JO02 - The Brimstone Murders

by Jeff Sherratt

  I opened it. Inside was a .38 revolver. I hooked the trigger guard with my finger and pulled it out.

  “My God, Jimmy, what are you doing? Put that thing away,” Rita said.

  My eyes swept the room. Nobody was looking. I started to tuck it back in the envelope, but something caught my eye.

  “Mabel!” Rita said. “What’s going on? Is that Jimmy’s gun, the one I found behind the cabinet?”

  “One and the same,” Mabel said. “The killer used it to shoot Hazel Farris and planted it there, but I didn’t toss it in the ocean or anything. Maybe I was dumb, but I just kept it. Now that the heat’s off, no sense me lugging it around anymore. Though I did feel comfortable having it handy. A girl with my looks can’t be too careful, ya know.”

  I held the gun in my hand, and even in the dim restaurant light I could see where someone had filed off the serial numbers. Suddenly, it hit me.

  Rita smiled at Mabel’s remark. Then she turned and glanced at me. “Hey, Jimmy what’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  It felt like I’d seen a ghost—or worse. “This is not my gun,” I said.

  C H A P T E R 44

  I jumped up and immediately drove out to Chatsworth. When I saw that the gun had no serial numbers, I knew it wasn’t mine. I mean, if someone was trying to frame me with my own gun they wouldn’t file off the numbers, would they?

  Being Sunday, I figured the parking lot in front of the White Front Church, Snavley’s Divine Christ Ministry, would be jammed, but when I swung off Winnetka Boulevard into the lot there wasn’t a car in sight.

  I didn’t know what to make of it. Had the church gone out of business? Had he just closed up shop? Money couldn’t have been a problem. The TV show that aired on Bickerton’s network featuring the J.C. Down and Funky Dancers or whatever they were called must have raked in a ton. It’s funny, I didn’t exactly remember the group’s name, but I remember vividly Snavley handing each girl a white lily. He remarked that the flower is a symbol of virgin purity.

  At that moment, it came to me. I knew why the church was closed. No, it wasn’t something as simple as a lack of cash that shut down the church.

  I parked the Corvette close to the front, climbed out and tried the double-wide doors: locked. But taped on the wall next to them was a hand-lettered notice written on binder paper: No Services Today.

  I made my way around to the back of the white concrete structure and saw a small sedan parked next to a doorway at the end of the building. I recognized the car. It was Snavley’s, the same car I’d seen when I went out to the college that night looking for Bickerton and bumped into him instead.

  The door wasn’t locked, saving me from breaking in—and I would have done just that. I entered the auditorium and moved quickly but quietly to Snavley’s office.

  When I got to the office door, I heard Snavley’s muffled voice filtering through the wall. I stopped and listened. Was someone in there with him? That could be trouble.

  Leaning closer, but cautiously, I held my breath and listened. No, Snavley was alone. He was mumbling some kind of prayer. Not from the Bible or a prayer book; he seemed to be making it up as he went along.

  Should I knock or just barge in? I tried the doorknob: locked. I took a step back. Leading with my shoulder, I rushed the door and banged it hard. It flew open.

  A disheveled wreck with a cadaverous face and lunatic eyes stared at me from across a desk. Snavley had aged a hundred years in the last couple of weeks. It looked like his brain had folded up and turned out the lights. A dirty T-shirt hung on him like an ill-fitting shroud; an odor—the smell of fear—pervaded the room. But what really caught my attention was the gun—my gun, no doubt—lying on the desk, inches from his fingers.

  Neither of us moved and I don’t know how long we stared at each other, but an understanding like an electrical charge connected us. His hand moved and covered the gun, but he didn’t pick it up.

  “You know. Don’t you?” he said in a lifeless tone.

  “Why’d you kill her?”

  “Is that important? Isn’t it enough that I murdered Hazel? Do I have to explain my deed to you?”

  “Confession is good for the soul.”

  “Are you going to forgive me my sins? Are you a priest, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “Kind of like a priest. I’m a criminal lawyer. I’ve heard it all, Elroy. Nothing you can say would shock me.”

  “I was fucking her! Okay?”

  Okay, I was shocked. My God, Snavley and Hazel Farris. The image boggled my mind. “Well, it happens, but why did you shoot her? Something to do with Moran?”

  “It had nothing to do with that animal, but when I saw those kids on TV, and Robbie dead, I knew my life was over. The Lord would never forgive me.”

  “Snavley, tell me, damn it. Why did you kill her?”

  “You won’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  “I went to her trailer to plead with her, to tell her we were through. I tried before but she wouldn’t let me go. I saw you there and hid, waiting until you left. Then I went in. She was drunk and grew belligerent. She blamed me for what happened to Robbie, how he went crazy, all of that religious mumbo-jumbo as she called it. My life’s work was nothing but mumbo-jumbo. Then she threatened to tell the congregation that we were having an affair.”

  “So what? You’re both adults.”

  “I’m married, Mr. O’Brien. How would that look? I’d be disgraced.” His eyes were wide, pleading. He wanted my forgiveness, or at least my understanding.

  “I see. But still…”

  Snavley hung his head. “I went crazy. My whole life ruined. I had to do something. She had a gun. She’d gotten it from one of Robbie’s hoodlum friends. I took it out of the drawer and shot her. Instantly I was overcome with grief, but I was scared, too. I didn’t know where to turn. Then I saw your card. It said you were a lawyer. At first I wanted to ask for your help, but when I got to your office, no one was there. I went through your desk drawer looking for your address. I had to talk to someone. Then I saw your gun.” He paused, slumped back, and whimpered. “It was the same kind of gun that I held in my hand, the gun I used on Hazel.”

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. Then he continued with his confession, but he spoke in a more reverent tone, almost peaceful. “Your gun was a sign from God. He gave me an opportunity and I knew what I had to do. I took yours and hid the one I used to shoot Hazel behind the file cabinet.”

  “But how’d you get in my office?”

  “The door wasn’t locked. You should lock your doors, Mr. O’Brien. You never know who might walk in.”

  Mabel was always on my ass about forgetting to lock the door. Maybe I should write myself a note.

  “Yeah, someone might walk in, like a murderer who’s trying to frame me,” I said.

  His hand tightened around the gun. I waited. Finally, he spoke again: “How’d you know it was me who killed her?”

  “Elroy, my friend,” I said. “You made too many mistakes. I guess preachers don’t make good murderers. When I saw you at the college that night, you mentioned my old gray metal desk. How would you’ve known that unless you’d been there?

  “And the white lilies. You gave them to the girls in the dance group, and you gave one to Hazel. You said they were the symbol of purity. Hazel kept hers in vase on the table next to your picture. She treasured it. She liked you, Elroy. She wouldn’t have talked. You want me to go on?”

  He sprang from the desk, holding the gun in his shaky hand. It was aimed somewhere in my general direction. “Shut up, just shut up.”

  I approached him. He shuffled backward. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Calm down, Elroy. I’m just going to use the phone.”

  I picked up the receiver and dialed. Snavley cowered in a corner. He slowly moved the gun to his head.

  “Hello, this is Jimmy O’Brien. Get a call through to Sergeant Hammer. Tell him I’m at the Divine Christ Mini
stry church on Winnetka in Chatsworth. Tell him I’m talking to the murder suspect he’s been looking for. The guy who killed Hazel Farris. Tell him to hurry, before he does something rash.”

  I hung up, walked over to Snavley and took the gun away from him. If he hadn’t shot himself in the time since he’d killed Hazel, or since Robbie’s death, he wasn’t going to do it now.

  “Make some coffee, will you, Snavley? We’re going to be here a while.”

  I picked up the phone again and dialed.

  “Hey, Rita, guess what.” I glanced at Snavley, dragging himself into the snack area to put on the coffee. “I’ve got a new client for you.”

  A B O U T T H E A U T H O R

  Jeff Sherratt is the author of the acclaimed Jimmy O'Brien mystery series. His latest novel, Detour To Murder published by INNOVA Books is the first in the Jimmy O'Brien Film Noir mystery series. Jeff has written nonfiction articles for corporate newsletters and his short stories have been published in H2O Magazine and the anthology, The Heat of the Moment. He is a past board member of Sisters in Crime/LA, and a member of Mystery Writers of America. Jeff was recently a guest speaker at the California Crime Writers Conference and the prestigious Southern California Writers Conference. He is currently working on his fourth Jimmy O'Brien novel, Cyanide Perfume.

  Website: www.jeffsherratt.com