The Broken Saint: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  Chapter 13

  Ryan was getting out of his chair when I got back from the break room with a cup of coffee. It was four o’clock, and I needed one more jolt to make it the final hour.

  “Get your coat,” he said.

  “Want to tell me where we’re going?” This wasn’t like him. Usually he presented an idea to me, we’d talk it over, and he’d let me make the call on how to proceed. Me being the senior detective.

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  We got out to the lot and he walked right over to the driver’s side. We both drove it, but I drove it more often, to free Ryan up to work the computer.

  I got in the passenger seat.

  “We’re going to re-interview Provost Gerson.”

  “You run this by him?” I said.

  “Sure did,” he said, then clenched his jaws. “Said he’d be happy to talk with us.”

  “You tell him why we’d want to talk with him? I’d like to stay up to speed, you know.”

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his inside jacket pocket and passed it to me as we left the lot.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “It’s a list of LDS missionaries in the Philippines Manila Mission in 1993.”

  “Why’re you showing it to me?”

  A driver up ahead of us cut in front of Ryan without using his blinker. Ryan leaned on the horn. “Look under G, as in Gerson.”

  “Son of a bitch. Albert R. Gerson, from Provo, Utah, was a missionary there. Where’d you get this?”

  “LDS people keep meticulous records of where their people are, what they’re doing, who they’re doing it with. We were Facebook before there was Facebook. I went online, looked up the LDS missions in the Philippines, kept looking till I found the ones that were operating twenty years ago. Looked up the alumni—that’s what they call the former missionaries. Bingo.” He pointed to the piece of paper.

  “Yeah, okay, I remember,” I said. “His screwy son told us the church arranged for Maricel to come here as an exchange student. And you said ‘the church’ means the LDS Church.”

  “Plus, when we were at the Gersons’ house, I was checking out his bookshelves. Had a bunch of Philippines stuff: Tagalog dictionaries, guide books. Much more than you’d see from a Spanish teacher. This guy kind of left some things out when we interviewed him.”

  “Okay, so he was a missionary in Manila. A lot of LDS guys go on missions, right? You went to India or someplace, right?”

  “Yes, I served in New Delhi. I just think he’d have mentioned it, you know, in relation to Maricel being from the Philippines.”

  “Could be a coincidence. He served in the Philippines. She’s from the Philippines. You got anything more than that?”

  “Not at the moment. But I’d like to know whether he’s going to lie to us about serving his mission there.”

  “What did you tell him we wanted to talk about?”

  The traffic was light, but Ryan was riding the guy in front of us. We try not to do that, since citizens like to call headquarters and rat us out if we commit any infractions. The fact that we’ve got these big-ass spotlights on even the unmarked cruisers makes it hard for us to blend in.

  “I didn’t have to say anything. He thinks we want to talk with him about his son. Al and his wife have been over to the hospital to see him. Maybe he wants to know what Mark said to us at the game store.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see if Gerson lies to us.”

  Being about fifteen years older than Ryan, I place a lot less importance on lying than he does. Give me a couple of minutes and I can come up with ten or twenty reasons Al Gerson might not have mentioned anything about doing his missionary stint in Philippines—and a good half of them would be trivial or just embarrassing, not criminal.

  “Where’s the smart money?” I said.

  “Not sure yet. But if his son knows Maricel grew up in some kind of LDS orphanage there, Dad’s got one story for family and one for outsiders, or Maricel was telling Mark things Dad didn’t want anyone to know—”

  “Which might be important since Mark said he sinned with her, plus killed her.”

  “Or Al Gerson might have been closer to Maricel than he’d like us to know.”

  “As in, Al is Daddy?”

  “Or he was having a relationship with her here in Rawlings,” Ryan said.

  “I wonder if Al ever goes back to Manila, just for old times’ sake.”

  “That could take some more research.”

  “If he was doing her here,” I said, “he probably started doing her in Manila.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “He’s attracted to her, he’s not gonna bring her into his house—with his nervous-breakdown wife and his wackjob son—and then see if she’ll fuck him. It’s already a done deal. If it’s just that he likes twenty-something girls, it’d be a lot easier to bone one of his dimwit co-eds who needs a reference letter.”

  Ryan pulled into the lot in front of the Administration Building. We walked into Room 101, the secretary giving us a pleasant smile and picking up the phone to announce the wonderful news to the provost: the two detectives were back.

  He bounded out of his office, shaking my hand, then Ryan’s. “So good of you to come by. Great to see you again.”

  See what I meant about lying? I didn’t think anyone has ever thought it’s great to see me again. And that includes my ex-husband.

  Gerson gestured us into his office, motioning for us to sit on the couch as he plopped into the matching side chair. “First, let me tell you how grateful Andrea and I are that you made contact with Mark at the game store, and that you had the presence to call for the ambulance.”

  “Not a problem, Dr. Gerson,” I said. “Mark seemed pretty upset.”

  Ryan said, “It was pretty clear he was having a psychotic episode.”

  “How is he doing?” I said.

  “You were right,” Gerson said. “He was indeed having a psychotic episode. The doctors told us the tests showed he’d been off his meds for two or three days. If he hadn’t been admitted, he might have gotten himself into some real trouble.”

  “He’s doing better now?” I said.

  “Yes, thank goodness, he is.” Gerson smiled.

  I could see the relief on his face. My kid, Tommy, lives in Loserland most days, but I could tell, in terms of worrying, I was playing in the minor leagues compared to Al Gerson.

  “That’s great news, Dr. Gerson,” I said.

  Ryan didn’t wait a beat. “We want to clear up a discrepancy about Maricel Salizar.”

  Gerson looked a little bit troubled, his right eye starting to twitch. The word discrepancy will do that. “Of course,” he said, turning to Ryan. “How can I help?”

  “When we were talking to Mark, he said Maricel grew up in an LDS orphanage in the Philippines, but her records at the university indicate that she grew up in St. Mary’s Children’s Home in Manila.” Ryan reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a folder, then leaned forward, as if he wanted to give Gerson an opportunity to clear this whole thing up. The folder sent a clear message: think carefully about what you’re about to say.

  The provost cleared his throat. “Mark can sometimes get things mixed up,” he said, shaking his head.

  “So you’re saying it was St. Mary’s, not an LDS orphanage?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. He’s one of those people who nods when he says yes, like he and himself both agree. “Yes, I am.” He put his hand on his cheek to cover up his twitch. If I played cards, I’d be all in against this guy.

  “One more question, Brother Gerson,” Ryan said.

  I didn’t know exactly what “Brother” means, but it was real clear Al Gerson did. His head jerked up.

  In a soft voice, Gerson said, “I thought I recognized you. You’re in the Church.”

  “Yes,” Ryan said, nodding like Gerson just did. “Yes, I am.”

  “Go ahead.” Gerson’s shoulders sagged
.

  “Where did you serve your mission?”

  Gerson paused, his eyelids closing slowly. “The Philippines Manila Mission.”

  “Let me ask that other question again: what school did Maricel attend in the Philippines?”

  “Maricel was educated in the public schools in Manila when she lived with various foster families. She spent her earliest years in an orphanage supported by the LDS Church in Manila.”

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  I’d have thought Ryan would say, “Why did you lie to us?” But Gerson and Ryan were on some kind of private Mormon channel now, and I just sat back to watch the show.

  “I intervened with the paperwork of her application.”

  “You ‘intervened’? What exactly does that mean?”

  “I changed the name of her residence to St. Mary’s.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “I did that to disguise the link between Maricel and the Church.” He was looking down at his hands.

  Ryan shifted. “All due respect, Dr. Gerson, I need you to be a little more forthcoming. What exactly was that link?”

  Gerson took a deep breath, then exhaled. “I wanted her to be admitted to the exchange program on her own merits. I didn’t want anyone to think she got in because the Church—or I—exerted any influence.” He looked up at Ryan.

  Ryan just stared at him. “I’m having some trouble with this. You’d risk professional embarrassment, maybe significant penalties here—you’re a department chair, now the acting provost—to make sure Maricel, with perfectly good grades, gets into the exchange program here at a state school in the middle of Montana? No offense, Dr. Gerson, but this isn’t Harvard.”

  Gerson nodded. “I’m very sorry that I was not fully honest with you, but that is the truth. As I’m sure I don’t have to remind you, there remains considerable prejudice against our Church. Maricel had not had an easy life to that point, growing up without parents, without many of the advantages that my own children enjoyed. I wanted to do this little thing to smooth the way for her. I thought … I thought if she were here, living in our house, I could offer her some guidance, some protection, to help her begin her adult life on a more solid footing. And I know I should not have altered her records. I know that was wrong. I can only ask that you consider my motivation. I wanted to make things a little easier for her. I did not exert any influence on her … on her instructors …” And then he started to weep, and he covered his face with his hands.

  The door opened, his secretary sticking her head in to see if he was all right. I stood up and waved her off, and the door closed quietly.

  In a few moments, Gerson had pulled himself together.

  Ryan said, “Dr. Gerson, is there anything else you want to tell us about your relationship with Maricel Salizar? Anything beyond that you altered her address? Anything that would help us as we investigate her murder?” He paused. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that lying to a police officer investigating a crime is obstruction of justice. That’s a felony.”

  Whatever shit Gerson was bobbing up and down in right now, it was clear he wasn’t thinking about obstruction of justice. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped his eyes and his nose. He shook his head. “I am very sorry.” He looked first at Ryan, then at me. His hand came up to control the flutter in his right eye.

  Ryan can walk pretty fast, and we made it back to the cruiser in just a few seconds. He got behind the wheel and slammed the door.

  I looked at him. He was just sitting there, his jaw set, tapping his thumbs hard on the steering wheel.

  “Stressful day at the office, hon’?”

  Ryan turned to me. “He lied.”

  I smiled, but Ryan wasn’t smiling. “Yeah, he lied. So?”

  He just shook his head. After a few more seconds, he started the cruiser, and we left the parking lot, going a little faster than I was comfortable with.

  “Pull over, Ryan. Now.”

  He did it.

  “Turn off the engine.”

  He did it. His gaze was fixed straight ahead.

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  “He lied.”

  “Yeah, I got that.” I took a moment. “Not exactly the first suspect who’s lied to us.”

  He just shook his head.

  “People lie. Me, for example. I open my mouth, chances are you’re gonna hear another lie.”

  “I was expecting a little more from him.”

  “Really?” I said. “Because he’s a Mormon, like you?”

  “That’s right, Karen, because he’s a Mormon, like me.”

  I was getting confused. Which happens to me a lot, but generally not when I’m talking to Ryan. “I don’t want to offend you or anything like that, partner, but the guy who started the Mormons … what’s his name, Smith?”

  Ryan turned and shot me a look that said, You sure you want to go there? “Joseph Smith.”

  “Yeah, this Joseph Smith guy says he dug up these golden books, but he never let anyone see them?” I just let it hang there.

  He was wearing a nasty scowl. “What’s your point, Karen?”

  “I’m just saying, you think Gerson is the first Mormon who lies a little?” And just as those words left my big mouth, I realized what had happened in the interview with Gerson. I said, “‘Lie to me.’”

  He looked at me, annoyed that I was going off track. “What?”

  “You said to Gerson, ‘Why did you lie to me?’ I wondered why you didn’t say ‘Why did you lie to us?’”

  “I wasn’t aware I said that.”

  “Well, you did. I’m good with the way you ran the interview. You caught him up. But you need to remember we’re running a murder investigation, just like any other murder investigation.”

  Ryan was shaking his head. “A committed Church member, he’s not just in the Church; he’s a bishop in the Church.”

  “Listen, I don’t know anything about Mormons. Obviously. But a bishop, a knight, a king? I don’t give a shit. If Mormons are human, they lie, they steal, they cheat, and some of them kill people. I don’t know a lot, but I know that much. So the question isn’t whether Al Gerson’s a liar. He breathes, he’s a liar. Get over it. He did Maricel’s mother, or he was doing Maricel. Or both. The question is whether he killed her the other night. It’s as simple as that. If you can’t work this case because you can’t deal with that, drive us back to headquarters right now. I’ll have the chief re-assign you, without prejudice.”

  Ryan wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t say anything.

  “Are we clear on that, Ryan?”

  He didn’t reply, but he started up the cruiser and we headed back to headquarters. The way Ryan was so bent out of shape about it, I was starting to wonder what he lied about.

  Chapter 14

  “She had a 1.4 BAC in her system, which is a lot but not toxic,” Robin said. “We sucked a liter of fluid out of her stomach, a mixture of beer and river water.”

  Harold had left me a message that he’d finished the initial report on the forensics and the autopsy results for Maricel Salizar. Ryan and I arranged to meet with Harold and Robin in his lab. She was standing near a bunch of microscopes and PCs on the long table that ran the length of the wall.

  It was about forty-eight hours after we’d brought Maricel’s body in, and we were a little bit behind where I wanted to be with the investigation. By forty-eight hours I want to like someone. I don’t mind if he’s gone off the grid. He usually turns up. And I don’t mind if we’re missing that one piece of evidence that links him to the crime. With the quality of the forensics we can do now, most of the time it’s just a matter of running more and more tests.

  But the problem with the Salizar case was we had too many possibles. There was Al Gerson, the lying Mormon provost, who we’d just learned was living in Manila about nine months before Maricel was born—not that I’m counting months or anything. Gerson had copped to a small lie—fudging Maricel
’s application forms—but he insisted that was all there was. He was just helping the girl meet Central Montana’s State University’s rigorous admission standards for exchange students. In fact, I think the form has two tough questions: 1) You a foreigner? 2) You got tuition money? Answer yes to both, you’re in. Answer yes to just the second one? Close enough. You’re in.

  There was his crazy son, Mark, who copped to screwing and killing Maricel, who incidentally was also God’s wife. Our prosecutor, Larry Klein, loves confessions as much as anyone, but I figured he might have a couple of questions he’d like to run by Mark before he filed this case.

  “You can tell it’s river water in her stomach?” I said to Robin.

  “Yeah,” she said, “it has some unique bacteria and other crud floating in it that you don’t see in beer.”

  Then there was Hector Cruz, the boyfriend. Smart money is always on lovers and family. In this case, Hector didn’t look like the murdering-boyfriend type. But he didn’t have an alibi. Instead, he had a felony conviction and a Latin Vice Lords tattoo on his chest. Doesn’t make him a murderer, though, right?

  “So that mean she drowned in the river?”

  “I’ll let Harold address that,” Robin said.

  And finally there was Amber, the good-girl pre-law student who was either a truly gifted actress or didn’t kill the bitch—Amber’s word, not mine. Her calling Maricel a bitch made me want to cross her off, except for her colossal stupidity in having anything to do with that six-foot stool sample of a boyfriend, Jared. As a mom, I wouldn’t mind it being Amber. It would make it easier to tell teenagers around the world what can happen if you hang out with the wrong crowd. But as a cop, I just didn’t think it was Amber. Didn’t matter what Maricel did, Amber wasn’t going to throw away her future by teaching the exchange student a lesson.

  But Jared? I’d love to lock up his skinny white ass for twenty-to-life. Keeping his genes out of the pool would be one of the few ways I could think globally, act locally.

  “Any other forensics?” I said. I wanted to get through everything Robin had.

  “No, nothing that wouldn’t be expected given that she was dunked and recovered on the river bank.”