by J. A. Jance
Afterward I waited, drumming my fingers on the desk, wondering about Uncle Charlie. No one in Faith Tabernacle had mentioned him. Whoever he was, in or out of the group, he had been important to Angela Barstogi. She had mentioned him to Sophie Czirski when she hadn’t mentioned her own father.
I looked up to find Captain Powell perched on the corner of my desk. “How’s it going?” he asked.
I guess Powell’s all right. He’s probably thirty-seven or thirty-eight. He’s what I call a young Turk, one of those guys who’s on a fast track and plans to make it all the way to the top in a hurry. The best way to handle people like that is to stay out of their way. Their ambition has a way of clobbering anyone who isn’t pushing and shoving in the same direction.
“We’re plugging,” I replied noncommittally.
“What are you finding?”
“We spent a good part of yesterday afternoon around Faith Tabernacle over in Ballard. We didn’t get inside. No one was there. The doors were locked, but we spent lots of time with the neighbors.”
“And?”
“Pastor Michael Brodie is not well thought of in that neck of the woods. People say odd things go on in Faith Tabernacle, that they sometimes hear children crying.”
“Have there been complaints?”
“Peters is checking that out right now. No one has ever been able to get close enough to the kids to talk to them.”
Powell rubbed his chin. I’m always about half-suspicious of chin rubbers. It’s the same way with deliberate tappers and cleaners of expensive, hand-carved pipes. The gestures are calculated distractions, serving to divert attention from the current topic of discussion.
“Speaking of Peters, how’s he working out?”
“He’s okay.”
“You knew there was some difficulty downstairs. We had to shift him out of property. It was either send him to homicide or bounce him back to walking a beat.”
“No, I didn’t know that.” I might have added that I was outside the departmental gossip mills, but I let it go.
“Captain Howard down there specifically asked for you to be his partner.”
“Oh,” I said.
“And you think he can handle this case without a problem?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. I wasn’t about to let on that Peters had told me anything about Broken Springs, Oregon, and losing his family to a cult. I didn’t want to risk giving Powell any ammunition about Peters’ impartiality. Powell is the kind who might use it. He ambled away from my desk then, no wiser, I hoped, than when he had arrived. I was a little wiser, though. Peters was on our squad without Powell’s wanting him there. If the captain was looking for an excuse to bump the newcomer, he wouldn’t get any help from me.
Peters showed up a few minutes later. He had checked through 911 records for any complaints from the Ballard area around Faith Tabernacle and come up empty-handed. He looked a little worse for wear, as though he hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours.
“You tie one on last night?” I asked.
“No.”
“Maybe you should have,” I told him.
He didn’t take kindly to my remark. “What’s the program today?” he asked.
“Let’s go downstairs and talk to the crime lab folks. They might have something for us.”
The Washington State crime lab is on the second floor of the Public Safety Building. They work for all the law enforcement agencies in Washington, with a number of labs scattered throughout the state. There’s a backlog of work, but murder gets priority treatment. Angela Barstogi deserved at least that much. Janice Morraine offered us some acrid coffee that Peters had the good sense to refuse. I didn’t. I’m a dog for punishment.
Janice lit a cigarette, and Peters grimaced. I was surprised he didn’t launch into an antismoking lecture on the spot. Jan took a long drag on her cigarette, ignoring Peters’ pointed disapproval. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
“Have you come up with anything on Angela Barstogi?”
“She had a Big Mac for breakfast, if that’s any help.”
“As in McDonald’s?” Peters asked.
Janice nodded. “She had mustard with whatever she ate. There were traces of mustard under her thumbnails like you’d get from opening one of those little individual packages. You can collect samples, but it’ll probably only separate Burger King from McDonald’s.”
She flicked an ash into an ashtray. Her tone was matter-of-fact. Evidence is evidence. People in this business can’t afford to look beyond the evidence to the human suffering involved. If they do, they crack up.
“Did you find anything in her room or in the house?”
“Nothing that appears to be important at the moment. Fingerprints from the room are mostly the girl’s and the mother’s. There are a few that belong to other children, but no adult prints.”
“What makes you say McDonald’s?” Peters asked.
“It may not be McDonald’s, but it was one of those fast-food joints. Hamburger aside, Baker’s office says she was generally malnourished, had been for some time.”
Janice reached across me to the end of the table and picked up a folded newspaper. She opened it to the editorial section. “I read this coming in on the bus this morning.” She handed me the paper, open to Maxwell Cole’s “City Beat” column.
I skimmed through an emotional portrayal of Suzanne Barstogi as a woman of unshakable faith and courage, one who was walking through a time of personal trial supported by her beliefs and the willing help of fellow church members. It spoke eloquently of the group’s communal sharing of food and heartbreak. It told in heartrending prose how the congregation as a whole had spent the previous afternoon on its knees praying for the murderer’s immortal soul.
Murderers are always the first victims in Maxwell Cole’s book, unless the person pulling the trigger happens to be a cop.
I finished reading the column and handed the paper to Peters.
“They sound like wonderful people, don’t they?” Janice said with just a hint of sarcasm tinging her voice. “Just the kind of people you’d expect to systematically abuse a child for years. The broken bones she had would be consistent with a highly abusive environment. Kids that age don’t break bones. They have too much cartilage. Are there other kids stuck in that mess?”
I thought about Jeremiah and how afraid he had been. His fear was not unfounded. I was convinced the bruise on his forearm was not an unusual occurrence. Janice finished her cigarette and rose, dismissing us. “I don’t have anything else right now, but I’ll call if anything turns up.”
“So what now, coach?” Peters asked as we waited in the elevator lobby.
“I vote we go back to Ballard. This time we’ll get inside Faith Tabernacle if we have to have a search warrant to do it.”
Ballard is a predominantly Scandinavian enclave about five miles from downtown Seattle. It sits across Salmon Bay from Magnolia. You get there by crossing the Ballard Bridge, a drawbridge used to let through sleek sailing vessels as well as stodgy, loaded barges on their way to Alaska. If Magnolia is highbrow, Ballard is lowbrow. If Magnolia is known for its upwardly mobile professionals, Ballard is known for its sturdy blue-collar folks who march along, never quite getting ahead but never falling very far behind either. Ballard is pretty much middle America at its best or worst, depending on your point of view.
Faith Tabernacle was a respectable-enough-looking place situated on the corner of Twenty-fourth and Eightieth N.W. in the Loyal Heights area. It was an older church that gave evidence of some recent renovations, the most jarring of which was a neon sign. New gray shingles sparkled, and surrounding trees had been pruned back with a vengeance. Double doors, new but cheap, stood wide open.
The day before, neighbors had told us that it had originally been a Lutheran church. A steady decline in enrollment and a consolidation of congregations had left it vacant for a number of years until purchase by Michael Brodie’s group some six or seven months earlier. Two s
imilarly shaped, parallel buildings had been connected at either end. Half the building was used as a church and half as a parsonage.
The interior of the sanctuary reminded me of a barren medieval church. I’m not a regular visitor of churches, but the ones I have encountered usually have some of the amenities like heat, carpeting, reasonably comfortable pews, that sort of thing. Walking into Faith Tabernacle, the first sensation was one of bone-numbing chill. There was no heat, and the barren concrete floor retained the damp cold from the previous late-spring night. Two banks of rickety benches formed the seating arrangements, with a center aisle between them leading to a raised altar. The benches had no backs on them. If Angel Barstogi had fallen asleep during church, where had Suzanne put her, on a bench or on the cold, bare floor?
At first we thought we were alone, but then a woman emerged from behind a makeshift pulpit. Armed with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, she crawled across the cold surface on hands and knees, diligently scrubbing every inch of the altar, like a buck private preparing for a major inspection.
Peters approached the woman and asked her where we might find Brodie. She motioned with her hand, indicating that she was unable to talk but that we should go through the door on the right of the altar. It led us through a darkened, closetlike room. In the dim light from the doorway behind us we could see a wooden kneeling frame with an open Bible on a stand before it. Other than those two items, the room was empty.
Another door barred the way. I knocked. Beneath my knuckles I found the deep sound of a solid wooden door, not the hollow laminate of the church’s front doors. Pastor Michael himself answered my knock. If he was startled to see us, he certainly covered it well. “Come in,” he said, stepping back and holding the door. “I was just preparing for this afternoon’s service,” he said.
I doubt Peters was surprised by what we found there. I wasn’t. The room could hardly have been called sumptuous, but it was a long way from the grim, unadorned rooms through which we had entered. The contrast was striking. The place was immaculate. There was none of the dirty clutter of Suzanne Barstogi’s house. A well-padded deep brown carpet covered the floor. The two walls that weren’t covered with bookshelves were papered in a tasteful grass cloth. A stately mahogany desk with a brass study lamp dominated the room. An open Bible lay in a halo of light the lamp cast on gleaming wood. Pastor Michael snapped the Bible shut as I approached the desk.
“Won’t you sit down?” he offered.
We sat. I looked at Peters, grim faced and tense. I wondered how this office compared with the Cadillac-driving swami of Broken Springs, Oregon. Peters was holding himself in check, but just barely. “We wanted to see your church,” I said before Peters had a chance to open his mouth. “We thought seeing it might give us some ideas about Angel’s death.”
Brodie’s defenses came up instantly. “Surely you don’t think someone in the church had anything to do with it.”
“We haven’t ruled out anyone so far,” Peters commented stiffly, glancing at Brodie’s hand. Brodie covered the scratched hand with the other one in a pious and, I thought, highly suspicious, manner. Peters noticed it too.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
There was the pause — slight, but enough to be noticeable. “Oh, a little over six months, I guess. Before that we met in private homes.”
“I see,” I said.
“Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked, rising suddenly. “We have a fellowship hall and a kitchen in addition to my little apartment.”
“What’s the room we just came through,” Peters put in, “the one with the Bible stand in it?”
There was another pause, as if Brodie wanted to consider his words carefully before answering. “That’s our Penitent’s Room. It’s where people can spend time in prayer when they have strayed.”
He hustled us out of the study through his apartment, as if anxious to leave the area and the subject matter behind. The apartment was something less than luxurious, but obviously Brodie didn’t believe in living in the same kind of squalor deemed appropriate for his flock.
We followed him through the rest of the building. What little of the upstairs that wasn’t devoted to parsonage contained several small Sunday School rooms. Downstairs we found a commercial-style kitchen off the fellowship hall. The equipment was polished to a high gloss. The Faith Tabernacle women evidently spent far more time maintaining church facilities than they did their own homes. The fellowship hall was outfitted in the same barren style as the sanctuary. Its only furnishings consisted of two sets of splintery redwood picnic tables pushed together to form two long banks of tables.
When the tour was over, Brodie ushered us back to the Penitent’s Room in the best bum’s-rush tradition. “I need to go outside to greet people now,” he said. “Once the service starts, you will have to leave.” He gave a rueful smile lest we think him rude or inhospitable. “It’s like a Mormon temple. No one who isn’t a True Believer is allowed inside during services.”
The lady with the scrub brush was kneeling in front of the little altar in the Penitent’s Room, her bucket of soapy water still beside her. She was totally immersed in prayer. We stopped nearby but she never looked up. We went back through the sanctuary under our own steam.
Outside, a little flock of True Believers waited patiently for their shepherd to welcome them to worship. The women, their hair covered with either scarves or hats of some kind, dropped their eyes demurely as we passed. The men nodded without speaking, while the children maintained the same eerie silence we had noticed the day Angel Barstogi died. It was not a joyful gathering.
Jeremiah stood next to a beefy man with a full red beard. He had to be Benjamin Mason. He was a big man who looked like he had spent some time on the working end of a shovel. I walked up to Jeremiah and nodded at him without speaking. There was no sense in getting him in more hot water.
“Are you Mr. Mason?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, his tone wary, uneasy.
“I’m Detective Beaumont. Did you get a message to call me?”
“Didn’t have a phone,” he mumbled.
“Mind if we talk to you for a minute?” Reluctantly, he followed us to our car. I thumbed through some notes I’d made from the transcripts. “Brodie says you were working Friday morning?”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“And you do yard work. Can you give us a list of places you worked Friday morning?”
“Wait just a minute.” Suddenly he came to life. “You’ve got no right—”
Peters’ hand shot out, catching Mason’s arm just above the elbow. “You wait a minute, pal. He asked you a civil question. You can answer it here, or we can take you downtown.”
“Viewmont,” he said. “I was working some houses up at the north end of Viewmont over on Magnolia.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Dunno. Usually nobody’s home.” He mumbled the addresses and I wrote them down.
“Got any I.D. on you?”
His hand shook as he fumbled his wallet out of his hip pocket. When he dragged the battered piece of plastic out of its holder, the license turned out to be an Illinois one, several years out of date. The name on it was C. D. Jason. I felt a jab of excitement.
“What’s the C stand for?” I asked.
“Clinton,” he answered shortly.
Not Charles, not Chuck, not Charlie, but Clinton. The picture matched, but the names were different. Peters took it from me and examined it. He put it in his pocket. “We’ll just take this with us,” he said easily.
“But I need it to drive,” Mason protested, reaching for it.
“You’d best get yourself a Washington license. Meantime, what did you do to the backs of your hands?”
Mason withdrew his hands and stuffed them in his pockets. Not before I noticed that the backs matched Brodie’s, scratch for scratch.
“Let me guess,” Peters said. “I’ll bet you got those scratches
trimming hedges.”
“That’s right,” Mason said. “How’d you know that?”
“Psychic,” Peters replied.
Mason or whoever he was scurried into the church like a scared rabbit. Peters said nothing until Mason was out of earshot. He turned to look at the church. “I’d love to get a stick of dynamite and blow this whole pile of shit to kingdom come.”
“You’d best not let Powell hear you talk like that. Powell might be looking for an excuse to bust you back to the gang.”
Peters gave me a searching look. “You know something I don’t know?”
“I don’t know anything. I have a suspicious nature.”
We spent a couple of hours touring arterials, collecting sample packets of mustard from every fast-food joint we could find that seemed to be within a reasonably close geographical area. It would be strictly blind luck if we happened to get a match, but that sort of thing does happen occasionally. I believe the psychologists call it intermittent reinforcement. It’s what keeps bloodhounds like me on the trail. Every once in a while we hit the jackpot. It happens often enough that it keeps us from giving up. We just keep at it.
We carried a picture of Angela Barstogi with us, the one that had been in the newspaper. We asked all the clerks, all the busboys, if anyone remembered a little girl in a pink Holly Hobbie gown. Nobody did.
With the mustard sacked and labeled, we drove over to the Westside Treatment Center. The receptionist was off for the weekend, but we managed to get a list of employees, their schedules, and their phone numbers from a supervisor. We spent the remainder of the afternoon on telephones working our way through the list to no avail. It wasn’t that people were uncooperative or reluctant to help. It was just that no one had seen anything. We finally called it a day around seven Saturday night. We were getting nowhere fast.
