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By the time Sergeant Jake Cosgrove and his partner Sam Ruiz arrived on
the scene, an exhausted Salem Dade had retired with his mistress, Marie Roget,
into the condemned hotel. Braving
the rickety staircase and creaky floors, Salem’s new disciples had also found
themselves rooms to rest in, with the exception of Wyatt Brewster, the student
priest, who had slipped out of the building and was just exiting the hotel
entrance when the two detectives arrived.
“Good
afternoon, I’m Sergeant Cosgrove and this is Detective Ruiz,” Jake announced,
flashing his badge.
“Wyatt
Brewster,” the young man replied, halting in his tracks.
“I take it, his holiness
is upstairs,” the sergeant’s chiseled jaw drew imperceptibly into a smile.
Wyatt noted the sarcasm
and smiled. With his adolescent face
and fragile features, he looked no more than sixteen years old. There was, the detectives noticed, a
haunted look in his eyes, reminiscent of the many runaway boys and girls they
encountered on the street. It
seemed obvious to them that he had been going somewhere, perhaps permanently,
when he slipped out of the hotel.
Now that his escape had been interrupted, perhaps the temptation to seek
sanctuary among the protective arms of the law played on his mind.
“Are you one of his
followers?” Sam asked, with an
appraising glance.
“I’m a member of the
twelve,” he answered, looking back at the hotel. “I must answer your questions quickly. I’m certain I’m being watched.”
“All right,” said
Sam, folding his arms, “did you see the incinerations in the alley?”
“Yes,” answered Wyatt,
“all of the twelve and those at the entrance of the alley saw it happen.”
“Those folks
weren’t much help.” Sam shook his head resolutely. “All we heard was that
nonsense about divine wrath and God’s judgment. We need eyewitnesses, not advocates, who saw what caused
that incident in the alley. What
exactly did you see?”
“It wasn’t God’s
judgment,” Wyatt answered quickly. “It was Satan’s magic. I’m certain of this. As they tormented Dade, we felt the
earth shake and saw a flash, like lightning, strike the pair. Charlie and Rhoda burst into flames
then crumbled into ashes. All that
remained, after a gust of wind, were two smudges on the wall where they had
stood.”
“We’re having the smudges
tested,” Jake explained in a deadpan voice. “There’s no official investigation
yet. We’re just nosing around
here. It sounds like spontaneous
combustion or pyrotechnics to me.”
Although his expression was inscrutable, Jake had listened keenly to Wyatt’s
report. Sam’s dark, rugged face
now seemed fixed into a frown.
Both detectives had sensed a greater meaning in the Leeds case. Satanic magic, however, was quite
another matter for the detectives.
“Was there anything else?”
he asked, searching Wyatt’s face. “Did you see or hear anything out of the
ordinary before the incident other than the earthquake and flash of light?”
“No,” Wyatt thought a
moment, “just the attack on Salem.
It was awful. We all acted
like a bunch of cowards.”
“There was nothing else in
that alley?” Jake looked at him quizzically. “A suspicious voice or face. Somebody tossing something from the crowd?”
“No,” Wyatt sighed heavily. “After the attack all I remember
is the burning. That was quite
enough!”
“What about after the
incident,” pressed Jake, “did you see someone running the other way down the
alley or disappearing into the crowd?”
“No,” Wyatt shuddered. “I was too shell-shocked. No one, even Charlie, should die like
that.” His eyebrows knitted as a
memory surfaced in his mind.
“There was something, sergeant: a strange odor. When the stench faded, there was an
after-smell in the air—”
“What?” Jake lurched
forward suddenly. “Explain it to me!”
“It lasted only a moment,”
Wyatt searched his memory. “It didn’t impress me very much. The aroma from the
fire was much worse, but it reminded me of a place my parents took me when I
was a child—”
“Sulfur!” Jake exclaimed
excitedly. “You smelled sulfur in the air!”
“Yes,”
Wyatt nodded patiently, “the first time I was in Lassen National Park. It was a nasty, nauseating odor like
rotten eggs. This time it was
faint—the merest trace.”
A hopeful look registered on his face as the
detectives retreated several paces to mull over the facts. Jake
reminded his partner about the odor they smelled on the freeway before
detouring onto skid row. How could
an ordinary freeway accident produce such a smell? What could Wyatt’s account mean? Wasn’t brimstone associated with volcanoes, foundries, or
hell? The detectives pondered upon
this coincidence a moment, as Wyatt glanced back nervously at the hotel. Jake also reminded Sam of Officer Bruce
Gandy’s report, taken at the Leeds residence, which quoted several witnesses
who smelled brimstone in the air.
At that very moment, the old detective turned abruptly and caught the
young man’s gaze. Stern steel blue
locked onto soft doe brown eyes.
“This is more than a coincidence,” he mumbled to Sam. “Once, twice maybe,
who knows what’s in our air—but not three occurrences of the same smell!”
“One occurrence is strange enough,” replied Sam.
“Concede
mihi, benignissime Iesu, gratiam tuam, ut mecum sit et mecum laboret mecumque
in finem usque perseveret,” Wyatt now whispered the Latin prayer for grace.
The two detectives had
shown up at an auspicious time.
After being a drug addict and failed student priest, he was back, at
least in spirit, revitalized by his faith. Jake listened to what sounded like gibberish from the young man, a
shadowy premonition forming in his mind.
There were faint sounds and glints of light in his head, as a badly
tuned in program on an old fashioned set.
What he felt defied all his experience on the force. Years of seeing and hearing so much
depravity as a homicide detective had wiped away his Protestant upbringing and
interest in religion, leaving great voids in his understanding of the Bible and
onetime Presbyterian faith. Sam,
who had been raised a Roman Catholic, had likewise grown cynical after joining
the force, so that neither detective was much help to the other in
comprehending what was so evident to the student priest.
In addition to learning
the rites, ritual, and regimen of the Roman Catholic Church, Wyatt had studied
the Book of Revelations extensively as a seminary student. Jake and Sam had been reminded of the
Apocalypse, themselves, by the call of street evangelists but also by the
harangue of Protestant televangelists, whose sudden increase in rhetoric seemed
devoted disproportionately to the End Times. Not until now, in front of the old Fairmont Hotel, did
Jake’s lack of biblical knowledge matter so much. Now, after listening to his partner’s voice and seeing the
expression on this face, he wondered if he might be affected too. It seemed important that Sam share this
experience with him. What Wyatt
comprehended so easily as doomsday prophecies, were like ghostly phantoms in
Jake’s mind. It was for the time
being, paraphrased by Moses Rawlins, “like seeing through glass darkly.” Those many years of spiritual sleep had
handicapped his efforts to grasp of the truth.
******
The importance of
this detour now loomed large in Jake’s mind. For several moments, however, he and Sam turned their attention to the
welfare of the young man. Unlike
Sam, emotion was difficult to detect in Jake’s gravely voice and stony face,
and yet a glimmer of pity shone in his eyes.
“How old are you?” He
asked, opening his wallet and removing a five-dollar bill.
“Twenty-one this March,”
Wyatt answered, reluctantly taking the money from Jake’s weather beaten hand.
“You’re too young to be
hanging around that bunch,” observed Sam, stuffing several more dollars into
the breast pocket of his coat.
Without even trying, Wyatt
now had ‘pan handled’ ten dollars to buy himself a meal. The detectives symbolized normalcy and sanity
in his odyssey on the street.
Though they were skeptical, he desperately needed someone to trust.
“Please sirs,” he addressed them hesitantly, “… you may not believe it,
but I’m on a mission for our Lord.”
“Lord?” Sam’s eyebrows
shot up in surprise. “You mean Dade?”
“Listen kid,” Jake’s lips
barely moved as he spoke, “we understand he looks like Jesus, has twelve
disciples, and his girl friend looks like the Virgin Mary, but don’t refer to
him as lord. He’s a make-believe
Jesus, that’s what he is.”
“I know,” the youth
nodded, “and strangely enough I think he knows too. You see, I’m going to betray him.”
“You mean like Judas
Iscariot?” Sam murmured with understanding.
“Perhaps, but not quite,”
Wyatt seemed to equivocate, “for Judas succeeded in betraying Christ. I may very well fail.”
“I’m
well aware of the scriptures,” Sam shook his head dubiously, “but you’re not
making sense.”
“He’s making
perfect sense,” replied the sergeant. “It’s called role playing—a photo
negative of Judas, himself.” “Now you listen to me kid.” He poked a finger into
his chest. “This ain’t no movie or
game. You don’t wanna mess with
that man. You keep your mouth shut
while this investigation’s on, until your out of harm’s way. What I need is something that will stick,
not this cockamamie story about a counterfeit Christ. I don’t know how, but that man cremated that pair in the
alley. I can imagine what he would
do to you if he knew you turned informer on him!”
Wyatt flinched under his
scrutiny, but managed to smile.
“He’s more than a
counterfeit.” He looked into the gruff face. “…. He’s one of the main players
for the End Times.”
The detectives chuckled
and shook their heads, as if to show their contempt, yet they both appeared to
have his welfare at heart.
“Listen, Wyatt,” Sam
gently gripped his arm. “You go and wait for us in the car, and we’ll take you
somewhere safe, away from this dump.”
“You don’t believe me, do
you?” He looked back and forth between the two.
Jake and Sam wouldn’t
admit how much of an impact this was having on them, even to each other. Nodding faintly to Wyatt, which could
have been understood as “Yes, we don’t believe you” or “Yes, we believe you,”
Jake ran a hand through his graying hair.
Feeling Wyatt’s resistance, Sam released his arm, a bewildered
expression on his face. Wyatt
uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for the sergeant’s acknowledgment. Light-headedness followed as tears
welled up in his eyes.
“Of course you mustn’t
appear as if you believe me,” he seemed to be talking to himself. “I still
don’t understand why they would trust a failed priest in the twelve. They probably feel that no one would
believe an ex-drug addict like me.” “You want to know something.” He gazed up
at a shaft of light breaking through the clouds. “Not counting the telephone pole that exploded as we were
walking to the park, I saw that man perform three miracles, but the one that
impressed me the most was a feast of lobster, salads, and breads. It’s the best food I’ve had in years.”
“Yeah,” Jake laughed
softly, “Reed and Fletcher told me about those stories. I really can’t explain the food and
exploding telephone pole, but I have a feeling he used some form of pyrotechnic
on that pair.”
“You don’t believe that sergeant.” Wyatt gave him a knowing
look. “In the first place, where would a homeless man find pyrotechnics on the
street?”
Something deep inside Jake
had awakened. His imagination, not
his detective’s intuition, had been stirred: dark bodies, mute rumblings, and
flashes of eerie light. What did
it mean? What was he suppose to
do? He wanted to arrest Dade for
murder. Until they had enough
evidence, they must, at the very least, get Dade and his girlfriend alone, away
from their followers, and question them in separate rooms.
“So tell us, Wyatt,” Sam
gave Wyatt a nudge, “did Salem pray or use black magic to whip you up some
food?”
Wyatt thought about this a
moment, as the sergeant stood staring into space, and shook his head. “… Neither one. That feast was Marie’s magic. Salem’s a reluctant messiah. In some ways I feel sorry for him. When Marie told us that he’d whip us up
a meal, he waved his hands around testily, mumbled hocus pocus, abracadabra,
and ouá la, there it was, I swear to you, the grandest banquet ever to greet my
eyes. But she has the power, not
him. At one point, when he refused
to go along with something she was saying, a telephone pole exploded as if he
finally pushed her too far.”
Sam rolled his eyes
in disbelief. “That’s
ridiculous! You expect us to
believe that?”
“It’s true,”
Wyatt’s eyes dropped to the ground. “The devil’s a woman. Her name’s Marie Roget.”
******
Jake, knew against all reason, that Wyatt was
telling the truth. Why would he
make up such a story? What motive
would he have, unless, he was insane or his mind was messed up on drugs? There was, of course, something else,
the sergeant couldn’t put into words.
As he studied Wyatt’s pupils and
skin tone for telltale signs, he felt a pang of guilt.
“You would’ve kept
on going, if we hadn’t of shown up,” He observed quietly. “I’m sorry about
that, kid—I really am.”
“The truth is,” Wyatt
shrugged his frail shoulders, “about the time you arrived, I was getting cold
feet. Please don’t laugh, but I
believe your appearance was no accident.
I’m certain God sent you here.”
Neither detective laughed
this time nor cracked a smile.
There was nothing humorous about the dilemma Wyatt was in. Jake knew what he had to do. Reaching into his jacket, he turned on
his voice activated recorder, and pulled his notepad from his coat. What he said now was meant for the
record, in typical interrogation jargon, as he sketched a devil on his pad: “So
they’re not holding you against your will. Is that what you’re saying? You’re a candidate for brainwashing, kid. I’ve seen it before. Sometimes these street cults use
drugs.”
“I don’t know if they’ll brainwash the others,” Wyatt replied
thoughtfully, “but I’m here because of my own freewill. If you hadn’t of shown up, I probably
would’ve ran.”
“So,” Sam heaved a sigh, “it’s our fault if you get yourself killed.”
“No,” Wyatt shook his head
firmly, “the Lord leads me. Jesus
Christ guides my steps.”
“You’re in over your
head,” said Jake. “Get out of here before its too late!”
“No, I’m in a state of
grace,” explained Wyatt, looking back self-consciously at the hotel, “…. I used
to be an addict, like some of them upstairs, until good people like Father
Bracken at the Mission helped me get clean. Last month I walked out of the hospital with a new purpose
in life. I was going to
serve my mission for the Lord on the street. I just wasn’t sure what.”
“So you infiltrated the twelve disciples as one of its members,” Sam
looked at him with concern. “That’s very dangerous Wyatt and very stupid. Why don’t you go home to your parents
and live a normal life? Let the
police nail this creep!”
“I have been blessed by God to be a witness against this man,” Wyatt gave
them a determined look. “I met some good men downtown and on skid row,
including Alden Taylor, who have been completely taken in by that man. At first, before I saw what happened in
the alley, I thought Salem was just another victim on the street. I’ve seen so many this year. Because he looked so much like our
Lord, I prayed for guidance, hoping that God would help…. Instead the devil
intervened. We saw Charlie Blintz
and Rhoda Simms cremated before our eyes.
After seeing this terrible event, I was certain what the Lord wanted me
to do. At the proper time, when
the world is watching him, I will denounce him for what he is—”
“Wait a minute,” Jake cut
in irritably, “you’re not listening, kid.
You can’t go under cover in that group. That takes special training. Let the police do their jobs. You’re gonna get yourself killed!”
Sam summarized
their concern. “You’re out of your element Wyatt; you know you’d fail. You said so yourself. This is dangerous and foolish; that’s
why you were going to run.”
The detectives belabored
the issue a moment more to drive the point home. What if Dade used the same pyrotechnic on him he had on
Charlie and the witch? This time
there might not be any witnesses, just a pile of ashes behind the hotel. Wyatt nodded politely as he listened to
this possibility, looking longingly over at their car. Thanks to the scenario given him by the
detectives, his temptation to escape was even greater now. Once again the sergeant studied Wyatt’s
face. Torn between his
investigation and the responsibility he felt for the young man, he reached out
uncharacteristically to pat Wyatt’s matted head. He remembered the old man’s prophecy and Ignacio Rosales
rambling about the End Times.
“So you’re going to warn
the world, are you?” He cringed and withdrew his hand. “What are you suppose to
be, kid, God’s emissary on earth?”
“I’m here on behalf of the church,” Wyatt said with great
conviction, “a mere mote in God’s eye.
Something very evil is happening on the street. You’ve seen it, yourself. It will grow as a cancer in the
body, undetected until I sound the alarm.” “There’s no cure for this malady,”
he added huskily, “except for the intervention of Christ.”
“Evil must have a name,”
Jake said wryly. “We know they’re
evil, but we can’t arrest them for that.”
“How about murder?”
Scowled Sam. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
Jake grinned imperceptibly
again, a crafty gleam in his eyes. “How about drugs? What better way to control a group!”
“Well,” Wyatt said
carefully, “… some of the disciples are drug addicts. I was one myself, though I never saw any drugs in the
hotel.”
“What about the street,” ventured
the sergeant, “did you see any quirky behavior there?”
“Yes,” Wyatt nodded obligingly, “… but no drugs. While pretending to be one of the
twelve, I focused on Salem and Marie.
That’s the main reason why I joined. But there was one time, as we left the park, when Marie took
Ursula, Liz, and Kaz aside. They
were acting jittery, as if they might need a fix. I didn’t think much of it then. It could be my imagination. My main concern, you understand, is Salem. That man’s incredibly moody. He was acting as if this is all one big
ordeal for him.”
This admission was enough for Jake.
It was something his detective mind could understand.
“What?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You know something kid? You think they’re being supplied with
drugs?”
“I didn’t say that.” Wyatt frowned.
“You know Sam,” Jake said, rubbing his jaw, “this might just give us
cause!”
Sam nodded his head. He understood what Jake was doing. Wyatt had concentrated upon the
important issue: Salem Dade. It
was obvious that Jake was trying to do more than build a case. From the wider implications, Jake was
considering the more narrow ramifications that drugs might have on his
investigation. This might,
Sam told himself, never become a homicide case at all. What better way is there for breaking
up that group than finding drugs?
In spite of this possibility, Sam felt Wyatt was in immediate
danger.
“You should escape,
Wyatt,” he said flatly. “Leave this place for good.”
“So the woman is supplying
them with drugs.” Jake appeared to be writing something down. “That explains
everything. They’re probably all
hallucinating on meth, PCP or LSD!”
Sam had never seen the
sergeant this excited. Ever since
their detour on skid row, Jake had been obsessed with his encounter with Salem
Dade. With the realization they
shared, that Leeds and Dade were the same man, the old detective was making
this unofficial case a personal investigation, which might have proven to be a
long shot if Wyatt had not even seen them taking drugs. Looking up at the hotel, Jake felt like
a rookie on his first case. He
knew very well that this was more serious than drugs. He was a detective, not a visionary. He needed hard facts and just one good
reason to arrest Salem and Marie.
******
On his pad, as the recorder
hummed, he had drawn another devil—this one wearing a dress, as he pretended to
take notes. He recalled that
moment when the old man said to him “You’re not far from the Kingdom my son.” Is that a place, he had wondered
then, or a state of mind?
It comforted him to remember that moment, though the Kingdom still
seemed so very far away.
Wyatt was staring with
intensity at him now. He had
learned to read people’s expressions on the street. It was more difficult with the older detective, but clearly Jake
Cosgrove believed him the most.
These were veteran homicide detectives, as hard as the sidewalks of skid
row. What he told them about the
miracles had been difficult enough for them to believe. Now he had told them that a petite
baby-faced little woman was the devil incarnate. Was it possible that such hard-bitten detectives could
believe such a tale? Jake and Sam
whispered amongst themselves a moment, perplexed and stubborn looks on their
respective faces as they glanced back at him. Hearing the sergeant murmur gravely at one point to his
partner, “Come on Sam, we’ve got to check this out. There’s something not right about all this,” he found
himself breaking down finally under the strain.
Wyatt
wept quietly, holding both hands before his face. The simple concern and begrudging understanding of the
detectives had triggered a flood of pent-up emotion he had forgotten he
had. The realization that at least
one of the detectives actually might believe him caused the flood to break.
“There
now,” Sam patted his back, “it’s not so bad. We’ll find you a place to stay.”
“You
don’t understand,” Wyatt said tearfully, “I have to stay with the twelve. It’s my mission for the church. I must not fail it again.”
“Church?”
Sam mumbled “… What church?”
“The
true faith—Christendom,” answered Wyatt with great conviction again. “The Roman Catholic Church.”
“I
don’t believe it,” Sam glanced back at Jake, “he’s too young to be a priest.”
“I’m
a novitiate,” Wyatt corrected him politely, “but when I became a drug addict, I
served the devil. Now since I’ve
overcome my affliction, I serve the Lord again, but I haven’t overcome my
fear.”
“Give
it up, kid,” Jake tried one more time. “Let us take it from here.”
Looking past Wyatt and
Sam, he could see Marie Roget, who appeared suddenly at the entrance of the
hotel. Unequivocally now, Jake believed everything Wyatt had
said. Her timing had been perfect
for the conversation in progress.
Both men shuddered at this lovely apparition, hoping she had not heard
their conversation. Her distance
away from them seemed significant, but then she was supposed to have
supernatural powers. Because
Wyatt’s back was turned to the hotel, the sergeant whispered “Don’t look around
kid, but she’s standing and watching us right now.”
For
their benefit, in a loud adolescent voice, Wyatt shouted, “No, no, detectives,
I told you: you cannot search these premises without a search warrant. We have rights too! Why can’t you just leave us alone!”
“Very
good kid, I know what your doing.
Just don’t over do it,” Jake whispered from the corner of his mouth.
“She
can’t read my mind,” he whispered back, quickly adding in an even louder voice,
“For your own sakes leave this place at once!”
“Thank
you Wyatt for guarding our leader.” She began walking toward them now. “Salem,
our beloved leader, is asleep.
He’s had a trying day. In
deed all of our children have had a trying day.”
In
spite of her effect upon him, Sergeant Cosgrove fought the impulse to take her
seriously. In his thinking this “Barbie doll,’ who was probably
younger than his daughter, would be more appropriate wearing a cheerleader’s
outfit and holding pom-poms in her hands.
“If
you’re doing what I think you’re doing,” he wagged a callused finger, “you’re
in big trouble missy.”
“Do
we even need a search warrant?” Sam raised his cell phone to his ear.
“None
needed,” Jake set his jaw. “This building was condemned. You’re all trespassers, and there’s a suspicion
of drugs, which means we have cause.
Call the narcotics division, Sam.”
“Damn
fools!” Wyatt blurted aloud. “Damn meddling fools!”
Sam
sensed that this was all a ploy to talk to Salem Dade, though Jake gave no
indication that it was. If
narcotic investigators arrived soon enough, they might find illegal substances
in the hotel. Even if the
disciples discovered the stash and destroyed it before the investigators found
it first, the chemical evidence could still be detected in the users,
themselves. Simple blood and urine
tests would prove that. But what
if Wyatt had misled them about drugs?
He had, after all, not actually seen narcotics on the premises, only
implied that there was aberrant behavior.
He hadn’t even seen drugs, himself. Already they were treading on the narcotic division’s
jurisdiction. What if a squad of
investigators found this place clean?
Without just cause, it might be difficult to bring this group
downtown.
“Don’t
forget to enter the code, Sam,” Jake said in a singsong voice.
“Oh
yes, the code,” Sam’s face lit up with illumination.
It
was a ploy, he thought, swallowing
heavily and pecking out a stream of numbers on the phone.
“Unless,”
bargained the sergeant, “we can talk to your protégé, Salem Dade. We just have a few questions; it won’t
take long.”
“You
don’t know who you’re trifling with,” an icy voice came out of her throat.
For
the first time in many years, Sergeant Jake Cosgrove felt the grip of
terror. Sam, who had actually been
dialing the number for time, also froze in place, the cell phone still on his
ear. A monotonous voice droned
“the time is four fifteen and thirty seconds… the time is four fifteen and
thirty-one seconds.” Both men felt
their throats constrict with fear and hairs raise up on the back of their necks
as the woman’s eyes flashed with red light.
“This
is absurd,” Jake shouted hoarsely at the woman, “you’re deranged, probably on
drugs, yourself!”
“Shut
up sergeant,” cried Wyatt. “In God’s name, shut up!”
Wyatt,
who feared for the detectives’ lives, now prayed silently to himself “Lord, now that you are using me for
your purpose, please save these men, who are acting foolish now. Don’t let Marie, the devil incarnate,
destroy another human being.”
Marie
stood there under the marquee, her hourglass shape and child-like face belying
a power second only to God’s. For
the veteran detectives, who had relied on logic and reason, such a specter
defied everything they believed.
What saved the day, as they stood there staring mutely at Marie Roget,
was the sound of sirens breaking in the distance. Closer and closer those familiar and comforting reminders of
law and order approached, as the dreadful, beautiful woman looked on. Sam could barely speak, muttering under
his breath “Hail Mary full of grace, blessed be the fruit of thy womb…”
“Okay lady, our backup’s
coming,” Jake tried, in a quivering voice, to sound convincing. “In a few
moments this place well be surrounded by cops. Try using your pyrotechnics on an LAPD S.W.A.T. team.”
Inexplicably, even sooner
than expected, police patrol unit 127 as well as unit 139, which had come to
offer assistance, arrived suddenly on the scene. Four officers, with guns drawn, emerged from their vehicles,
a far cry from a full-fledged team.
In the distance, however, more sirens sounded from the depths of skid row.
“What
seems to be the problem here?” Officer Phil Reed called out immediately from
the curb.
“How
did you know?” asked Sam, slapping his forehead in disbelief. “Dear God, how could you know?”
Not
for the first time in his life, Sam had prayed for deliverance, but this time,
as a Los Angeles homicide detective, it had special meaning. This time the enemy had been a petite
little imp of a woman without a weapon, who stood alone against two veteran
cops. After running over to shake
Officer Reed’s hand, Sam began feeling foolish when he considered how this
might look.
“Someone
sent us an SOS code from their radio,” Phil explained. “I guess Officers Granger and Wade, of
unit 139, got the signal too.”
“We
didn’t call our radio.” Jake looked at him in disbelief. “What sort of SOS
could that be?”
“I
called on my cell phone this time,” Sam explained light-headedly. “I must’ve
signaled you somehow with my phone.
Maybe there’s a feature on it I’ve never used.”
“Humph…
I don’t think so,” Officer Garth Fletcher murmured, inspecting his own phone.
Sam
knew very well he had dialed the number for time. He stood there muttering to himself as he considered what
this all meant.
“This is very strange,”
Phil said to Jake. “I knew it was a Code Eight for ‘officer needs assistance’
being sent, because there was eight beeps with a pause between each sequence,
but they sounded otherworldly, like they came from deep space.”
Jake
and Sam exchanged looks of wonder.
During the confusion, no one had noticed Marie and Wyatt slipping into
the hotel. The detectives looked
around the premises and up into the building, concerned over the disappearance
of the young man. The concern that
the other officers had, however, was why they were even here.
Officer
Granger of unit 139 removed his hat and scratched his balding head. “Why’d we pull our guns? It was just a lady and a scrawny
looking kid.”
“That
was no ordinary lady,” Jake said lamely, mopping his brow with his sleeve. “She
looked unhinged. She was probably
on drugs.”
“She
wasn’t on drugs, sergeant,” Sam whispered, shaking his head. “That woman’s eyes
blazed red, like a cat’s.”
“No
offense, Sergeant Cosgrove.” Officer Wade gave him an irritated look. “But this
wasn’t a code eight. We thought
you guys were in trouble.”
By
now a third and fourth squad car had pulled up to the curb. Officer Reed ran over and waved them
off as they drove up and gave them an embarrassed shrug. A call went out from his partner Garth
to abort the code eight, but by now it was too late. A false alarm had apparently gone out from one of the
detectives at this location, though it seemed as if a miracle had just saved
their lives.
“Jesus,
how can I explain this?” Sam muttered to himself. “I didn’t call these guys.”
“Listen fellahs.” Jake looked
around at the four officers. “What
we really need now are narcotic investigators. We were tipped off by a resident here that Salem Dade and
his girl friend, Marie Roget, are supplying these derelicts with drugs.” “I
know, I know,” he added noting their incredulity, “that sounded strange to me
too. Since there was a reported
double homicide down here, Sam and I were checking up on a hunch, when this
junkie approached us. I have no
idea how a code eight went out from here, but I’m glad you showed up.”
Sam cringed at Jake’s
distortion of the facts but was more alarmed when the sergeant told them the
truth. Jake told them everything
the young man had said to them about Salem Dade and Marie Roget and then, though
he believed it himself, promptly laughed to show them how silly he thought it
was. As Officer Wade had pointed
out, however, this was not a code eight.
Because a false alarm had apparently gone out this vicinity, Sam was
certain, it would echo in the halls of LAPD’s precincts for many months to
come. Up until the last bit of
information, Jake had been doing very well. In the simplest way, as was his custom, he had given them an
explanation for this disaster. But
now he had to complicate the story with information that would sound supernatural
and silly to the men and women back at the station.
“Come on you guys,” he
laughed dismissively at their predicament. “Wouldn’t you get freaked out if
this happened to you? I mean
here’s this little vixen wiggling up to you and suddenly her eyes blaze red
like a cat’s”
As he listened to his own
words, he realized he had only made it worse by mentioning her eyes. Smiles had already replaced the frowns
on the patrolmen’s faces. At this point,
Officers Granger and Wade of unit 139 retreated in disgust to their car. Officers Reed and Fletcher, however,
who had been the original officers on the scene down here, had shared the
detectives’ interest in this case in the first place and stood there whispering
amongst themselves.
“I say we go!” Garth said
through clinched teeth.
“I say we stay!” Phil set
his jaw.
In what came as a great
relief to the detectives was the return of Wyatt Brewster. He walked straight out of the entrance
with a tranquil look on his unshaven face, peering straight ahead, with glassy
eyes, as if he might, indeed, be drugged.
Jake and Sam hoped he was only play-acting a role, but they couldn’t be
sure.
“Salem Dade will see you
in the lobby of the hotel,” he said in monotone voice. “Please forgive me for
what I said about our leader. I’m
sorry for wasting your time.”
It sounded rehearsed and
amateurish to the detectives.
Immediately afterwards, reminiscent of the bird in a coo-coo clock,
Wyatt pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and disappeared back under the
marquee. The patrolmen thought
this was funny, but the detectives found nothing amusing about what was going
on inside the hotel.
“He’s higher than a kite,”
observed Officer Reed, trying not to laugh.
“That settles it,” Sam
pulled out his cell phone again, “I’m calling this in.”
“What do you think?” Jake
looked for reassurance at Reed and Fletcher.
Jake doubted very much
that Wyatt was on drugs. Officer
Reed shrugged evasively, but nodded his head. “I see cause here, sergeant. The kid looked drugged to me. Since this is our beat, we’ll stick around for support.”
“I wish those other guys
had stuck around,” said Officer Fletcher.
Since his next action
appeared to be base upon a charade, Sam was placing all his trust in his
partner Jake. Sergeant Cosgrove
was now staking both their reputations on a hunch that there might be drugs in
the hotel. Police science had
nothing to do with this investigation.
Jake was being driven, not by detective lore, but by illumination. Now, to buttress his courage as Ruiz
made the call, Jake reminded himself of the strange events that had happened to
them so far: the smell of brimstone, the mysterious SOS signal, and a young
woman, alleged to be the devil incarnate, who appeared to have supernatural
powers.
******
The sergeant knew nothing
of the Brotherhood of the Fish but he and Sam had been encouraged by Deputy
Chief Randall Walker’s support after the Leeds fire. Because of the rumors already in circulation about the alleged
homicides in skid row, Randall was predisposed toward this investigation, which
is why it was so easy for the dispatcher to locate him now. The ‘magic word’ for Walker had been Salem
Dade. With the cell phone
placed quickly into the sergeant’s hand, Ruiz and the patrolmen heard a
friendly exchange between Cosgrove and the deputy chief, in which the sergeant
explained the need to send a narcotics investigation team over before Salem and
Marie’s disciples could destroy or hide evidence in the hotel. In truth, however, Walker had been
alerted to this fact before Cosgrove had even submitted his report. Salem Dade, Jake needlessly informed
him, was a suspect in an ongoing murder investigation—a minor detail to Walker,
who understood him to be the False Prophet of the End Times. With so little evidence to physically
connect him to the crime, Jake had also unnecessarily argued that a drug bust
might be the only way to pull him in for questioning and keep him off the
street. There was, Jake explained
to Randall, a distinct chance that forensics had missed some evidence at the
scene and that the pyrotechnics or combustibles used to incinerate the pair
might be hidden somewhere in the hotel.
Salem, Marie, and their disciples must therefore be detained for the dual
reasons of drug testing and preserving the scene of the crime.
‘Crime scene’ struck
Deputy Chief Walker as such a petty concept in light of the evil Salem would
cause in the world. The fact that
the suspects might tamper with evidence was, like the drugs and murder, itself,
a mere apocalyptic trifle for someone who had already written off this age and
was just waiting for the Rapture to take he and his wife away from this wicked
world.
Although Walker promised to send forensic
specialists along with the narcotics investigators in this joint effort, he
expected the homicide detectives to supervise this phase of the investigation
themselves. Randall’s support of
the Leeds investigation had given the detectives confidence. It was evident to Jake that Walker had
taken a personal interest in this case, too. Not knowing the depth of Walker’s conviction, however, he
was not so certain how Captain Franklin and Lieutenant Howard might react or if
the deputy chief would support him if the enterprise went awry. Eventually, as Officers Reed and
Fletcher turned in their reports, news of this ‘false alarm’ and the detectives
bizarre story about Marie Roget would circulate through the precinct. An almost perfect record for both
detectives would be sullied by this reckless whim, and yet Jake Cosgrove and
Sam Ruiz had more immediate worries on their minds as they entered the Fairmont
Hotel to meet Salem Dade. How soon
would the investigators arrive?
How many of them would show up to do a proper investigation of the
hotel? They might need backup
after all, so the more investigators the better. Because of the mysterious alarm sent out from this location,
it now appeared that they had hollered ‘wolf,’ when, in fact, a small,
adolescent-faced woman had greeted the officers responding to the call.
******
Sergeant Cosgrove and
Detective Ruiz walked through the entrance of the building side-by-side,
momentarily buoyed by the support of Deputy Chief Randall Walker but sobered by
the threat that this posed for their careers. Each detective checked his gun, giving it a love pat and
making sure that the holster strap was unsnapped. Right behind them came the two patrolmen. Officer Fletcher seemed to shudder at
the thought of going inside, but Officer Reed’s ebony face was set fiercely,
nostrils flaring and eyes blazing, as he unfastened the strap over his holster
and followed the detectives in.
The lobby was empty of
furniture, and the floor was cluttered with plaster, broken bottles, and
trash. A crude wooden ankh cross
sat on the mantel over a crumbling fireplace. Below the ankh sitting in the hearth in place of an actual
fire was a large candle that radiated an orange, otherworldly light. On the left side of the hearth stood
Salem Dade and on the right side stood Marie Roget. Wyatt Brewster, the novitiate priest, and the other
disciples were nowhere in sight.
This meeting, the detectives prayed, would be between Salem Dade, Marie
Roget, and themselves. It was
hoped that Salem’s Twelve Disciples were not lying somewhere in wait.
When the investigative
teams arrived, Jake understood, the real show would begin. Given the nonsense that had poured out
of Salem’s mouth, the detectives considered this meeting as merely a
diversionary tactic. Neither Salem
or Marie nor their followers must tamper with the evidence in this building
before the forensic and narcotic teams arrived. When they found the evidence, one more depraved cult would
be broken up and its leaders Salem and Marie would go to jail. This was the plan. But Sergeant Cosgrove had no illusions
that Salem would answer his questions or spontaneously give him any information
that would be worthwhile. He would
continue to act like some sort of new age messiah prompted by Marie Roget. What he and his partners must do right
now, he was certain, was keep them both talking and prevent them from fleeing
or destroying any evidence in the hotel.
Jake immediately flashed
his badge and introduced himself and all the officers present in the room. Sam was not so polite. “Where’s Wyatt Brewster?” He asked
before Salem could even open his mouth.
“Wyatt’s resting,” Marie
explained calmly. “He, like the rest of us, has had a trying day.”
“We want to see the kid,”
barked Cosgrove, looking back nervously at the patrolmen behind them in the
room. “Don’t get cute Miss Roget.
Let me remind you that we’ve got an SOS system for backup when it’s
needed. We can muster a dozen
squad cars here anytime we want.”
The truth was, of course,
Jake and Sam had been ignorant of this apparent system as had all the other
officers arriving on the scene.
Nevertheless this threat appeared to register with Salem Dade, whose
mouth dropped and eyes popped wide as he looked over at Marie Roget.
“Listen folks,” Jake took
a more conciliatory tone, “let’s clear this up right now. If you have nothing to hide here, this
will all be a mere exercise for our men.
You can go about your slimy business as before. You’ve got to admit, you’ve been acting
very suspiciously here on skid row: a double murder in the alley, alleged
miracles, and now we have reports about drugs in this hotel.”
“That’s absurd,” said
Marie, folding her delicate arms. “If your looking for drugs, you’re going to
be embarrassed Sergeant Cosgrove. We
have a revolutionary way of treating drug addicts that deals strictly with the
mind.”
Both detectives and the
patrolmen noted, with amusement, the surprised look on Salem Dade’s face, as if
he had never heard of this miracle cure.
Marie went onto to explain in a surprisingly reasonable fashion how it
was their aim of transforming a small group of down-and-out people on skid row
into model citizens and spiritually perfect human beings, who would serve the
cause of the Universal Church.
Marie had, of course, just given both the police and her protégé an
explanation for why they had begun with street people instead of ordinary
folks. Only Salem understood that
he had been a bystander so far and it all been Marie’s idea. Salem again heaved a sigh, visibly
upset at this intrusion upon his peace of mind. The detectives ostensibly gave nods of approval for this
worthy endeavor, and yet, like Salem, could not help wondering why a religious
movement would staff itself with lowlifes when it could have selected more
respectable citizens in town.
When Marie had finished
explaining how they would use these rehabilitated and spiritually changed men
and woman in the service of the Universal Church, beads of sweat had formed on
both detectives’ brows and the two patrolmen stirred uneasily in back of the
room. The plan of Marie, the Queen
of Hell, after its murky beginnings, was understood clearly now by Salem
Dade. At such times, the Faustian
impression of Satan entered Salem’s mind but was quickly erased by his recollection
of murder and deceit. For the
detectives, who were waiting for narcotics and forensic investigators to arrive
in the building, the woman’s self-confident air belied any notion that she was
a drug-dealing psycho or even the devil incarnate, as Wyatt claimed.
“All right, that’s great miss, you made your case. Now I wanna see the kid,” snorted Jake,
pivoting and shuffling passed the patrolmen to the staircase where he called
rudely “Wyatt Brewster, this is Sergeant Brewster, please come down to the
lobby for a few words.”
“Christ Jake,” Sam
swallowed with embarrassment. “This is going to screw us, if that kid’s not
drugged.”
“There’s more than drugs
here,” Jake muttered aloud. “… Something ain’t right about that pair. I bet if they searched this place and
talked to all these lowlifes independently, in an interrogation room, they’d
get to the bottom of this.”
“The bottom of what, Jake?” Sam looked at him with
uncertainty. “What’s got into you this week? What’re we doing here, if this isn’t a legitimate
arrest? Is it true what that old
preacher said about that man?
What’s going to happen if she’s telling the truth?”
In spite of his concern,
Sam’s constricted whisper confirmed Jakes greatest hope. He, too, felt the compulsion. What was it: insanity, mere vanity or
the rebirth of a long dead faith?
Why did he feel, at times, so terribly foolish and other times, as if
nothing could ever threaten him again?
When Wyatt appeared on the
landing above the staircase, Jake and Sam’s attention shifted from themselves
to their newfound friend. Wyatt
moved jerkily and had, what they both thought, was that deadpan look,
reminiscent of drug addicts, on his pale face.
“Get down here, boy,” Jake
motioned gruffly. “Come on, let’s clear this up right now.”
In spite of his concern
for Wyatt, he half hoped that he was on drugs. It would justify being in this hotel, but it would also be
devastating for the young man.
Soon, after the sergeant had made his demand, the remaining eleven
disciples joined Wyatt on the landing, arriving unannounced from various parts
of the hotel. As if they had been
prompted, the twelve men and woman smiled and called down greetings to the
officers, and just stood there with what Jake would call “shit-eating”
grins. Afterwards, as if prompted
again, they called out the same portentous salutation: “Greetings from the
Universal Church!”
Although alarmed by their
sudden appearance, the detectives and patrolmen realized they had nothing to
fear. This harmless group of
street people, they remembered, were a motley collection of ragamuffins: eight
men and four women, of almost every age, gender and race— politically, if not
socially, correct. Officers Reed
and Fletcher placed their guns back in their holsters. The detectives, of course, didn’t know
what to think. Where they under
the influence of drugs, fear, or some other mind-swaying power?
“Look, Phil,” Officer
Fletcher pointed gleefully, “they even have a dwarf!”
“Yeah,” Officer Reed
snickered, focusing on Ursula Printer, “and a menagerie of drug addicts,
ex-cons, and hookers to boot.”
Sam noticed, with
mixed emotions, that Marie was amused by their reactions. There was no more red-eye, only what he
fancied as a devilish mirth. The
patrolmen were laughing heartily now.
Jake, however, was angry with himself for the predicament he had gotten
them into. Doubt flooded back into
his mind. Salem had wandered off
somewhere, leaving the woman and a gallery of harmless derelicts to face the
police.
“I wanna talk to each and
every one of them lowlifes,” Jake grumbled to Sam. “Maybe one-by one, by
themselves, back at the precinct, we can get a straight story.”
“Jake, we tried that
before,” whispered Sam in a strained voice. “I dunno about Wyatt, but the rest
of them are probably programmed. They
don’t believe Salem’s a murderer.
They might not even be on drugs.
Unless a team finds drug paraphernalia or they’re actually stoned, we
can’t arrest them. We can’t even
interview them, without counsel.
Which means, Jake, we’ve got to at least find recent drug paraphernalia
on the premises or we’re screwed!”
“Walker will back us up,”
the sergeant tried to sound encouraging. “Hell, someone up there’s watching
over us Sam! You should’ve heard
the deputy chiefs’ voice. That
man’s excited about what we’re doing. “What do you think Officers Reed and
Fletcher?” Jake glanced up at the twelve. “They look like a bunch of druggies
to you?”
“Oh, definitely,” nodded
Phil, “and just think of all the evidence they might find.”
“Might is the
operative word,” Sam whispered to Jake. “Let’s just hope they find evidence—any
kind of evidence—in this hotel.”
At that point, there was a
commotion outside: the sound of vehicles driving up and doors slamming. Jake and Sam froze in place, looking up
at the carefree disciples, as Officers Reed and Fletcher trotted out to meet
the team.
“Sergeant Cosgrove,” Garth
called from the entrance, “the investigators have arrived.”
In spite of the racket
they made entering the lobby of the hotel, it was, to Sam’s relief, a small team
of narcotics technicians who greeted them, which indicated that it would be a
routine, not a major, investigation.
The worst that could happen now, would be that they would, after
sniffing around awhile, find nothing to indicate drug use on the premises, but
that could change if they decided to give all of the strange-acting tenants
drug tests downtown. Sam wanted,
in spite of his doubts, to trust Jake, so he flashed the sergeant a spirited
smile.
After the usual amenities,
Jake explained what he had heard from one of the tenants of the hotel and
briefly reminded Sergeant Rick Vance of the Narcotics Division about the rumors
circulating about drug trafficking in this area.
“I have a feeling that, at
least one of these vagrants will be high on crack or heroin,” Rick spoke
quietly to Jake. “It’s this story
about the woman with the red flashing eyes Granger reported that bothers me,
Jake.” “Were you serious about that claim?” His voiced dropped to a whisper. “After
that story about what happened down here, this is beginning to sound like a
Stephen King movie.”
“Look, I know how it
sounds,” Jake grew irritable. “I still don’t know why the lab’s sample turned
up sterile. You narcotic guys have
got to find something!”
“I don’t know
anything about any forensics report,” Rick reached in his coat to pull out a
notepad, “but my instincts tell me you’re right on the mark about drugs. This couple, Salem Dade and Marie
Roget, have no rap sheets—zilch, nada.
Both of their social security numbers check out, and yet there is no
record of them anywhere.”
“No rap sheets or records.
. . anywhere?” Jake muttered to himself.
Jake was
disappointed with this small group of narcotics investigators, which seemed
like a token effort at best. It seemed
obvious that Walker considered the detectives to be the only representatives of
the homicide division on this team.
If he had intended for a forensic group to accompany the investigators,
it would have arrived with Sergeant Vance’s tiny squad. Since neither the homicide captain nor
his lieutenant were privy to this investigation, deputy chief Walker’s interest
in this enterprise appeared to be at a higher, perhaps philosophical,
level. It had, Jake sensed
intuitively, nothing to do with police work or the merits of the case. The excitement he felt intermittently
for this investigation, returned as light-headedness as he contemplated the new
deputy chief. The realization that
Adam Leeds and Salem Dade were one and the same man had begun his path toward
the truth. Much had happened to
entice him further along the path.
Now a gasp escaped his throat, as it dawned on him how he might be
jeopardizing their careers.
“You think they’ll find something here?” asked Sam, as they
followed the investigators around the garbage-strewn floor.
“They’d better find
something,” grumbled Jake.
“This is ridiculous,”
Salem called from across the room where he and Marie stood talking in muted
whispers. “You automatically suspect that there will drugs because these are
homeless folk.”
“That’s why a lot of them are
homeless,” Sergeant Vance gave him a cynical smile.
“Look here boss,” a
petite blond-haired investigator picked up a syringe with tweezers and a gloved
hand, “right off the bat: drug paraphernalia.”
I thought you said this
place was clean! Salem’s thoughts shot into Marie’s mind.
It’s past paraphernalia,
shrugged his mentor. Calm
down. Where’s your faith? Nothing can happen to you with me by
your side.
“It looks recent,”
said Rick looking over at the pair. “Bad idea lodging in a drug hangout, Dade.”
“Thank you, thank
you, thank you!” Sam whispered to the ceiling, glancing back at Jake.
“Bag it Gretchen,”
Rick watched with amusement as the exuberant rookie filed the first bit of
evidence away. “Now find me the stuff that goes in it,” he looked around at the
other techs, “and were in business!”
“Spoon, Sarge,”
Gretchen chimed.
“I found another
syringe,” piped a second investigator. “There all over the place.”
“Some of these look
old and rusted,” observed Sergeant Vance after quickly inspecting them on a
portable table set up by the team. “We need fresh paraphernalia to show that
these crack-heads just shot up.”
With the
battery-powered light streaming down on the syringes, spoons, and various other
suspected drug paraphernalia found in the lobby of the hotel, Jake stood there
a distance away mopping his brow with a Kleenex, not sure whether these
discoveries were good or bad. If
this condemned hotel had been used as a drug hangout, as Sergeant Vance
implied, it would be difficult to prove that any of that paraphernalia was used
by the new tenants unless they were brought down town, fingerprinted and given
blood tests that would match the DNA and prints on the syringes and spoons. He was almost certain that, given the
quirky behavior of Salem, Marie and the other twelve, they would be forced to
undergo such tests. They had
certainly given the LAPD cause for suspicion. The strange goings-on on skid row had seemed to be cause
enough. But what if members of
this group came up clean? And what
if it was concluded that Dade and his mistress were just two more eccentrics
living on skid row? After what he
told Officers Reed and Fletcher, he and Sam would wind up being the laughing
stock at the precinct.
The thought
occurred to Jake that so close to retirement, he had wanted to glide out of the
department with a spotless record.
He wanted a peaceful, non-controversial, exit and to be remembered as a
hard-boiled sleuth and not a nutcase like Salem Dade. As he and Sam stood by helplessly as the investigators
combed the hotel for more evidence of drug activity, he could hear Rick,
Gretchen, and the other techs talking to the twelve. After nearly an hour, in
which Jake and Sam were forced to walk outside and relieve themselves in back
of the hotel, Rick trotted quickly down the staircase by himself, motioning for
the detectives to listen up.
“Call in back-up,
we need a paddy wagon,” he said in a singsong voice. “That Marie Roget’s on
something!”
“Did she flash her
eyes at you?” Jake felt his heart leap in his chest.
“Yeah, you were
right,” Rick seemed excited now. “Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
“They won’t believe
us,” Gretchen chirped, as she scampered down the stairs. “It reminds me of the
red-eye you get with camera shots.
I think that woman’s possessed.”
“I love you,
Gretchen,” Sam giggled hysterically under his breath. “Jake,” he whispered, as
the sergeant brought the phone up to his ear. “Tell them to bring a S.W.A.T.
team. We might need it if she
decides to resist.”
When they saw Marie
move gracefully down the staircase, their immediate fears evaporated in her
crinkly voice.
“We’ll go
gracefully Sergeants Cosgrove and Vance.
You don’t need a S.W.A.T. team and all those guns.”
Sam looked at Jake,
who aborted his call. “How did she
hear that?” He gripped the sergeant’s arm.
“This is getting
ridiculous,” Jake raised the phone back up to his ear.
After hastily
calling in for backup, Jake and Sam watched as the others, with expectant
expressions on their faces, looked over the banister. Salem was again nowhere in sight. The homicide detectives, patrolmen, and narcotics
investigators now assembled below the staircase, including the two officers who
stayed to guard the exits of the hotel, their hand poised over their guns.
“I don’t know what
your game is miss,” Rick said with a snarl, “but you just stay put where you
are!”
Marie
retreated back up the stairs to stand with the twelve. As the detectives and investigators
waited for police backup to arrive, Salem’s mistress appeared calm and
collected. This worried Jake and
Sam. Perhaps she was convinced
that the police lab would find no evidence of drugs in the systems of the twelve….
Or perhaps, thought Jake hopefully, she was on drugs, herself. He also considered the possibility, as
Wyatt suggested, that there was a supernatural explanation. When they heard the clamor of a
full-fledged S.W.A.T. team arriving on the scene, the old sergeant cringed at
the prospect that his instincts had been wrong. He could not have imagined the assembly arriving on the
street. All that mattered those
moments, as the heavily armored, jacketed force of men and women rushed into
the lobby of the hotel, was his wife Anna, his grandchildren, and his looming
retirement, which now seemed jeopardized by an impulsive, irrational frame of
mind.
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