Duplicity

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Gideon Nelson's new friends visit the crime scene while he experiences an encounter with an Asst. pastor.

            Charlie and Sam wound their way through the city as the mid-afternoon traffic slowed to a deliberate pace. They reached the freeway and Sam entered the south lanes and drove for a short distance before exiting. Heading north, at an angle to the freeway, the two entered an area of rural subdivisions, all with a single entry feeding off the state highway. When they came to a street somewhat larger than the others and bordering a new school campus, Sam turned right. The street was poorly maintained with large ditches on both sides. Sam drove past several homes on large lots. He pulled to the shoulder before the street began a steep decline. It was a secluded spot, too rugged for development, the ditches appearing as great gashes in a mixture of clay and rock. He stopped the engine. Pointing ahead to the right, he said. “That’s where they found the body … in the ditch, face up.” Before Charlie could respond, he said, “One of my gun nut clients is on the police force. He was on duty the morning they discovered her.”

            Charlie said, “I assume that examined the crime scene carefully?”

            “Unfortunately no,” said Sam, “At least not according to my man. There had been a gulley-washer of a rain that night and anything that might have resembled a clue had been washed to the Arkansas River by then. There was nothing left to examine.”

            “Except the body,” Charlie said.

            Sam said, “Except the body. All they could do was load it up and take it to the Medical Examiner’s Office.”

            Charlie peered forward and said, “Can we get out?”

            “Be my guest,” Sam said. He opened his door as Charlie opened his and both men stepped out. They walked to point where the road began its descent and stopped. The road descended for some 30 yards before leveling and making a gentle turn to the right and then out of sight.

            Charlie regarded the site for a moment, then said, “Lots of houses farther on?”

            “Rural subdivisions,” Sam said, “folks who say they want to live in the country but really want to live a quarter of a mile from the city limits. That was until the roads started falling in. This was all annexed into Connorville a year or so ago, at the request of the residents. Developers build crap subdivision out here, sell the homes to the unsuspecting, and disappear. The residents eventually look to the city to repair the damage.” He pointed at the washed out ditch where the body was found. “You can see the quality of the original construction. Not a good final resting place, even for a little colored girl.”

            Charlie said, “Do you have any ideas about what happened?”

            Sam thought, “Around here they sure seem to think it was gang related.”

            “That would make it Little Rock’s problem?”

            “They seem to think so,” Sam said. “They don’t have gangs in Connorville.” He stopped talking, looked at the ditch, then said, “At least any black ones.”

            “So the police here think she was a gang member,” Charlie said. “Why?”

            “From what I hear,” Sam said, “a number of things.”

            “Such as what?”

            “Well, she was black,” Sam said, “and that is enough for most of the Connorville elite.”

            “And …?”

            “She was wearing gang colors, at least a red bandana.”

            “And …?”

            “She had a nickname on her bracelet that sounded like a gang moniker.”

            “And that was …?”

            “Poison,” Sam said. “Her bracelet identified her as ‘Poison’ and that doesn’t sound like a Sunday School nickname, does it?”

            “Maybe,” Charlie said, “then maybe not. My nickname was ‘Snot’ back on the schoolyard.”

            They laughed. “Mine was ‘PW’ because I had a girlfriend.” Sam said, smiling. “Anyway, the way the body was arranged seems to suggest an execution.”

            Charlie, who was staring at the ditch, turned around. “How so?”

            She was strapped to a half-sheet of plywood cut lengthwise,” Sam said. Her arms were extended out past the edges. I suppose it was meant to resemble a crucifixion of sorts.”

            “What killed her?”

            “That,” Sam said, “I don’t know. Some sort of gunfire I expect.”

            “So who found the body?” Charlie said, “a resident?”

            “No,” Sam said, “the residents passed it by, some say on purpose, others say because so many out here haven’t seen a black person in so long they wouldn’t recognize a body if they saw it.” He chuckled. “That may be true, but no, a jogger finally saw it Sunday morning and called the Police.

            “What time was this?”

            “I think,” Sam said, “that it was about eleven o’clock. Lots of folks were in church.” He turned to Charlie and grinned. “Not me, though, I was, uh, I was … redecorating my office. Yeah, that’s it. Otherwise I would have been on the first row.”

            He and Charlie laughed.

            Nelson wasn’t laughing. Assistant Pastor Eddie Glover wasn’t either. He glowered at Nelson and said, “I still don’t see why Dale sent you to see me and I don’t know how I could help you.” He took a breath. “Just what is it you want from me?”

            “Nothing from you,” Nelson said. “I’m just a friend of a friend of the young girl who was found murdered here and I’m trying to find any information about her that might be available.”

            “You …,” Glover fumed, “you think someone in this church may have been involved?”

            “Not at all,” nelson said.

            Glover interrupted him. “Then just what do you mean?”

            “I understand that she attended church here a couple of times and I was trying to figure out why.”

            Glover stared at him for several seconds. “Over a thousand people attend our two services here on Sunday morning,” he said. “And I don’t remember a black girl—excuse me—African-American girl attending one.”

            Nelson regarded him. He leaned slightly forward. “Then what can you tell me about a group of young men who do attend here and call themselves The Soul Warriors”?

            “The what?”

            “The Soul Warriors.”

            Glover looked around the room. He turned his gaze back to Nelson. “Are you talking about Donnie Bridges and his friends?”

            “The one they call ‘Bully Bridges’ if that’s the one you are talking about.”

            “We call him Donnie, or Donald, or Don,” Glover said. “And he is a fine Christian man and a loyal worker for this church.” He fiddled with a pencil on his desk. “We are lucky to have him.”

            “Is he kind of person that might bully a young black girl?”

            Glover exploded in anger. “Mr., … whatever your name is … you have a lot of nerve coming into a house of God and accusing one of our members of being involved in something as hideous as a murder.”

            “I don’t think I accused anyone of anything,” Nelson said, leaning back in his chair and relaxing.

            “Well don’t then,” Glover said, slapping the pencil on his desk. “Just who are you, anyway?”

            “I told you,” Nelson said, “just a friend of a friend.”

            “Well, then, friend, let me tell you something,” Glover said. “Nobody in this church had anything to do with any murder.”

            “I believe you,” Nelson said, “but how can you be so sure that somebody doesn’t know something about the young girl? Maybe someone looked into why she came to this particular church.”

            “If she did come here, and I don’t recall it at all,” Glover said, “nobody looked into the reason, and I can tell you why.”

            Nelson didn’t speak.

            “They didn’t check on her,” Glover said, “because we didn’t tell them to. And they didn’t murder anyone because we didn’t tell them to. And they didn’t harass a young black girl because we didn’t tell them to.”

            “It seems,” Nelson said, “that you exercise a great deal of control over your flock.”

            “Our flock, as you call them, does what we say. We tell them what to think, we tell them who is head of the household, we tell them how to act, we tell them what to believe, and we even tell them who to vote for.”

            Nelson raised an eyebrow.

            “Yes,” Glover said. “We pick their candidates, just like the black churches do.”
            “I see,” Nelson said.

            “Yes,” Glover said, “Some folks think it was fine when the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. told the flock— as you call it—at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church what candidate to elect.” He took breath. “But when white folks in Connorville do it, the foundations of the country shake.” He stopped. His face was red and his breathing was heavy.

            “You’ve been helpful,” Nelson said.

            Glover seemed to regain his composure. “Tell me,” he said, “when was the last time you attended church?”

            “A year ago or so,” Nelson said, “to attend the funeral of a friend.”

            “A Baptist church?”

            “Presbyterian.”

            “It figures,” Glover said. “Why don’t you come worship with us? You would be welcome.”

            “Because I’m white?”

            Glove stood quickly. “If you will excuse me, I have work to do, the Lord’s work.” He pointed toward the door.

            Nelson left the church and returned to Sam’s place. There he picked up Charlie and thanked Sam for his help.

            “My pleasure, Sam said. “Why don’t you come back and get your ‘concealed carry permit’’?

            “I’m afraid not,” Nelson said.

            Sam said, “Why?”

            “One, I’m afraid I’ve ‘laid down my sword and shield,’ for now and two, I don’t even own a gun.”

            “No problem on the second,” Sam said, “I rent weapons to the ‘firearms needy’—any caliber you want, from lady’s weight to real penis elongating hand-blasters. I have them all.”

            “Thanks,” Nelson said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

            “Anytime,” Sam said. “And let me know if I can help on your mission.”

            As they drove away, Nelson asked Charlie if he had learned anything.

            “Not much,” Charlie said. “Seems the crime scene got washed away by a terrible rain storm. How about you?”

            “I don’t think the Connorville Baptist Tabernacle is a hotbed of free thinking.”

            “Did they open up to you?”

            “Not really,” Nelson said. “The head pastor seemed nice. His assistance was less so.”

            “Was it worth the trip? Did you find out a single thing?”

            “One thing,” Nelson said. “The assistant pastor is a liar.”

            “A pastor lying,” Charlie said in mock horror. “What has the world come to?”

            “What indeed?” Nelson said.

            “What did he lie about?”

            “When I mentioned that Abbey Stubblefield had attended services at his church, he assured me that he didn’t personally recall any African-American girl attending Sunday morning services at all.”

            “So?”

            “I didn’t say she attended the morning services.”