Parker leapt up from the table. “I’m getting a call,” he announced, pulling his phone from his pocket. He pushed it to his ear. “Hello?” After a beat, he covered the mic and said, “Detective Ketcham, can I leave you hanging for just two minutes? This is a very important matter with one of my parishioners.”
Ketcham gave him a dubious look.
Parker whispered loudly, “He has can-cer.”
The detective waved him away. Parker left Room 8B and moved off a ways from the door. He tried to look as if he were on the phone, while also bringing up an Internet search screen. It was a failed project. He noticed the sign for the men’s room and relocated to a private stall.
Parker typed the search terms “Satanism spade symbol” and hit Enter. The whole first page of results was filled with multiple instances of the same article, entitled “Calling a Spade a Spade: Satanism, Catholicism, and the Jesuit Oath.” No help.
He restarted the search, this time entering the terms “religious symbols spade.” The first three matches contained information about Saint Maurus, the patron saint of charcoal burners and coppersmiths. He quickly skimmed one of the articles. It was not much help either. He hit the Back button and checked the next result, a website about tombstones and religious symbolism. The entry simply read, “Pall, pick, spade: Symbols of mortality.” Parker noticed the time and headed back to the Command Center.
As soon as he entered the room, Ketcham held out his hand. “Give me your phone. I don’t want us to be interrupted again.” Parker obeyed. Ketcham fumbled with it, pushing on all sides. “How do you turn this thing off?”
Troy snickered. “Technology hates you.”
“The feeling’s mutual,” Ketcham said. He finally gave up and slipped the device into his pocket. “Okay, Parker. What do you know about spades?”
“For starters, spades are used on tombstones as symbols of mortality.”
Ketcham sighed. “Again with that? This seems like déjà vu. Apparently, our subject likes killing people and then labeling them dead in creative ways. This is not very helpful, Parker. What else you got?”
“In Christian iconography, spades are a symbol of Saint Maurus.”
The three detectives stared blankly at him.
“Who’s Saint Maurus?” Corrinne asked.
“He’s, uh, the patron saint of charcoal burners and coppersmiths.”
Corrinne nodded. “That makes perfect sense. There was a charcoal grill in Melanie Candor’s backyard.”
Troy tapped the table excitedly. “And I think she had some pennies in her pocket. The killer probably flew into a copper-and-charcoal-fueled rage. We’ve seen a lot of those lately.”
“Almost a cliché at this point,” Corrinne agreed.
Parker’s phone began to buzz in Ketcham’s pocket. He flinched, unused to the sensation, yanked it free, and thrust it at Parker.
“Here. Answer the stupid thing. Just be ready to leave in ten minutes. You and I are interviewing Ludema’s mother at three.”
Parker checked the display. The number had a 410 area code, like the one on Father Michael’s card. He left the conference room and found a quiet corner near an emergency exit.
“Parker Saint.”
“This is Father Michael. Can you talk now?”
“Not really.”
“You sound upset. Is everything all right?”
“Why couldn’t you have called when I needed a lifeline five minutes ago?”
“Huh?”
“Just hurry up and tell me what you know about Saint Maurus.”
“Saint Maurus . . . Let me think. Traditionally, he’s the first oblate.”
“What’s an oblate?”
“Never mind. Let me ask Father Xavier; he knows his saints a lot better than me.” There was a rustle and some muffled talking before Michael came back on the line. “Father Xavier says Maurus is the patron saint of charcoal burners and coppersmiths.”
“That’s very helpful, thank you. But I can’t talk right now.”
“When should I call you back? I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll call you tonight.”
SIX
MEREDITH LUDEMA LIVED IN A LOW-END APARTMENT COMPLEX that billed itself as a “townhouse community” on account of the vertical orientation of the units. Her front room was packed with outdoor Christmas decorations, empty pizza boxes, and other miscellany.
Despite the chill in the October air, only a ripped-and-mended screen door stood between the men and Mrs. Ludema, whom they could barely make out through the obstacle course.
“Come in,” she called, her voice hoarse and emotionless.
The men entered the apartment and stepped carefully around a large, plastic Santa, wrapped in a clear garbage bag, standing sentry.
“Ms. Ludema?” Ketcham called.
“Miss.” Her dull brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, stretching her skin but not quite erasing her crow’s-feet. A cereal bowl filled with cigarette butts sat on the ratty couch cushion next to her, while she worked on adding another.
“I’m Detective Ketcham. This is Mr. Saint. We’re here to talk with you a little more about your son. May we sit down?”
“That’s fine.” She was looking in their direction but focusing on nothing.
The men squeezed into the only other available piece of furniture—a small love seat—uncomfortably close to each other.
“First off, how are you doing, Miss Ludema?” Ketcham asked, his voice thick with concern.
“How do you think?”
“I imagine you’re feeling pretty overwhelmed. Not to mention angry, brokenhearted, guilty—”
“I don’t feel guilty,” she snapped. “I didn’t kill him.”
“Of course not. But guilt is a normal emotional response for a mother. Guilt for being angry, guilt for feeling guilty. Guilt for not feeling guilty. If you need someone to talk to, the department can provide you with that.”
“I don’t need to talk to anyone. Youse guys are the ones who said you need to talk, so let’s talk.”
“Okay, Miss Ludema.” Ketcham opened his notebook. “You mentioned to my colleague on Sunday that your son was having trouble with a group of boys at school. I’d like to hear more about that.”
She shook her whole body no. “The trouble didn’t come from anyone at school. It was all that Damien man. He tells them what to do and they do it. They all do it. He’s got spells and curses and he controls their actions. Teenage boys aren’t the smartest tools in the shed, ya know.”
“Who’s Damien?”
“The leader of the group. He’s a grown man. What’s he doing hangin’ out with a bunch of kids? Having them over in his house. That’s not right. I called you people two weeks ago, but you did jack.”
“You called us about this Damien?”
“Yeah, and what did you people do? Nothin’.”
“Do you know Damien’s last name?”
“Nope. I’ve got his address, though. I followed Benny one night.” She pulled a vinyl billfold from her purse and riffled through a pile of paper scraps. “Here it is.” She read out an address on Garfield.
Parker nudged the detective. “That’s two blocks from where we found the body.”
“Of course,” she said. “They’re all around there.”
Ketcham slid to the front of his seat, pen poised. “Can you describe this Damien to us?”
“Guy’s a freak. In his thirties, maybe. He has those big earrings that stretch out your ears and you can see right through them. Weird tattoos too and long black hair. He’s always surrounded by a bunch of kids who look just like him. He’s a nightmare.”
“When you say kids, you mean—”
“Some high school age, most a little older, I guess. A bunch of them live there with him. Place is one nonstop party.”
“Did Ben spend time there as well?”
“He used to. I told him about three weeks ago that he wasn’t allowed to see Damien no more. H
e wasn’t to go to his house or hang out with that crowd. He was eighteen, but like I told him, as long as he lived in my house, it was my rules, ya know? He needs to do well in school so he can get a good . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“How did Ben receive that prohibition?”
“How what?” she asked.
“Was he angry when you forbade him from visiting Damien?”
“Not really. It felt like he was waiting for an excuse to break it off. You have to understand, my son was just looking for a place to fit in. He wasn’t really like them.”
“Was there any one incident that led you to put your foot down?”
“A few things. I found him with weed a couple times. He admitted Damien gave it to him. I’m not real strict about that stuff, but that’s not all they were doing down there. Damien is into hard drugs. And he worships the devil. I heard Ben and his friends talking about it one day. I don’t go to church or nothin’ and I had Benny out of wedlock, but I’m a Christian woman. I didn’t want Benny getting into any of that.”
“And what occasioned your call to the police?”
“Damien called here and threatened me and my son.”
“When was this?”
“A couple weeks ago. I know it was him. He said Ben still owed him something. I told him where he could go. I said I wasn’t afraid of him. And he told me he put a curse on us and he wouldn’t lift it until Ben was back where he belonged. I thought he was just trying to scare me. How could I know what would happen?” She sobbed lightly.
“You can’t blame yourself, Miss Ludema,” Parker said. “Besides, Ben wasn’t killed by a curse. He was killed by a knife.”
She began to cry harder. Ketcham shot him a look that said both Nice job and Shut up.
Meredith tried to say something else, but her words were unintelligible through her tears. Ketcham pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, patting her hand.
Parker shifted uncomfortably. He hated dealing with tears. His father would have known exactly what to say in this situation. He’d have prayed with the woman, quoted Scripture to her, given her some peace. Parker, on the other hand, just sat there, frozen, watching her cry. He could deal with the cameras and the masses, but one-on-one he felt useless.
She regained her composure with a few deep breaths. “I’m afraid he’s going to curse me now,” she said. “I got Jesus in me, ya know, but what if Damien puts a curse on me? I’m afraid for myself. That’s not right.”
Ketcham gave Parker another look. This one said Say something, you idiot.
“I know you’re afraid, Miss Ludema,” he said, his voice shifting into preacher mode. “But let me set your mind at ease. I’m an ordained minister, and I can tell you that you have nothing to worry about. If you’ve put your faith in Jesus, no curse and no spell can get a hold on you.”
She wiped her eyes. “Really?”
“That’s what we believe, isn’t it? That Jesus broke the curse when he died on the cross. He did that for you, Miss Ludema.”
She tried to smile. “You can call me Meredith.”
“Okay, Meredith. And you can call me Parker.”
“Parker?” Her eyes snapped to his face. “You’re the guy on TV. You’re on right after Joshua Holton.”
“Why, yes. That’s me.”
“I never miss your show. I DVR it every week. Just watched you this morning.”
“Aw, that’s great, Meredith. I hope it was a great comfort to you.”
“It wasn’t,” she said flatly, the emotionless wall returning.
“Oh.” He fumbled for words. “I’m, uh, sorry that—”
“You were talking about big success moments in people’s lives. Like if I had enough faith, I could live my dreams right now. How does that comfort me when I just lost my son?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“I really needed something from you this morning, Parker. Something from God to give me hope for me and for Benny. You let me down.” She sniffed. “I want you guys to leave.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ketcham said, rising and pulling Parker firmly from the love seat by his arm. “I’m going to leave my card here. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call. And again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
They walked back to the Bonneville and drove two blocks to a convenience store parking lot. Ketcham killed the engine and turned to look Parker in the eye.
“Hear me good, Parker. You can’t take any of that junk personally. Do you understand?”
Parker was in a daze. “She’s right, though. I dropped the ball.”
“No you didn’t. This is normal in my line of work. Every cop has had a victim lash out at him at some point or another. They need someone to blame, and we’re sitting right there. There’s no way your TV program could have said exactly what that lady needed to hear today. And even if it had, what about all the other people watching? They can’t all hear exactly what they need from you all the time.” He put a hand on Parker’s shoulder. “To do this kind of work, you have to wall yourself off. You listen, you understand, but you don’t absorb. Got it?”
“All right.” Parker nodded.
“Good. Pardon my reach.” Ketcham opened the glove box, retrieved a large, blocky cell phone, and dialed a number.
“Troy. Ketcham here. Just got done at the mother’s house. We’ve got a lead. She gave us a partial name and an address. I need you to cross-reference these for me.” He gave him Meredith Ludema’s phone number and the address on Garfield. “She said the guy’s name is Damien something. Get me a full name and bio if you can.
“Apparently she filed a complaint about two weeks ago when the guy called her at home, threatened her and the kid. If you can pull that file too, I’d appreciate it.” He listened for a moment. “No, get what you can in the next twenty minutes, and meet me at that address in thirty. I want to bring him in for questioning today if we can. I’ll track down Corrinne too. We might need some muscle.” He chuckled. “Okay, see you in half an hour.”
Damien Bane’s large, two-and-a-half-story house was eighty years old and showing manifold signs of aging. The blue paint was peeling, the shingles molting, and the yard ungroomed, but it maintained a certain undeniable charm. Six rusty cars were parked in a line on the gravel drive, and a uniformed police officer was quickly surveying them, peering into the side window of each, his hand resting on his gun.
Parker had been instructed to wait in the car, which was precisely what he had hoped to do. As he watched the three detectives mount the steps to the long, wooden porch, he marveled at their courage. They were actually hoping this was a murderer’s house. Unbelievable.
He had a great view from the passenger seat of Ketcham’s car, parked on the street. A tall, beefy young man answered the door. He had stringy red hair and was dressed in black from head to toe. A brief conversation followed, after which he disappeared, replaced a moment later by a thin man in his thirties with long black hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His body language revealed nothing as he spoke to each of the detectives in turn, at one point peering out from between them to see the uniformed cop waiting on the street.
Parker couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the man seemed unflapped by their sudden arrival, as if the police came for him every afternoon. He disappeared from view again for half a minute and then came out onto the porch in black boots and a long black trench coat. Troy led him down to the black-and-white—which was really blue and red, but Ketcham had called it a black-and-white—and escorted him into the backseat, hands uncuffed.
“That was easy,” Ketcham said to Parker, sliding back in behind the wheel. He withdrew a cigar from a plastic tube and ignited it. He was flushed and seemed a bit flustered.
“This is always a little tricky,” he explained. “We don’t have grounds to arrest him just yet, but we can be a lot more effective questioning him downtown rather than on his turf.” He took a few puffs, calming down a bit. “Convincing a suspect to
come with you is an art. I was sure this guy would give us grief, but he agreed to come right away, which is not necessarily a good thing. He maintains more power. It’ll be hard to put the pressure on him now.” His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “You know what? Hang on.”
He exited the car and jogged a few paces up to the police cruiser, just pulling away from the curb. It came to a stop. Ketcham and the officer spoke through the window for a short time. Then the officer got out of the cruiser, and Ketcham got in.
The uniformed cop trudged back toward Parker, keys in hand. His voice betrayed his annoyance as he said, “I guess we’re playing musical cars. The detective wants to transport the suspect himself. He would like you to ride with Ellis and Kirkpatrick.”
Troy’s backseat only had lap belts—no shoulder harnesses. Maybe that’s why Parker felt more like a little kid than a criminal as the two detectives escorted him back to police headquarters. They took a circuitous route and seemed to violate every statute and traffic law along the way.
Corrinne flipped open the visor mirror and reapplied her dark red lipstick. She puckered and smacked at herself several times before noticing Parker watching from behind.
“So, Preacher,” she asked, “how do you like working with Paul?”
“It’s fine. A bit of a change from my normal schedule.”
“I’ve never been able to figure out what preachers do all week. You talk for half an hour on Sunday. Is the rest just praying and eating bonbons?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Not really.” She flipped the visor closed. “Paul seems to like you, am I right? That’s lucky for you. When somebody rubs him the wrong way, look out.”
“Have you seen his cell phone?” Parker asked.
Troy laughed. “I think it’s the prototype. The first phone that didn’t need a suitcase with it. Of course, Ketch sees no reason to upgrade. All he does with it is make calls anyway.”
“Rarely even does that,” Corrinne said.
“I wish he checked his e-mail rarely. It’s more like never.”
“I don’t think he knows how.” She cranked her neck back toward Parker. “Here’s what you need to know about Paul: he’s a fedora short of a cartoon.”
Playing Saint Page 8
