The Chosen (14 page)

Ben headed toward January, leaving the other two men to follow at their own speed.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey, yourself,” she whispered, then turned on her game face. “Thank you for coming, Detective North.”

“No, it's we who should be thanking you for sharing your information.” The two other men joined them. “I believe you know my partner, Rick Meeks, and this is our sketch artist, Brady Mitchell.”

January nodded. “Gentlemen, if you'll follow me….”

She headed for the building with the three men right behind her. On entering, she made an immediate right. Seconds later, she was knocking on the office door and a female voice invited them to enter.

January led the way in, then stood aside as the three men stopped at the desk.

“Gentlemen, this is Mother Mary Theresa, head of the Sisters of Mercy shelter. Mother Mary T., this is Detective North, Detective Meeks, and sketch artist Brady Mitchell.”

Religious training in the Catholic Church was nearly always an unforgettable experience. For two of the three men, it brought back feelings of panic. Ben had been raised Methodist. Other than a deep and abiding respect for his elders, he had no childhood memories to overcome. He stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Mother Mary Theresa, let me say in advance how appreciative we are that you've come forward.”

The little nun didn't bother to hide a frown.

“I didn't come forward, as you put it, for anyone but January. She's been looking for a certain street preacher. I might have seen him.” Then she looked at January as she pointed to the detectives. “What's all this about? I thought we were just going to be working with the artist.”

January couldn't lie.

“There's a possibility that the street preacher I'm looking for could also be Bart Scofield's killer.”

The nun was aghast. “You didn't tell me the man was dangerous.”

“I'm not sure he is,” January said. “And we won't know until he's picked up and interrogated. So may we proceed?”

Mother Mary T. glared at January. “We'll talk about this later,” she said, then waved toward the men. “Sit. Let's get this over with.”

Brady Mitchell opened his case and pulled out a large drawing pad and a couple of charcoal pencils. He shifted his chair behind the desk next to Mother Mary T.

“It will make it easier for us to work if you're watching as I draw,” he said.

She agreed readily.

“Now,” Brady said, “are we talking about a Caucasian or another ethnicity?”

“Caucasian,” the little nun said.

“Shape of his face?”

“Sort of long…long and slender. And he had a high forehead and a slightly hooked nose.”

Brady nodded as his pencil flew across the paper; then he paused.

“His eyes…?”

“Large, very dark and large,” she said, then added, “With eyelids that appear sleepy.”

“Hooded?” Brady asked.

“I'm sorry?” the nun replied.

“His eyelids…did they appear hooded, maybe something like this?” he asked, as he refined his sketch.

“Yes, yes, like that,” Mother Mary T. said.

“What about his mouth?” Brady asked.

The nun frowned. “I don't remember it much.”

“Why not?” Brady asked.

Mother Mary T. slapped herself on the forehead.

“I'm such a dunce. It was because of his beard and mustache. That's why. And he had long hair. Sort of wavy.”

“Like how? Like this…?”

Mother Mary T. looked at the sketch, and then leaned back in shock and stared at a framed picture on the wall across from her desk.

“Like that,” she said.

They looked up in unison, then followed the direction of her gaze.

January frowned. “He looked like Jesus Christ?”

Mother Mary T. nodded. “I just never thought about it until I saw Mr. Mitchell's sketch emerging. He even dressed similarly, like some Bedouin from the Sahara.”

Rick Meeks snorted none too delicately. “So what you're suggesting is that we need to be looking for Jesus Christ?” he said.

Ben glared at him.

Rick shrugged “What?”

Ben turned to the nun. “Are there any distinguishing marks that you might have forgotten to mention? Maybe a tattoo…a scar somewhere?”

“Nothing that I could see, although with all the clothes he had on, he could have been tattooed from stem to stern and I would never have seen it.”

Brady put a few finishing touches to his sketch, then held it up.

“Is this as close as you can get?” he asked.

January gasped.

“What's wrong?” Ben asked.

“I've seen that man,” she said.

“Where did you see him?” Ben asked.

The park where I run. And down in skid row.
But she hedged her answer. “I can't remember, but I know I've seen him.”

“Let me see,” Rick said, and pushed his way to the front so he could get a better look. He stared intently at the drawing, then, like January, recognition dawned.

“Hey! I think I've seen him, too!”

“You're kidding, right?” Ben asked.

Rick frowned. “No, I'm not kidding. I've seen that face. On television, maybe.”

January stepped back, trying a different perspective.

“That's my milieu,” she said. “But I'm almost positive that's not where I saw him.”

“If there's nothing else, I need to get back to the convent,” Mother Mary T. said.

“Can I give you a ride?” January asked.

“No, I have the van,” she stated.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Ben said.

“You're welcome. Hope it helps.” She straightened her robes, patted the crucifix that hung just above her breasts and took a set of car keys from a drawer.

“After you,” she said, waiting until they'd all filed out of the office, then locking the door behind them. “January, my dear, stay in touch,” she said, and waved goodbye as she hurried away.

“Now what?” January said.

Ben had the sketch. Rick and Brady were already out of the building and on their way to the car. He was trying to think of something to say that might prolong the moment with her.

“I'll get this back to Captain Borger and go from there.”

“You'll keep me posted, won't you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

January fidgeted with her purse and car keys, not wanting this conversation to end, but lost as to what else to say. Then it dawned on her.

“So you can't dance, huh?”

Ben grinned wryly. “Not worth a lick.”

“I suppose, if you're not busy, you might find time to come over one night before Saturday and we could practice a little.”

“Dancing?”

The grin on his face made her blush.

“Yes, dancing,” she said. “You don't need to practice anything else.”

This time it was Ben who was taken aback. He saw her eyes glitter, then watched her stifle a grin.

“If we weren't standing here in front of God and everybody, I'd kiss that smirk right off your face,” he said.

“I do not smirk,” she said, then laughed out loud.

“I'll call you,” he promised.

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yes, tomorrow night.”

“You could come for dinner.”

“Are you going to cook?”

January sniffed. “You can't dance. I can't cook. But we
will
eat and we
shall
dance.”

“Done,” he said, and held out his hand.

January took it, shivering slightly as his fingers slowly closed around hers. Breath caught in the back of her throat when his thumb rotated slowly in the middle of her palm. It was the most seductive handshake she'd ever experienced. Embarrassed by what was running through her mind, January pulled her hand away and folded her arms across her chest.

“See you, then,” she mumbled.

“You sure will,” he promised, then left to catch up with Meeks and Mitchell.

January watched until they were in the car and driving away before she left the building. Even though Ben was out of sight, she still stumbled.

“Darn that man. He's going to make me crazy,” she muttered; then she got in her car and returned to work.

R
ick talked all the way back to the precinct. He couldn't let go of the fact that the drawing of their suspect reminded him of someone he'd either arrested, seen or interviewed.

The sketch artist stayed out of it, choosing to ride quietly in the back seat while Ben listened absently, his thoughts still on January.

“I know it's been recently,” Rick said. “It's like trying to remember a name that's on the tip of your tongue. You know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Ben said.

“Maybe he was part of that bunch we pulled in for questioning about that dead drug pusher. Remember the one they pulled out of the Potomac with his shoes on the wrong feet?”

Ben stopped for a red light, then peeled a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth while Rick continued to ramble.

“Hey, Ben, remember that guy? You're the one who noticed the shoes.”

“I remember the guy, and I remember the users we hauled in with him, and I don't remember anybody looking like Jesus.”

Rick snorted in disgust. “Then where?
Where?
”

“It'll come to you. Ease up. You're trying too hard.”

“God, this kind of stuff makes me nuts.”

The light turned green.

As they drove through the intersection, Ben quickly realized he would have to take a detour. The next street up was blocked off. From where they were sitting, they could see water shooting a good eight feet up into the air.

Rick groaned. “Oh man, isn't there a street in this city that's not under construction?”

“They aren't fixing a street, they're fixing a water main break.”

“Same dang thing,” Rick muttered.

“It's no big deal, we'll swing past the IRS building and—”

Rick almost jumped out of the seat.

“That's it! Now I remember where I've seen that face. It was that film clip on the guy who wanted to throw the employees out of the IRS building. Remember? We were eating lunch at Jerry's Java, and they were showing the clip on the TV above the counter. The cops were hauling this religious nut down the steps. They showed a close-up of his face, and it just stuck in my mind, you know? He has to have some kind of arrest record. It should be easy enough to check out.”

Ben frowned as he turned the corner. He did remember the incident, but unlike Rick, the man's face hadn't registered. He just remembered thinking the man was probably another street preacher.

The hair on the back of his neck suddenly crawled.

Street preacher.

They were looking for a street preacher.

Lord have mercy, could it be that easy? Could they have stumbled onto the answer after all?

“I remember the piece, but I didn't focus on the face. Which station ran it, do you remember?”

Rick shook his head. “No.”

“Not a problem,” Ben said. “It will be easy enough to check out.”

“I'll do it,” Rick said.

Ben glanced at Rick and made a quick decision. His old partner was trying to redeem himself. It was time to let him.

“All right,” Ben said. “I'll fill in the captain, then check the other departments to see who hauled him in. You make some calls and see if we can get a copy of that clip.”

Rick smiled, pleased. “Will do,” he said.

A few minutes later they arrived at the precinct. Brady Mitchell went one way, and the two homicide detectives went another.

 

Rick Meeks wasn't the only one bothered by the sketch Brady Mitchell had made. Ever since January had seen that face, she'd been racked with guilt for not telling the police where she'd seen him. She consoled herself with the fact that it wouldn't change anything about their investigation. Besides, she couldn't swear with complete certainty that it was the same man, although she knew in her heart that it was.

She finished the day in a mode that could only be called “low productivity” and left before anyone called her on it. She picked up some Italian takeout on her way home and arrived back at her apartment a few minutes before 8:00 p.m.

The moment she put her key in the door, the stress of the day began to fade. The click of the tumblers locking her in and the rest of the world out sent what was left of the stress into the shadows. She tossed her keys on the hall table as she made her way through the rooms, leaving her takeout in the kitchen as she moved toward the bedroom.

Within minutes, she'd changed from work clothes into a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt. It felt wonderful to be barefoot as she walked into the kitchen, anticipating the pasta primavera waiting for her on the counter. She dug through the cabinets, looking for the bottle of red wine someone had given her last year on Valentine's Day, then remembered she'd emptied that on Valentine's Day of this year to stifle the blue funk she'd fallen into over the fact that, at the age of thirty-one, she was still without a significant other.

A lack of wine with her meal wasn't enough to ruin the mood she was in. She was humming to herself as she snagged a Pepsi from the refrigerator and a plate from the cabinet. She dumped the pasta onto the plate, popped it into the microwave and gave it a minute to heat. It was just long enough for her to get a glass, drop in some ice and fill it to the brim with soda. She took her first sip from the glass while the fizz was still strong, relishing the tickle of bubbles at the tip of her nose. The microwave dinged, signaling that her food was ready. She laid a fork on the plate, picked up her glass and carried her meal to the living room.

The first bite was as good as she'd expected. She chewed and swallowed before she picked up the television remote. She was, by nature, a channel surfer. Part of it had to do with always checking out the competition, and part of it had to do with being easily bored.

She surfed as she ate—except for the green peas, which she left in a small pile at the edge of her plate.

She was on her way to the kitchen to clean up when the telephone rang. She set her dishes in the sink, then reached for the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey, honey, it's me.”

January was thankful that no one could see the silly grin on her face.

“Ben?”

She heard a slight snort of disgust.

“How many other men call you honey?” he muttered.

She burst out laughing.

The moment she started laughing, Ben knew he'd been had. Somehow it seemed more proper to stay pissed, at least for a few more seconds, but he loved the sound of her laugh.

“Okay, you got me,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” January said. “I just couldn't resist.”

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Just finished. You?”

“About to start. I just wanted to catch you up on a couple of things.”

“About the sketch?”

“Yes. Rick remembered where he'd seen the man.”

“Really? Do we know who he is? Have you found him?”

Ben smiled. There was no doubting January's persistence.

“Yes, really. No, we don't know who he is, and no, we haven't found him—yet. However, there's a plus we didn't count on. He's already in the system.”

“You mean he's a criminal?”

“Not in so many words, but he
has
been arrested for disturbing the peace.”

“What's his name?” she asked.

“That's a small issue we have yet to solve. The only name he gave the cops was Sinner.”

“Oh, Ben, it's him. It has to be him. There can't be two men calling themselves the same thing.” January shivered. Finally they were on to something.

“I don't suppose you have any address or next of kin?”

“Nothing like that.”

She sighed. “Where had Rick seen him? Had he arrested him? Maybe if we—”

“As it turns out, your Sinner was on the news a while back. They removed him from the steps of the IRS building. Seems he was preaching some stuff about kicking the employees out of the building.”

“The employees? What do they have to do with anything?” she asked.

“Who knows?” Ben said.

January frowned. “It has to mean something. Everything else he's done seems to be some crazy attempt to copy the life that Christ lived. So…the IRS has to do with money and—oh! That's it! The money changers. Remember in the Bible when Jesus went into the temple and threw out the money changers? It's the same skewed reasoning he's used on everything else he's done.”

Ben was amazed at the way her mind worked.

“You know something, lady? That sounds just wacky enough to make sense, at least from this guy's point of view. Money changers? Yeah, that would fit. But it still doesn't explain why he killed Bart Scofield. If he's trying to recreate the life of Jesus, that doesn't fly.”

“Think of it this way,” January said. “For whatever reason, he believes he has to take each step the Bible says Jesus Christ took. He told me that Scofield was the wrong one. That doesn't mean he won't get himself another Bartholomew. And there's one other thing I didn't tell you, because I have no way of knowing he was involved. Still, it fits.”

“What?” Ben asked.

January hesitated. All of this was so far-fetched that it sounded crazy to say any of it aloud, but there was no denying the facts as she knew them.

“You remember the Vietnam War vet who was beheaded?”

“All too vividly,” Ben said.

“You remember his name?”

“Yes, Jean Baptiste, but what does—?”

“Say his name in English,” she said.

“What…you mean John Baptist? What does…oh shit. John the Baptist?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I feel sick,” Ben muttered.

January knew what he meant. She'd gone through the same disbelief months ago when the pattern had begun to emerge.

“You've got to find him,” January said.

“No kidding. But at least now we know where you and Meeks saw him,” Ben said.

“Oh…no, that's not my memory of him. Not at all. I don't know where I was when that piece aired, but I'm completely unaware of it,” January said.

Ben frowned. “Really? Well, let me know if you remember anything. It might be the key to finding him.”

Another wave of guilt dug at her conscience. The fact that she'd seen him on the street in the rain and in a park early one morning told them nothing. She wasn't willing to admit he might be stalking her, for fear the police would do something that might send him into hiding. Also, if the cops thought she was in danger, they might limit her freedom to come and go to the point that she couldn't do her job. For now, what little else she knew she would keep to herself.

“Yes, I will let you know if I remember. Oh, another thing. What's your captain going to do with the sketch? Is he going to put it out in the papers?”

“No. We have copies all over the precinct, but we don't want this head case to run. If he gets wind that we're onto him, we might never find him.”

“Of course,” January said. “I wasn't thinking. I just…” She sighed. “I have this really bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of him.”

“I know. So I'll see you tomorrow night?”

“Absolutely,” January said.

“Do I need to bring music to dance to?”

She grinned. “You listen to music?”

“Just because I can't dance doesn't mean I can't sing.”

“You sing?” she asked.

“No.”

She laughed again. This time louder. This time longer.

He loved the sound of her laugh, and he wasn't sure, but he might be falling in love with
her,
too.

 

January woke early to take a morning run through the park before going to work. After all the pasta she'd had last night, she needed at least a two-mile run—maybe longer, if she had the time. She thought about the possibility of running into the Sinner again, then shrugged it off.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth and put her hair up in a ponytail. The weatherman had predicted rain, but from the looks of the sky, she figured she had plenty of time for her workout before the weather changed.

She chose a pair of lightweight sweatpants, a sports bra topped by a sleeveless tee, and her most comfortable pair of running shoes, pocketed her house key and headed out the door.

As always, she paused at the curb, checked the traffic both ways, then crossed the street and started to jog. When she reached the intersection, she turned right. Within a few moments, she was out of sight of her apartment building and on her way to the park.