The Chosen

by Sharon Sala

  There was a tiny bead of sweat at the corner of her right eyebrow. When the camera pulled back, revealing the slender curve of her neck, and the red jacket and scarf she was wearing, his jaw went slack. Ketchup ran out of the bun he was holding, then down through his fingers onto his plate as he exhaled with a sigh.

  It was January DeLena with one of her famous on-the-spot interviews—nothing he hadn’t seen a dozen times before. Only that didn’t change the sudden ache in his gut. He wanted her. As much as he had the first time he’d kissed her, and as much as he did every night when he went to bed. There was no denying the lust. But that was all it was—lust. No way would a self-respecting cop get mixed up with a news hog. Too many cases had been screwed up because the media had released information before it was time. Their “the public has a right to know” claims were a pain in the butt to a hardworking cop trying to crack a case, and she was no exception, although, to be fair, he couldn’t remember any specific time when she’d personally screwed up a case of his. Still, she was a journalist, which made her part of the problem.

  He glanced around the diner, hoping that no one else had seen him gawking like a lovesick teenager. Satisfied that everyone was too busy eating to pay any attention to him, he forgot the salt and took another bite of his burger before allowing himself a second glance.

  Damn, she looked hot. Her eyes were the color of dark chocolate, and that mouth of hers was enough to make a man lose his mind. Her lips were full and pouting, her mouth just wide enough to allow a man a most indecent sexual fantasy.

  He groaned.

  Rick glanced at him. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just bit the inside of my mouth,” Ben said. It was a lie, but it was better than admitting the truth.

  Rick nodded, then pointed to the French fries on Ben’s plate.

  “You gonna eat all those?”

  “Yes,” Ben said, without taking his eyes from the screen.

  Rick shrugged, gave the fries a last longing look, then waved down the waitress behind the counter and ordered a piece of pie.

  When January’s interview was over, the show cut back to the news anchor. At that point Ben lost interest and settled down to finish his food before Rick ate it off his plate. But the news bulletins weren’t over. Rick pointed to the TV again, this time laughing.

  “Check out the nutcase.”

  Ben glanced back up at the screen. It showed a man in some sort of costume. From what he could tell, he appeared to be one of those religious zealots. What was funny, though, was that he was preaching on the steps of the IRS building.

  “What’s with the robe and sandals?” Ben asked.

  “Who knows?” Rick muttered, then signaled the waitress, who was hurrying past them with a carafe of fresh coffee. “Hey, honey, put some ice cream on that pie of mine, will you?”

  “Yeah, sure. Give me a sec,” she said, and hurried away.

  Ben spied Jerry, the owner of Jerry’s Java, and pointed to the television.

  “Jerry, would you turn up the volume?” he asked.

  Jerry picked up a remote from behind the counter and aimed it at the television.

  “…seemed bent on casting out the money changers.” The news anchor turned to his co-anchor and grinned. “I’m certainly not advocating this kind of behavior, but I have to admit that every April 15, I get the same feeling.”

  “Sounds like the man needs to see a shrink,” Rick said.

  “Don’t we all?” Ben muttered, and dug into his fries.

  January was at her desk working on a story for the ten-o’clock news when her phone rang. She answered it absently, still focused on ending the sentence she’d been typing, but her attention shifted when her caller spoke.

  “I’ve been told that you’re looking for me.”

  January’s fingers froze on the keyboard. She glanced up and then around, checking to make sure someone wasn’t playing a joke. Everything seemed on the up and up.

  “Who is this?” she asked.

  “Just a sinner trying to right his wrongs.”

  January’s heart skipped a beat. Sinner? Was this the man who called himself the Sinner? The man who claimed he’d been to hell?

  “Are you the preacher who calls himself the Sinner?”

  “I’m not a preacher, and everyone is a sinner. It’s what we do to rectify our sins that matters.”

  “Did you really have a near-death experience?” January asked.

  “No.”

  Excitement fizzled. “So you didn’t have a near—”

  “It wasn’t near death. It was death, and it was hell,” he said.

  Excitement resurrected, she said, “Oh! Would you consider—”

  “Why are you looking for me?” he asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to say. I want to interview you.”

  “Why?”

  “Well…because it would be—”

  “A good story?”

  Her excitement shifted to her voice. “Yes, but also one that would be meaningful. Think of the people who might change their ways because of what you experienced…what you saw. So, what do you say?”

  “No.”

  January frowned. “Why not?”

  “Jesus didn’t present himself to the world in that manner, so neither will I.”

  January sighed. “Are you one of those WWJD people?”

  “I’m not familiar with that term. What does WWJD mean?”

  January picked up a pen. “It means What Would Jesus Do? The letters WWJD have become synonymous with a certain group of young people who advocate abstinence from drugs, sex and all sorts of sinful behaviors.”

  There was a long moment of silence, then January heard a tremor in his voice.

  “If I’d belonged to something like that, maybe I wouldn’t be in the place I am today.”

  “Then reconsider,” January begged. “I can make you famous. Think of all the good you could do…the number of people you could reach with your message. What do you say?”

  “I say that’s your agenda, Miss DeLena, not mine. My agenda is already in place and moving forward.”

  January’s interest shifted. “Agenda? What agenda might that be?”

  “My agenda is your story,” the man said.

  January’s fingers tightened on the receiver.

  “Then tell me what it is! What is your agenda? What are you talking about?”

  “He told me…live as I lived. So I am.”

  “Who told you?”

  “Jesus Christ, my lord and savior.”

  The line went dead in her ear. January slammed the phone down in disgust, then pulled her notebook from the back of the desk drawer. She wanted to get down every word he’d said before she forgot them. Her hands were shaking as she wrote. She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she was determined to find out.

  She finished her story and turned it in just under deadline. As soon as she could, she headed out of the studio and back to the streets. There was a story in this, she could feel it.

  One week later

  In a city full of lawmakers, it stood to reason that there would also be a part of the city allotted to lawbreakers. In the old days, it had been called the red-light district; now, some just considered it a good place to get lost.

  It was there, on a street corner, that a tall, bearded man who called himself Brother John stood on a milk crate and held audience to a small crowd. Even though he was being heckled constantly, his message became no less fervent. His clothing was a mishmash of Hindi and African, but his Cajun accent, red hair and beard, and light-colored eyes marked him as a man with Louisiana roots.

  “It’s not too late to know the Lord,” he promised. “Any day now, He’ll be coming back! Do you want to be left behind? Listen to me, now. Jesus is coming. Jesus is coming!”

  “By land or by sea?” someone yelled.

  The heckler didn’t faze him. He just raised his voice a little louder.

  Jay was transfixed by the preach
er on the street corner. As a convert to the Lord, he’d been watching this man for several months now, knowing that when it became necessary, Brother John would play a vital part in helping Jay get to glory. It was all so perfect—as if God Himself was guiding Jay’s every move.

  When Brother John raised his voice, Jay moved closer, drawn by the passion in his voice and the look in his eyes. It was fervor. He knew it well. It burned within him, too.

  When Jay was so close that he could see blue veins bulging on the backs of the man’s hands, he lifted his head, his nostrils flaring.

  Brother John’s gaze settled on Jay, and as it did, the preacher stuttered, suddenly racked by the same kind of fear that had dogged his steps through four years in Vietnam. Then he shook off the thought as being foolish, and focused his attention on the man standing at his feet.

  “Welcome, brother,” John said.

  Jay started to smile.

  Brother John’s belly knotted. He knew as well as he knew his own name that he was in the presence of evil.

  “Who are you?” he whispered.

  Jay Carpenter held out his hand. “I’m the man you’ve been waiting for.”

  Rick Meeks had already commented that it was a piss-poor night for working a homicide. Ben hadn’t argued, although he was of the opinion that it was the victim who should have had the right to complain. A dead man was a dead man, but the added indignity of being beheaded seemed, to Ben, a large case of overkill.

  He squatted down beside Fran Morrow, waiting for her to bag whatever it was she had picked off the forehead of the victim. She was pushing sixty, a tad on the skinny side and cranky as hell, but she was one of the best crime scene investigators in the city.

  “Hey, Fran, how long you think he’s been dead?”

  “Ever since someone lopped off his head,” she snapped.

  Ben tried another angle. “And when do you think that might have happened?”

  “If I was guessing, which you know damn well I don’t do, I’d say maybe two or three hours.”

  He made a couple of notes in his notebook. “Anything you can tell me about the murder weapon?”

  “It was sharp.”

  Ben shifted, then stood abruptly. “Come on, Fran. I don’t like being out here any more than you do, but I need something to work with.”

  She motioned toward one of the other investigators as she got up.

  “Bag him up,” she ordered, then turned toward Ben. “I’ll send you a complete report as soon as I know more.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and headed back to the perimeter, where his partner was interviewing a witness. Just then a news van pulled up.

  “The vultures have arrived,” he muttered, then cursed beneath his breath when he realized it was January DeLena who was getting out of the van. “Son of a bitch.”

  Meeks looked up. “What?”

  “News crew’s here.”

  “Your turn to head ’em off. I’m taking a statement.”

  Ben eyed the wino who’d found the body. He was still crying. Ben couldn’t blame him. But the longer he stood here, the closer that woman was going to get. He hadn’t seen her up close or talked to her since that night behind the hedge, and he wasn’t looking forward to it now. He set his jaw and turned around just as January slipped beneath the crime scene tape and headed toward him.

  He quickly grabbed her elbow, escorting her back to the perimeter as he sent the cameraman back to the van with a warning look.

  “Come on, Miss DeLena, you’re not allowed in here and you know it.”

  The words January meant to say were rolling around in her head, but when she’d seen Benjamin North walking toward her, they hadn’t come out in the proper sequence. Then, when he’d taken her by the arm, she’d lost her train of thought.

  “The public allows…I mean, it’s a job for…Shit.”

  Almost immediately, she felt a flush spreading across her face, and hoped to goodness it was too dark where they were standing for Detective Yummy to see.

  January’s discomfort became a source of amusement for Ben. It was the first time he’d seen Miss Hot-To-Trot at a loss for words, and he couldn’t let it go.

  He grinned.

  January glared.

  “Since when is murder funny?” she snapped.

  “Did I say it was? Did I say anything to you except to indicate—once again, I might add—that you’re trespassing?”

  January sighed. “Come on, North. You know me. I don’t give up details until you give me the go-ahead.”

  “And I don’t make deals with the media. Please get back.”

  January stood her ground with an intensity that surprised him.

  “Is it true?” she asked.

  “Is what true?” he countered.

  “The victim…was he really beheaded?”

  Ben flinched. Damn. Someone on the scene was feeding info to the media. They had to be, or she wouldn’t have gotten here this fast with that kind of information.

  “Who told you that?” he asked.

  “Never mind. Just answer me. Is that the truth?”

  “It’s none of your business,” he snapped.

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Not yet.”

  January shifted from one foot to the other. She had to know, even though she feared the truth. Finally she blurted out another question, and this time she got Ben’s attention.

  “Is the victim the same guy who preaches hell and damnation on the street corners?”

  Ben grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward a streetlight.

  “I don’t know, but if he is, what does that mean to you?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe nothing.”

  “Would you recognize his face if you saw him?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben turned and waved at Fran Morrow.

  “Hey, Fran…hold up a minute, will you? We might have an ID on the victim.”

  Fran frowned at January, then glared at Ben.

  “She won’t know a hill of beans. She just wants a scoop on the others.”

  “No cameras. I promise,” January said.

  Fran stopped the men who were moving the body into the van and then unzipped the upper portion of the bag.

  The head rolled a bit to the right, then tilted back toward the left before it came to rest.

  January swallowed the bile that rose up her throat and peered in.

  “It’s him,” she said, and then covered her face with her hands. “Dear God, it’s him.”

  “Him, who?” Ben asked, as Fran zipped the bag and proceeded to load up her cargo.

  “He calls…called himself Brother John,” she said.

  “And how do you know him?” Ben asked.

  January dropped her hands and looked away.

  “January! Look at me,” he demanded, but she was staring down, as if she’d taken a sudden interest in his shoes.

  Ben took her by the shoulders, gently but firmly.

  Startled by the unexpected contact, she pulled out of his grasp.

  “Get your hands off me,” she muttered.

  “Fine,” Ben said, and jammed his hands into his pockets. “But you invited yourself into my investigation, so you can answer the questions. How do you know him?”

  “I work the streets a lot. You know that,” she said.

  “Somehow I can’t picture you listening to sermons on street corners.”

  She looked up at him. “Why, Detective, I didn’t know that you pictured me at all.”

  This time it was Ben’s face that turned red.

  “Listen to me, lady. This isn’t a game. What do you know about that man that I don’t?”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “He called himself Brother John. He’s from somewhere in Louisiana, and he’s a Vietnam vet. That’s all I know about him.”

  There was a slight inflection to the word him that led Ben to believe she might know something else indirectly related to the case.

  “What aren’t you
telling me?” he asked.

  January hesitated. What she knew was mostly a bunch of suppositions and guesses, and she was too much of a professional to put her reputation on the line with a story she couldn’t prove.

  “That’s all I know about him. Really.” Then she added, “But I think there’s something else going on down in that place. There’s a man down there who calls himself the Sinner, and there’s gossip on the street that he’s doing some really weird things.”

  “Homeless people do weird things. My next-door neighbor does weird things. The world is full of weirdos, and Jesus freaks are everywhere.”

  “Fine. You asked. I told you. Now if you’re not going to give me anything else, I’ve got a story to turn in.”

  “You don’t have anything,” Ben said.

  “I have enough. Chopping a man’s head off is news, whether you like it or not.”

  She turned abruptly and ran toward the van.

  Ben watched her go.

  Whether Ben liked it or not, January DeLena’s information about their victim being a Vietnam vet was paramount in helping them with identification and locating his next of kin. By ten o’clock the next morning, he’d learned the man’s name was Jean Louis Baptiste. He had one daughter, a woman named Laurette Bennet, who lived near New Orleans. She’d cried all the way through their conversation, then thanked him for the call before she hung up.

  Ben followed suit by laying the receiver back on the cradle. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a bottle of aspirin and shook three out into his hand. He’d awakened with a headache, and it wasn’t getting any better. He would have liked to blame it on January DeLena’s unexpected visit to the crime scene last night, but that wouldn’t have been fair. There were plenty of reasons why his head would be hurting, the strongest of which came from the phone call he’d just made. He hated notifying next of kin, and so far this week, he was two for two.

  He popped the pills into his mouth, then started to wash them down with the last of his coffee, only to realize the cup was empty. The aspirin were already beginning to melt on his tongue, so he bit the bullet and crunched them between his teeth like candy. The sour, bitter taste sent him straight to the water cooler. He drank until the taste was washed out of his mouth and wished the bitter part of his job would disappear as easily.