The Chosen

by Sharon Sala

  He shrugged. “Trying to make a few bucks, that’s all.”

  “Tell me something, Morey. Do you live up there?”

  He pointed to the third floor.

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “So were you home last night?”

  “Part of it,” Morey said.

  Ben’s smile quit.

  “Which part?”

  “I guess I come in around midnight.”

  Ben looked at his watch and calculated the time between when Fran said the victim had died and when he would have been dumped. It was just after 8:00 a.m. The vic hadn’t been dead more than five or six hours, which meant that he would have died after midnight. He hadn’t died here, so it would have taken time to load up the body from wherever Scofield had died, and dump him here. There was a possibility that this little scuzzbucket could be their only witness.

  “Did you go right to sleep?”

  Morey frowned, then sneered. “No, I had a woman with me. I got a piece of tail. She left. I ordered up a pizza. There’s some left. Want a piece?”

  “What I want is to know if you saw or heard anything out here early this morning that might pertain to this crime?”

  “Can I have my camera back?”

  “Is it hot?”

  Morey cursed, then spat.

  “Early this morning, did you hear anything in the alley that was out of the ordinary?” Ben repeated.

  “What time?”

  “Around one or two o’clock. Maybe as late as five.”

  Morey’s frown deepened, and he pointed to his surroundings.

  “This ain’t exactly the Hilton. It’s always noisy. You learn not to pay the racket any mind or you’d never get rest. Still, after one, you say?”

  There were a few moments of silence, then Morey spoke up. “I heard a car in the alley around four. I know cause I was in the bathroom then. I had to pee from all the beer I’d had with my pizza.”

  “Did you look out?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah, after I heard the lid slam on the Dumpster.”

  “You heard that?” Rick asked.

  “Yeah, but that’s nothing new. Someone’s always throwing shit away.”

  “So what did you see when you looked out?” Rick asked.

  “Just a cab.”

  Ben knew that the last time Scofield had been heard from he’d been in a cab, and this strengthened the possibility that the cab driver had perpetrated the abduction and subsequent murder.

  “Did you get a number? What color was it? Did you see the driver?”

  “No. Yellow-and-black. No. How about that camera?”

  “Give Detective Meeks here your phone number and address. We’ll let you know.”

  “Damn it,” Morey muttered. “How am I gonna make my rent if you take—”

  “Try a real job,” Ben said shortly.

  “Look at me!” Morey said. “Who’s gonna hire someone looking like this?”

  “That’s a poor excuse, buddy,” Ben said. “There are at least a half-dozen shelters and charities within a twenty block radius around here that would outfit you for nothing. Now get lost before I change my mind and take you downtown.”

  Morey didn’t hesitate. Seconds later, he was gone.

  “You know he stole that camera,” Rick said.

  Ben shrugged. “We’re homicide. You want to handle the paperwork it’s going to take to fob him off on Theft?”

  “No.”

  “Well, me neither,” Ben said. “So let’s go see what we can find out about a rogue yellow-and-black cab.”

  It was January’s day off and just after 9:00 a.m. She had just picked up some clothes from the dry cleaners when she heard the news on the radio about a body in a Dumpster. She didn’t think much about it until she returned home from her errands.

  The portable television in her kitchen was on, and she was only half listening to the local news as she put away the groceries she’d bought. But her attention changed when she heard a news report identifying the body as that of the man who’d gone missing yesterday. Bart Scofield’s status had gone from missing person to homicide.

  Even though she didn’t know him, she was saddened to learn that he had been murdered. It also reminded her that he couldn’t possibly be connected to the rumors she’d been hearing about missing homeless men. To her knowledge, none of them had returned, alive or dead.

  She finished her chores, then sat down to balance her checkbook, but soon found she couldn’t concentrate. She kept thinking about those missing men and the gossip about a street preacher who’d been to hell and returned to tell the tale. Without referring to the copious notes she’d been keeping about him, she couldn’t remember when she’d begun tying the two things together.

  She was staring off into space, the checkbook forgotten, when her phone rang. The call was of no consequence, but it refocused her plans for the day. As soon as the conversation was finished, she changed her clothes, got her purse and a notepad, and headed out the door. She was determined to get a new lead on the Sinner or chuck the story idea altogether.

  The Sisters of Mercy Shelter for the Indigent and Homeless never closed its doors to the needy. It kept the nuns on their toes, trying to make do with never quite enough food or beds to go around. Still, it didn’t stop them from doing God’s work. From time to time, Mother Mary Theresa pulled double duty by not only being in charge of the distribution of charity benefits, but also taking her turn at serving in the food line.

  January knew Mother Mary Theresa personally, having volunteered to help serve Thanksgiving meals to the homeless for the past three years. Mother Mary T., as the street people called her, knew more about what went on in the streets than any local drug dealer, and was less likely to give the wayward a break. She didn’t believe in excuses and prayed for the souls of the lost only because it was her duty. She was a little woman with a mighty presence and held the respect of all who knew her.

  So when January appeared at the homeless shelter to find Mother Mary T. going through a truckload of donated items, she knew that if she wanted answers, she would have to work through the questions.

  Mother Mary Theresa was holding a lamp base, giving the wiring a critical look, when January walked up.

  “Hello, Mother Mary T. Looks like you’ve hit pay dirt.”

  The nun frowned as she turned to see who was speaking, but when she recognized January, she greeted her by losing the frown and waving toward the back of the truck.

  “Yes, and I could use some help. Get yourself up here with me. We can talk while we work.”

  “Now why did I know you were going to say something like that?” January asked, as she climbed inside.

  Mother Mary T. snorted lightly. “I expect that’s because you’ve heard it before.” She handed January a lamp shade. “See if this fits that lamp over there, and what’s on your mind?”

  January took the shade to the other side of the truck and began unscrewing the finial as the tiny nun picked up a huge stack of bedclothes and tossed them out to a helper who was standing on the street below.

  “You know what makes me tired?” Mother Mary T. asked.

  “What?” January replied, as she screwed the shade to the lamp base.

  “People that donate dirty things to the poor…as if they’re not good enough to warrant a wash and tumble dry before giving the stuff away. Just look at those sheets. Dirty. Stained. Some of them in rags. If it was me, I’d be ashamed.” Then she sighed. “However, it is my lot in life to make sure God’s lambs are not shamed. Therefore, my fellow sisters and I will be washing away other people’s filth before dispensing these very generous gifts.”

  January grinned. “You know, Mother Mary T., you’re one of the few people I know who can be truly sarcastic with a straight face.”

  The little nun sighed. “It wasn’t very godly of me, was it?”

  January lost the smile.

  “On the contrary. You’re one of the most godly people I know.”

 
Mother Mary T. fidgeted at the unexpected praise, then took the lamp out of January’s hands and pointed to a couple of broken-down recliners.

  “Have a seat, girl. I’ve a mind to take a breather, and I don’t want to be looking up at you while we talk.”

  January sat, and Mother Mary Theresa sat next to her.

  “So what’s on your mind? I know you well enough to know this isn’t a social visit.”

  January leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees. Subconsciously, she lowered her voice, unwilling for anyone else to hear what she was going to say.

  “Have you ever heard of a street preacher who calls himself the Sinner?”

  Mother Mary T. frowned. “Sinner. Hmm, yes, that sounds familiar, but I’ve never met him. Why?”

  January hesitated, then spoke.

  “During the past few months, I’ve been hearing talk that some men—men from the shelters and the streets—have disappeared. Have you heard anything like that?”

  The little nun crossed herself before speaking and, like January, lowered her voice.

  “I hear all manner of things,” she said. “Most of it the devil’s work.” Then she added, “But, to answer your question, yes. Some of the regulars here at the shelter talk about people having gone missing. Why?”

  “I have a theory that may or may not tie it all together.”

  “Tie what together, girl?”

  “The preacher and the missing men.”

  Mother Mary T. threw up her hands. “Saints above, January. You can’t possibly take any of that seriously? The homeless are already missing when they come here from somewhere else. Often, they leave as anonymously as they came. Besides that, none of them are in good health. I can’t bear to think of how many die alone in sewers and abandoned buildings and are never found.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But nothing. If you want to do a story on something, focus on the fact that we’re short of money. We need donations for the upcoming winter. Coats, blankets, food…you name it.”

  January sighed. “I will. I promise I will, but humor me on this, will you?”

  “You promise you’ll do it in advance of the cold weather?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” January said.

  “Well, that’s that, then. Exactly what do you want to know?”

  “Names. I need names,” January said.

  The aging nun frowned. “Of those who’ve gone missing recently?”

  January nodded.

  Mother Mary T. leaned back in her recliner, folded her hands in her lap and then closed her eyes, as if she was about to take a nap. January knew better. This was her thinking mode.

  “Let’s see,” the nun muttered. “A month or so ago, Delroy…” She opened her eyes and pointed to January. “You remember him—the big man with no legs, scoots around on a couple of modified skateboards.”

  “Yes…yes, I do,” January agreed.

  Satisfied, Mother Mary T. continued. “Anyway…Delroy came to the center in a terrible mood. Said someone had stolen his best friend. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but then I remembered a similar complaint a month or so before that. Red Susie, the black girl with a patch on her eye, claimed that her friend had disappeared. She was blaming alien abduction. You can see why I don’t pay much attention to their rambling.”

  “Were there more?” January asked, taking notes as they talked.

  Mother Mary T. frowned. “It seems there was one other person I heard some of them talking about, but I can’t recall the—Oh! Wait! I remember. It was the fellow who won’t sleep inside. No matter what kind of weather, he won’t go indoors. They say he was a POW in Vietnam and that enclosed spaces make him crazy.”

  “Their names, Mother Mary T. Do you know their names?”

  Her forehead furrowed as she began to count them off on her fingers.

  “Delroy’s friend is Simon. I don’t know his last name. None of them have last names, you know. And as far as that goes, I have no way of knowing if the names they go by are their true given names, either.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” January said. “Simon, you said. Do you know the others?”

  “Hmm, I think Red Susie called her friend Andy, and she mentioned something about Andy’s friend Jim.

  “Andrew? James?”

  Mother Mary shrugged. “She never used those names, but I suppose that’s right.”

  “And the vet? Did he have a name?”

  “They called him Crazy Matt. I thought that was harsh, but he answered to it, just the same.”

  January wrote down the name, then, beside it, the formal version. Matthew.

  She glanced down the list, and as she did, the hair rose on the back of her neck.

  Simon

  Andrew

  Matthew

  James

  She remembered the man who’d gone missing and then turned up dead.

  Bart. Bartholomew.

  If this was a coincidence, it was pushing the boundaries. The names of five of Christ’s disciples from the Bible.

  “Did Delroy or Red Susie ever mention the street preacher?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mother Mary T. said.

  January frowned, her shoulders slumping.

  “Have they said anything—anything at all—about where they saw their friends last? Maybe who they were with? Something like that?”

  Mother Mary rolled her eyes. “Well, remember, Red Susie blamed the aliens.” Then she chuckled. “Only these aliens, I believe, were driving cabs.”

  January stifled a gasp as Mother Mary T. suddenly frowned.

  “Now that’s strange,” she said. “I never put that together before.”

  “Put what together?” January asked.

  “If I remember correctly, Delroy also said something about Simon getting into a cab. He was angry because they drove off without waiting for him.”

  January looked down at the list of names. Was this the connection? But how did this tie into the Sinner? Frustrated, she leaned back in the old recliner, and dropped her notebook and pen back into her purse. Maybe there wasn’t a connection. Maybe she was trying to make a story out of coincidences.

  She sighed.

  She knew better. It was the first rule of thumb for reporting. Stick to the facts. Don’t twist them to make them fit something else.

  “Is there anything else, dear?” Mother Mary T. asked.

  January sighed.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Was this of any help to you?”

  “Yes. Thank you so much for your time.”

  “You’re welcome, dear. However, if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I need to get back to work.”

  “Okay, sure,” January said, as she got up. She stepped down from the truck, then straightened her clothes.

  “Goodbye, January. Don’t be a stranger,” the little nun called.

  “Okay,” January said, waving as she walked away.

  Six

  The phone was ringing as January walked in the door. She dropped her purse on the hall table and then moved toward the kitchen, intent on letting the answering machine pick up. The machine kicked on, and her message began to play. It wasn’t until she heard the caller’s voice that she stopped. A chill of foreboding made her slow to react, but as the man continued to talk, she moved to answer.

  As soon as Carpenter heard January’s cheery greeting and invitation to leave a message, he leaned back against the inside of the phone booth and closed his eyes. It was the answering machine. He needed a warm body, not a machine. He cursed before he could stop himself, then silently begged God’s forgiveness.

  The pain in his head was worse than it had ever been. The stress and grief from what had happened to Scofield were weighing heavily on his conscience. He wanted to believe that he’d read the signs wrong, that just because a man named Bart had gotten into his cab didn’t mean he was “the one” God meant for him to claim. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d just damned himse
lf to an eternity in hell because he’d killed one of God’s disciples?

  A sudden pain went from one eye to the other. It was so sharp and unexpected that he screamed. At that point, his ears began to ring, as if someone had hit him hard at the back of the head. The air inside the booth was hot, accentuating the odor of stale cigarettes and unwashed bodies that lingered there, but he had to pull himself together. When the prerequisite beep sounded, signaling for the caller to begin speaking, he took a deep breath and made himself concentrate.

  “January DeLena. Always on the prowl for that story, even though I asked you to leave me alone. Don’t deny that you’re still looking for me, because I saw you today. I heard you. You and that nun. Why won’t you leave me alone? I have things to do that don’t concern you.”

  January grabbed the receiver.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Tears were streaming down Jay Carpenter’s face. The pain in his ears was so severe that, at first, he didn’t hear her answering.

  “Hello? Are you there?” January repeated.

  Jay shuddered, then closed his eyes, making himself focus.

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Tell me about the missing men,” she demanded.

  He flinched. How could she know? He made himself calm. She didn’t know anything. She couldn’t possibly. For whatever reason, she was just guessing.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  January was guessing, but she wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to push a few buttons just to see what popped up.

  “Matthew, Simon, James, Andrew and Bart. Those are their names, aren’t they? What did you do with them, and what was wrong with Bart? Why did you kill him?”

  “He was the wrong one,” Carpenter muttered, unaware that he’d just given himself away.

  January gasped. She had not expected that.

  “What do you mean, the wrong one? Are you admitting that you abducted, then killed, Bart Scofield? Why? Why did you do it, and where are those other men?”

  Carpenter shook his head like a dog shedding water, but it didn’t stop the pain, and the buzzing in his ears became worse.

  “I didn’t say that.” He slid to the floor of the phone booth as his legs gave way.