The Apostle Murders

by Jim Laughter

  “Yes sir…”

  “You people invaded my private property, physically assaulted me without warning or reason, manhandled my wife, knocked me to the ground, chipped my tooth, bruised my face, and tore my pants, not to mention you scared me half to death. If you call that a misunderstanding, I’d hate to see what happens when you really get something wrong.”

  “Yes sir, I’m sorry. I…”

  “And do you know what the worst part is, Lieutenant?”

  Avey had already decided his career was over. “No sir, what?”

  “I had a 7 o’clock tee time at Southern Hills Country Club to play golf with the mayor,” Marks said. “That’s where I was heading when you waylaid me. Do you know how hard it is to get a 7 o’clock tee time at Southern Hills, much less with the mayor?”

  “Sir, I…”

  “Did you know my wife had to call the mayor, who by the way is a member of my church, and tell him that his pastor wasn’t only going to mess up his round of golf but had just been arrested for murder?”

  The politician started to say something but Marks cut him off.

  “Do you suppose one of you fellas could remove these shackles off my wrists and ankles?”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Preach hadn’t left the motorhome since meeting Pastor Griffin when he’d arrived at noon yesterday. Instead, he’d locked himself inside the RV, determined to seek the will of God and to confirm the mission the Lord had commissioned him to fulfill.

  But why had the Lord led him to this young pastor? Why would a benevolent savior demand the sacrifice of a man who was serving him and building his kingdom here in a state that was dreadfully lacking in evangelistic ministries?

  Had he missed the voice of God? Even though the Apostle Thaddaeus’ name wasn’t the next on the list, he was certain he’d heard from God.

  Preach toiled before the throne of God all day and late into the night. He read his Bible, seeking passages of scripture that dealt with the sacrificial altar. How many times had the Lord called on men of old to prepare an offering even if they didn’t fully understand God’s reason?

  Did Abraham understand when God called on him to build an altar and sacrifice his only son, Isaac? Did Elisha understand God’s reasoning for sacrificing forty-two children of Bethel when they insulted the prophet and God sent forth two she bears to kill them? Did Noah understand how God could destroy the whole world with a flood and save only his family in an ark that took him over a hundred years to build?

  After spending the night in prayer, Preach looked out the window at the trailer parked by the small country church. It was still dark inside but Preach knew what he had to do. He didn’t have a choice. He had to fulfill the will of God.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The Tulsa chief of police led Dr. Robert Marks into the interrogation room. His shackles had been removed but he still wore the orange jumpsuit he’d been required put on, even though he hadn’t been formally charged and booked.

  Marks looked around the room where half-dozen men stood watching him. They had the disheveled appearance of dignitaries that had been dragged out of their beds. Standing among them was the mayor of Tulsa. He was still wearing the clothes he’d intended for golf.

  “Pastor Rob, did you forget we had a tee time this morning?”

  “Anybody can play golf at 7 o’clock in the morning, Mayor,” Marks answered. “But it’s not every day a man gets arrested for murder.”

  The mayor nodded. This was one reason he loved this man as his pastor—nothing ever rattled him. He could tell Marks was taking in this whole experience and would somehow work it into a sermon that would positively impact someone else’s life. Lieutenant Avey, the chief of police, the District Attorney, and the other stuffed shirts standing around the room didn’t seem so sure.

  “But the big question is, how’s the room service here at the Graybar Hotel?”

  “Not bad,” Marks said. “Room’s a bit small and the beds are hard. The maid service could use some attention. Other than that, it’s not bad at all.”

  “Are you two fellas through swappin’ spit?” a gruff voice said from the computer speakers on the table. Both men turned and looked at the monitor where the face of Duncan Morris filled the screen.

  “Dear Lord in heaven,” Marks said. “We’ve died and gone to Disneyland. It’s Grumpy. He’s really alive.”

  Keller and Benjamin heard the pastor’s remark and started laughing, which only invoked Morris further. “You think that’s funny, do ya rook?”

  “Not me sir,” Benjamin said. “I say we string him up right now so you can finish your breakfast.”

  “Smart ass,” Morris said, turning back to the screen.

  Robert Marks sat down in the chair in front of the camera. A scattering of photographs lay on the table beside the computer.

  “Agent Morris?” Avey said into the computer microphone.

  Morris turned around and faced the computer monitor. “Is this the man you arrested this morning, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes sir,” Avey answered. “This is Dr. Robert Marks.”

  Sir? A little while ago this son of a bitch was full of piss and vinegar. Now it’s “yes sir” and “no sir.” His ass must really be in a sling.

  Morris again saw the recognition on Benjamin’s face. “Oh hell, rookie! Sit down here and talk to this man.” He stood and let Benjamin sit down.

  “I know you, don’t I son?” Marks asked Benjamin.

  “Yes sir.”

  “You’re Calvin Benjamin’s boy, the one who left seminary and joined the police. George isn’t it?”

  “Yes sir. That’s me,” Benjamin said. “But it’s the FBI, not the police.”

  “How’s that working out for you, George?”

  Benjamin remembered Dr. Marks’ easy mannerisms from when he’d gone to school at Oral Roberts University. He’d even attended his church a few times but not on a regular basis. He preferred a more spirited style of worship that you just didn’t get in a mostly white middle-class non-denominational church.

  “Well sir, up to now it’s been working out pretty well.”

  Marks laughed. He didn’t know who was more uncomfortable, him or George Benjamin.

  “Relax son,” he said. “No permanent damage done.”

  Again he felt his chipped tooth with his tongue and thought about the tear in his pants.

  “At least nothing a dentist and a tailor can’t fix.”

  “Doctor Marks,” Benjamin began, “I’m afraid we have a serious situation that involves several murders, and it has led indirectly back to you. I’m hoping you can help clarify something for us.”

  Marks said he hoped he could help but couldn’t imagine how he could be involved in anything that had to do with murder.

  “Well sir, we’ve been tracking a serial killer across the country for the last several days. We’re convinced that he is a minister of some kind, and he’s driving a motorhome.”

  “A motorhome?”

  “Yes sir. We were able to obtain a picture of an ORU shield of faith parking permit from a Utah rest area security camera, and it traced back to you.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “In Utah, you say?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Well son,” Marks said. “I haven’t had my RV out of the barn for a couple of months, and even if I had, I’ve never driven it to Utah, and I don’t have an ORU parking permit for it.”

  “I’m at a loss for words, sir,” Benjamin said.

  “Do you recall the registry number of the parking permit you traced back to me?” Marks asked.

  Benjamin looked at his notes. “Yes sir. It’s number 5169, issued by the ORU campus security.”

  Robert Marks began to laugh. The police and politicians in the interrogation room stood confused while Morris, Keller, and Benjamin couldn’t imagine what could be so funny.

  “Dr. Marks? Sir?”

  “I can’t tell you the flack I’
ve caught from campus security about that parking permit,” Marks said.

  “Sir?”

  “They’ve given me nothing but a hard time about it ever since I traded that Newmar in for my new Fleetwood Pace Arrow and didn’t remove the parking permit,” Marks said. “They refused to issue me a permit for my new rig.”

  He continued to laugh at this ironic twist of fate.

  “If that don’t beat all!”

  “You traded in the Newmar, sir?” Benjamin asked. “When?”

  “Almost a year ago.”

  Keller, Morris, and Benjamin were crestfallen. They’d hit another dead end.

  “Could you tell us where you traded it in, sir?” Benjamin asked. “Maybe we can trace it through them. It will just take longer.”

  “Well son, I can either tell you where I traded it in, or I can tell you the name of the man that bought it. Which do you prefer?”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The intercom on Pastor Simon Preston’s desk signaled from his receptionist in the outer office. “Yes,” he said, pressing the lighted button on his phone.

  “Pastor, there are two FBI agents here asking to see you.”

  “FBI? For me?”

  “Yes, Pastor.”

  Simon couldn’t imagine why the FBI would need to see him. He’d already spoken to the Denver police when the neighbors had complained again about members of his church blocking their driveways during the Skillet concert they’d had a week or so ago. But in all fairness, it was a large crowd and the people who had parked on the street were late arrival visitors and not members of the church.

  Why would the FBI be interested in a concert? It has nothing to do with church and state?

  “Send them in, please.” He closed his Bible, laid his pen and paper aside, and rose to meet the agents.

  The receptionist showed the agents into Pastor Simon’s office. He expected to see two tall white men in black suits like you’d see in a movie. Instead he saw two men wearing casual clothes who looked like they’d been in and out of cars more often than they should have.

  One of the men was a squat black man with an off balance mustache and ragged beard. He introduced himself as Sherman Gregory, a special agent with the Denver bureau of the FBI. The other man, Special Agent Bastion Constanego, was an extremely thin, clean shaven man of obvious Mexican ancestry. Both men wore their badges on their belts instead of showing them to Simon in flip-over cases.

  Simon thought he’d never seen a more mix-matched pair of men. They reminded him of Laurel and Hardy or Abbott and Costello but Simon expected they were not there to perform a comedy routine.

  The men took in the pastor’s office at a single glance. It was a little too neat for their tastes. They were more accustomed to the hectic pace and clutter of their field office, not a peaceful environment with soft Christian background music playing from hidden speakers.

  After shaking their hands, Pastor Simon invited the men to sit. He noticed they paid particular attention to his hands. They’d been fully briefed on the screw up in Tulsa and were determined not to make the same mistake. Instead, they’d take it slow and easy and hopefully arrest the right man.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you Pastor?” the black agent asked.

  Simon had seen the man before. He was familiar but he couldn’t place him. “No sir, I can’t say that I do.”

  “My son, Angelo Gregory, sings on your praise team on Sunday morning.”

  “Of course,” Simon said. “Angelo. He’s a fine young man.”

  Simon wondered if this visit by the boy’s father could have anything to do with the praise team.

  “Is there a problem with Angelo? Anything I can help you with?”

  Special Agent Gregory shook his head. “No sir, we’re not here about Angelo.”

  “If it’s about the parking situation at our recent concert, we just had a bigger crowd than we expected and didn’t have time to arrange for alternate parking spaces.”

  “No sir. This has nothing to do with that.”

  “Then what…”

  “We’re here on a routine investigation that may, or may not, involve a member of your family.”

  “My family?”

  “Yes sir. Do you know Samuel Preston?”

  “Samuel Preston?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Sam Preston is my father. Has something happened to my dad? Has he been in an accident?”

  “No sir. Nothing has happened to your father.”

  “Then what…”

  “Does your father drive a Newmar motorhome, sir?” Constanego asked. “A gold and silver Newmar Dutch Star motorhome?”

  Simon leaned back in his chair. Something was going on here—something more than just a routine inquiry.

  “He does,” Simon said. “He’s an evangelist so he travels in it.”

  “An evangelist, sir?”

  “Yes, he travels around the country preaching revivals and camp meetings, crusades, that sort of thing. And if a pastor somewhere needs a vacation, he’ll often watch their church for them for a week or two.”

  “Does he keep the motorhome in an RV park around here?” Gregory asked.

  “No sir. We have RV hookups here at the church. He parks it here when he’s in town.”

  “I didn’t see it outside. Is he in town now, sir?”

  “No sir, he left town on Wednesday. He’s preaching at a home mission church in Oregon this weekend,” Simon said. “What’s this all about? Why are you interested in my father?”

  Agent Gregory stood and walked over to a bookshelf lined with reference books, Bibles, and an assortment of volumes with titles from Steven Covey, Max Lucado, John Maxwell, Ron Parsley, and another dozen prominent religious and self-motivation authors.

  “Do you happen to know where we can find your father, Reverend?” Gregory asked.

  He picked up a Bible from off the shelf and thumbed through its pages. Simon recognized it as having belonged to his wife’s father before he died almost twenty-years ago. It was very special to him and he didn’t like the agent handling it with such casual disregard.

  Simon stood and held his hand out for the Bible. “Somebody needs to tell me what’s going on here.” He laid the Bible on the corner of his desk and asked Gregory to return to his seat.

  Constanego reached into a black satchel he’d carried into the office. He removed a stack of photographs and slid them across the desk to Simon.

  “Are these pictures of your father, sir?”

  Simon looked at the first picture. It showed his father leaving what appeared to be a coffee shop but he didn’t recognize the place. The next picture showed him behind the wheel of his motorhome, and the next of him standing on the bottom step of the RV speaking to a young man beside a black car.

  Simon nodded. “That’s my dad. But I’m at a loss to understand why the FBI is interested in him.”

  “You say your dad is preaching in Oregon this weekend, Reverend?” Gregory asked. “Could you tell us where in Oregon?”

  Simon examined the pictures of his father again, then back at the agent. “I’m not sure I want to discuss this any further until you tell me what this is about.”

  Gregory nodded and said he understood the pastor’s reluctance to discuss this father’s whereabouts with them.

  “Well sir, the fact is your father is the subject of an FBI investigation. We’ve been asked by the Washington DC bureau to follow up on him here in Denver since his RV was identified from a parking permit registry number from a previous owner.”

  “Previous owner?”

  “Do you know Dr. Robert Marks in Tulsa, Oklahoma, sir?”

  “Marks? Sure I know him. Why?”

  “He says he’s a friend of yours, and that your father purchased a Newmar Dutch Star motorhome that he traded in to a used RV place in Oklahoma almost a year ago.”

  “So?” Simon asked. “There’s no law against that. The taxes are all paid on the RV, and the transfer was done l
egally from Oklahoma to Colorado. He has the proper insurance. I don’t see what this has to do with my dad.”

  “We really need to know where we can find Samuel Preston,” Gregory said.

  Simon started to speak but Gregory held up his right hand.

  “I promise we’ll tell you everything you need to know about what’s going on. But first, we need to know where we can find your father.”

  Simon pressed the intercom on his phone to signal his receptionist. “Yes, Pastor?”

  “Would you bring me the address and phone number of Reverend Thaddaeus Griffin in Portland, Oregon, please?”

  “Yes sir,” she answered. “You mean the home missionary Brother Preach is speaking for this weekend?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Right away, Pastor.”

  Simon Preston pushed back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Okay, gentlemen,” he said. “Now it’s your turn. I’d like to know what’s going on with my dad.”

  Constanego slid another photograph across the desk to Simon Preston. It was the full color picture of a young man whose body had been staked to the ground, severely beaten, stabbed through the heart with a lance, and covered in pink lotion.

  “My God!” Simon exclaimed.

  “There’s at least six bodies that we know of,” Gregory said. “Maybe as many as eight.”

  Simon was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to say. “Are you telling me that you suspect my father of…of…”

  “The FBI has irrefutable proof that your father is a serial killer that has been murdering men across this country for the last several months,” Gregory finished Simon’s question.

  “Dear Lord in heaven!” Simon said, his voice breaking.

  “They think it has to do with some kind of martyrdom mission he believes he’s on from God,” Constanego said.

  Simon remembered the conversation he and his father had at the diner a few days ago when he’d asked if he ever heard from God. His father had talked about a special mission God was leading him on; a mission of great apostolic importance, and how he could hear the audible voice of God as clearly as he heard their conversation. Could this be the mission he spoke about—a mission to kill innocent people in the name of God?