The Killing of Bobbi Lomax (16 page)

‘Overwhelming’. ‘Awesome’. ‘Privileged’. Clark didn’t know how many times he’d repeated those words in the past ten minutes or so, but it was way less than the word ‘blessed’. He’d used ‘blessed’ a lot. Usually with his hand pressed close to his chest, somewhere near his heart, peppered with occasional flourishes of clasped hands, closed eyes and an almost imperceptible bow of the head. He was the humble Follower. The blessed humble Follower who had rejoiced when it was attested by the Faith’s own historical archivists that he had discovered the Prophet’s original Testament of Faith.

Clark had rehearsed his responses earlier in the half hour after Laidlaw had shown him the pre-approved list of questions selected for the morning’s press conference by the Faith’s PR department. There were TV cameras present and rolling. The Faith considered it reckless to allow uncensored questions. Particularly when your leaders’ responses would be recorded and beamed out of context into living rooms around the world via the evening news. The journalists, the Faith’s usual favorites, were dotted around the room, to give the appearance of democracy and spontaneity. Their questions bland, congratulatory. They sounded more like members of the Faith’s PR team than journalists. Clark doubted they even knew the meaning of the word ‘journalism’.

His jaw was starting to tire from smiling when, after the barrage of blandness and suffocating congratulations, an almost forgotten question, the one Clark would have asked first, was asked. ‘Excuse me, sir, could you repeat that?’ said Clark. He wanted to draw focus to it, so everyone could hear it.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Houseman.’ The young man, whom one could easily have mistaken for an overgrown Boy Scout, stood up, and this time took care to enunciate his every word. ‘How exactly did you find it? The Prophet’s Testament of Faith?’

‘Exactly?’ Clark wondered how long he could delay his response for as he felt the tension levels rise, as the Disciples all seated alongside him silently wondered exactly how much detail he would reveal of his find. God is in the detail. But detail will kill you too. He knew they feared him mentioning the Bible. The Bright Bible, which they’d probably already locked away in their secret vaults. Or burnt.

‘The Testament of Faith was discovered . . .’ Clark thought back to his discovery, thought back to how something so contrived, so manufactured, could appear so natural, so spontaneous, so organic. He thought about his long trip hundreds of miles upstate. He looked down at the Testament. The almost tobacco-coloured page unrecognizable from its original incarnation as a far less yellow page of a large State Land tract that Clark had stolen wholesale from the State Land Records and Deed Office. He had only needed a quarter of it, but there were a few scattered researchers in the library, so rather than noisily ripping off the piece he needed, it had been far easier to just fold it up and slide it down the back of his trousers, covering it over with first his shirt, then his flyer’s jacket. He had needed a piece of 1836 paper, or one produced before that time. Very helpfully, in the public spirit, the Deeds office had arranged their box files in chronological order. Finding a piece of paper that had been partially used had been quicker than he thought. Several of the Deeds and Tracts had been written on much larger pieces of paper and then the whole folded in on itself so the blank parts of the page acted as a kind of envelope. He could have been out in less than ten minutes, but instead, he made sure to take a couple of boxes back to the desks near the librarian and pretend to take notes whilst mulling over dull tracts selling off one piece of barren land after another. The paper dug into him, but he could live with the pain. That which does not kill you.

Later, back in his den, he’d used a clean quill from his turkey stash dipped into a freshly made pot of 1836 ink. A lot of Germans had made it to Abraham City at the time, and Bright had a German lieutenant, so it was only reasonable that his techniques may have filtered down to Bright and Rebecca. When Clark had returned the boxes to the shelf, he took down a box marked ‘1838’ and took out another large-paged tract and shoved that also down the back of his pants. He didn’t want to have to come back too often. Some places it was best to stay under the radar. Thankfully he had a great memory for faces. If he had to go back and there was a different assistant on, he would sign in under Clifford Hartman, in a different hand, and not as Clark Houseman. If anyone ever read the library visitors’ book, he didn’t want to be noticed as a regular.

Exactly.

Clark smiled along the line of Disciples. They seemed to be holding their breath. Clark looked over the heads of the journos to the back of the room. ‘Exactly . . . well, it was discovered by Mr Rook over there, in an antique volume I brought him for appraisal.’

All eyes followed Clark’s gaze toward Rod Rook. He was sat next to Ron, crowded into the back row. Rod acknowledged the curious stares with his customary clasped hands. Ron reciprocated, beaming a wide, proud smile. No doubt thinking, by association, he’d sell a lot more coins this week.

‘How much did they pay for it?’

It was her.

She stood up.

Amongst the sea of men in black suits, she was an angel, in a white trouser suit, her hair and face so white Clark thought they shimmered under the lights. Her crystal-clear voice made everyone in the room sit up and pay attention, including the Disciples, who were just beginning to relax. From somewhere along the podium Clark heard someone say, before she’d barely got a sentence out, ‘No more questions. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.’ They had started to shift back in their seats, as if about to move away.

‘Oh, I think you’ll find it’s a priceless document for our Faith, Mrs . . . ?’

‘Ms, Ms Franklin.’

Ms Debra Franklin. In the flesh.

Laidlaw leaned in towards the mic. ‘As Mr Houseman says, it is indeed a priceless document. A miraculous document. Thank you, Miss Franklin.’

She was undeterred. ‘I didn’t mean that one.’

She nodded towards where, on the table at Clark’s fingertips, sat the Testament safely tucked into a see-through plastic folder.

‘We’ve taken all the questions for today. Thank you for attending, gentlemen.’ Laidlaw looked at her. ‘Miss Franklin.’

Around her, the other journalists were packing away their dictaphones and notepads. She didn’t move. ‘Could you tell me, gentlemen, what is the purpose of the Faith buying the so-called “Bright Bible”? Which I understand you considerably outbid the Real Faith in order to secure.’

‘As you know, Miss Franklin, we don’t discuss our collections. So we can neither confirm or deny what you say.’

‘But surely if you hadn’t bought it, you could say that?’ She leaned forward now, her hand-held recorder pushed out as far as her arm could stretch, over the heads of the other journos.

Laidlaw stood up. His lips pursed. Clark could see him trying to smile through them, aware the cameras might still be rolling. He bent down towards his microphone. ‘Thank you for your question, Miss Franklin, but we are done for the day.’

‘So, are you denying you bought the so-called Bright Bible?’

Clark leant back in his seat, looked along the row at the Disciples’ faces: their jaws were set, silently urging Laidlaw to close this down and fast. Clark could see that some of the other journos had sat back down now, shifting in their seats, scribbling her questions and Laidlaw’s answers. None of the other Disciples around him dared to intervene.

‘But if you had purchased it, what would you do with such a historical document, detailing as it does Robert Bright’s three wives? Wives the Faith seems to have conveniently forgotten?’

‘Today is a celebration of the miracle that has brought the Testament of Faith back to where it belongs. We should focus on that, Miss Franklin,’ said Laidlaw through gritted teeth.

‘Surely it would be a double miracle if this Bible exists? Genuine, as it sounds from the description I’ve heard.’

A miracle. Yes, but not for the Faith. For the Real Faith. She was goading him and Laidlaw, reeling onto the ropes now, struggled to get away from her without taking any more blows. Before she could get out another question he said: ‘We are only answering submitted questions. But your biased agenda is clear, as always,
Miss
Franklin.’ He was sounding more aggressive; next he might actually tell her to shut the hell up. Clark could not have envisioned the opportunity Laidlaw was affording him. A chance to show his true allegiance to the Faith and its leaders. Clark stood up, holding the Testament. He put his hand gently but firmly on Laidlaw’s arm, and pushed him softly down, back towards his seat next to the other Disciples. Clark bent towards the media mic in front of him, and smiled his megawatt smile. ‘Thank you all for coming, Ms Franklin, gentlemen. Refreshments are now being served in the library, where I would be happy to show you the original Testament of Faith. We have prepared Xerox copies for you all.’ At the mention of refreshments most of the journalists were noisily on their feet and headed towards the library. Clark looked back at Laidlaw and the disciples. They all nodded gratefully at Clark as the room broke up – and the red light on the camera switched off. ‘Blasted woman,’ said Laidlaw, his hand over the table mic. ‘She’s always scratching around for some scandal or other.’

‘I guess Reno put her up to it.’ Clark couldn’t call them the Real Faith, not here. He looked out at the press pit, as the remaining journos, obviously from more liberal news organisations, made a beeline for Debra Franklin. Closely followed by two dark-suited members of the Faith’s PR team. The journos and the PR boys would be keen to have a clue to her source, albeit for very different reasons.

‘I guess they’re hoping you’ll sell them the Bible now.’

‘They can hope all they want,’ said Laidlaw. ‘It’s not for sale.’

‘If I could ask you to wait there a moment, gentlemen, I’ll just get a couple of shots for official release.’ Clark noticed the guy didn’t have a press pass. He must be the Faith’s go-to photographer. They didn’t want unflattering or undignified pictures of their leaders peering out from the morning’s newspapers.

As the photographer settled them all into the frame, Clark looked up, directly into the camera. He felt the others shuffle into position around him. He watched the photographer’s hands, one hovering near the button, the other clutching the large flashbulb and ushering them all closer. Clark pushed the Testament of Faith closer towards the camera. Everybody set. A hand on the shoulder. Peter’s. Squeezed him. A whisper. Well done. The Supreme Leader, sat to his right, put his hand forward onto the top corner of the Testament next to Clark’s.

‘Quite a find, son. Truly marvellous.’

Clark didn’t take his eyes from the camera. ‘I think I’m getting a nose for it.’

As he waited for the photographer to click the shutter Clark knew he would have two lives. His life before this moment. And his life after it.

They made their way out of the precinct, around the side of the lot, towards the far end of it, where what passed for the state’s first, and only, forensics lab sat like some kind of shiny mirage amongst the clutch of rusting cop cars long ago abandoned to the extremes of the desert temperatures.

Marty, the code forgotten, stepped aside as Al punched it in. ‘What is it?’ said Marty.

Al tapped the side of his nose, that would be telling, and pushed the door open for Marty, following him in, the wooden door slamming behind them. Whittaker turned to them.

‘Don’t touch anything. Yet. Gloves.’ Whittaker indicated a large box of latex gloves next to the door. They each grabbed a pair. ‘Come on. I’ll give you the nickel tour.’

They looked around at all the tables groaning under the weight of thousands of transparent baggies, most of which seemed to contain nothing but unrecognizable fragments.

‘Looks a mess,’ said Al.

‘Nature of the beast,’ said Whittaker, leading them to the far side of the room. ‘Hopefully, even the ultimate chaos yields order.’

‘Here’s hoping,’ said Marty. ‘Because right now we could do with a little.’

‘And maybe even a few clues.’

‘We got a couple of tables going for each bombing. The cars are out back in the shed. We’re still going over those. But this is Mrs Lomax’s evidence. Right behind you is Gudsen. Next to him, Houseman, and lastly, over by the door, today’s: Mr Angel. We’ve prioritised certain elements of each for fingerprints. But we’re striking out. Nothing on the boxes, on the ribbons, or on any of the bomb housings.’

‘He wore gloves?’

‘Not necessarily. It just means the explosions and/or fires wiped out what was there.’

‘So we might luck out?’

‘Sure. I’ve sent my guys back out to each of the sites again, in case we missed anything,’ said Whittaker.

‘Like what?’

‘For starters: this.’

Whittaker moved back across to the table by the door. Dog Angel. He held up a baggie with a small dented clump of what looked like lead.

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a blast cap. The bombs were all pipe bombs. You stuff each end with a lead cap. We only found one at this scene.’

‘Was that why it was a smaller explosion?’

‘Possibly, Marty. Although perhaps it was a smaller device. You’d have to ask Tex about that. It’s possible that it’s there and we just didn’t find it first time around.’

‘Perhaps it got blown to smithereens, huh?’

‘We don’t think so, Al. We got all the others.’

‘Maybe he ran out, used something else?’

‘Possibly. I’ll let you know how my guys get on. We’re searching for whatever we can find.’

Footsteps from out the back, from the car shed. Marty looked up as Big Tex emerged from the open doorway. He was wearing gloves, but his hands were smeared with oil and grease. ‘Hey, Mart. I bet you’re wondering how Mr Houseman managed to blow up two others and then himself, plus another one while he was laid up in County?’

Marty smiled. ‘It had crossed my mind. Your theory taking a knock?’

‘Like hell it is.’ Tex had taken off his dirty gloves and was replacing them with a fresh pair as he moved fast across the room towards where they still stood at the Angel table. ‘And this proves it.’ He picked up a baggie. Mangled metal inside it.

‘What’s that?’

Big Tex grinned like all his numbers just came up in the lottery. ‘A timer. That’s what.’

Marty and Al peered closer. ‘We’ll take your word for that,’ said Marty.

‘Do. The cunning son of a bitch used three tilts . . . and, today’s, a timer. So much for a bomber’s signature.’

‘That’s some planning,’ said Al.

‘So, you still think he blew himself up. Maybe on purpose?’

‘That I don’t know, Mart. I just do facts.’

‘Sure,’ said Marty. ‘Well, four bombs is a fact. No matter what was used. But Houseman as the bomber, that’s not fact, just supposition. In fact, if the timer was set to go off
after
all the others, but set before the first bomb, then that throws suspicion not just on Houseman but all the victims, including the dead ones.’

‘I hear ya, Marty,’ said Tex.

‘Yeah. And who’s to say Houseman or one of the others didn’t have an accomplice? Either one of the other victims, or some other SOB who’s still running around town, planning who knows what?’

‘Al’s right, Tex. We got nothing else here. No fingerprints. Nothing. Any of these guys could be the accomplice of the other. Or none. Who would Houseman’s accomplice be?’

‘The wife maybe?’ said Al.

‘Not unless she’s got Stockholm Syndrome,’ said Marty. ‘And I don’t think she has. She’s a loyal Faith wife, but I don’t think it stretches to murder.’

‘Maybe the timer’s his only accomplice.’

‘It might be the only one, Tex. Sure. For any of them. What was all that stuff in Houseman’s trunk, Whittaker? Did you dry it all out?’

‘Looks like a lot of old paper.’

‘What you hoping for, Mart, a scrawled confession?’

‘That’d be nice.’

‘Wouldn’t it? Then maybe we could go home,’ said Al.

‘Show me where it is.’

‘Sure, Mart. Back over here.’

They moved as a unit, following Whittaker back over to the far corner of the room. ‘It’s all here,’ he pulled out a huge cardboard box out from under the table. It was stuffed with small baggies. Marty pulled out one. A tiny piece of browned paper, so small it only contained the merest hint of a pen mark, not even a letter. He pulled out another. ‘They’re all like that, Marty. Each piece in a separate bag. There’s over forty-eight hundred pieces in there. Four boxes full.’

Marty looked under the table at the other boxes. ‘Any idea what it is?’

‘None,’ said Whittaker.

‘The longest confession in history,’ said Al.

‘And we just don’t have time to find out now. Like I said, we’re . . .’

‘Prioritising. I know.’ Marty turned to Tex and Al. ‘What’s Houseman’s motivation?’

Al shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anger. If he’s invested with Lomax and Gudsen and lost his money.’

‘Is he on the List?’

‘What list?’

‘Jesus, Al. The List. The disgruntled three thousand.’

‘I didn’t see his name.’

‘Check again for any of his family: wife, parents, sister-in-law, the lot.’

‘How about Angel? He wasn’t an investor?’

‘No, he said not.’

‘Check him again. But if Angel wasn’t an investor and it turns out he isn’t connected to Lomax and Gudsen, even through his clients, and judging by the fact he most likely wasn’t parked in his usual spot, he probably wasn’t the target.’

‘No? Then who?’

‘I don’t know. But whoever they were, they got business somewhere along that strip.’

‘The deli and all that?’

‘Yeah. ’Cos even if the timer was supposed to go off the same day as any of the other bombs, that car was parked there deliberately. Whoever Angel saw, they weren’t in any hurry, not panicked in any way, and a few days later the car is still there. And then, boom. Looks like that beagle was right, they were worthy of barking at.’

‘Don’t forget, Mart. The first bomb. The nail bomb. Someone hated Gudsen more than they hated the rest of ’em.’

‘Or wanted us to think they did, Tex.’

Bang.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

‘Looks like you’re not the only one forgot the code.’ Al moved across to open the door. It was barely open before someone was pushing their way through. The Captain.

‘So this is where you all are.’

No one answered, they just stared at him. Probably wondering why he was wearing a tux to visit the forensics shed. Another back-slapping function, no doubt. Tough at the top.

Whittaker broke the silence. ‘Good to see you, Captain. You haven’t been over here since you helped the Sheriff cut the ribbon.’

The Captain mumbled something inaudible back at him, then turned to Marty.

‘You do realise I’m on the board of the Mission.’

What he should have said was: You do realise I’m trying to ingratiate myself a place in the Supreme Chamber. Marty looked him square in the eyes. ‘You realise I’m a cop, sir?’

‘Yeah, one with a grudge against the Faith.’

‘I’m not the one with the grudge, sir.’

‘Against Laidlaw and who knows who else. What’s all this got to do with the Faith, anyhow?’

‘Haven’t you noticed, Captain, everything in this town has something to do with the Faith?’

‘Keep it in check, Detective, or I’ll have you directing traffic on the freeway . . . or was it closing down the exits?’

So it had been Laidlaw on the phone.

The Captain looked over Marty’s shoulder and his eyes fell on table after table of bagged evidence. He looked as if he’d woken up from a sleepwalk to find himself on an alien planet. ‘In the name of our Lord Prophet: what’s all this mess?’

‘Our case, sir.’

‘This is it?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Get someone in the frame for this, Marty. No one wants the Feds down here, sticking their nose in everything, and I’m not going to be able to keep them out much longer if we don’t close this case.’

Marty wanted to ask if it mattered whether they were guilty or innocent, but knew it didn’t. What the Captain meant was the Faith didn’t want the Feds here. Marty didn’t much either. They’d lost opportunity after opportunity to find Liss. Although the Faith hadn’t exactly facilitated their presence in the Canyon, Marty believed the Feds when they said the Faith had hampered them at every turn.

‘We need warrants.’

‘Warrants? For what?’

‘Searches. Homes. Businesses. Gudsen. Lomax. Houseman. Angel.’

‘The
victims’
homes, businesses? Have you gone crazy? You got probable cause?’

‘We’re working on it.’

‘No probable cause and you want warrants? Are you trying to get me fired?’

No. But it was an idea.

‘Nobody stops until we find this guy. Nobody.’

Marty guessed he meant everyone in the room not wearing a tux. He watched as the door banged shut.

A collective smile. Shakes of the head. A whistle from Tex. ‘Someone’s got their panties in a bunch.’

‘Glad he’s not my boss,’ said Whittaker.

‘I’ll second that,’ said Tex.

‘Count yourselves lucky,’ said Marty.

‘What now?’ said Al.

‘I’m going to get us our warrants.’

Al raised his eyebrows. ‘From on high?’

‘Pretty close.’

‘You want an assist?’

‘Better I go on my own. Can you get a couple of uniforms to take those boxes over to the evidence room for when I get back? That OK, Whittaker?’

‘Sure, if you use their side room. I’ll give you some sheeting also. I’ll seal the boxes. Give you a pack of gloves.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What are you going to do with it all, Mart?’ said Al.

‘Put the shit together, of course.’

‘All that?’ said Al.

‘Every last piece.’

‘Hell,’ said Tex. ‘The Captain’s right: you are crazy.’