In the distance, I heard Rhoda meow. If I remembered correctly, having a pet would void my lease and get me kicked out of the building. I was pretty sure I’d lose my deposit, as well.
I had Linda’s check in my pocket and I could always use it as a first and last month on some studio, somewhere. I could be out of my office as early as tomorrow, if I needed to be, but then the lawyer fees would take longer to save up.
I trudged down the stairs, my messenger bag a heavy weight on my stiff shoulder. The sooner I moved into a place with a real bed, the better.
I didn’t have any furniture, but Rick did, in the guest bedroom. I could swing by someday and…
And what? Rent a truck and move the furniture by myself?
I was a fool. I was going to have to have an adult conversation with Rick. I should move into a hotel for a few weeks and put it on our joint credit card. I should also give him back his cat.
Rhoda, however, was the only thing giving me a sense of power in this situation. As long as I had her, I had something he wanted. She was worth every penny in Zyrtec, Flonase, and eye drops. I was not giving her back any time soon. I put my housing crisis out of mind and headed to my next interview.
* * *
Will was waiting for me at the door to the Muslim Community Center. He held it open and walked me in.
The building felt like a dentist office from the seventies. Low ceiling, dark wood paneling, large fish tank against the far wall. It was spotlessly clean and the furniture in the waiting room was new. He led me through a door marked private that opened on a brightly lit gym. The walls were painted red, black and white—Trail Blazer fans apparently. Three tall young men whose large feet and slender limbs gave them that coltish appearance were playing a game of horse at a basketball hoop on the far end.
The gym smelled like it got plenty of use, and plenty of cleaning, a sort of lemon Pledge combined with boy sweat smell.
“This is the gym. We hold our community resource events here. We give away clothes, food, that kind of stuff. Fill the gym with booths.”
“When is the next one?”
“In about a month and a half, but we hand out groceries every Saturday.”
“Ah.” A month and a half was too long from now, but Saturday was good. “Do you have a prep day before that?”
“Most evenings there are ladies in the kitchen making up care packages and grocery boxes.”
“Did Adam help with this stuff?”
“Not every time, but once a month or so. Mostly he organized donations for us…grocery store deliveries and that kind of thing.”
“So, most people here who knew him, knew him from that type of work?”
“Yeah, our young men’s group is pretty small.”
We strolled to the back of the gym where the boys were playing.
“Hey, Jerrod.” Will tapped one of the boys without the ball. “I have a friend here who wants to talk about Adam, got a minute?”
Jerrod wiped his forehead with his hand. “Sure.” He made a T with his hands. “Hang on a sec, guys.”
Jerrod, Will and I exited the nearest door, into a smaller room with hand-me-down furniture. “Jerrod is one of the peer facilitators of the young men’s group.”
Jerrod furrowed his brows and looked at Will in concern.
“This is Maura. She’s a private detective trying to help figure out who killed Adam. She’s worth talking to, I promise.”
Jerrod’s shoulders relaxed, just a bit. “What do you want to know?”
“How well did the guys in the group know Adam?”
Jerrod shook his head. “Not well. He talked some, but mostly he just listened.”
“Did they feel comfortable talking when he was here?” I kept my volume low.
“It wasn’t the same, but yeah, for the most part.”
“Was there anyone in the group who felt uncomfortable with Adam around?”
Jerrod looked at Will again, one eyebrow lifted this time. “Are you asking me if one of our guys killed Adam?”
“Not exactly.”
“Listen Jerrod, I’ve already told her that none of our guys would have done it, but you have a different relationship with them than I do. You know more about them, and their lives at home and at school. She’s not trying to pin the murder on one of them. She’s just looking for any lead, to anybody at all.”
“Anyone at all, huh?”
I nodded, but kept my mouth shut. I had a feeling even this young man had different ideas about a woman’s place than I did.
“Then forget my boys and go talk to the women. The grandmas see all and know all. You won’t be sorry.”
“Thanks for the tip, I will definitely do that.”
We passed through the kitchen, but it was empty at the moment. “Jerrod is right. Come back when the kitchen is in full swing. People like to talk to volunteers. Help out a little and see what you can learn.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Will finished the tour of the building and went back outside.
“Thanks. I appreciated seeing it all. Please give me a call if you think of anything I should know. I’ll be back to work with the ladies as soon as I can.” He didn’t need to know that my “soonest” chance was going to be the next young men’s intervention group meeting.
Jerrod may claim the grandmas were where the action was at, but I begged to differ.
* * *
My second appointment for the day was with Bruce Michael, mild mannered newspaperman. The Bulletin offices were in the least expensive part of the least desirable side of Portland. Traffic was light, and I made it there in just under fifteen minutes.
Unfortunately, I didn’t beat the news. There was even a helicopter circling the area. Bruce was in the parking lot, a solid ten feet from the safety of his front door, with a microphone shoved in his face.
The raincoat clad reporter was not daunted by Bruce’s seeming refusal to answer. I elbowed my way through the crowd until I was just to the side of the chaos, and made sure Bruce caught my eye.
He breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes having me around helped my clients feel safe. Some of them thought of me as the same sort of protection as a bodyguard or a lawyer. It was all in their head, of course, but anything I could do to help.
If I could make Bruce feel calm enough to talk, it was good for me. I wanted to hear what he had to say.
He cleared his throat and went right at it. “Adam DeMarcus was a regular volunteer here at The Bulletin, yes.” He glanced at me, and then tried to wave the reporters away. They didn’t budge. “We have no comment on anything unrelated to his volunteer work helping to distribute our paper among the homeless.” Bruce’s jaws flexed, but only subtly. “We have no comment.”
No comment. I groaned and buried my face in my hand. No comment was taken by the public as an admission of guilt, every time.
“Are you saying you refuse to comment on allegations that Adam Demarcus was trafficking drugs?”
Bruce took a step back. “That’s not what I said. I don’t know anything about this allegation and I refuse to discuss rumors.”
“You refuse to discuss Demarcus’ drug use?”
“Adam Demarcus…” Bruce coughed away from the microphone, his emotions playing havoc on his worn-out face. “Adam was a man with a vision. That’s what I know for sure. Why was he killed? That’s something that has yet to be understood. It hasn’t been revealed yet, but at some point, we’ll all know what purpose his death served.”
Bruce held up his hand and then turned his back. His jargon filled interview was more suited to Rafe Winters and the Universal Temple than a newsman. I was considering the best way to help him out of the mess when a middle-aged woman with carefully styled gray hair joined him.
“We’re all worried,” she said in a firm voice. “We’ve heard this rumor for the first time today and we have no idea what to say about it. If it is true, it was not something that went on with our knowledge.” She held
onto Bruce’s arm in a comforting way. “All we know is that it is a horrible thing to say about someone we cared deeply for. His family doesn’t deserve to have these kinds of rumors spread.”
The reporter had more to say, but the woman was firmly in control of the moment.
“Thank you for your time.” She nodded to the reporter and the camera man, dismissing them, and led Bruce into his office. She was either his wife or his longsuffering secretary. But whoever she was, she was worth her weight in gold.
The newscaster turned to the camera, ready to close out his bit. “That was Bruce Michael of the independent religious newspaper The Bulletin, unwilling to comment on the theory that Adam Demarcus was murdered for using the distribution channels of The Bulletin to sell drugs to homeless addicts.”
The reporter’s talking point was particularly pointed this time and made me ill.
I went around to the side of the building to see if there was another door. I didn’t trust what I might say to the reporters, if given a chance.
I found Bruce in the lobby of his office, a musty, tired looking room with two folding chairs and a small counter. His face was glistening with sweat and the woman was leaning very close, rubbing his shoulders. “Honey it’s going to be fine. What could you do? They ambushed you. You didn’t have a chance to prepare anything to say.”
“I just can’t…I can’t talk about this right now.”
“I understand sweetie, nobody expected you to. I’ve got to get home. You come when you’re ready. It’s early still.”
“I couldn’t leave if I wanted to. They’re all still out there.”
I took a seat.
Bruce turned to me, his face ashen as though he was about to experience a cardiac event. Stress didn’t suit him. “Well, it’s hit the news. Somebody told them. Somebody from our meeting.”
“It sure looks like that.” I wanted to get down to business, but it looked like it would be some time before he was up for it.
“I don’t want to believe that anyone on the committee would turn on us like that. Knowing that Linda was especially concerned that nothing ugly be said in the news.” He locked eyes with me, his big, and sad. “I just hadn’t thought any of my friends capable of this.”
Despite his pathos, he was saying what I was thinking. We’d all been perfectly willing to believe that no one from the group would have killed Demarcus, and yet, if they had tipped off the news with this rumor, to ruin Adam’s reputation, then they might have been capable of killing him, as well. “Do you have a few minutes? I have some things to share and some questions to ask. Maybe we can go to your office for a little privacy.”
The woman who had been reassuring him looked me up and down
“Pardon me,” I recognized that look, having been a wife for twelve years myself. “I’m Maura Garrison, a private investigator. Linda from the committee hired me.” I offered her my hand.
“Ah.” She relaxed. “You must be Rick’s wife. I’m Vivian Michaels. Nice to meet you.” She pulled her purse over her shoulder, ready to leave. “You all have a big mess to clean up.”
A truer word hadn’t been said in a long while.
“Of all the committee members, you seem the most educated about religion.” In googling, I had seen his qualifications, including the M. Div. from Dallas Seminary. His wall of certificates also spoke of his training. “So, here’s my big question, and maybe you have an answer for it.” I paused for dramatic effect, wanting to impress him with my detective-like ways. Vivian’s passing comment about being Rick’s wife had stung.
“Go ahead.”
“Why mutilate the body? Selling drugs, distributing drugs, however the media wants to spin it, can get you murdered, sure. Especially if you owe someone money and aren’t paying up or have trespassed on someone else’s territory. If any of that is true of Adam, I guess he could have gotten himself killed, but why the mutilation?”
“A good question.” He turned from me to his bookshelf, stuffed to the brim with broken down titles that he had clearly spent quality time studying. “If you’re looking for religious answers, the mutilation of his body immediately suggests the first chapter of the book of Judges, wouldn’t you say?”
Will had suggested something similar. “Go on.”
“Right at the beginning of the book, when the Israelites took possession of the promised land, they mutilated the conquered king in just such a fashion.”
“Is that story also in the Quran?” If I had done as Rick had nagged me to do, and spent time learning about religion, I’d probably know the answer to this one. In the meantime, I was sure Bruce did.
“No.”
“But it would be considered the murder of an Islamic guy by a Jewish guy, right?”
“Not exactly. There was no Islam back then, though Islam would eventually tie their roots back to these tribes in the Middle East. Also, this man wasn’t killed, just mutilated and humiliated.”
“The action in the beginning of Judges was still an insult to the…I don’t know how they view it in Islam, but maybe their founding fathers? Could someone local have acted out on that? Maybe wanted revenge for the crime against their history?” I tossed Will’s theory at Bruce to see if it floated.
“As in a motive? I couldn’t say, but it’s the only historical record of that kind of mutilation, and it needs to be considered if you want to get to the heart of why Adam was killed.”
Will had suggested this type of mutilation was common back then. Bruce disagreed. That, of course, wasn’t as important as if a killer could get so angry about it that they did it again. “You’re certainly right about that.” I drummed my fingers on my ever-present notepad. “A Biblical recreation of sorts.”
“That’s what Rick and I were thinking.” He gave me a look of unabashed sympathy that made me want to puke. “We had a long talk last night. I’m so sorry, for what you are going through.”
I waved it off. “Let’s focus on the real tragedy here.” I pulled out my phone and googled toes and thumbs chopped off. Sure, the protestant guy saw a Bible story in it, but that couldn’t be the only reference to thumbs and toes chopped off. Especially as Will seemed to think it was the done thing back in the day. “Give me just a second.”
After a dozen hits to the book of Judges I almost gave up, but one link redeemed my effort. “Ah! There’s a story in 1001 Nights. The Steward’s Tale. He gets his thumbs and toes chopped off for…” I was scanning the story as quickly as I could. “For not washing his hands before he ate.” I closed out the story.
“He was unclean,” Bruce interjected. “Interesting. I wonder in what way Adam might have been seen to be unclean…” Soft spoken, bookish Bruce was following a mental rabbit trail as far as I could tell, but it was a good question.
“If the murderer was trying to tell us something, then the mutilation needs to have an easily readable message for us. As far as Google is concerned, that makes it the conquered king in the Bible or the unclean man in Arabian Nights. Either story means we are working with a well-read murderer who has an interest in the Middle East, yes?”
“Yes, I’d say so.”
“Unless it’s just a coincidence.” I turned my phone off and slid it back in my pocket.
He leaned forward, just a little. “As a detective, do you believe in coincidence?”
“Not usually.” I offered him my hand. “Thanks so much for the feedback. I need to get going. I’ll brave the crowds, but I suggest you wait a while longer.”
He patted his Bible. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Chapter Six
After the Bible talk with Bruce, I was more than ready for the next night: the intervention meeting for troubled Muslim young men. If one of those young men was both angry and well-read, I might be on to something.
Teenage boys were usually easy to get information out of, but these guys were a special case. I needed to hit the right balance between hot older chick and modest Muslim woman. I tucked a tight black long-sleeved V-neck shi
rt into a charcoal wool pencil skirt. It hit below the knees but hugged my curves. Even religious boys were slaves to biology. A decent rack was enough to make most guys say things they hadn’t meant to say and that was my number one goal with this visit. If I wanted to break down their cultural walls to find out what they knew about Adam, I had to hit them where it hurt.
That said, I was aware my recent birthday put me on the wrong side of twenty-nine. I had to get my money’s worth out of these tools while I still could.
At the community center, I waved to the receptionist—a young woman who did not have her head covered—and went through the gym to the back room where I had chatted with Jerrod. I stood at the window and gauged the situation before entering.
Five young men sat on slouchy overstuffed couches, in various stages of paying attention. Jerrod sat in a metal folding chair, leaning forward, the picture of active listening.
One of the young men, a shorter fellow with the starts of a dark beard, threw his hands up in the air. I couldn’t tell what he was saying, but I could feel the reverberations of his deep voice. He was definitely passionate about whatever it was.
The man next to him put a hand on his shoulder. It calmed him. I was impressed.
When the kid with the new beard had simmered down, I let myself in.
“Gentlemen.” I looked around the room before taking a seat.
The bearded kid jumped to his feet. “Who is this kafir?” His dark eyebrows pulled down in a deep scowl.
Around the room the postures shifted to defiance and defense. All open body language closed, and another young man stood, legs apart and arms crossed.
“Calm down Berk, this is Maura Garrison.” Jerrod cleared his throat. “Maura, can you talk with me in the gym for a moment?”
“Of course.” I exited with him, letting my hips do the talking as I walked away.
“Maura, um, this was not a good time to come.” He flexed his jaw, but didn’t look angry, just like he was thinking hard. “It would have been better for me to bring some guys to you, you know?”
The Book of Judges Page 6
