The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  Keller was gone about ten minutes before returning with the coffee and tea. “I brought sugar and Sweet and Low. I didn’t know which one you prefer.”

  “That’s fine, ma’am,” Benjamin said. “Either will do.”

  “And they didn’t have those little creamer pots, so I brought powered creamer. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Are you two Susie Homemakers finished?” Morris asked. “Or do you need to swap recipes and make the beds before we get to work here?”

  Benjamin tried to pay Keller for his tea but she refused. “You’ll be buying enough coffee for Morris while we work this case. He never seems to have any money, so you better save yours while you can.”

  The rookie agent watched Morris sip his coffee and shuffle the case file folders at the same time. The expression on Morris’ face told Benjamin that a volcano of determination had erupted inside the special agent and there was no telling what might spew out.

  “Now that you’ve got your hot tea, Professor, would you be kind enough to brief me and waitress Keller on these other victims?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I’d like to catch this maniac before he can kill again and cause me more paperwork.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Benjamin arranged the files in the order of the victim’s deaths. “You don’t need me to go over the Zewenski case files again, do you sir?”

  “No, but I am curious about somethin’ you said in the briefin’ about that military officer that was killed with the third victim.”

  “Captain Dennis from Fort Campbell?”

  “You said he was collateral damage. What did you mean by that?”

  Benjamin opened the case file showing the decapitated body of James Fisher, the GE corporate representative found beheaded at Kentucky Lake Park. Beside his body was the beheaded body of Air Force Captain Perry Dennis.

  “In order to understand my reasoning, let me first explain how the Apostle James died, and some of the circumstances surrounding it,” Benjamin started. Morris and Keller nodded.

  “According to the scripture, there was another pair of brothers that were disciples of Jesus. They were also fishermen, which gives credence to the theory that being a fisherman was important.”

  “But James Fisher wasn’t a fisherman. He was a salesman.”

  “Yes sir. But his last name was Fisher. It may or not be a coincidence.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “The two disciples were James and John, the sons of a fisherman named Zebedee. You’ve probably heard John referred to as John the Beloved or John the Revelator.”

  “Not John the Baptist?”

  “No sir. He was a different person. He was the cousin and forerunner of Christ, but was not an apostle. John the Baptist was killed while Jesus was still alive. John the Beloved was the apostle.”

  “The one who wrote Revelations?” Keller asked.

  “Yes ma’am. That same one. But it’s not Revelations–plural. It’s Revelation–singular. Biblical scholars believe that John’s vision came as a continuous revelation and that he wrote it down the way he remembered seeing it. It was a revelation, not several revelations. Does that make sense to you?”

  “I don’t see what any of this has to do with how James Fisher died,” Morris said.

  Benjamin again brought up the picture of James Fisher’s body. It was slumped forward at the waist in a kneeling position, his hands tied behind his back.

  “I believe forensics will match the rope used here as the same rope used on Andrew Zewenski and Thomas Waverly.”

  Keller made a note to verify Benjamin’s assumption. The military officer’s body lay beside the body of James Fisher, except his hands were not tied.

  “The Apostle James was a zealous and vocal advocate of Christianity after the resurrection and ascension of Jesus Christ. He believed it was his calling to carry the gospel to his own people, the Jews, so he didn’t stray far from Jerusalem. However, he was also a strong voice against the Roman Empire and their worship of false gods.”

  Morris shrugged his shoulders. “So?”

  “When James was arrested for preaching Christianity, he was brought before King Herod Agrippa the First. The Roman lawyers argued that Christianity was an upstart religion, and that their leader had been condemned to death and crucified. They denounced the plan of grace that Christ preached, and they called Jesus a false prophet.”

  “But James argued for his faith, right?” Keller asked.

  “That’s right. But it didn’t save his life, and he was still sentenced to be decapitated.”

  “And Captain Dennis?” Morris asked.

  “During the Apostle James’ trial, there was a captain of the guard, a Roman soldier, assigned to watch him. He was there during the trial and when James was sentenced to death. It was his duty to escort James to the place of execution.”

  Benjamin zoomed the computer screen in on the decapitated body of Captain Perry Dennis.

  “When the Roman officer saw how James defended his faith and was willing to lay down his life for what he believed, he converted to Christianity. Then when it came time for James to die, the Roman soldier denounced the pagan gods he’d worshiped his whole life, made a public confession of faith in Christ, and knelt down beside James and asked to die for his new Christian faith as well.”

  Morris and Keller didn’t know what to say. Neither of them had ever heard a story as fantastic as this.

  “But you don’t think Captain Dennis volunteered to die, do you George?” Keller asked.

  “No ma’am. Both he and James Fisher were murdered. Captain Dennis was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Collateral damage,” Morris muttered.

  “Yes sir.”

  “But Captain Dennis’ hands weren’t tied behind his back.”

  “No sir, they weren’t. And neither was the Roman soldier’s,” Benjamin answered. “I suspect Captain Dennis was unconscious at the time of his execution and posed on his knees.”

  “Chloroform again,” Keller speculated.

  “Yes ma’am. Most likely.”

  “So the murder weapon would be what, a sword?”

  “Yes ma’am. And if the killer followed an exact pattern like he did with the Zewenski’s and Thomas Waverly, I think we’ll find it was a Roman short sword, or Gladius, a common weapon used by Roman soldiers.”

  “Why not an axe?”

  “Axes were common execution tools used by both the British and Ottoman Empires,” Benjamin answered. “But the Romans were frugal—austere. They used common tools for everything, which is why a short sword is the most likely murder weapon. Every soldier carried one.”

  “Is that it?” Morris asked.

  “No sir.” Benjamin zoomed in the picture of James Fisher and centered the top of Fisher’s neck. “See the rough cuts around the edges of the wound?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Fisher had been killed by an axe or a broadsword, there would be a single clean cut.”

  Morris and Keller nodded.

  “But a Roman Gladius sword was designed for stabbing and hacking an enemy during combat, not for executions. Whoever killed James Fisher had to hit him three, maybe four times before his head came off.”

  Benjamin changed the laptop image to that of Captain Dennis. “It’s the same with Captain Dennis.”

  Morris and Keller examined Benjamin’s notes and the decapitated images again and agreed that his theory made sense. His knowledge of ancient church history would prove vital to solving this case. But Morris didn’t want to let Benjamin get too far ahead of himself. Knowledge and book learning was one thing but catching an adversary as cunning as this interstate killer would take more than an education. It would take experience.

  Keller pointed out the three names on the list of apostles that separated James from Thomas. “What about these other three apostles, George?” she asked. “Where do you figure they fit in with the interstate murders?”

  Benjamin
looked at the list of names. “Well,” he began, “we’ve already talked a little about John. He was the brother of James, and he wrote the book of Revelation as well as three other epistles.”

  “How did he die?” Morris asked.

  “He didn’t,” Benjamin answered. “At least, he didn’t die a martyr. He’s the only original disciple to die a natural death.”

  “He wasn’t killed?”

  “No sir. The Romans tried to kill him by boiling him in a vat of oil, but be survived. So instead of killing him, they exiled him to the island of Patmos, a small, desolate, uninhabited Greek island in the Aegean Sea. It’s a solid rock-based island with erosion caves, hardly any foliage or fresh water supplies. Fruit is almost non-existent and the soil is very poor, almost impossible to farm. Constant high winds lash the island. Patmos is one of the northernmost islands of the Dodecanese complex.”

  Morris closed his eyes and tried to absorb what Benjamin had just said. Benjamin realized that he’d given too much information at one time for Morris to grasp.

  “He died there?” Keller asked.

  “No ma’am. He lived there many years but eventually escaped and returned to Jerusalem where he spent the rest of his life. He died an old man after he wrote the Book of Revelation.”

  “Boiled him in oil?” Keller said. “He must have been in terrible pain stranded on that island alone.”

  “Yes ma’am. Church history isn’t clear on that, but he was never the same after Patmos. He saw visions of the end of the world, the destruction of mankind, Armageddon, a new heaven and a new earth.”

  “I guess havin’ your nuts deep fried like a Sunday chicken would do that to you,” Morris said. Benjamin and Keller turned and faced Morris who was apparently unaware that he’d said something insensitive.

  “How about these other two apostles—Philip and Bartholomew?” Morris asked.

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to do a little more study on them. I didn’t have time last night to do a complete outline.”

  Keller looked at her Seiko watch. “My goodness, would you look at the time? It’s already after eight o’clock.”

  “Who gives a crap what time it is?” Morris said.

  “Some of us have families, Dunc!” She turned to Benjamin, “You go on home, George. You’re married, aren’t you?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Kids?”

  “No ma’am. Not yet anyway. We’ve only been married eight months.”

  “What difference does that make?” Morris cut in. “You know what they say, the first one can come anytime. The rest take nine months.”

  “Smart ass,” Keller said. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday. I’ll be in Richmond tomorrow,” Morris interjected. “I’ve gotta go see my daughter.”

  “Then we’ll pick it up on Monday. It will give George a couple of days to get his theory just right so he can dazzle us again with his brilliance.”

  Benjamin wondered if Keller was teasing him. But the admiration in her eyes said that she was genuinely impressed with his knowledge of church history and the Bible. I wish I could impress my dad like this. I never would have left the seminary.

  Chapter Eight

  After Abigail and Robbie left the RV for the Skillet concert, Preach decided he needed to inventory his mission supplies. He threw away the empty soda cans the kids left on the table and crushed them in the trash compactor built under the kitchen counter. He knew he should recycle the aluminum but he was on a more important mission and could not spare time to go to a recycling center.

  Preach opened the forward storage compartment under the RV and pulled out a long wooden crate that he’d inset on a rail of stainless steel runners. He opened the Yale MasterLock using a key on his key chain and lifted the lid. The lid raised effortlessly on the hydraulic lifters he’d installed himself. He’d tried it without the lifters but at his age he wasn’t able to hold open the lid and work its contents at the same time.

  The contents of the crate lay in ominous starkness. Each item had a designated purpose and filled a need according to the plan God had outlined to his apostolic emissary. Preach didn’t claim to fully understand the mind of God on why he had set him on this mission of violence. He was by nature a peaceful man, but God’s will was God’s will. After all, even Jesus had prayed “not my will but thine be done.”

  The first items in the crate were bundled together. There were a dozen 15-inch galvanized spikes like the ones used to anchor children’s swing sets to the ground. Preach could clearly envision their uses. He only wished he could have gotten the original product when he’d been in Ethiopia but knew he’d never get them back through customs. The second and third items were a set of ceremonial short spears and an Ethiopian broad sword. He found it almost humorous that items designed as weapons could be brought into the United States if labeled as decorative souvenirs, but a set of spikes used in common construction couldn’t. “Oh well, the Lord knows what he’s doin’,” Preach muttered. These items lay tied together by a length of common hemp rope. Preach had printed a name on a label and attached it to the rope. The label simply read Matthew.

  The next bundle of items in the crate didn’t take up much room at all. It was a simple burlap sack consisting of a half dozen common river stones and a fuller’s club–a two-foot club made of heavy oak. The name on the label read James A.

  But Preach wasn’t concerned with the stones and club as much as he was about where he’d chosen to make the sacrifice. To maintain scriptural integrity, the church steeple could be no more than a hundred feet high and he hadn’t measured it. He was afraid that if he didn’t do this right, his whole mission could become void of any apostolic significance.

  A bundle of odd-looking arrows lay next to a crude short bow. Preach lifted the bow and balanced it in his left hand. It felt awkward to him and he was sure with his crooked right arm, he would have trouble hitting anything with it, much less a man. This is going to take some practice.

  Preach lifted an item out of the crate. He hated this item—a cat-of-nine-tails, a barbaric weapon made famous by the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. He ran the leather straps through his fingers and felt the pieces of sharp rock and glass embedded in the weapon. The whip still had a spattering of blood on the straps and handle, and even the occasional piece of human flesh skewered by one of the nails protruding from the end of each strap.

  Closing the lid of the crate and locking the MasterLock, Preach pushed the crate back into the storage compartment. He planned to rest a few more days before setting out on the next leg of his mission. Preach looked at the watch on his left arm. It was already past 6 p.m. Time for my devotionals. Can’t miss my prayer time if I want to hear from God.

  * * *

  George Benjamin dropped his heavy leather satchel full of case files onto the small dining table in his one-bedroom Georgetown apartment. He was beat. He’d never had a day as trying as this one. His nerves were at their end and he still had hours of work to do before Monday. He knew he was not going to be able to devote this weekend to his young bride the way he’d planned.

  Latrice, Benjamin’s wife of only eight months, wrapped her long, delicate arms around his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, kissing his neck. “Long day?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he answered. “My brain is about to explode and I still have to get this profile together before Monday.”

  “Monday? You’ve got until Monday to get that done?”

  “Yeah, and it’s going to take all weekend to do it.”

  “Not all weekend,” she teased, running her long fingers down the inside of Benjamin’s shirt. “I can think of an hour or two you’re going to have to give to me.”

  Benjamin turned his face toward his new bride and hungrily accepted the kiss she lavished on him. Perhaps this day isn’t going to be all bad.

  * * *

  Lynn Keller opened the front door of her Arlington, Virgini
a home that she shared with her husband, Dixon, and their twenty-year-old daughter. Mazie, a student at George Washington University, lived at home with her parents while she attended college. Unlike many other college students living at home, Mazie helped pay the utilities as part of her agreement to live at home. Although she could have lived on campus, she didn’t like the dormitory or frat house atmosphere of the school.

  Dixon and Mazie sat in the living room watching the evening news on CNN when Lynn entered through the front door. They heard her drop her keys onto the kitchen countertop, then the hallway closet door open and close when Lynn hung up her jacket for the evening.

  “You home?” Dixon called down the hallway. Lynn’s Seiko watch read 8:45 p.m. Damn near an hour to drive home.

  “Dinner is in the oven,” Mazie called to her mother. “I hope fish and chips are okay.”

  She was too tired to care what Mazie had fixed for dinner. “I’m sure it’s delicious,” she answered. “But right now all I want is a hot bath, a glass of wine, and a soft pillow.”

  “Mother! You have to eat!” Mazie protested. “You can’t survive on vending machine junk food and carry-out.”

  “I know but...”

  “But nothing,” Mazie cut her off. “You go take your bath and I’ll warm up your dinner.”

  “Really, baby...”

  “No, Mother!” Mazie interrupted. “I’ll bring it to you in bed, but you’re going to eat.”

  Dixon Keller entered the kitchen at that time and kissed his wife on her cheek. “Don’t argue with a college kid,” he said. “Especially one that’s captain of the debate team.”

  Lynn resigned herself to the fact that she’d be eating fish and french fries at 9 p.m. Mazie had learned to love fish and chips during a one-year exchange student program in Oxford, England. Why she loved the greasy potatoes so much was beyond Lynn’s comprehension.

  Without ceremony, Lynn handed Mazie her purse and turned toward the stairs. With any luck, she’d be asleep before her daughter could warm up the high-calorie dinner and bring it to her in her upstairs bedroom.