I went at it with my pen until three in the morning, flipping back and forth between scenes of destruction, conquest, and faithlessness.
Gideon had used flashes of light to terrify his enemy. And then he had built an altar to himself. And then all seventy of his sons were murdered by the child of his sex slave. His forbidden concubine, taken from the conquered people.
Wasn’t Gideon one of those cartoons starring talking vegetables? How did you use a cartoon vegetable to tell the story of psychological warfare, genocide, faithlessness, ego, and homicidal insanity? I couldn’t answer that question.
But yeah, that first story in Judges, the one with the enemy king who had been mutilated by the conquering Israelites—they had chopped his thumbs and toes off to teach him a lesson. And then several chapters later God hand selected a future winner to use three-hundred torches and trumpets to inspire an army to turn on each other, slaughtering themselves.
Oh, Adam Demarcus, who had you injured to bring this kind of punishment on yourself?
* * *
The next morning, I bought a new doorknob and brought it straight to my office. There was no way I was working from home while Rick was working from home. Not in this version of our marriage. But I didn’t have to work in my office long today, either.
Red from Bruce’s discipleship program hadn’t answered any of my calls, but Brit, the girl who loved Adam Demarcus, had. I met her at a local Starbucks—her pick.
Brit looked normal. She sat in the corner chair at Starbucks waiting for me, her hair in a low pony tail. She wore jeans and a T-shirt that was both low cut and tight. She was tapping at her phone while she waited. There were no signs she had spent most of the last year wearing long skirts in a weird little discipleship program. She had a young face, and youth was attractive, but besides that I couldn’t see what she had going for her that had made Adam pursue her romantically. Then again, she had said she kissed him. Maybe he had rejected her advances.
“Hey.” I dropped into the chair across from her.
She set her phone on her knee. “Thanks for meeting me here.”
“I appreciate you giving me the time.”
“I haven’t had anyone to talk to about Adam. My parents don’t want to hear about it, and obviously, Bruce and the boys…” She stared at me, her eye contact unnerving.
“You’ve got me. I’m here to listen.” And to ask questions of course, but I’d let her get it all off her chest first. She’d probably tell me things I couldn’t even think of asking.
“I first heard about the discipleship program in the little Christian newspaper in Helena.” Her voice was breathy, and her words rushed. She was operating at some level of panic. “Just a small ad at the bottom of the page. My parents didn’t hate the idea—my degree in philosophy hadn’t landed me any jobs yet, but they weren’t thrilled either. My parents are good, blue-collar people. Dad runs his own business. Pest control.” She paused and looked away. Then cleared her throat and continued. “He’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. But this…he didn’t get it. It wasn’t that I needed their permission, but I hate to do things that make them…oh…they don’t get angry, just sort of distant. Kind of cold. When we kids do something stupid they wall up, and don’t soften until they know we’ve learned our lesson. My brother got his girlfriend pregnant. They didn’t talk to him until after the wedding. I mean, they went to the baby shower, the baby’s first birthday. They loved the baby. They were always at least polite to Stassa, too, but my brother? Until he said his vows and made things ‘right’ they didn’t have two words for him. So, I didn’t want to do something they would think was stupid, and I knew they’d think paying fees for an internship with a quiet little ministry like this one was a bad idea. When I told them I was majoring in philosophy they didn’t speak to me until Christmas. And I needed to make that right still. And now this…”
She was rambling, I liked ramblers, but I did hope she’d bring it back to Adam eventually.
“I had an internship at the local hospital working with the ethicist. That seemed to smooth them over. It didn’t matter that it hadn’t led to a job, just them knowing there was work for philosophers was enough. They believed I’d find a job.”
“What do they think of your internship with The Bulletin?”
“That’s not exactly what it is. The discipleship program is an international Christian community run in these small, intimate settings. The leaders involve their disciples in whatever ministry they are doing. Bruce happens to be a publisher, so we work with him there.”
“Who runs the international organization?”
“It’s called Discipleship Ministry International. Training Christians to be servant leaders. It’s trying to undo the fame and fortune thing that is plaguing the church. The founder doesn’t do tours, doesn’t publish books. Doesn’t even advertise his name. The board—same. It’s about Christ’s body serving others, not the individual personalities involved.”
As an antidote to the Rick Styles of the world, I loved it. As a way to start a creepy cult, I hated it. “I get it.”
“So, I came out here and joined this group. If I was going to give my heart, mind, and strength to the program, I wanted to do it somewhere my parents wouldn’t be watching. I knew they’d like the end results, but they didn’t need to see the process.”
“Like sausage.”
“Exactly. Ignore what’s in it. Just enjoy it.”
“So, the thing kind of fell apart on you?”
She licked her lips. “It shouldn’t have, but I got lonely. The other girls quit. They didn’t like the second-place attitude toward women, the conservative clothing. I saw it as a refining fire. The least shall be first. The God of the universe came down and washed feet. Why shouldn’t I wear long skirts for a couple of years? Voluntary submission. But when the other girls left I got lonely. Voluntary submission is great. Involuntary servitude is hard.”
“Bruce made you a servant to the group?”
“Not Bruce. He’s great. Solid. He often said he was trying to work on the role of women in the program. Said he thought it was a small flaw in an otherwise great program. But the men…”
“Quint in particular?”
“Once I was left alone, Quint began to…put me in my place…for lack of a better word. I was excluded from group decision making and he led the men in absenting themselves from service to the group.”
“Like cleaning and cooking?”
“Exactly.”
“That’s hardly the attitude of a servant leader.”
“Precisely. I talked to Vivian about it quite a bit, but all she would say was that Bruce was working with the men and it was a process. You know…she’d point out how most of the great men in the Bible only failed in how they related to women, so it was to be expected. It wasn’t something to worry about. God would work on their hearts over time.”
“But?”
“But when I read the Bible, I noticed all those great men of the Old Testament getting worse with time, not better.”
“Sounds about right.” Old Gideon making an idol to himself and having a million wives and concubines came to mind from my recent reading of Judges.
“So, anyway. Adam showed up like a breath of fresh air. He had always been around, but I started to notice him more. He swept when the floor was messy. He washed dishes when the sink was full. He included me in conversation.”
“And then he took you to the Episcopal church.”
“Right.” She shivered. The first sign, in my opinion, that we were finally getting somewhere.
“Such papistry. Pomp. Religion over relationship. And the priest was a woman.”
I bit my tongue hard and allowed the pain to appear like sympathy on my face.
“I mean, God will sift the wheat from the tares, but a woman priest?”
“Where were you supposed to be going to church?”
“The disciples do home church. Bruce is the Shepherd.”
“How did he feel about you mis
sing his services?”
“Oh, I didn’t. We meet on the Sabbath, not on Sunday.”
“Tell me more about your relationship with Adam.”
“He took me out for coffee. The first time I had water. The second time, water. We talked about faith, about the message that the priest was giving. That fifth Sunday, after church, I had coffee. It woke me up.”
I nodded.
“I was buzzing, tripping, high on caffeine. I hadn’t been high on caffeine since high school. You know, we get inured to it fast. Our bodies get used to it. But it had been so long since I had had any. So long since I had had anything but the Holy Spirit giving me life.”
Little moments like that slipping from her ramblings worried me. Otherwise she seemed about like every other church girl, her vocabulary, education, background. She seemed smarter than this.
“We went for a walk in the woods. A long walk. He asked me what I wanted from life. Asked me if I wouldn’t rather be a priest like Denise at the Episcopal church. And I did, Maura. That’s what I wanted. I wanted power, attention, robes, candles, a congregation to sit and stand reverently with me as we considered the absolute power of an Almighty God, and it didn’t seem wrong. He held my hand, pulled me in, and kissed me like we were teenagers. And I let him. More than once.”
She sipped from her paper cup. I wondered if it was coffee.
“And I would have let him keep kissing me. I mean, I would have had an affair, I think. If he hadn’t died.” She put her cup down. “I broke every rule of the discipleship program for that man. I wanted my own power and authority. I wanted more than the Holy Spirit. And I wanted him. This is what I need to make right.” Her face was broken, her eyes shadowed with sadness, even fear. She had disappointed herself deeply and wanted to be punished. At least that’s what I read into it.
I stared at her and translated her impassioned church speak into actual words: she was looking for work in her field, had been harassed and isolated for her gender. She met a caring, attractive man who gave her attention, found a body of believers whose reverent style of worship suited her personally, and whose church structure had room for intelligent, strong, female leaders. And she had fallen in love with the man. I wished I could paint her story for her with my words. I think she’d have liked my version of it.
But I needed information. I was a detective, not her life coach. “How did you find out about Adam’s death?”
“Bruce called a special meeting the evening after he died. I was in such shock. I don’t really remember what anyone said.”
Shock was powerful. I’m sure Bruce had led prayer and discussion. I wondered what they had discussed. “Do you feel like anything Adam did could have gotten him killed?”
Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t like to believe in a vengeful God, but what he did to me, the way he led me astray. Don’t you think God might have wanted him punished for that?”
“No.” I leaned across the table, getting in her space. “With my whole heart, no. I do not believe in a vengeful God who struck down your friend just because you fell in love.”
She looked away.
I sat back again. She was punishing herself as a way to understand a healthy man being snuffed out in the prime of his life. She wouldn’t be the first, but it wasn’t helpful to me. “Can you get a refund on the program?”
“I don’t want one.” Her words floated away as on a breath. I barely heard them.
“Have you been kicked out of it?”
She looked down at her T-shirt, which was straining against an impressive bosom. “I have to meet with Vivian today. I guess…I’m not dressed like someone who gets a second chance.”
“What is your plan?”
She stared at her cup, then pushed it away. “I need to go home and change. I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not ready to quit. There is a chance that I might be able to go to BC and meet with the board of the Disciples. They would make the final decision. That’s what Vivian said.”
I looked at her jeans, tight, with holes in the knees. Like any other girl her age. “Then this is a last hurrah in civilian clothes?”
She straightened up, a determined look on her face. “Yeah, but that,” she pushed the paper cup, “was just hot water and lemon.”
Chapter Seventeen
I had installed the replacement door knob on the old office door days before, but I hadn’t moved myself back in. If I was just going to be evicted for back rent, why haul the boxes back up all those stairs? I dropped an envelope with dire red words printed across the top into my garbage can. Why not rent a truck and take my furniture home tonight? I rested my chin on my hand and stared at the wall. This office was the one place where I was in charge. The adult. The boss. People who came in here paid me, answered to me, looked to me for help. I hated to say good bye.
I tapped at my phone aimlessly wandering between email, social media, and the news. Between taps, a new email came in. This one from Pulaski County, Indiana where I had sent my door knob for fingerprint ID.
“Maura Garrison,
* * *
Your sample has been processed. The fingerprints on the sample belong to one Linda Smith, member of Portland City Council. Her fingerprints were on public record.”
It was signed by someone in the crime lab.
* * *
I stared at the email, disappointed. How could the answer come so quickly but be so useless? Linda Smith was just Linda Smith, huh? No secret hidden identity? No tragic backstory of running down her father’s political rival, fleeing the scene, and then fleeing her own punishment?
The story I had built up in my head had nothing to do with Adam’s murder, but it sure would have answered the nagging question of why Linda had hired me. Surely, she wanted to keep the case out of the news to protect her own secrets.
I pulled up the picture I had screen capped of Belinda Warren.
Surely….
There was just something about her eyes….
I dragged the image to the garbage and abandoned it there.
It had been a whim, and it wouldn’t have helped figure out what had happened to Adam, anyway. Not if Linda wasn’t the killer.
I texted Mac and let him know. I had dragged him down my rabbit trail, might as well relieve his mind on this subject.
His response was short and to the point: Don’t believe the results.
I smacked my phone on my desk. That didn’t help! They were her fingerprints. Her permanent ID. They said she was Linda Smith, so she was Linda Smith. Period. End of sentence. Linda Smith was just a woman who wanted to get homeless kids off the street. And hadn’t Mac wanted to stay out of it, anyway? Who was he to tell me to keep digging? I got up and paced, arms swinging at my side.
This case was unusual for me. Not just because it was a weird murder, but the number of trails I had to follow was beyond normal. The first murder I had investigated had been straight forward. My client suspected her mother-in-law. She had wanted her mother-in-law followed, and evidence found. Done and done. The death of Rufus the Rottweiler was proven to be murder and the culprit was tried and sentenced for animal cruelty.
As for people murders, I hadn’t done many, and my own tasks were simple. Follow up on the one clue that was nagging at the survivors—that kind of thing.
This one, with a committee of people to keep tabs on and his family life to pursue, my bulletin board was hardly sufficient to hold the tangle of notes and push pins and string. This person suspected drugs, that person called him a cheater. Despite his being the most giving, selfless man who ever lived, he looked, to me, like kind of a prick.
No personal relationships to speak of, only stuff that made him look good. Nobody knew what kind of food he liked, or what jokes made him laugh. They just knew he was a living saint walking the earth.
No one was a living saint. “Sorry, world.” I spoke to my wall of notes. “He can’t be that good. Not if he also cheated, had no other personal relationships, and was not in touch with h
is parents or siblings. I’m on team Linda now. He did something horrendous that got him killed.” I pushed a pin into the forehead of his professional headshot. “And he probably deserved it.”
My wall of notes always revealed my biases. It was humbling, but useful. For example, my notes related to Rafe Winter were too thin. His cultiness nagged at me. Cults killed people. It was kind of their thing. Maybe not all of them, but enough.
I called him.
“Maura Garrison, I’m glad you reached out.”
I mentally gagged. “I think it’s time we meet again, don’t you?”
“I am always ready. Are you sure you are ready?”
I decided I wasn’t. “Soon. Let’s put it on the calendar for tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d like to talk to…” I checked the wall for the name… “Boadicea the River”
“Bodie isn’t a killer.”
“Good to know. Can I have her number and say you sent me?”
“I won’t send you. Only you can go, and willingly.” He read off a phone number. “But be careful, Maura, she is a charismatic woman, and I would hate to see you sucked into her cult.”
“I’ll keep my guard up. See you tomorrow.” I ended the call. Boadicea was in a cult, huh? Talk about pot and kettle business.
I paced the floor while I dialed her number. I wanted to know more about the rivalry between the two groups and their leaders. If Adam had been killed as some kind of rival king, these two rival cult leaders might have had an interest in it.
Boadicea the River’s phone went straight to voicemail. “Don’t hinder our communication by sending it through the air. Come to me at the temple and speak spirit to spirit instead.” Then she gave an address, not far from my office. I decided to walk to work off my excess energy.
Boadicea the River’s temple was a little house on a side street two blocks from my building. It couldn’t have been more than five-hundred square feet. It was painted deep purple and had a shake roof. A hand painted sign on the lawn said, “Temple of the Signs” in large letters, and below, in script, “Palmistry, Tea Leaves, Aura Readings, Signs from the River.” A waving cat statue greeted me from the picture window of the tiny temple.
The Book of Judges Page 18
