The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  The second press of the trigger alerted the nurse’s station that their patient might be under duress, sending the young nurse and her supervisor hurrying down the hallway to room 427.

  “What the hell was that?” Morris asked.

  “It was most likely pain killer,” Keller answered. “You and your damn rough-shod cowboy tactics. He’ll probably pass out now. Then where will we be?”

  Keller turned around and looked into the glazed eyes of John Dupont. His breathing had slowed and he was drifting off to sleep. They weren’t going to get any more information from him this morning.

  The door burst open and the nurses pushed past the agents. “What have you done?” the head nurse asked Morris.

  “Not a damn thing, lady,” Morris answered, knowing full well that he’d created this situation.

  “You need to leave now,” the nurse ordered.

  Morris hesitated.

  “I said get the hell out!” the nurse ordered, then turned her attention to John Dupont.

  Morris started to argue but Keller’s angry glare made him stay quiet.

  “We’ll be back later,” he said, then turned and walked out the door.

  Agent Grundy Cooper pulled the Crown Victoria over to the curb just as Morris, Keller, and Benjamin exited the front entrance of the burn center. That Morris and Keller had been in a heated discussion was obvious. Cooper could tell by his demeanor that Benjamin had purposely refrained from entering the two senior agents’ argument.

  Cooper released the lock on the trunk so Benjamin could store their equipment. Keller threw her files into the trunk with a little more vehemence than required.

  “What’s got your fur up?” Morris asked. “You act like you ain’t never interrogated a witness before.”

  “You really are a Neanderthal, you know that Dunc?” Keller snapped. “All you had to do was keep your big mouth shut for a few minutes and we could have gotten everything we needed from Mr. Dupont. But no, you had to shoot your mouth off and get us kicked out of the damn hospital!”

  Cooper sat quiet behind the wheel of the agency car. He’d already learned his lesson about asking stupid questions. He caught Benjamin’s eye and made a “what’s up?” gesture. Benjamin just shook his head and signaled for Cooper to remain quiet.

  “They didn’t kick us out of the damn hospital,” Morris protested. “They just asked us to leave. Nothin’ special.”

  “We’ll be damn lucky if Nurse Ratchet in there doesn’t call the Nashville field office and file a complaint!” Keller shouted.

  “Oh hell, Keller…”

  “Don’t ‘oh hell’ me!” Keller shouted again.

  Morris had never seen Keller worked up to this high a level of agitation. He was amazed that she was tearing into him and not letting go as easily as she usually did.

  “You knew how important this interview was, and you plowed on ahead with that all-or-nothing tactic of yours.” She opened the back door of the car and slipped into the back seat. “It will be tomorrow before we’ll be able to talk to him again, if then.”

  “Hell no it won’t!” Morris said. “I’m comin’ back here this afternoon.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Keller said firmly. “George and I will handle Mr. Dupont.”

  “You and George, my ass!” Morris countered.

  “You’re damn right it’s your ass if you’ve caused any serious damage to that man!”

  Keller closed her car door so she wouldn’t have to speak to Morris while he stood on the sidewalk. Benjamin slid into the back seat beside Keller and closed his door, still not having said anything to either of the two senior agents. Morris finally got into the car. He was mad, not at Keller, but at himself for letting a simple situation get out of hand.

  Cooper didn’t know what to do. He geared the car into drive but kept his foot on the brake.

  “Take us to the damn hotel, Cooper,” Morris ordered.

  “Yes sir.”

  The tension in the car was thick. Cooper had no idea what had happened inside the burn center. He only knew he was happy that he’d been ordered to stay in the car.

  Being a rookie has a few advantages.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Preach didn’t like the doubts he’d been having the last few days. And although he’d come to Denver for Abigail’s sweet-sixteen birthday party, this stop at his son’s house and church had begun to undermine the mission the Lord had called him to fulfill.

  He didn’t want to doubt the call of God on his life. He knew that great men in the Bible and throughout history had been called to make sacrifices for the greater good. Greater men than he had taken life for the cause of eternity, and greater men than he had laid down their lives for heaven’s sake.

  Now it was his turn—a time of destiny that would redefine the call of God on men’s lives. No longer would men be able to say that God had called them to serve the kingdom if they were not willing to lay everything on the line for the cause of Christ.

  No longer would preachers be able to settle down to the same little congregation somewhere and build little kingdoms for themselves that they could pass on as an inheritance to their children instead of as monuments to the God and creator of the universe. The plan and purpose of God would have to be first and foremost or the man that called himself a minister, but would not sacrifice everything, would be labeled a heretic and a fraud, and would face the eternal judgment of God.

  Preach laid his road atlas on the table in the RV and opened it to the interstate highway master page. He’d never driven the RV to Oregon before. Although heading northwest through Taberhash, Steamboat Springs, and Craig on the Colorado 40, then catching Colorado 13 and Wyoming 789 north to interstate 80 would be a more direct route, he decided he’d better take the fastest and easiest route possible. His decision was clear. He would take I-25 north out of Denver and catch I-80 west out of Cheyenne, Wyoming. The I-80 would merge onto the I-84 at Echo, Utah, which would run northwest through Ogden and all the way to Portland, Oregon.

  Preach studied the names of the towns along his proposed route, names like Elk Mountain, Table Rock, Green River, and Pleasant View—names of towns that no doubt described their location or historical significance.

  Surely somewhere in this vast expanse of highway the Lord had his chosen sacrifice awaiting his fate.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morris instructed Agent Grundy Cooper to drop him off at the Clay Cup Coffee House in downtown Murfreesboro before driving Keller and Benjamin to the newspaper office. He wanted to get a first-hand look at the only place they knew of where the interstate serial killer had been seen.

  From the outside, the coffee shop could have been an old-fashioned drug store or bank. The facade was dated to the early 1900s. It looked like any typical small town storefront you’d see anywhere in rural America.

  The coffee shop was centrally located in the downtown area close to the courthouse and what appeared to be the main branch of a bank. Other office buildings displayed signs with the names of law firms, bail bondsmen, a payday loan place, and other businesses a person would expect to see in a downtown business district.

  Morris pushed through the single glass door into a comfortable and cozy atmosphere. The music playing in the background was from the 1940s, reminiscent of the big band era. There was a scattering of tables and chairs that would seat thirty people comfortably. The walls were tastefully decorated with memorabilia that represented Murfreesboro in her earlier years. Off to one side were four overstuffed chairs arranged around a low coffee table scattered with newspapers and magazines, a place set aside for people to sit, visit, and relax.

  Two other things caught Morris’ attention. First, there was no television blasting a football game or any other kind of sporting event or news show to the half dozen or so customers enjoying a quiet moment either alone or with friends. Second was the black and white checker-board tile floor.

  I ain’t seen one of those in years.

  Th
e people sitting around the tables were all neat and well dressed. Being located downtown near the court house and banks, Morris suspected the shop’s main clientele would be lawyers, paralegals, court officers, bailiffs, and bank tellers–people directly related to the legal and banking professions.

  A young man behind the counter watched Morris while he looked around the coffee shop.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  Morris presented his FBI credentials to the young man.

  “I’m Special Agent Duncan Morris with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to speak to the owner or manager if he’s available.”

  “That’s me.”

  The young man extended his right hand. Morris shook his hand and read his nametag—Chris.

  “I’m owner, manager, bus boy, chief cook and bottle washer. You name it, I do it.”

  Morris only nodded. He wasn’t in the mood for flippancy, not after the morning he’d had at the burn center. He continued to examine the coffee shop, paying very little attention to Chris.

  “Is there some place we can sit and talk for a while, Chris?”

  Chris called one of his employees from the coffee counter and asked her to watch the front for a while. He then led Morris toward the back of the coffee shop to an empty table in a secluded corner.

  “Would you care for a cup of coffee, Agent Morris? Maybe a cappuccino?”

  “Coffee. Black.”

  “Cream and sugar?”

  “Black. Just black.”

  Chris asked Morris to have a seat while he returned to the coffee counter and poured a cup of fresh coffee. He set the large cup in front of Morris then sat down in the chair opposite the agent.

  Morris removed a notebook from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He notated the date and time on the top of a fresh page, and that he was speaking to Chris, the manager and owner of the Clay Cup Coffee House in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.

  “What’s your last name?” Morris asked.

  “Gorman.”

  “You own and manage this coffee shop. Is that correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’re not part of a chain or franchise?”

  “No sir. We’re privately owned and operated.”

  Morris sipped his coffee. He was surprised at its rich flavor.

  “Damn good coffee.”

  “Thank you. Would you care for a bowl of soup, or maybe a salad?”

  Morris shook his head no. He was trying to visualize John Dupont sitting in this coffee shop on July 7th, and where the killer had been while watching for the opportunity to spike Dupont’s coffee.

  “You wanted to ask me some questions,” Chris prompted the agent.

  Morris nodded again. For some reason he liked this little coffee shop. He’d often thought about leaving the FBI and opening a little place of his own somewhere away from the nutcases and crazies. He just couldn’t bring himself to step out on his own and take the risk.

  “Tell me a little about your place here.”

  “My place?”

  “Yeah, this place. Has it always been a coffee shop? How long have you owned it? What kind’a crowd do you draw? That sort’a thing.”

  Chris thought it odd that a federal agent would care one way or the other about his little business. He didn’t make a fortune with it, and his taxes and licenses were up-to-date, so it couldn’t have anything to do with the financial aspect. He couldn’t imagine why the FBI would want to know about the Clay Cup.

  “Well sir, this building started out as the Stone River Bank back in the early 1900s, then it was the Harris Drug Store from 1943 to 1975. It’s been used for different types of businesses through the years until a friend of mine bought it sometime in the 90s. I bought it from him in 2001 and converted it to the Clay Cup.”

  “In 2001?” Morris asked. “You’ve been here ten years?”

  “Yes sir. We opened our doors on September 11, 2001.”

  Morris wrote down the date then realized what he’d written.

  “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

  Chris shook his head. “No sir.”

  “You opened the same day that bunch of nut-balls flew airplanes into the twin towers in New York City?”

  “Yes sir. The only business we got that day was people running in here to watch it on television.”

  Morris nodded.

  “The only problem is, we don’t have a television.”

  Morris looked around the coffee shop again. “I noticed that. Why not?”

  “Our clientele is mostly people from busy offices, the courthouse, banks, businesses, that sort of thing,” Chris answered. “I want to provide a quiet place where people can sit and relax without a bunch of noise blaring in the background. I like old music, and so do my customers, so I play 40’s and big-band era music. We’re not a sports bar—we’re a coffee house, so I keep it simple.”

  Morris liked this young entrepreneur. He knew what he wanted and he’d followed his dream. He’d never get rich but that didn’t seem to matter.

  “Do you know a newspaper reporter named John Dupont?”

  “John? Sure. It was terrible what happened to him. He was here that day. Did you know that?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s why I’m here. Were you workin’ that mornin’?”

  “Sure, I open every morning. John had an interview with a lady from the Nashville Symphony. He meets people here all the time instead of at his office.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “No sir. Sorry.”

  “Does Dupont use a particular table when he brings people here?”

  Chris pointed at a table set against a wall directly across from the table where they were sitting.

  “He likes that one over there because it’s under a light that shines down on the table.”

  The table wasn’t far from the restrooms at the back of the coffee shop. Morris could imagine Dupont sitting at the table conducting his interview.

  “Does he sit facin’ the front of the shop or the back?”

  Chris considered Morris’ question.

  “Seems to me he always faces the front so he can signal for a refill.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure. Besides, if the person he’s interviewing is facing the back, they’re less likely to be distracted by anything happening at the front.”

  Morris got up and crossed the room to Dupont’s table. He sat in the chair he assumed the reporter would use. Chris followed him but didn’t sit down. Morris looked around the coffee shop, making a mental picture of the place.

  “Did you happen to notice an old man in here that mornin’? Someone you may have never seen before?”

  Chris sat down in the chair opposite of Morris.

  “I don’t recall anyone different. We have a pretty steady clientele, but new people come in here all the time.”

  Morris stood and with measured steps paced the distance from the table to the restroom door. He looked back at Chris sitting at the table.

  “Would you mind standin’ beside the table?” he asked the shop owner. Chris stood up and Morris noted the approximate distance between him and a table opposite him.

  Plenty of room. No need to bump into anyone unless it was on purpose.

  “I don’t see where you have your security cameras mounted.”

  “Security cameras?” Chris answered. “We don’t have ‘em. No use for ‘em around here. This is Murfreesboro, Tennessee not Los Angeles, California. Most folks around here don’t even lock their doors at night.”

  Don’t lock their damn doors? In DC you gotta lock your car doors or you’ll get your ass robbed while you’re movin’.

  “So you don’t have any way of knowin’ who was here on July 7th besides John Dupont and the lady he was interviewin’?”

  “No sir. Well, except for credit card receipts.”

  “No, this man would’a paid cash. He’s too smart to use a credit card.”

  Morris returned to the table and
sat back down in the chair.

  “I need you to think real hard, Chris,” Morris said. “John Dupont told us that an old man bumped into him after he returned from the restroom. He said the old man knocked over his coffee cup, set the cup back upright, then continued on to the restroom. He said the old man was wearing a hat.”

  “So?”

  “So he must’a slipped a drug into Dupont’s coffee when he picked up the cup.”

  “A drug?”

  “Chances are he would have left the coffee shop immediately after usin’ the restroom so he could wait for Dupont in the parkin’ lot. That would’a been sometime around 9:15.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Morris tried to determine where the killer had most likely sat in order to watch John Dupont’s movements. His eye landed on the grouping of overstuffed chairs. The angle to the table was right, the lighting was sufficient, and the distance from the table to the chairs would have allowed someone sitting in the chairs to remain unnoticed.

  But how had the killer known who John Dupont was and that he was a reporter? Had he researched the reporters in this area and picked Dupont out of a list of possible victims? Was he a local citizen who knew Dupont either personally or by reputation? If so, could he be a regular customer of this coffee shop?

  No damn security cameras.

  Chris glanced at the coffee counter where his employee was trying to handle several new customers who had come for their noon-time coffee.

  “If you don’t have anything else, Agent Morris, I really need to get back to the counter.”

  “No, that’s about it,” answered Morris. “If I need anything else, I’ll drop back by.”

  Chris picked up Morris’ coffee cup and told Morris to stop by any time. “Damn good coffee,” Morris said again before shaking Chris’ hand and watching the young business owner walk away.

  Morris stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around. He spotted a bank on the corner just up and across the block from the Clay Cup.

  “They’ll have security cameras,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe I’ll get lucky in there.”