
“I think I’ve explained myself well,” he said. “I have no qualms with you—but I do resent a government and media that are forever angling my faith as a breeding ground for intolerance and hatred.”
“That’s the last thing I want to do.”
“And I believe that about you,” Whitter said. “You’ve been in my prayers, Agent White. Despite the way it may seem, I truly do hope you are able to end this very quickly.”
“Same here,” Mackenzie said. And not sure how else to respond, she added: “And thanks for the prayers.”
“Do you believe they work?” Whitter asked, as if surprised.
Mackenzie shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, answering honestly. “But I know that you believe they do. And that in and of itself means a great deal to me.”
With that, she gave him a nod of thanks and got to her feet. The line at the counter had gone down, so she joined it and read through the menu. She wasn’t tired (and doubted she would be any time soon) but an extra jolt of caffeine never hurt.
She had the feeling it was going to be a long night.
She continued to roll it out by pulling out her phone and texting Harrison. Joseph Hinkley, she typed. Former Baptist preacher. I need his info ASAP.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Harrison was as quick and effective as ever. By the time Mackenzie was back in her car and taking the first sip of her dark roast, he was calling. She savored the taste of the coffee for a moment before answering, hoping that Hinkley would prove to be another stepping stone—something as useful as the Jesus Trail information.
“You really know how to pick ’em, White,” Harrison said.
“Tell me.”
“Joseph Hinkley has basically no record to speak of until the age of thirty-seven. His first blip came seven years ago when he was arrested for assaulting a police officer in Baltimore while at a protest against a Muslim mosque being constructed. A year later, he was arrested for beating his wife, hitting her twice in the face and once in the ribs. After she left him, he shacked up with a twenty-two-year-old. He beat up on her, too. I’m looking at the records here and he apparently claims that he beat them because they did not appreciate the Lord and His ways and so he had to punish them.”
“Anything worse than that?”
“Not from what I’m seeing. He’s mentioned in a few cross-referenced cases where he was at the scene of protests or controversial events where there was a heavy police presence involved but no…no red flags otherwise.”
“Got an address?” she asked.
“I do. I’ll text it to you when we end the call.”
Harrison was true to his word, delivering the text within ten seconds of Mackenzie ending their call. She was about to plug the address into her GPS but saw that she didn’t need to. She was familiar with the location. She had, in fact, been very close to it less than four days ago.
As it turned out, Joseph Hinkley lived on Bedford Avenue—less than a mile away from Cornerstone Presbyterian.
***
Protocol deemed it necessary that, because Hinkley was a convicted wife beater, Mackenzie go with a partner. And because Ellington was still running the dead-end of Joseph Simmons, it was Harrison who tagged along with her. He seemed more than happy to be a part of it—perhaps for just a taste of what it had briefly been like to be her partner before his mother had passed away. Or maybe he was just tired of sitting behind a desk and being a glorified research hound.
Mackenzie was glad to have him. He was eager and enthusiastic. And from a professional point of view, she knew that he could use the practice.
When she and Harrison arrived at Hinkley’s residence, there was no question that someone was home. In fact, quite a few people were home. Mackenzie counted four cars in the small driveway. It also seemed as if every light in the place was on. As she stepped out of her car and walked toward the porch, she saw two people walk directly by the front window, their backs to her.
“Some kind of little party or something?” Harrison asked.
“If that’s the case,” Mackenzie said, “it looks like a pretty lame party.”
The house was nothing to write home about. It was a sloppy two-story that looked like it had been around awhile. Its age showed on the porch. The porch light revealed peeling and chipped paint along the façade and a front door that had fought its fair share of mildew.
The porch light was on, indicating that at least three of the cars in the driveway belonged to guests. She walked to the door and knocked, hearing the murmured voices of at last two people. There was a very slight commotion from inside as someone came to the door. It was answered by a man in his late forties, showing a wide smile between a bushy moustache and beard.
“Can I help you?” the man asked.
“Are you Joseph Hinkley?” she asked.
“I am. And you are?”
She showed her ID as she introduced herself. “I’m Agent Mackenzie White with the FBI.” She nodded beside her and said, “And this is my partner, Agent Harrison. I was hoping you’d have the time to answer a few questions.”
Hinkley looked alarmed and confused. He briefly looked over his shoulder for a moment before stepping into the doorway and pulling the door mostly closed behind him.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
Mackenzie looked toward the crack in the door, gazing past the small swirl of nighttime insects that hovered by the porch light. “Do you have company tonight, Mr. Hinkley?” she asked.
“I do. It’s a Bible study I do out of my home twice a week. Tonight is all about the book of Lamentations. Do you know it?”
She smirked at him and shook her head. “I wanted to ask you some questions, remember?”
“Yes,” he said. “And yes…I can answer whatever questions you have. Would you care to come inside?”
“Yes, please.”
He ushered the agents through the door and into the house’s living room. There, five other men were sitting around a coffee table that held three Bibles. They had been in the midst of conversation until Mackenzie and Harrison stepped into the room.
“Sorry, men,” Hinkley said. “Can you give me just a few minutes? Feel free to continue, though. Corey…pick up with Chapter Three, Verse Seven.”
One of the men nodded as Hinkley led the agents down a small hallway and into the kitchen. Like the porch, the kitchen also showed the house’s age. The linoleum was dingy and peeling slightly up at the corners. There was a suppressed smell of mildew and garbage—the smells of a man who didn’t care much about the way people viewed his home.
“Can I offer you a soda or water?” Hinkley asked.
“No thank you,” she and Harrison said, nearly in
unison.
Hinkley shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for a nice woman like yourself who is sent out into the dead of night to strange men’s houses. Such a shame. Does the government not take such things into consideration?”
Wow, Mackenzie thought. He really does have some old-school issues.
“Honestly, I only have a few questions for you,” Mackenzie said. “If all goes well, you’ll be back to your study in five minutes or so.”
“By all means, ask away,” Hinkley said.
“Your name has come up in a case I’m working on. Between the two of us, it’s a link that I’m not feeling is a strong one. But I have to look into everything.”
She saw at once that her flippant attitude put him at ease. His guard was completely lowered now, making it much more likely that he’d reveal some small detail that might help her nail him…if he was the one to be nailed, of course.
“Is it about these poor murdered men of God?” he asked.
“It is. You’ve seen the stories on the news, I take it?”
“I have. And it’s absolutely terrible.”
“Did you know any of them personally?” Harrison asked.
“Not on any deep level, no.”
“Given your history, did you ever cross paths with any of them?” Mackenzie asked.
“Well, I spoke with Reverend Tuttle quite often. As I’m sure you know, Cornerstone is right up the road from here. Some days—not too often, but often enough that it became something of a habit—I’d stop by there if I saw him petering around outside the place. He sometimes cut the grass and did the landscaping himself, you know.”
“So you were on friendly terms when he died?”
“As far as I know. He and I disagreed on a lot of things in the Good Book but he was always very open-minded. He never spoke down to me or tried to change my mind. I liked him quite a bit.”
“And what kind of things would he try to change your mind about?”
Hinkley grinned here; it was a sad sort of grin, one that seemed to very badly want to be a frown or a sneer instead. “As good of a man as he was, Reverend Tuttle was among the vast percentage of so-called followers of Christ that take the Old Testament as just some general suggestions. He softened the wrath of God into nothing but love.”
