by Laurel Dewey
It was truly mind-boggling, Jane decided, that this self-appointed moral authority was respected enough to be repeatedly called upon to offer opinions in child development. At some point, Jane deduced that Bartosh’s polished Christian celebrity attracted the eye of law enforcement. In turn, they began utilizing his supposed knowledge and effectively marketed him as an expert witness in cases where the clinical judgment of a psychologist was needed. For all Jane knew, some of the officials may have been good Christians of other less rigid churches who assumed Bartosh was a trustworthy man whose unblemished reputation could provide valuable insight into the behavior of the criminal mind. “Sure. Why not?” Jane surmised. It was identical to the way the media sucked on to someone with a high-profile name or pertinent occupation during a child abduction case and allowed that individual to hold court on TV, even though that person was only offering general hypotheses that often generate no new ideas on how to find the missing kid. It was smoke and mirrors, but it worked every time. It looked as if Bartosh had perfected that magic act all the way to the Lou Peters trial.
Jane discovered that Dr. Bartosh had met Lou in the late 1980’s. Lou joined The Lamb of God Congregation after his mother abandoned him and he spent nearly all of his fifteenth year on the street. Lou was welcomed with open arms by the church members, who Bartosh commented in court testimony, “adopted Lou as their own.” For over two years, Lou lived in the various homes of “Council” members on a rotating basis. Even Bartosh and Ingrid invited Lou to stay with them. From reading Bartosh’s account, Lou was “a strapping young man with a deep devotion to God and a keen sense of high morality.” Bartosh was clearly taken by Lou’s enigmatic quality and happily encouraged him to spread the word of the Lord to the church and beyond. Curiously, by Bartosh’s own admission, Lou’s engaging personality and handsome face proved to be a winning combination when it came to drawing young people to the church. In one document, a detective had underlined the following sentence, attributed to Dr. John Bartosh: “Lou Peters helped the church recruit more teenage girls than in all the years previous to his affiliation with the institution. He’s been sent from God.”
There was a minor notation buried in the sheets of court papers that made reference to Bartosh being aware of Lou’s abusive childhood. One line stood out to Jane: “Lou’s morally-destructive childhood is a clear example of how wantonness and sexuality destroys the fabric of one’s soul and how God can lead one back to His arms.” It became clearer to Jane that Dr. Bartosh believed he had found the ultimate Christian poster boy for his church in the form of Lou Peters. Here was a young, enthusiastic, pied piper for God who was a walking, breathing model of someone who had been exposed to the most corrupt sin imaginable but was saved by his faith in God.
Fast forward to one year ago, when Lou’s attorneys brought his case back in front of a judge to appeal his conviction and request a new trial. When the DNA on the condom found next to Ashlee’s body—the one piece of evidence that swayed the jury to convict—was clearly proven to not belong to Lou Peters, the thirty-three-year-old’s luck changed. Dr. Bartosh’s stanch belief in Lou became a defining factor in a case weak on other concrete scientific connections and blood evidence. The last few papers in the pile illustrated Bartosh’s unwavering belief of Lou’s innocence, which may have given the judge the crucial validation he needed to release Lou on bond while he awaited a new trial. Kit’s handwritten notes on yellow legal pads alluded to the fact that Bartosh—now living in Grand Junction, Colorado, where he was building an extension of The Lamb of God Congregation—had monthly visits with Lou in prison, where he acted as an “advisor, pastor, and motivator for Jesus.” Motivator for Jesus? Jane thought that was an odd choice of words for Bartosh to use in court.
By the time Jane finished reading and gathered together everything she needed for the trip, it was nearly four in the morning. She was just about to light her tenth cigarette of the night when Jane heard the familiar thump of the Denver Post knocking against the front door. Clenching the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she opened the front door to retrieve the paper. Staring back at her from the top of the fold was none other than Sergeant Kenny Stephens. There he was with his cocky grin and his muscular build standing in front of the cocaine-laden table at the press conference. Jane felt an angry edge creep up on her. Her eye then caught the name of one of her FBI contacts who was quoted in the second above-the-fold headlining story. “We’ve been asked to be part of the Charlotte Walker team and we will use every tool at our disposal to bring this little girl back to her family,” Jane read.
She looked back at Kenny Stephens’s self-important moniker and slammed the paper onto the nearest chair. Suddenly, all those fears about being part of the Walker case and how it might ruin her reputation dissolved into the background. Within minutes, that familiar fire began to burn in Jane Perry’s belly.
CHAPTER 8
DECEMBER 29
It was only a fifteen-minute morning run, but Jane was at least able to get her heart racing and knock the cobwebs out of her head before picking up Kit. After a quick shower, she slipped into a form-fitting pair of black jeans and a long-sleeved crimson shirt. A scuffed pair of black western boots and her black leather jacket completed the look. Patting her left jeans pocket and finding it empty, Jane picked up her pants from the night before and withdrew her three sobriety chips and the snakestone. Rolling her eyes sarcastically at the stone, she buried it along with the chips in her pocket. Catching her reflection in the bedroom mirror, Jane stopped to examine her injured face. She found it amazing that only two days ago she had sported visible signs of getting smacked in The Red Tail Hawk Bar. And now, save for the slight line of a cut lip and some insignificant surface bruising around her eye, the effects of the fight had almost vanished.
Jane eyed her bedroom for the bottle of Arnica, locating it on the nightstand. She collected it and stuffed it into her jacket pocket, brushing her hand against the short-cropped blond wig she had shoved into the same pocket when she returned from the bar. Jane flung the wig on her unmade bed and started to walk away when she reconsidered. One never knew when a wig could come in handy during an investigation.
As was customary when she left on a trip, Jane phoned her brother, Mike, to let him know she’d be gone for ten days and to ask him to bring in her mail and newspapers. His tired, obviously half-asleep voice assured her that he’d follow through. Jane noticed the blinking red light on her answering machine. Hitting the PLAY button, she heard Sergeant Weyler’s voice. This time, however, it wasn’t punctuated with urgency or irritation. If anything, Weyler sounded fed up.
“Hello, Jane. Sergeant Weyler calling. Again. I can appreciate that you don’t want to talk to me based upon the headlining story in today’s Post and on last night’s evening news. Fine. Understood. I know perfectly well that your inside work played a major role in the drug bust. If anyone should have been paraded in front of those cameras, it should have been you and not that damned snake.” Jane’s ears perked up at the word, “snake.” She’d never heard Weyler use that terminology before now. “Be that as it may, here’s my question: Would you please reconsider my offer and return with the upgrade of sergeant to DH? You’d be doing me—” With that, the machine cut off Weyler with a piercing beep.
Snake. She touched the stone in her pocket. For a moment, she considered the idea that Weyler’s use of the word “snake” was some kind of sign. Then, catching herself, Jane couldn’t believe she had entertained such a ludicrous notion. It was just a coincidence. Very odd, but a coincidence, she decided as she erased Weyler’s message.
Jane downed her third cup of coffee and finally felt awake. She slipped her laptop into its case, wedging it securely into the duffel bag filled with pounds of coffee and sundry items, including the stack of files Kit had given her. The morning light was just starting to crest over the rooftops on Milwaukee Street when Jane slammed her Mustang into gear and headed for Boulder.
Two trips to Bould
er in two consecutive days. That was some kind of record for Jane Perry. As she curved around the exit off Highway 36, Jane amused herself with what it would be like if Boulder ruled the world. Instead of Law and Order enforcement, there would be the Peace and Harmony Patrol. Cars would certainly be outlawed, and everyone would be riding bikes. Recycling would be mandatory. Tofu would be a major food group. And Ralph Nader would be president of the United States.
Just a few minutes past six, Jane slipped into a parking space in front of Kit’s apartment. She no sooner knocked on Kit’s door than the door quickly opened.
“You’re late!” Kit said, securing her knit scarf under her multicolored winter coat. A billowing pair of purple, wide-legged trousers that poked out from beneath the coat were securely tucked into a well-worn pair of Sorrel boots.
“It’s 6:05—”
“That’s five minutes we’ve lost on the road!” Kit replied, sliding three heavy suitcases and one bulging duffel bag out the door.
“You’re taking all this?” Jane asked
“We’re going to be gone for ten days. It’s winter. Winter clothes are heavier. Plus, I have my books and herbs.... I have a lot of herbs.” Kit struggled with the zipper on the duffel as she reopened it to squeeze another bottle of herbal pills into the pocket.
Jane caught a glimpse of what looked like pounds of herbs in bags, bottles, and teabags. There was also an equally enormous amount of books shoved tightly into the bag. “You’re reading all those books?” Jane asked, clearly overwhelmed by the sight.
“No, Jane P., I just carry them for ballast!” Kit said in a mocking tone. “Could you please take these two out to your car?”
Jane lifted the duffel and cringed at the extreme weight. “You got rocks in here?”
“Actually, yes, I do. Be careful. They do chip easily.”
“Can’t you take out a few herbs and leave them here?”
“Those herbs are what’s keeping me alive. I won’t do chemo or radiation because I won’t be able to function. And I have to be able to function! Come on, let’s go!”
“Wait a second. You got any grass in this duffel?”
“I have barley grass powder that I put in my morning ‘green’ drink—”
“You know what I’m talking about, Kit. You got marijuana in this bag?”
Kit let out a long, tired sigh. “What if I do?”
“Take it out and leave it here! This is a police investigation. I can’t have a private citizen traveling with me who’s carrying drugs! And I don’t want to hear that you’re smoking it for medicinal purposes!”
Kit pursed her lips and unzipped the duffel bag, exposing a mind-boggling assortment of herbs, books, empty mason jars, and rocks. She removed a plastic sandwich bag filled with pot. “This isn’t some sort of trick so you can arrest me, is it?”
“Just hide the grass!”
Kit stuffed the bag into a drawer. “And you’re bringing along your cigarettes?”
“Yes, I am. And don’t try to lay some left-wing bullshit argument on me that they’re just like pot!”
“I would never say that! Those packs of ‘cancer sticks’ are far worse than my little bag of weed. Do you have any idea how many chemicals they add to those cigarettes? You’ll be smoking those outside our hotel room! I can’t afford to inhale toxic fumes!”
“Right.” Jane surmised it was going to be one helluva road trip.
As Jane packed Kit’s baggage into the trunk of the Mustang, Kit took a hard look at Jane’s car. “You said my car was too old?” Kit queried Jane.
“This is a ’66 Mustang with a brand-new engine that purrs and goes so damn fast, we’ll be in California before you’re halfway through your kilo of herbs.”
Kit sat in the passenger seat. “I see I’m going to have to put up with your sarcasm for the duration of this trip.” She removed a sausagelike pillow from her satchel that made an unusual hissing sound and placed it behind her neck.
“Your pillow hissed.”
“It’s filled with buckwheat. It conforms to the neck.”
“Buckwheat? Like the grain?” Jane said, getting into the car and closing the door.
“Go on. Get it out of your system. Say your sardonic response and let’s go.”
“What?” Jane replied, jamming the key in the ignition. “I’m glad you’ve got that pillow. If we get hungry, we can always take a knife to it and cook up some pancakes.”
Kit sniffed the air inside the car. “Do I smell ground coffee?”
Jane opted to remain taciturn as she peeled away from the curb and headed west. “There’s a lot of good information in those files you gave me,” Jane told Kit as she banked the Mustang onto Interstate 70.
“Keeping those notes and records occupied a great deal of my life over the last fourteen years,” Kit said, staring out the window at the lifeless winter landscape.
“There’s a few people who intrigue me. Detective Sawyer is one of them.”
“Chuck! He was a compassionate ally. Lovely aura, too. It was yellow with beautiful violet striations. Magnificent!”
“You’ve lost me.”
“He’s evolved, Jane. He’s very much in touch with his Higher Self.”
“What do you mean?”
“We all have a Higher Self and a Lower Self. The God Force wants us to always work within the realms of the Higher Self—the Self that is pure and motivated solely by love.”
“And the Lower Self?”
“The Lower Self is where the devils play. It’s the dark essence that dwells within each of us. It’s the unenlightened, vulgar place that pulls us down and prevents us from seeking our greater Truth. Everyone has a Higher Self and Lower Self. We have to choose which one we want to activate for our greatest good.”
Jane gave the idea serious thought. “So, these Higher Selves and Lower Selves can operate at the same time?”
“Of course!” Kit replied. “For example, when you drank, you dwelt in your Lower Self. You were sucked in and succumbed to its persuasive tongue—”
“Persuasive tongue? Sounds like you’ve been reading cheap porn.”
“Porn! That’s an excellent example of indulging in the Lower Self. But when you choose to allow compassion and love to chart your course in solving a crime...like with that little girl, Emily Lawrence, this past summer, well, you evolve to a greater plane of awareness.”
“Getting back to Detective Sawyer, what else do you know about him?”
“I just had a few interactions with him and they were fourteen years ago. He was in his mid-fifties back then, so he’s probably retired by now.”
“Oh,” Jane said, crossing Detective Sawyer off her mental list of people who could lend a hand.
“Why the interest in him?”
Jane felt the need to keep certain things to herself. She wasn’t going to debate or discuss matters that she felt weren’t of any consequence to Kit. And besides, one of her reasons for speaking to Detective Sawyer was to get his bead on Kit. “Just curious,” Jane said offhandedly. “By the way, why did you ask Sawyer about Lou’s mother and to look into the possible rapes Lou committed when he was underage? Weren’t those two requests at cross purposes?”
“No, not at all. Lou spent hours telling me about his mother and what she did to him when he was a child. Some of it was so disturbing, I...well, I wondered if it was truly possible. But it did indeed happen.”
“Well, say Stacey hadn’t killed herself. Say Detective Sawyer was able to contact her and she agreed to testify in court. Who was that supposed to help? Lou?”
“The truth is the truth, Jane. P.”
“What?”
“The truth is Lou was raped by his mother. It happened many times and it played a critical role in his development and his subsequent psychosis.”
“But, Kit, don’t you see? Bringing that kind of information to a jury could have easily turned Lou into the victim, instead of Ashlee.”
“They were both victims. And I’m sure S
tacey Peters was a victim of some sort of psychological torture or she wouldn’t have perpetuated the evil! Don’t you see? It’s the perpetuation of the darkness that has to be stopped! If we just keep attacking these people with hatred instead of love, the cycle will continue! I’ve learned the hard way, Jane P., that the only way to stop that cycle is through forgiveness. And there is no room for forgiveness in your heart if it is filled with anger and retribution!”
“Oh, God!” Jane’s ire forced her to shift in her seat and push down on the accelerator momentarily. “You honestly believe that left-wing drivel?”
“That forgiveness and love are the keys to moving forward? You’re damn right I do! And there’s no left or right wing to it! There’s nothing political about forgiveness!”
“If we’re gonna start talking about sympathy for the violator—”
“Not sympathy. Forgiveness!”
“Why do I hear a sympathetic tone to your voice?”
“It’s compassion. The same compassion one can only hope the criminal will attain in his or her lifetime. That’s one reason I don’t believe in the death penalty.”
“Oh, God,” Jane said, shaking her head. “Some people need to die, Kit.”
“Have you ever taken a life?” Kit studied Jane’s face.
Jane didn’t want to answer the question. The memory was still too raw. “Yes,” she replied quietly. “I didn’t like it. But I would do it again if I had to.”
“I sense a hint of compassion for the poor soul you killed.”
“I don’t have compassion.”
“Yes, you do. If you didn’t, you’d talk about it with no emotion.”
“You have compassion for Lou Peters?”
