Murder on a Different Scale

Chapter One

But one piece remains, and I shall have it on the morrow. The inspector turned about the Vicar’s rose garden, his finger pointing to the air. The assembled villagers stared expectantly, awaiting his next pronouncement. Those were his last words, and it is now clear to me what they mean.

The postal chess match, breathed the Grandmaster. He would checkmate when he posted his next move!

The rhubarb pie, gasped the cook. ‘E meant to ‘ave the last slice for ‘is breakfast, ‘e did!

The Elgin marbles, shouted the Archaeologist. He knew where the missing sculpture is stored!

Bryly Jacobs put down the book. She turned to her husband, beside her on the couch. He sensed that she was looking at him, and lowered volume five of Matthew Henry’s Commentary.

Have you ever heard of the debate between Dorothy Sayers and Raymond Chandler?

Something of a literary duel, as I recall, said Jake.

"Well, it started with Chandler. He wrote an essay for Atlantic magazine and ripped into one of her books. He said that murder in mysteries should happen for a real reason, and not merely to provide the detective with a corpse."

And something about how it shouldn’t ever be done with curare or tropical fish. Though I’m not sure Sayers ever killed anyone with a tropical fish.

I suppose we could ask those detectives if they’ve ever seen a case where someone was killed with a tropical fish.

I’m not even sure how that might work.

I suppose that if you shot one out of a cannon, maybe… But that wasn’t my point. Sayers responded, you know.

A preface of one of her works. Can’t recall which. I used to have the book, I think.

You might still. There are as yet boxes and boxes of them in our storage.

But that wasn’t your point, he said, hoping that she wouldn’t segue into a request that he reduce the size of his library.

She argued that the vicar’s rose garden was an appropriate place for a murder to take place, precisely so that it would remove it from reality. Insulation from one’s visceral reactions, so to speak.

"And Chandler replied back in the introduction to The Simple Art of Murder, where he argued that murder belongs on the mean streets, where it really happens. Art, he felt, should imitate life, and not merely show an ideal of how life should be."

So that’s the question, said Bryly.

Sorry, said Jake. Which question?

Should writers – thinking here of Christian writers, like Sayers – should they write stories with real people who commit real sins – Chandler’s kinds of books – or should they write books with murders in the Vicar’s rose garden? Like the Lord Peter Wimsey stories, or like Chesterton’s books.

I’ve always enjoyed Father Brown, said Jake. But Chesterton does make it sound like only murders that happen in remote English villages are likely to be solved.

Not so much solved, but absolved.

They sat in silence for a moment, each in their own thoughts but sharing the idea.

I suppose it depends on why it was written, said Jake. You can only really judge if something has served its purpose when you know what its purpose was in the first place.

Good answer, she said, closing her book. She got up and put it back into the bookcase.

You’re not going to finish that?

Well it’s obvious what happened, she said. The anonymous letter said that the killer threw a shoe at the victim. Clearly, the blacksmith did it, but by accident. In the last chapter, the inspector will discover that the pony has a chipped hoof.

You should have been a detective.

My skills are limited to fiction. I don’t have to figure out the crime; I just have to figure out the writer. There’s a slice of that cherry cheesecake left. Want to split it?

Jake thought for a moment. It was great cheesecake, but he couldn’t justify the calories. No, help yourself, he said with a sigh, as he turned back to the commentary.

As was her custom on Sunday Mornings, Bryly waited to be the last in line, leaving the church. She took Jake’s hand and held it.

Excellent sermon, she said. I found it enlightening.

Thank you, he said. But you realize that you could have said that at home this afternoon.

Yes, but I thought I should speak as a parishioner, and not just as your wife. It means more that way, doesn’t it?

So you mean you would have liked it even if you weren’t bound by loyalty and filial piety and all that, then.

Yes. I’ve read that passage before, of course, but I’ve never really thought about the fact that we are expressly forbidden to hate. I mean, I don’t go around hating my coworkers or anything like that, but the idea that even calling someone foolish could put us in danger of judgment. It’s a difficult teaching.

And it should make us grateful for grace. I have trouble with that passage every time I drive.

Is that a confession? Do you sometimes shout sailor words out the window at the other drivers?

Just on my way here today, I told another driver to heave to starboard, and then called him a landlubber.

Well! she huffed, I am shocked and amazed.

He grinned. No, you’re not. So, on a different note: the Claremonts invited us, if we’re not busy, to join them at a fast-food place, or, if you’d prefer, we can go have sandwiches at home. What is your pleasure?

As much as I’d enjoy the fellowship, I think we should pass. Do you think they’ll excuse us?

It was a very casual invitation. Besides, if we go home, you can wax poetic about how you loved hearing my thoughts on the fifth chapter of Matthew as we drive. You have heard it said…

Yes, yes, I heard you say it. Come on, before I regret saying anything about it at all.

A white-haired deacon in an off-tan suit smiled as he held the glass door for them, and they heard the bolt clunk behind them.

Pastor Jake? asked the secretary, softly, through the telephone.

How can I help you? asked Jake. He was just leaving the weekly interfaith breakfast, and would have been at the church in a few minutes anyway. It must have been a matter of some urgency if it couldn’t wait those few minutes.

One of the deacons is here, and he says that he needs to see you right away.

I’ll be right there, he said. He walked quickly to his car. As he put his cell phone back into his jacket pocket, he dropped his keys. Picking them up meant that he was holding them in an unusual way, so it took him a moment to find the right key and put it into the car door. Once he got into the car, he drove hastily towards the church.

The deacon in question was Chuy Gomez, a largish man with huge biceps and highly-visible tattoos on his neck. They peeked above the turned-up collars of his blue denim shirts. He clearly wore his shirts that way to hide them, which oddly seemed to make them all the more obvious.

When Jake stepped into the office, Chuy got up quickly and made an odd shuffling movement, like a loose-jointed dance step. It vaguely resembled a puppet whose strings were pulled randomly.

Chuy, said Jake, extending his hand.

Hey, Jake, could we talk? Chuy touched Jake’s hand, but only barely, just brushing his fingers lightly before pulling his hand away. He made the same awkward step again as he followed Jake to Jake’s office.

Jake took the chair behind his desk and gestured towards one of the other chairs for Chuy. What can I do for you?

Well, I dunno. Um, you seen Grant? Grant Poulos?

No, not since the service yesterday.

So here’s the thing. He was supposed to lead the Bible study, the one at the park yesterday afternoon, you know.

Jake nodded and Chuy continued. Well, he dint show. That ain’t like him. So I went by his place, and his sister said she ain’t seen him that whole day. So I checked again this morning, and he dint come home, she said. So… He shrugged, as if to ask, So where is he?

You’ve asked the Bible study group?

Nobody seen him since yesterday, leaving the church right here. I even walked from the church to his house, well, his sister’s house, you know, in case he was hurt or something.

I can call around the hospitals, said Jake. But I don’t think the police are gonna be very helpful, since it’s less than 24 hours.

Well, plus, you know, him having a record – They prolly think he’s off somewhere drunk.

Bryly let herself into the church and stepped into the office. Claire, the secretary, smiled up at her. He’s meeting with a deacon, said Claire. I don’t know how long he’ll be.

No problem, said Bryly. I didn’t have a special appointment or anything. Two of my morning sessions canceled, and I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d peek in.

Doctor Rogers used to do that all the time, said Claire. But I think they moved to Arizona. She smiled. Since you’re here… Have you ever heard of someone named Tamara Folley? Or a, let’s see, Regina Harris?

Not that I recall. Why?

Well, we had a couple of envelopes show up in the offering, and no one seems to know who they are. She placed the envelopes on her desk, near Bryly. Bryly glanced at the envelopes.

Tamara Folley, it appeared, had given five dollars for each of the last two weeks, in cash. Regina Harris had done the same, but for three weeks. All of the envelopes were filled out in unremarkable black ball-point ink.

It’s going to make it difficult at the end of the year, said Claire. We won’t know who to write in on the contribution statements.

Well, you’ll know what name, just not how to get the statements to them. Or who they are.

And the statements will sit in the archive drawer of the church office forever, until someone transfers them to a banker box and stows them away forever in the church attic. Have you ever been up there?

No, but I’ve heard stories. Bryly shuddered.

They don’t do it justice. I once found Sunday school attendance records from the 1950s. What would keep us from just shredding those?

And lose all that history? Bite your tongue. Bryly peered at the envelopes. These are the same handwriting. It looks familiar… A bit old fashioned, maybe.

I haven’t seen any new faces in the senior adult Bible class, said Claire. I’d think we would know if there was someone new.

Maybe it’s better when we don’t know everyone, mused Bryly. A few new faces can make church a better place.

Well, Sunday, I’m going to keep an eye open.

As she said that, she opened another envelope. In it was a prayer request card. Claire looked at the card, and then back at Bryly. Pastor needs to see this. Think we should interrupt?

She showed Bryly the prayer request card. It was written in pencil, using block letters:

ALL THIS TIME I’VE BEEN KILLING THEM. PLEASE FORGIVE ME.

Chapter Two

Detective Bentley held the plastic bag containing the card. He lifted it to the light and stared at it.

So these prayer cards… said Detective Sergeant Yorga. Who can get their hands on these?

Literally anyone, said Bryly. They’re tucked into pockets on the back of every chair in the auditorium, plus there’s a stack in the foyer, at the visitor desk. She thought for a moment. And a stack on the table in the back of the auditorium.

The old ladies’ class has them, also. Plus they usually see them first, from the prayer box in the foyer, you know. They’re the true prayer warriors here. Sometimes, people just hand one to Miss Agnes. It’s really rare for someone to put one of these into an offering envelope, remarked Claire.

Jake’s door opened and Chuy stepped out. Jake shook hands with him in the doorway, and then both men turned and noticed the two detectives.

That was fast, said Jake.

What was fast? asked Detective Bentley.

Let me rephrase that. What brings you gentlemen… Detective Bentley, and Sergeant… I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.

Yorga, said Yorga.

Yes, right, I remember. He turned to Chuy. About a year and a half ago, these detectives thought that I might be the Natividad sniper.

Me too, said Bryly. Chuy looked shocked. I mean they thought I might have done it, not that I also suspected Jake.

Chuy didn’t answer. He just took a casual stance next to Jake, feet about shoulder-width apart, hands casually crossed above his belt. He tilted his head back slightly, looking at the policemen with a blank expression and half-hooded eyes.

So, repeated Jake. What is it that brings you gentlemen here to see us today?

Bentley held up the plastic bag. Jake took it and peered at the card. A wave of tension passed across his face.

Does that mean anything to you? asked Yorga.

No, just another prayer request, said Jake.

Or possibly a murder confession, said Bentley.

You’ll need corroboration, said Jake. A confession of a crime does not prove the existence of a crime. And that’s only if you take this card literally, which I don’t.

And how would you propose to take it? asked Bentley. Maybe the gardener suddenly felt guilty for his over use of the snail bait.

Or the heavy drinker who doesn’t leave the dregs in the glass, and has to finish them off? added Yorga, with a smirk.

A comedian who’s a just little too proud of his one-liners? quipped Bentley.

We can’t know what it means until we ask the one who wrote it, answered Jake. It could be something just that silly, or it could be far more profound, and in any case, it’s not evidence of a crime.

Not by itself, said Bentley.

So let’s get down to brass tacks here, said Yorga. Any guesses as to who wrote this?

Well, now, there’s the rub, said Jake. If I did know for certain who wrote it, I’m afraid that I still couldn’t tell you. Penitent privilege applies.

Jake, said Bryly, We can’t forget about Tarasoff.

Who’s Tarasoff? asked Yorga.

Tarasoff versus the Board of Regents, said Bryly. It was a case that set a precedent for breaking therapeutic privilege. A psychiatric clinician failed to notify a third party of a clear and obvious threat. The client went on to attack the third party.

Tarasoff applies in your canons, said Jake. Not in mine. He paused for a moment. If a person were to disclose something to me that was a clear and obvious threat to a third party, I’d warn the penitent that I should disclose the threat. And I’d warn him not to disclose it to me unless I could tell the person who’s being threatened. But I have no duty to disclose.

Pastor, said Chuy, under his breath, You think that might be about Grant?

Jake turned and gave him a speculative look. Chuy did the odd wobbly step again, as if to dismiss what he had just said.

Grant Poulos is missing, said Jake, turning back to the policemen. He was last seen here at the church, around noon yesterday. One of our parishioners.

Twelve-thirty, said Chuy, quietly. You went kinda long. But it was good, you know, all about blessed are those who are, you know, poor in spirit. And peacemakers.

So you’re telling us that maybe there’s a crime after all, and maybe there’s even a victim, or, in your mind, this guy Grant might be down at the batting cages hitting a few with the guy who wrote this note. Yorga tilted his head slightly, to give Jake an appraising look with a sardonic edge.

I’m telling you nothing of the sort, said Jake. There is the fact of the note, which you should not have seen, and there is the fact of a missing man. Any help you can offer on the latter would be appreciated."

You can’t go withholding evidence, said Yorga. If you know anything about a crime…

First, you don’t know that this card is evidence of anything, and second, penitent privilege is the strongest of all legal privilege. It has withstood several dozen legal challenges over the centuries. So, yes, I can withhold evidence.

Yorga and Bentley looked at each other.

Look, Pastor, said Yorga, in a tone intended to sooth, We’re all on the same team here. We all want to see that nobody gets hurt. If somebody’s been – well, we need to know what this note is all about.

It’s about a penitent asking for prayer and confessing guilt. So as far as I am concerned, it’s a church matter. And we will be keeping the card, if you don’t mind. He extended his hand.

Chuy raised his chin slightly, narrowed his eyes, and gave Yorga a challenging stare. Yorga sighed, and handed Jake the card.

Grant Poulos, said Bentley, once they were outside, in the parking lot. He looked up from his smart phone. Did eight years of a five-to-ten. Felony assault. Came off parole three weeks ago.

I don’t know that it’s gonna end well for him. Rough things happen to rough people. Someone like that goes missing, you can assume he didn’t just forget his way home.

And then there’s someone who goes around killing ‘them.’ Any thoughts on who ‘them’ might be?

We can run unsolved homicides. Might get a hit that crosses with this church or somebody in it.

The Ell-tee will just love having us open up cold cases, especially if this turns out to be some kind of a prank.

Think we should have taken the card anyway?

"Nah, that preacher was gonna make it a fourth amendment case. Or a first