The Lord is My Shepherd

  “Maybe it was the shock of being confronted with all of his crimes, especially by a church secretary.”

  “I don't buy it,” Mark said.

  Paul shook his head. “Stranger things have happened. Maybe his conscience is getting the best of him. Or maybe she really knew how to push his buttons.”

  “Maybe. Okay, it's showtime,” Mark said. Moments later he entered the room that held Oliver.

  Oliver stared at him as though he didn't quite see him. The man didn't look good. For a moment Mark wondered if he was ill.

  “Oliver, I'm Detective Mark Walters,” he said as he sat down across from Oliver.

  “I know who you are.”

  “And now we know who you are,” Mark said pointedly.

  “Do you? Do you really?”

  It was something in the tone of his voice that gave Mark pause. He stared at the other man, trying to figure out what it was that seemed so off about him, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. He looked ragged, like a man who hadn't slept for a while. Mark could relate.

  “Yeah, you're the guy who's been running around town killing people,” he said at last.

  Oliver gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “You confessed to that a little while ago. You also confessed to murders in several other states.”

  “Yes, I did,” Oliver said.

  “So, tell me about the murders this week,” Mark said.

  Oliver shrugged. “What's to tell? People are dead. I killed them. End of story.”

  “So you've said. Unfortunately, I'm going to need a little more than that from you.”

  “What do you want to know?” Oliver asked.

  “I want to know why. Tell me why.”

  “People are basically evil. They need to be taught a lesson.”

  “And you think you're just the person to do that?” Mark asked. He had a hard time seeing this guy as a vigilante.

  Oliver nodded.

  “Tell me about the guy on the donkey.”

  “It's a representation of Christ's triumphal entry into Jerusalem just days before his betrayal and execution.”

  “No, I got that. Why did you choose Miguel Jesus Olivera?” Mark asked.

  What little color was there drained from Oliver's face.

  “Because, because his … middle name … was Jesus,” Oliver stammered.

  “And where did you get the donkey?”

  “I, uh, stole it.”

  “What color was the donkey?” Mark asked.

  “What?” Oliver asked.

  “I want you to tell me what color the donkey was,” Mark insisted, leaning forward.

  “Brown, no grey. It was grey.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Yeah, I think. It was dark.”

  It took all of Mark's self-control not to swear.

  “Okay, let's talk about the money changer.”

  “Christ drove them from the temple.”

  “Yeah, I got that too. That's why you chose a check-cashing place that was next to a church, so you could make your point painfully obvious. What I don't get is why there was a sheep tied up in the back of the shop with blood poured over him.”

  “The sheep means …” “Yes?”

  “Uh, the sheep is significant because one of the things the money changers did was overcharge for sacrifices.”

  “Sacrifices?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, to help atone for sin.”

  “So why did you leave the sheep alive instead of sacrificing it?”

  “Because I'm not looking for forgiveness,” Oliver said vehemently.

  This wasn't good. The donkey had been ivory, and he was making up answers about a sheep that didn't exist. Either the guy was completely insane, or he was lying about being the killer.

  Mark leaned back. “Tell me about the dead guy in the church.”

  “His name was Ryan. Ryan Bellig. He was from Raleigh. We were friends once.”

  “Really? What you did to him didn't look very friendly to me,” Mark noted.

  Tears sprang to Oliver's eyes. “He blamed me for the death of his wife and daughter. Somehow he found me. He demanded to meet with me in private before going to the police. I was hoping I'd have a chance to explain.”

  “Explain what?” Mark pressed.

  “That I …” Oliver paused, thought quickening in his eyes. “That I never wanted to hurt them. And I certainly didn't want to hurt Ryan.”

  “So, why did you bring a knife with you then?”

  “It wasn't mine. It was his. Turns out he didn't want an explanation. He wanted revenge.”

  “Can you blame him?”

  “No,” Oliver said, the tears now coursing down his cheeks. “He came after me. I grabbed for the knife. We scuffled. I got it away from him. I still hoped to talk. But he lunged at me, and the knife—”

  He buried his face in his hands, and Mark watched him for a moment. “How did you get into the sanctuary?”

  “I stole Harold's key at the Shepherd's meeting on Saturday.”

  “Tell me about the cross.”

  “I think the chain must have broken in the scuffle. I didn't realize I had lost it until the next day, but I'm still not sure where or how. There aren't many of those crosses, you know? They're special. They mean something. I went back to check the church, but police were everywhere. I learned that Cindy found the body, so I went over to her house, but I didn't see it. Then I went back later and broke into her house to see if she had it.”

  “How did you break into her house?”

  “When I first moved to the area I rented a house from Harold. He always leaves a spare key hidden just in case. I found Cindy's and went through the front door.”

  “And then you left it open when you left,” Mark said, trying to trip up Oliver's story.

  “No! I relocked it. I was afraid a real thief might take advantage, and I didn't want that to happen.”

  “Okay, then what about the woman and the man?”

  “What about them?” Oliver asked.

  “Why them?”

  “Isn't it obvious?”

  “No, but what is obvious is that you're lying to me. What, are you in need of attention or something? Having a little dinner with Cindy, breaking into her house to be close to her, trying to flirt with her, get her attention? Then maybe confess to crimes you didn't commit just so she'll notice? That's stupid, because let me tell you, there are a lot more effective ways to get a woman's attention.”

  “But I am the killer!” Oliver protested.

  “I don't buy it. Maybe you killed Ryan Bellig just like you said, but not the others.”

  The door opened, and Mark glanced up at Paul. His face was grim, but he didn't say a word, and he didn't look at Oliver. He handed Mark a sheet of paper before exiting the room.

  Mark glanced at the paper. “So, I was right. You didn't kill all those people.”

  “But I did. They're dead because of me.”

  Mark shook his head. “No, because when the man and the woman were killed yesterday morning, you were already at work. In fact, you were in a meeting with your boss for over an hour. He's verified it.”

  “Maybe I have an accomplice,” Oliver said.

  “Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I'm glad it's not mine.”

  Mark stood up and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Oliver asked, his voice laced with panic.

  “To find the real killer,” Mark said.

  He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  “Cut him loose?” Paul asked.

  Mark nodded.

  “What about the Bellig murder?”

  “It's possible he's responsible for that one. If so, though, it sounds like it was self-defense.”

  “You don't want to hold him on it?”

  “No, I want to put him back out there and see what our killer makes of that. Too many signs point to Oliver. I'm starting to think it's because someone wanted them to.”

&nbs
p; “I'll set up a team to follow him, see what we can flush out,” Paul said.

  “Just what I was thinking,” Mark agreed.

  “You know, I've been a cop for fifteen years, and I still don't get why some people confess to crimes they didn't commit.”

  “Guilt, fear, or gain. Those are the only three reasons anyone does anything.”

  “Nice,” Paul answered with a roll of his eyes.

  Mark shrugged. “It's not my fault it's the truth.”

  “No, but I can blame you for spreading your gospel of truth. I, for one, don't want to hear it.”

  “The question is,” Mark said, “which one is motivating Oliver?”

  “I rule out gain since I can't see anything he could possibly get from confessing.”

  “Then let's hope it's fear. Maybe the killer is targeting him and he knows it.”

  “If that's the case, isn't it risky putting him back out there where the killer can find him?”

  “Yes, but it's Thursday, and right now it's a risk I'm willing to take,” Mark said.

  “Fair enough.”

  Mark headed for the door. There was still a killer on the loose, and the clock was ticking. Thanks to Oliver's little stunt he had lost a couple of hours when he might have been searching for the real killer. Hopefully, Oliver would still be of some use, and the day wouldn't be a total loss.

  13

  WHEN CINDY SLID INTO THE PASSENGER SEAT OF JEREMIAH'S CAR FOR the second time that day, she was more exhausted than she had been earlier.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Long day.”

  “Long week.”

  “That too.”

  “I take it everyone heard the news?”

  She nodded. “Yep. There was cake.”

  “One of your members was arrested and you celebrated? Here I thought you'd all be busy seeing who could deny knowing him the fastest. First one to three times wins?”

  “Is that a joke? You can't possibly be comparing Oliver to Jesus, can you?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently, a very poor joke. I'm sorry. I've been told my sense of humor can be a bit—”

  “Twisted? Warped?”

  “I was going to say 'dark,' but those will do just as well,” he said with a smile.

  “Ah.”

  “Do you want to risk trying to get your car?”

  “No, I'm not in the mood to risk anything else today,” she said. “It will be there tomorrow when the story's old news.”

  “True enough. Although we could swing by later tonight and see if the coast is clear.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  “It's okay to cry, you know.”

  She turned to look at him. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because crying relieves tension, which is normal, especially when the situation is life threatening. And, you're pursing your lips. You tend to do that before you cry.”

  “Oh, my gosh, it is so not okay that you know that about me.” She sounded horrified.

  “Sorry.”

  Suddenly she laughed. “You're the first person to ever notice that. Wow. I guess you have really seen me at my worst.”

  “If this is your worst, then your best has to be spectacular.”

  “Thank you.”

  A few minutes later they pulled up in front of her house. Cindy sat in the car for a moment, just staring. “I guess I don't have to worry that someone is lurking inside.”

  “No, it should be safe, at least from that particular threat.”

  She cast him an uneasy look and wanted to say something sarcastic in response.

  “Don't worry,” he reassured her. “I'll go in with you just in case.”

  Together they approached the door. Her stomach twisted into knots, and Cindy tried in vain to quiet the pounding of her heart. What's wrong with me? The police arrested Oliver.

  She opened her door and breathed a sigh of relief when everything looked to be in its proper place. Jeremiah followed her inside, walked to the back of the house, and quickly returned with a smile. “You're safe, no intruders.”

  “I guess I am safe,” she said.

  “You don't sound convinced.”

  “I'm not.”

  He cocked his head slightly. “Why?”

  “I don't know, I just feel—” she paused, struggling to find a word that would describe it.

  “Will you never feel safe here again because someone broke in once?” he asked.

  “If I say yes will you think less of me?”

  “No, of course not. Your home has been violated. That can take a long time to get over. Some people never do and eventually move someplace else.”

  “I can't afford to move, so I guess I better get over it,” she said.

  He stared intently at her. “That's not all of it.”

  “It's nothing.”

  “I can't help you if you won't tell me what the problem is.”

  “Speaking as my rabbi?” she joked.

  “As your friend,” he answered seriously.

  “I think the real killer is still out there.”

  His dark eyes somehow darkened even more, and she stared in fascination. “Tell me why you think so.” His voice thrummed with intensity.

  She took a step back and wondered again if the real killer was staring her in the face. He reached out and grabbed her arms just above the elbows. Panic knifed through her, and she pulled backward. His grip only tightened.

  “Cindy, tell me what you're thinking,” he commanded.

  “I think he only killed the guy in the church,” she said, trying not to let the terror creep into her voice.

  “Why do you think he didn't kill the others?”

  “Because the murder of Ryan Bellig doesn't fit the rest of the pattern.”

  “Probably because he didn't plan on killing him.”

  “Yes, but given how thoughtful his murders have been, don't you think he would have found a way? I mean, he could have stashed the body somewhere and brought it out for one of his tableaus. Leaving him facedown like that was sloppy, not artistic. He could have just sat him up in a pew as a praying man and made more of a statement.”

  “So, if we're looking at two different murderers, what does that mean?” Jeremiah pressed.

  “That one of them is still out there, and unfortunately, it's the crazy one. I'm not safe.”

  “If you're right, no one in this town is.”

  He let go of her abruptly and sat down at the kitchen table. Cindy's knees were trembling, but she forced herself to calmly pull out a chair and take her own seat.

  “Actually,” he said after a moment, “of everyone in town you're probably the safest. Since he's been performing for you it seems unlikely that he plans to kill you. At least not until this is over.”

  “Thank you, that is so comforting,” she said sarcastically.

  “Which brings us back to the original question of why he chose you in the first place.”

  “What if he didn't?” Cindy asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if the killer is performing for someone, but it's not me. Who could he be targeting?”

  “Is there any commonality between the victims?” Jeremiah asked, tapping his fingers on the table.

  Cindy got up, grabbed paper and pen, and sat back down at the table. “The guy on the donkey was Miguel Jesus Olivera,” she said, writing down his name. “Jason Schneider was the money changer. I don't know the names of the two from the salon.” She glanced up.

  “Mary Gomez was washing the feet of William Ollie Carruthers.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked.”

  “So how do we figure out a connection between these people when we don't know any of them?” She sighed.

  “Internet?”

  “I guess.”

  “Is it significant that Miguel's middle name is Jesus?” he asked.

  “And he was playing the role of Jesus? It might be, but Wi
lliam was playing the role of Jesus as well, and he doesn't share a name with him.”

  Jeremiah suddenly grew still. His eyes focused intently on the list.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I see something those two men do have in common.”

  She looked down at the list. “Oh!”

  “You see it?”

  “Yes, both the men who were positioned as Jesus have as part of their name a variation on Oliver. Olivera and Ollie.”

  “I think you found the killer's real audience.”

  “He's doing this to get to Oliver,” she whispered. “Oliver isn't the killer; he's the target.”

  Mark hung up with Cindy. The secretary and the rabbi seemed to have come to the same conclusion that he had. He rubbed his tired eyes and returned to the computer screen where a pattern was slowly emerging.

  Both Miguel and Jason had been interviewed by Oliver in the past month. Miguel was a small businessman who was making news as having one of the only businesses in town that was expanding instead of shrinking. Jason had been the coach for a Little League team that had won its regional division.

  As for the beauty salon, Oliver was one of Mary's special male customers who had early morning appointments. In fact, he had had one scheduled for that fateful morning. So, everyone was connected to him in some way. It stood to reason that the killer would continue to go after people who were somehow connected to Oliver.

  Unfortunately, between his job as a reporter and his volunteer work with the church, that meant a lot of potential targets.

  Paul appeared from the direction of the interrogation room where he had been taking his turn to get more information out of Oliver.

  Exhausted, he sank down in the chair across from Mark.

  “Anything?”

  “He won't budge an inch. He still insists on taking responsibility for all the murders.”

  “Did you explain to him that unless he helps us find out who's doing this that more people are going to die?”

  “Yes. He swears that as long as he's in prison, though, there will be no more murders.”

  “What is his damage?”

  “I don't know, but apparently it's extensive.”

  “Our hunch was right. All the victims were in some way connected to Oliver. Loosely connected, but connected,” Mark said.