The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  Morris’s cell phone rang just as Keller was going to comment on his politically incorrect attitude. Not that he really cared if he were politically correct or not.

  “Morris,” he said into the phone. “Uh-huh. Yeah, okay. Can you send it over with Cooper when he’s finished over there?” He listened to his phone for a few seconds. “Sounds good. Thanks.”

  “What was that all about?” Keller asked, laying the file she’d been studying aside.

  “I had one of the boys over at the field office checkin’ on other unsolved murders that fit our profile,” Morris answered. “That was him. He said he found a case from August out in Arkansas that might be one of ours.”

  “Arkansas?” Benjamin asked.

  “Arkansas.”

  Morris took a sip of the lite beer, grimaced, and handed the open bottle to Keller.

  “Donkey piss,” he said. “Did you get hold of Cooper?”

  “Yes sir. He’ll be here in about an hour.”

  “If you’re finished whining, you might want to listen to a theory George has about the killer,” Keller said. “That is unless you want to wait for the Grundy Cooper beer train to pull into the station.”

  “Smart ass,” Morris replied. He turned and faced Benjamin. “You got a new theory, do ya George?”

  Benjamin nodded. He was going to regret this if he wasn’t correct, but he felt in his gut that he’d figured out at least a part of the puzzle. He cast a wishful glance at Keller but she offered no hint of reprieve.

  “I believe our killer is a traveling evangelist.”

  Morris just shrugged his shoulders as if to ask ‘so what?’

  “What the hell is an evangelist? And what makes you think this guy is one?”

  Benjamin handed Morris a sheet of paper on which he’d been scribbling.

  “Let’s review what we know,” Benjamin said. “We know he travels, right? Supposedly in a motorhome or RV of some kind, which explains why his victims are always along interstate highways or in national parks.”

  “Okay,” Morris said.

  “It’s obvious that he’s educated in church history and not just at an elementary level.”

  “So?”

  “So the only people that would know what he knows are people who have an advanced seminary education, or someone who has studied ancient church history over a long period of time.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as a pastor, a rabbi, or priest.”

  “A rabbi?” Morris asked. “You think this maniac is a Jew?”

  “No sir. I think he’s a fundamental Christian minister. Probably a retired pastor who got tired of sitting home and decided to take his ministry on the road.”

  “So you’re sayin’ this nut-job travels from place to place preachin’ in churches on Sunday and killin’ people durin’ the week?”

  “Yes sir, but it’s not that simple.”

  “Oh, it never is.”

  “This man believes that what he’s doing is a calling from God, and that God is directing him on some kind of apostolic mission of martyrdom.”

  “That’s a pretty broad stroke,” Keller said, even though she agreed that Benjamin’s idea had merit.

  “Broad?” Morris asked. “It’s the craziest damn thing I ever heard. A preacher killin’ people because God tells him to. It’s probably some nut-case that’s mad at some preacher somewhere for makin’ him give too much in the Sunday offerin’.”

  “It fits the profile, sir,” Benjamin countered. “And I’ll make you a bet.”

  Benjamin’s mention of a bet peaked Morris’ interest.

  “A bet? A nice Southern Baptist black boy like you makin’ a bet? This I gotta hear.”

  Benjamin cringed at Morris’ racial stab.

  “You asked the Nashville field office to send that file over with Cooper, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But they didn’t tell you where in Arkansas, or the victim’s name, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then here’s my bet. His name will be Philip, and his body was found the second week of August nailed to a tree and crucified.”

  “That it?”

  “No sir. The report will also say he was murdered in Hot Springs, Arkansas.”

  Keller reached across the table and laid her hand on Benjamin’s arm.

  “That’s quite a stretch, George.”

  “I’ve got my reasons,” Benjamin assured her.

  “That’s it?” Morris asked again.

  “What more do you want, sir?”

  “You said you have a bet. What do I lose if you’re right?”

  “You lose nothing,” Benjamin answered. “But I gain something.”

  “Such as?”

  “If I’m right, I gain your respect and you stop treating me like a rookie fool.”

  Benjamin looked Morris squarely in his eyes.

  “You start treating me like a man and equal partner, and you stop your racial remarks.”

  “Respect ain’t somethin’ you can win on a bet, boy. You gotta earn it.” Morris said. “And you better understand somethin’ right now. I don’t give one itty-bitty damn about hurtin’ your feelin’s or insultin’ your family roots. Bein’ black and educated don’t mean nothin’ to me, and you ain’t gonna change me one tiny bit by gettin’ all African indignant and defensive.”

  Benjamin stood up from his chair. The time had come for him to confront the senior agent. He knew his career could end right here but he was tired of Morris’ consistent disrespect.

  “But I’ll take that bet. Some of it anyway,” Morris said. “Right after I take a nap. Call me when my beer gets here.”

  Without acknowledging Benjamin’s obvious threat, Morris turned and pushed his satchel off the couch onto the floor and laid down, his back to the Keller and Benjamin.

  One of these days. One of these days, and it won’t be long, I’m going to kick his ass right out into the street.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Preach Preston marveled at the leading of God and at the way his every step was being directed by the hand of the Almighty. He’d driven thousands of miles the last six months, trusting the Lord to speak to him and to let him know his will. And now here he was again, sitting in his RV at an I-80 comfort rest area just inside the Utah state line. He’d stopped to stretch his legs for a while before pushing northwest on the I-84 to Portland. He had gone to the restroom, then into the visitor center to get a cup of hot coffee.

  A plaque on a stone wall caught Preach’s attention. It described this area as Echo Canyon.

  Echo Canyon, named by early pioneers for the echoes that bounce back and forth across the canyon walls. Echo Canyon played a vital role in the settlement of the West. It was a major Native American trail, and later a popular route for fur trappers and pioneers. The Donner-Reed Party passed through the canyon in their failed attempt to reach California. In the 1850's it served as passage for the Overland Stage Company, and in 1860 was a route for the Pony Express. Today, Interstate 80 passes through the canyon, connecting the cities of Evanston, Wyoming and Park City, Utah.

  An involuntary muscle spasm caused Preach’s hand to jerk and spill hot coffee from his cup onto his pants leg. That’s when he saw it–the hand of God at work. There stacked in a magazine rack just underneath the plaque was a pile of free travel coupon books. On the front cover, as if being spoken by the Lord himself, was the picture of a man and the words Matthew Barnes, Certified Public Accountant, followed by a phone number and city—Ogden, Utah.

  Preach picked up a copy of the coupon book and thumbed through the pages. Although he’d seen these booklets all over the country, he’d never used any of the discount coupons before. Why should he? His RV was home, hotel, and transportation. It was his church and sanctuary; his safe haven from the godless people destroying this country.

  The picture of Matthew Barnes of Ogden, Utah did not portray the man as anything special. Preach assumed Barnes was a Mormon–another godless re
ligion in his mind. How anyone could follow the rambling teachings of a horse thief and polygamist like Joseph Smith was beyond his comprehension.

  He’d known a number of Mormons during his ministry and even discussed the Book of Mormon with a few of them, but he’d never understood their religion. He’d seen Mormon young people on their mandatory missionary assignments in cities all over the country riding their bicycles and wearing their white shirts and black nametags. Elder this and Elder that. As if an eighteen year old kid could be an elder anything. A million people deceived by a false doctrine.

  Preach looked around the rest area and spotted a public telephone kiosk. He decided to call this Matthew Barnes and schedule an appointment with him. He had no idea how he would lure Barnes away from his office and into the RV so he could persuade the man to sacrifice his life for the cause of eternity.

  He thought about the sword and set of short spears secure in the crate in the storage compartment under the RV. He knew this was the will of God and that the Lord would make a way.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Morris said after reading the case file Cooper had brought to him from the Nashville field office. “I mean to tell you that I’ll just be hot-diggity damned!”

  Keller and Benjamin didn’t need to ask Morris what the file said, and Cooper was as confused as ever. He had no idea about Morris and Benjamin’s bet, and it didn’t look like anyone was going to let him in on it.

  Morris twisted the top off a Fosters Lager and took a sip.

  “It’s still warm. Didn’t I say to get chilled beer?”

  “Can’t buy chilled beer in a liquor store in Tennessee, sir,” Cooper stammered. “Only in bars, supermarkets, and grocery stores.”

  “Do you believe this crap?” Morris asked Keller. “In a state famous for moonshine stills, and you can’t get a cold beer in it.” He threw Cooper a menacing glare.

  Keller waved for Cooper to sit down.

  “Don’t mind him, Grundy. He knows damn well you can’t buy cold beer in a liquor store.”

  Cooper looked at Morris and saw his mouth turn up in a mischievous grin. Now he’s raggin’ me. All I need is this lunatic in my head.

  Morris handed the case file to Keller who shared it with Benjamin. They read down the page together, checking off each pertinent fact.

  “How did you know the facts of this victim without seeing the file?” Keller asked Benjamin.

  “Because I’m beginning to understand this killer,” Benjamin said. “And I studied this stuff in seminary, not to mention many hours of Bible and church history study with my dad.”

  “So you’re sayin’ this man was killed like the Apostle Philip?” Morris asked.

  “There are definite similarities.”

  Benjamin didn’t offer any more information than was absolutely necessary. He wanted to first see if Morris would keep his part of the bet. He doubted Morris would acknowledge his expertise, but he could be wrong.

  “You don’t need to call your daddy again just to be sure?”

  “No sir. I think we have it under control.”

  Morris reached his hand toward Benjamin as if for the file. When Benjamin started to place the file in his hand, Morris pulled away.

  “Keep the file, kid. It’s yours.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s your file. You called it right down the line. I’m damned if I understand it, but apparently you do.”

  “Now what?” Benjamin asked.

  “We had a bet. You won,” Morris said. “Now are you gonna shake my hand or not?”

  Benjamin nodded and shook Morris’ outstretched hand. “So does this mean…”

  “It means you won the bet, and I’m a man of my word,” Morris interjected. “You’ve earned my respect. A little anyway. But don’t get cocky. It don’t mean I’d want you to marry my daughter or move in with me.”

  “No sir.”

  Morris took a long pull on his beer.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, boy. Get on the phone and call the Hot Springs police department and see what they were able to dig up.”

  “Yes sir,” Benjamin said. He wasn’t wild about the ‘boy’ part of Morris’ order, but he sensed in the senior agent’s words that his stock had gone up a few points.

  Benjamin spent the next half hour on the phone with the Hot Springs police department. Instead of writing notes on a yellow pad the way Morris preferred, he typed his notes into the laptop computer while using his Bluetooth ear piece to speak to the officer in Hot Springs. The last thing Morris heard Benjamin say on the phone was ‘Thanks, Officer Bailey. I’ve got it.’

  Benjamin hung up and turned to Morris and Keller.

  “It’s exactly what I suspected. The victim’s name was Philip Carroll. He was a singer with a southern gospel quartet and was killed sometime after a concert on Saturday, August 13th.”

  “Where was the concert?” Keller asked.

  Benjamin examined his notes.

  “Mount Hope Pentecostal Assembly in Hot Springs. According to the Hot Springs PD, Carroll went out to their motorcoach after the concert to store some gear and never returned. They found his body two days later nailed to a tree in the Hot Springs National Park.”

  “He’d been crucified?” Keller asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Chloroform again?”

  “Yep.”

  “How did you know Philip Carroll was nailed to that tree instead of tied to it?” Keller asked Benjamin. “And how the hell did you know it was in Hot Springs, Arkansas?”

  “Because the Apostle Philip was crucified in Hierapolis, Turkey, the hot springs of the Greek Empire,” Benjamin answered. “The Bible isn’t clear about Philip’s ministry after he left Jerusalem. But according to a church historian named Josephus, he preached in Greece, Syria, and Phrygia, and was crucified in the sacred hot springs city of Hierapolis. There’s a martyrium built on the spot where Philip died.”

  “Martyrium? What’s that?”

  “It’s like a shrine. People go there to pray and for meditation. They take their children and ask God, or the gods, to bless them with long life and prosperity, that sort of thing.”

  “Philip didn’t die on a cross like Christ?” Cooper asked. “I thought all crucifixions were on crosses.”

  “Crucifixions can take place anywhere,” Benjamin answered. “There are some places that don’t have trees, or where trees are worshiped, so victims are nailed to the ground. Our killer knows this and is meticulous in the martyrdom of his victims.”

  “Martyrdom? You mean murder,” Keller said.

  “No LK, martyrdom. This killer believes he’s on a mission from God. He doesn’t consider it murder.”

  “He’s a damn lunatic!” Cooper interjected.

  “He’s an evangelist spreading the word of God on a misguided mission,” Benjamin countered. “He believes God has called him to sacrifice these people, and what’s worse, he believes God is providing the sacrifices. He’s going to kill again, soon.”

  Morris sat up on the couch and listened to the conversation between Keller, Benjamin, and Cooper. “Do you reckon that church videoed that concert?”

  Benjamin and Keller faced Morris, amazed that he would come up with a question like that.

  “Why?” Keller asked, knowing full well that Morris didn’t even know how to set the clock on a VCR or any other piece of electronic equipment or household appliance.

  “Because if they did, and if the killer is some religious nut, he might have been at the concert, which means they might’a got a good picture of him.”

  “I’ll check,” Benjamin said. He turned to the laptop and keyed the name of the church into the Google search engine.

  “What the hell are you doin’?” Morris asked. “Call the damn church and see if they recorded the concert. Tell’em we need a tape.”

  Benjamin knew Morris wouldn’t understand but he explained that many churches stream their live events to the internet a
nd save them on a church website archive. A concert would definitely be a likely event a church would stream.

  The Google search found the church website in less than a second. Benjamin clicked the mouse on the link.

  The image on the laptop screen showed a modern cement and glass building with what appeared to be a circular auditorium covered by a domed roof. An expansive glass front with a dozen double-glass doors led into a foyer that traversed the front of the building.

  Morris and Keller watched over Benjamin’s shoulder while he manipulated the website.

  “That’s a damn big buildin’,” Morris said. “Must seat damn near a thousand people.”

  “Closer to two thousand,” Benjamin said.

  The church website was easy enough to search. Whoever their web designer was certainly knew their business. A row of icons down the left side of the home page listed the virtual world of the church, beginning with an About Us page, followed by an icon about the pastor and his family.

  Links to the different departments within the church helped Benjamin surf through to the media page where he found a link that resembled a small television. The icon read Video Stream. Benjamin clicked on the link and a list of events appeared on the screen, including a concert by the Triumphant Southern Gospel Quartet on August 13, 2011.

  Benjamin opened the video stream and the laptop responded by the screen going black.

  “What happened?” Morris asked. “Did we lose it?”

  “No sir. It might take a while for the video to load.”

  After a minute, the screen lit back up. It showed the inside of a large auditorium filled to capacity with people of every description. Circular rows of interlocking padded chairs ran from the front of the room all the way back under a crowded balcony.

  “Do the words needle and haystack mean anything to you, George?” Morris asked.

  Benjamin didn’t answer. He only wished he had a bigger screen on which to watch the concert. He wasn’t about to let Morris know that being from Oklahoma, he liked southern gospel music. He knew Morris would rag him about being a black man listening to white man’s music.