“Excuse me?”
“No, really, what do you think Brother James wanted to convey to you via a messenger? What message would be so confidential that it must not be written down?”
“Could be a number of things.”
“For example?”
“I don’t like guessing.”
“Risk it.” Ben pointed at the soldiers’ photos. “They took risks, didn’t they?”
“Young man, I appreciate humor, but people are waiting for me. We’re in the middle of a campaign to restore America’s soul—”
“Please.” Ben held up his hand. “No political slogans.”
Morgan took a step back, clearly shocked by Ben’s tone. “You’re not a real saint, are you?”
“Far from.” Removing the Ravens cap, he shook his head. “My name is Ben Teller. I’m a reporter.”
“A reporter? Really?” Morgan’s demeanor didn’t change, his face remaining friendly. “Can’t say I remember your name. Which media outlet do you write for?”
“Freelance. My stuff usually appears on NewZonLine.com.”
“I’d love to chat, but my schedule is very tight.” Morgan headed for the door. “But if you contact my spokesmen with a list of questions, we’ll definitely provide a comprehensive—”
“I’m investigating the death of Zachariah Hinckley.”
Morgan paused, turned, and glanced at the heroes’ portraits.
“I believe he was murdered.”
“From what I’ve heard, the police investigation ruled it an accident. Reckless driving, I believe.”
“That’s a nice spin, no pun intended. But you know the truth, right?”
“Listen, Teller, you’re on shaky ground here.” Morgan waved the letter in his face. “Forging documents, impersonating, lying to police and the Secret Service—I mean, all I need to do is call in those guys and you’ll be in deep trouble!”
“I wouldn’t do it if I were you.”
“Why not?”
Ben took out his iPhone and showed him the e-mail. “All I need to do is press my thumb on the send icon. Do you see this attachment? It contains the whole LDS Church’s file about Zachariah Hinckley, all the evidence against him, the trial records, and so on.”
Morgan shrugged. “So what?”
“Your people harassed him, punished him, isolated him, and drove him to the top of the hill at the Camp David Scenic Overlook—all of it to shut him up. The public will not be kind to you after that.”
“My people? I don’t have people like that. I don’t send thugs to hurt my opponents. I’m a businessman, a politician, and a candidate for president of the United States! I’m not Don Corleone!”
“The public will draw its own conclusion from the evidence.” Ben held up the iPhone. “The whole LDS file is ready to go.”
“Have you read it?”
It was a direct question, and Ben knew that his hesitation had already given the answer. “Not yet.”
“When you do, you’ll see that any mention of my name in that whole record is only in the role of a family friend and a former lay bishop. I was trying to help poor Zachariah and advocate leniency for him.”
“But the whole case is about his insistence that you tell the American people about your role in the posthumous conversions of their heroes.” Ben pointed to the portraits.
Rather than concern, Morgan’s face showed amusement. “You must be confused about the facts, Mr. Teller. This case was about how best to deal with Zachariah’s erratic and unstable behavior. He was a very ill man.”
“I don’t believe you.” Ben shook his iPhone. “You pressured him to drop the demand that you confess—”
“That’s not what the trial record says.”
“Did you change it? Did you replace the truth with lies?”
“The truth is in the ear of the beholder.” Pacing to the other side of the library, Morgan pulled out a thick volume. The cover had a photo of Winston Churchill, and tabs had been placed in different pages. He opened one. “Aspiring to become a great leader, one must learn from history’s icons. Here’s what Churchill said: ‘History shall treat me kindly, for I intend to write it.’ Do you understand?”
“It’s called lying in the real world.”
“Grow up, Teller.” Morgan re-shelved the volume. “You’re not ready to play in this league. Not yet, anyway. Shall we call it a night?”
Examining the ring up close, Fran shook her head in amazement. “Look at this beauty! It’s an antique—the real thing!”
“You think?”
“Duh! Sixteen years in the police force teaches you something about valuable jewelry.” Fran hugged her. “I’m so happy for you!”
“For both of us?”
“Of course.” Fran looked around as if expecting to find Ben standing there. “When did he give it to you?”
A group of physicians walked toward them. Keera took her aside. “Earlier today. He was really sweet, completely took me by surprise, but also made me worried sick about what he’s involved in.”
“Why?”
Keera hesitated.
Fran looked her straight in the eyes. “You can trust me.”
“Can I?”
“You’re right. Earlier on, I wasn’t receptive. My job is to prevent hate crimes, and Ben’s story smelled of anti-Mormon prejudice, which I couldn’t condone.”
“That’s unfair. Ben is the most tolerant person. You should know!”
“I do, and he is, which is why I decided to sniff around a bit.” Fran glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one could hear them. “Inspector Porter’s personnel file is almost empty. He has no record of service—it’s all classified, even his training. I called the Colorado State Police, which is where he had supposedly served before being loaned to Maryland, but they had nothing about him either.”
“How could that be?”
“It’s possible that he’d been undercover, maybe inside an organized crime organization or a drug cartel. Occasionally these guys have to be given new identities to protect them.”
“Like the witness protection program?”
“Basically. But it’s unusual, and I’m concerned.”
“About Ben?” Keera gripped her hand. “You must help him. But he wouldn’t tell me where he was going, and he looked so strange—”
“Strange? In what way?”
“He was dressed in a white suit and a white tie under his riding suit. He was clean shaven, his hair was cut real short, and what’s left was bleached—”
“Bleached? Like in blond?”
“Yes. The eyebrows also. He looked weird. Everything white. But he wouldn’t answer my questions—”
“I think I know where he went.” Fran pulled her by the arm. “Let’s go to my car!”
Keera followed her, jogging to the glass doors.
In the cruiser, Fran used the radio to contact the dispatcher. “Fran DeLacourt here.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“Have you received any calls from the Mormon temple?”
“Let me look.” There was a sound of rapid keyboarding. “There’s one report of an emergency door alarm being activated. That’s all.”
“When?”
“Seventy-three minutes ago.”
“Was a unit dispatched to the scene?”
More keyboard rattling. “We had an officer in the area, an inspector from the Community Relations Unit. He stopped by to check it out.”
Keera sucked air in, covering her mouth.
“Who?”
“Inspector Porter.”
“Did he report back?”
After a moment, the dispatcher said, “Yes. Twenty-seven minutes ago. He reported that it was a false alarm. People left through the emergency door after an accident in one of the chapels.”
“What kind of an accident?”
“Trip and fall. No foul play or anything.”
“Fatal?”
“Yes.”
Fran glanced at Keera, who grabbed the dashboard, her face a mask of fear.
“Lieutenant DeLacourt? Anything else?”
“Do you have any information about the accident?”
“Not really. Tripped over a statue. Irreparable damage to vital organs. No CPR was performed on her.”
“Her? A woman?”
“Correct.”
Fran exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”
“No problem. Have a nice evening.”
Fran was about to sign off, but something occurred to her. “Wait a second. Do you have any other record mentioning Porter after that?”
“I don’t think so. Hold on. I’m searching. Yes, O. Porter, eleven minutes ago. But it’s nothing, just a patch-through to another team.”
“Which team?”
“Let me see.” The dispatcher hit more keys. “He wanted to be patched through to…the…here it is. The guys at the Morgan residence.”
“Shit!” Fran dropped the radio, turned on the engine, and flipped the siren switch. “Buckle your seat belt!”
Ben was momentarily shaken by the realization that Morgan had foreseen the possible exposure of the LDS files and had altered the record to reflect positively on his role. But this was a setback he should have expected, considering who he was confronting.
“Zachariah Hinckley’s journal,” Ben said, “describes the whole story, including how you told him to steal personal information from the Department of Veterans Affairs, how you insisted on being the one serving as proxy in baptizing the servicemen who had won more than one Medal of Honor.”
“Wild imagination of a sick man.” Morgan came over and grabbed Ben’s arm, staring into his face. “Listen to me, young man! You’re chasing a wild goose, and it isn’t going to roost!”
“The journal—”
“What proof do you have that Zachariah Hinckley actually wrote that journal? Anyone could have posted electronic text to his computer or any other device. The liberal elites will do anything to stop me!”
“Can you explain why Zachariah’s last word was posthumous, of all things?”
“How do you know?”
“I have a series of photos that show him—”
“Really? Is that so?” Morgan laughed. “Let me summarize your plan. You’re going to come out in public, weeks before the elections, and make accusations against me based on lip reading of a dying man in still photographs?”
Ben nodded.
“And not just lip reading of a dying man, but of a man who’s lying at the bottom of a ravine because he had raced his motorcycle, risked others’ lives, lost control, and flew over the cliff. Did I get it right?”
“What about the floppy disk?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The one with your handwritten note on it, instructing Zachariah to steal veterans’ personal data from the US government’s computers.”
Morgan’s smile faded. “Never happened. It’s a lie.”
“According to his diary, that was the point of contention—it was the only hard evidence he had in order to force you to come clean with the public about the heroes’ baptisms. That’s why his house and office were searched, his religious status taken away, and his life ruined. He hid the floppy disk, and I’ve followed the clues he left.”
“Have you found it?”
“Not yet.”
“Because it doesn’t exist!”
“It does,” Ben said. “The last clue was to come here, to your house.”
“Well?” Morgan gestured around the library. “Do you see it here?”
“No.”
“And you never will!” He went to the door. “This has gone on long enough. You must leave now, or I’ll have you removed by the police.”
The realization came to Ben suddenly—like a recurring memory of Morgan leaving this same library while Zachariah was standing here, holding the incriminating floppy disk. But in the journal, there was another presence in this room—an old copy of the Book of Mormon, which Morgan had pulled from the shelf to convince Zachariah of his religious duty to obey.
Ben scanned the shelves, recalling Zachariah’s description of his last visit to this beautiful home library. The collectible books were kept behind glass doors on the first two rows of shelves. Looking up, he read the titles on the leather spines until he reached the one that fit the description:
Book of Mormon
First Edition
New York
1830
Ben opened the glass door, reached up, and pulled the volume out. It was heavy, the leather binding rough, the pages thick and brown with age.
“What are you doing?” Morgan rushed over. “Give me that!”
“The first edition of Prophet Joseph Smith’s work.” Ben flipped through the pages, stopping at the one where the silk string was left as a marker. There, in the margins, was the handwritten jotting Zachariah had recorded in his journal, starting with ‘I presume the doctrine of baptism for the dead has ere this reached your ears, and may have raised some inquiries in your minds…’
“You have no right to touch this holy book!” Morgan pulled the Book of Mormon from Ben’s hands, and something fell to the floor.
Ben picked up the square, thin cardboard case, identical to the others he had found before. He could feel by the thickness that this case actually contained a floppy disk. He turned it over.
Written by hand in neat, tidy handwriting, was this note:
Brother Zachariah,
God sympathizes with your righteous dilemma and good intentions.
However, your heart knows this: Lies + Disobedience = Sin.
The list must include ALL Medal of Honor recipients.
Joseph S. Morgan, IV.
“Touch down,” Ben said. “Game’s over.”
There was a knock on the door, and Katie poked her head in. “We’re ready for you, Governor. The bundlers from Vegas, L.A., and Salt Lake are on video feed—”
“He’s busy right now,” Ben said.
She seemed shocked. “Governor?”
“Not now,” Morgan said. “Continue without me.”
The door closed.
The first thing Porter saw in the glow of lights by Morgan’s mansion was the black-and-yellow BMW motorcycle, propped on its kickstand behind the state police cruiser. He parked at the curb and stepped out.
The evening had brought temperatures down, and Porter buttoned up his police jacket while approaching the cruiser.
One of the troopers came out. “Are you Porter? Let’s walk you in.”
Going up the long driveway, Porter glanced around at the artfully lit landscaping. Near the house, a gate clicked open.
A Secret Service agent stepped out of the house. “What’s cooking, fellows?”
“I’m Inspector Porter, Community Relations Unit.” He handed over a business card.
The agent examined it. “You need face time with the candidate?”
“A moment, just as a courtesy. There was a minor disturbance at the Mormon temple earlier. I think he’d want to know the details before it hits the media.”
“Sure. Let me watch your gun for you.”
Porter unbuckled his service belt and handed it over. “I understand he’s already meeting with someone.”
“Yeah, a guy came with a note from the president of the temple.”
Gesturing at the street, Porter said, “The news pests will arrive soon. You might want to prepare.”
“Will do!” The agent beckoned. “You go right in. They’re in the library. Straight down the hallway, first left, past the kitchen, en
d of corridor, on the right.”
“Thanks.”
The agent turned to the trooper. “Let’s set up a perimeter.”
Following the agent’s directions, Porter passed by the kitchen, where maids were cleaning up. He went down the hallway and found the door to the library. Glancing up and down the empty hallway, he pressed his ear to the door and listened.
Morgan’s eyes went from the old book in his hands to the floppy disk in Ben’s hands, back and forth. “In the Lord’s name, it never occurred to me. So that’s where Brother Zachariah hid it…right here in my house! And we’ve spent all this time—”
“Looking for it? Abusing Zachariah?”
“He was…an ill man.”
“It’s the moment of truth, Governor.”
Morgan reached up to replace the Book of Mormon on the shelf. He sat down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace and rested his chin on interwoven fingers. “Look now, this is totally out of context. Posthumous baptizing is a charitable deed, but the Gentiles have a hard time understanding it. You’re an intelligent young man, yes?”
“Go on.” Ben pocketed the floppy disk but held the iPhone forward to get a good audio recording as well as to communicate a clear threat that he would send off the information unless truth was spoken. “I’m listening.”
“We believe that the souls of those who have not accepted the True Gospel during their mortal lives are in deathly abeyance, in suffering, in something akin to hell. Therefore, it’s the greatest service we can provide them—an opportunity to accept the only True Church. My intentions were pure!”
“Pure intentions don’t lead to stealing souls.”
“There’s no stealing! They have a choice—every soul can decide to reject the message of the True Gospel according to Joseph Smith and remain a Gentile!”
“If posthumous baptizing rituals are just offers to those souls, which they can refuse, how come you list them all—millions of Jewish Holocaust victims, world leaders, and countless others—as full members in the LDS Church’s membership rolls?”
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