and function than I was of the lobby just down the hall.
Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people will carry a look of the profession they practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled at me, I noticed his eyes held a certain light which felt both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and I noticed both arm pits of his shirt were soaked through and damp from perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform I suspected they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.
Pate stood to greet me, but before he did he affixed the metal bands of his arm crutches around his forearms, grasped the handles, then pulled himself out of his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, pointed to the chair with the end of one of the crutches and said, “Welcome Detective. Please, have a seat.”
We shook hands and when Pate squeezed my fingers harder and longer than necessary, I said, “That’s an impressive grip, Mr. Pate. Please release my hand.”
He chuckled as if caught in a polite fib, the kind one might tell to save another of an unnecessary embarrassment. “I prefer Reverend, if you please,” he said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve spent years moving around with the aid of these crutches. It tends to build up one’s musculature, wouldn’t you agree? I often forget my own strength. How exactly may I help you, Detective? My wife said you wanted to speak with me about Franklin’s unfortunate passing.”
I noticed two things right away: Like his wife, Pate had referred to the victim by his first name, which is indicative of a certain level of familiarity beyond a business relationship, and two, he had referred to Dugan’s murder as a ‘unfortunate passing.’ I decided to go for some shock value.
“The victim was shot to death in his own driveway, Reverend. The top of his head was blown off and you could use what’s left of his skull for a gravy boat. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate passing.”
Pate seemed to ignore my statement in its entirety and said, “There is a war going on out there, Detective. I witness it every day. The book of Revelation speaks of what is to come and the fate that will befall those who choose to ignore the word of God. The script is already written, the players already cast. The outcome for those who follow the teachings of the bible is a foregone conclusion. The only real question left to ponder, the only real way to fight the war, is to ask yourself, where do you stand in the eyes of the Lord, Detective? Do you stand in the light of God, or in the darkness like those who would murder a man in his own home? You come to my office with intentions of questioning me over something I know nothing about regarding I man I knew as a professional, a friend, and a member of this church. I find your behavior and your demeanor not only questionable but repulsive.”
I pointed my finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you preach to on TV, Reverend. I’m not here to be your witness. When was the last time you saw Franklin Dugan?”
I did not think Pate would answer, and when he did, the fire had gone out of his voice and his eyes seemed to dull a bit. “I saw him last week, at the taping of the show. He was here, as he always was.”
“When was the last time you were at his home?” I asked.
“I have never been to his home, Detective. Ever. Let me ask you something, if I may. Franklin was one of our biggest benefactors. Why in the world would I or anyone from this church for that matter want to see him harmed?”
“That’s a fine question, sir. It’s also one that I don’t have the answer to. But here’s an even better one; Why is it, do you think, Reverend, that the man who was personally responsible for the approval of a five million dollar loan to your church was murdered just days after you got the money? Better yet, how is it sir, that you were able to obtain that kind of credit using an all but condemned building as collateral? Is any of this starting to make sense to you, Reverend? Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of the investigation currently being conducted by the Texas Department of Insurance regarding your former ministry in Houston?”
I thought he might try to defend himself, but he surprised me with his next statement and left me unable to speak. “My wife tells me of her past relationship with you when you were schoolmates. She’s an interesting woman, is she not? We’re having a viewing party this Saturday, here at our facility. We watch the broadcast with a select few members of the congregation to try and get a feel for how well our message will be received the next day. She’s asked me to invite you to attend. Would ten a.m. work for you, Detective?”
I left the Pate Ministry with more questions than answers. As I headed downtown for a court appearance on a previous case I spoke with both Rosencrantz and Donatti to get a feel for any information they might have gathered from their canvass of the double murder. Rosie’s voice crackled in my ear on a bad cell signal. “Found a paperboy who says he might have seen the van. He’s just a kid. Sort of a punk, little bit of smartass in him, but just a kid nonetheless. Or hell, maybe he’s completely normal and I’m just getting old. Either way, he didn’t see anything of value. No plate, no make. Says he forgot one of the houses along his route and had to double back. That’s when he saw the van. But there’s nothing there.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”
“No shit?”
“I shit you not, oh wise one.”
“Prints?”
“Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”
“Alright, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”
“Already on it.”
“Okay. What else?”
“Just spec if you want it.”
“Let’s have it,” I said.
“Alright, if you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Barney, so that leaves the banker, right?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank-”
“Stay with me here, Rosie.”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Barney was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”
I thought about this for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “Alright, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”
“You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”
“No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. Probably the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.”
“You got it, Chief.”
I killed the phone, parked my truck and headed into court. I was fifteen minutes late. If the court was running on time, the Judge would not be pleased.
CHAPTER TEN
From the moment of birth, the hunger of death feeds from an army of life. Day by day it creeps ever closer, a silent, merciless hunter, its endurance without end, its clemency non-existent. It chews on the mind, feeds on the
