56. Commandments

It took a lot more digging, but Kent did eventually find the killer. He beat Michael in fury, because he couldn't look at his own sins. He beat Michael instead of beating himself.

Kent made his approach calm and businesslike. There are techniques involved in taking custody of someone; you don't just bust in snarling, that only escalates a dangerous situation. Good Cop went to the Christian church, hoping to make the arrest quietly. The whole thing was horribly sad, but it had to be done, so he did it.

The key piece of evidence turned out to be an overlooked photograph taken by Leland Timmons's little granddaughter the night of the murder. He found her in the living room playing with his camera, pushing buttons randomly. The pictures were all dark, out of focus, a waste of pixels, and he apologized to Kent for all the bad shots—but Kent noticed the date and time stamp, and asked him to magnify a few of them. High-resolution, a powerful lens: the little girl accidently took a picture of grandma's driveway, and Kent got enough of a license plate to identify a new witness.

He could prove Pastor Williams was there that night; Kent had an affidavit from his sex partner, who owned the car parked in the driveway. She witnessed the killing and identified the pastor, as well as two other eyewitnesses who agreed to testify. The minister didn't have an alibi; his wife was out of town leading a mercy mission in Guatemala.

So Kent just asked him about it there in his office. "Did you kill Michael Guzman the night of January 5th of this year?"

"Yes."

"What did you use to kill him?"

"There was a board nearby."

"What kind of board?"

"A two-by-four."

"What did you do with that two-by-four?"

"I beat him with it."

Kent's eyes narrowed. "How many times did you beat him with it? How many blows?"

"Uh, twenty or thirty."

"Was it twenty or was it thirty or was it more?"

"Well, I didn't count. Maybe thirty times."

"Thirty times you beat a defenseless boy, a member of your own Sunday School, with a two-by-four, until his brains splattered out. Where did this take place?"

"In the corner of the living room."

"Who else was there?"

He named them all.

"Turn around. Hands behind your back." Click!

Kent didn't even remind him of the Second Commandment, Thou shalt not kill; there was no need to. The pastor already knew the Second Commandment, he just couldn't obey it.

Meanwhile Kent had pieced together the rest of the story. Grandma couldn't have stopped that pastor; she was strung out on Oxy and barely realized what was happening. By the time she got off the couch, Michael was already dead. Big Eddie wasn't even in the room; it wasn't his fault either. The sheriff didn't do it and neither did the judge. The prosecutor's secretary tipped off the sheriff's secretary, which is why it took until the next day for the sheriff to notify grandma of the warrant.

The sheriff did supervise grandma in the crime scene wipedown; Big Eddie dumped the body in the cornfield, where he slid on a patch of ice and crashed his old green pickup. That piece of grille plastic Jamie found was a perfect match.

Kent got guilty pleas out of everyone, the pastor, grandma, Big Eddie and Sheriff Jack Dawson, who also pleaded to bigamy charges and operating a gambling establishment without a license in Kouts.

They were all going to jail for a million years, and Kent was glad about it. The pastor did it and no one else, which Kent further verified when Corporal Kwiatkowski got the two-by-four from West Virginia tested and came up with a fingerprint match on that cigarette butt Kent tweezed. She did great work; Kent praised her repeatedly. He also called that excellent woman sheriff in West Virginia, told her she solved the case.

Nothing could bring back Michael, though; Michael was in heaven, where he belonged.

After the arrest, it felt like time to get with Randy Weishaar, the ten-year-old boy who lost his friend.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed.

It was springtime in Mud Pine, Indiana, a partly sunny day; they walked along after school, noticing jonquils and tulips and the trees greening out. Randy was massively upset but oh-so-butch.

"I'm sorry, little man. Your buddy didn't deserve none of this."

"No, he didn't."

"The world is an unfair place. I hate telling you that as a kid, but dude, it's got criminals in it. Robbers, thieves, killers."

"And policemen," Randy said, misty-eyed.

"Dang!" Kent shut his eyes and punched both fists in front of his chest. "I'm so sorry."

Randy picked up a stick and held it next to a fence, a little kid's noisemaker, buh-da-buh-da-bud.

"Don't think that Jesus liked this, just because that so-called minister killed a kid."

"I don't."

"Jesus doesn't like this. Jesus hates this, in fact. But one of the reasons he came here was to save us from this stuff."

"I know." Randy tossed away his stick, and their eyes were drawn to one of the first robins of spring, who perched on a stump and didn't fly away as they approached. They stopped walking; she stayed right there, eyeing them.

"This is so cool," Randy whispered. "Pretty bird."

"She's prob'ly got a nest close by," Kent whispered too. "Wish we had us some robin food, so we could give her a snack."

"What do robins eat?"

"I dunno, grains or seeds or somethin'. Worms, right? Birds eat worms. You think I'm Google?"

Randy giggled and said no. The robin flew up to a good branch over their heads, but not far away.

She meant for them to pass by apparently, so they walked on. But Randy turned around and watched her, still with her eye on them but pretending not. "Why was Michael killed again?"

"Because he came downstairs and found the minister… uh, fooling around in grandma's living room with a woman who wasn't his wife. It was a Sunday night, which was, um, when they always got together for their little parties. But Kouts was on vacation and Danville was closed, so he went to the house and started fooling around with… whoever he could find."

Randy used the street term for it, and Kent said yes.

"Don't reject Jesus just because of that guy. I mean, I'm not saying this as a police officer, Randy. As a cop I have no religion, everyone's equal, and I believe that. I'm only saying this as Kent."

"It's kind of nice to have a police friend."

"Oh, little man, I'd have given anything to protect Michael from that preacher."

They walked along. "How's Jamie?"

"Worried about you. He's got your name and Michael's on this prayer list, plus all the kids at Mud Pine School. It's on the internet, other people pray for you guys too."

"What church do you go to?"

"I'm an Episcopalian." Kent had never said that before, never thought of it even, but it sounded like the right answer.

"I've never heard of them, I don't think."

"I know. Doesn't matter, find your own way. No one gets to tell you how to think."

They entered Randy's street. "I miss Michael so bad."

"I know. He misses you too. But he's in heaven, which is where we're all tryin' to get to. God snatched him up just like that." Kent snapped his fingers.

"God's pretty smart."

Kent just laughed. He loved children, they say the truest things.

They approached Randy's house, almost there, and he turned to the police officer, confronted him. "What am I supposed to think? Ministers in meth labs and crackhouses, the best boy who ever lived is dead! How'm I supposed to live now?"

Kent crouched down, put his hands on Randy's shoulders. "Son, I'm sorry. The Christian story is the story of a crime. For no good reason they put to death God's own son.

"But he rose above it, man; he went on to live forever, and that's what you've got to do too. He overcame their sins and proved them wrong, just like all those people at the meth house were wrong. Michael never deserved to die, but neither did Jesus.

"Then they both flew to heaven. They're at this giant pub up there right now, man, called Padre Mickey's Dance Party. With Mozart and Dizzy Gillespie, dueling mariachi bands and, I dunno, Judy Garland maybe. Then Ethel Merman comes on and tries to hog the whole stage. It's an all-star cast!"

Randy laughed, "You are a total nut."

Kent stood up, tossed back his head and said, "No. I'm an Episcopalian."

They walked arm on shoulder to the house, and on the front step they hugged and held on for dear life.

There, looking down at the little guy, Kent touched his thumb to his tongue and made the sign of the cross on Randy's forehead.

Then he shooed him inside to his parents with a little posterior encouragement.++


© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.