Gnosis

by Tom Wallace

  John Elijah Whitehouse, the Reverend, sat in a wheelchair at mid-court, the light above him glowing like a halo. He was flanked on both sides by IV towers, each one with a bag dangling from the top. A tube trailed down from each bag, into a needle, through which the medicine was dispensed into his hands and arms. Behind the wheelchair a green oxygen tank stood like a lone guardian angel. A clear tube snaked its way around the left side of the chair, leading to the Reverend’s face, where two vents supplying oxygen had been inserted into his nostrils.

  As Dantzler drew closer, he was struck by two aspects of the old man’s appearance: the Reverend’s hair and beard were long and white as cotton, and he couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. His thin, bony body seemed almost lost inside his ill-fitting striped pajamas and blue housecoat.

  “They tell you I’m dying?” the Reverend barked in a voice stronger than Dantzler would have expected from someone so frail. “If they didn’t, you ought to be able to tell just by looking at me.”

  He laughed but it lacked mirth. “You don’t even have to be a particularly good detective to see what pathetic shape I’m in.”

  Dantzler sat in the chair, leaned back, and nodded at the old man. “Sorry to hear about your situation. Cancer’s a tough break.”

  “Cancer’s not tough! I’m tough. One of the toughest old birds you’ll ever run across. I’ve survived twenty-nine years in this hell hole, so I know I’m tough. Now, cancer… well, that’s something entirely different. Cancer is from the dark regions, an evil Satan loosed upon the world to make us question God’s love for his children.” He shifted in the wheelchair, careful not to dislodge the IV needles. “You believe that, Detective?”

  “I don’t know why I’m here,” Dantzler answered, “but I doubt if it’s to discuss theology or the nature of good and evil.”

  “We’ll get to why you’re here in the good old by and by,” the Reverend said. “Do you believe in God, Detective Dantzler?”

  “Come on, Reverend. I didn’t come here-”

  “Answer the question, Detective. It’s simple enough. God-yes or no?”

  “I believe in a Creator, yes.”

  “But not the God of the Bible? Yahweh?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The biblical Yahweh is a fictional character created by the J writer.”

  “Fictional? Like Superman?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would make Yahweh a very special fictional character, wouldn’t it? Last I heard, no one prays to Superman.”

  “Look, Reverend-”

  “Let’s see… you believe in a Creator but not Yahweh. Unravel that for me, will you?”

  “I believe there is a God beyond the God of the Bible.”

  “And how would you characterize your relationship with this God beyond the God of the Bible?”

  “Strained.”

  “Any chance it will improve?”

  “That’s up to him.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, Detective. It’s your task to find him, not his task to find you.”

  “That’s letting him off too easy. He needs to do some work.”

  “Do you believe God loves us, Detective?”

  Dantzler shook his head. “In the entire Bible, do you know how many people God actually says he loves?”

  “Enlighten me, Detective.”

  “One. Jacob.”

  Eli smiled and nodded approvingly. “Malachi, first chapter, second verse. God said, ‘I loved Jacob.’ What do you make of that?”

  Dantzler shrugged. “He also said, ‘and I hated Esau.’”

  “God loves you, Detective Dantzler, regardless of your inclination to disbelieve it.” Eli paused for several seconds, then said, “Since you are a fan of the J writer, I take it you don’t subscribe to the belief that Moses authored the first five books of the Bible. The Torah.”

  “That’s a marvelous myth, but I doubt any real biblical scholar believes it.”

  “Scholars have no claim on the truth.”

  “Nor do religious leaders.”

  Eli nodded in agreement. “You’re not a Christian, are you, Detective?”

  “More of a Gnostic, I’d say.”

  “Do you know where the term Gnostic comes from?”

  “Gnosis. Greek for knowledge.”

  “Do you possess gnosis, Detective?”

  “I chase it, but I don’t always catch up to it.”

  “I like you, Detective Dantzler. We don’t have much in common, and I think you’re dead wrong, but at least you’re a thinker. That’s more than I can say for most folks. They tend to be non-thinking sheep.”

  “Isn’t that what religious leaders want? Sheep, blind followers?”

  “Religious leaders, politicians, merchants, generals-blind followers are precisely what they want. Not me. I always appreciated those few who challenged my beliefs. Kept me on my toes.”

  “Look, Reverend-”

  “Charlie Bolton still kicking around these days?”

  “Yeah. Charlie is very much alive. Retired about ten years ago. Spends most of his time fishing.”

  “I always respected Charlie. Thought he was fair with me when all that nonsense was happening. He was fair because he wasn’t sold on my guilt. His partner, what was that rascal’s name?”

  “Dan Matthews.”

  “Yeah, that’s him. Tough hombre, he was. Certainly not the warm, friendly type. How is he doing these days?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Murdered, correct?”

  “If you knew, why did you ask?”

  “For the sheer fun of it, Detective.”

  Dantzler stood. “Have fun at someone else’s expense, Reverend. I’m leaving.”

  “No, you’re not. There’s no way you leave now.”

  “Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “You couldn’t handle it if I called your bluff and let you walk out of here without knowing why I asked to meet with you. I doubt you would make it ten paces before your curiosity got the better of you. You would spin around like Fred Astaire, dance back in here like you had been summoned to God’s throne, and fall into that chair. Sit down, Detective. We both know you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Enough chit-chat, Reverend. Why am I here?”

  “To prove my innocence.”

  That wasn’t an answer Dantzler expected. “You’re putting me on, right?”

  “I’m as serious as this cancer inside me.”

  “Why should I believe you’re innocent?”

  “Because I’m telling you I am. I may have many negative qualities, Detective, but being a liar isn’t one of them.”

  Dantzler sat, stared at the floor for several seconds, and then looked at the Reverend. “You’ve been here since, what… ’eighty-two, and you’re just now declaring your innocence? In all those years, not one squawk, not one appeal. You never once cried foul. Something about that doesn’t ring true.”

  “I didn’t kill those two people, Detective Dantzler. That’s the truth.”

  “Why now? Why me?”

  “Why now? Let’s just say circumstances have changed within the past two weeks. Changed in a positive way from my standpoint. As for why I chose you, simple. I checked up on you, and from everything I could learn, you’re a first-rate detective.”

  Dantzler reached into his coat pocket and took out his notepad.

  “What are you doing?” Eli asked.

  “I’m gonna take some notes.”

  “No, you’re not. You don’t need notes. You’re young… your memory is fine. Put that away.”

  “Notes ensure accuracy.”

  “You’re not preparing for an exam, Detective. Lose the cheat sheet.”

  “You don’t like it, tell me to leave,” Dantzler waited for the Reverend’s response. When the old man remained silent, Dantzler flipped the notepad open, and said, “Tell me about the circumstances. What changed?”

  “Can’t do it, D
etective. Sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Silence is golden.”

  “Clever answer, but not very helpful,” Dantzler said, shaking his head.

  “It’s all you get.”

  “I don’t work closed cases.”

  “Then open it,” the Reverend said. “Give it a fresh look through a new pair of eyes. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get it right this time.”

  “They got it right.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “The evidence-all the evidence-says you were guilty.”

  “That evidence is much like some of your religious beliefs, Detective. It’s dead wrong.”

  “What’s wrong about it?”

  “That’s for you to find out.”

  “You’re not doing much to convince me to take this case.”

  “You’re already convinced, Detective. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”

  “Let’s say I believed you, Reverend, which I don’t. But for the sake of argument, I’ll pretend I do. You would have to give me a lot more than your assurance that you are innocent before I would agree to pursue this. A whole lot more.”

  “I’ll give you two reasons, Detective. First, the drugs. They found heroin, cocaine, and pills at the crime scene. I had nothing whatsoever to do with drugs. In any way, shape, or form. Ever. Wouldn’t even know what they look like or how they smell. They were planted at the scene.”

  “Not good enough. Anyone in your situation is going to say exactly that. Your second reason needs to be much better or we have nothing else to discuss.”

  “The gun. Do you really think I would leave the murder weapon at the scene? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

  Dantzler shook his head, said, “That’s still not enough.”

  “Check the Herald-Leader for the past two weeks. The obits. You’ll find your answer there.”

  “The obits?”

  “Dead people do tell tales, Detective.”

  “That’s it? Check the obituary page? That’s all you’ve got?”

  “It’s all you need. Trust me.”

  Dantzler stood. “Whose obit am I looking for? And why?”

  The Reverend shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “Why not give me the name?” Dantzler asked. “If it’s that important?”

  “Those circumstances I mentioned earlier? The change was positive, not perfect.”

  “So, you won’t give me the name? Or you can’t?”

  The Reverend shrugged.

  “Are you afraid of someone?”

  Silence.

  “What you are giving me is awfully thin, Reverend.”

  “No more talk, Detective. I’ve given you enough. You either do it or you don’t. Won’t make much difference to me, because I’ll likely be dead by the time you figure it out. It would be nice to see my name cleared before I’m gone, but if it doesn’t happen, so be it. When I face my Maker-your Creator-I’ll have to answer for my share of sins. But murder will not be in the book.”

  “You’re smooth, Reverend. I’ll give you that. I almost believe you.”

  “Look into it, Detective. If you don’t, you’re letting a murderer run free.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You do that.”

  Dantzler turned and walked out of the light and into the darkness.

  “Oh, Detective,” the Reverend said. “You do believe me.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dantzler made it back to Lexington just after nightfall. As always, the Saturday night in-town traffic was a nightmare, a whirling mass of far too many people in far too much of a hurry to get to far too many places. Everyone, it seemed, was always in a rush. Always on the go. Dantzler often wondered if Americans were somehow wired for constant movement. Maybe it was part of our DNA, like the color of our eyes. Whatever the reason, the evidence was clear that taking life easy, stopping to smell the roses, or appreciating Nature’s beauty were quaint concepts that had long ago vanished in this mad-dash country.

  He gave brief consideration to making an appearance at the police station, but decided not to. It was out of the way, and he didn’t want to fight the traffic any longer than necessary. Also, he knew there was no need to check in, not in today’s cell phone, text message, Twitter world. Had anything happened demanding his attention, he would have heard about it ten seconds after it occurred.

  After making a quick stop at the Liquor Barn on Richmond Road to buy a bottle of Pernod and some orange juice, he headed home, the small ranch-style house on Lakeshore Drive he bought in the mid-1990s. Home sounded good, especially after the craziness of the past few months, in which there had been four homicides and three suicides. God knows, he could use the down time, the quiet, being alone. There were books to be read, music to be listened to, tennis to be played, personal issues to be dealt with. In the blur of work, too many important items had been neglected or pushed aside. Like most Americans, he seemed to be trapped on a speedway going nowhere fast. It was a feeling he didn’t like.

  With each passing year, he became more aware of the reality that time charges relentlessly forward, never yielding, grabbing your life by the throat and carrying it toward its inevitable end. We are all weary and reluctant travelers hanging on as best we can, engaged in a futile attempt to outrun the clock, to win the mad dash to the finish line. But no matter how hard we fight it, how strong our resistance, or how swiftly we run, time always wins the race. Time is undefeated and always will be. That will never change.

  An hour later, sitting at home alone, he recalled a line written by the great T.S. Eliot: all time is unredeemable. The old poet got that one right, Dantzler had long ago concluded. True, work was important, and what he did mattered, but… he had to pay more attention to life outside the job. Time lost is time gone forever.

  He wanted off the speedway.

  Maybe that was why he felt such ambivalence toward his meeting with the Reverend. Did he really want to open that can of worms? Dig into a crime now almost thirty years old? Help a man who would surely be dead within a matter of weeks, possibly even days?

  Did he really want to invest his time and energy in a closed case?

  Dantzler’s silent answer to every question was no. And yet… he couldn’t simply dismiss it outright, no matter how much he might want to. The old man was right-Dantzler tended to believe him. Dantzler had interviewed his share of liars in the past, but the Reverend, though smooth-tongued enough to be a superb liar, was hitting at some truths.

  The detective instincts in Dantzler were screaming that this was a case with legs. It was, Dantzler conceded, and he admitted this with some reluctance, one he would probably look into. Like it or not, his interest had been piqued. His detective juices were flowing.

  There was yet another, ever greater reason for his interest-the possibility that an innocent man was in prison. That was unacceptable.

  *****

  Dantzler spent Saturday night drinking Pernod and orange juice and listening to Leonard Cohen CDs. On Sunday, he rose early, put himself through an hour of torture on the treadmill and Stairmaster, showered, and read the newspaper. After paying a couple of bills, he gave thought to playing a few sets of tennis with Randall Dennis, but quickly brushed them aside. He also toyed with the idea of phoning Laurie, but cast that notion out just as quickly. Their relationship had cooled during the past few months, which, both of them agreed, was for the best. Richard Bird, their captain, was in equal agreement. He was dead set against co-workers being involved romantically, and he had not been afraid to make his feelings known.

  Instead, Dantzler opted to dig into the stack of unread books, beginning with Harold Bloom’s Jesus and Yahweh: The Names Divine. He had read several of Bloom’s books and had always found the celebrated Yale professor and literary critic to be interesting, provocative, and enlightening. An hour into this one and Dantzler wasn’t disappointed. It was, he felt, Bloom’s best book to date.

  By three-thirty, howe
ver, Jesus and Yahweh had been usurped by Eli Whitehouse. Dantzler couldn’t get the Reverend’s words out of his head: I didn’t kill those two people, Detective. He set the book aside, looked up Charlie Bolton’s number, grabbed his cell phone, and punched in the numbers. Charlie answered after the first ring.

  “Jack,” he yelled, “if this isn’t life-or-death important, I’m gonna shoot you dead.”

  “You’d do better to shoot those fish you’re trying to catch. From what I hear, you can’t land one with a rod and reel.”

  Charlie laughed. “Much as I hate to admit it, there’s a good deal of truth in that statement. I’m an old man who can’t see.”

  “Clever, Charlie. Didn’t know you were up on your Hemingway.”

  “Hell, Jack, I met him once. Down in Key West a couple of years before he ate the shotgun. Shook his hand.”

  “You and Papa. Hard to envision.”

  “I only shook the man’s hand, Jack. We didn’t share a beer.”

  “I assume you’re at the lake. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tonight, around midnight. Why? What’s up?”

  “Meet me at Coyle’s tomorrow. Say around one-thirty. Lunch is on me.”

  “What’s this about, Jack? Something important I need to know about?”

  “Relax, it’s nothing big. I simply want to talk to you about a few things.”

  “That has an ominous sound to it.”

  “You worry too much, Charlie. There’s nothing ominous about it at all.”

  “Worrying is what made me a good cop.”

  “See you tomorrow, Charlie. And don’t smell like fish when you show up.”

  *****