I could feel the day starting to slip away. I had a court appearance scheduled from a previous case in a little over two hours. I thought about calling Sandy-even picked up my phone to do it-but then tossed it back on the passenger seat of my truck. The doctor had told her to get some rest. No sense in bugging her if she was actually doing what she’d been told her. My thoughts of Sandy made me think about what she’d said about the Governor’s wife being out of town…how she’d been there with the Governor at his home, at night, just the two of them…
But those thoughts were nothing more than basic jealousy.
So, Sandy. People say that there is no such thing as love at first sight, and on the whole I used to be one of them, but when I met Sandy everything changed. I’m not sure I can adequately explain the connection between us, but there is something more to her, to us, than a physical lust or even an emotional bond. I am drawn to her in ways that are foreign to me. In truth, I felt a little like a dopey school boy. A middle-aged dopey school boy. The politics of it could get complicated. We are on the same unit, I’m her boss. There are rules about these sorts of things.
But… maybe fuck the politics.
I had never seen Samuel Pate’s residence, but I had a rough idea where his house was located. One of the television stations in town did a feature story on his home a few months ago and I remembered the story mostly because I was amazed at the grandiosity on display from someone who had made their fortune by instilling the fear of God into people who probably could not afford to buy a second-hand bible.
I had not yet looked at the documents I collected from Franklin Dugan’s office and wondered if maybe I should at least glance at them before trying to talk to Pate about a murder he might know more about than I did. I turned into a gas station just off the highway, picked up the papers from the passenger seat and began to read. I spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of what I saw in the documents, but after reading through them three times, I had no more detailed information than what Cora had given me earlier. The bottom line was Samuel Pate was under investigation for insurance fraud out of Texas, he was talking publicly about running for the office of Governor of the state of Indiana, and he apparently had a banker who’d been either very generous or foolhardy. Maybe both.
When I turned into Pate’s drive I realized the story I had seen on television a few months back did not do justice to the level of extravagance and excess to which this man lived his life. On T.V. he preached the way to heaven was to give most, if not all of your earthly belongings to God through his ministry, yet it appeared he lived his life as if the very rules he preached somehow did not apply to himself.
The driveway was almost a quarter mile in length and at the far end it split into two lanes, one which led around the side of the house to a five car garage, the other to a circular turn-about in front of the three story red-bricked mansion. I parked my truck just past the front door then walked up and rang the bell. When the front door opened I felt a surge of cool, conditioned air brush past me but when I saw the woman on the other side of the threshold who smiled at me and said my name aloud I was left off balance and suddenly at a loss for words.
“Well, Virgil Jones, as I live and breathe. What on earth are you doing here? Come in, won’t you please?”
Her accent was manufactured, or if that is not fair of me to say, then perhaps it was simply acquired from her time spent in Texas, the way a person’s skin will darken after weeks or months spent outdoors in the summer sun. But she had always spoken with a Midwestern twang the way the rest of us do and I somehow found the sound of the words that came from her mouth as contrived as any meaning or sincerity they might have held.
Her name when I knew her in high school had been Amanda Habern, but her married name now was Pate. I heard a number of years ago she and Sermon Sam had married, but at the time Pate was not yet famous in our part of the country, and Amanda was just a girl I knew a long time ago for a very short while. Under any other circumstance I might have been surprised that she recognized or even remembered me, but Amanda and I have a history of a single shared encounter, one which could have been beautiful, or at least just plain old fashion fun, but in the end was neither of those.
I accepted her invitation and crossed the threshold of the front door and when I did, I felt suddenly conflicted about the nature of my visit and her eagerness to so willingly invite me into her home. I was in her house as an investigative officer of the state of Indiana and not a casual visitor or long lost lover from decades ago, and I wondered if the warmth in her eyes and the look of fondness upon her face were as manufactured as the accent of her sing-song voice. Regardless of the purpose of my visit, I had to admit she was still as easy to look at now as she was twenty years ago. She wore tennis whites, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. When she closed the door the two of us endured one of those clumsy moments old lovers are often faced with when an unexpected chance encounter brings them together. She stepped forward, her arms open to hug me at the same time I put my right arm out to shake her hand. It was awkward, but I thought she laughed a little too quickly and perhaps a touch too long. In the end, we went with the handshake.
We looked at each other for a moment, and I was the one who broke the silence. “It’s been a long time, Amanda.”
“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said. “I just put some coffee on. Why don’t you come join me and we can catch up a little.”
She placed her hand in the crook of my arm in an effort to lead me through the house, but I held myself steady and refused to go along with her. When she felt my resistance she turned her head, and I saw her smile falter. “I’m here in an official capacity, Amanda. I need to speak with Samuel. Perhaps yourself as well, but I’d like to have a word with your husband first.”
“Is this about Franklin?” she asked. “Why would you want to talk to Samuel about that?”
I made note of her referral of the victim by his first name, then answered her question. “Yes, it is about Franklin Dugan’s murder. I’m investigating on behalf of the state. It’s what I do, Amanda. Is your husband home?”
“No, I’m afraid he is not home, Detective.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s at the church. They always tape Sunday’s broadcast a few days ahead of time then edit it down for time. I know a lot of people think it’s live, but it’s not. It’s taped. We make no secret about that, you know.”
I suspected the defensiveness she displayed might be a large part of her life in general so I drew no conclusions from the words she spoke or the manner in which they were delivered. “I wouldn’t know, Amanda.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything other than I am not a member of your church, and I don’t watch your televised broadcasts. How well did you know Franklin Dugan?”
“Are you asking me that question in an official capacity? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”
“We only read you your rights if you are under arrest, which you are not. Could you please just answer the question?”
“I could, but I choose not to. My rights are the same whether I’m under arrest or not and in this particular instance, I choose to remain silent. If you have any questions for me or my husband, I suggest you contact our attorney. Better yet, I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. And your boss.” She opened the front door. “It was great seeing you, Jonesy,” she said, her manufactured east Texas accent suddenly gone, but her voice still thick with sarcasm. “Maybe next time we see each other it won’t be in an official capacity.”
“I seriously doubt it, Amanda. Have your husband call me as soon as he gets home.” I tried to hand her my business card and when she refused to take it I laid it on the small receiving table next to the door. As soon as I set it down a gust of wind swirled through the doorway and blew the card onto the floor as if the table were no more willing to accept my contact information than the woman who stood at my side. I stepped out into the sunlight and the sound of the brass door knocker tapping against itself as the door slammed shut behind me.
I had no misconceptions as to whether or not Amanda Pate would tell her husband to call me, so I drove over to the Pate Ministry complex located on the outer edges of a shopping center on the city’s west side. The massive brick building situated in the center of the property was so non-descript it looked more like a small hospital or office building than a church. Most of the property had been paved with blacktop and dedicated to parking, and when I turned into the entrance of the complex the parking lot was completely full. I parked next to the yellow-curbed sidewalk in front of the building then set a laminated placard on the dash identifying my truck as an official state vehicle.
A landscaper was spreading fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules and they crunched under my boots as if I were walking across a crushed shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the deep south. Four sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick pillars fronted the building, and when I was less than ten feet away they all opened at once as a throng of people exited the building and made their way to the parking lot. The scene reminded me of quitting time at the factory where my grandfather had worked his entire life. My mom or my grandmother would sometimes take me along to pick him up and we’d sit at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was on fire and about to explode.
I had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of people to pass before I could get inside the building. The lobby area of the church was bigger than I expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request to God before they left the building. There was a cafe of some sort along the eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants, and the aroma of the prepared treats washed over me and made my stomach rumble. Small tables with open umbrellas in their center holes lined a vertical railed enclosure where people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their heaven on earth. Next to the cafe was a bookstore where still more people browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. I turned back around and looked at the doors through which I had just entered feeling a little like Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a mystical place that made no sense to her at all.
A number of the children and younger adults wore beaded bracelets on their wrists, the ones with WWJD on them and even I knew the letters stood for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ Though I am not religious by nature, I thought if Jesus were here, he would in all likelihood wait until everyone had safely left the building and then burn it to the ground.
I turned in a slow circle, looking for the office area or an information kiosk and that’s when I noticed two men as they approached me. They both were very large and very ugly. Well, Jesus loves us all. Their biceps bulged hard against their matching sport coats. Though one was slightly taller than the other, they looked almost exactly the same. Shaved heads, thick necks, bulging muscles, and arms that seemed just a bit too long. Mouth breathers.
The shorter one spoke, like maybe the taller one didn’t know how. “Reverend Pate is in his office and is expecting you. Follow us please.” The smaller of the two men took two steps forward and motioned me to follow, but the larger man, the one who spoke, positioned himself behind me. I glanced up at the ceiling and for the first time noticed the cameras mounted inside tinted plastic domes, the kind you would see in a casino or a bank. I was sure we were being watched, but by whom or how many remained a mystery to me. The three of us walked through the lobby area and then down a short corridor and into the administrative office area of the complex.
Pate was seated at his desk and on the phone when we walked in. He motioned me in with an exaggerated circular arm movement then pointed to a chair in front of his desk and into the phone he said, “Yes, yes he’s here now. I’ll call you later.”
After seeing the size of the lobby and its carnival-like atmosphere I suspected Pate’s office would be large and extravagant but I was wrong. The room was no bigger than my office downtown and it was modestly decorated in muted tones, a contrast so stark from the rest of the building I was almost more amazed by its utilitarian form and function than I was of the lobby just down the hall.
Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people will carry a look of the profession they practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled at me, I noticed his eyes held a certain light which felt both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and I noticed both arm pits of his shirt were soaked through and damp from perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform I suspected they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.
Pate stood to greet me, but before he did he affixed the metal bands of his arm crutches around his forearms, grasped the handles, then pulled himself out of his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, pointed to the chair with the end of one of the crutches and said, “Welcome Detective. Please, have a seat.”
We shook hands and when Pate squeezed my fingers harder and longer than necessary, I said, “That’s an impressive grip, Mr. Pate. Please release my hand.”
He chuckled as if caught in a polite fib, the kind one might tell to save another of an unnecessary embarrassment. “I prefer Reverend, if you please,” he said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve spent years moving around with the aid of these crutches. It tends to build up one’s musculature, wouldn’t you agree? I often forget my own strength. How exactly may I help you, Detective? My wife said you wanted to speak with me about Franklin’s unfortunate passing.”
I noticed two things right away: Like his wife, Pate had referred to the victim by his first name, which is indicative of a certain level of familiarity beyond a business relationship, and two, he had referred to Dugan’s murder as a ‘unfortunate passing.’ I decided to go for some shock value.
“The victim was shot to death in his own driveway, Reverend. The top of his head was blown off and you could use what’s left of his skull for a gravy boat. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate passing.”
Pate seemed to ignore my statement in its entirety and said, “There is a war going on out there, Detective. I witness it every day. The book of Revelation speaks of what is to come and the fate that will befall those who choose to ignore the word of God. The script is already written, the players already cast. The outcome for those who follow the teachings of the bible is a foregone conclusion. The only real question left to ponder, the only real way to fight the war, is to ask yourself, where do you stand in the eyes of the Lord, Detective? Do you stand in the light of God, or in the darkness like those who would murder a man in his own home? You come to my office with intentions of questioning me over something I know nothing about regarding I man I knew as a professional, a friend, and a member of this church. I find your behavior and your demeanor not only questionable but repulsive.”
I pointed my finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you preach to on TV, Reverend. I’m not here to be your witness. When was the last time you saw Franklin Dugan?”
I did not think Pate would answer, and when he did, the fire had gone out of his voice and his eyes seemed to dull a bit. “I saw him last week, at the taping of the show. He was here, as he always was.”
“When was the last time you were at his home?” I asked.
“I have never been to his home, Detective. Ever. Let me ask you something, if I may. Franklin was one of our biggest benefactors. Why in the world would I or anyone from this church for that matter want to see him harmed?”
“That’s a fine question, sir. It’s also one that I don’t have the answer to. But here’s an even better one; Why is it, do you think, Reverend, that the man who was personally responsible for the approval of a five million dollar loan to your church was murdered just days after you got the money? Better yet, how is it sir, that you were able to obtain that kind of credit using an all but condemned building as collateral? Is any of this starting to make sense to you, Reverend? Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of the investigation currently being conducted by the Texas Department of Insurance regarding your former ministry in Houston?”
I thought he might try to defend himself, but he surprised me with his next statement and left me unable to speak. “My wife tells me of her past relationship with you when you were schoolmates. She’s an interesting woman, is she not? We’re having a viewing party this Saturday, here at our facility. We watch the broadcast with a select few members of the congregation to try and get a feel for how well our message will be received the next day. She’s asked me to invite you to attend. Would ten a.m. work for you, Detective?”
I left the Pate Ministry with more questions than answers. As I headed downtown for a court appearance on a previous case I spoke with both Rosencrantz and Donatti to get a feel for any information they might have gathered from their canvass of the double murder. Rosie’s voice crackled in my ear on a bad cell signal. “Found a paperboy who says he might have seen the van. He’s just a kid. Sort of a punk, little bit of smartass in him, but just a kid nonetheless. Or hell, maybe he’s completely normal and I’m just getting old. Either way, he didn’t see anything of value. No plate, no make. Says he forgot one of the houses along his route and had to double back. That’s when he saw the van. But there’s nothing there.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”
“No shit?”
“I shit you not, oh wise one.”
“Prints?”
“Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”
“Alright, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”
“Already on it.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Just spec if you want it.”
“Let’s have it,” I said.
“Alright, if you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Barney, so that leaves the banker, right?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank-”
“Stay with me here, Rosie.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Barney was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”
I thought about this for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “Alright, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”
“You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”
“No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. Probably the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.”
“You got it, Chief.”
I killed the phone, parked my truck and headed into court. I was fifteen minutes late. If the court was running on time, the Judge would not be pleased.