Page 17 of Go First
The murmurs were more like shouts this time, increasing to the point where the chair-woman blew her whistle.
“People, we speak one at a time in this room, please.PEOPLE.”
Eventually, order returned to the room.Another victim spoke up about Whitfield, and another.Words filled the room, under them a current of shame, bitterness and determination, but not violence.If people were angry, it seemed to be more because the killer had robbed them of the possibility of justice; official justice, meted out in the courts, with a long stretch of federal jail time.
Then came the break.Styrofoam cups, appalling coffee, a box of donuts that had never been fresh.
“Anyone heard from Hector?”one man asked, his voice pitched low.
“He was at both the Wednesday meetings,” another murmured.“No sign of him yesterday or today.”
“Nothing on the chat-group, either,” said the silver-haired woman.“Plenty of people with plenty to say about the Pastor.But Hector hasn’t said zip.”
Concern flickered in their voices.“It had to have hit him hard.He might be slipping again.”
Kate, standing nearby, pricked up her ears.But the moment the group noticed her interest, their voices dropped.Eyes slid toward her, hard, appraising.
“So,” the woman demanded in her husky voice.“What brings you here?”
That wasn’t friendly curiosity.Kate felt the weight of suspicion, the brittle edge of protectiveness that comes from wounded people guarding their own.Before she could answer, the chairwoman spoke firmly: “Gilly, you know what the charter says.No one has to explain why they’re here.All are welcome, whether they contribute or say nothing at all.”
The tension ebbed, but only slightly.They returned to their seats for the second half, one woman giving Kate a clear, unblinking stare, just long enough for the message to get through.You are not welcome here.Another woman read from a spiritual self-help book, her voice soft but unsteady.Words about acceptance, healing, and letting go floated into the stale air.Kate’s attention drifted.Taking care to avoid the woman who’d stared, Kate’s gaze lingered on the closed faces around her, on the clutched cups, the restless feet squeaking on the linoleum.Her mind kept returning to the same name: Hector.The secrecy, the unease.Whatever they were, or weren’t saying about him—it seemed to matter. Maybe she was just focussing on it because she had no other leads at the moment.But that didn’t mean it wasn’t important.And if she’d learnt anything during her years as an investigator, it was to trust in her instincts, to heed that quiet inner voice.
The meeting came to a close with various affirmations and prayers.Then there were announcements.Someone was ‘starring’ (her words) in a two-handed play at the Circle Theatre, and seats were still available.The monthly Quiz Night was next Monday, the special subject was Motown, and Garth was going to need a lift home because his car was back in the auto-shop again.Groans and chuckles greeted this last bit of news, and Kate was reminded of the weekly briefings in her own department of the Bureau.Shared gossip, long-standing gripes and jokes, the gentle familiarity forged in groups who meet again and again, over many months and years. She felt a strong desire to be back there, in her office, among friends.Or at least, among people who didn’t suspect her.
“Sorry I can’t ferry you back, O’Malley said, as they pulled on their coats in the corridor.“I have a lesson uptown.”
“A lesson.Are you studying something?”Kate asked.
“Yes,” O’Malley replied, abruptly.A painful silence followed.
“Okay, well… No problem.Thank you for inviting me,” Kate replied, aware that she was blushing. It was an awkward, formal moment, like the end of a date that hadn’t gone well.
“I trust you found it useful,” O’Malley said.
Kate wasn’t sure what to say.It had been useful to learn about the damage the Pastor had inflicted on people, but she could have found that out for herself. The only thing she’d come away with was the name of one guy, Hector Martinez, around whom there might have been some concern.Or not. And given that Whitfield had conned at least three thousand people, the odds were not exactly pointing in one, sole direction.
She headed out into the rainy evening, picking her way though a little knot of people who were clearly waiting for the next meeting.She wondered what common cause had brought them there.Addictions?Loss?Broken hearts?Narcissistic partners?The city had to be full of rooms like this, where people poured their hearts out to one another, let fly their grief and shame and fury, and found the strength to carry on tomorrow. Was that what O’Malley had wanted her to see?But why?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket; she took it out.Marcus.
“How was your meeting with O’Malley?”
“Odd.I’m heading back now.What news?”
“The M.E.sent over some amendments to his report.”
“Uh-oh.” The medical examiner in question, Colin Rafter, was famous for doing this.So famous that these amendments were known asRafterthoughts.
“Don’t panic.It doesn’t change anything, it’s just… well, it’s weird.”
“More weirdness.Great.”
“Trace elements of an organic compound were found on the remaining anterior portions of the palatoglossus.Which in English means: he found some stuff left on the bits of the tongue that weren’t cut out.Microscopic quantities.”
“What stuff?”
“It was so unexpected that he thought at first it had to be chance contamination.But in two separate sites.”