Silverman couldn’t go into the exact details of the case — how the witness, Randall Pease, a minder for drug dealer Tommy Doyle, had seen his boss put a bullet into the brain of a rival. Despite Doyle’s reputation for ruthlessly murdering anyone who was a threat to him, Pease agreed to testify for a reduced sentence on assault, drug and gun charges. The state prosecutor shipped Pease off to Silverman’s jurisdiction, a hundred miles from Hamilton, to keep him safe; rumor was that Doyle would do anything, pay any money, to kill his former underling — since Pease’s testimony could get him the death penalty or put him away for life. Silverman had stashed the witness in a safe house near the Sheriff’s Department and put a round-the-clock guard on him. The detective gave the reverend a generic description of what had happened, not mentioning names, and then said, “But there’s been a setback. We had a CI — a confidential informant—”
“That’s a snitch, right?”
Silverman laughed.
“I learned that from
“Works for me…. Anyway, the informant got solid information that a professional killer’s been hired to murder our witness before the trial next week.”
“A hit man?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, my.” The reverend frowned as he touched his neck and rubbed it near the stiff white clerical collar, where it seemed to chafe.
“But the bad guys made the snitch — found out about him, I mean — and had him killed before he could give us the details about who the hit man is and how he planned to kill my witness.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the reverend said sympathetically. “I’ll say a prayer for the man.”
Silverman grunted anemic thanks but his true thoughts were that the scurvy little snitch deserved an express-lane ride to hell — not only for being a loser punk addict, but for dying before he could give the detective the particulars about the potential hit on Pease. Detective Mike Silverman didn’t share with the minister that he himself had been in trouble lately in the Sheriff’s Department and had been shipped off to Siberia — witness protection — because he hadn’t closed any major cases in a while. He needed to make sure this assignment went smoothly, and he absolutely could not let Pease get killed.
The detective continued, “Here’s where you come in — I hope. When the informant was stabbed, he didn’t die right away. He managed to write a note — about a Bible passage. We think it was a clue as to how the hit man was going to kill our witness. But it’s like a puzzle. We can’t figure it out.”
The reverend seemed intrigued. “Something from the New Testament, you said?”
“Yep,” Silverman said. He opened his notebook. “The note said, ‘He’s on his way. Look out.’ Then he wrote a chapter and verse from the Bible. We think he was going to write something else but he didn’t get a chance. He was Catholic so we figure he knew the bible pretty well — and knew something in particular in that passage that’d tell us how the hit man’s going to come after our witness.”
The reverend turned around and looked for a Bible on his shelf. Finally he located one and flipped it open. “What verse?”
“Luke, twelve, fifteen.”
The minister found the passage and read. “‘Then to the people he said, ‘Beware! Be on your guard against greed of every kind, for even when someone has more than enough, his possessions do not give him life.’”
“My partner brought a Bible from home. He’s Christian, but he’s not real religious, not a Bible-thumper…. Oh, hey, no offense.”
“None taken. We’re Presbyterians. We don’t thump.”
Silverman smiled. “He didn’t have any idea of what that might mean. I got to thinking about your church — it’s the closest one to the station house — so I thought I’d stop by and see if you can help us out. Is there anything in there you can see that’d suggest how the defendant might try to kill our witness?”
The reverend read some more from the tissue-thin pages. “This section is in one of the Gospels — where different disciples tell the story of Jesus. In chapter twelve of Luke, Jesus is warning the people about the Pharisees, urging them not to live a sinful life.”
“Who were they exactly, the Pharisees?”
“They were a religious sect. In essence they believed that God existed to serve them, not the other way around. They felt they were better than everyone else and put people down. Well, that was the story back then — you never know, of course, if it’s accurate. People did just as much political spinning then as they do now.” Reverend Lansing tried to turn on the desk lamp but it didn’t work. He fiddled with the curtains, finally opening them and letting more light into the murky office. He read the passage several times more, squinting in concentration, nodding. Silverman looked around the dim place. Books mostly. It seemed more like a professor’s study than a church office. No pictures or anything else personal. You’d think even a minister would have pictures of family on his desk or walls.
Finally the man looked up. “So far, nothing really jumps out at me.” He seemed frustrated.
Silverman felt the same way. Ever since the CI had been found stabbed to death that morning, the detective had been wrestling with the words from the gospel according to Luke, trying to decipher the meaning.
Reverend Lansing continued, “But I have to say, I’m fascinated with the idea. It’s just like
“No.”
“It was great fun. All about secret codes and hidden messages. Say, if it’s okay with you, Detective, I’d like to spend some time researching, doing some thinking about this. I love puzzles.”
“I’d appreciate it, Reverend.”
“I’ll do what I can. You have that man under pretty good guard, I assume?”
“Oh, you bet, but it’ll be risky getting him to court. We’ve got to figure out how the hit man’s going to come at him.”
“And the sooner the better, I assume.”
“Yessir.”
“I’ll get right to it.”
Grateful for the man’s willingness to help, but discouraged he had no quick answers, Silverman walked out through the silent, deserted church. He climbed into his car and drove to the safe house, checked on Ray Pease. The witness was his typical obnoxious self, complaining constantly, but the officer babysitting him reported that there’d been no sign of any threats around the safe house. The detective then returned to the department.
In his office Silverman made a few calls to see if any of his other CIs had heard about the hired killer; they hadn’t. His eyes kept returning to the passage, taped up on the wall in front of his desk.
A voice startled him. “Wanta get some lunch?”
He looked up to find his partner, Steve Noveski, standing in the doorway. The junior detective, with a pleasant, round baby face, was staring obviously at his watch.
Silverman, still lost in the mysterious Bible passage, just stared at him.
“Lunch, dude,” Noveski repeated. “I’m starving.”
“Naw, I’ve gotta get this figured out.” He tapped the Bible. “I’m kind of obsessed with it.”
“Like, you think?” the other detective said, packing as much sarcasm into his voice as would fit.
That night Silverman returned home and sat distractedly through dinner with his family. His widower father had joined them, and the old man wasn’t pleased that his son was so preoccupied.
“And what’s that you’re reading that’s so important? The New Testament?” The man nodded toward the Bible he’d seen his son poring over before dinner. He shook his head and turned to his daughter-in-law. “The boy hasn’t been to temple in years and he couldn’t find the Pentateuch his mother and I gave him if his life depended on it. Now look, he’s reading about Jesus Christ. What a son.”
“It’s for a case, Dad,” Silverman said. “Listen, I’ve got some work to do. I’ll see you guys later. Sorry.”
“See you later sorry?” the man muttered. “And you say ‘you guys’ to your wife? Don’t you have any respect
