The Killing of Bobbi Lomax

by Cal Moriarty

  ‘So he didn’t get much of a look?’

  ‘Not a long look, no. I said I’d send the sketch artist over tomorrow morning. But I got a description.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Thick glasses, green jacket, slim. My height. So five ten. White.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘He thinks dark.’

  ‘Thinks.’

  ‘The dogs were distracting him.’

  ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-five maybe.’

  ‘How old’s Houseman?’

  ‘Twenty-eight.’

  ‘Shame. You think this is Hartman?’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  ‘Maybe the sketch artist and Angel will flush him out.’

  ‘Let’s hope.’

  ‘I called the artist already. She’s going over there at ten. The doc said they’re operating tonight. But the sketch might get delayed if Angel is groggy or still in recovery. I told the sketch girl to wait at the hospital, no matter what. And I put a uniform on the door 24/7.’

  ‘Good call. Where’s Hobbs?’

  ‘Didn’t you send him after the AWOL guys?’

  ‘Yeah. Haven’t heard from him. Thought you might? Radio him or page him for me? Give him the description of the suspect and the time and all that. See if it tallies with anyone he’s seen so far – or any of the AWOL guys. And circulate it, but make sure you tell them it’s just interim. We’ll have something better tomorrow.’

  Al got up off his chair. ‘Hopefully. What did Laidlaw have to say?’

  ‘It wasn’t so much Laidlaw. Although he did most of the talking. It was all twelve of them, lined up like a firing squad.’

  ‘All twelve . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but I wasn’t leaving there without some kind of answers. Even their versions. But they’re still holding back. Something. And it must be big because they’d even rolled out the Supreme Leader.’

  ‘Trying to intimidate you?’

  ‘I guess. I told them the Chinatown tale.’

  Al smiled. ‘Works every time.’

  ‘Lifted the veil of silence, that’s for sure. But not enough. They seemed pretty focused on Lomax and the missing money from his property investment scheme. They mentioned him a lot, Bobbi Lomax, Linda Lomax. They even suggested Bobbi Lomax’s high-school fiancé. Neither Bobbi nor him were Faith, needless to say. So they really thought he should be in the frame.’

  ‘Yeah. Weird that.’

  ‘For they can do no wrong.’

  ‘Unless it’s lose a million, like Lomax.’

  ‘Every flock has its black sheep.’

  ‘What about Angel and the beagle? What’s Bobbi Lomax’s ex got to do with them. He a dog hater?’

  ‘I don’t think the Faith’s figured out a connection yet.’

  ‘Give ’em time.’

  ‘But they as good as admitted that Peter Gudsen was tipped for the top job. His main focus though, until he ascended to world domination, was looking after the Faith library, which occupied much of his spare time when he was working, plus a lot of his time when he left Lomax in the summer.’

  ‘Worth getting Bobbi Lomax’s ex in here?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Get Hobbs and Carvell out to his place though, just in case. We can’t be seen to be ignoring tip-offs.’

  ‘Even the ones that seem like they’re giving us the runaround?’

  ‘Depends on the source. What interested me was what they weren’t saying. There were no helpful suggestions of a connection between Gudsen, Lomax – Bobbi or Arnold – and Houseman.’

  ‘No one else seems to know about one, either.’

  ‘But what about that miniature Bible?’

  ‘The one Gudsen gave Marion Rose?’

  ‘And which Gudsen might have got off Houseman.’

  ‘He didn’t have a store, did he?’

  ‘No. So he must have had some kind of client–dealer network going, selling to regulars.’

  ‘He might have an address book at his place. Might have the names in.’

  ‘He might. But we’re not going to get any kind of warrants unless we can put pretty overwhelming evidence on the table.’ Marty picked a folded newspaper off a pile of them on his desk, and pushed it towards Al.

  ‘Check this out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That story. The one with the picture. On the way back from the Faith, I stopped off at the Desert Times. I thought I’d try and find some other connection with Houseman and Gudsen or Lomax. Even the dog guy. Anything, no matter how left-field.’

  ‘This entire case is left-field.’

  ‘The archivist helped me track down some stuff. There’s a few entries for Clark Houseman and a whole bunch for Gudsen, his mostly to do with the library, some exhibitions of religious books they ran over there, a bunch of mentions to do with the financial meltdown, Gudsen, Lomax. Even a picture of Bobbi Lomax. Prom Queen.’

  Al held up the paper. ‘Is that him, in the center? Houseman?’

  ‘Yeah. This is the first Houseman article in the paper.’ Marty patted the pile on his desk. ‘I got back copies, a bunch of them and some copies the librarian made for me off microfilm.’

  ‘Houseman looks different here.’

  ‘He looks different in every picture. Guy’s a chameleon.’

  ‘This the Supreme Leader? Laidlaw?’

  ‘The full line-up.’

  ‘I think I saw this on TV. They found some old document. An original or something?’

  ‘The Testament of Faith. And guess who found it?’

  ‘Houseman?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In an old English Bible. Tucked right inside. Imagine that. After all those years, it just shows up like that. The paper said it’s worth fifty K.’

  ‘Fifty K? How come nothing like that ever happens to me?’

  ‘I have a feeling it just did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at the picture again. See Houseman sat there, looking like the cat that got the cream, and all the rest of them, looking even more smug.’

  ‘I’m looking.’

  ‘See that hand on Houseman’s shoulder? The person’s been cut out of the shot. The fingers, long, slender. Almost like a woman’s?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And the varsity ring on the finger?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s Peter Gudsen.’

  ‘How do you know that, from just a hand?’

  ‘I saw him, after the bombing, remember? I noticed the ring. And his fingers. It’s him, but just to help that ID along a bit, here.’ Marty gave Al the next paper from the pile. It was a page-size ad in the Desert Times. Lomax and Gudsen were standing amongst the painted backdrop of a new development, out at the top of the canyons, appealing for investors. ‘See the suit jacket?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Notice how it’s only got the two buttons. Usually there’d be three on the cuff.’

  ‘Yeah. But how does that help?’

  ‘Because in this other picture the arm with the missing person only has two buttons. And if you look close enough you can see a little thread from the jacket, where the missing button was.’ He handed Al a small magnifying glass.

  Al looked sceptically at it. ‘The department’s gone hi-tech, huh?’

  ‘Just look.’

  Marty looked at the top of Al’s head as he peered down at the photos. He had a few flecks of grey pushing through the dark mop. Probably not a good time to tell him.

  ‘Yeah. OK. I’ll give you that it’s the same jacket. And it might be the same hand. But what does it prove? They were in the same room together. Once.’

  ‘I think it proves more than that. Look at the press conference picture. The way Gudsen’s hand is kind of clasping Houseman’s shoulder. A “well done, man” hand on his shoulder. A tad familiar for two guys no one seems even able to put together in the same sentence.’

  Al looked at the picture. ‘Looks
like he’s giving his shoulder a good old squeeze.’

  ‘Like I said.’

  ‘Strange how none of the wives mentioned them knowing one another.’

  ‘You mean the live wives?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Question is, as only one of them is dead: what did Bobbi Lomax know?’

  ‘Pillow talk, maybe?’

  ‘More pillow talk than a wife of forty years, I’d bet.’

  ‘You and me both.’

  ‘You thinking that Houseman might be some kind of accomplice to Gudsen and Lomax and whatever was going on in that property investment firm?’

  ‘Yeah, because I’m thinking, why are the faith so keen on deflecting me away from Houseman?’

  ‘Maybe they suspect him?’

  ‘Or maybe they’re protecting him.’

  ‘He’d have to be of value to them to be risking that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s damage limitation? By protecting him, they protect his accomplice.’

  ‘Why would they protect Lomax? He’s the one center-frame for all that money going missing.’

  ‘No. Gudsen.’

  ‘They’re protecting Gudsen?’

  ‘He who shall inherit the Faith crown.’

  ‘But then why in the hell is Gudsen dead? And Bobbi Lomax? And Houseman and the Dog Angel in the hospital?’

  ‘Maybe someone, or something, decided to protect the Faith from the growing investment scandal. And an urgent, growing need to disassociate themselves from it, whatever the cost.’

  ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Mart?’

  ‘That the Faith had them all killed? Or tried to?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  28

  February 7th 1983, 10 am

  Faith HQ

  ‘Overwhelming’. ‘Awesome’. ‘Privileged’. Clark didn’t know how many times he’d repeated those words in the past ten minutes or so, but it was way less than the word ‘blessed’. He’d used ‘blessed’ a lot. Usually with his hand pressed close to his chest, somewhere near his heart, peppered with occasional flourishes of clasped hands, closed eyes and an almost imperceptible bow of the head. He was the humble Follower. The blessed humble Follower who had rejoiced when it was attested by the Faith’s own historical archivists that he had discovered the Prophet’s original Testament of Faith.

  Clark had rehearsed his responses earlier in the half hour after Laidlaw had shown him the pre-approved list of questions selected for the morning’s press conference by the Faith’s PR department. There were TV cameras present and rolling. The Faith considered it reckless to allow uncensored questions. Particularly when your leaders’ responses would be recorded and beamed out of context into living rooms around the world via the evening news. The journalists, the Faith’s usual favorites, were dotted around the room, to give the appearance of democracy and spontaneity. Their questions bland, congratulatory. They sounded more like members of the Faith’s PR team than journalists. Clark doubted they even knew the meaning of the word ‘journalism’.

  His jaw was starting to tire from smiling when, after the barrage of blandness and suffocating congratulations, an almost forgotten question, the one Clark would have asked first, was asked. ‘Excuse me, sir, could you repeat that?’ said Clark. He wanted to draw focus to it, so everyone could hear it.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Houseman.’ The young man, whom one could easily have mistaken for an overgrown Boy Scout, stood up, and this time took care to enunciate his every word. ‘How exactly did you find it? The Prophet’s Testament of Faith?’

  ‘Exactly?’ Clark wondered how long he could delay his response for as he felt the tension levels rise, as the Disciples all seated alongside him silently wondered exactly how much detail he would reveal of his find. God is in the detail. But detail will kill you too. He knew they feared him mentioning the Bible. The Bright Bible, which they’d probably already locked away in their secret vaults. Or burnt.

  ‘The Testament of Faith was discovered . . .’ Clark thought back to his discovery, thought back to how something so contrived, so manufactured, could appear so natural, so spontaneous, so organic. He thought about his long trip hundreds of miles upstate. He looked down at the Testament. The almost tobacco-coloured page unrecognizable from its original incarnation as a far less yellow page of a large State Land tract that Clark had stolen wholesale from the State Land Records and Deed Office. He had only needed a quarter of it, but there were a few scattered researchers in the library, so rather than noisily ripping off the piece he needed, it had been far easier to just fold it up and slide it down the back of his trousers, covering it over with first his shirt, then his flyer’s jacket. He had needed a piece of 1836 paper, or one produced before that time. Very helpfully, in the public spirit, the Deeds office had arranged their box files in chronological order. Finding a piece of paper that had been partially used had been quicker than he thought. Several of the Deeds and Tracts had been written on much larger pieces of paper and then the whole folded in on itself so the blank parts of the page acted as a kind of envelope. He could have been out in less than ten minutes, but instead, he made sure to take a couple of boxes back to the desks near the librarian and pretend to take notes whilst mulling over dull tracts selling off one piece of barren land after another. The paper dug into him, but he could live with the pain. That which does not kill you.

  Later, back in his den, he’d used a clean quill from his turkey stash dipped into a freshly made pot of 1836 ink. A lot of Germans had made it to Abraham City at the time, and Bright had a German lieutenant, so it was only reasonable that his techniques may have filtered down to Bright and Rebecca. When Clark had returned the boxes to the shelf, he took down a box marked ‘1838’ and took out another large-paged tract and shoved that also down the back of his pants. He didn’t want to have to come back too often. Some places it was best to stay under the radar. Thankfully he had a great memory for faces. If he had to go back and there was a different assistant on, he would sign in under Clifford Hartman, in a different hand, and not as Clark Houseman. If anyone ever read the library visitors’ book, he didn’t want to be noticed as a regular.

  Exactly.

  Clark smiled along the line of Disciples. They seemed to be holding their breath. Clark looked over the heads of the journos to the back of the room. ‘Exactly . . . well, it was discovered by Mr Rook over there, in an antique volume I brought him for appraisal.’

  All eyes followed Clark’s gaze toward Rod Rook. He was sat next to Ron, crowded into the back row. Rod acknowledged the curious stares with his customary clasped hands. Ron reciprocated, beaming a wide, proud smile. No doubt thinking, by association, he’d sell a lot more coins this week.

  ‘How much did they pay for it?’

  It was her.

  She stood up.

  Amongst the sea of men in black suits, she was an angel, in a white trouser suit, her hair and face so white Clark thought they shimmered under the lights. Her crystal-clear voice made everyone in the room sit up and pay attention, including the Disciples, who were just beginning to relax. From somewhere along the podium Clark heard someone say, before she’d barely got a sentence out, ‘No more questions. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ They had started to shift back in their seats, as if about to move away.

  ‘Oh, I think you’ll find it’s a priceless document for our Faith, Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Ms, Ms Franklin.’

  Ms Debra Franklin. In the flesh.

  Laidlaw leaned in towards the mic. ‘As Mr Houseman says, it is indeed a priceless document. A miraculous document. Thank you, Miss Franklin.’

  She was undeterred. ‘I didn’t mean that one.’

  She nodded towards where, on the table at Clark’s fingertips, sat the Testament safely tucked into a see-through plastic folder.

  ‘We’ve taken all the questions for today. Thank you for attending, gentlemen.’ Laidlaw looked at her. ‘Miss Franklin.’


  Around her, the other journalists were packing away their dictaphones and notepads. She didn’t move. ‘Could you tell me, gentlemen, what is the purpose of the Faith buying the so-called “Bright Bible”? Which I understand you considerably outbid the Real Faith in order to secure.’

  ‘As you know, Miss Franklin, we don’t discuss our collections. So we can neither confirm or deny what you say.’

  ‘But surely if you hadn’t bought it, you could say that?’ She leaned forward now, her hand-held recorder pushed out as far as her arm could stretch, over the heads of the other journos.

  Laidlaw stood up. His lips pursed. Clark could see him trying to smile through them, aware the cameras might still be rolling. He bent down towards his microphone. ‘Thank you for your question, Miss Franklin, but we are done for the day.’

  ‘So, are you denying you bought the so-called Bright Bible?’

  Clark leant back in his seat, looked along the row at the Disciples’ faces: their jaws were set, silently urging Laidlaw to close this down and fast. Clark could see that some of the other journos had sat back down now, shifting in their seats, scribbling her questions and Laidlaw’s answers. None of the other Disciples around him dared to intervene.

  ‘But if you had purchased it, what would you do with such a historical document, detailing as it does Robert Bright’s three wives? Wives the Faith seems to have conveniently forgotten?’

  ‘Today is a celebration of the miracle that has brought the Testament of Faith back to where it belongs. We should focus on that, Miss Franklin,’ said Laidlaw through gritted teeth.

  ‘Surely it would be a double miracle if this Bible exists? Genuine, as it sounds from the description I’ve heard.’

  A miracle. Yes, but not for the Faith. For the Real Faith. She was goading him and Laidlaw, reeling onto the ropes now, struggled to get away from her without taking any more blows. Before she could get out another question he said: ‘We are only answering submitted questions. But your biased agenda is clear, as always, Miss Franklin.’ He was sounding more aggressive; next he might actually tell her to shut the hell up. Clark could not have envisioned the opportunity Laidlaw was affording him. A chance to show his true allegiance to the Faith and its leaders. Clark stood up, holding the Testament. He put his hand gently but firmly on Laidlaw’s arm, and pushed him softly down, back towards his seat next to the other Disciples. Clark bent towards the media mic in front of him, and smiled his megawatt smile. ‘Thank you all for coming, Ms Franklin, gentlemen. Refreshments are now being served in the library, where I would be happy to show you the original Testament of Faith. We have prepared Xerox copies for you all.’ At the mention of refreshments most of the journalists were noisily on their feet and headed towards the library. Clark looked back at Laidlaw and the disciples. They all nodded gratefully at Clark as the room broke up – and the red light on the camera switched off. ‘Blasted woman,’ said Laidlaw, his hand over the table mic. ‘She’s always scratching around for some scandal or other.’