From the Heart of David Brollier
Jesus Christ the Author and Finisher of our faith
Chapters One - Three
CHAPTER ONE Father Rierdon had just finished his weekly bowling game and was extremely happy with himself. At seventy-six years old this was his exercise and he’d just bowled a 185, close to his best game. The air was unusually cool for that June night as he made his way towards his old Chevy Impala. They really need to put more lights up in the parking lot, he thought. Then in the deep shadows of night he saw someone running towards him. “Father,” a female voice called out. “Father Rierdon?” “Yes? Who is it?” he replied as the young woman finally made her way to his car. There they stood facing one another under the single lamppost. The woman facing him had dark hair and her clothes, though becoming, looked like they had been handed down one too many times. “It’s Alicia, Alicia Monetti, Father.” “I’m sorry, my child, but I don’t seem to remember you.” “You’re the one who talked to those people, aren’t you?” she said becoming agitated. “What are you talking about?” “You told those people at the welfare office that I beat my little girl. That was you, wasn’t it?” she said, angrily. Suddenly he remembered her name. He had felt sorry for her and wanted to help her, but the police and welfare officers had taken his statement and used it against her instead. At that time Alicia Monetti was living with some guy whose name the priest couldn’t remember. The guy was a drug user and would often beat Alicia and her infant daughter. Father Rierdon had brought his observations to the attention of the welfare office in the hopes of getting her help against her abusive boyfriend. “I’m sorry. I was trying to help.…” “Yeah, sure.…” “No, really! It was the police who turned it all around.” “Stop it. You just wanted to take my kid from me.” “That’s not true!” “It is true, and I got a witness to prove it.” He heard a car door open and saw the interior of a GTO about ten feet from him light up. “I tell you it was all a mistake. I was trying to…” “It was a mistake, that’s for sure. Somehow I’m going to see that you pay for that mistake.” The silhouetted man in the GTO shouted out, “It was him, Alicia. The priest. He’s the one!” Father Rierdon heard the sound of metal scraping along the pavement. “Make him pay, Alicia. Make him pay now!” the man in the car shouted. “No! Please! I will try to help as much as I can, but you must believe me it was all an accident, a misunderstanding.” “Let’s see if you can misunderstand this,” Alicia hissed viciously, thrusting the bayonet deep into his chest. “May…may God forgive…you,” the priest said, falling to the pavement. Even with his dying breath he wished that she would find peace with God.+
I placed the phone down softly in my Chinatown apartment. “I don’t believe it,” I said to my wife brushing a lock of light brown hair out of my eyes. “What?” my wife asked while I was yet again being distracted by her long black hair. “Father Rierdon’s just been murdered.” “Was he not your priest before you went to Hong Kong?” “Yeah. A real nice guy, too.” “Let me guess. They want you to check it out and you have to leave.” “Susan, you should be the detective,” I teased. “No! You are much better, just as you are better at fighting, Detective Nathan Adams,” she teased. “Maybe,” I said embracing her, enjoying the warmth of her soft body close to mine. It was more than comforting. “Go,” she replied, putting her gentle hands behind my neck. “You have your work to do and I have my praying to do. That is how I fight alongside you.” “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.” Susan looked up and pulled my face to hers. The warmth of her kiss was like being kissed by her soul. “I know. I love you too.” Our embrace lasted long, but not nearly long enough. How I loved this beautiful angel. I work out of the 5th Precinct as a homicide detective, first grade. At five feet ten inches and weighing 160 pounds, I had already been through the wringer. I’d lost my family when I was twelve. Raised in an orphanage in Hong Kong, I was treated like dirt until I learned kung fu. That’s where I met my wife, Susan, sister of David Ng, one of my two closest friends, the other being Peter Chen. Although raised as a Catholic, I gave up Catholicism and became a Taoist. There were many great sayings that gave me direction, but none that gave me true strength. During a time when I almost lost Chen in a fire, both he and Susan became Christians. At first I felt abandoned and angry. Then one day staring at a painting of Jesus on the cross, things started to make sense and soon I too accepted Jesus as my Savior. I never went back to the Catholic Church, but that was just because of the feelings I had from my childhood. I knew that true Christianity isn’t bound to one denomination. Besides, I kind of liked the energy I saw in some of the Pentecostal churches. Not that they were better. I just felt more comfortable there. Yet this phone call brought me back to my childhood. Father Rierdon was one of the Catholics that I felt tried to walk a true Christian life. Although many of my friends said Rierdon shouldn’t call himself “Father,” I believed that the man’s heart was pure before God. And that, after all, is what matters isn’t it? I drove a yellow Dodge Dart that was rusting out at the doors and headlights. Why I bought the car is still a mystery to me. I could get to most places in Manhattan just as fast or faster walking or using mass transit. Must be the old Chinese teachings—the need to be alone with my thoughts. And if you’ve ever tried to drive a car through Manhattan you know that I had plenty of time to do that. Making a left-hand turn into the parking lot near the bowling alley, I noticed the scarring on my right wrist. Some things would never completely go away. I received the scar when I was twelve, trying to break into my house through a window in a failed attempt to rescue my younger brother. The house was on fire and a fireman pulled me from the window moments before a gas explosion in the kitchen blew out the whole side of the house. Yet as I thought of that scar I also thought of other scars, on the hands and feet of One who had reached in and saved me from destruction. As I pulled up to the yellow crime scene tape I saw Officer Marcus Jones, an NYPD uniform and close friend. “Yo Nat,” the tall bald black man called out, “they gave you the call on this one?” “Yeah, Marcus. What we got?” “Single stab wound to the chest. No other markings on the body. He was standing right next to his car when he got it.” “Knifed in the chest? That’s odd these days.” “Tell me something I don’t know. Brothers would’ve capped him, that’s for sure. Anyway it ain’t a knife wound according to Bernie,” Jones said, referring to Bernard Loomas, the medical examiner on call. “Then what?” “According to that thing sticking out of his chest I’m going with a bayonet. I think Bernie agrees.” “Bayonet? That’s crazy. You know how bulky those things are to carry around?” “This is the Big Apple, man. Crazy is normal here, remember?” “Any wits?” “Not even the attendant. Said he didn’t see nothin’. You know how it is around here. Everybody watches while it goes down, but then nobody really ‘sees’ anything.” I knew that was true. Thirty people could be watching the murder go down and we’d be lucky if we could find one who would say they weren’t watching TV or something at the time. “Scene been processed yet?” “Doing that now.” “Who’s the CSI?” I asked. NYPD was combining the talents of those in the district attorney’s office, those in the crime scene unit and the detective squads to better fight crime on the streets of New York. I’d been on the Oh-Five’s detective squad since 1999, but this was my first assignment with a CSI as a partner. It marked a further change to deepen relationships between these three groups, but it meant I wasn’t partnered with a regular detective, but a detective whose specialty was in forensic science. I had yet to meet my partner. Today was the day. “Officer from Manhattan South, name of Wish.” “Wish?” I asked. “Oh, that ain’t the best of it. Name’s May Kimberly Wish, crime scene investigator.” “Please don’t tell me…” “Yep. We got CSI May K. Wish processing the crime scene.” We began to chuckle softly, unable to contain ourselves as a female officer in a crime scene blue jumper with the white letters “NYPD” stenciled on the back came up to us. You could hardly tell whether the officer was man or woman by the clothing, her blond covered by netting to keep it out of the crime scene. Stepping up to us with all the brass of a veteran officer, she extended her hand. “May K. Wish, crime scene unit,” she said, “and you are…?” We looked at each other and then at her and were at once ashamed. “Sorry. I’m Detective Nathan Adams. This here’s my friend, Officer Marcus Jones.” “Jones I met coming in. You have that list for me?” she asked, eyes and demeanor cool as steel. “Yeah. Pernelli, bring that list over here and give it to the detective, will you?” “Sure thing, Marcus.” The “list” was a list of everyone who came into the crime scene before processing it could be completed. It was used to eliminate “evidence” brought into the crime scene after the crime had been committed, cops mostly. They usually got so involved in a scene they hardly ever took precautions in preserving the scene, and that’s always pissed me off. “Good job,” Wish commented. “You guys managed to keep it under fifteen this time.” “Catch you later, Marcus,” I said and then addressed May K. Wish. “Looks like they’re putting us together on this one.” “That’s right. Problem?” “No, not at all. Just wish you hadn’t come in and heard that joke at your expense, is all.” “Detective, two things. First, if I worried about every single thing a person said to me, I’d never have time to do my job, which by the way I take very seriously. Second, if you simply wanted to be out of earshot says to me you would have said it anyway. Seems to me I once heard justice defined as ‘doing what you know to be right when no one is looking.’ Or words to that effect.” “Point well taken. I’m sorry.” “Apology accepted.” “Find anything in there?” “Not much more than the ME gave us,” she began taking off her hair net to reveal blond hair cut and curled inwards above her shoulders. May had the most amazing green eyes of anyone I’d ever met. She was rather short, around five feet five inches, and thin, nearing 100 pounds. Yet the way she hefted her crime scene kit showed me that she was anything but weak. Her face was hardened by something other than just defending her name. “Of course we have the bayonet. The good news is there are prints on it. The bad news is who in the world would carry a bayonet around with them? I mean that’d be premeditation for sure.” “I’d have to agree with you there.” “I did find some scratches on the pavement near the vic, so I’m wondering if the perp was actually carrying the bayonet themselves.” “You think there was a third party?” “Hey, I just process the scene. I’m no magician, but yeah, that’s my guess.” “Anything else, Ms. Wish?” “Call me May and get it over with will you?” “What?” “The laughter over my name’s going to keep ringing in that thick head of yours. Maybe if you’d call me by my name it’ll let the demon out,” she said with a smirk. It struck me that I seemed to be having a harder time with her name than she did. “Okay then, May, did you find anything else?” “Nothing of any value that I could tell. Vac’d up the body and area for ‘trace,’ but I’m not holding my breath.” “Well, at least we got prints.” “And the weapon,” she said, leading me over to the lifeless form of Father Rierdon. “Notice anything else?” “Not that I can see,” I replied. “By the positioning of the body it doesn’t look like he was trying to defend himself, and yet it does indicate he was talking to someone.” “I see what you mean. So we’re looking for someone that knew him, someone he possibly knew?” “That’d be my guess. Look at his black robe on either side of the bayonet.” “It’s wet. Blood?” “I’d bet a month’s salary on that. You can see by the semicircular markings, one on either side. Whoever this was pushed the blade in as far as they could…” “Then their hands slipped off the handle when it wouldn’t go in any further and struck his chest.” “Right.” “So why didn’t they take the bayonet with them?” I asked. “That much the ME has figured out. Seems the angle and placement actually wedged it between the fourth and fifth ribs just left of center. Bernie tried to get it out after I took prints and couldn’t,” she explained. I reached down and tugged on the handle. “Careful. I don’t want things messed up any more than they are.” “I think I can get it out, but I’ll have to turn the blade slightly,” I said. “That will leave marks that aren’t there now!” “So mark it down. That way you’ll know they’re made by me.” “But what if there’s something there we can’t see, something your twisting the blade will destroy?” “Then we lose it and I take the rap.” “It’s your funeral.” I reached down and grabbed the handle of the bayonet firmly, then ever so gently twisted it to the right. Before I had hardly twisted it at all I pulled back gently and the blade slipped easily from the body. “How’d you do that?” “That was easy. See the blade was thrust in vertically so it was acting like a rib spreader and jammed itself in place. By turning it just a little I was able to dislodge it and remove it easily.” “Not bad for a detective. Learn that on the force?” “Actually I learned that in Hong Kong. And if I’m going to call you May you should be calling me Nat.” “Gnat? You mean like the insect?” “Okay, I deserved that. It’s Nat, short for Nathan.” “And you learned that trick in Hong Kong?” “It’s not really a trick, but that’s a whole other story,” I said. “Got a paper evidence bag? I’ll sign off on this and send it to the lab with the rest of the stuff.” “It ain’t stuff,” she said firmly, but playfully. “It’s evidence.” “Yes, Investigator Wish!” “May!” “Yes, May.” I spotted a coffee shop that was still open. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked. “Nope!” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to seem…” “…but you can buy me a cup of tea.” “You like tea?” “Love it.” “Me too!” “You mean you’re not one of them macho coffee-guzzling cops you read about in those cheesy detective novels?” “Hardly. I grew up in Hong Kong, Kowloon actually, and developed a taste for good strong orange and black pekoe-blend teas.” “Decaffeinated of course, right?” “Heaven forbid! I guess in that regards I’m like the coffee guzzlers. I need my caffeine.”We walked into the greasy little café. It was open, but dimly lit, like they were trying to save money by using twenty-watt bulbs or something. I led the way to a table by the greasy window. From there we could still see the crime scene. I motioned to the deep red fake leather upholstered seat and May K. Wish slid in; then I took the facing seat. Before we had a chance to say anything a middle-aged woman, brown hair, weary, brown eyes, a frumpy 160 pounds or so, came over to the table. “Hi, hon! Can I take your order?” the waitress asked. “Two hot teas, one decaf and one regular,” I said. “That all?” “That’s all.” The waitress nodded and left. This was how I always liked to get to know the new people I worked with. I let her ask me about my past, my time in Hong Kong, that scar on my right arm. Then I began to ask some questions of my own. I found out that she was the only daughter of Arthur and Mattie Wish, but that she had four older brothers, Kevin, Alan, Frank and Dennis. They lived in various parts of the U.S. Kevin was a computer programmer out in Cleveland. Alan was an insurance agent in Tallahassee. Frank and Dennis were both cops, although only Frank worked as a beat cop in Manhattan. Dennis worked as a deputy sheriff in the town of Woodbury, New Jersey. As it turned out, May had actually wanted to go into physical therapy, but Frank managed to talk her into taking the entrance exam for the NYPD. She passed in the upper ten percent of applicants. Always one to confront her obstacles straight on, May went to the academy, mostly because of all the taunting she got because of her name. May pretty much shut them up when she graduated third in her class. She especially excelled in self-defense class. Although not a full martial arts class with belts and all, she proved herself to be more than capable. One time, as she tells it, the instructor had asked her to come up and defend herself from him. He was playing the attacker. This instructor, she said, was a sergeant weighing about 190 pounds of pure muscle. Anyway he came at her, and she sidestepped him to the left and with her right hand gave him a knife chop to his throat. He went down gasping for breath, at which point the class froze, hoping that she hadn’t permanently hurt him. In less than a minute he was breathing freely again, but his face was red. He never did use her for a volunteer again in his class. She was hard, or that’s what she wanted people to think. Beneath there seemed to be someone who was kind and almost gentle. In many ways I could see myself in her before I became a Christian, even before I learned kung fu. After getting to know one another some, I steered the conversation, ever so gracefully, back to the case we were working on.+
The Honorable Judge William McGrath had spent a long day in criminal court, but the day promised to be much longer. He kissed his wife, Hattie, good night and headed for the den in their elegant East 82nd Street home. He had left the long black robe back in his office but was still dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt and a blue and red striped tie. Although over sixty years old he looked spry for his age, and some might say, distinguished. His full head of hair was almost completely white, cut and combed to perfection. His clean-shaven face displayed a remarkably strong, square jaw, clear gray eyes and hardly a wrinkle in sight, except at the corners of his eyes. He was a proud man, an honorable man, but still a man, something that even he tended to forget from time to time. This office also served as a mini library where he stored most of his law books. The bookshelves, like all the other wood trim, were of highly polished white oak. He’d even searched and spent a good deal of money to buy a large white-oak desk, which at the moment was covered with case files. The leather chair was shiny from all the wear and tear it got. That too was something he had to have to fit his position as a district criminal court judge. This used to be Harry’s room, their son. He moved away after graduating from Harvard Law School and gotten himself married to some hussy in the Southwest. That was just over four years ago. Although Judge McGrath disapproved of Samantha he attended the wedding, but he told Harry how he felt she was clinging to him just for his money. They hadn’t talked to each other since. No phone calls. No visits. No cards at Christmas or Easter. It was as if they had disowned one another. Harry was just as stubborn as his father and that caused some of the problems, but even when the judge received letters in the flowery hand of a woman from Harry’s home in Fort Worth, he threw them away. So complete was his displeasure with his son that he turned his old room into his private study, erasing as many memories as he could, hiding where the bed was with the huge desk. The walls once covered with posters and trophies were now covered with bookshelves. Not a single item of Harry’s remained in the room. Yet with all the camouflage, he still felt Harry’s presence when he came into the room. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not even to Hattie, his wife of forty-seven years, but the reason he spent so much time in his den was to feel close to Harry. He still remembered some tender moments they had shared when Harry was growing up. He would not tell anyone about those treasures in his heart, but they were there just the same. The file on top of the pile on his desk was that of a man recently released from prison. His name was Adam Deveraux, but he called himself the “Bishop” and had formed his own religion, “The Church of the 3rd Covenant.” The Bishop had just finished serving time for assault, but was also suspected of crimes far greater than these. He possessed an uncanny ability to seemingly read minds and claimed he was a prophet of God, yet his words reeked of profanity and hatred. He managed to exert a type of charisma about him among certain people. These would follow him blindly, doing whatever he asked of them as if God Himself were asking them to do such vile things. Part of the information retained in this folder was the fact that Judge W. McGrath had been the one to sentence the Bishop to ten years in prison. At that time the Bishop had looked at the judge and simply said, “One day I will be judge and executioner. One day I shall sentence you for what you have done today.” He hadn’t thought about it much. He’d heard many idle threats over the years as judge. Yet next to the pile of case files lay his newspaper opened to the story about the death of Father Rierdon. Was it coincidence that this murder took place only days after the Bishop’s release? One of the reasons McGrath thought these two events might be connected was that Father Rierdon was the judge’s priest. He looked at the case file and argued within himself as to whether to make this known to the investigating officials. After two and a half hours, he finally picked up the phone and dialed. A sleepy, female voice answered on the other end of the line. “This is Judge McGrath. I apologize for waking you up at such a late hour, but would Detective Adams be there?”+
“Hey, hero,” Susan Adams began, half asleep, “it is for you.” I took the phone and exchanged a few pleasantries with Judge McGrath, who liked to get right to the point. “I heard you’re the detective they gave this Father Rierdon case to.” “Yes, sir. But I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation. You know that, yourhonor.” “I don’t want information. I want to supply you with information that may have a bearing on the case.” “This couldn’t wait until morning, sir?” I asked. “I don’t know if it could or not. It may be that my life’s in danger.” I was wide awake now. “Why do you say that, sir?” “A few days ago a real scumbag was released from prison. His name’s Adam Deveraux.” “The Bishop?” I asked, amazed. I thought they’d locked that guy up for good, even if it was only assault. Trouble is...I had seen the file. Deveraux had beaten a Catholic nun senseless and then stuck her crucifix in her chest like a knife. It was only by some miracle she hadn’t died. Friends on the force who investigated the case said that the Bishop was responsible for a dozen beatings and a few murders in NYC over a period of three years prior to his arrest for the assault. With his thick Southern drawl you’d expect the tall, lanky white guy to be racially prejudiced. What investigators found out was that his prejudices took on religious overtones, even political, but never racial. This was oddly complex, since he formed his own religion, which he claimed was just another Christian denomination. The Church of the 3rd Covenant was nothing more than another hate group, drawn along his religious and ideological lines rather than racial. “Yes, the Bishop,” Judge McGrath replied. “What you may not know is that he threatened me in court during the sentencing. You see, I was the judge who put him away.” “Why do you think this murder has something to do with his keeping his threat?” “I’ve received lots of threats in the past, but Deveraux was different. His statements were almost like promises he intended to keep, not simply threats. And he knew that Father Rierdon was my priest.” “You think he’ll hurt you by hurting those around you?” “At first. Then he’ll come for me. Detective, I’m an old man. I don’t have the fight in me I used to have. I’m afraid that if he does come for me he will succeed and he may also harm my wife. I can’t have that.” “Sir, I want you to call Captain Isaiah Williams and tell him just what you’ve told me. I’m going to make a couple of calls and then be over there. I can’t see moving you at this hour, but I’ll put myself on the clock until Captain Williams can move the paper on something more substantial.” “I appreciate that, Detective.” “Just be sure to call. I don’t care if you wake him up…and you can tell him I said so.” “I will,” McGrath said, and the line went dead. I called Marcus and left a message on his answering machine. Chances are the uniforms would get the security detail on this anyway so I might as well give my buddy a head’s up. Then I called May.+
“I’m not here,” Wish said, answering the phone. I could tell she had been sound asleep only moments before. “May, it’s Nat!” “What’s up?” she asked, the foggy sound in her voice all gone now. “I just received a call from Judge McGrath.” “What’s he want?” “Protection. He’s been reading the papers and thinks our murder case has something to do with him.” “How so?” “A guy he sent to prison six years ago is back on the streets. This guy actually threatened him in court.” “And he’s taking it seriously?” “Yeah, and I think we should too. It’s the Bishop.” “I thought he was just an urban legend or something.” “I’ve met him and he’s the sort of things urban legends are made of. Anyway I’m going over there now. We can double up in the morning. Hopefully Williams will assign some people permanently to him so we can get back to investigating this thing. See you around eight?” “You think this guy’s the real deal?” “I know he’s one of those people you don’t want to put back out on the street. Of course he may have changed, but judging from the fact that his latest book was just released two months ago I rather doubt it.” “He’s a writer too?” “Oh yeah. Don’t know how much money he makes, but I know he stirs up a lot of muddy waters.” “What’s the title of his latest book?” “America: Nation of Prostitutes,” I answered. “Don’t think I’ll get a copy. See you in the morning.” “Thanks. Later.”+
May tried to get back to sleep but couldn’t. Why did Adams have to call and wake her if she was just going to relieve him in the morning? Couldn’t he just wait until he wanted to be relieved? Her mind was going a mile a minute. Like a supercomputer every fact, no matter how small, was being examined, categorized and thoroughly processed at an extraordinary rate. Unfortunately you can’t do that and sleep at the same time. She thought about the bayonet, the fact that it had been jammed in with all the might a person could muster. She thought about the marks on the pavement, the position of the priest’s body. Why a bayonet at all? Why not a butcher’s knife, a machete, or whatever? There were plenty of different cutting tools the perp could’ve used to achieve the same results. Why a bayonet? Lab boys downtown were checking the weapon out, but one of them had already said he recognized it as an American WWII bayonet. The blade was long enough to do the job, but not as long as the Japanese bayonets of the same period. It sported a wooden handle that was quite thick. No one in their right mind would carry that around as a weapon, unless they wanted to kill someone. And just how does this “Bishop” guy fit into all this? What was his angle? Was he the killer? If so, why did he do it in such an obvious manner right after getting out of prison? Why would he even attempt something like this with the death threat in the court records? May tried to process all this information and only found more questions. She had no answers; well very, very few answers, anyway. She finally drifted off into a troubled sleep around 5 AM. At 5:30 AM. her alarm went off. She began the day by swearing at me for waking her up with this news which had basically kept her awake all night.CHAPTER TWO “I did it,” Alicia Monetti said. “I really did it.” “Yes, you did,” replied the tall muscular man at the wheel of the GTO. “I didn’t mean to go there and kill him,” she continued, as if needing some approval from him. “Of course not, my dear child. It was the overwhelming sense of necessity and righteous judgment that caused you to act.” “Did I do right? It doesn’t feel right.” “You did what was necessary. You did what was righteous. You were the judging blade of God. If what you did is wrong, then it is God who is to blame, not you, for He chose you to do this very thing.” “Yeah,” she said simply. They had driven all night and were in the western part of New Jersey. He pulled off I-78 where they found a place to wash up and go to the bathroom. The car needed gas too. Oddly enough, neither he nor Alicia were hungry. They were feasting on the adrenaline of the night’s murder. Alicia knew where he was heading. There was no secret in that. He was heading for the Church of the 3rd Covenant in Allentown, PA. A congregation was there that needed the wise words of the Bishop, and he would not disappoint them. The members were ex-convicts, friends, as well as wives and girlfriends of convicts and ex-cons. She did not feel uncomfortable among them. She felt she had finally found someone who spoke the truth.+
It was after midnight when I pulled my Dodge Dart into a space on E. 82nd Street. People have often remarked how amazing it was that with all the cars and parking problems in NYC, I always seemed to be able to find a parking space. It was like one was prepared just for me. Some of the other people in the 5th Precinct found it rather eerie. I was finding it rather consoling. At first it had amazed me too, until I realized that this was my calling. I was called to be a “minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.” I carried a 9mm Glock. That was my “sword,” and although I never wanted to use it I did not carry it in vain. If I had to, I would use it. Judge McGrath’s home was on the third floor of an old brownstone apartment building just off Central Park. The six-story building, the artisan’s work in the stone worn to distant recollections of a once-glorious past, had been a premier hotel long ago. After the bigger hotels started springing up, the owner had been forced to sell it to a corporation that renovated it, turning it into an apartment complex. This corporation looked for professionals as tenants that would increase its market value and had, by and large, succeeded. The building probably had one of the oldest Otis elevators in New York still in operation, at least one that was usable most of the time. Recently federal regulations had forced them to build a handicap ramp into the side entrance, which seemed to only demean the poor building even further. I chose to climb the carpeted stairs to the third floor rather than take the elevator. I liked going up and down stairs because I simply like to walk. After I reached the judge’s apartment, I rang the doorbell. The door was opened almost instantly. “Detective Adams?” the judge asked, the chain lock still in place. “Yes, sir,” I answered, showing him my ID and detective shield. “May I come in?” “Please do, Detective. You understand why I asked you here?” “Yes, I do.” “I can’t have someone threatening me like that. This murder proves that he meant business.” “Your honor, with all due respect, we don’t know that it was the Bishop at all. We have very few clues at the moment and although we may get some prints from the crime scene I rather doubt they will be Deveraux’s.” “Why do you say that?” “Oh, he’s going to act the good little boy. He has to or he blows his supervised release. If he’s really behind this he can’t do that much behind bars, can he?” “Not personally…” “But you are worried that he may have help? That’s been on my mind too. What say we just wait until the lab process the evidence from the crime scene? Now get some sleep and let me worry about the security.” “Thank you for coming, Detective.” “It’s my job, sir.” I escorted the judge to his bedroom, where he assured me all was secure after checking it first to make sure his wife was safe. After he shut the door, I walked down the hall to another bedroom. It had a single window with a spectacular view of the wall of the building next door. I checked the window lock, and then looked around the room, in the closet, under the bed. If I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. I went through each room with the same scrutiny. If there was a window I double-checked to make sure it was locked. If there was a closet I checked it out. I checked the door and the fire escape. I checked every corner of the large apartment and found it to be secure and free from any intruders. Now it was my job to keep it that way. After turning the lights off I sat on the sofa for a few minutes waiting for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t long until I was able to see every object poorly lit by the dim lights on the street outside. That was my cue to start patrolling the apartment. Pacing was more like it. I was nervous, like those whitetail deer you see on the Discovery Channel, skittish about every sound, every movement. Yet I wasn’t about to run off like the deer. I was gearing upfor a confrontation with the enemy. Just what made the Bishop tick anyway? Would he come for the judge at night or try to take him out in the open? Were there others that he would hurt or kill first? I didn’t know the answers to these questions. I wasn’t even sure if the Bishop was involved or not. All I had were the court records, the concern of the judge and this coincidence. Trouble is I never did believe in coincidences. Something was up with Deveraux, the Bishop or whatever he called himself. “They that dwell in the secret place of the Most High shall dwell in the shadow of the Almighty.” At least I think that’s how it went. It was the first verse of Psalm 91, and as a police officer I leaned heavily on this psalm of protection, especially at times like this. It wasn’t me that needed protection. I could die right now and Susan would grieve, but we would see each other again one day, but I didn’t have that assurance about Judge McGrath. Fact is I was pretty sure he was working his way in the other direction. Come on, Nat, focus! What would the Bishop do? Try to get his mind-set. That was just the problem. If I were the Bishop I’d wait. I’d want to watch Judge McGrath suffer and then hit someone else close by. I’d do that again and again until he was a broken man, Jell-O for a spine. Then I’d kill him, not before. I was pretty sure that the judge was safe tonight. Trouble is you can’t always predict what a criminal will do even if you try to think it through from their perspective. Anything might happen…or nothing. I was betting, no actually I was praying for, nothing. Every so often I’d allow myself the luxury of sitting down in one of the judge’s overstuffed chairs. On one such occasion I must have drifted off to sleep and was awakened by footsteps of someone coming up the steps to the apartment. I jumped up and moved towards the door to listen better. The footfalls were gentle, soft. Was the Bishop actually going to strike? I drew my Glock and flipped off the safety. It was still dark in the apartment and an LED digital clock in the DVD player on the expensive TV in the living room said it was only 6:16 AM. I could almost visualize the Bishop standing on the other side of the door when I heard a gentle knocking. “Who is it?” I asked, ready for anything. “It’s May!” came the decidedly female voice. I opened the door. “Either use that gun or put it away!” Wish stated flatly. “Sorry. I heard a noise. I wasn’t expecting you for two more hours.” “It’s your fault, kiddo.” “My fault?” “How was I supposed to get back to sleep after you called? I mean, Nat, you couldn’t have waited until morning to fill me in?” “I just wanted to make sure the judge was covered and that you were kept in the loop.” “Well, thank you very much. Now that I’m in the loop you want to tell me how I’m supposed to stay awake on my shift?” “Same way I did. Determination.” “Yeah right, like you weren’t sleeping when I came up or anything.” “Okay, I did drift off a little, but I was still alert.” “Sure ya were, partner. So alert you were ready to blow my head off.” “Like I said, I wasn’t expecting you until eight. I told you to meet me then. You’re the one who came early.” “And you’re the one who drifted off into never-never land and were caught off guard.” “Listen, we’re both tired. Let’s not argue about this. We have a really serious problem on our hands.” “So you told me.” “The judge has a file on Adam Deveraux. Makes for good reading if you’re trying to either prepare yourself for the enemy or are into horror. He’s a real piece of work,” I said, handing her a folder. “This guy’s practically done it all, except for rape, child molestation and murder,” she said, scanning the file. “He abhors rape and child molestation. As for murder, well, that’s another story. Word from some of the other cops who knew him and investigated him is that they just couldn’t prove anything. Marcus…” “Who?” “Officer Jones. You met him last night at the crime scene.” “Right. Tall, muscular, black, bald top.” “That’s him. Anyway Marcus and me go back a ways. He knows some of the guys who investigated Deveraux. Said he was supposed to have killed three cops, but they couldn’t prove it. All they could prove was that assault on the nun.” “What’s this ‘Church of the 3rd Covenant’ thing?” she asked. “That’s his own private hate club. Some people are prejudiced according to race. Not the Bishop. About the only way to get it out right would be to say that he’s prejudiced against God and anyone who follows Him.” “Leaves me out.” “But not Father Rierdon and not Judge McGrath.” “This may seem like a stupid question, but why is he called the Bishop when he’s against God?” “Now you are starting to understand the monster. The way he puts it is that God has chosen him to be a prophet, to direct God’s people to make amends for their sins. He’ll tell you he hates the job, but has no choice in the matter. It’s also one of the things that fuels his hatred.” “Wait a minute, Nat. You’re telling me this clown hates God, but is God’s prophet and he can’t even get out of it? That sounds more than just a little weird to me.” “Welcome to the Bishop’s reality. The really dangerous thing is, and this is my own opinion, Deveraux believes his reality is the true reality. In other words, while he does hate God, he really believes God has called him to do the vile things he does.” “That’s sick.” “It gets worse. Through his books and prison contacts the Bishop has gathered a substantial following. The feds are actually considering recognizing his organization as a legitimate religious group.” “No way!” “Oh yeah. He actually has several ‘congregations’ in the Northeast. And yes, a friend of mine, an FBI agent named Chandler, said that Deveraux has sued the government for discrimination and actually filed the Church of the 3rd Covenant as a non-profit organization years ago. And get this…he did it from his prison cell.” “And they say our Constitutional rights are dead.” “Well, they may not be dead, but some of them sure seem comatose. Yet Deveraux is smart. He knows how to work the system. What’s worse is the system is built so it can be manipulated.”+
The GTO pulled into a parking lot behind some row houses. The Bishop turned off the engine and looked over at Alicia. He couldn’t help but think how innocent and lovely she looked sleeping like a child with her head rested against the door. Today she would move back into the row house that served as his church in Allentown. He would speak to his people. He was God’s chosen instrument. He knew that. He hated it, but he could not help who he was. Tonight he would return to Manhattan with Karl Mullins. How they followed him so obediently, so loyally. They were his true children and he loved them as a father loves his children, sometimes a little more so. According to the radio it was just after seven in the morning. He was tired, even though he and Alicia had stopped in the town of Alpha, New Jersey, for a few hours. He knew that today was going to be a full day. Patrick, Daniel and Timothy were approaching his car. His deacons. His chosen. Behind them were their wives and lovers, the rest of his congregation. It was time to get up and feed his family the words of God. The Bishop greeted these faithful ones with a warm embrace and led them back into the house where the rest of his congregation awaited for him. He was greeted by a round of applause. A broad smile covered his face. Deveraux was genuinely moved by these people, his children. With piercing, yet eerily kind brown eyes, he took in each member of his congregation. He was sure they understood this contemplative glance as his personal greeting to them. He knew their hearts and he shared with them his. Taking up a focal position in the living room he motioned for them to sit down and be silent. They must prepare themselves to hear the prophecies of God. “Greetings to each and every one of you,” he began. “The Lord is pleased with you, so very pleased. For centuries He has looked for a people who would live out their faith in Him as you have done. You are His elect, His chosen ones. “Last night Alicia, our dear sister, was moved by the hand of God to do that which she did not wish to do. Yet by her obedience and the mighty hand of God she accomplished that which He had called her to do. Soon the Almighty will choose others of this small congregation to administer His justice among the people. Do not fear. Do not hesitate. You are His instruments of justice. “Several nights ago, the last night I spent in the belly of the Beast, I had a vision. I looked down and behold, I saw two armies in a valley locked in combat. One army carried a black banner upon which was a green serpent. The other army carried a white banner, upon which was a bright flashing sword. The servants of the serpent are the enemies of God. The servants of the flaming sword were the army of God. Yet among this army there was such injustice as to render it useless against the enemy. So God called upon a certain band of those servants of the serpent to serve in His army, to purify them and make ready His forces against the black banner. So it is that He has chosen you, His holy elect, to go through society and administer His justice that His army might once again become strong. The Spirit of the Lord is upon you and will give you strength to do this. For in my dream I saw the army of the white banner losing to those of the black banner. Then He called upon a small band of the black banner to throw down the black banner and take up the white banner for Him. After doing so God sent them throughout the entirety of His army, slaying them that were disobedient to His commands. After they had done so, His army, those of the white banner, the flaming sword, gained great strength and beat down the armies of the black banner, those servants of the serpent. For this you have been called. For this you have been chosen. God is going to send you through the troops slaying those disobedient to His will. In one hand you will carry His cup of wrath. In the other a bayonet, symbolic of His mighty sword. You will strike down all that He so commands with the cup and the blade, and so fulfill His will.” This “vision” or “prophecy” would chill the hearts of most normal people, but to those who had been snared in the Bishop’s web of deceit it made sense. This vile congregation saw themselves as being handpicked by God. Not only were they handpicked, they were handpicked to perform a certain task, and that task was to eliminate evil. They had been convinced that it was necessary for them to surgically remove the cancer that ate at our society. In accepting that lie as truth they became the cancer they were to remove. Of all the people in that Pennsylvania row house only Adam Deveraux understood this, for one day he would also eliminate them. Then his mission would be fulfilled. “In accordance with that vision,” the Bishop continued, “I gave Alicia a bayonet to cut out the first of many cancers from society. The bayonet shall be our sign of righteous judgment. It is God’s will that each time one is sent out to execute such a righteous judgment, a bayonet be used. As God so wills, so it shall be.”+
Officer Marcus Jones read the file on Deveraux that Nat sent him. Not much there he didn’t already know. Fact is most of this info was in his own file on the Bishop. Trouble was Jones was a beat cop. He wasn’t a detective. Marcus was hoping to one day get that coveted gold shield, but as it stood now his job was patrolling the beat in Chinatown, part of the 5th Precinct. Yet he wasn’t without his resources. He had his partner, Lou Pernelli, run down the evidence collected at the Father Rierdon murder scene, got some tread marks from what was believed to be the getaway vehicle and had Jenny Morgan, his current girlfriend and the only female Afro-American CSI tech in Manhattan South, try to run a match on the tread. The search resulted in limiting it to a Firestone tire used on a number of domestic vehicles. It was worn slightly on one side. Either the tire was underinflated or the front end was out of alignment. He was betting on the latter since it was worn only on one side. Had both sides been worn he would have opted for an underinflated tire. That was about as far as he could go with his unofficial investigation…at least until Jamal Thomas, a New Jersey state trooper, called him. “Marcus?” Jamal asked. “This is Officer Jones. Who’s calling?” “Yo man, that any way to treat a brother?” “Jamal?” “Got that right first time.” “What’s up, boy?” “While you city boys were sleeping on the job I got a call from a convenience store. Seems this white dude and a girl in a GTO were heading west on I-78. Stopped in to gas up the monster. Also went to the head to clean up. The kid runnin’ the joint noticed what looked like blood on the girl. She didn’t look hurt and the dude seemed to be takin’ good care of her. You know what that sounds like, doncha?” Marcus didn’t say anything. The investigation into Father Rierdon’s murder hadn’t really made the press yet, and Captain Williams was happy about that. “You guys got a murder over there in the last eighteen hours or so?” Thomas asked filling in the silence. “Yeah, last night. Priest caught a bayonet in his chest.” “Whoa! That’d be something that’d cause a lot of bleeding.” “Right you are, Jamal. Your wit get any numbers off the plates?” “Naw! He’s spooked. I was lucky to get what I did.” “Well, I already knew it was a domestic, probably with the front end out of alignment. Now I know it’s a GTO. You get a color, year, anything else?” “Kid said it was dark, so was the car. That leaves the color wide open. He did say that it looked like a classic year.” “That’d make it late sixties.” “Right.” “I’m gonna fax the photo of the tire print over to you. Think you can make a match at this store?” “Don’t bother, man. It’s been over twelve hours so any useful evidence has been ruined.” “Guess you’re right. Hey, thanks for the tip anyway, man.” “Rumor has it the Bishop’s on the loose again.” “Maybe,” Jones replied. “Anything shows up on my radar I’ll let you know. I want to get this creep in the worst way.” “Me too, Jamal. Me too. Thanks.”CHAPTER THREE Thomas and Jones didn’t appreciate the irony that Deveraux was an equal opportunity hater. Color and race didn’t mean a thing to him. What mattered were those irksome people who professed a belief in God. The Bishop was on a crusade to take them out. Few people really understood that. Those close to the original case had some insight. It was the Bishop’s disdain for God that targeted the people of God. Now, however, that disdain might just include a larger group, a group that had a hand in sending him to jail six years ago. Moments after Marcus hung up the phone, it rang again. “Fifth Precinct, Officer Jones. Can I help you?” “Yes,” said Captain Williams. “Sorry, sir,” Marcus apologized. “I thought this was an outside line.” “It is. I wanted to be sure that I got you before you went out on patrol. I’m assigning you and Pernelli to Judge McGrath.” “Protection?” “Right. Any complaints?” “Not from me, sir. In fact, I more or less expected this call.” “How’s that, Officer?” “I was just saying that I’d already had a call and was preparing to do guard duty for his honor.” “Adams, right?” “I’ll never tell, sir,” Marcus said with a smile. “You better get your butts over there now. Adams has been there all night. He needs a relief.” “Yes, sir,” he said, hanging up the phone. Turning to Lou Pernelli, he said, “Grab your stuff, man. We’re outta here.” “Judge McGrath, PC, right?” “That’s right. We relieve Nat. He’s been there all night.” “Go on ahead. I’ll pick up the coffee and donuts.”+
The judge and his wife were up at 7:30. May and I could hear them moving around in their bedroom. About ten before eight, they came out for some breakfast. The judge was determined not to let Deveraux interfere with his day. Hattie, however, looked as though she were waking up only to find herself in the middle of a nightmare. She was a delicate woman to begin with, but this matter with the Bishop had her unhinged. Even her soft white hair couldn’t hide the terror in her blue-gray eyes. Her thin body seemed unsteady and her hands trembled. “I wish Harold were here…” she began, but a sharp look from Judge McGrath stopped her. “Why’s that?” I asked. “She’d probably feel safer with her son here, is all,” the judge offered. “Sir, with all due respect, I wasn’t asking you. Ma’am, why do you wish Harold was here?” “This is none of your affair, Detective,” the judge persisted. “If it has to do with protecting you, it’s very much my affair.” “William, it’s been too long. We can’t keep doing this to Harold,” the judge’s wife continued. “Hattie!” He glared, but realized it had already gone too far. “Detectives, my husband and my son had a difference of opinion that drove them apart. That was some four years ago.” “What was it about?” I asked. “A woman began to date our Harold. Samantha Parker. She was a Texan of a no-account family in Dallas, but she was nice. I liked her. William thought she was after Harold’s money. He can be very stubborn sometimes. Well, on the day of the wedding, he had consented to go, but after the ceremony William made it clear to Harold just what he thought of Samantha. Our son had suspected some misgivings on our part, but he never imagined anything as hurtful as this. Frankly, neither did I. That was the last time I ever saw my son. He doesn’t call or write. William, don’t you see that we could have a united front if you hadn’t been so bull-headed?” she said, breaking down in tears. I went over to comfort her while May took up the line of questioning. Just a word of explanation here: I’ve always been a people person. The way I grew up has taught me to have compassion on those around me. That, and the teachings of Christ. May, on the other hand, wasn’t your average female police officer. She was an officer first, female second, I guess would be one way of looking at it. She reminded me of what a tomboy would be like when all grown up. May was sharp, assertive, even aggressive and competitive, but at the same time, there was that genuine gentleness about her that amazed me. Now, however, she knew that Mrs. McGrath didn’t need comforting as much as she needed to get all the truth out. This business about their son was new to us, and May wasn’t going to let it slip away. “Mrs. McGrath, you say your son hasn’t made contact with you in four years?” she asked. “That’s right,” she said through stifled sobs. “Did either you or your husband try to make contact with him during that time?” “William forbids it, and I’ve never gone against his wishes.” “Until now,” the judge added. “Your honor, I believe your wife has your best interest at heart. Do you know what your son is doing now, Mrs. McGrath?” “Um, yes, I do. William didn’t know, but I’ve been keeping abreast of Harold’s professional career. The last I heard he was working for a top law firm in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area. Samantha is still with him. His practice is very successful. It’s rumored among some of our friends in that area that he may even run on the Democratic ticket for governor of Texas in the next election.” “You’ve been keeping track of Harry all this time?” the judge asked. Before she had time to answer there was a loud knocking on the door, followed by Marcus Jones calling out, “Okay, sleepy heads. Rise and shine. The Marines have landed.”+
Wish and I arranged to meet later that evening to try to sort out the case. That would give me the time I needed to process the information I’d received. Besides, although May was young and pretty, I had no romantic interest in her. I wanted to get home and see Susan. We still didn’t have any children, something I was deathly afraid of because of my own childhood—I had to work on that fear—but we were still young. How I loved Susan. My mind drifted a bit and I saw her as if she were right there. Her straight black hair shimmered and felt soft to the touch as if it were black silk. It smelled of orange-blossom-scented conditioner. Her face was free from makeup, delicately oval and colored as if she had a light tan. Hazel eyes peered out from her face, piercing and divine; they seemed almost yellow, like those of a cat. A cat! I had to remind myself that while I was a red sash holder, so was she. Her style was a combination of Golden Dragon and Black Tiger. Mine was a blending of so many styles that I had long since stopped counting. I climbed into my yellow Dart to drive home. I tried to think about home, about helping Susan around the house, but my tired mind kept slipping back to the Bishop, Father Rierdon, that bayonet. I couldn’t get my mind off the case. I needed the warmth and reassurance I felt only in the arms of my wife.+
May drove downtown to One Police Plaza. She wanted to get a look at the results the techs had reached on the trace evidence she vacuumed off the priest’s body. She was, after all, the lead CSI on the case. She’d never gotten involved with anyone romantically since being raped years before. The memories still haunted her. She had been coming home from her physical therapy class when a masked man appeared out of nowhere as she opened the door to her apartment. He shoved her in and raped her on the sofa at gunpoint. He never said a word, but the pistol pressing against her temple was enough. So, when Frank, who knew nothing of the rape, suggested she try out for the NYPD, she did. She tested high and went on to the academy, where she graduated even higher in her class. Her goal was to avenge herself and others like her, and that unfortunately seemed to drive men away. She wanted to work in SVU, the Special Victims Unit, but with her special aptitude in the field of forensics was assigned to the Crime Scene Unit. She was a puzzle-solver, and that’s what the NYPD was looking for. The pain never left her, or the fear, but she’d learned to hide much of the anger. She still carried a chip on her shoulder, but she buried herself in her work. She convinced herself that she was doing what she was best at, and that was helping put people in jail. Maybe someday it would be her rapist, who knew. Parking on the street in front of the precinct, she got out and made her way to the crime lab. Dr. Taylor Travis was there at the electron microscope. Travis was tall, with skin as dark as a Hershey Bar. His black hair, thick for a man of almost sixty, looked like steel wool, now that traces of white had mixed in with it. He had the look of a lab geek about him, thin, almost weak looking. However, you could tell from his work, from his voice, from his eyes, if you could see beyond those glasses, you didn’t mess with this man. Oh sure, a lot of people could tangle with him in a physical assault, but few could match his intellectual skills regardless of race or color. May had learned almost everything about working a crime scene from Travis. Sure, there were the manuals and all, NYPD procedures, but Travis had showed her how to take the smallest piece of a puzzle and be able to draw from it logical and correct conclusions. She was, in fact, his favorite pupil. “You looking at those porno slides again, Doc?” she said joking. “May K. Wish,” he said, turning to her on the lab stool. “If it ain’t the CSU’s own genie out of the bottle.” “Yeah, well this genie needs a bit of your magic.” “And that’s what I’ve been looking at, pretty lady. Take a look yourself.” “Let’s see what ya got,” she said taking up the stool that he left her. “Flecks of paint, dark forest green. Old, too.” “Now look at the larger section and tell me what you see.” “Brown paint. No, wait a minute. That’s not paint at all, that’s rust,” she said, checking the readout on the polarized light microscope. “Right you are, girl. To be more precise, it’s WWII army green over metal. This was used to paint over metal.” “Car?” “Not unless there was an army vehicle in the area.” “So what are you suggesting?” “I saw the ME’s report. I’d say this is paint from the bayonet.” “Makes sense, but we already know about the weapon. Got anything else?” “Yep,” he said, swinging back in place and putting a new slide in the scope. “Now look at that.” “Crystalline, red. I know that,” she said at once. “That’s red nail polish.” “Give the girl a prize, Johnny,” he laughed. “Yeah, so we know that either we got a guy who likes to wear red nail polish…” “Or the perp was a female.” “Bingo.” “Thanks, Travis. What would I do without you?” “You rushing off so quick? There’s more.” “More?” “Not much, but yes, more. First things first. We got almost two full sets of prints off the handle of the bayonet, but they don’t match anyone in any database I can find, and trust me I went out of my way on this one.” “I was kinda afraid of that.” “But we have blue paint and this one is off a car, a 1969 GTO, to be exact.” “Now we got the color of the car. Too bad we couldn’t get inside it and take prints.” “Well, according to the tire tread, the front end is out of alignment. Whoever is driving this baby is going to have to get that fixed soon, or at least replace the tire or he’ll be all over the road.” “Thank’s Trav. I learn something every time I come down here.” “You’re supposed to.”+
The couple was strolling along the sidewalk overlooking the East River. They were over a mile north of the UN Building. The moon was rising over the water and it was really quite the romantic spot. Then, out of the shadows came two men, one short and stocky, the other tall and lanky. “Dennis Houston?” the stocky man said. “Who wants to know?” the young man asked. “Miss, you may want to leave,” the tall man said. “I don’t think you’re going to want to see this.” “What are you talking about?” she replied. “Too late! You had your chance,” he answered. “You remember me, Dennis?” the stocky man asked. “I don’t know you!” “Sure you do. Come on. You were the lawyer who gave almost everything I had to my ex when she divorced me.” “What?” “Come on. Do you handle so many divorces, break up so many families that you don’t recognize me? It’s Karl.” “Mr. Mullins?” “There you go. I knew you’d remember.” “What do you want?” the other asked, growing more fearful by the minute. “To exact justice. You see, our nation is screwed up because of people like you, and, well, I’m here to help get things back in balance.” “What is he talking about, Dennis?” the woman asked, eyes wide with fear, clutching his arm. “Go ahead, Dennis. Tell the lady how it wasn’t enough for you to take my wife away, or make sure she got all my possessions, but how you had to make sure she was sole guardian of our children.” “Dennis? Is that true?” “Karl Mullins, you were a threat to the safety of your children. You had repeatedly beaten them, which is why your wife filed for divorce in the first place. By your actions here I am proved right in my actions to see that your children were raised in a safe environment.” “You admit it then?” “I admit to seeing that justice was done,” Dennis Houston replied proudly. “And I’m here to see that justice is done as well,” and with that the stocky man, Karl, drew a bayonet he had been wearing in his belt like a sword.+
I arrived early, that is early in my mixed-up day, around 6:30 PM, and began going through my paperwork. I also went over the lab results and was trying to process it all in my head. We seemed to have a female perp who, with an accomplice, rammed Father Rierdon through with a bayonet. Apparently she was with another person, a male, in a blue, 1969 GTO, last seen heading west on I-78. The Bishop’s name had come into play when Judge McGrath called. Was it possible that he was the driver of the blue GTO? Was the Bishop back in business? If that were the case, things were going to get very ugly. God, I prayed, I really need your help here. I think people are in danger, and not just the judge. You know what I mean. This guy pretends to be doing your will so he can do evil. Help me stop him, Lord. Help me stop him. “Who ya talking to, Nat?” Wish asked, pulling up a chair at the other side of his desk. “God!” I said simply. “Well, at least ya aren’t talking to yourself. Not that talking to some god’s any better.” “He’ll help us. You’ll see.” “Nat, I believe in one person, me, because I know that I’m the only one I can rely on.” “I trust in God because I know that I’m one of many people I can’t rely on.” “Whatever. Listen, I was talking to Travis earlier and there are a few things that I found interesting.” “Such as?” “Outside of the paint from the bayonet being on the vic’s body, we also got red nail polish.” “So I see in your report. We’re looking for a female then?” “That or some guy who likes cherry red nail polish.” “I agree that it was a woman. What is bothering me is that she had a ride.” “Right! Some guy in a ’69 GTO, dark blue. And that’s bothering you because?” “Because of the threat against Judge McGrath.” “You don’t seriously think they’re related, do you?” “As a matter of fact I do.” “Well, you may be right, but I contacted DMV and Deveraux doesn’t even have a driver’s license, much less a car.” “You really think that’d stop him from driving?” “Guess not.” “Here’s what I think. I think the Bishop has this following. He took one of his members, a woman, to see Father Rierdon. He made sure it would be dark where they’d meet. He probably also picked a woman who may have had some anger towards the priest.” “What makes you say that?” “Because Deveraux wasn’t the one wielding the bayonet. It was a woman. Yet it had to be someone just on the edge, someone Deveraux could push over. Once her anger had fully kicked in, he slid the bayonet over to her and told her to kill him.” “That’s a bit wild, don’t you think?” “Under normal circumstances I’d agree with you, but I know the Bishop. I know how he uses people. How he uses their weaknesses, their hatred, their fears, to get them to do what he wants. I’m telling you the Bishop is no ordinary criminal. He actually thinks he’s the Messiah.” “You’re kidding me!” “He created this whacked-out religion to serve his own purpose, called himself the Bishop, and is very charismatic in his own way. Yet he believes that he’s the savior, not Jesus, not God. The world must bow down to Adam Deveraux. That’s the way he thinks and works, and that’s oversimplifying things.” “If that’s the case then I wouldn’t be surprised if…” “Nat,” shouted Detective Jimmy Towns. “Call for you on line three.” “Detective Squad, Detective Adams speaking. Can I help you?” I said answering the phone and raising my finger so May would hold her thought and we could continue later. As I listened, I could feel the blood draining out of my face. Slowly, almost as if in shock, I finally hung up the phone. “What is it?” Wish asked. “What’s the matter?” “He’s done it again. Two this time, next to the FDR highway.” “They sure?” “Yeah. Seems they left another bayonet behind to emphasize the point.”+
Pernelli drove while Jones sat next to Judge McGrath. Marcus had tried to talk him out of going to the office, but McGrath was determined and replied that he wasn’t going to stop living just because some two-bit crook had threatened him. Big words, especially when you have the protection of New York’s Finest. As far as Marcus Jones could see, at least this way the judge would be able to put others away. It’d be a shame for the wheels of justice to gunk all up just because of a threat, albeit a real possibility. Halfway to the court Pernelli’s cell phone rang. With his left hand on the steering wheel, he fished out the phone from his front pocket and pressed a button. All of this is illegal in New York these days, and with a judge in tow nonetheless, shows you what Pernelli’s all about. “Toss the phone back here, Lou, before the judge here has me charge you for breaking the law,” Marcus called out. Pernelli tossed the phone back to him. Any doubts he had about letting the judge go to work were instantly grounded in fact. You could see the lines draw up on Jones’ face. “Aw, crap!” was all he said. “So what’s up, man?” Pernelli asked. “Two more dead by the East Side Highway, downtown. He left another bayonet at the scene.” “What are you going to do?” asked the judge, uncertain himself of the course of action he should take. “We’re already halfway there,” Marcus began. “I can’t see how it would be any safer going back now. Guess we’re going to court, your honor. Say, Pernelli, know that route you took when ya got lost as a rookie?” “You ever gonna lay off that, Jones?” “Take that route. Go the long way round.” “Why?” “If this guy’s as smart as I think he is, he probably has the judge’s moves down to when he takes a dump. He probably knows we’re with him and that we’re on the way to the courthouse. What he isn’t counting on is that we’ll take another route. By the time he readjusts to that fact we’ll be surrounded by boys in blue.” “Smart! You oughtta get that detective badge.” “Someday, Lou. Someday. Meanwhile, your honor, I’m gonna have to ask you to lie low for a bit.” “You mean lie down on the seat?” “Slouch, lie down, whatever it takes so people can’t see you from the street.” “But they’ll know my car.” “Right, but your car won’t be where they expect it to be.”+
Karl Mullins and Adam Deveraux drove North in Mullins’ shiny silver S-10 pickup. They went east into Queens, after which they dropped south and headed for Brooklyn. The Bishop had another congregation there. It was a completely different congregation. Deveraux figured if, by some stroke of luck, the cops had been able to figure out that he’d gone west, or worse, that he was in a dark blue tank of a car, he wasn’t going to go the same direction this time. They’d expect that. Furthermore, he chose Karl to confuse the cops since he was sure they’d figured out it was a woman who had killed the priest. What angered the Bishop was the presence of the girl. They were supposed to kill Dennis Houston, not his girl too, but if she wasn’t going to leave, he wasn’t going to let her talk, either. The Bishop referred to her as “a casualty of war,” something Karl almost became. Karl should have waited. He should have listened to his Bishop, but instead he was impatient and took matters into his own hands. That meant that the Bishop had to take matters into his own hands as well. They pulled up to some low-rise apartment buildings, too close together to call separate houses, but not connected with each other in the way a row house was, either. These tiny three- and four-story homes with peeling paint, crumbling steps and windows, either boarded up or barred. They littered the dismal, neglected crumbling streets like the beer cans and bottles, smashed, crushed and lying all around, like confetti after a New Year’s Eve party. “Pull in there,” Deveraux commanded. Karl double-parked the pickup next to a stripped-out “low-rider,” its make and model now almost undecipherable. “Okay, now what?” he asked. “You must learn patience,” the Bishop began. “Patience is a power that can topple many obstacles. You do not have that power yet. Here is where you will learn it.” “But I got my business back in Allentown.” “Had your business back in Allentown. You are now Miguel Garcia, crack dealer.” “What?” “Or do you want to go swimming in the river?” “Whatever you say, Bishop!” Deveraux was half-tempted to tell him to take the swim anyway. He had another plan in mind, however. A man came up and identified himself as Miguel Garcia. “Hello, Miguel,” the Bishop said in greeting. “Bishop! It’s an honor.” “Garcia, you and Karl here are switching roles. I want both of you to turn over to each other all of your identification, wallets, photos of family. You know the drill. Karl, as I’ve said, you are going to become Miguel, crack dealer, but it’s only temporary. Miguel, you’re going to become Karl Mullins, computer consultant in Allentown. Your position there will also be temporary.” Garcia, as it turned out, didn’t look Hispanic at all. In fact, he looked a lot like Mullins, which was one reason the Bishop was making the trade. The other was that the man formerly known as Garcia was going to be necessary in another task. Putting the real Mullins here was to be his penance. Perhaps one day he would work his way out of this Purgatory, just as the old Garcia had. Deveraux took the pickup too, but now in the role of Garcia, Mullins had a ’67 Pontiac. It should have been a collector’s car, but with the floorboard rusting out and only one headlight that worked, Karl didn’t think it would be worth fixing up. Karl felt like he was sitting on the pavement when he got in. The Bishop didn’t just abandon him either. In the role of a drug dealer he was, as Garcia, expected to sell drugs and make a profit doing so. The money financed various other operations within the Church of the 3rd Covenant. The truly odd thing about this whole scene was that Garcia and Mullins both accepted their new roles as though they had no choice in the matter. For Karl it was a necessary discipline to teach him patience. For Garcia it was that final acceptance of his true abilities. The Bishop’s word was never questioned…at least, not by anyone who was still breathing.