The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  “How’s that, Dad?”

  “Oh, it used to be that churches would have an evangelist in for three or four weeks at a time and people would come out for services every night. We’d start early and go late into the night. Now I’m lucky to book three days, much less three weeks. And some churches don’t even have service on Sunday night anymore. Can you believe that?”

  “People just don’t have time like they did in the old days, Dad,” Simon answered. “Families are scattered, and most homes need two or three incomes just to survive. It’s hard to get people to come to church on both Sunday and Wednesday, much less every night for three weeks in a row.”

  Preach stretched a kink out of his back. “Are the RV hookups available at the church, son?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Sure they are, Dad. But why don’t you stay with us for a while? You know you’re welcome, and we have plenty of room. Besides, the kids really enjoy having you around.”

  Preach considered his son’s invitation but he liked his privacy. “No son, I appreciate the offer but I need to get some rest, and you know I won’t get any if I stay here.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Maybe the kids can stay a night or two with me in the camper,” Preach offered. “We can play some games, and it will give you and Cheri some time alone.”

  “They’d enjoy that, Dad.”

  “Besides, I need time to plan the next leg of my trip. I’m heading out to the west coast next week.”

  “Next week? So soon?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “California?”

  “Oregon. Portland to be exact.”

  “Portland? Who are you preaching for in Portland?”

  “A home mission’s pastor I met a few days ago,” Preach answered. “Young fella by the name of Thaddaeus Griffin. Do you know him?”

  “Can’t say I do,” Simon said. “But that’s a long way to drive the RV just to preach at a home mission’s church. Will it be worth the time and expense?”

  “I guess it depends on how you measure worth, son,” Preach replied. “One soul pulled from the fires of hell is reward enough. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes sir, I suppose so,” Preston answered. “Are you planning to attend the concert at the church tomorrow night?” He already knew what his dad’s answer would be before he asked the question.

  “I said pulling a soul from hell is reward enough, not stepping into hell.”

  Preston laughed. He knew his father only listened to southern gospel and shunned all forms of modern or contemporary Christian music. Give him the Cathedrals, the Blackwood Brothers, or the Gaither Vocal Band any day and leave Skillet and all of the other noise-makers to the younger generation.

  Chapter Five

  Lewellen Truck, Chief of the Washington Bureau of the FBI, called the meeting to order. Gathered around the table in the executive briefing room were the Director of the FBI Carson Wheeling, chief forensics investigator Harlan Michaels, Robin Gross, head of records, and a dozen other agents from the main headquarters building.

  Also seated at the table were Duncan Morris, Lynn Keller, and George Benjamin. The other senior agents couldn’t imagine what the rookie was doing at an executive briefing but figured Morris had enlisted him as a go-fer to carry his files, bring him coffee, and maybe even run the laptop computer at the end of the table. They all knew Morris was computer illiterate and probably couldn’t operate the machine.

  “If I could have your attention, please,” Truck said into the podium microphone. His voice didn’t carry well over the low wattage speaker on front of the speaker stand. “Your attention, please!” he repeated.

  Again no one paid any attention to him. Duncan Morris placed two fingers of his right hand between his lips and under his tongue, then blew a loud, shrill whistle. “Hey! Shut the hell up!” he yelled from his seat near the head of the table.

  “Sounds like a bunch of damn monkeys jabberin’ in here,” he whispered to Keller who sat embarrassed to his left. Benjamin didn’t dare look down the table where the Director, the most powerful man in the FBI, sat with the other senior officials.

  Chief Truck just shook his head as the chatter quieted. He had been Morris’ partner when Morris first came to the Washington bureau. He knew him to be crass and belligerent but he always got the job done. “Thank you, Agent Morris,” Truck said.

  Morris just nodded his head and told Truck to get on with it. FBI Director Wheeling wasn’t amused by Morris’ insubordination, but he’d also known Morris for a long time and knew it would do no good to reprimand the man.

  Truck cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to this meeting on such short notice but it seems we’ve had a break in the series of interstate highway murders.”

  Truck stopped and looked around the table. His words captured the attention of everyone present, including the Director.

  “A break?” Wheeling asked. “Do you have a suspect?”

  “No sir,” Truck answered. “But a pattern has emerged that we hope will lead to a suspect.”

  “A pattern?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The other senior agents stared up the length of the table, waiting for Truck to expand on his answer. But when Truck motioned for Morris to step to the lectern, a number of the agents moaned and shook their heads.

  “The break in the case came from Special Agent Morris and his team of investigators,” Truck said. “I think I’ll let them brief us on the particulars.”

  Truck sat back down in his chair next to Director Wheeling. Morris motioned for Lynn Keller and George Benjamin to get ready. Keller turned on the laptop computer at the end of the table and activated the PowerPoint presentation program. Benjamin switched on an overhead projection system linked to the laptop. The seal of the FBI appeared on an in-wall screen at the front of the room.

  Morris stepped to the podium and looked down the length of the table where Director Wheeling and Lewellen Truck sat. As if on cue, both men glanced at their watches.

  “You two got someplace you need to be?” he asked. “White House luncheon or tee time maybe?”

  “Just get on with it, Morris,” Truck said.

  Morris turned to Benjamin and nodded his head toward the two senior members. “See what happens when you pull a good man out of the field and stick his ass behind a desk?”

  Benjamin looked at Truck and Wheeling but didn’t respond. What am I doing here?

  “Damn it, Morris!” Truck shouted. It was apparent that his sense of humor had reached its peak. “Are you going to conduct a briefing or not?”

  “No sir, I’m not,” Morris answered. Truck and Wheeling looked exasperated. Morris knew he was getting to them. Now for the fun part!

  “Then what the hell is the reason...”

  “Instead, I’m gonna turn the briefin’ over to Agent George Benjamin. He discovered the pattern and brought it to our attention.”

  Benjamin stood, swallowed hard, then with trepidation circled the table to the podium.

  Morris looked around the room. As if trained in the same dog-and-pony show, all of the department heads closed their eyes, lowered their heads, and laid their ink pens on the pads in front of them. This is gonna be good. He leaned in close to Benjamin so no one else could hear him and whispered, “You got that screen thing set so I can’t screw it up?”

  “Yes sir. All you have to do is switch it off at the end of the briefing. It’s the red button on the left.”

  Morris nodded. “Go get ‘em, tiger. There’s fresh meat on the table.”

  Benjamin was nervous. “I don’t know if I can, sir.”

  “Man up, George!” Morris hissed. “You’ve got the ball. Show me some of those African runnin’ skills you people are always braggin’ about.”

  I’m going to have to kick this old man’s wrinkled white ass before this is over. Benjamin stepped to the podium. He had the remote control for the laptop hidden in his right hand a
nd a file folder in his left. He looked around the table at men and women whose combined service times added up to more years than the country had been in existence. Lynn Keller winked at him, expressing as much moral support as she could muster in his time of need. He remembered the words she had spoken to him just before they’d left their third floor office. ‘No pressure, George. It’s only the Director—the man that holds all of our careers in his hands.’

  Benjamin fingered the remote and wondered why he hadn’t minded his own business yesterday instead of eavesdropping on Morris and Keller. Did he really need to prove that he should be taken seriously? Why hadn’t he just filed his folders and gone back to his office and try to catch paper hangers? Wasn’t that what rookie agents do? God, what am I doing here?

  But it was too late now. He’d stepped out of the frying pan and was now up to his elbows in the fire. Might as well make the best of it.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he spoke into the podium microphone. “I appreciate your patience, and I hope by the time we finish here today, you’ll see that we’ve developed a viable lead to this series of murders.”

  Before Benjamin could continue, Robin Gross, the head of records, raised his hand.

  “Yes sir?” Benjamin asked.

  “Aren’t you the new man down in fraud?”

  “Yes sir. I’ve been there a little over a month. Bad check division.”

  “And you think you’re qualified to offer a viable answer to a question that has baffled senior agents in this bureau for the last six months?”

  Morris and Keller both looked at Benjamin and saw him bite his lower lip. Don’t freeze now, Keller thought.

  “Well sir...”

  “I mean, we all understand that chasing fraudulent check writers is the one thing that will hone your murder investigative skills,” Gross continued without allowing Benjamin to finish his answer. “But might you not be overstepping your pay grade just a little here?”

  Benjamin turned to Morris for support. “Don’t look at me kid,” Morris said. “You told me I have my head stuck up my ass. Tell Gross where his is stuck.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Lewellen Truck muttered. “Gross, shut up! Morris, keep your mouth shut.” He then turned to Benjamin. “If you’ve got something to say rookie, get on with it.”’

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin answered. He knew his time had come. It was either sink or swim, do or die time now. I should’a stayed in Tulsa.

  Benjamin took in the table one final time. “Well sir, yesterday I overheard Special Agents Morris and Keller talking about the series of interstate murders. They were going over the case files and I was standing at the file cabinet.”

  “So?” Truck asked.

  “When Agent Morris said the names of the victims and how they’d been killed, it reminded me of something I studied in seminary.”

  “Seminary?” Truck asked. “You went to seminary?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing in the FBI, son?”

  “Well...”

  “Shut up and let the boy talk, Truck!” Morris interjected. “It don’t matter if he went to seminary. Let the kid talk!”

  The division chief just nodded his head and resigned himself to the inevitable. Benjamin shuffled the papers on the podium and cast another wary glance at Morris.

  “Well kid, what the hell are you waitin’ for, Christmas?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then tell these stuffed shirts what you told me and Keller. Some of these boys have dinner plans.”

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin said. He knew now that Morris’ gruff exterior was only a defense mechanism, and that behind the calluses lay a man that was offering him his support.

  Benjamin felt a surge of assurance well up in him. He turned to the gathering of senior agents, a new determination on his face. Without seeking further assistance from Morris or Keller, he clicked the laptop remote control and the scene on the wall changed from the seal of the FBI to a list of names.

  “These are the names of the victims in the order their bodies were found and presumably in the order of their deaths,” Benjamin said. “Peter and Andrew Zewenski, James Fisher, and Thomas Waverly.”

  “But there was a fifth victim,” Harlan Michaels, Chief of Forensics said. “A military officer from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. What about him?”

  “Captain Dennis was collateral damage, sir,” Benjamin answered. “I’ll explain that in the course of the briefing.”

  Good goin’ kid, thought Morris. Keep ‘em guessin’.

  Michaels didn’t seem inclined to pursue his point, so he just nodded his head and allowed Benjamin to continue.

  “As I was saying, these are the names of the victims.” Benjamin clicked the remote and the image on the wall split into two columns. The names of the victims appeared on the left, and another list of names appeared on the right.

  “This next list are the names of the original twelve apostles?”

  “From the Bible?” Michaels asked. “The disciples of Jesus Christ?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Michaels shrugged his shoulders at FBI Director Wheeling as if to ask what was going on here. Wheeling told Michaels to just be patient.

  “Patient?” Michaels said. “Did we come here for a Sunday School lesson or to learn about murders?”

  “If you’ll shut up for a few minutes and let the man speak, Harlan, you might get both,” Morris said before Wheeling could answer.

  Man? Did Morris just call me a man? If so, it was the first time since they’d met yesterday. The only other things he’d called him was kid, rookie, boy, hot shot, and virgin. Benjamin hated to think what other words Morris called him when they were not in direct conversation.

  Michaels glared at Morris who just smiled at him, unconcerned that he’d told a senior department head to shut up.

  “Go ahead, Reverend Benjamin,” Morris said. “The church is all yours. Amen. Praise the Lord!”

  Keller kicked Morris’ shin under the table. “Don’t be a smart ass, Dunc,” she whispered. “Can’t you see Benjamin is nervous enough?”

  “I’m just tryin’ to give Kunta here a chance to exercise some of that African ingenuity,” Morris whispered back.

  I really am going to have to kick his ass. I wonder what the penalty is for knocking out your supervisor?

  Benjamin decided to take the direct approach with these senior agents. He didn’t want to appear arrogant, but neither was he willing to cower before them. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, sir, I believe it will all be clear to you.”

  “That’s fair enough, son,” Wheeling said from his place at the end of the table. “But you were saying something about the twelve apostles of Jesus Christ.”

  “Yes sir. And in this case, the words apostle and disciple may be used interchangeably, so please don’t be confused if I switch from one to the other.”

  “Okay.”

  Benjamin pressed another button on the remote and the screen changed. Instead of the list of names, there appeared a biblical scripture. “We’ll go back to the list of names in a few minutes,” Benjamin said. “But first I’d like to show you Matthew chapter ten, verses two through four. I’m sorry all I have is a King James Version, so please don’t be confused by the Old English style of writing.”

  Benjamin read the scripture aloud. “Now the names of the twelve apostles are these; The first Simon, who is called Peter, and Andrew his brother; James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother; Philip, and Bartholomew; Thomas, and Matthew the publican; James the son of Alphaeus, and Lebbaeus, whose surname was Thaddaeus; Simon the Canaanite, and Judas Iscariot, who also betrayed him.”

  Benjamin glanced around the table to make sure everyone was finished reading the scripture on the wall. He then switched the screen back to the list of names.

  Benjamin highlighted in yellow the first names on the left, Peter and Andrew Zewenski, then on the split screen, he highlighted the names of the disciples Peter and Andre
w. Then in a light green color he highlighted James Fisher and the disciple James. After that a blue highlight lit up the names of Thomas Waverly and the Apostle Thomas.

  “If you’ll notice, ladies and gentlemen, the names of the murder victims correspond to the names of the original twelve disciples,” Benjamin began. Harlan Michaels raised his hand as if to interrupt but Benjamin ignored him. “I realize there’s a gap in the list of names, sir.”

  Michaels nodded his head. Morris and Keller’s expressions told Benjamin that he’d handled Michaels just fine.

  Again Benjamin indicated the first names on the screen. “It is our theory, ladies and gentleman, that we have a serial killer that is seeking out and killing people based on the names and possibly even the occupations and homes of the original twelve disciples.”

  “Occupations, Agent Benjamin?” FBI Director Wheeling asked. “Weren’t they all preachers?”

  “Yes sir, but not before they met Christ,” Benjamin answered. “For the most part, they were fishermen and artisans, tax collectors and doctors. They were just ordinary people that lived ordinary lives until they met an extraordinary man.”

  “You mean Jesus Christ?” Michaels asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Go ahead, Agent Benjamin,” Wheeling said.

  “I’d like to draw your attention to the first two names on both lists,” Benjamin said. “Peter and Andrew. The last name in this case is immaterial, but not so in the cases of James Fisher and Thomas Waverly.”

  Everyone at the table turned toward Benjamin, each one of them intrigued by the rookie agent’s extraordinary assumption that a serial killer was working the interstate highways of the United States, basing his murders on the names of the twelve disciples of Jesus Christ.

  “Let’s start with Peter and Andrew Zewenski, and I’ll see if I can show you the parallels between them and the apostles by the same names.”

  Benjamin deleted the highlights around the other names, leaving only the first set of names highlighted. “The Apostles Peter and Andrew were fishermen from Galilee, an inland sea in the plains of Gennesaret. It’s also known as Bahr Tubariya, Ginnosar, the Lake of Galilee, the Lake of Gennesaret, the Lake of Gennesar, and a number of other names that aren’t important for this briefing.”