“You did what you could,” Peters was saying to Carstogi.
“I shoulda brought a gun,” Carstogi mumbled. “I shoulda brought a goddamned gun.”
“It’s a good thing you didn’t,” Peters replied. “Airport security would never have let you out of O’Hare. We need your help. Are you in?”
Carstogi nodded grimly. “What do I do?”
“For one thing, tell us everything you know about what goes on in Faith Tabernacle.”
We spirited him back to the Warwick. No way were we going to take him down to the department. The last thing we needed was to give the press a shot at him.
Peters picked up a paper on our way through the lobby. Maxwell Cole’s article and picture were the lead items of the local section. The headlines read, SLAIN CHILD BURIED. There was a close-up of Suzanne Barstogi kneeling stoically during Angela’s service. According to Max’s story, Pastor Michael Brodie was a man of God with enough courage and faith to say hallelujah when one of his flock made off for the Promised Land. Suzanne Barstogi’s face reflected total agreement with Brodie’s words.
Peters read the article first, then handed it to me. Our charge went into the bathroom. “According to that, Brodie’s some kind of latter-day prophet,” Peters said.
“I picked up on that too. I can hear our case getting picked apart on page one, can’t you?”
Carstogi returned to the room and read the article without comment.
“What was Suzanne doing at church this morning?” I asked.
“It’s the start of a Purification Ceremony,” he said as he studied the picture. “Did she talk to the cops when it happened?”
I nodded.
“That’s why, then,” he continued. “True Believers are never supposed to talk to outsiders, especially cops. That’s why he threw me out.”
“Why doesn’t he throw her out?”
Carstogi looked at me incredulously. “Are you kidding? If he kicks a woman out, he loses food stamps, welfare, and medicaid, to say nothing of part of the harem.”
“Welfare fraud and sex?” Peters asked. “Is that what all this is about?”
Carstogi flashed with anger. “Of course, you asshole. Did you think this was all salvation and jubilee? I couldn’t make that judge back home see it either.”
I took the newspaper from Carstogi’s hand. “With the likes of Maxwell Cole working for the opposition, we’ll be lucky to get anyone to believe it here, either,” I said. “What do you know about the good pastor?”
“Brodie’s a fighter.”
“We picked up on that,” Peters observed dryly.
“No, I mean he really was a fighter. Middle heavyweight in Chicago. Local stuff. Never made a national name for himself, but he never lost the moves. The only time I think I can whip him is when I’m juiced.” He rubbed his bruised chin ruefully. It occurred to me then that maybe Carstogi was growing on me.
He continued. “When Sue and I started going to Faith Tabernacle, we were having troubles. Too much drinking and not enough money. Not only that, we wanted kids and couldn’t seem to have any. Sue went first and then she dragged me along. There were probably fifteen to twenty couples then.”
“There aren’t that many now,” I said.
“No. Most of the men get lopped off one way or another. One of them wound up dead in an alley in Hammond, Indiana. I always thought Brodie did that too, but nobody ever proved it. At first I was really gung ho, especially when Sue turned up pregnant. I thought it was a miracle. Now I’m not so sure, but I loved Angel just the same. I wanted her out of this.”
“So who are the five or so who are left?”
“Kiss-asses. The ones who get the same kind of kicks Brodie does.”
“We did some checking with the state of Illinois. None of the names check out except for the one named Benjamin.” Peters was studying Carstogi closely.
“I never knew their real names, only the Tabernacle ones. I imagine Brodie changed them all by a letter or two, just like he did Suzanne’s. Some of the True Believers have records. I know that much.”
“You said kicks a minute ago,” I put in. “What kind of kicks?”
Carstogi looked from Peters to me. He shrugged. “Go to the ceremony,” he said. “That’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“You know they don’t let outsiders in. What happens?” I asked.
“Last night she probably made a public confession of sin. Talking to the cops is probably the major one. They took her to that room afterward for her to pray for forgiveness. Tonight they’ll decide on her punishment. She could be Disavowed, but I doubt that. They’ll think of something else.”
“What else?” Peters was pressing him.
“Anything that sadistic motherfucker thinks up. Maybe she’ll have to stand naked in a freezing room or get whipped in front of the group. He’s got a whole bag of tricks.” Carstogi’s hands were clenched, his eyes sparking with fury. I wanted to puke. It’s a cop’s job to keep people safe, but how do you protect them from themselves?
Eventually he continued. “Tonight they’ll leave her to pray in the church itself rather than in the Penitent’s Room. In the morning they’ll have a celebration.”
Peters got up. He paused by where Carstogi was sitting on the bed. “Do you think Brodie killed Angela? You said that last night, and we thought you were just drunk. What about now that you’re sober?”
“If she wouldn’t do what he said…” Carstogi’s voice trailed off.
Peters walked to the door with a new sense of purpose. “We need to go down to the department for a while. Will you be all right if we leave you here?”
Carstogi nodded. “I’ll be okay.”
I followed Peters out. I was a little disturbed by the way he was giving Carstogi the brushoff. “I thought we were supposed to stick with him like glue until we got him back on a plane for Chicago.”
Peters ignored the comment. “You ever done any bugging?” he asked.
I stopped. “You’re not my type.”
“Bugging, you jerk, not buggering. As in wiretapping, eavesdropping, Watergate.”
“Oh,” I replied. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t done any of that either.”
Peters favored me with the first genuine grin I could remember, the ear-to-ear variety. We got in the car and he turned up Fourth Avenue, the opposite direction from the Public Safety Building.
“Just where in the hell are we going?” I asked.
“Kirkland. I’ve got some equipment at the house we’ll need to use.”
“I take it this is going to be an illegal wiretap as opposed to the court-ordered variety?”
“You catch on fast, Beaumont.”
“And you know how to work this illegal equipment?” I asked.
Peters’ response was prefaced by a wry face. “How do you think I got the goods on my own wife’s missionary?”
“And where do you propose to install this device?”
“I think I can make it fit right under the pulpit itself.”
“How long is the tape?”
“Long enough. It’s sound activated, so if nothing’s going on, it shuts off. It’ll get us just what we want.” Peters’ face was a picture of self-satisfaction.
It sounded like Peters knew what he was doing, but I decided to do a reality exercise, play devil’s advocate. “Of course you realize that nothing we get will be admissible in a court of law?”
“Absolutely,” he responded, “but it may tell us where to go looking for solid information.”
“As in where the bodies are buried.” That’s what I said aloud. I was thinking about Angel Barstogi and a man left dead in a Hammond, Indiana, alley. It seemed to me that God wouldn’t frown on our using a little ingenuity to even the score. God helps those who help themselves. Besides, there was a certain perverse justice in the idea of dredging the truth out of Pastor Michael Brodie’s very own sermon. Somehow that seemed fair.
