Page 15 of Go First
“There might be a footprint.”
“Has the secretary sent the CCTV footage over yet?”
“I’ll chase.”
The conversation energized them both; it felt good to have some tasks ahead, lines of enquiry, waiting to be mined.But at the same time, the weight of the case settled on Kate’s chest, heavy and draining.As she gazed out of the window at the rain-slicked streets of Portland, she couldn’t help but wonder how many more lives would be touched by this darkness before it was finally extinguished.
CHAPTER SIX
And Friday wore on, the light giving way to winter darkness as a relentless grind of dead ends and half-truths trundled past.Marcus, fueled by caffeine and sheer stubbornness, continued to sift through the records of Pastor Whitfield's former employees, hoping to find some disgruntled soul with a motive for murder.Kate, meanwhile, spent hours on the phone, conducting telephone interviews with current and former church members, each conversation a carefully scripted dance around the topic of Jonathan Whitfield's character.
"He was what we mean when we talk about a saint," one woman gushed, her voice thick with authentic emotion."A true man of God.He touched so many lives."
"The Pastor was a beacon of light," another declared, "a guiding star in a world of darkness."
Kate listened patiently, making notes, asking pointed questions, but never quite convinced that she was hearing the whole story, or, in quite a lot of cases, any of it.It reminded her slightly of what happened when world leaders and other people of that supposed magnitude passed away.Within minutes, a pre-packed narrative was delivered to the waiting masses, unquestioned, unquestionable, even by the FBI.
“Did anyone ever find him intimidating?”she'd ask.“Did he ever get angry or threatening?”
“Never, he was the most gentle person I’ve known.A true servant of God.Even when he was discussing things that mattered to him personally, like injustice or… or poverty, he did it with a calm voice and peace in his heart.”
Of course he did, Kate thought cynically.He didn't want anyone looking at those particular topics too closely.Becausehewas the injustice, hewas the cause of that poverty, the Pastor and his god-bolstered double-tiered swindle.
“Did you come across anybody who was angry with the Pastor, for any reason?”
And here, the answer was one of blank, almost childlike innocence.
"Now, how couldanybody everbe angry at the Pastor?"
A snow job.
That was what Marcus called it.And he was right.
They were getting nowhere.The more people they talked to, the more convinced Kate and Marcus became that they were being played, that a carefully orchestrated campaign of deception was underway, designed to protect Jonathan Whitfield's legacy and obscure the truth.
As the afternoon wore on, the story of Whitfield's gruesome death began to break in the news media, sending shockwaves through the nation.The headlines were lurid and sensational, designed to grab attention and sell the products being hawked alongside them: "Holy Horror!Pastor's Tongue Ripped Out," one screamed."Divine Retribution or Devilish Act?"asked another.
Alongside the perma-stink of printer ink, sweat, and coffee, the air in the Portland field office grew thick with tension.The phones started ringing nonstop, journalists clamoring for information, offering outlandish theories, and seeking interviews with anyone who might shed light on the story.Winters, naturally, had issued a strict gag order, forbidding anyone from speaking to the media without her express permission.
But someone had already talked.The tongue hadn’t featured in the formal press release.So, despite many sternly worded warnings to the contrary, there was now a book running on who’d leaked.The odds, according to Marcus, were 6-1 Feds, 4-1 Forensics/Despatch, 3-1 ambulance/other medical and 5-4 cops.Cops were always the favorite, not because they had less integrity than any of the others, but because, dollar for dollar, they were just the worst paid.
In the midst of this chaos, a figure materialized beside Kate's desk, his bright bowtie practically vibrating with nervous energy.
“Agent Valentine.”
“Mr O’Malley.”
“Rough day?”he asked.
“You could say that,” Kate responded, fighting the urge to snap.“These media people want to know every aspect of this case, and they’re inventing half of it themselves.”
“Well, the press has never let the truth get in the way of a good story,” O’Malley said.“Anyway, the reason I’m here.I think a little relaxation could do wonders for this weary investigator.”
Kate stared at him.“O’Malley, I’ve encountered that ‘oh you’re so tense, let me give you a massage’ number before, and, believe me, there was no happy ending.”
O’Malley cleared his throat awkwardly. “That is not on the menu, I assure you.”
“Okay, what is?”Kate asked.