Neither detective had much time to think about it as the muffled sounds of Christian Contemporary kicked off somewhere beyond the far wall.
“Follow the music. That’s what Mick said.”
So, follow they did, through the vestibule, under an ostentatious blue and gold sign that read “WELCOME ALL”, and into the worship hall. The space rivaled most venues on the Vegas Strip. Its amphitheater footprint and angled pews were covered in purple velvet and custom-embroidered cushions. The rest of the room was finished wood, acoustic panels, and brilliantly shaped stained glass.
There was no pulpit. The minister walked the room during his sermons, wearing a wireless headset so both hands were kept free to manipulate his Good News Bible. This left the bulk of the sanctuary empty for the church’s award-winning praise team, also known as We’re All Lazarus.
It was a five-piece group: guitar, bass, drums, keyboard, and singer, or more accurately: a teacher, a general contractor, an electrician, a network administrator, and a hospice caregiver. They were all trained musicians, each of whom had taken a shot at the music business in some way. Different sets of circumstances individually took them off stage, but their love of the Lord collectively put them back on.
Lynch and Gomez entered the room during the bridge of a song called “No Cross, No Crown.” It was right in the meat of the singer’s range, and she belted it out to the angels’ applause.
Mick was behind the sound board directly to the detectives’ right. He looked up from his sliders and dials when he saw the light from the opened door.
Lynch recognized him instantly as the bastard with the tambourine.
This is the bunch that set up at the protest.
He beckoned the detectives closer and hollered to Gomez over the song.
“The tune is almost done. Is it okay if they finish!?”
“By all means! Hey man, she’s good!”
Mick smiled ear to ear.
“That’s why I married her!”
The song ended on a stinger that held in the air until the acoustics allowed it to die. Mick spoke into a gooseneck mounted microphone.
“Sweetheart, the police are here.”
Gomez and Lynch made their presence known with a silly little wave, as the musicians de-instrumented themselves. Everyone gravitated to the front pews, except Mick who stayed behind the board to mark levels.
It was Bill the guitar player who spoke first.
“If this is about Sunday at City Hall…”
Gomez replied.
“No. Not at all. Man! You were shredding up there! Nice! What’s that you were playing on, a PRS?”
“Wow, yes, it is. I hope it sounds good. It cost enough.”
“That’s Carlos Santana’s axe. Isn’t it?”
“Wow again…yes.”
It was Gomez’s way. He fancied himself the Puerto Rican Columbo. If he had a zinger in his pocket, he’d save it for his way out the door.
“We’re following up on the shooting at the Ellisport Battle of the Bands. Did you see any of it?”
They all stared back with vacant expressions. They were clearly puzzled by the question. PJ, the bass player, cleared his throat.
“We were on stage when it happened. We didn’t even know anything went down until after the set.”
They all started to speak at the same time, but Gomez prevailed.
“Hold on everyone. The upshot is you guys saw nothing.”
They all nodded and shrugged. Gomez took a thoughtful pause as he stared down each musician individually.
“Fair enough, amigos. Sorry to interrupt…”
Both detectives turned to leave. Lynch counted down to himself in anticipation of his partner’s next move.
Columbo in 3…2…1
With a thoughtful hand in the air, Gomez did an about face and delivered his exit statement.
“…because the kid’s gun was used to kill Bishop Ryan, and we’re shaky on how it made its way from the bottom of the Schuylkill River to the Potterford Marriott.”
All five musicians responded with looks of confusion and alarm, although in the silence, Lynch was sure he heard one of them whisper “good” under his or her breath. Patty, the singer, spoke.
“I’m not sure what to tell you.”
Gomez scrutinized the room one last time, stroked an invisible beard, tipped an invisible hat, and pivoted towards the back of the room. Lynch followed.
“Good one, Ernie.”
“We’ll talk.”
“About what?”
“I don’t think they’re lying. If they are, it wasn’t agreed upon. When I asked them about the shooting, they looked at me, not each other. There’s also no ringleader.”
Lynch reached for the door but was halted by the voice of Sound Man Mick.
“You’ll want to talk to Brother Devlin.”
Irritated that his exit had been ruined, Gomez replied.
“Who’s Brother Devlin?”
“You don’t know? He’s the big guy, the minister here.”
“Why do we want to talk to him?”
Mick’s expression ebbed, as if he was disclosing something that wasn’t his business.
“He knew Eddie Williams”
This was interesting. Eddie Williams was the boy who shot the Ellisport fence.
“Knew him, how?”
“They developed a relationship after the incident.”
The detectives’ nonverbal, yet telling, reactions caused Mick to backpedal quickly.
“No, no, no, goodness, no. Not like that. He took Eddie under his wing, tried to help him. Brother Devlin can give you the whole story. I don’t know it.”
“Fair enough. Do you know why he took such an interest?”
Mick went back to his notes. He was obviously trying to dive out of the conversation.
“I think he felt responsible.”
“For the shooting?”
“Yes, and for Eddie’s death.”
“Did he sell the kid the meth? Did he give the kid the gun?”
“Of course not, but you know the kid pulled the trigger when the back door to Fellowship opened suddenly, right? Well …”
“Brother Devlin was the one who opened the door?”
Mick nodded.
“His office
