A cocky smile slides across his lips when it dawns on him; his theory was right.
“We’ve been heading down the wrong tracks. You see it too, don’t you?”
“Son of a bitch! I knew I was right!” He tosses the picture on the desk.
“Okay, pipe down. We still got to solve the case, Mr. Holmes.”
“Of course, my dear Watson.” He mimics a British accent.
“With wit like that, you’re in danger of fitting in around here.”
“What about the guy in interrogation?”
“I’ll get rid of him. In the meantime, you get me a list of all known radical Christian right-wing groups in the Tampa area.”
“I’m on it.”
Entering the interrogation room, there is an average built black man who is wearing gym shorts and a tank top, glowers at me with a burning disgust in his eyes. “I’m gonna tell yall fuckers something right now! I wanna speak to my lawyer this is some straight-up bullshit,” he says, tautly.
“Mr. Cordell, You’re not going to need one. You’re free to go.” I turn and head back to my desk.
He storms out of the interview room, clenching his fists. “That’s it! Yall fuckers yank me out of a dead fucking sleep, scare the hell out of me, and that’s it; all the sudden, I’m free to go. Watch, I’m gonna sue all you up in here for wrongful arrest.”
I stand up and rest my arms on the frame of the cubical. “Hey, genius. Were you charged with anything?”
He squints. “What the hell does that matter? Yall motherfuckers put me in handcuffs for no reason!”
“Well, we have to charge you with something for it be a wrongful arrest, genius. Now before you hurt yourself, why don’t you run along home we got work to do.”
He shoves the door open, mumbling insults under his breath on the way out.
People don’t think anymore. They just let the shit fly from their mouths like verbal diarrhea. I blame reality TV for dumbing down the masses. Social media is only making shit worse with all its false news articles, and fake outrage blogs along with the internet making stupid people famous.
While waiting for my partner to return with the names, I check my text messages.
No messages except from Greg.
I had a great time last night. Can’t wait to get you in the sack again. *heart emoji*
I guess you’ll just have to suffer till I get some free time.*winking emoji*
Damn, that kid has a constant hard-on, not that I’m complaining. I sense someone’s eyes on me and catch Jason smirking at me. “How long have you been standing there?”
He crosses his arms, letting out a brief laugh. “Long enough to see you fawning over whoever it is your texting. Why don’t you just stop the charade and tell that kid you want to be more than an FWB.”
I place the phone on the desk and sigh. “What’d you find?”
“I could only find two radical sects here local: Armor of God and The Holy Army. The Armor of God group has no set location; they’re a mobile congregation. They like to protest gay bars and rock concerts and Pagan festivals. The Holy Army group has a set location. It’s at a nearby church on East Twigs street.”
“Excellent work, Jason. Let’s go to church.” I grab my coat and cigarettes from my desk, and we leave the station.
***
I glance over at Jason. “You ever questioned a religious zealot before?”
“No.”
I put the car into gear and drive out of the parking garage. “Okay, listen up. Stick to the topic at hand. Don’t get caught up in their attempt to get you to see things there way. And for the love of God, do not tell them you’re a Muslim. We’ll never get any questions answered because they’ll be too wrapped up in trying to convert you.”
“And, what if they are persistent on spreading the ‘Good Word?”
“Then you be more persistent in keeping the conversation on the case. If they change the subject, you change the subject right back to the case. Fire and maneuver, got it?”
He replies with a thumbs-up. “Got it.”
“Good. Then hopefully, this won’t give me a migraine.”
Last religious nuts I’ve dealt with, ended in a bloodbath. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself, and I end up with another partner dead in my arms.
I stop the car next to the spider-cracked sidewalk and stroll up to the tall, stout, dark wood doors of the cathedral and open them. The church has long rows of benches and stained glass windows with the artwork of various Catholic Saints. A podium on a stage with a towering statue of Jesus himself looming over the podium. Last time I went to Mass, was just before I shipped out to the Army. I was 18 years old. Growing up around my strict Catholic mother soured the whole organized religion thing for me. Besides, a joint and a glass of scotch does about the same trick as religion for me. Both are coping mechanisms to deal with such a shitty world. I prefer not hearing all the guilt laced shit I heard as a kid.
A medium height priest with short black hair and tanned skin greets us in the middle of the church. “Can I help you folks?” he says, with a southern drawl.
I flash my badge. “Detective Lobos and Detective Sadir. You mind if we ask you a few questions, father?”
He smiles and nods. “Sure. Anything to help out Tampa’s finest. Mind if we sit? By the way, I’m Father Boyd.”
They always say that till they find out there is something that incriminates them, and then their vocabulary limits to call my lawyer.
Jason sits next to him, and I sit on the bench in front of him, turning my body around. “I assume you’re familiar
