Deception (20 page)

Today December begins. Thanksgiving’s behind us, Christmas ahead.

For many people the holidays are lonely. For those whose loved ones have been killed, the loneliness is magnified. I know that firsthand.

Every day I have an unusual opportunity—to observe the investigation of the murder of Professor William Palatine. Detective Ollie Chandler tells me I still can’t divulge many specifics since they could compromise the investigation. Some of what’s already been uncovered is fascinating. Soon I’ll be able to tell you more. It’ll be worth your wait.

Meanwhile, let me tell you what I’ve learned. First, investigative journalists and police detectives have a lot in common. It’s their job to suspect people. And to catch those who’ve done wrong. We are, at our best, seekers of the truth.

Detective Chandler’s motto is, “Examine the evidence. Then follow it wherever it leads.” He takes nothing for granted. He looks at crumbs on a carpet that seem insignificant. He assumes the opposite. Until proven irrelevant, he treats everything as vital.

Detective Chandler knows that sometimes the evidence takes you where you don’t want to go. He told me of a homicide detective who followed evidence that led to the conviction of the detective’s little sister, now in her thirties. You can’t let your preferences or wishful thinking blind you to the truth, Chandler says.

Since I can’t yet release case details, today I want to relate this “follow the evidence” thread to Friday’s CBS special, “Investigating the Life and Death of Jesus.” Christmas and Easter season are the two times columnists are allowed to raise questions related to the Christian faith. You’ve read thoughts from
Tribune
writers who are Muslims and Jews. This reflects part of our commitment to multiculturalism and religious tolerance. In light of this, I’m sure readers will be tolerant of this column, even if they disagree with my conclusions.

Here’s my thought: Each of us is called to act as a homicide detective to answer the question “Who killed Jesus and why?” There was a murder and a corpse—for three days anyway. Since the apostles died for believing Christ rose from the grave, it raises the question: Would they have died for what they knew to be false when they could save their lives simply by telling the truth? Would that make any sense at all?

Jesus said, “The truth will set you free.” He also said, “I am the way, the truth and the life; no man comes to the Father but by me.” Not a popular statement. One that helped get Him crucified. But then, Jesus wasn’t a popularity-seeker. He was a truth-teller.

The homicide detective has much to teach us. Follow the truth wherever it leads you. Even if you don’t like where it leads.

If the evidence suggests that Jesus wasn’t who He claimed to be and that He didn’t rise from the grave, then we should have the courage to follow the evidence, even if it means walking away from our churches.

On the other hand, it may lead to something even more radical. Perhaps you’ll have to abandon your skepticism and accept the claims of Jesus. And—dare I say it—maybe you’ll need to give church a chance.

In the wake of Thanksgiving, you may be wondering who you should be thanking and why. Think of Thanksgiving as a signpost pointing to Christmas, and you’ll find the answer.

In the four weeks of this Christmas season, as we ponder the person whose birth splits history into BC and AD, let’s examine the intriguing evidence concerning Jesus Christ—his birth, life, death, resurrection, and ascension. If we take the time to carefully examine the evidence, then—and only then—we can “follow it wherever it leads.”

I put the paper down. My name was mentioned. My motto was the theme. Nothing bad was said about me. Shouldn’t I feel flattered?

So why was that knot in my stomach?

Sunday afternoon Jake Woods invited me to go shooting with him in the Mount Hood forest near Zigzag, a fifty-minute drive from Portland. I felt like shooting something—anything that I could pretend was a professor who’d exploited girls.

I sat by Jake in his black Chevy Tahoe, which has approximately enough room for a rugby team.

I figured Jake would ambush me with something spiritual. So far it was just small talk: sports, weather, work, and guns. It was only a matter of time before he’d bring up Clarence’s column.

Tired of waiting, I beat him to it. “Clarence thinks we should all take a closer look at Christianity. Okay, if this God of yours is really good and He’s really in control, why does all this bad stuff happen? Murders and rapes and starvation and professors taking advantage of girls and child abuse in churches and all that?”

“That’s the oldest and most common argument people use for not believing in God.”

“You admit it?”

“I don’t think it’s a valid argument, but it’s certainly understandable.”

“How do you answer it?”

“Well, first I’d say it’s God who gave us a moral compass. It’s that sense of justice He put in you that causes you to raise this question in the first place.”

“You’re giving Him credit for my doubts?”

“In a way, yeah. God isn’t afraid of us and our questions any more than a lion’s afraid of a gerbil. Read the Bible—it raises the problem of evil again and again. You haven’t come up with something new, Ollie. Prophets and psalmists ask why good people suffer and why evil people appear to get away with their crimes. Take Psalm 10. It starts off by asking, ‘Why, O L
ORD
, do you stand far off? Why do you hide yourself in times of trouble?’ Then it talks about the evil man and how he prospers and imagines he’s going to get away with it. But he won’t.”

Jake pointed to his glove box. “Grab the Bible in there and turn to Psalm 10. I want you to read a few verses.”

I took it out. He told me to open to the middle, and sure enough I was in the Psalms. I found Psalm 10, and he told me to jump in and read a particular verse.

“ ‘His mouth is full of curses and lies and threats; trouble and evil are under his tongue.’ I’ve seen plenty of that,” I said. “Next it says, ‘He lies in wait near the villages; from ambush he murders the innocent, watching in secret for his victims.’ Whoa. This guy’s a killer.”

“You’d be surprised what’s in that book,” Jake said. “Keep reading.”

“ ‘He lies in wait like a lion in cover; he lies in wait to catch the helpless; he catches the helpless and drags them off in his net. His victims are crushed, they collapse; they fall under his strength. He says to himself, “God has forgotten; he covers his face and never sees.” ’

“Yeah, exactly,” I said. “That’s what bugs me. God doesn’t seem to be paying attention to what’s going on down here.”

“Keep reading.”

“ ‘Arise, L
ORD!
Lift up your hand, O God. Do not forget the helpless. Why does the wicked man revile God? Why does he say to himself, “He won’t call me to account”?’ ”

I put Jake’s Bible down on the floor, still open. It’s a little creepy to have a Bible on your lap.

“People appear to get away with evil for a while,” Jake said. “But one day it’ll be different.”

“What day would that be?”

“When they die and face God. And when Christ returns to set up His kingdom. When the final judgment comes.”

“If there’s a God, why doesn’t He just bring that final judgment now?”

“Is that really what you want? God says He holds off judgment because He’s merciful to us. He gives us time to repent. Are you ready to face judgment?”

I picked up the Bible and read again. “ ‘But you, O God, do see trouble and grief; you consider it to take it in hand. The victim commits himself to you; you are the helper of the fatherless. Break the arm of the wicked and evil man; call him to account for his wickedness that would not be found out.’ Wow, it actually says ‘break his arm.’ Now we’re talking.”

We turned left onto the old dirt road headed to our firing range. It was suddenly bumpy.

“There’s one last verse, isn’t there?” Jake asked. “Read it.”

“It’s bumpy,” I said.

“Don’t be a wimp.”

“ ‘The LORD is King for ever and ever; the nations will perish from his land. You hear, O LORD, the desire of the afflicted; you encourage them, and you listen to their cry, defending the fatherless and the oppressed, in order that man, who is of the earth, may terrify no more.’ ”

“Did you catch that?” Jake asked as I closed the Bible and put it back in the glove box, where it couldn’t bite me. “God’s saying He’s going to make it all right one day. I heard Clarence’s daddy say once, ‘God doesn’t settle all His accounts in October.’ The judgment is coming—and if you’re eager to see it come, you’d better remember that once it comes, it’ll be final.”

“I’m not going to sit on my hands waiting for God’s justice to come.”

“Who said anything about sitting on our hands? We’re supposed to do what we can to bring justice now. But God’s the ultimate judge. Justice doesn’t always come here and now, but God promises it’ll come there and then.”

“There’s a cop saying that goes, ‘There’s no
justice
. There’s
just us.’
If we don’t make things right, they won’t be right. Get it? There’s just us.”

Jake pulled over by a fallen tree. He turned to me.

“I get it, but you’re dead wrong. There’s not just us. There’s God.”

“You really think God’s doing His part?”

“Not as fast as you’d like or in the same way maybe, but, yes, I do. Absolutely. Would you be willing to wait an hour or a day or a week for a criminal to come to justice? Well, if God’s willing to wait fifty years, your wait to you may be longer than God’s wait to Him.”

We stepped out of the Tahoe.

“What am I supposed to do, turn and look the other way while people are murdered? Pretend it’s all right?”

“Of course it’s not all right,” Jake said, as we pulled out our guns. “The question is whether it’s God’s fault or ours.”

“That’s a lot of blame to lay on people.”

“So you blame God instead? Brings us right back to where we started. Where do you get your sense of justice that makes you believe crime and suffering are so wrong?”

“I guess I was born with it.”

We took out a dozen pop cans and placed them on stumps and low limbs.

As we loaded, Jake said, “You were born with a sense of justice? Well, then it didn’t come from you, did it? It came from the One who made you. You believe evil is wrong because God knows it’s wrong and made you to know it too. Ironic, isn’t it?”

I lined up the first shot, calling the Mountain Dew can seventy feet away. I squeezed gently.
Boom
. I saw bark fly off a tree ten feet behind. I was two inches high and to the right.

“What’s ironic?” I asked.

“You’re using standards of justice that could only come from God in order to argue that there is no God.”

Jake eyed the same target, then squeezed the trigger gently. The can went flying.

On our way home, after two hours serial-killing pop cans, the CTU headquarters phone rang, and since
24
wasn’t on I checked my cell. Incoming call from Criminalist Detail.

“It’s Phil Oref. You know Bates was assigned to process prints on the gun ballistics ID’d as the murder weapon? I volunteered to take it off his hands. Went ahead and ran the prints.”

“No kidding? What’d you find?”

“Two index fingerprints. From angle and placement on the gun, I’m guessing they’re both the left index finger.”

“You ran the prints?”

“Naturally.”

“Any match?”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“The fingerprints on the gun belong to a Portland cop.”

“Which one?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Detective Noel Barrows.”

16

“It’s every man’s business to see justice done.”

S
HERLOCK
H
OLMES
,
T
HE
C
ROOKED
M
AN

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
2, 7:00
A.M
.

I’D HAD A ROUGH
time sleeping Sunday night. As I sat at my homicide desk, floating above the Portland gray, my usually iron stomach felt like I was deep-sea fishing in a typhoon. I was dreading two confrontations: first with Noel Barrows, accusing of him of murder; second, having dinner with Kendra.

Why did Kendra terrify me more than Noel? Part of me desperately wanted to see her. Part of me didn’t—the same part that in Nam didn’t relish walking through a field of claymore mines.

As for Noel, how would I approach him? And what would I tell his partner, Jack, my old friend, who’s like a father to him?

Sometimes when your theory is confirmed, it makes you go back and question your theory. Noel Barrows? I’m not saying Noel’s a Boy Scout but.
murder?
Not only Palatine, but Frederick?

When I’m worried, I putter. I pulled open my file drawer and looked at the murder mystery I started writing four years ago,
The Bacon and Cheese Murders
. It isn’t Ross Macdonald. It isn’t even Ronald McDonald. But at least I wrote it myself, as declared by the header with my name on every one of its 280 pages. Maybe eventually I’d finish it. Meanwhile, I have my real life murder mystery to solve.

I’d asked Manny and Clarence to meet me at 8:00 a.m. in the Justice Center. We claimed a small conference room. Manny and Clarence chose opposite corners of the ring, me in the referee position.

I told them about Noel’s prints on the gun.

“You’re saying Barrows killed Palatine?” Clarence asked.

“I’m withholding judgment.”

“Let me get this straight,” Manny said. “First, without any clear evidence, you conclude it’s a homicide detective. Now, when you actually have hard evidence, you’re backing off? His fingerprints are on a gun I found in a Dumpster two blocks from the murder, which ballistics says was the murder weapon?”

“I’m just keeping an open mind. I’ll grant you Noel’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer. As Cimma would say, he’s no brainiac. But is he stupid enough to dump the gun in a nearby Dumpster?”

“What now?” Clarence asked. “Do you arrest Noel?”

“No. I want to squeeze out anything I can before he hears what we’ve got and gets his defenses up.”

“You’re still considering other suspects?” Clarence asked.

“I learned years ago never to decide a case is over until I’m certain of holes in alibis and solid grounds for arrest and conviction. We’re not there yet.”

“Did you check out those half dozen phone numbers written in the backs of the professor’s books?” Clarence asked.

I shook my head. More important things on my mind. “I’ve got a job for Carp. Think she’d do it?”

“Maybe, if she’d get a photo exclusive if something comes of it.”

“You journalists always have an angle.”

“Yeah … and you detectives don’t?”

An hour later, Noel entered homicide. I poured him coffee and we chatted.

“Heard you had a golf tournament this weekend.” You know when you’ve pushed a man’s passion button. He went on for five minutes about what a great tournament it was and how he shaved four strokes off last year and finished in the top ten.

“How’s your investigation going?” Noel asked.

I shrugged. “The usual. Panning for gold. You’ve looked at the reports, haven’t you?”

“A little. Pretty busy with our own cases.”

“The professor was arrogant, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Noel said, grinning. “A phone message quoting the philosopher of the week? Gimme a break.”

I leaned against the wall. “Hey, remember when you came to the professor’s house the day after the murder? When you pointed to the pictures on the mantel and noticed something was wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that missing picture idea was really helpful. What exactly was it you kept saying? Was it ‘something’s funny’?”

“Something’s fishy.”

“Yeah. Something’s fishy.” I slapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks again, Noel.”

“Okay … you’re welcome.”

I walked back to my workstation, where I reached in my pocket and turned off the recorder.

“I need you to run a voice analysis,” I said to Criminalist Mike Bates, handing him an envelope marked “Voice Needing Identification,” 911 recording inside. “But this time I want results pronto.”

“You have to give me a voice to compare it to. That’s how the sound spectro-graph works.”

I handed him a second envelope marked “Suspect’s Voice.”

“Preferably using some of the same words.”

“Done,” I said.

“Whose voice is the one I’m comparing?”

“I’d rather not say. Just tell me if it’s a match.”

“I can tell you if it’s a positive or probable identification, or if it’s a positive or probable elimination. But we’re really backed up.”

“You’re
always
backed up. It’s important.”

“It’s
always
important.”

“Look, I waited a week for prints on that Taurus 9 mil before Phil got me results. I can’t wait a week for this. I need it tomorrow.”

After a drive in pounding rain, Clarence and I ran through the parking lot at Lou’s. We hung his overcoat and my trench coat and fedora to drip dry beside our booth, next to the jukebox. I put in a quarter and pressed “I Get Around,” “Eve of Destruction,” and “A World Without Love.” Clarence put in his own quarter and made his selections more carefully.

Jake arrived two minutes after Clarence and I were both seated. “Weren’t we just here a few days ago?” he asked. “I love you guys and I love Lou’s, but this is going to stretch my waistline.”

Rory walked eagerly to our table. “Welcome to my friends. Mr. Ollie, you return tonight? Dinner with your daughter?”

“Yeah. Eight o’clock. You’ll have vegetables, right?”

“Many vegetables. Abundant lettuce. And fine pastas, without meat.”

My body was at that booth, but my mind was on Noel.

“So, guys, did we do our reading?” Jake referred to
Mere Christianity
, a book by C. S. Lewis that he’s been trying to get me to read for years. He’d assigned a portion to read, but I don’t take well to assignments.

“Been a little busy,” I said. “Solving murders and all that.”

“Mere Christianity’s
opened my eyes.”

“So you’ve said … again and again.”

“You could shut me up by reading it.”

“If I thought it would work, I’d do it.”

“You read detective novels. It’s shorter than most of them.”

“But there’s a big difference,” I said. “I
want
to read those novels. I’m a believer in free choice. The right to read what I want.”

“Glad to hear you believe in free choice. I hope that means you’re no longer blaming God for giving it to us.”

“You’re becoming a nag, Jake.”

“Can’t friends try to influence each other when they think it’s in their best interests?”

“Say what you want, I’m not reading that book.”

“Why? Afraid it might make sense? As a detective, I’d think you’d want to examine the evidence. Didn’t you read Clarence’s article?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, looking at Abernathy. “Quoting me to encourage people to investigate Jesus? You weren’t trying to send me a message, were you?”

“No different than the message I’ve been trying to send you for years.”

“Hey, I’ve read books. I read
The Da Vinci Code.”

They both laughed.

“I know you didn’t like it, but why laugh?”

“Because,” Clarence said, “it’s full of historical errors and false claims that any junior high kid could refute after spending twenty minutes checking facts on Google.”

“Heard of G. K. Chesterton?” Jake asked. “He said that when people stop believing in God, they’ll believe in anything.”

“Heard of W. C. Fields?” I asked. “He said, ‘Everyone must believe in something; I believe I’ll have another beer.’ ”

“Chesterton’s point was that when you reject the truth, you become gullible. You lose your common sense. Somebody writes a book like
The Da Vinci Code
, and since people don’t know history or the Bible and haven’t bothered to investigate the facts, they end up believing stuff that’s so ridiculous it’s embarrassing.”

“You guys think you know it all.” I pushed back my empty cup.

“I’m well aware of how little I know,” Jake said. “That’s why I choose to trust what God has said in the Bible rather than trust myself.”

“Does it occur to you how judgmental it is to think you’re going to heaven and other people are going to hell?”

“I’m just telling you what Jesus said. He talked about hell more than anyone else, and I think He knew what He was talking about. He doesn’t want us to go there. He died and rose so we wouldn’t have to go there.”

Soon we were munching on cheeseburgers. Clarence’s selections were playing, including Chuck Berry wailing, “No Particular Place to Go.”

“Okay, guys, this time I’ve got something for you to read.” I pulled it out of my coat pocket. “It’s by Bertrand Russell. It’s called
Why I Am Not a Christian.”

“You got that from the professor’s,” Clarence said, like I’d firebombed a church.

“I’m borrowing it,” I said. “The professor won’t be needing it.”

“I’m afraid by now he realizes the flaws in that book,” Jake said.

“It’s just one essay by that title,” I said, holding it up. “But there’s lots of stuff in the other essays you wouldn’t like either. So here’s my deal. You read this; then I’ll read your
Mere Christianity.”

“Great,” Jake said. “I’ll pick up copies for me and Clarence; then we can all discuss it.” Clarence nodded. Jake reached his right hand across the table and shook mine. “After we’re done, you’ll read
Mere Christianity
and we’ll talk about it. It’s a deal.”

“You’re really going to read this?” My voice cracked, like a fifteen-year-old’s.

“I look forward to it.”

“But it’s not.”

“Not what?”

“Not … Christian.”

“No kidding?” Jake said. “A book called
Why I Am Not a Christian
that’s not Christian? Man, I feel blindsided. You should have warned me.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to read it.”

“This book doesn’t scare me a bit. The Bible always holds up to attacks. Besides, I promised to read it. And if a man’s word and his handshake can’t be depended on, well …”

“Speaking of the Bible,” I said around a mouthful of burger, looking at Clarence, “remember that confession on the professor’s computer screen said something about millstones? You said it was from Jesus.”

“But you decided Palatine didn’t write it,” Clarence said.

“He was dying or dead when it was typed. But here’s my point: Isn’t that the sort of thing
you
guys would say? I mean, you’re always quoting Bible verses.”

“You think we killed the professor?” Jake asked, smiling.

“No, but it seems obvious the killer wrote it. And if he did, that means the killer was a Bible quoter. What do you think about that?”

I liked the bewildered expressions on their faces. I was grinning when I swallowed a large gulp of my blackberry shake. It gave me a brain freeze, but it was worth it.

When Jack Glissan left homicide at 1:40 p.m., I went to Noel Barrows’s workstation and said, “We need to talk—now.” I escorted Noel into the conference room, where Manny and Clarence were already waiting in uncomfortable silence.

“Hi, guys,” Noel said. “What’s up?”

I started on the Seahawks and Rams. He said he was pumped about the big Hurricanes and Gators matchup next Saturday.

I groped for more small talk. “I saw you coming out of the Starbucks by Pioneer Square Saturday morning, didn’t I? I was at Lou’s Diner. Must have been heading off for your tournament, huh?”

He shrugged. “Are you accusing me of something?”

“Why would I accuse you? It’s not a crime to go to Starbucks.”

“Why am I here?”

“Okay,” I said. “There’s no easy way to ask this. Where were you between ten thirty and midnight Wednesday, November 20?”

He studied my face, then Manny’s and Clarence’s. “Is this a joke? Did Jack put you up to this?”

“It’s no joke. Where were you?”

“That was like … two weeks ago.”

“Twelve days.”

“Night before Thanksgiving?”

“Seven nights before.”

He looked down and started mumbling and moving his fingers, apparently trying to sort out what he’d done the last twelve days and what fell on what night.

“That Monday night I was at Jack’s for football—same every week. Going over there tonight. Most nights I watch the golf channel pretty late. I guess that Wednesday could have been one of them.”