Murder, Mayhem & a Fine Man

by Claudia Mair Burney

  “I wasn’t expecting to have to stand up and say something. These kinds of churches make me nervous.”

  “He went easy on you. You didn’t even have to say your name. But what’s up with that no-prayer request?”

  “I don’t trust Pentecostals.”

  “But your mother is a Pentecostal.”

  “I know. That’s where it started.”

  I figured this ought to be interesting—an opportunity to get inside Jazz’s head a little more. I sat with ease in a kiddie chair facing him. Being short has its advantages on occasion. “What happened to you that makes you so uncomfortable in these situations?” I gave him the ol’ empathy eyes and a nod to let him know it was safe to disclose.

  “I was a kid,” he said, glancing around the room as if someone would hear his confession. “I think I was fourteen or fifteen at the time. My mother took me to a Benny Hinn crusade.”

  His signals—closed stance, nervous shifting that went beyond the discomfort of the small chair, and biting his lip—told me that whatever he was going to say was difficult. I felt genuinely concerned for him and leaned forward a bit to let him know it.

  “Everything was cool, and then things went bad.” He shook his head, his expression pained.

  “What happened, Jazz?”

  He dropped his head to his chest and muttered, “I got shot.”

  “What?” No wonder the man became a cop.

  I tried to sort through the news archives stored in my brain, searching valiantly for any sign of a teenager gunned down at a Benny Hinn crusade. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a single shooting incident. I’m sure it would have gotten press. It had to have happened in the eighties, around the time of the fall of the big teleministries.

  “Who shot you?”

  “Benny Hinn.”

  “Benny Hinn shot you?” I said, horrified.

  “With his Holy Ghost machine gun.”

  It took a few moments for this to register.

  Jazz must have noticed me trying to compute this information . “It was traumatic,” he said. “I spoke in tongues for two hours straight.”

  I started laughing. I didn’t mean to, but honestly. Poor Jazz was scarred for life by a charismatic experience?

  “See,” he said, “I shouldn’t have told you. That’s why I’m Catholic. Nothing weird happens at Mass.”

  “Yeah, but Pentecostals don’t see the face of saints in their grilled cheese sandwiches, which they later sell on eBay.”

  “We don’t do that at our parish.”

  “I’m just saying,” I said. “It can get a little weird everywhere. Pentecostals don’t corner the market on strangeness.”

  “Can we just change the subject?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry Mr. Hinn shot you…” I really tried to pull myself together, but he looked like a sad little boy sitting in that tiny chair, smarting over my response. “…with his Holy Ghost…” I couldn’t help it. I cracked up again. I got so carried away that he ended up laughing with me.

  “You ain’t right, Bell.”

  I was too busted up to ask him not to call me Bell.

  He waited for me to calm down.

  I wiped a few tears away and gathered myself enough to talk to him. “You’re overdressed.”

  “At my mother’s church, you have to dress.”

  “I’m dressed,” I said, standing up to model my jeans and white T-shirt.

  “Personally, I like it,” Jazz said, the wicked gleam in his eyes making me realize that modeling for him was a mistake. “But if you went to Mom’s church dressed like that, they’d expect you to accept Jesus Christ as your personal Savior.”

  “That’s already been taken care of.”

  “You should have told me about the relaxed dress code.”

  I took a moment to enjoy his dress code. He looked like a big chocolate kiss in that brown suit. “I would have warned you if you’d told me you’d be joining us today.”

  He flashed me a smile. “You gonna model some more for me, or are you going to have a seat and tell me what Susan said?”

  I went with the safer option and sat. “It’s surprising that she talked to me at all.”

  “So, what did she say?” he asked, leaning in to me, and smelling really good, like trees and bug spray, but in a good way. Mr. Soap and Deodorant must have changed brands to impress me.

  It worked, but I had to shift gears and get down to business. “Even if she’s not my client, I still respect her right to privacy. I’m going to tell you what’s pertinent to your investigation—only because she believes someone’s life may be in danger.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “She implied Vogel Senior may be responsible for the murders and that he’s going to kill Gabriel.”

  He rubbed his expertly shaven chin. “I see.”

  I see? Is that all?

  I stared at him. “You don’t want to start in with I-told-you-sos?”

  “Maybe I would if I had something. The word of a nutjob who talks when it suits her isn’t enough to take to the DA.”

  “She’s not a nutjob. She’s a vulnerable woman in pain.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Did she say she saw anything?”

  “No. She didn’t talk much, but she did do something strange.”

  “Lovely. What did she do?”

  “She dissociated.”

  “I’m afraid to ask you to elaborate.”

  “Her voice changed, and for a moment, she sounded like a man.” I stilled myself to assume a blank affect and did my best Susan-acting-like-a-sociopath impression in a growly voice: “You’re better off dead. I should kill you myself.”

  Jazz stared at me for a moment. “You’ve been hanging around Rocky too long.”

  He was right. I snapped out of it.

  “Are you sure she’s not possessed?” he said in a mocking tone.

  “I’m thinking not, but if she is, I have a Holy Ghost bean pod.”

  That got a chuckle out of him. “That’s the last time I tell you my worst fears.”

  “That’s doubtful.”

  “You think you can get more secrets out of me? I have super-powers that you don’t understand, Dr. Brown.”

  “That’s what Samson said.”

  “I thought he said, ‘Just a little off the top.’”

  I smiled. What a charmer he was.

  I may be short, but I’m still getting older. My knees began to ache in that little plastic chair. I stood and moved to the window to peer through the blinds, out into the church parking lot. A couple held hands, laughing with Rocky. I wondered what it would be like to leave church with Jazz every Sunday, our hands clasped together, looking happy and in love.

  His voice drew me out of my reverie. “So what’s your take on this dissociation?”

  I turned away from the couple to look at Jazz. “I think she needed to emotionally distance herself from the speaker.”

  “By doing incriminating Vogel Senior imitations?”

  “She most likely imitated Vogel Senior,” I said. “Even though she seemed to implicate him, I still have my doubts about him being the murderer and about her as a credible witness.” My gaze swept to the sky, gloriously baby-blue in the sweet September day. I really should avoid the word “baby” around this man.

  He must have realized the futility of sitting in that chair. He got up and came over to the window where I stood.

  “Why is it so hard for you to believe that Vogel could be good for this?”

  “My instincts say it’s not him. The man is a dedicated Christian.”

  “So was John List, and he killed his entire family.”

  “John List was a sociopath who seemed to be a dedicated Christian. There’s a difference. I do understand what you’re saying, Jazz. My great-grandmother used to say, ‘Everybody talking about heaven ain’t a-going, but that doesn’t mean nobody is a-going.’”

  “How do you know if Vogel is a sheep or a wolf?”

  “I don’t have
proof, but so far I’m not seeing that kind of pathology in him. He is seriously hurting. I hope he gets help through his grieving.”

  “I’m still not convinced. You know as well as I do that sickos can look perfectly normal.”

  “I also know they always reveal what they are, eventually. He’s a nice man. Mason would never have sent me to investigate Vogel’s son if he wasn’t.”

  “So that means the man’s incapable of murder? Maybe he was a nice man. A lot can happen in seven years.”

  “The pieces don’t fit, Jazz.”

  He stepped closer to me and adjusted the vertical blinds to let in more sun. He didn’t speak for a few minutes. When he did, he seemed to choose his words carefully. “Is this getting personal for you?”

  I thought of him slipping next to me without my noticing while I prayed. “Are you speaking about something I said in my prayers that wasn’t meant for you to hear?”

  “Perhaps it was meant for me to hear.”

  “Are you concerned about my professionalism, Lieutenant?” My tone turned cool. “Perhaps you should find another consultant.”

  “I’m not questioning your professionalism. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”

  I fingered the blinds again. Dust clung to my hands. “You asked for my services. I’m telling you my professional opinion based on my instincts and my knowledge of human behavior and criminology.”

  “Your knowledge doesn’t leave room for the possibility that a man of means, maybe with financial problems, could eliminate a troubled, estranged son for half a mil?”

  “We’ve been through this. Shall we continue to be redundant, or would you prefer to shoot from the hip, as I know you’re capable of doing?”

  He moved closer to me still. “Okay, Dr. Brown. I’m wondering if you are identifying with Vogel Senior.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem with you being empathetic. I don’t want it to go beyond that.”

  I turned to face him. “Shoot a little straighter, Lieutenant, I think you missed me that time.”

  “Okay. You’re working with me. You’re thinking about these young guys; they should be getting married, starting families. They’re about the age you were when you met Adam.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “All these things must be triggering your own memories. Bad memories.”

  “I’ve been working with people involved with cults for years, Jazz.”

  “How many dead people were involved?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

  His presence suddenly felt overwhelming. I didn’t want to keep talking, but I answered him anyway. “Until now, I haven’t dealt with any cases involving murder.”

  He kept firing questions at me like I was a criminal. “Are you sure, Dr. Brown?”

  “I believe I would know if I had.”

  “Maybe there was one.”

  “What are you getting at?” Tension mounted in every muscle in my body.

  “A baby. A little girl.”

  I took a step away from him, moving to the left of the window, my back to the wall.

  “Your baby girl.”

  I didn’t utter a word.

  “It’s tough to think about. You’re young and pregnant. In love. But he’s the wrong guy. He’s not kind Awdawm anymore. He humiliates you, beats you, is coked out of his mind. You think about dying a lot, even though you want your baby.”

  He hovered over me. “So now you’re thinking about Jonathan, and he’s got a bad situation, too. He’s gotta know it on some level. His dad knows it. His dad loves him, just like you loved your baby.”

  My heart thudded in my chest. I didn’t respond, but he went on.

  “You think to yourself, ‘I love my kid. She’ll be born soon. But is this the life I want for her?’ Maybe not, huh, Dr. Brown?”

  I swallowed hard. “The last I heard, loving your child wasn’t a crime.”

  Jazz folded his arms across his chest. The lines in his face looked oddly hard to me, in a way they hadn’t before. “When Adam was beating the crap out of you, did you wish—for your child’s sake—that the baby would go away?”

  His words struck me with surprising force. “I’m done with this conversation.”

  He hemmed me against the wall. He didn’t touch me, but I felt suffocated by him. “Didn’t know you’d get what you wished for? Or did you provoke Adam on purpose so he could do the dirty work for you?”

  My hand flew to his face, and I slapped him hard. Twice.

  He grabbed my wrist.

  Tears sprang to my eyes. Neither one of us spoke. Hot tears fell down my cheeks. Time suspended, and we stood there, my hand stopped by his grip. He wouldn’t let go.

  I tried to yank my arm away from him.

  “Calm down,” he commanded.

  I couldn’t speak anymore. I didn’t trust myself to reveal my feelings.

  “Tell me how you feel.”

  I bit my lip.

  “You need to let it out, Bell.”

  I wouldn’t.

  He pulled me closer. “Carly said you’d never let go of it.”

  With every bit of strength I had in me, I restrained myself from hurting that man. “How do you let go of your child?” I asked.

  “Talk to me.” His demand grated my senses.

  “You’re not my therapist. Let…me… go.”

  He released me, and I moved from the wall and as far away from him as I could get.

  “Wait, please,” he said before I could dart out the door. I stopped for him.

  “I’ve been a cop for half of my life. I don’t know how to turn it off sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  When I said nothing, he came closer to me. I didn’t want him near me.

  “Please forgive me, Dr. Brown.” He came closer still. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

  I believed him. I hated that I believed him, and I craved whatever method he’d use to make up with me. But he’d hurt me. I wasn’t a criminal. I’d had just about enough of his strong-arm tactics. He’d have to play “bad cop” with someone else.

  Jazz stood just behind me, moving me away from the classroom door. His arms circled my waist, and he urged me around to face him.

  “Get your hands off me,” I hissed.

  He removed his hands.

  “It’s clear to me,” I said, turning to face him, “that we are unable to work together. It’s my fault. I started a little fire when I kissed you. I should extinguish it.”

  “Look, I upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

  “The Scriptures say that if your right hand offends you, cut if off.”

  “Bell, listen.”

  “I’m tired of listening to Jazz. I’d rather hear gospel.”

  For a moment he stood silent, watching me. “How did you get your psychology degrees without dealing with your Adam issues?”

  “Thank you for your time, Lieutenant.”

  “Okay. I’m saying all the wrong stuff, but I mean well. Can’t we work this out?”

  “We don’t have anything to work out.”

  “I don’t want to end our friendship because I’m not as good as you are at communicating.”

  “A friendship between us is not possible.”

  “Bell, please.”

  “I’m not going to ask you this again. I’m going to tell you. You have no right to call me Bell. People who love me call me that. I am Dr. Brown to you.”

  He nodded, frustration evident on his face. “I happen to enjoy your company, Dr. Brown. I really would like to be your friend.”

  “If you’ll excuse me. Please respect my wishes and don’t contact me again.”

  “Don’t cut me off.”

  “I don’t have anything for you.”

  “You’re angry because of what I said.”

  I stepped away from him. “Good-bye.”

  He didn’t stop me from leaving.

  Be careful wh
at you ask for. You just might get it.

  I had asked to have my motivations revealed. I didn’t expect the answer to come so speedily and with so much anguish.

  I needed my fuzzy blue pajamas.

  I waited in the ladies’ restroom until the stragglers still hanging around the church had cleared out. I slipped out of the church without Rocky seeing me and retreated to the safety of my little yellow Beetle.

  A part of me wanted to see the Crown Vic in the parking lot and Jazz standing there, with a gigantic floral arrangement, apologizing profusely. Another part of me was glad he was gone. I could move on. No problem, save one.

  I am my beloved’s.

  But my beloved is not mine.

  I made it home. No sooner had I kicked out of my Nikes than someone knocked at my door. My heart beat fast. I don’t get many visitors. I stood there wondering what to do. What if it’s Jazz? Could I handle making up?

  Nope.

  What if it isn’t Jazz? Could I handle that he wasn’t coming back and that we were really over?

  Nope.

  I decided to ignore the door.

  The knocker, however, did not go easily. I had to open the door before my nutjob neighbor thought I had a stalker and got ideas.

  I pulled the door open to find a smiling Carly with several Victoria’s Secret bags in one hand and a Godiva Chocolatier bag in the other—evidence of the mercy of God.

  “Sissy,” I said, embracing her, “why didn’t you use your key?”

  “My hands are full.” She managed to wrestle out of my bear hug, get inside my apartment, and close the door. “What happened, boo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been crying. Are you having perimenopausal symptoms again?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did Ma tell you Don King’s hair looks better than yours?”

  “Ma said that?”

  “Never mind. I got some Vickie’s,” she said. “Some nice pajamas and some smell good.”

  She placed the pink bags on my couch, and I went through them as fast as she put them down. I pulled out midnight blue satin pajamas, styled like a man’s, a sky blue lacy camisole with matching tap pants accented with white roses, a gift set of peach shower gel and body lotion, and a red number that was hot enough to singe my hand.

  She politely took the last one away. “The red one’s not for you.”