by A.W. Hartoin
Darkness had fallen by the time I drove to the Rockville Church of Christ. St. Louis in June had a tendency to be warm during the day and cool at night. Perfect wedding weather or so I’m told. The wind tousled my hair, blowing strands into my mouth, and I blanked out for a bit about where I was going and why. I sang along to Christina Perri’s pretty pain on the radio and felt alive and satisfied. Moments like that were all too short. I arrived at the church parking lot in record time. It was near empty, just a police cruiser, a church minivan and a Buick. I hadn’t paid attention to the church itself on my previous visit. It was well named with rough-cut rock walls and a low-slung roof. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the front entrance. I hung a left and walked around the side, lots of windows, but no doors. At the back was a playground bathed in darkness and a door. I reached for the knob, and heard a voice say, “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
Crap.
I ran my fingers through my hair, careful to let some curls fall forward and brush my lips. I turned and was surprised to see one of the officers from the dayshift coming toward me with his hand on his nightstick. It was the younger of the duo, thankfully.
“Officer…Ameche. I didn’t expect to find you still here.”
You’re still here. Great, Mercy, very smooth.
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon either,” he said with a slight hitch of the pants and touch of the hat. “I’d of thought you’d be busy signing autographs.”
“Do not mention YouTube or anything to do with Marilyn.”
Ameche took a step back. “Okay.”
“Where’s your partner?” I asked.
“Carl went home. You need to leave. This is still a crime scene.”
“I’m not here to cause problems. I was hoping to talk to the reverend. Is he here?” I hoped it was a reverend and not something else. I was a lapsed Catholic and could barely keep my own religion straight, much less any other one.
“She’s here. She, not he,” he said. “Why are you really here?”
“I told you,” I said.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I need to talk to the reverend,” I said.
“What about?” Ameche asked.
“That’s a personal theological matter.”
“A personal, theological matter that you have to talk about, at nine o’clock at night, at a church you’ve never been to before with a reverend you don’t know.”
“You’ve got it, so excuse me, and I’ll let you get back to your duties.” I did an about-face and made for the knob again.
“Hey!” Ameche grabbed my arm and spun me back around. I faked a fall into his chest complete with a little gasp.
“Let go,” I said, looking up and gazing into his eyes. I’ve been told I’m exceptional at that angle. You know, the big eyes, slightly parted lips with my hair tossed back. Men could be such suckers for the dramatic, but I couldn’t help loving them for it. It was nice to know romance wasn’t dead among males, no matter their claims.
“Sorry, sorry.” Ameche let go, backed up, lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his dark hair before settling it back on his head.
“It’s okay. Can I go now? Please?” I rubbed my arm and pulled my top a bit lower. Ameche took in the complete picture and heaved an exasperated sigh.
“What do you really want?” he asked.
I calculated my odds and they weren’t good. He wasn’t stupid or horny. Or, more likely, good old Carl had given his partner an earful after my earlier appearance and Ameche wanted to follow his instructions. It was my last at bat, so I decided to go for a homer. Why not? I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Plus, I was starting to like Ameche. He hadn’t tried to cop a feel when the chance presented itself. With a body like mine, I appreciated a man with a sense of decency; there were so few around. He looked honest. The honesty was useless, but he also looked ambitious. That I could use.
“So Carl filled you in on my dad?”
“Yeah. What about it?” asked Ameche.
“So you know he’s got tremendous pull in the department.”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“I’m trying to help you,” I said.
“I’m not a total fucking idiot. You don’t want to help me. You want to get in the scene and you can forget it.”
Damn it.
Ameche was getting brighter by the minute, but, then again, that made him even more ambitious.
“Let me guess, you want to be a detective, right?”
“And you’re gonna help me make it. You must think I’m a complete asshole,” he said.
“Not at all.” I reached in my purse and fished out my wallet. I opened it and held out a picture. “That’s Gavin Flouder and my dad at his retirement party. They were once partners. Gavin was murdered on Sunday. You hear anything about that?”
“I might’ve.”
“I think Gavin’s death has something to do with the murder here. My dad is on a cruise, barfing his brains out, or he’d be here talking to you. Actually, he wouldn’t. Chuck Watts, my cousin, would’ve already given him the keys to the kingdom. Now Dad wants me to do this, so I’m damn well gonna do it. Gavin wasn’t just Dad’s partner twenty years ago, he was our friend. He and Dixie had Easter dinner with us, for Christ’s sake. That was the last time I saw him unless you count the slab, something I’m personally trying to forget. So cut me some slack here, and I swear Dad will talk you up. Unless you have a dozen high-profile busts under your belt, I’m guessing you need it,” I said.
“And if I don’t?”
“Don’t expect help on anything, ever. Dad has a long memory as do I.”
Ameche considered his options carefully. I’d seen that look before and I knew it’d go in my favor. In my senior year of high school I decided to ask Werner Schneider to homecoming. My best friend, Ellen, told me not to, but, me being me, I did it anyway. Werner was good-looking in a geeky sort of way, but that wasn’t why I chose him. First of all, if I didn’t ask a guy, I’d have no date, again. I scared guys for some reason. I liked Werner for it because we’d had several conversations in Chem class, and he’d never once looked at my boobs. Ameche had the same look Werner had when I said, “Hey, want to go to homecoming with me?” He wanted it, oh yes he did, but he also had a certain standing to uphold. In Werner’s case, he was supposed to be above all the trivial society gatherings of all us peons. He was an academic. Ameche was afraid of getting caught and never being left on his own again.
“What exactly do you want to do?” Ameche asked.
“Check out the layout. Do some timing and look at where the body was found. I won’t touch anything. Come with me.”
“Your damn skippy I’m coming with you.”
Ha! Got him. Another guy dancing against his better judgment.
“One more thing,” I said.
Ameche let out a low groan, and said, “Now what?”
“Did you get a look at any of the evidence?”
“Like what?”
“Did they bag a cell phone?” I asked.
“I didn’t see what got bagged. What’s the deal?”
“I need to know if they found a cell phone near the body and, if possible, whose it is.”
“Why?” His fists were on his hips and I thought that I might’ve gone too far.
“Long story,” I said.
“What do you expect me to do?” Ameche lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair again.
“Get a look at the evidence list or the evidence itself. Chuck might have it on his desk. He likes to look at stuff while he’s working things out in his head.”
“How do you know that?”
“Cause my dad does the same thing and Chuck’s his protégé,” I said.
“If Chuck’s your cousin why don’t you just ask him?”
“I would, if he’d tell me, which he won’t. We don’t get along all that well.”
“Why not?” Ameche looked at me like I might be worse than he
thought, if my own cousin didn’t trust me.
“We have this thing. He hits on me. I insult him. It’s like that,” I said.
“Your cousin hits on you,” Ameche said, his upper lip curling in distaste.
“He’s not my real cousin. His mother married my uncle when he was three,” I said. “He just does it to piss me off.”
“Works, huh?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’ll be sure to remember that.” Ameche smiled.
“Swell. Now are you going to get a look at that cell for me or what?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And there’s one more thing,” I said.
“Of course there is,” said Ameche.
“I need to know who my dear cousin was interviewing the morning after Sample’s death.”
“Dare I ask why?”
“If Chuck was interviewing them, they couldn’t have killed Gavin.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Ameche.
“Okay then. Let’s go.” I moved towards the door, but then thought better of it and motioned for Ameche to lead the way. He gave a quick look skyward, as if to say, “Please God don’t let me get caught.” Then he opened the door and I went inside.
Ameche switched on the light. We were in an antechamber used for storage. Racks of choir robes, stacks of chairs, and boxes of children’s books, bibles, and hymnals littered the floor. There were no signs of a forensic technician going over the place.
“Didn’t they search this area?” I asked.
“It was locked at the time of the murder. This way to the crying room. That’s where the body was found.” Ameche led me down a hallway past several doors into the main section of the church. He closed the door behind me and said, “That door was locked after the ceremony and was still locked when we showed up.”
We walked down the aisle of the chapel, still decorated for the wedding. Small bouquets of flowers garnished each pew along the center aisle and the white satin runner covered the floor. The smell of rotting gardenias lay heavy in the air, making me remember why I hated gardenias. Ameche opened one of the entry doors to the chapel, the one the bride goes through on her way to her vows. The heavy walnut paneling didn’t quite match the understated elegance of the chapel with its white walls and tasteful bible scenes painted fresco style at regular intervals. A six-foot-tall golden cross with no decoration sat behind the simple altar. It couldn’t have been more different than the cathedral I attended as a child. Everything was bright and crisp with no hint of pain or sacrifice. All blissfully guiltless, but it felt wrong to me without the intricate mosaics, rich colors, and stained glass. The chapel might’ve been pure in its devotion, but I missed the mystery.
Ameche ushered me through the doors into a little antechamber. To my left and right were two more identical doors. Each had fingerprint powder residue at strategic points and were open. Ameche put his hand on the small of my back. “Don’t touch anything. The geek squad has been here three times already. All I need is for them to find new fingerprints.”
I clasped my hands behind my back and walked in. It was a typical crying room with two rocking chairs, small round table and chairs, and a changing table. All of which had been dusted for prints and, from the look of it, they’d found plenty. Four red plastic numbers at the far right end of the room marked specific evidence. The bench against the right wall had a number one marker next to it. On the back wall was the changing table with the numbers two and three on the floor next to the leg nearest the bench. In the center of the room was the last number, four, next to a bloodstain about two feet in diameter. The stain wasn’t a pool. It looked more like someone had went over the floor with a bloody mop.
“I thought she was strangled,” I said.
“She was, but she took a pretty good blow to the head on the bench, too.”
“But strangling was the cause of death?”
“As far as I know,” Ameche said.
Other than the evidence markers and blood, the scene was relatively undisturbed. The rocker nearest to the changing table lay on its side, but that was it. Not a bit like I imagined it would be. I expected the scene to look like a cyclone had torn through there. Get a damp sponge, right the rocker, and the room would be good to go.
“Lot of fingerprints,” I said.
“Yeah, dozens. It’ll probably take those techs awhile to sort through them.”
“And probably to no avail.”
“How come?” asked Ameche with a frown. “They think this was a crime of passion. I doubt he took the time to put on gloves.”
“Most people get killed by people they know. Everybody she knew was probably at the wedding and could come up with a reason for being in here.”
Ameche nodded. “The whole bridal party got dressed in here. I think I heard the photographer used it to store some equipment, too. It’s all bagged and down at forensics.”
“Okay. How many exits?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, let’s take a look, shall we.” I led him back into the hall and through the opposite doorway. It was a cloakroom with hanging racks and a couple of boxes of stray hats, gloves and boots. More folding chairs were stacked against the wall. It was windowless like the crying room and hadn’t been dusted for prints. Presumably because there would’ve been no reason for the killer to have used the room since it had no exit or it’d been locked. Ameche watched me while I walked around the room and then followed when I exited. I went over to the chapel’s front doors. They were massive, lightly carved and had dusting powder on the hand panels and surrounding area.
“Unlocked at the time?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
Dad wouldn’t be happy. An easy exit at night. Fantastic.
“Let’s take a look at the other exits.”
We went back into the chapel this time, walking down the other side towards a door at the right of the altar. I motioned to it. “Locked?”
“No, it leads outside,” he said.
“Let’s go.”
Ameche pushed open the door and waved me through it. It opened to an empty antechamber, probably where the groomsmen waited for the wedding ceremonies to begin. Directly opposite the door was another door. Ameche opened it for me and I stepped out, breathing in the warm night air and enjoying the feel of it on my skin. The killer might have done the same, so he wouldn’t look suspicious. We went down the short flight of stairs to a sidewalk until it branched off in three directions. One walk wrapped around the back of the chapel towards the parking lot. Another went alongside the chapel towards the front and a third led straight to a low, stone building about twenty yards from the chapel.
“Reception hall?” I asked, leading the way.
“You got it.”
“Do you have the key?”
“Don’t need one. It’s open.” Ameche opened the door for me, reached inside, groped around for a moment, and flipped a light switch. “They’re done with this area. Finished yesterday.”
Any evidence of the wedding was gone. All tables and chairs were stacked neatly against the wall. It didn’t take a genius to figure out anyone could’ve slipped out of the reception, gone to the crying room, strangled the victim and been back before anyone noticed. I could ask Dad how long it takes to strangle someone, but I imagined not more than ten minutes, less if she was knocked unconscious before being aware of the killer’s presence. On the other hand, they might’ve argued, struggled before the blow to the head and who knows how long that could’ve taken.
I started to ask Ameche another question, but stopped myself.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “I was going to ask about more exits, but I don’t think it matters.”
“Why not?”
“Because if the killer was one of the guests, then he returned here after doing it. He didn’t need an escape route. He would’ve stayed till the police came. He would’ve been interviewed.”
“What about the blood?” asked Ameche.
“There wasn’t any spatter. The blood was just smeared around, like with her hair as she struggled. He might not have gotten much on him, except for the hands. He could’ve just washed up in the bathroom and rolled up his sleeves,” I said.
Ameche elbowed me. “It could be a she, you know.”
“It’s not beyond the realm, but, come on, how many women stranglers have you heard of?” Ameche shrugged and I continued, “If it wasn’t someone from the party, they’d have gone out the front door and it still doesn’t matter.”
“I guess. How do you know all this stuff anyway?”
“My dad likes to talk things over. Helps him think about the possibilities when he says it out loud.”
“He discusses cases with you?” Ameche narrowed his eyes at me, and I could see my dad was dropping in his esteem.
“Hardly.” I smiled.
Ameche relaxed.
“My mother was always his sounding board, but he did like to tell me his general method and I have an unfortunate habit of eavesdropping.”
“You’re kidding.”
I punched Ameche in the shoulder and said, “Shut up and tell me about the guests.”
“How can I do that if I’m shutting up?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just tell me. I don’t have all night.”
“I do,” he said.
I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Are you going to tell me or not?”
“Nope, cause I don’t know a damn thing.” His grin took over his whole face.
“Why not?”
“Cause I’ve been on the force for eight months. I direct traffic,” he said.
“Right. I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.
“Look, I’ll tell you anything I pick up.”
“In for a dime, in for a dollar?”
“May as well. If anybody finds out about this, my ass is grass. Your dad is really going to put in a good word for me, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “We pay our debts and remember our friends.”
“Friends?” Ameche’s eyebrows went up under his hat.
“Sure, why not? You’re not so bad.”
“Very complimentary.”
“I try,” I said.
“You better go. I’ve got to get back out front,” he said.
“No problem and thanks.”
“Mention it, please mention it.”
We headed back towards the door, Ameche reached for the doorknob, but we both froze with a jolt when we heard a woman’s voice say, “What are you doing here?”
Ameche wheeled around. I studied his face to figure out how deep a shit we were in, but he betrayed little. Mild surprise at best. Not “My life is over. Someone shoot me.” We could save the situation and, if we could, it was up to me. I was probably a more accomplished liar than Ameche. Helping Dad out gave me plenty of practice. I turned with a fixed look of mild interest on my face, praying she wouldn’t recognize me.
Don’t look scared. Don’t look scared.
A woman stood ten feet away from us under an archway that had an exit sign over it. She crossed her arms. “Well?”
“Hi. I’m Mercy Watts and this is Officer Ameche. Have you two met?” I walked the ten feet extending my hand to her. She shook it briefly and put her hands on her hips.
“Not formally, no. I’m Reverend Coleman,” she said.
“Pleased to meet you, Reverend.” Ameche extended his hand. She shook it and her hand snapped back to her hip.
“What are you doing here? I wasn’t told about any more people coming tonight,” said Reverend Coleman.
Think fast. Think fast.
“Are you with the forensics team?” A furrow formed between the reverend’s eyebrows and I knew I was fast missing the window where she could learn to like me. In a split second, I had to judge her by looks alone.
Did the reverend have a rough past, causing her to suspect everyone of everything? Did I have to lie and get the hell out before she called Chuck? Or was she an average person with average experiences who’d take me at my word and give up some information?
Reverend Coleman looked like a nice guy. She had a lot of Aunt Tenne’s elements and if there ever was a nice guy, it was her. The reverend was tall, at least five eleven, and a good fifty pounds over weight. She knew how to wear it well in varying shades of gray and a scoop neckline. Nothing pinched or pulled. Despite her bulk she looked smooth. Her makeup was low key and well applied. But it was her eyes that showed her desire for goodness. They were blue with crinkled corners. They were probably the cause of people saying behind her back, “She’d be so pretty, if she’d just lose some weight.”
I decided Reverend Coleman was normal (aka not a criminal or victim), and to listen to my dad. Don’t tell him I said so. Dad says that normal people live normal lives where major lying isn’t a everyday occurrence. Non-criminals assume you’re telling the truth and want to believe you. In fact, they’ll go to great lengths to believe.
“No, I’m not with forensics. Actually, I’m working on another case.” I smoothed my dress and tried to look super honest. It was a stretch. “Do you think we could talk for a couple of minutes?”
Reverend Coleman relaxed, and Ameche let out a long-held breath.
“Sure. My office?” she asked.
“That would be great.”
“Do you need me for anything else?” Ameche asked me.
“Not at the moment. Thanks.”
“I better go patrol the grounds.” He nodded to the reverend and left.
“I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with the layout. Where’s your office?” I asked.
“In the main building. Follow me,” said Reverend Coleman.
We walked back over to the church and took the path around the rear to the door that Ameche and I had first entered. She opened the door and I noticed fingerprint ink on her hand. She led me down the hallway to a plain door with two dozen drawings and finger paintings on it. Most of them had her name and various versions of her face and body on them. The kids were a little too accurate for my taste and I wondered how the reverend felt about them. Maybe she was a big enough person not to care, but her careful dressing and makeup said different.
Reverend Coleman offered me a cream-colored armchair and sat behind the desk. She sighed, rubbed her eyes carefully so as not to smudge her mascara, and put on a pair of glasses.
“What can I do for you, Miss Watts?” she asked.
“I’m not sure to tell you the truth, Reverend. I’m just fishing here.”
“You said something about another case. Please, tell me this isn’t going to get any worse.”
“It’s been pretty bad then?”
“Oh, the cameras and reporters. They have no decency, no shame. I don’t know when we can start services again. I don’t want them bothering our parishioners.”
“I don’t think you can prevent that,” I said.
“I suppose you’re right. What’s the other case?”
I fished around in my purse, slipped Gavin’s picture out of my wallet, and handed it to Reverend Coleman. “Do you recognize the man on the right?”
She hesitated, shook her head no, and peered at the picture again.
“He’d be a bit older looking and much thinner,” I said.
“No, I’m sorry. Has he been here?”
“Not that I know of, but he did call here probably on Saturday. Do you keep records of incoming calls?”
“It depends on what the caller wanted,” she said. “Are you sure it was on Saturday?”
“I believe so,” I said.
“That was Rebecca’s wedding day.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Why do you ask?” The reverend rubbed her eyes again.
“You referred to the wedding as Rebecca’s as though you knew her personally.”
“Did I? Of course I did.” Her eyes got misty and she cupped her palm over her mouth, her fing
ers spread over her cheek. She looked at her lap for a moment, and then dropped her hand. “I knew her quite well. She volunteered here for the last three years. We had such fun planning the ceremony. Was he calling her?”
The question startled me. My mind had wandered to Gavin and I’d forgotten what we were doing, what we were talking about. A flush of grief rushed to my face and my answer came out as a strangled croak, “I can’t be sure, but I suspect he was. Who was on the phones then?”
“No one. Everyone was at the wedding and reception. We were all invited, of course.”
“Of course.” I cleared my throat. “Well, someone answered the phone. Any idea who that might’ve been?”
“No, but Rebecca wouldn’t have spoken with him unless he was on her list.”
“What list?” I asked.
“Rebecca only took calls from certain people. We were very careful never to say whether she was here or not. She was grateful, I think, not to have to worry about that here,” she said.
“What exactly was she worried about?”
“She had some trouble a while back. Some man was bothering her. I think he threatened her. She moved and changed her phone number, but he wouldn’t let her alone.”
“Did she make a police report?”
“Dozens, for all the good it did. One of the cops said he was extremely good or they would’ve have been able to get him.”
“They never got a name or a description?”
“She never saw him and, obviously, he didn’t leave a name,” she said.
“Right,” I said. “I suppose you told all of this to the detectives working her case?”
“Yes. Do you want the list?”
“That’d be great,” I said.
“We keep it in her file in my secretary’s office next door,” she said.
We stood up, walked out of her office and into the door to the right. It, too, was covered with drawings and some photos of church gatherings. Inside was a waist-high wooden partition with a bell, in-and-out trays and a stack of flyers advertising a new bible study group. We walked around the partition to a triple set of filing cabinets. Reverend Coleman opened a drawer and thumbed through a manila folder.
She murmured something under her breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s not in here.”
“Could it have been taken into evidence?”
“Maybe, but I don’t remember mentioning the list to anyone. I should’ve. Evelyn might have told the detectives. Evelyn’s my secretary.” She looked at me, her brows furrowed.
“That’s probably it. Do you remember who was on the list?”
“Her parents, of course. Her sister, some friends, people where she worked,” she said.
“A lot of names?”
“No, not a lot. Maybe fifteen or twenty.”
“Do you remember if Gavin Flouder was on the list?” I asked.
“Doesn’t sound familiar, but I hadn’t looked at the list in a long time.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t answer the church phone much, so I didn’t need to look. Rebecca did say he stopped bothering her.”
“When was that?”
“About the time she met Lee. She was so relieved, I can tell you,” she said.
“Who’s Lee?”
“Her fiancé, I mean husband. Poor man. I don’t know how he’s going to get through this.”
“Have you seen him since it happened?”
“Twice. He couldn’t stop crying the first time. Kept saying he didn’t want to live without her. The second time he was on something to calm him down, I think.”
“Did he say anything that time?” I asked.
“Not really. I couldn’t understand him,” she said.
“When did you say they met?”
“Six months ago. A few days after Thanksgiving, I think.”
“Short engagement.”
“I thought so too, but they were so in love and so happy. I can’t tell you how good he was for her. He got her out. She wasn’t afraid when she was with him.”
“So Lee got rid of the stalker?”
“Stalker? Yes, I guess he was a stalker. Rebecca never called him that. She just said ‘that guy’ or something to that effect. I guess Lee did get rid of him. I never thought about it. That guy must’ve figured out that bothering Rebecca was pointless, don’t you think?”
“Unless he didn’t,” I said.
“You think he did it, too? I can’t imagine anyone else. We all loved her. She was a good person. She’d never hurt a fly.” Reverend Coleman turned to a corkboard on the back wall, pulled out a stickpin, and handed me a snapshot of a young blond woman surrounded by smiling children. “The kids are taking it hard. She organized most of their activities and chaperoned. We’re having counselors here during Sunday school next week.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” I said, as I looked at the photo. Rebecca Sample had blond hair and a shy smile. She didn’t look like a stalker’s favorite target. Not being famous, beautiful, or anything I imagined stalkers to go for, but I knew nothing about stalkers except what I’d seen in news magazines. Dad had only had a couple stalker cases in his whole career, and I didn’t remember him saying much about them.
I handed the photo back. “She was lovely.”
“Yes, she was.”
“If you come across that list or think of anything, please call me.” I rummaged around looking for my business card that didn’t exist and pulled out my pad instead. “I guess I’m out of cards. Let me write down my cell number for you.”
“Thank you, I will. Do you think Rebecca’s murder is connected to your case?” The reverend hesitated over the word murder. She looked like she had a hard time believing she was saying it in connection with someone she knew.
“I doubt it, but I have to cover all the bases,” I said.
“Can I ask what that case is about?”
“Sorry, I can’t say.”
“I understand,” she said.
Reverend Coleman walked me to my truck and thanked me for working so hard for the public. I felt like a schmuck and thanked her for being so cooperative. I drove away and reminded myself that I was doing it for Dixie and Gavin and it didn’t matter what I had to do. The truth was the only thing that mattered.
