Morris and Chastain Investigations: Play With Fire & Midnight at the Oasis

by Justin Gustainis

  LIBBY CHASTAIN’S CONDO was painted in earth tones, and her taste in furniture ran toward Scandinavian modern. FBI Special Agents O’Donnell and Fenton sat on a couch from Denmark, sipping Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee and waiting for Libby to sit down so that the four of them could have a conversation.

  Eventually, Libby quit bustling about and took a seat in a chair across the glass coffee table from the two agents. Morris sat in a matching chair ten feet to Libby’s left.

  Libby looked at Fenton and O’Donnell and said, “I assume this is official business?”

  “Well, it is, and it isn’t,” Fenton said. Libby thought his lean brown face had more lines in it than she remembered from two years ago, when the four of them had done battle against the very forces of Hell.

  “We’re not here on official business, but we’re here about official business.” O’Donnell frowned. “That was about as clear as mud, wasn’t it?”

  Morris nodded at her. “Pretty much.”

  “Maybe we ought to start at the beginning,” Fenton said. “Somebody is burning churches – well, houses of worship – and black magic is involved, but in a way that we don’t understand.”

  Morris leaned forward, frown lines creasing his forehead. “There was a Catholic church someplace in Minnesota that burned down a few weeks ago,” he said. “One of yours?”

  Fenton nodded. “That was the first, far as we can tell.”

  “Where else?” Libby asked.

  “A synagogue in Albuquerque, New Mexico, three nights ago,” O’Donnell said. “That’s it – so far.”

  Libby added milk to her coffee and stirred, slowly. “Those are pretty disparate examples,” she said. “Minnesota and New Mexico, Catholics and Jews. Are you sure they’re connected?”

  “Connections exist on two levels,” O’Donnell said. “One is the means of ignition used.”

  “The perp – or perps – are using multiple thermite devices, to make sure the buildings burn quickly and completely,” Fenton said. “That’s what was used in Duluth, for sure, and the preliminary fire marshal’s report in Albuquerque says it was probably the same thing. This isn’t a bunch of kids running around with a can of gas and a box of matches.”

  “Thermite’s pretty unusual for amateurs, all right,” Morris said. “What’s the other connection?”

  “In each case,” O’Donnell said, “a clergyman affiliated with the place of worship was found dead inside.”

  Morris whistled softly, then asked, “Cause of death the same?”

  “That’s where it gets tricky,” O’Donnell told him. “By a fluke of luck, the body of the priest in Duluth was not consumed by the flames completely. So, in his case there’s no doubt homicide was the C.O.D.”

  “Not just homicide,” Fenton said, “but ritual murder. The poor bastard was disemboweled, castrated, a bunch of other stuff. And occult symbols were carved into the body.”

  “What kind of occult symbols?” Libby asked.

  “We had drawings made,” Fenton said. “I’ve got a copy in my briefcase that I’ll leave with you. But it’s just the usual Satanic stuff.”

  “And what about the one in New Mexico?” Libby asked. “The Rabbi.”

  “The fire got him,” Fenton said. “The body’s just a charred lump of meat. They’re going to try for an autopsy, but...” Fenton suddenly sounded tired.

  “And there’s other evidence of black magic in the Minnesota case,” O’Donnell said. She briefly explained how she had come to sniff out the vestiges of black magic in the undamaged stolen car.

  “Until you got to the last part, I thought it might just be a gang of psychopaths,” Libby said. “But black magic in the car – that changes everything.”

  “Yeah, it sure as shit does,” O’Donnell said.

  Morris refilled his coffee cup from the pot Libby had put on the table and said, “Which raises the question – what do you want from us?”

  “We want you to take over the investigation,” Fenton said. “Unofficially, of course.”

  “Why?” Libby asked. “Quincey and I probably couldn’t do a better job on this case than you could, and you’ve got the FBI behind you, to boot.”

  “That’s kind of the problem,” Fenton said. “We don’t have the Bureau behind us any more – not this time.”

  “What Dale means is, we’ve been taken off the case,” O’Donnell told them. “Somebody in Washington decided that these church burnings constitute hate crimes, and are thus to be properly handled by the Civil Rights Division.”

  “And you can hardly report to the bureaucrats that you’ve uncovered evidence of the use of black magic, can you?” Libby said.

  “Not hardly,” O’Donnell said grimly.

  “But we’ve explained what we found to Sue,” Fenton said. Susan Whitlavich was the head of the Behavioral Science Division. Surprisingly open-minded for an FBI administrator, she had accepted the existence of the supernatural and often sent Fenton and O’Donnell out to investigate it. “She says that there’s enough money in the contingency fund to hire you two as consultants, reporting directly to her – well, through Colleen and me.”

  “Sue had to assign us to another case,” O’Donnell said. “Fortunately, it put us close enough to New York so we could talk to you guys in person.”

  “What other case?” Morris asked. “If you’ll pardon me for being nosy.”

  “Aw, we’ve been over in New Jersey all day,” Fenton said. “Half a dozen homeless people have been killed and partially eaten over the last few months, and some genius thinks it might be the Jersey Devil. It’s bullshit.”

  Morris gave him half a smile. “You don’t figure it really is the Jersey Devil?”

  “It’ll probably turn out to be some other homeless guy who thinks he’s Hannibal Lecter,” O’Donnell said. “But, in the meantime, we got these civil rights agents investigating the church bombings as just another series of hate crimes. It’s more than that – it has to be – but they’ll never see it, because they’re not trained to see it.”

  “So, what do you say, guys?” Fenton asked. “The Bureau can meet your usual fee, unless it’s gone way up since the last time.” He looked at Morris. “I’d have thought you, in particular, Quincey, would be eager for some work, after six months in the slam. Congrats, by the way, on getting the charges dropped.”

  “I am eager,” Morris told him. “Or rather, I was – until Libby and I found a gig out west recently.”

  Fenton’s eyebrows went up. “You’re working already?”

  “Afraid we are,” Libby said. “I think we’d be happy to take on this job for you–” she looked at Morris, who nodded “–but our first obligation is to the people who’ve hired us.”

  “Well, shit,” Fenton said.

  “For what it’s worth,” Morris said, “the job we’ve taken on has got some pretty serious implications. Or, rather, they could become serious, if we don’t do what we’ve been hired to.”

  “This job’s got some serious implications, too,” O’Donnell said. “These churches aren’t being chosen at random. As Dale pointed out, if you’ve just burned a Catholic church in Minnesota and decide your next target is a synagogue, there are plenty of them closer than New Mexico.”

  “I suppose you’ve checked for connections between the two congregations, the clergymen, and so forth,” Morris said.

  “’Course we did,” Fenton said. “We haven’t found anything that looks like a common factor.” He shook his head slowly. “There’s a black magic ritual being carried out here. We don’t know what it is yet, but somebody’s going to an awful lot of trouble. You’ve got to figure he’s expecting a pretty big payoff.”

  “And since black magic is involved,” O’Donnell said, “it’s a reasonable assumption that the payoff is going to be something pretty horrible.”

  “You’re probably right,” Libby said. “But we have to finish the job we’ve got before we take on another one. I’m really sorry.”

  “W
hy don’t you talk to Barry Love, in New York?” Morris said. “He’s pretty good at this kind of stuff.”

  Fenton shook his head again. “Too erratic. The guy’s just not dependable.”

  “We gave him a job last year,” O’Donnell said, “and he let us down pretty badly. Maybe it wasn’t his fault – we still don’t have all the facts, but...”

  “But he’s poison with Behavioral Science, whether he deserves to be or not,” Fenton said. “There’s no way that Sue would hire him again.”

  After a few seconds’ silence, Morris said, “Have you talked to John Wesley Hester? I know he’s British, but he’s worked in the States quite a few times. And he’s good, too.”

  O’Donnell was looking at Morris strangely. “Oh – you didn’t know.”

  Morris stared at her. “Didn’t know what?”

  “Hester’s dead, Quincey,” she said. “I’m sorry to bring you bad news. I assumed you’d have heard, but I guess you were pretty busy last year, with one thing or another.”

  Morris was staring into his coffee cup, as if the answer to all of life’s questions might be found there. Without looking up, he asked, “What happened?”

  “Way we heard it,” Fenton said, “last year, Hester was involved in that hinky business at Scion House, outside London. There were rumors that Jeffrey Scion, or maybe his brother, had let loose a trapped demon that had been discovered while doing some excavations for a new wine cellar.”

  “I remember seeing something online about that,” Libby said, “although Hester’s name didn’t come up in the story. Wasn’t there some kind of fire?”

  O’Donnell nodded. “A huge one, by all accounts. Destroyed Scion House and killed a bunch of people, the Scion brothers included.” She shrugged. “Maybe there was demonic activity, after all.”

  “Hester’s body was found among the dead,” Fenton said. “Positively identified. Sorry, man. Didn’t know you two were close.”

  “We weren’t blood brothers, or anything,” Morris said. “But, still... he was a good man.”

  “And so are you, Quincey,” O’Donnell said. “And Libby is a damn fine witch. That’s why we need you.”

  “And you can have us, too,” Morris said. “As soon as this job is done.”

  Fenton and O’Donnell looked at each other, and seemed to mutually acknowledge that further entreaty was useless. Fenton looked at Morris, blew a breath out through pursed lips and asked, “Any idea how long this thing you’re doing is likely to take?”

  “Impossible to say,” Libby told him. “Although...” She looked at Morris, who thought for a moment then nodded. Libby went on, “It might be possible for you to help us speed the day.”

  “By doin’ what?” Fenton asked.

  “Have either of you ever heard,” Morris said, “of a guy named Robert Sutorius?”

  Fenton frowned then looked at his partner. Colleen gave him a small headshake. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “But hum a few bars, and we’ll see if we can fake it.”

  “Sutorius is supposed to be, for lack of a better term, an occult burglar,” Libby told them. “And I don’t mean by that a magician who steals, although he may have magical training. I’m talking about someone who steals from magicians.”

  “And probably from other people in the supernatural world, too,” Morris said.

  Fenton grinned at Morris. “The only fella I know who’s really good at that stuff is you.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Morris said. “But not this time.”

  “What do you want to know about this guy?” Fenton asked.

  “Principally, where to find him,” Morris said.

  O’Donnell had seemed to be staring off into the middle distance. She said, slowly, “You know, I think I read something in a report last year...”

  She looked at Libby. “Does this building have Wi-Fi?” Upon receiving a nod, O’Donnell picked up the briefcase she’d brought with her, opened it, and brought out a Dell laptop. Then she produced a power cord. “Is there someplace where I can plug this in? My battery’s running pretty low.”

  “No problem.” Libby took the end of the cord and found an open outlet. Straightening up, she said, “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee you a secure connection.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” O’Donnell said. “My computer’s encrypted, and so’s the one at the other end.”

  O’Donnell worked the keyboard for a while. “Seems to me there was mention of a guy like that in something I got from Monica Reyes, in the New Orleans Field Office.”

  “Other people in the Bureau know what you guys... really do?” Morris asked.

  “A few of them,” O’Donnell said. “Monica’s cool – she’s seen her share of the weird shit.” She kept working.

  “Looks like we may be due for another trip to New Orleans,” Libby said, and made a face.

  “What’s the matter?” Fenton said. “You don’t like the Big Easy?”

  “It’s a nice town,” Libby said. “But Quincey and I had a couple of bad experiences there a couple of years ago.”

  “I didn’t say I thought the guy was in New Orleans,” O’Donnell said without looking up from the keyboard. “I only said that’s where – aha!”

  “You found him?” Morris asked.

  “Found the report I was thinking of, anyway. Give me a second.”

  She scrolled down the document, her eyes moving back and forth rapidly. Then she said, “Bingo!”

  “What have you got?” Libby said.

  “Listen to this: The missing talisman was later traced to Robert Sutorius, a professional thief who specializes in matters involving the occult. Sutorius was found to be residing in Brooklyn, New York. Agents from the New York Field Office tried to interview Sutorius, but found him uncooperative. In any case, Sutorius is believed to work for hire, so it is unlikely that the talisman remains in his possession.”

  Morris and Libby looked at each other. “Brooklyn?” Libby said.

  “That was true when the report was written,” O’Donnell said, “which was a little more than two years ago. No guarantee he’s still there.”

  “Well, let’s find out,” Libby said, and stood up.

  “Going to go work a little magic?” Fenton asked.

  “I may have to,” Libby said, “but I thought I’d try the easy way first – with the phone book. Excuse me.”

  When Libby had left the room, Fenton asked Morris, “You think a guy like that is actually gonna be listed?”

  “Hell, people who want a magic wand or a spell book stolen have got to find him somehow,” Morris said. “Anyway, we’ll know in a minute.”

  It was more like two minutes before Libby Chastain returned, carrying the phone directory for Brooklyn.

  “The Goddess be thanked, he’s actually in here,” she said. “Court Street, in Cobble Hill. We could even give him a call, but I think it might be better if we arrived unannounced.” She looked at Morris, who was grinning, and asked, “Tomorrow?”

  “Yeah,” Quincey Morris said. “Tomorrow.”

  Twenty

  GO TO YOUTUBE. Type “church burnings” in the search box, then click on the little magnifying glass icon.

  On the first page (of the more than thirteen thousand results), scroll down. About halfway along the page, you’ll find a clip labeled “Decatur, AL Church Burning.” Click on it, and this is what you’ll see:

  A high-tech graphic reading “News Alert” appears on the screen, then disappears in a flurry of animated motion to reveal a pretty blonde with long, straight hair seated at a news desk. In the same shot, to the left of her face, is a graphic reading “Developing Story.”

  The blonde points her good looks at the camera and says, with no trace whatsoever of a Southern accent, “Good Evening. At this hour, a fire is raging at the Sacred Word Baptist Church in Decatur. Randall Carlson, from News Channel 43’s Decatur Newsroom is at the scene. Randall?”

  Cut to a well-dressed black man in his late twenties, who is looking s
quarely at the camera, a grim expression on his round face. He holds a microphone with a clearly visible “WAFE News 43” logo on it and he is standing just in front of a line of yellow police tape. Behind him is a scene of chaos – flames, flashing lights of several colors, and men, some in yellow slickers and others in uniforms, running about and shouting. As the young man begins to speak, a graphic reading “Randall Carlson – Decatur Bureau” briefly appears at the bottom of the screen.

  “Sharon, I’m here at the scene of the immense fire which seems destined to destroy the Sacred Word Baptist Church, which has been a popular center of worship in Decatur for over forty years.” Unlike the anchor, his accent suggests that he has lived in the south at some point in his past.

  Pre-recorded video now fills the screen with images of the fire, which is about to engulf the church steeple, and the cross atop it, in hungry flames. The reporter’s voice can be heard off-screen.

  “Witnesses say the fire broke out somewhere between eleven thirty and midnight, and that the fire spread so quickly, much of the building was aflame when the first fire trucks arrived, although they, of course, responded very quickly.

  The video of the burning steeple fades out and is replaced by another prerecorded segment, which shows the reporter interviewing a local resident.

  “Can I have your name, please?” He pushes the microphone toward the face of a woman in her sixties, stopping about an inch from her ample chin. She wears tightly-permed white hair, a print dress, and horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Mary Rose Carteret,” she says, clearly nervous to be on television.

  “And you were a member of the congregation here at Sacred Word Baptist?”

  “Oh, yes. For over thirty years. I never missed a Sunday service, except for that time when I had the flu.”

  With the tact and sensitivity of journalists everywhere, the reporter asks her, “And how did you feel when you saw the church in flames?”

  The woman seems at a loss for words at first, but then manages to get out, “Terrible, just terrible. How could God allow something like this to happen?”

  Cut to the reporter, live again in front of the yellow tape. He says, “I’m here with Captain Travis McNeal, head of the Decatur Department of Public Safety.” The camera operator adjusts for a two-shot that includes a tall heavy man with a red face and a blue uniform. Unlike the men and women under his command, it is clear from his clean face and clothing that Captain McNeal has been nowhere near the fire tonight. When he answers questions, he looks at the camera, not the reporter. Captain McNeal has done this before.