God Told Me To

by C. K. Chandler

  “There is a link between these slayings, sir.”

  “Then there’s your rather strange behavior yesterday in my office.”

  “I apologize for that, sir. The experience on that tower. It jarred me, but I’m all right now.”

  “I did some checking today. You haven’t taken any time off in a long while. The mind and the body need occasional rest, Nicholas.”

  “I know what you’re getting at. I am not suffering from exhaustion, mental fatigue, or any of that crap.”

  The Deputy Commissioner waved his pencil. “Never for a minute thought you were. But see my position. I have to consider all aspects.”

  “I realized that.”

  “Frankly, from my view these are two unrelated mass slayings. That they’re back-to-back is coincidence. The only link is you being the last person to talk with both men.”

  Nicholas hesitated. “I didn’t say Fletcher spoke.”

  “Well, did he?”

  “Sir, there was something very similar about the manner and behavior of both Fletcher and Gorman. Big difference in age, yes, but in neither’s background is there record of anything at all like this. Both were like boy scouts.”

  Hendriks’ voice dripped cold oil. “Similar MO’s?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nicholas, we don’t know much about Fletcher. Suffolk, we can assume, is digging into him at the moment. The superficial details we know match with Gorman. So what? Every psychotic slayer in the country fits the pattern of Eagle scout, divinity student, boy-next-door, nice family type.”

  “Wrong.”

  The Deputy Commissioner’s thin lips tightened. “I don’t want another outburst from you, Lieutenant.”

  “Sir, that pattern you’re talking about. Specks didn’t fit it. Manson didn’t. The kid in Nebraska back in the fifties who went on the shooting spree. Starkweather. He didn’t fit it. Oswald. He only got one victim but it was a big one. Oswald had a record more spotted than flypaper. The two punks in the Clutter case. They never went to divinity school. The kid on the Texas tower. He fits your pattern but it’s been proven he had a brain tumor. Now I made a stop coming in here. I looked at the autopsy report on Harold Gorman. No tumors, no nothing. I’m betting an autopsy on John Fletcher won’t turn up anything either. All I want is a few days to run things down.”

  Hendriks tilted back in his chair and studied the ceiling. After what he deemed a proper interval for thought, he said:

  “Nicholas, your instincts have been right too often for me to ignore them. You have a week. You’ll be reporting to me. No one else. Understand? I’ve already assigned a man to head up the official Gorman investigation. Basically, all he’s doing is interrogating those people who thought they heard other rifles yesterday. Avoid clashing with him. Detective Jordan will be working with you. I’ll call Suffolk and clear you with them. Stay out of there much as you can. Walk on eggshells when you’re there. They’ll want one of their men at your side. I can understand you not wanting that so if you don’t check in with them—well, I don’t want to know about it.”

  There was a pause before Nicholas made his objection.

  “Sir, I’d like to work alone on this. I came up with it and—”

  “Lieutenant, you know the policy of men working alone.” Hendriks cocked his head and pretended to remember something. “Oh, one other thing.” He smiled slyly. “Should this work out. I’d consider it a courtesy to be along when you make the bust.”

  The two detectives said the polite things and left the office.

  In the corridor Jordan broke into a broad laugh. He slapped Nicholas on the back and offered to buy him a drink.

  Nicholas stared silently for a moment into the pink, beefy face of his unwanted partner. He turned away, shoved his hands in his pockets, and went to the elevators.

  Jordan followed. “Don’t mind you not wanting to work with me. Didn’t choose you, myself. Since we’re together, I think you better level with me.”

  Nicholas pressed for an elevator. “What’s that mean?”

  “Meaning this thing’s fuzzier than a goddamn poodle.”

  Nicholas said nothing.

  “Gut feelings are as common as South American generals. We all get ’em. Yesterday on that tower, when I asked what the kid said before he jumped. Nothing, you said. I knew you were lying but didn’t figure it meant a rat’s ass.”

  The elevator door slid open. They rode down one floor with a policewoman. She stepped out and as the elevator continued down to the ground floor, Jordan spoke again.

  “Now I figure Fletcher said something to you tonight. I figure that’s your link. Gorman and Fletcher each gave you a name or something.”

  Silence.

  “Okay. Hold out. If it comes together I’m along for the ride. Meanwhile it gets me off a couple cases I been busting my balls on.”

  The elevator came to a halt.

  As they stepped out, Nicholas said, “You’re always around for the ride, aren’t you, Jordan.”

  “All the rides, Nicholas. Beats walkin’ every time.”

  He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and watched Nicholas leave the building. He chuckled and told himself, Guess the guy doesn’t like me.

  A couple of men Jordan knew came along and the three of them chatted and joked. He told them who his new partner was and they wished him luck. When the others left, Jordan went back upstairs.

  Hendriks said, “Well?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “He’s holding back. They must have said something. A name, a group.”

  “Maybe he’s leveling. Like you said. He’s been right in the past.”

  “This one’s too off center. You’re my eyes, Jordan.”

  Nicholas picked up a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine before going home to Casey. They kissed at the door, then each apologized to the other for the morning’s bad scene. Casey laughed because she, too, had brought home wine. She fussed over her flowers. They shared a pleasant meal.

  She told him that after the day’s bad beginning everything went wrong for her at work. She finally told her boss she was sick and went to the movies.

  “What did you see?”

  “2001. Again.” She smiled. “You don’t like it, but you weren’t along.”

  They had argued her favorite movie a dozen times. “I just don’t like the ending.”

  “We haven’t gone to the movies in a long while.”

  “It’ll be longer, Casey. I’m on special assignment.”

  An apprehensive note entered her voice. “Thought you weren’t supposed to work today.”

  “This thing came up. I got called in.”

  “The Gorman boy?”

  He nodded. “Partly. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  They were still at the table, finishing the second bottle of wine. He poured what remained into their glasses.

  “I’ve been thinking, Casey. When this assignment is finished . . . well I’ve got some time coming. How about if we take a couple weeks’ vacation?”

  She moved from her chair and came around to him, sat on his lap, kissed him.

  “Where will we go?” she asked.

  “You name it.”

  “The Canadian Rockies. The Mexican wilds. Any place without a phone. I don’t want to worry about you getting called back for some damn emergency.”

  “You got it.”

  He told her that his day hadn’t started out well, either. He talked about the visit with Martha and the subsequent conversation with the priest. “And after all but telling me he can’t help her, he brushes me off by looking at his watch.”

  “He probably had an important appointment.”

  “Like a date with a swinging nun. Casey, what you don’t understand is this man was our priest for years. He is not a young person. Yet there he was talking and acting like one of the damn moderns that want to change everything.”

  “Your church has been changing ever since Pope John.”


  “Too much.”

  She smiled. Tousled his hair. Kissed his forehead. Lightly bit his ear. “I’ll bet you were a priest in a previous incarnation.”

  “I like girls too much.”

  He did to her everything that she had just done to him. But he did it longer and he ran a hand along the side of her body, over the slope of her hip and up to fondle her breasts.

  She sighed, giggled, “Is the theological discussion over?”

  “Peace on earth, amen.”

  They undressed each other and went to their bed. He was more gentle than last night, his caresses slow and tender and lingering. She felt the exciting flow begin to move through her. She wanted it to last yet she wanted him now. She called his name. Her head rolled back and forth on the pillow. The ends of her hair whipped the air. Her arms tightened around him, her nails dug into him, she brought her legs up high and pulled him deep inside. She felt the fine jolt of orgasm shake through her and he continued, continued, didn’t slow. His breathing was heavy and he kept on until too tired. She kept him inside, rolled over on him, straddled him and did what she could until both realized it wasn’t going to happen for him.

  He tried to make some explanation but she covered his lips with her fingers and whispered, “Maybe later.”

  “I just need sleep.”

  She curled up against him. He was warm and comfortable. She stroked him gently, felt his tension begin to evaporate. A while later, when she was just about to drop off to sleep, he spoke:

  “Get rid of that damn wind chime.”

  She was confused and didn’t know what he meant.

  “The chime above the bed. Keeps me awake.”

  “It’s quiet now, Peter.”

  “But for the past five minutes it’s been tinkling.”

  While he slept, she lay awake feeling worry crawl over her skin like an itch. The wind chime had not sounded.

  FIVE

  Detective Jordan threw himself into the case with an energy that surprised Nicholas. Hendriks had given them only a week, not long enough for a full investigation, so they went at it fast and hard. When their daily shifts ended, they continued to work their own time. Both were supposed to have weekends off and they took advantage of the two free days. They worked routine investigation. Checking out the friends and neighbors of the slayers in hopes of finding a mutual acquaintance. Their dissimilar styles made Jordan and Nicholas a good team. The cheerful, affable Jordan balanced the more laconic Nicholas. One of them was generally able to get through quickly to whomever they were questioning. It was thank-you-very-much, sorry-to-have-troubled-you, and moving on to the next.

  Gorman was the easier to check out. The teenaged boy had spent all his life in one suburban neighborhood. They simply went door to door, and to his teachers, family minister, and doctor. John Fletcher’s acquaintances were spread out, and there were more of them. Often they took five minutes to question a person, followed by an hour of driving to the next.

  The Deputy Commissioner left them alone. This pleased Nicholas because he’d expected Hendriks to call them in every day or so for a report.

  While the two men drove from one place to another, Jordan would chatter, make jokes, laugh at his jokes, ask questions. A steady flow of noise which Nicholas tuned in and out on. Nicholas couldn’t warm to the other man, couldn’t for a moment forget that Jordan was too fat, too well dressed—though maybe a better investigator than he had previously credited him.

  They found no links.

  While Jordan chattered, Nicholas thought. He constantly reviewed the scene on the water tower. Analyzing what had so upset him. He began to see that Gorman had planted a seed in his mind, one he hadn’t wanted to recognize. Fletcher sprouted the seed. A theory, frightening and difficult to believe, started sifting through his thoughts. He tried forgetting it but it kept returning. In an attempt to clear it away, he would sometimes give up valuable minutes to sit awhile in a church.

  Jordan was driving.

  “This is our fourth day, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas stared out the window.

  “We’ll be pulled if we don’t give Hendriks something to stick his dick into.”

  Nicholas stared.

  “When you retire you might consider hiring yourself out as a lamp post. So listen to me. I got an idea. We’ve been checking out the slayers. Maybe that’s the wrong approach. Maybe we should run down the victims. I mean maybe there’s a political group or vigilantes or whatever behind this. They’re covering themselves by killing a lot of people just to get the one or two they want. Suppose one of Gorman’s victims was involved with one of Fletcher’s. See what I’m gettin’ at?”

  “Gorman was too high up to distinguish one person from another.”

  “Rifle had a scope. Suppose he knew when a person was going to be at a certain corner. Knew the jacket color that person would be wearing. Or the skin color.”

  Silence.

  “Gorman shot only one black. Know who? One of the biggest drug dealers in Harlem.”

  It occurred to Nicholas that the idea was possibly sufficient to cajole more time out of Hendriks.

  “We’ll start on them tomorrow.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll start by going to their old addresses. Hell, if nothing else we might find ourselves a nice apartment to rent.”

  Nicholas ordered, “Pull over.”

  Jordan pulled to the curb. He saw why Nicholas had ordered the halt and groaned, “For Christ’s sake. It’s another church.”

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “We got a separation ’tween church and state in this country. You’re supposed to be working for the fuckin’ state.”

  Nicholas had been almost out of the car. He slid back in and slammed the door. He grabbed Jordan’s jacket lapel and yanked the man down.

  “Look! You rattle anything you want. Just lay off my religion. I haven’t said a damn word about that purple Continental we keep running into. I will, Jordan, believe me I will if you . . .”

  Nicholas left the car.

  Jordan chuckled. He threw a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and chuckled again. He had lost count of how many times Nicholas had run into a church. The man was damn near a fanatic.

  He leaned back, dragged on his smoke, wondered what he should tell Hendriks. He had started this thing thinking Nicholas was on to something big. Now he wasn’t so sure. There wasn’t much reason for Nicholas to continue holding back. Unless of course he figured on waiting another week and pulling one of his single-handed spectacular bits. Jordan knew Hendriks would give more time—providing he laced his report to him with the right lies. The hours were long but simple. No hassle. And in an odd way he’d come to like Nicholas. He puffed his cigarette and thought.

  A chauffeur-driven Continental limousine pulled close alongside Jordan. The limousine halted only long enough for the smoke-tinted rear window to lower and for an envelope to sail from it through the open window of Jordan’s car.

  Jordan laughed. He didn’t open the envelope. He knew what was in it and shoved it into an inside jacket pocket.

  He said aloud, his voice amused, “You’re gettin’ too jiveass, Zero.”

  He threw away his cigarette and followed the limousine. He caught up with it and signaled it to a side street where both cars parked.

  The limousine smelled of sweet cologne. The black man who sat in the rear seat wore dark glasses, an orange shirt open nearly to the waist and exposing a hairless chest, a white suit and two-tone shoes. He smoked an ivory-holdered cigarette and was sipping something on the rocks. A short-trimmed mustache angled over his mouth like an inverted V. He was watching stock market reports flash across a small television screen and he didn’t look up as Jordan slid in beside him.

  “Hello, Zero.”

  “What you want, Jordan?”

  “Car like this.”

  “Work for it.”

  Jordan sneered. “With drugs and broads.�
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  The black man kept his eyes on the TV. “You just got yourself an envelope full o’ drugs an’ broads. That suit of yours. That don’t look like no po’ boy’s suit.”

  “My partner’s made you. You’ve crossed our path half a dozen times. Why?”

  The black man wasn’t in a hurry. He puffed on his cigarette and sipped his drink.

  “We’re concerned, Jordan. Want to know what your game is. You all of a sudden are working with Detective Lieutenant Peter Nicholas. Mr. Straight. Mr. Gangbuster himself. We are curious.”

  Jordan laughed. “Relax. It’s a special assignment.”

  “How special?”

  “Nothing with you. Christ! Where you getting your ideas? We haven’t gone anywhere near uptown.”

  “Some very important people, associates of mine, live in Suffolk County. You been in and around their neighborhoods.”

  “So you know what we were asking about.”

  “Don’t make sense, Nicholas being out there.”

  “Just relax and don’t let Nicholas spot you again.”

  The black man grinned and the inverted V above his lip became a flat dark scar.

  “Mr. Jordan, I had to deliver your envelope.”

  Jordan growled. “Don’t pull a stunt like that again. I got my drop.”

  “You missed it last night. We worried. Don’t want me to drop it at your place of residence, do you?”

  Anger entered Jordan’s voice. “Don’t ever come near my home. I’ll fucking shoot you on sight.”

  The black man turned. He raised his dark glasses and looked into the detective’s eyes.

  “Listen, pig. You are on my payroll. Only you are just a middleman. If I knew who you took orders from, you would be a dead man.”

  Nicholas was stiff and mute in the confessional.

  The priest on the other side of the grill wheezed and cleared his throat constantly but didn’t ask anything.

  He pushed his hands hard against his forehead, as if to squeeze out what he meant to say. He was blocked. It was ironic. When he’d been a kid he used to go distances to find a priest who didn’t try to worm things out of him in confession.

  He began again. “Bless me, Father, for . . .” and his voice trailed off.