by Thomas Scott
After seeing the size of the lobby and its carnival-like atmosphere Virgil was surprised by the fact that Pate’s office was no bigger than his own. It was decorated in muted tones, a contrast so stark from the rest of the building Virgil was almost more amazed by its utilitarian form and function than he was of the lobby just down the hall.
Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people carry a look of the profession they practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled, his eyes held a certain light that looked both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser-known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and the armpits of his shirt were soaked through with perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform it looked as if they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.
Pate stood, but before he did he affixed the metal bands of his arm crutches around his forearms, grasped the handles, then pulled himself out of his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, pointed to the chair with the end of one of the crutches and said, “Welcome Detective. Please, have a seat.”
They shook hands and when Pate squeezed his fingers harder and longer than necessary, Virgil said, “That’s an impressive grip, Mr. Pate. Please release my hand.”
Pate chuckled as if caught in a polite fib, the kind one might tell to save another of an unnecessary embarrassment. “I prefer Reverend, if you please,” he said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve spent years moving around with the aid of these crutches. It tends to build up one’s musculature, wouldn’t you agree? I often forget my own strength. How exactly may I help you, Detective? My wife said you wanted to speak with me about Franklin’s unfortunate passing.”
Virgil noticed two things right away: Like his wife, Pate had referred to the victim by his first name, which was indicative of a certain level of familiarity beyond a business relationship, and two, he had referred to Dugan’s murder as an ‘unfortunate passing.’ Virgil decided to go for some shock value.
“The victim was shot to death in his own driveway, Reverend. The top of his head was blown off and you could use what’s left of his skull for a gravy boat. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate passing.”
Pate ignored the statement in its entirety and said, “There is a war going on out there, Detective. I witness it every day. The book of Revelation speaks of what is to come and the fate that will befall those who choose to ignore the word of God. The script is already written, the players already cast. The outcome for those who follow the teachings of the bible is a foregone conclusion. The only real question left to ponder, the only real way to fight the war, is to ask yourself, where do you stand in the eyes of the Lord, Detective? Do you stand in the light of God, or in the darkness like those who would murder a man in his own home? You come to my office with intentions of questioning me over something I know nothing about regarding I man I knew as a professional, a friend, and a member of this church. I find your behavior and your demeanor not only questionable but repulsive.”
Virgil pointed a finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you preach to on TV, Reverend. I’m not here to be your witness. When was the last time you saw Franklin Dugan?”
When Pate answered the fire had gone out of his voice and his eyes seemed dull. “I saw him last week, at the taping of the show. He was here, as he always was.”
“When was the last time you were at his home?”
“I have never been to his home, Detective. Ever. Let me ask you something, if I may. Franklin was one of our biggest benefactors. Why in the world would I or anyone from this church for that matter want to see him harmed?”
“That’s a fine question, sir. It’s also one that I don’t have the answer to. But here’s an even better one; Why do you think, Reverend, that the man who was personally responsible for the approval of a five million dollar loan to your church was murdered just days after you got the money? Better yet, how is it sir, that you were able to obtain that kind of credit using an all but condemned building as collateral? Is any of this starting to make sense to you, Reverend? Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of the investigation currently being conducted by the Texas Department of Insurance regarding your former ministry in Houston?”
Virgil thought he might try to defend himself, but what Pate said next surprised him and left him momentarily unable to speak. “My wife tells me of her past relationship with you when you were schoolmates. She’s an interesting woman, is she not? We’re having a viewing party this Saturday, here at our facility. We watch the broadcast with a select few members of the congregation to try to get a feel for how well our message will be received the next day. She’s asked me to invite you to attend. Would ten a.m. work for you, Detective?”
__________
When he left the Pate Ministry complex Virgil realized he had more questions than answers. As he headed downtown for a court appearance on a previous case he spoke with both Rosencrantz and Donatti to get a feel for any information they might have gathered from their canvass of the double murder. Rosie’s voice crackled over a bad cell signal. “Found a paperboy who says he might have seen the van. He’s just a kid. Sort of a punk, little bit of smartass in him, but just a kid nonetheless. Or hell, maybe he’s completely normal and I’m just getting old. Either way, he didn’t see anything of value. No plate, no make. Says he forgot one of the houses along his route and had to double back. That’s when he saw the van. But there’s nothing there.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”
“No shit?”
“I shit thee not.”
“Prints?”
“Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”
“All right, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”
“Already on it.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Just spec if you want it.”
“Let’s have it,” Virgil said.
“If you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Jerry, so that leaves the banker, right?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank—”
“Stay with me here, Rosie.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Jerry was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”
Virgil thought about that for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “All right, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”
“You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”
“No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. I’m just pulling in now. Probably be here the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.” Virgil killed the phone, parked the truck and headed into court. He was fifteen minutes late. If the court were running on time, the judge would not be pleased.
11
__________
From the moment of birth, the hunger of death feeds from an army of lif
e. Day by day it creeps ever closer, a silent, merciless hunter, its endurance without end, its clemency non-existent. It chews on the mind, feeds on the body, digests the spirit, and regurgitates the soul. It is the single, inescapable, inevitable end of everyone, and no one knew that better than Rhonda Rhodes.
Rhonda worked six days a week as a home Hospice nurse where she currently served nineteen patients, all of them in their final battle with the Big C. It was a gut-wrenching way to make a living, but Rhonda knew, just knew, down to what she called her ever-lasting soul, that what she did for a living was the reason she was ever set down on God’s green earth.
Rhonda and her ever-lasting husband, Tom, had been married for twenty-seven good years. Tom, a career fireman for the city of Indianapolis had retired only three months ago, and already the spare time was all but eating him alive. He wanted Rhonda to retire as well, but Rhonda was a Hospice nurse when they met, and, as she so often told anyone who might ask, ‘probably will be till the day I die.’
Her days tended to start late and run later, a sore spot for Tom that just didn’t want to heal. “The Big C works on its own schedule,” she always told him, just as she did now. Tom was on his hands and knees in the middle of their driveway, pulling the weeds out of the cracks in the aging cement, the sleeves of his t-shirt damp from the sweat he wiped from his forehead.
“Won’t be long and we’re gonna have to replace the drive,” he said to her without turning around. She stood just behind him in the driveway, ready to leave for work. Rhonda still wore the traditional nurse’s uniform—white skirt and blouse, white hose, and white leather shoes. It may have been a throwback from years past, but she refused to dress in those silly scrubs everyone else was wearing these days. It seemed every week one of the other nurses was going on about this new print or that new design. It was as if somewhere along the way nursing had become secondary to making a fashion statement, and a bad one at that. Rhonda would keep her whites, thank you very much. Besides, she thought the patients always seemed to appreciate her attire. More than a few had told her so over the years, and if it worked for them, bless their ever-lasting hearts, it worked for her.
“The Wimberley’s down the street had theirs done a couple of weeks ago,” Tom said. Rhonda realized she’d drifted a bit. Tom was talking about something the Wimberley’s had bought. A new car? “Got a deal from Bill. You remember Bill? From over at the three-two?”
“I’m sorry dear, what was that? The Wimberley’s bought a car from Bill?”
Tom dug at a particularly stout weed that did not want to give its ground, and when it did finally let loose, he scraped his knuckles across the jagged edge of a crack in the cement and tore the skin off the tops of three fingers. He yelled loud enough that the next-door neighbor’s dog began to bark. Tom stuck the back of his fingers in his mouth, sucked off the blood, and then pressed them into the side of his jeans. “No, they didn’t buy a car from Bill. He poured their new drive for them.”
“Let me see your hand,” she said.
“Are you listening to me?” Tom said. “I’m trying to tell you we need a new driveway.” His knees popped when he stood.
“Tom, you’re bleeding. Let me see.”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing. You going to work?”
“Yes. I’ve got four patients today. One of them is new, that little girl I was telling you about last night, God bless her. She’s first, and I’ll probably be there for most of the ever-lasting day, then I’ve got follow-ups on the other three. We can have left over’s or I can stop and get us something on the way home.”
Tom pulled his hand from the side of his pants and inspected his knuckles. “Either way,” he said. Then he softened his voice. “It wasn’t so bad when we were both working, but I miss you not being here with me.”
“I miss you too darling, I do. But my patients need me.” Rhonda watched the blood fill the cracks in the broken skin of Tom’s fingers and saw that her husband needed her too. “Tom, really, let me see your hand. I’ve got bandages in the trunk. Let me patch that up for you.”
“Go on to work, Rhonda,” he said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll live.”
Tom was right.
He lived.
__________
The Sids batted the idea back and forth—this was a week ago—right before what they called ‘Go Time.’ Junior wanted to be creative. Senior wanted to be practical. Junior argued that creativity could be useful and work to their advantage. If they varied their methods enough, the fucking cops would be running around chasing their tails and probably wouldn’t put two and two together right away, if ever. It would give them all the cover they’d need.
Senior argued that creativity could, and probably would lead to mistakes and missed opportunities. “Besides,” he’d said, “With this many killings, you’re talking about a lot of creativity. Be better if we keep it simple. We’ve got the guns and the silencers, and the van is ready. Let’s just take our shots and be done with it.”
“Those fucking silencers are pretty cool,” Junior said. “Gotta love Indiana…legal silencers and all.”
“That might end up changing,” Senior said.
“Yeah, probably will,” Junior said. “Too late now though.”
So they’d settled on the practical and that had landed them across the street from Beans Coffee shop with Junior at the wheel and Senior at the trigger. They watched as Rhonda Rhodes pulled to the curb and walked inside, the glare of Rhonda’s stark white nurse’s uniform almost too bright for Senior’s scope. He had to squint to keep from being temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the damned thing. He followed her track into the store, but didn’t pull the trigger. He’d catch her on the way out. That was the plan.
Go time, baby.
__________
Rhonda Rhodes parked her car in front of her favorite stop off, Beans Coffee Shop, gathered her paperwork, then walked inside and took a seat at a table by the window. Beans was usually busy during the morning rush, but later in the day slowed just enough that Rhonda could sit in peace for thirty minutes or so and tend to her paperwork. The dying, bless their ever-lasting hearts, created a lot of paper.
Beans was unique not for their quaint name, but because instead of counter service, they employed actual wait staff who would come to your table and take your order. Plus, their prices were right—two bucks a cup with free refills—unlike those newer fancy-schmancy places that were popping up on every blessed corner that made you wait in line for a paper cup with different sizes, the names of which no one ever really understood. Her favorite waiter approached the table with his usual smile in place.
“Good morning, Rhonda,” the waiter said. “Get you your usual?”
“Yes, please,” she said as she spread her paperwork across the table. “I’ve got quite the schedule today.”
“I’ll bet you do a lot of good for a lot of people,” he said, and when he did, Rhonda felt like he meant it.
“I do what I can. I’ll probably be doing this until the day I die.”
“Well, our coffee will keep you going until then, that’s for sure. Be right back.”
The waiter returned a few minutes later with a large mug full of brew and a muffin wrapped in cellophane. “Muffin’s on the house today, Rhonda. Enjoy.”
She smiled and said thank you, but the waiter remained in place. “Mind if I ask you something, Rhonda?”
“Sure.”
“How do you do it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you do, you and others like you, but to serve the dying like that, day after day, I just don’t think I could do it, you know?”
Rhonda set her pen down, took a sip of coffee and looked the young man in the eyes. “Everyone in here is dying. The difference is, some know it, and others don’t. The ones I serve, the ones with the Big C, they know it. I just help them during the final part of their lives. I’ll tell you this though, the suffering I’ve seen. My land, sometimes it’s almost too much. I pray to the lord every night t
hat when my time comes I go quickly. I sometimes think I’d rather take a bullet than to suffer through even half of what I’ve seen.”
The waiter glanced at his other tables. One of his other customers held a cup in the air, eyebrows raised. “Hey, I better get back to work. I wouldn’t worry, Rhonda. The work you’re doing, you’ll probably live forever.”
“Well, I hope you’re right,” she said.
Thirty minutes later, when Rhonda Rhodes stepped out of the coffee shop, the Sids got busy. Junior had the engine running already—nothing screamed get-away vehicle like an engine start after a gunshot, silenced or not. Senior had been lying on his back on the floor of the van, the rifle held at port arms. When Junior said “Good to go,” Senior sat up and put the business end of the barrel through the custom hole in the side of the van, just under the windows in the back. He squinted through the scope, drew a bead on his target, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. When he did, the silenced bullet smashed through Rhonda Rhodes’ sternum and chewed through her chest organs like the Big C on speed.
The waiter had gone behind the counter to put Rhonda’s cash in the till and brew another pot of their house blend. As he turned back around he saw Rhonda walk out the door and down the sidewalk toward her car. When the bullet hit her chest it lifted her from the pavement and tossed her back, her arms and legs flying forward. The waiter would later tell the police it looked like—at least for a moment—that her body hung in the air in the shape of a big C, and wasn’t that ironic because that what she always called it, the big C. But the cops didn’t care about irony so the waiter decided he would not tell them of his comment to Rhonda about her living forever, because as anyone will tell you, with the cops, you just never really know.
So, as it went, the waiter was wrong, but Rhonda’s prayers were answered. She went quick, dead before she hit the ever-lasting pavement. The hole in her chest left a red stain on her throwback whites that looked like a rose petal on a blanket of snow in the middle of an otherwise fine summer day.
