Gnosis (3 page)

The guard, Leroy Henderson, began searching his key ring while the men were still several yards from the gym. After shuffling through what had to be fifty keys of various shapes and sizes, he found the one he was looking for. When the trio reached the back door, Henderson inserted the key, turned the lock, and pushed the door open.

“Like I said, Detective, you have as much time as you need,” Curtis reminded. “Or, as much time as the Reverend wants. When you’ve finished your meeting come back here. Leroy will be inside, in the open area to your left as you enter. If you need to speak with me again, he will bring you to my office. If there’s no need to meet, he will take you to your vehicle. Any questions?”

“Just . . . why am I here?”

“I suspect you’re about to find out.”

*****

Dantzler entered the gym, which was dark except for a single row of lights that arced across center court like a 50,000-watt rainbow. Every window was shut and covered by metal shades, all other exit doors closed. An eerie silence dominated the building, that strange quiet unique to large, empty spaces. In this silence, this dark, the place felt more like a mausoleum than gym.

Dantzler waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before moving slowly and silently toward the man who had summoned him. For some unknown reason he felt a strange mixture of intrigue and dread. Something was about to happen, something big, and he wasn’t sure he wanted it to. Rarely did he question his own judgment; second guessing wasn’t in his nature. That wasn’t so on this occasion. This time he had doubts, questions. Buried somewhere deep inside was a nagging feeling that this was one invitation he should have declined.

John Elijah Whitehouse, the Reverend, sat in a wheelchair at mid-court, the light above him glowing like a halo. He was flanked on both sides by IV towers, each one with a bag dangling from the top. A tube trailed down from each bag, into a needle, through which the medicine was dispensed into his hands and arms. Behind the wheelchair a green oxygen tank stood like a lone guardian angel. A clear tube snaked its way around the left side of the chair, leading to the Reverend’s face, where two vents supplying oxygen had been inserted into his nostrils.

As Dantzler drew closer, he was struck by two aspects of the old man’s appearance: the Reverend’s hair and beard were long and white as cotton, and he couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds. His thin, bony body seemed almost lost inside his ill-fitting striped pajamas and blue housecoat. 

“They tell you I’m dying?” the Reverend barked in a voice stronger than Dantzler would have expected from someone so frail. “If they didn’t, you ought to be able to tell just by looking at me.”

He laughed but it lacked mirth. “You don’t even have to be a particularly good detective to see what pathetic shape I’m in.”

Dantzler sat in the chair, leaned back, and nodded at the old man. “Sorry to hear about your situation. Cancer’s a tough break.”

“Cancer’s not tough!
I’m
tough. One of the toughest old birds you’ll ever run across. I’ve survived twenty-nine years in this hell hole, so I know I’m tough. Now, cancer . . . well, that’s something entirely different. Cancer is from the dark regions, an evil Satan loosed upon the world to make us question God’s love for his children.” He shifted in the wheelchair, careful not to dislodge the IV needles. “You believe that, Detective?”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Dantzler answered, “but I doubt if it’s to discuss theology or the nature of good and evil.”

“We’ll get to why you’re here in the good old by and by,” the Reverend said. “Do you believe in God, Detective Dantzler?”

“Come on, Reverend. I didn’t come here—”

“Answer the question, Detective. It’s simple enough. God—yes or no?”

“I believe in a Creator, yes.”

“But not the God of the Bible? Yahweh?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The biblical Yahweh is a fictional character created by the J writer.”

“Fictional? Like Superman?”

“Yes.”

“That would make Yahweh a very special fictional character, wouldn’t it? Last I heard, no one prays to Superman.”

“Look, Reverend—”

“Let’s see . . . you believe in a Creator but not Yahweh. Unravel that for me, will you?”

“I believe there is a God beyond the God of the Bible.”

“And how would you characterize your relationship with this God beyond the God of the Bible?”

“Strained.”

“Any chance it will improve?”

“That’s up to him.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Detective. It’s your task to find him, not his task to find you.”

“That’s letting him off too easy. He needs to do some work.”

“Do you believe God loves us, Detective?”

Dantzler shook his head. “In the entire Bible, do you know how many people God actually says he loves?”

“Enlighten me, Detective.”

“One. Jacob.”

Eli smiled and nodded approvingly. “Malachi, first chapter, second verse. God said, ‘I loved Jacob.’ What do you make of that?”

Dantzler shrugged. “He also said, ‘and I hated Esau.’”

“God loves you, Detective Dantzler, regardless of your inclination to disbelieve it.” Eli paused for several seconds, then said, “Since you are a fan of the J writer, I take it you don’t subscribe to the belief that Moses authored the first five books of the Bible. The Torah.”

“That’s a marvelous myth, but I doubt any real biblical scholar believes it.”

“Scholars have no claim on the truth.”

“Nor do religious leaders.”

Eli nodded in agreement. “You’re not a Christian, are you, Detective?”

“More of a Gnostic, I’d say.”

“Do you know where the term Gnostic comes from?”

“Gnosis. Greek for knowledge.”

“Do you possess gnosis, Detective?”

“I chase it, but I don’t always catch up to it.”

“I like you, Detective Dantzler. We don’t have much in common, and I think you’re dead wrong, but at least you’re a thinker. That’s more than I can say for most folks. They tend to be non-thinking sheep.”

“Isn’t that what religious leaders want? Sheep, blind followers?”

“Religious leaders, politicians, merchants, generals—blind followers are precisely what they want. Not me. I always appreciated those few who challenged my beliefs. Kept me on my toes.”

“Look, Reverend—”

“Charlie Bolton still kicking around these days?”

“Yeah. Charlie is very much alive. Retired about ten years ago. Spends most of his time fishing.”

“I always respected Charlie. Thought he was fair with me when all that nonsense was happening. He was fair because he wasn’t sold on my guilt. His partner, what was that rascal’s name?”

“Dan Matthews.”

“Yeah, that’s him. Tough hombre, he was. Certainly not the warm, friendly type. How is he doing these days?”

“He’s dead.”

“Murdered, correct?”

“If you knew, why did you ask?”

“For the sheer fun of it, Detective.”

Dantzler stood. “Have fun at someone else’s expense, Reverend. I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not. There’s no way you leave now.”

“Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“You couldn’t handle it if I called your bluff and let you walk out of here without knowing why I asked to meet with you. I doubt you would make it ten paces before your curiosity got the better of you. You would spin around like Fred Astaire, dance back in here like you had been summoned to God’s throne, and fall into that chair. Sit down, Detective. We both know you’re not going anywhere.”

“Enough chit-chat, Reverend. Why am I here?”

“To prove my innocence.”

That wasn’t an answer Dantzler expected. “You’re putting me on, right?”

“I’m as serious as this cancer inside me.”

“Why should I believe you’re innocent?”

“Because I’m telling you I am. I may have many negative qualities, Detective, but being a liar isn’t one of them.”

Dantzler sat, stared at the floor for several seconds, and then looked at the Reverend. “You’ve been here since, what . . . ’eighty-two, and you’re just now declaring your innocence? In all those years, not one squawk, not one appeal. You never once cried foul. Something about that doesn’t ring true.”

“I didn’t kill those two people, Detective Dantzler. That’s the truth.”

“Why now? Why me?”

“Why now? Let’s just say circumstances have changed within the past two weeks. Changed in a positive way from my standpoint. As for why I chose you, simple. I checked up on you, and from everything I could learn, you’re a first-rate detective.”

Dantzler reached into his coat pocket and took out his notepad.

“What are you doing?” Eli asked.

“I’m gonna take some notes.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t need notes. You’re young . . . your memory is fine. Put that away.”

“Notes ensure accuracy.”

“You’re not preparing for an exam, Detective. Lose the cheat sheet.”

“You don’t like it, tell me to leave,” Dantzler waited for the Reverend’s response. When the old man remained silent, Dantzler flipped the notepad open, and said, “Tell me about the circumstances. What changed?”

“Can’t do it, Detective. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“Silence is golden.”

“Clever answer, but not very helpful,” Dantzler said, shaking his head.

“It’s all you get.”

 “I don’t work closed cases.”

“Then open it,” the Reverend said. “Give it a fresh look through a new pair of eyes. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get it right this time.”

“They got it right.”

“No, they didn’t.”

“The evidence—
all
the evidence—says you were guilty.”

“That evidence is much like some of your religious beliefs, Detective. It’s dead wrong.”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“That’s for you to find out.”

“You’re not doing much to convince me to take this case.”

“You’re already convinced, Detective. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.”

“Let’s say I believed you, Reverend, which I don’t. But for the sake of argument, I’ll pretend I do. You would have to give me a lot more than your assurance that you are innocent before I would agree to pursue this. A whole lot more.”

“I’ll give you two reasons, Detective. First, the drugs. They found heroin, cocaine, and pills at the crime scene. I had nothing whatsoever to do with drugs. In any way, shape, or form. Ever. Wouldn’t even know what they look like or how they smell. They were planted at the scene.”