Until Proven Guilty (13 page)

“Thanks,” I said. “That was good thinking.”

“Where is he now?” Peters asked.

The Volvo stopped across the street. I went back to an officer who was standing near the front door. “Don’t let that yahoo in here,” I said, pointing at Cole, who was just climbing out of the car.

The dining room at the Warwick is small and intimate. At that hour of the morning it was just filling up with tables of visiting businessmen and conventioneers. Andrew Carstogi had been placed at a small corner table. The hostess watched him nervously from her desk. Peters pulled his gun and put it in his jacket pocket. We approached the table warily.

Carstogi looked up and saw us coming toward him. He grinned and waved at us with an empty fork. “Hi, guys,” he said.

“Where have you been?” Peters asked.

Carstogi’s grin faded. “Out. Just got back. They told me there’s a problem with the room and they’re buying me breakfast while they fix it. Good deal.”

“Out to where?” Peters continued.

“What is this?” Carstogi asked. “I went to a movie, and I met a girl. There’s nothing the matter with that.”

“What’s her name?” I put in. “Where did you take her?”

“We went to her place. Jesus, how am I supposed to know where it is? What’s going on? Why all the questions?”

“How did you get back here?”

“I caught a cab.”

“Which one?”

Carstogi stood up. “Okay, I’m not saying another word until you tell me what’s going on.”

People around us were staring. We were creating a disturbance. “Sit,” Peters hissed. We sat.

“We have two brand-new murders,” Peters said. “Two homicides at Faith Tabernacle.”

The color drained from Andrew Carstogi’s face. “Not Suzanne,” he whispered.

I nodded. “Suzanne and Brodie both. Sometime during the night. Now tell us, how’d you get back here from wherever you were.”

Carstogi opened his mouth to say something and then shut it. Two gigantic tears rolled down his face. He brushed them away with his sleeve. “I caught a cab,” he said.

“What kind? Yellow? Graytop?”

“I don’t know. Just a cab. It picked me up at her house. I think it was the same cab as last night, but I’m not sure.” He looked back and forth from one of us to the other. “It’s not true, is it? Tell me it’s not true.”

“It’s true,” I said.

“Do you mind if we go through your room?” Peters asked.

Carstogi shook his head mutely. Peters signaled to an officer who had stationed himself next to the hostess’s desk. “Have the desk clerk let you into his room to check it out,” he instructed. “Let me know if you find anything.” The officer hurried away. Carstogi’s shoulders heaved with noisy sobs. Peters and I watched, saying nothing. Eventually, he regained control.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“No, but as of now I’m afraid you’re the sole suspect.”

“But I never went near the church after we left there yesterday. I wouldn’t know how to get there.”

The officer returned to say that the room was clean. Carstogi looked from one of us to the other. “What’s going to happen?” he asked.

I pushed back my chair. “Let’s go up to your room and get a statement from you. Do you want an attorney present?”

“I don’t need one,” he said. “I didn’t do it.”

I believed him. I just wished that things were always that simple. We led him upstairs and took his statement. Carstogi answered all our questions willingly enough. According to him he had gone to a porno house and had been picked up by a prostitute after the movie.

I don’t think Carstogi really grasped that the only thing between him and a first-degree murder charge was a prostitute whose name was Gloria, most assuredly not the name her mommy gave her. He couldn’t remember her address, and the description he gave us would have fit half the females in the U.S. Average height, kind of light brown hair, lightish eyes, slim. Carstogi’s life was hanging by a slender thread.

We turned off the recorder and stood up to leave. “Are you arresting me?” he asked.

“No, not now, but don’t leave here. Stay in the room and don’t talk to anyone.”

“Okay,” he said. “I just can’t believe she’s dead.”

“Believe it,” Peters said.

We left the room. “We should book him, Beau,” Peters said to me in the hall. “Motive, opportunity. It all adds up. What if he splits?”

“Come on, Peters. We don’t have a shred of solid evidence. Nothing more than the fact that he doesn’t have an alibi for last night. The girl was probably some hooker off Aurora. You know how easy finding her will be.”

“But you intend to look?” Peters regarded me wearily, shaking his head.

“That’s right,” I answered. We rode down in the elevator without saying anything more.

Maxwell Cole was in the lobby, arguing with the officer stationed at the registration desk, his walruslike face twitching with exasperation. “What’s going on, J. P.? This asshole wouldn’t spring with any information.”

“Good,” I said. “Neither will I. Pass the word.”

Peters directed one of the uniformed officers to keep an eye on the seventh floor. He nodded and waved.

Cole blustered out of the lobby after us. “I want to know what’s going on. Two innocent people have been slaughtered in cold blood. You owe the people of Seattle an explanation.”

I turned on him. “I owe the people of Seattle a full day’s work for a full day’s pay. I don’t owe you a fucking thing.” The other cop heard this exchange with a poorly concealed grin. “If he gives you any trouble, lock him up,” I said as I stalked away.

Peters moved his car to a parking meter and plugged it. We had decided to go up to my apartment and see what kind of fish our hidden recorder might have hooked.

I
t was only as we rounded the corner of Lenora onto Third that I remembered Anne was in my apartment. My mind had switched tracks completely, and now I didn’t know what to do. I decided I’d better call her from the lobby and give her some warning of her impending company.

She seemed pleased to hear my voice. “I’m downstairs,” I said. “I’m bringing Peters up with me.”

“Who was that?” Peters asked with a conspiratorial grin as we got on the elevator. “Anybody I know?”

“As a matter of fact, you do know her. It’s Anne, Anne Corley.”

“Why you closemouthed son-of-a-bitch! I got the impression at lunch yesterday that you and she had just met. How long have you been holding out on me?”

The elevator door opened on eight. “Can it!” I snapped as Wanda Jamison got on, coffee cup in hand. She was on her way for a morning coffee klatch with Ida, my next-door neighbor. Wanda and I exchanged idle pleasantries while Peters continued to leer at me over her head.

If I thought Anne would have used the lead time to change out of my robe, I was sadly mistaken. She didn’t. I was glad I waited until Ida’s door was safely closed before I knocked on my own. Anne opened the door and gave Peters a gracious welcome, as though her being there in a state of relative undress were the most natural thing in the world. She was totally at ease, and Peters was getting a real charge out of my discomfort.

Peters made himself some tea while I paced the confines of my tiny kitchen. “What do you suggest we do with her while we listen to the tape?” he asked.

“I give up.” I was long on embarrassment and short on ideas right then. I had told Anne she could stay as long as she liked, but I couldn’t have her in the room while Peters and I listened to our illicit tape.

Peters carried his cup into the living room. He took my chair. I sat on the couch next to a cross-legged Anne. It disturbed me to be next to her. I wanted to touch her, but not in front of Peters. I didn’t want to soften my image—whatever was left of it.

Peters looked at Anne. “Do you mind if we play a tape?”

Anne contemplated Peters with her direct, gray gaze. “Do you want me to leave? I can go in the other room.”

Peters glanced in my direction, then nodded. “I’d appreciate it.”

Obligingly, Anne rose. “I’ll go get dressed then,” she said. Much to my dismay, she leaned over and gave me a familiar peck on the cheek as she went by. The robe fell open, allowing me a fleeting glimpse of flesh and curve.

Once she was out of the room, Peters pointed an accusing finger at me. “You assole,” he said. “If you’d told me yesterday, I never would have tagged along with you to lunch.”

I didn’t feel like explaining that, yesterday at lunch, I hadn’t known either. “Play the tape, Peters,” I said wearily. “Just play the tape.”

He did.

At first there were indistinguishable noises, openings and closings of doors that weren’t followed by sufficient noise to keep the recorder running. Eventually, however, there was a murmur of voices punctuated by coughs and clearings of throats, the sounds of a fitful crowd settling itself. Then Pastor Michael Brodie’s voice, stentorian and clear, filled my tiny living room.

“Brethren, we come together this evening as Believers in the one True Faith, as Partakers of the one True Life. We are the chosen generation, a royal priesthood. Are there any here who doubt that we are the People of God?” There was a pause with no answer. Brodie’s voice was that of a born orator sounding a call to arms.

“We have come to this place as strangers and pilgrims. There are none of us here who did not once walk in lasciviousness and lust. Our Lord did not come to call the righteous. He came to call the sinners, and those of us who have seen and heard are here, Brothers and Sisters. We are here! Praise God.” A chorus of amens echoed on the tape.

“Are we going to have to listen to the whole fucking sermon?” Peters asked.

“Looks that way,” I told him.

“We have spoken many times how, in the early days, the Romans were the law of the land. In Romans 7:4 it says, ‘Wherefore, my brethren, ye also are become dead to the law by the body of Christ.’ Let there be no mistake about it. That means that once we are in Christ, once we have set ourselves firmly on His path, we are dead to the law of the land. We are apart from it. It has nothing to do with us. And when we return to the law of the Romans, the law of the flesh, we turn our backs on The Way, for it is impossible to live in the world of the flesh and the world of the spirit at the same time.

“The scripture goes on to say, ‘For when we were in the flesh, the motions of sins, which were by the law, did work in our members to bring forth fruit unto death. But now we are delivered from the law, that being dead wherein we were held; that we should serve in newness of spirit, and not in the oldness of the letter.’

“Did you hear that, Brothers and Sisters? Did you hear that? It says we are delivered from the law. Delivered! Cut loose! Living under the Roman law shackles us, delivers us to death. It is only by living completely and totally in our newness of spirit that we find Life, Life Everlasting.” Again we heard the echoing amens.

“He’s really tuning up now. Getting into his act.”

“Shut up, Peters. I’m trying to listen.”

“…was in this newness of spirit that we made the leap of faith that brought us here to this city. It took courage for each of us to leave the old ways behind. Each of us left friends and family and possessions. We all made sacrifices to be here, trusting that we had found the True Pathway to Christ. In doing so, each of us has taken a vow to lean not on our own understanding. We have sworn to be subject one to another, to submit ourselves to the elders, to humble ourselves under the mighty hand of God that He may exalt us in due time.

“We have found that there are those who would revile us for mortifying our members, who falsely accuse us of evil when in fact we who suffer for righteousness’ sake are content and unafraid. There is one of our number here tonight who has brought herself to be purged of sin. In her hour of trial she turned from the teaching and cast herself back into the old ways, turning away from the Law of the Spirit to the carnal law. Sister Suzanne, will you rise and stand before the Brethren.”

There was a pause and some audible shuffling in the congregation. “Last night, Sister Suzanne stood before you and confessed her sin, that when Angel, her worldly daughter, was missing, she secretly called the police, bringing the power of the Romans back into our midst.

“We know Jehovah has punished her for this act by taking Angel from her. We know, too, that for breaking her vows she could be Disavowed, cast away from the True Believers in disgrace. Last night she humbled herself before the elders and begged to be allowed to remain. Since yesterday morning at sunrise she has taken no food. She has prostrated herself in prayer at the altar of our Lord, begging His forgiveness, and ours as well.

“Last night, even as she prayed and wept, the elders met to consider her fate. I would like at this time for the elders to come forward.” There was a shuffling noise and then quiet. “…elders stand before you. Brother Benjamin? Sister Suzanne has submitted herself to the elders for punishment. Have you made a decision?”

I remembered Benjamin’s work-hardened muscles. “We have, Pastor Michael.” I remembered his voice. It was Jeremiah’s stepfather.

“And how do you judge?”

“By the stripes she shall be healed.” The people in the room voiced their approval.

“Here it comes,” Peters said.

“If our Lord who was without blemish or blame suffered the scourge for our sakes, then it is only right that we who are sinners should follow in His steps. Sister Suzanne, take comfort in the words given to the apostles who suffered and died in the service of our Lord. ‘Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you. But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings; that, when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad also with exceeding joy.’”

Amens were more fervent now as people were caught up in the spectacle. Even on the tape I could sense their excitement, the shuffling feet, the nervous coughs.

“It is written that ‘the time is come that judgment must begin at the house of God: and if it first begin at us, what shall the end be of them that obey not the gospel of God? Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit the keeping of their souls to him.’

“‘Forasmuch then as Christ hath suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourself likewise with the same mind: for he that hath suffered in the flesh hath ceased from sin.’

“Sister Suzanne, cast all your care upon Him; for He careth for you. It says in First Peter 3:14, ‘But and if ye suffer for righteousness’ sake, happy are ye: and be not afraid of their terror, neither be troubled.’

“Do you come here willingly, Sister Suzanne?”

“I do.”

“I’ll just bet,” Peters said.

Suzanne’s response had been barely audible, but an exultant “Hallelujah” sprang from the crowd. Maybe if she had said no, that she had been forced, the ceremony would have been canceled and the True Believers would have been denied their blood lust. A baby cried somewhere in the background and was quickly hushed. So the children were there, watching, listening. I thought of Jeremiah. No wonder he was afraid.

Brodie continued now, his tone no longer that of an orator, but gentler, cajoling, not wanting to frighten Suzanne into backing out at the last minute. “Do you know, too, that those who will smite you do so only as tools of your salvation, bearing you no malice or ill will?”

“I do.”

“I think I’m going to puke,” Peters said. “She really let them do it to her.”

This time there was no sound from the True Believers. They were holding their collective breath in anticipation. This was the sword Brodie wielded over his congregation. Not only had he inflicted bodily punishments, he had provided them for the vicarious enjoyment of his followers. Sickened, I resumed listening. Brodie was speaking again, his tone moving, hypnotic, molding her to his will. If Suzanne Barstogi would willingly hurt herself because Brodie asked, would she have resisted beating her own child?

“‘Being reviled we bless; being persecuted we suffer it.’ Will you then, Sister, bless and forgive each of those who stand here tonight to be the instruments of your redemption?”

“Yes.” Her answer was nothing more than a whisper. The recorder detected no shifting, no sound from the crowd. They were ready.

“Brother Amos and Brother Ezra, hold her wrists.” There was the sound of people moving. “Brother Benjamin, rend her garment.” We heard the sound of her dress tearing, the snap of her brassiere, and then, after a pause, the sharp crack of a lash biting into flesh. Reflex made me count the blows, seven in all, each one slow and deliberate. Suzanne made one involuntary cry at the outset. After that she was silent.

The tape went on. There had been an out-pouring of amens and hallelujahs, but now that was silenced. Brodie was speaking. “Sister Suzanne will spend yet another night in prayer, not in the Penitent’s Room, but here, at the altar, where she can feel our Lord’s forgiveness. In the morning we shall come again to welcome her return to the fold. Go with God. It is finished.”

I heard some murmur of talk as people filed out. The next sound was that of someone weeping. “Suzanne?” Brodie’s voice.

She made no response, although the weeping subsided. “Suzanne. Look at me. I have something for you. It’ll make it hurt less.” A pause, then he continued, his voice soft and cajoling. “Don’t try to cover yourself from me, Sister. I’ve come to minister to your wounds. It’s a local anesthetic.”

Again the silence. I could imagine him running a fleshy finger across her bleeding breasts, administering some kind of ointment.

“Thank you,” Suzanne said softly.

“I want you,” he said.

“No, please.” There was no audible spoken answer although we heard the sound of the study door closing. I was taken aback. He had asked, and Suzanne had denied him. Even the pastor himself was subject to some rules and prohibitions. It was obvious what kind of additional comfort and forgiveness he had intended to offer.