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Chapter Twenty-Two
A Distant Drumming
Early the following morning, hours before Salem Dade
would begin his begrudging ministry on the street, Homicide Chief Randall
Walker called Jake Cosgrove directly at his home in Anaheim and ordered he and
his squad to begin interviewing members of Adam Leeds church. It was the second special assignment to
interrupt squad one’s busy schedule.
Sid Barnes, who knew the churchmen personally, had also risen early to
check in with his newfound friend.
Several members of Our Lord and Savior’s Independent Christian Church,
including himself, Sid explained to Randall, had considered the Reverend Leeds
to be a heretic and, as a result of his new age preaching, left the
church. Sid, who had first hand
experience with the maverick minister, and his born-again cohort Randall Walker,
had made this a personal crusade.
Both men, through prayer, consultation, and personal scrutiny, would not
give up, no matter what CSI or the fire department investigators concluded
about the case. Unable to reach
Captain Walt Franklin at home this hour, Walker had used this excuse to expedite
the investigation, himself. The
Adam Leeds case would, he told Jake Cosgrove, have top priority for squad one
this week. If need be, the chief
boasted to Sid, he’d investigate it himself.
To justify utilizing squad one to Captain
Franklin and Lieutenant Howard, the chief used the flimsiest of arguments. Although material evidence didn’t
exist, Randall, in the official memo faxed to Franklin and Howard’s offices,
agreed with Deputy Fire Chief Sid Barnes that Reverend Adam Leeds and his
wife’s disappearance deserved an official investigation. Arson, they concurred, couldn’t be
completely ruled out. The homicide
captain’s eyebrows had risen at the urgency implied for such a routine
case. Lieutenant Howard was
greatly irked that he would be short handed today. But neither leader would offer resistance. There were, they understood, several
prominent citizens on Randall’s list, and the missing minister was, after all,
Walker reminded them, a man of the cloth.
Both Barnes and Walker, in secret alliance,
in what was half-seriously called the Brotherhood of the Fish, had made this
investigation into a greater cause.
The groundwork for a secret organization that would grow exponentially
among public and corporate leaders had already been laid. After the inspection made at the scene
by Harry Waters, Sid was waiting for test results of ash samples from the crime
lab. For his part, Randall waited
for CSI to find human traces in the ashes left by the fire. It occurred to them, though there was
no proof of arson or murder, that an agent, as yet undetectable by modern
science, had destroyed all evidence in the strange fire. Secretly, because of their belief in
the End Times, both Barnes and Walker suspected who that agent might be.
Homicide’s list of
persons to be questioned included all members of Adam Leed’s church, as well as
the Leeds’ neighbors and friends.
Persons hostile to Reverend Leeds’ wife, especially those who reportedly
stormed out of the church, would be at the top of the list. Although Jake Cosgrove, whose team had
been assigned the case, normally reported to Lieutenant Howard, he had been
ordered now by Randall, himself, to keep the homicide chief in the information
loop. Randall would, in turn, give
Sid Barnes a progress report at the end of each day. In this way, in “spiritual ignorance,” Jake Cosgrove, his
partner Sam, and the detectives of homicide squad one now worked for the
Brotherhood of the Fish.
******
During the hour, Jake
began calling his detectives to find out what they had heard from members of
Reverend Leeds’ church. With Sam
behind the wheel, he held the receiver up to his mouth, making his first call
in a deadpan, uninspired voice.
Normally, their state-of-the art radio system worked well enough, unless
there was electrical interference or they were out of range. There should, in fact, be no
interference in this sector of town, and they were only a few miles from the
scene of the crime, and yet the vehicle’s radio crackled and sputtered as if
there was a loose wire or sudden, inexplicable static. Jake tried adjusting the dials and even
fiddled with the frequency for a moment, which just seemed to make the
reception worse.
“This is a new radio,” he
grumbled under his breath. “What could be wrong?”
“Try a different number.”
Sam suggested. “Maybe it’s the two-way.
“Nah,” snorted Jake,
bending down and cupping his ear. “That’s coming from our unit.”
Unwilling to give up yet,
the sergeant tried clearing up the problem again. He moved dials back and forth, turned the unit on and off,
and then gave the speaker a gentle thump. The static returning, however, grew
unbearable, grating on Jake and his partner Sam Ruiz’s nerves.
“Sarge…Colin Wood…here,” a
crackling voice sounded eerily from the radio.
“It sounds like its coming
from deep space,” observed Sam wryly.
“Colin,” Jake drawled
irritably, “what did Eugene and Millicent Waterford have to say?”
For a few seconds, all
they heard were a series of crackles and squawks. After banging the front of the unit with his fist, as if that
might help, he was able pick up portions of Colin’s reply:
“I…squawk…Waterford…squawk… wife…squawk…jack!”
“This isn’t working,” Sam
muttered irritably, “there’s something wrong with the radio. Something’s loose or disconnected in
it. Maybe they just installed it
wrong.”
Adjusting the volume
control again then tapping on various sectors of the set, Jake refused to give
up. Though the reception was poor,
he was able to interpret, based upon a favorite expression from Colin, the last
portion of his message as “They don’t know jack!”
“Colin, can you be
a little more specific,” he sighed, with the volume turned up full blast.
“Squawk!…squa-awk!…squawk-squawk-squawk!…squa-a-a-a-awk!”
“Use your regular cell
phone,” Sam said from the corner of his mouth.
“This is
ridiculous!” Jake grabbed his forehead. “Our radio’s brand new. It was working fine this
morning!” Giving it one more solid
thump in order to improve the reception, he was able to hear Colin say “She
said…Squa-a-a-wk!…battleaxe…Squa-a-awk…”
Jake was certain Colin had called Waterford’
wife an old battleaxe. Those two
key words, ‘jack’ and ‘battleaxe’ meant that Colin didn’t have much luck. Any more information than this
would require using his cell phone, as Sam suggested. Suddenly, as traffic began to slow, they could hear only
static on the set: a continuous onslaught of crackling, sputtering, whistling,
clicking, and nerve shattering squawks.
Exhaling in resignation, Jake snapped off the set, pulled out his cell
phone, and dialed Colin Woodward’s number. A scowl was etched on his rugged face, as he listened to
Colin’s report.
Though Sam couldn’t hear him this time, it
was obvious the detective had little luck with the Waterfords.
“Yeah… Oh yeah, no shit, Colin.” He rolled his eyes around in disbelief.
“Well, I think Waterford knows more than what he’s telling you. According to Higgins, he and the misses
left in quite a stir. That misses
of his sounds like she hated the reverend’s wife.”
The one-sided sound
of Jake’s gravelly voice was a welcome relief to Sam. As Colin Woodward complained in Jack’s ear of the
Waterford’s intransigence, his partner Rusty Greer held up a hastily written
note: Tell Jake about the
wind!
“Oh yeah, thanks
Rusty,” Colin sighed into the phone, “those folks got blown around inside the
church by some kind of poltergeist.
The misses told us that when we were leaving.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Jake
looked at Sam. “Now there’s a poltergeist in the plot. Higgins left that detail out and so did
Philip Lindley. I don’t blame
them.” “Stay on this Colin,” he said to Woodward before disconnecting. “Go to
the next one on your list. Keep
Rusty on a short lease. I don’t
want anymore complaints.”
Rusty, Jake recalled Sarah Mendoza telling him, had quarreled with Felicity
Brown, the Leeds’ next store neighbor, over her theory about the fire. Felicity, who believed that the End
Times were approaching, thought that the fire a sign from God. As proof, she argued with Rusty, was
the behavior of the flames, a characterization that brought on the rookie’s
immediate scorn. It seemed
unconscionable to him that she saw this tragedy as divine wrath. Jake would have been surprised to know
that his superior, Randall Walker, believed the very same thing.
“This case is a joke,” snarled Sam, watching Jake write something on his
pad.
That kid better learn to control his temper, the sergeant made a note for himself. Last night was the third time Sarah complained about Rusty Greer.
As Jake called Sarah and Benny,
the second team in the field, Sam searched impatiently for the turnoff
ahead. Sergeant Cosgrove had saved
James Royce, the potentially most difficult of the elders (according to Dwight
Higgins) for themselves. It was
not easy questioning those elders who had, in fits of rage, stormed out of
Reverend Leeds’ church. Virtually
all of them knew that they were suspects in this case.
Sarah Mendoza, Jake’s most
seasoned detective, and her partner Benny Rawls, however, had done much better
than Colin Woodward and Rusty Greer.
Although William Breckenridge and his wife claimed to have no animosity
toward Salem, himself, both of them gave a scathing critique to team two of
Cora Leeds.
“Oh, that woman is a
class-A bitch,” Sarah chatted into her phone. “She needs exorcism. According to misses Breckenridge, she’s
a first rate drunk.”
“Tell’em about the barf,”
Benny, who was behind the wheel, tapped her knee.
“Oh yeah,” Sarah made a
face, “the last time she was in the reverend’s church, she upchucked into the pews. A real mess. The rev’ said it was ‘cause she had the flu, but the
Breckenridge’s claim she smelled like booze.”
Benny, who took
copious notes, handed her his notepad now, and Sarah read verbatim what Benny
highlighted with a marker, in a deadpan voice:
“Suspects claimed
the Reverend’s wife has not attended church for over six months, and that his
sermons suffered for her behavior.
Her absence, though welcomed by the congregation, affected his general
attitude. The Reverend turned
progressively toward new age thinking and Norman Vincent Peale’s philosophy in
order, perhaps (according to Mr. Breckenridge) to give meaning his own life.”
“You copy that Sarge?” she
asked with a gasp
“You didn’t write
that,” Jake seemed amused.
“No,” she replied quickly,
“Benny, our resident Injun did.”
“Who’s next on your list?”
Jake searched his own notes.
“The Lindley’s,” she
yawned. “This case is a real sleeper, Sarge.”
“Okay. We’re doing Royce and Billingsley,”
Jake looked up from his notebook. “What did you hear about the freak wind?”
“Oh yeah,” her eyes popped
wide. “The misses said the air conditioner was acting strange.”
“That’s an
understatement,” frowned Sam. “I think we should check that out.”
Jake made a note of it on
his pad. He would not admit it but
he felt a peculiar excitement now, he dare not put into words. Instead he drew a little ghost in the
margin. After signing off
abruptly, he quickly checked in with the evidence technicians Tim Blodgett and
Nick Sandoval, who were at the library doing research on local news.
Compared to the others,
Tim’s response was snappy: “Detective Blodgett, LAPD!” He chimed.
“Hey, Blodgett,” grunted
Jake, “got anything on Leeds?”
“Nothing, Sarge,” replied
Tim pertly, “except a back page byline about him replacing Hugh Thomas at his
church.”
“That’s it?” Grumbled
Jake. “You’ve been there all morning, and that’s all you found?”
“Well, not exactly,” Tim
seemed to equivocate. “We started sniffing a different trail.”
“Smells like shit, Sarge!”
Nick shouted in the background.
“What’s he talking about
Tim?” Jake poised his pen over his pad.
Inexplicably he had drawn an impish devil’s head this time on the
sheet. Unwittingly, the sergeant had
given himself another clue to the case.
“It’s a mixed bag,” Tim’s
voice droned. “We found out that members of the congregation have been quitting
the church in droves. Many of them
disagree with his sermons. Others,
however, approved of his new approach.
We began checking the backgrounds out of all of the members we could
identify…. It seems that one of the elders was accused of child molestation
with his daughter but the charge didn’t stick.”
“Who?” Jake, his eyelids drooping, came alive.
“James Breckenridge,” Tim
chimed, “one of the elders of the church.”
“Give me the details,”
clipped Jake.
His adolescent voice
charged with excitement, Blodgett read the police report as if he had just
found an important clue:
“After responding to a call by a neighbor, who claimed to have witnessed
the event in Breckenridge’s backyard, the family presented a united front and
denied the charge—”
“That’s enough Blodgett,”
Jake snapped brusquely into the phone, “I can read it the police report
too. That’s your big scoop?”
“No, uh-uh, we have lots
of stuff,” Tim frowned into the phone.
“Alright, Blodgett, what else you got?” He prodded the young detective.
“We’re checking out all the other suspects too,” Nick’s voice came into
the phone this time. “Man, Sarge, you wouldn’t believe how much money ol’
Waterford has: he owns half the condos in town—”
“Okay, Sandoval,” interrupted Jake, “that’s wonderful. You guys just concentrate on the
smell.” “Call me back when you found some real shit!” he quipped, ending the
call.
There was no
connection between the fact that Breckenridge might be a pedophile and what
happened at the Leeds household, and yet Jake found the news significant enough
to right it down on his pad. It
seemed quite clear to him that this was a dysfunctional church. At the bottom of the current page, he
wrote What kind of people are
we dealing with?
******
Realizing he had
not checked in with Walker this hour, Jake flipped open his cell phone, scanned
the electronic phone book, and punched the memory dial. An all too familiar phenomena became
starkly familiar to Jake and Sam, now that the Sergeant had checked in with his
squad. Traffic was slowing rapidly
now. Inexplicably, Jake’s cell
phone was filling with static, as he held it to his ear. When he tried Sam’s phone, he received
a busy signal from Randall Walker’s phone, indicating that Walker was still on
the line.
“Hang up my phone,”
advised Sam, “and call again.”
“No-o-o,” drawled
Jake. “Let’s wait until we got something good to report.”
“We’re not going to
find anything good,” replied Sam, “not in this case.”
Settling back in
their seats, the detectives fell silent a moment as traffic slowed completely
to a halt.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” Sam
swore under his breath.
“Find us a side road or
alternate,” the sergeant groaned, rubbing his face. “Look for a detour up
head—anything. This could take
hours!”
“This might not take
long,” Sam consoled Jake. “It could be just a fender bender. Fortunately, we’re in the slow
lane. If traffic starts creeping
up, I’ll pull off at the first exit I see.”
“All right,” Jake said
with resignation, re-opening his laptop and returning to the web, “it better be
soon!”
With forced calm, Sam
turned on the radio, and sat there drumming his fingers on the dashboard as
classical music filled the car.
Nodding with approval at his selection, Jake looked up from his research
at the cars ahead, curious but not moved by what his tired eyes detected in the
sky. The great urgency to get off
the freeway passed, when he considered how meaningless their interviews with
James Royce and Tim Billingsley might be.
If worse came to worse, he would place the magnetic beacon on top of the
car and they would use the emergency zone to exit this mess. Already, without talking to a single
witness, he was convinced that Reverend Leeds had murdered his wife. His sleuthing instincts also told him
they would never see the reverend again.
This would become a cold case, and yet, despite scoffing at it, himself,
there was an urgency about it that transcended the normal routine for an
investigation.
His interest had been
wetted, not by a sense of duty, but by a restless spirit, searching for meaning
in life, not landmarks for his detective career. There were far more complicated cases out there to absorb his
work ethic. At this very moment, he
was not even thinking about their schedule. He was wondering what it was that made a routine arson
investigation so important to two high-ranking officials. What agenda could they have to make
them focus on something that lacked both evidence or even a clear-cut motive
for the crime? It seemed doubtful
to him that Walker and Barnes even knew the reverend and his wife. Jake couldn’t remember a single
instance in his career of a high-ranking police and fire department officials
collaborating this way before.
Yet, though there wasn’t a shred of evidence for even arson now, he was
as certain, as Walker and Barnes, that a crime had been committed at the Leed’s
home.
Without proof or a clear
motive, he now wondered if it could ever be solved. It was nothing more than missing persons file and suspected
homicide at this point, but he knew, even at this early stage, it was much,
much more.
******
By now a dark and ominous
column of smoke had risen several hundred feet into the air, arcing westward
with an offshore wind. A faint
gasp escaped Jake’s chest as the visual stimulus set in.
“Sweet Mary,” he cried, as
the column took shape, “do you see that?”
“It’s smoke from the
wreck,” Sam replied with a yawn.
Jake laughed nervously at
his outburst. Yet inexplicably,
for those seconds, the smoke fingered out overhead, transforming into what
seemed like a monstrous claw like hand. In that brief interval, as it spread over the nearby
city, he saw, without comprehension, a forewarning of the Apocalypse beginning
in skid row.
“This is going to be a long one,” Sam replied glumly, rolling
down the window and sniffing the air.
The smell of burning
rubber and oil now filled the car, indicating that it was more than a mere
fender bender as Sam had suggested.
“Someone got torched,” Jake shook his head.
“Not necessarily,” Sam
said thoughtfully, watching the column curl ominously up into the sky. “They
could’ve gotten out. It could’ve
exploded later, after the driver escaped.”
“Yeah, right,” Jake
scowled, turning back to the laptop on his lap. “I hope this starts
moving. Pretty soon, I might have
to go pee.”
Curious about the
disaster, Sam channel surfed until finding a station broadcasting the
news. After hearing the end of a
newscast, he caught the beginning of a traffic report that seemed more like a
narration from a script. In the
helicopter flying overhead, Jetta Carlson, a KPFK news camerawoman, sounding
more like a commentator than a reporter, spoke eloquently of the gridlock
below.
“Something exploded beneath the clear, cloudless sky,” she began loftily.
“A dark plume of smoke rises skyward to mark the spot. Speedometers plunge and break pedals
jam. An eruption of horn blasts
shatter the air. The stream
thickens now, congealing into a solid mass. Each car, losing its identity, is drawn imperceptibly along
as more motorists clog the on-ramps, unaware of the horror beyond. Each driver, in silent fraternity, becomes
part of the current, until inevitably it stops completely, and a restless hush
falls over the stream.”
Sam turned up the volume.
“Are you listening to this?” He looked at Jake.
Jake, who had been reading an internet article on archaeology, looked up
with an enigmatic expression on his face but said nothing.
“… From the suburbs of the city to the heartland of the metropolis,”
expounded Jetta, “a traffic jam’s in progress—the kind of nightmare feared by
motorists but expected by the highway patrol. Sirens will be sounding in the distance and red lights will
be flashing in the emergency lane of traffic. Already, the fire department and paramedics are rushing to
the scene. Up ahead, as we
approach the scene, it is apparent that a terrible accident occurred. I can see below, that the original
crash has created hundreds of lesser wrecks down the line. Bumpers have embraced and doors have
collided. Countless whiplashes
will be reported today. For the
vast majority of commuters, however, the danger is over and the terrible
waiting has begun…”
Jake and Sam now smelled
sulfur in the breeze, so faint at first it was difficult to distinguish from
the normal sulfur dioxide and carbon monoxide in the air. After a few moments of listening to
what sounded like a treatise on traffic, the smell grew stronger, until Jake
and Sam recognized what it was.
“I’ll be damned,” murmured
Jake, “it’s that odor again—the one I smelled on my vacation.”
“Yeah,” nodded Sam. “What
was on that truck? It’s like the
smell at a foundry: burning slag.”
“It’s brimstone!” Declared
Jake, recalling the devil’s head drawn on his pad.
******
Along with Jake and Sam
and everyone else on I-5 this afternoon, On-the-Spot News Van Seven was
stranded in the traffic jam. For
the rookie reporter Valentine “Tino” Getz, who happened to be tuned into KPFK,
the sound of Jetta Carlson’s crinkly voice was both an inspiration and a
challenge. For his partner Milo
Flores, however, it appeared as if Valentine was going off the deep end again.
“Please-please,” the
reporter begged the cameraman, “just stand up through the sun roof and shoot
some of it for me. I know Gus will
like it. He liked my commentary on
that fire, didn’t he? Come on
Milo, I’ve been following the rules.”
“You’ve followed the rules
for exactly two days,” Milo corrected him. “That’s hardly a record.” “So help me, Tino,” he wrung his
finger, “when I say cut, you’ll stop this bullshit at once!”
“Yes-yes,” the reporter
leaped up, with his remote mike in hand.
Often, if Tino stepped out
of line, Milo would use the old fashioned plug-in microphone to keep him
literally in tow. This time, as he
stood up with his camera on his shoulder, side-by-side with the reporter, there
was nowhere else for Getz to go.
When he released his finger from the camera trigger, it would be over
and that would be it, even if he had to drag the young man back into the van.
“… An asphalt truck
appears to have been sideswiped by an SUV,” they heard Jetta say. “There’s no
injuries, just a terrible mess covering two of the lanes.”
Now that her introduction
was over and she had turned back to her traffic report, Valentine began his own
narrative he hoped might overshadow her effort when it was aired tonight:
“From
the city limits to Downtown Metro, it unfolds now:” he paused for effect, “… a super jam, in classic form. For hours they will be stranded: one
hundred thousand of them, waiting miserably for it to end. Fists will clinch, and teeth will
grind. An ocean of protest will
shatter the air…”
At
this point, the reporter was stopped cold by something he detected in the breeze. A familiar odor wafted into his
nostrils, caressing his olfactory nerves.
The cameraman took this as his cue to stop the camera and climb back
into the van. Apparently satisfied
with what he had said but remaining silent those moments, the reporter followed
suit, shutting the sun roof behind himself and settling back quietly into his
seat.
Milo
studied the slack-jawed expression on the young man’s face. Lately, he had been displaying quirky
behavior but nothing quite like this.
“What was that all about?” the cameraman asked, sitting his equipment
back into its rack and scooting behind the wheel. “… You know very well,” he said after a pause, “we can’t
give that to the editor. I bet
Jetta Carlson gets in trouble for that the little stunt.”
The
reporter shrugged his shoulders and searched for words to describe the feeling
gripping him now. Without the need
of sound or the knowledge of an oncoming war, a distant drumming had begun
resonating in Valentine Getz’s mind.
“Well,
we’ve got some good footage of the smoke,” Milo continued, chuckling to
himself. “We just can’t use the soundtrack. That’s not news, Tino; it’s a commentary like Jetta just
gave.”
“It’s
not the smoke… It’s the smell,” Valentine craned his neck and sniffed the air
blowing into the van. “… Don’t you recognize that Milo? It’s the same smell we detected at the
Leeds household fire… brimstone.
What on earth would that odor be doing on the afternoon breeze?”
******
The same question plagued Jake and Sam. Almost an hour had passed since the gridlock had set
in. Traffic now began to move
imperceptibly, beginning with the slow lane. As Sam prepared to detour at the nearest exit, he noticed
that Jake had lapsed into silence again.
He had been searching the web for countless bits of information, but now
sat staring out the windshield with almost unblinking eyes.
“I can’t explain it,” Jake
groped for words. “… After getting a whiff of that sulfur again, I feel like
something important, no, big, is going to happen… and we’re going to be
the first ones to know.”
“Well,” Sam nodded his
head. “Walker and Barnes know something we don’t know, that’s for
certain!”
“Yeah,” Jake looked
back at his laptop screen, “I found a website called ‘Positive Thinking in the
New Age Church.’ After reading
this, I can see why the elders thought Leeds was a heretic. Those middle age conservative men and
women saw his watered down version of Christianity as a corrupting influence in
their church… Question is, Sam, why did Walker and Barnes take a personal
interest in this case?… Is there a connection somewhere we can’t see?”
“I dunno,” Sam reached
down to turn the radio down. “There really isn’t much substance to this
case. All we have are tantalizing
clues, but no evidence of arson or murder.”
“When you get right down
to it,” remarked Jake with a sigh, “there isn’t much substance or pattern in life!”
As the haunting second
movement of Sebelius’ Swan of Tuonella filled the car, Sam searched ahead for
the Fifth Street detour, which would take them directly into skid row. It was a detour that would forever
change the course of their lives.
Jake was now in what Sam
recognized as a philosophical mood.
His wife Anna was suffering from cancer and his daughter Janelle was moving
with her husband to Arizona where his son-in-law had found a new job—facts that
only a select few people, including himself, knew. There was nothing Sam could say to Jake that would not sound
like maudlin sentimentality, but he understood Jake’s mind and, as always,
would act as a sounding board for his partner’s mood.
This case had seemed dull
and unsubstantial compared to ones done in the past, and yet, because of the
urgency given to it by Walker and Barnes, Jake had begun drawing devils and
ghosts in the margins of his notes.
Sam had noticed this development and had noted Jake’s recent interest in
archeology too. For just a moment,
as a change of pace, Jake paused in his research in archeology, to write on a
Microsoft Word page in his laptop: (1) House burns down. (2) Couple is missing.
(3) The only suspects are members of Leed’s church. In a second column, in respective order, he followed with:
(1) No evidence of arson. (2) No evidence of a murder, and (3) Other then
seeing her as nuisance, what motive could there be for murdering the reverend’s
wife?
Because of the gridlock,
Sam could safely glance over at the laptop. “My thoughts exactly,” he said, pointing to the screen.
“That’s
the sum total of this investigation,” Jake confessed to Sam, “a house fire and
two missing persons.”
“We’ve had much less to go
on in the past,” replied Sam. “Our squad may not agree, but there is
something peculiar about this case.
You won’t admit it, but your artwork speaks loudly, Jake. It’s all that reading you’ve done. You’re fascinated with the causalities
in this case. You have a chance to
put all that extracurricular reading to use. That was an unnatural fire; no on can argue with that. But it’s all academic, Jake. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours
yet since the fire. As you’ve said
yourself: there’s no evidence of arson and no proof that there was even a
crime. This is, and everyone knows
it, a highly irregular investigation, that will make the department look stupid
if the Leeds show up suddenly on the scene.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Jake
shot back in disbelief. “The pastor left for his meeting. She entertained a stranger. The stranger left without Mr.
Leeds. And Cora Leeds was still in
the freaking house!”
“No, it’s not clear at
all,” Sam shook his head stubbornly. “It was too dark for Wallace Schoolcraft
to have clearly made out who was in that car. This could still be an insurance scam. They could still be out there waiting
for just the right moment to return.”
Jake threw his head back
and laughed. All of his detective
training and gut instincts told him he was right. He couldn’t, however, argue with Sam on the basis of
instinct or use the logic gleaned from articles on the web in order to prove
his point. Already, after his
actions in the past few weeks, his partner was worried about his state of
mind. What would Sam think if he
told him about his feelings now?
This time his gut feelings were overpowering…. Yes, the reverend
murdered his wife, but there was a greater meaning to this case. He had already tried awkwardly to
explain this to Sam. “I feel like
something important, no, big, is going to happen!” he exclaimed to
him. Unfortunately, he had been in
philosophical moods too many times to be taken seriously by Sam.
It was Walker and Barnes’
interest in this case that first intrigued Jake. The investigation, itself, seemed unspectacular, yet the
smell of brimstone had felt like a religious experience to him. There was, he sensed acutely, a greater
mystery afoot. The shadowy motives
of the powers-that-be—Walker, Barnes,… God, he shuddered at the thought, now
caused him to retreat back into the web.
For a few moments, he resumed reading an article about an archeological
dig in Arizona, a state in which he hoped to retire with his wife so that they
could be near their grandchildren and daughter Janelle. On a separate window opened on his
screen, where he jotted down his thoughts, Jake also took the opportunity to
continue transcribing his handwritten notes from his notebook onto a file in
Microsoft Word, entitled simply Walker and Barnes:
…. Though hearing
sounds inside the house, the Leads’ neighbors, with the exception of Wallace
Schoolcraft and Felicity Brown, have never seen Cora Leeds outside her
home. She had been, according to
Schoolcraft, a recluse since the Leeds moved in, until yesterday when she
quarreled with her husband and exposed herself to a motorist on the
street. According to Dwight
Higgins, many of the elders had far more complaints about Salem than his wife. She was, in many of their opinions, a
drunk and had the few times they saw her acted deranged. He, on the other hand, had become a
heretic, poisoning the minds of young people and driving many members
away. The church was, perhaps,
dysfunctional and its members a peculiar lot, but they were hardly the rogues
gallery we’ve encountered in the past.
Where is there a motive for the members of the church for this
hypothetical crime, unless the reverend, himself, murdered his wife? Until a body turns up or arson can be
proven, it remains a missing persons case… yet it is much, much more.
******
Returning to his internet article, Jake thought about the artifacts that
had been covered for centuries, accidentally discovered by Arizona construction
workers working on a new tract of homes.
He couldn’t help comparing archeologists’ efforts to detective work, as
they pieced together evidence of the past. A professor from the University of Northern Arizona,
receiving a tip-off, gathered together a team, drove from Williams to Holbrook,
Arizona, reaching his destination just in time to cordon off the site. The ruins of a Pueblo kiva, of unknown
origins, uncovered by the team, brought new housing construction in Holbrook to
an abrupt halt. Arizona
archeological sites are considered sacred treasures. Much of what detectives uncover is also found by sheer
chance, though human beings, it seemed to Jake, were more often discarded as
trash. City garbage collectors, he
read recently, found body parts in a downtown dumpster, and, just last month,
joggers found a dead body for homicide to investigate along a foothill trail
…. But this time there would be no discovery, Jake
wrote in his journal. No one would
ever see those two again.
He and Sam, he reflected,
as he finished up his article, had seen the gamut of human depravity and
malice: from crimes of passion to serial murder. In connection with homicides, their files were stuffed with
all manner kinky behavior and violent acts. Nothing could surprise them very much. The number of unsolved cases and missing
person, probably murdered, far outweighed the successes they had in solving
crimes. It seemed as if much of
their effort lead them in circles or frustrating dead-ends… until last
night. Even Sam sensed that there
was something special about this particular case.
As
they followed a long line of vehicles, which were taking the same detour as
them to escape the traffic jam, they had a chance, to see the steam rising in
the distance as fire fighters doused the flames, though they were over a city
block away from the collision of the asphalt truck and SUV.
Jake, Sam had noted with
satisfaction, was now interested in archeology, a vast improvement over the
dark topics they had discussed before.
Recently, Sam had heard a disturbing range of subjects from his partner
Jake, from comments on basic criminality to the atrocities of World War
II. All were part of the killer
ape syndrome that Jake espoused.
In the beginning, he once explained to Sam, man’s ancestor had been an
innocent brute. From the moment he
first used a tool, however, he held it as a weapon in his hand. He found he could kill his neighbor as
well as his foe. In many cases,
Jake claimed, his neighbor was his
foe. That point, he theorized, was
when murder and anarchy began, the line that separated homicide from
self-defense. Murder was not a
psychological or theological phenomenon today, Jake believed. It was a throwback to primal man, when
the killer ape was let loose.
After
snooping in various magazines and books, and most recently on the web, the old
detective had gathered other tidbits—just enough knowledge on various subjects
to become opinionated and, in many cases, misinformed. His killer ape theory was just one
example. But Jake had many theories
on life and in the last fifteen minutes had just claimed that there was no
pattern to life, which seemed to Sam to be a contradiction to the Killer Ape
Theory he espoused.
Now, as he detoured through skid row, with the plan
to hook up the freeway further down the road, he heard the epitome of cynicism
from his partner’s lips.
“There
are two clean points in our lives,” Jake declared after much thought, “birth
and death. The rest—that great
void between—is filled with garbage.
We can’t escape it, Sam; it gets deeper every day.”
“Never
thought of it like that,” Sam found this humorous.
“It’s
true Sam, don’t laugh,” he said in an offended voice. “Almost everything you do
winds up in the trash, garbage disposal, or recycling bin. It either gets old, rots, rusts, and is
either revamped, recycled, or thrown away.” “Take this car here,” he thumped the dash.
“You
take it,” Ruiz grinned. “I’m tired of garbage.”
“No
seriously, Sam,” he persisted, “in so many years, if it’s not completely
overhauled, this car will wind up on the junk pile like everything else. Nothing is constant Sam; remember
there’s no substance and no pattern—least of all for us!”
“Oh
yeah,” Ruiz offered, “look at Yosemite National Park. It won’t rust or change; it’s made of rock!”
“Hell
it won’t!” Cosgrove sneered. “Haven’t you heard of erosion? What do you think carved that valley,
Sam? Ice, that’s right, plain old
ice.” “Did you know,” he said with
inspiration, “that in Italy there’s a microbe that lives off stone? Don’t shake your head Sam, I read that
on the internet too—they don’t lie!
A philosopher, Bicarde or Descarte—I can’t remember his name—once said
‘the only thing that’s constant is change itself.’ That’s true Sam, and everything and everyone is turned into
garbage in the end.”
“Okay,
bugs eat stone and ice carves rock—big deal.” Shrugged Sam. “What about the Golden Gate Bridge or
the Eiffel Tower. They’re made of steel!”
“Rust,”
Cosgrove waved. “If not rust or corrosion, they can be demolished someday for
bigger and better bridges and towers.
Even if they stand for hundreds or thousands of years, do you think
they’ll remain the same?”
“Yes,”
Sam nodded stubbornly, “why not?”
After
watching Sam roll his eyes in disbelief, Jake drew upon his vast library of trivia,
sorting through it for just the right fact.
“Look
at the Coliseum,” he snapped his fingers. “I’m not talking about the Los
Angeles Coliseum either, Sam. I’m
talking about the Roman Coliseum built by Titus in 76 A.D.—the one used for
Christian persecutions and gladiator fights.” “Now,” he searched for words, “… it’s nothing but
ruins. It’s become a historical
landmark and tourist trap.” “But
that’s not what scientists care about anymore,” he shook his head. “Did you know that archaeologists in Europe,
Mexico, and the U.S. get most of their information by studying garbage? Yes it’s true Sam. Don’t shake your head. I read that on the internet too. They call it kitchen middens if its
evidence of seafood or discarded bones and call it potsherds if its old busted
pots. Bones, as you know, lay
around for millions of years and become fossils. Fossil dinosaur turds are called coprolites.”
“Jeezuz
Christ,” Sam groaned finally. “What’s the point in all this? What
does this all mean?”
“Mean?...
Point?” Jake mused thoughtfully. “That is
the point Sam: there’s no meaning and
no point. Life runs on waste and want. It’s directed by rot, ruin, and deterioration.” “Life is garbage, Sam,” he said dramatically, “filled with death and
destruction—an unending tale of murder, mayhem, and woe!”
“Murder?…
Mayhem?…Woe?” murmured Ruiz. “I knew something other than garbage was at the
bottom of this. It’s that Killer
Ape Theory again!”
“Yep,
that’s when it began,” Jake winked approvingly. “How many battered children,
muggings, rapes, and murders are reported each day?”
“I
dunno,” Sam rolled his eyes in disbelief, “thousands, maybe millions.”
“That’s
right Sam,” Jake nodded eagerly, “millions,
because I’m talking about the whole
world!”“
“The
whole world?” His partner mumbled quizzically. “… I’m confused Jake, I really
am. What’re you driving at now?”
As
the outline of the old Fairmont Hotel loomed up in the distance, they could see
a large congregation of people on the sidewalk, spilling onto the street. Although the police reports had
mentioned a problem in this sector of town occurring earlier this week, neither
detective made the connection with this shabby-looking crowd. Glancing over at his partner, Sam wondered
if they should stop and check it out.
It was not uncommon for some form a commotion in this neighborhood. Jake sat there quietly, staring out the
window, his laptop still open in his lap.
Once again that special look had fallen over his chiseled face, as he
groped for something that was always just out of reach… the truth.
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