Enigma
Page 3
Richardson turned to face me, his saintly smile radiant. “If someone were to cast believable doubt on my son’s commitment to the true path of Christ, it truly would be like cutting off my right arm.” He shook his head with ineffable sorrow at the prospect. “All we’ve built together would fall into terrible jeopardy.”
“Specifically, you mean cast doubt on his sexual orientation?”
“Yes, in spite of his miraculous healing years ago, and his exemplary life as a family man ever since.”
I nodded, and made another note. “And he’s never, um, slipped up in that?”
“Absolutely not. Never. His healing is full and complete, praise the Lord.” A significant lie. And behind it, something even darker, I couldn’t tell what. That warranted much more exploration when I could find a way to do it.
“When did your son go into treatment?”
“Let’s see, that would have been 1993. November.”
“And he left treatment when?”
“Just before Easter of the following year.” Richardson’s voice swelled, lofty as a pipe organ. “He was resurrected from Satan’s darkness on that blessed anniversary by the blood of Our Savior, and the stone over his tortured heart was rolled away by angels.” He cleared his throat, as if stopping himself from a longer sermon.
I forced myself to write slowly as a way of countering my nausea. Easter, 1994. Check date.
Howard Richardson’s bloated certainty was suffocating, and some claustrophobic part of me wanted to end this interview so I could run away and breathe again. But I’d committed to the case. I’d never bolted before just because I didn’t like the person I was supposed to be helping, and I wouldn’t now. Keeping a promise was bedrock to me, part of my living amend; a sober man being in the world the way it is. I couldn’t betray that.
I changed focus to watch his aura. “I’m told the letters were delivered in disturbing ways. How did the first one arrive?”
“It was in the inter-office mail.” True.
“Envelope?”
“Yes. Addressed to me.” True.
“Who can I talk to about your inter-office mail system?”
“Our office manager, Marianna Stokes. I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you.” I wrote down her name.
I decided to push the good reverend a bit more. “If the letter was addressed to you, why would you think the threat was directed at James? Could it have been about something else?”
“The threat is to me, using James.” Richardson’s aura spiked. Anger as well as fear. Something there he didn’t want to talk about. Maybe this wasn’t really about his son at all.
“Did you recognize the source of the words?”
“No. I simply recognized them as a threat.”
“All the messages are lyrics from an album by a group called Enigma, called Cross of Changes.” Kommen must have already briefed him on that, because Richardson didn’t even blink.
“It gets even more relevant,” I continued. “The album was released in December of 1993, while your son was undergoing reparative therapy. Do you think James knew about this music? Any lover he’d had before his therapy would certainly learn about it right away. The album was a big hit.”
“James would never listen to such soulless rubbish!” Richardson’s voice cracked, along with his composure. “He enjoys Christian music exclusively. In fact, shortly after he joined us in ministry he took charge of our outreach, music, and publishing programs. He singlehandedly spearheaded our very successful efforts to extend our offerings into Latin America, including drawing on Latin American music to reach those wonderful people’s hearts.”
I felt obliged to offer a slightly different perspective. “The most popular song on the album, “Return to Innocence,” was used as the theme song of the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games. I doubt the IOC considered it rubbish.”
I gazed at Richardson. “Are you sure you didn’t receive another note, one that contained the lyrics to that particular song?”
“Absolutely.” He was telling the truth.
“Well, then, I’ll bet you a dollar that it’s on the way. Maybe Enigma has saved that song for last. How did letter number two arrive?”
“It was mailed to my home. That address is closely held information, but this Enigma knows it.” His aura writhed into coils as he spoke. Enigma knew where he lived, and that terrified him.
“How closely? Could you make a list of who knows your home address, or is it more generally known than that?”
“More general. Still, those who know would never divulge it.”
“You do realize, then, that someone you trust probably sent that letter.”
Richardson didn’t respond, but his aura twisted and sparked with fear. I let the silence stretch a little. “Letter number three?
Richardson cleared his throat. “I have a modest bathroom in my office at ministry headquarters. It was taped to the shower door.”
I looked at Kommen, then at Richardson. “Another indication Enigma has close access to your life, Reverend, or at very least an accomplice among your staff.”
“It seems that way, even though most of them have been with me for years.” He shook his head at the sad likelihood of such betrayal.
“May I interview your secretary?” In my peripheral vision, I saw Kommen glowering at me, a guard dog I was glad had been leashed. “I promise to be discreet,” I added. “And kind.”
Richardson glanced at Kommen, who nodded. “I suppose you must,” he sighed. “Gladys has been my secretary for twenty-five years. I trust her completely.”
I nodded. “I understand. And the fourth letter?”
“It came to this office,” Kommen cut in.
“Addressed to whom?”
“Reverend Richardson, but to my attention.”
“By courier or mail?”
Kommen’s aura flashed. He was getting angry. “Courier.”
“Which one?”
“Colin can look that up.”
“I’ll need to talk to their dispatcher. Will you authorize that?”
Kommen gave me a tiny nod, looking deeply inconvenienced.
“Were there any viable fingerprints on the messages?”
“No. We had a very good lab do the tests. There weren’t any. Enigma wore gloves.”
Kommen was trying to take control of the interview. I figured he wanted to end it, so I decided to help him out. I could tell I’d gotten everything I was going to get from Richardson. At the moment, anyway.
“Okay. Well, thank you, Reverend. I’ll wait to hear from Mr. Kommen when I can interview your office manager and your secretary.”
I put away my notebook. “I may need to ask you some clarifying questions after I interview your wife, son, and daughter-in-law. But for the moment, I’m all set.”
Apparently Kommen wasn’t done flexing his muscle as gatekeeper. “Another interview may not be possible,” he huffed.
I stared at him. “If it’s necessary, it will be brief. And I sincerely hope, Mr. Kommen, that your desire to insulate your client from my investigation doesn’t become counterproductive. My request would not be frivolous, and denying it could be problematic.”
I stood up, and stuck out my hand again. When Richardson got up, so did Kommen. “Thanks for your time, Reverend,” I said. “We’ll get this cleared up, I promise.” I didn’t feel quite that certain, but I wasn’t going to hedge in front of Kommen.
Even though the day was heating up, it was a relief to get out onto the street. I bought an early and unhealthy lunch from a street vendor, then walked down to Confluence Park. Traffic on the Speer Boulevard Viaduct shimmered in the heat, and a dozen thunderheads were already building against the mountains—a typical June morning in Denver, if any weather could be called typical here.
At the park I found a little shade on the bank opposite REI, where I could watch the kayakers bob and twist through the man-made rapids, eat my lunch, and ponder my interview with Richardson senior.
The bad news was that most of the customary lines of inquiry surrounding a crime were also missing. No police report, no witnesses, no known motive. Not even an apparent one. I did have leads, though. I was far from stymied.
On the surface, the level of Richardson’s panic at receiving the letters seemed strangely disproportionate to what they contained. He had to see something in them that he wasn’t talking about. I’d find out what that was.
Then there was the question of his son’s sexual orientation. Had father really expected reparative therapy to fix his son? Regardless of Howard’s expectations, James hadn’t been the poster boy for its success as proclaimed. Howard knew his son hadn’t been cured. He also knew he was vulnerable because of its failure.
Something else was out of joint between father and son, too. Something he didn’t want to talk about. The afternoon’s interview with James promised to be more fruitful than I’d first thought.
I got back to Kommen’s office in time to cool off a bit in their air-conditioned foyer while waiting for Colin to appear. He did, radiating his rosy-cheeked sincerity, precisely at one-thirty.
He’d already collected the contact info for the courier, Rocky Mountain Mercury, and their tracking number for the fourth letter. He was quick—a smart, decent gay kid trying to do his job right in what was undoubtedly a very precarious environment, and more power to him.
Colin didn’t lead me back to the big suite off Kommen’s office, but to a smaller, still well-appointed conference room down the hall. He parked me in one of the upholstered armchairs and scurried off, I assumed to fetch James. I wondered if Kommen was always this obvious in his messages about status difference between father and son. Given how he’d behaved toward me, I figured it likely.
In a moment, Colin opened the door and Kommen appeared with Richardson beside him. James sat down opposite me, but Kommen stayed at the door.
“I have a meeting,” he announced, glaring at me like it was my fault. “No recording this. I’ve instructed James to refuse to answer any question he feels uncomfortable with. Afterward, he’ll be reporting to me on your conduct. In detail.” He wheeled and was gone.
As he closed the door, I caught Colin’s eye. He knew his boss was an asshole, too. I watched him through the glass wall as he scooted down the hall. I could see that some days, he’d have to work hard at being cheerful.
I wanted the atmosphere to settle a bit before I got started, so I took my time pulling out my pen and notebook and getting set up. When I looked up, Richardson was sitting back, waiting with his arms on the chair and his knees wide apart. He had big thighs, and not from fat. Very fit.
He was an attractive guy in a button-down collar, perfect teeth, only slightly weathered, collegiate kind of way. Solid intelligence in the eyes, but I saw more pain than kindness there. Good jaw, but also hard, somehow. Dark hair like his father’s in the old press photos I’d looked up. James had a bigger, more athletic frame, though. He obviously worked out, but not obsessively. His features reminded me more of his mother, although I’d seen only one photo of her. Pretty nice overall, but not gut-grabbing sexy.
I gave him a conciliatory smile. “I can’t promise to ask you only comfortable questions, but my goal here is certainly not to harass you.”
He shrugged dismissively. “I know. Kommen is a martinet, and it gets old in a hurry. I’m a big boy and can take care of myself.”
“I have no doubt of that,” I said, grinning.
I shifted my focus to watch his energy. “I’ve learned a lot about the Enigma album containing the lyrics used in these letters,” I said, pen at the ready. “Do you think there’s any significance to the fact that it was released while you were in therapy?”
“No, I don’t,” Richardson said. Big lie—his aura blazed with it, plus anger. I made a note as slowly as if I were just learning to print block letters. I was half tempted to stick my tongue part way out with the effort.
“Do you have any idea at all as to who might be behind these letters, even just a wild guess?”
“None at all.” Again, a big lie, highly charged. Instead of anger, this time I saw searing pain. He had an idea, for sure. And now so did I.
“Your father believes that these letters are an attack on him, using you and your background as the point of attack. Do you think that idea is at all valid?”
“It could be. Leaders of some other churches would love to see my father disgraced. The math says donation dollars that go to one church don’t go to another, and our draw for members and donations is growing fast.”
“Is it possible that this is an attack on your father directly? Church funds, moral misconduct?”
“No.” Big lie. “Our books are rigorously audited and summarized annually for our members.” True.
I waited for him to address the moral misconduct part of my question. He didn’t. If his first answer was a lie, but the second was true, then moral misconduct sat big and broad in the equation somewhere. I’d gotten my answer from his silence.
“Your dad also says that you’ve been instrumental in expanding your ministry into Latin America. Do you think the threat comes from there?”
James shook his head. “I really don’t think so. Our membership there doesn’t care much about the competition between churches in the US. On top of that, our presence in Latin America extends back only a few years, probably no more than about 2002. Long after my experiences as a teenager.”
“Do you think they would know about those experiences?”
“Certainly. It’s a story worth repeating as often as possible.” He gave me a smile radiant with the Gospel’s glory, but his aura swirled up dark and angry. “My personal salvation is a testament to my father’s faith, and the invincible power of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
“I’m glad for you.” I wanted to sound sincere, but I don’t think I made it. “Has any spark of that old temptation ever presented itself since those days?”
“No, thank the Lord.” His lie spiked out, even bigger than the others. James sighed a deep breath and gazed out the window, as if savoring his God-given liberation for the first time. Poor guy. What kind of hell was he living in, pretending the hand of God had fixed him, living a straight man’s life?
“Were the methods of your therapy harsh? I’ve heard they often are.”
Richardson’s aura boiled up with pain, grief, and rage, but his face remained an angelic mask. “I don’t have to answer that, but I will. Yes, they were harsh. But they were warranted. My very soul was at stake.” He paused, his eyes opaque with the flat stare of a bouncer. “And that’s a closed chapter you and I will not be visiting.”
I nodded. “Got it,” I said, making my note. “Is there any other light you can shine on this business right now?”
“Not at the moment.” To my amazement, he was telling the truth. He knew a lot about this, but he couldn’t shed light on it now. James Richardson was in this up to his neck. But how? Why?
I leaned forward, caught his eye and held it for a few heartbeats. I wanted him to know that I knew he knew something else. I pulled out one of my cards and offered it to him. As he took it I said, “In case anything else comes to you, I’d really appreciate a call. I promise not to badger you or anyone in your family. I’m just trying to solve this.”
“I will do that, Mr. Morgan,” he said, sounding thoughtful. “Something else may come to mind, and if it does, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He pulled out one of his cards and wrote on the back before he gave it to me.
I must have looked as surprised as I actually was, because he gave me a little smile, aura welling up in sadness. “My cell. In case you think of other questions for me,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, tucking the card in my shirt pocket, pretending I didn’t understand the gest
ure was a significant invitation, maybe even a request. We shook hands. I tried not to wince. James Richardson was a man in serious pain, and some of it burned in my knuckles. We headed down the hall.
Colin appeared before we’d taken half a dozen steps, steering Richardson away on some vector that didn’t include me.
I headed on to the elevator.
As I walked down the 16th Street Mall, I called Rocky Mountain Mercury and set up an appointment with the dispatcher in an hour. It was Friday afternoon, and they were already slowing down. I gave them the document number so they could be ready. I promised to be in and out in just a few minutes.
The dispatcher at Rocky Mountain didn’t hand me a case-solver, but I did get a couple of interesting pieces of information.
Delivery of the fourth letter had been charged to the account of Stelnach, Kommen and Breyer. It had been picked up at the front desk, only to be delivered back to the same location an hour later. The same receptionist had signed off on the pickup as for the delivery.
That seemed strange, but when I asked the dispatcher about it he just shrugged. The courier’s pay was a low hourly base with a per-item delivery count determining the remainder. Even if the courier noticed that the letter was to be delivered to the same place where it was picked up, and he probably did when he scanned it into his handheld, he’d do it anyway. The rationale behind the letter’s origin wasn’t his problem, and the delivery meant another dollar in his pocket.
On my walk home, I pondered the varied nature of the deliveries—inter-office mail, regular post, taped to a shower door, and courier using Kommen’s own account number. Two things became clear.
First, Enigma had at-will access to the innermost workings of Richardson’s life. I’d got that already, but using Kommen’s corporate account number for this delivery and having it physically picked up at the law office showed significantly broader access than I’d imagined. There weren’t many with access to both Richardson’s shower door and his attorney’s office downtown.
Second, Enigma was bedeviling Richardson with item one. The deliveries had been orchestrated to that end. There was no other reason to use such a variety. Enigma was toying with the good reverend like a cat torments the mouse it will eventually kill.