From the Pulpit, Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Detective Dan Martin sat on the edge of the couch across from Mike Farris who was slumped back in his wing back recliner, his hands covering his face.  Det. Martin rubbed his hands together uncomfortably, rocking slightly back and forth.

“Pastor Farris,” he started, “I am really sorry about your wife and son.  We will do everything we can to track down these killers and get them off the streets.”

Mike pulled his hands down from his face, placing them flat on his lap.

“Thank you detective.”  He responded in a low voice.  “I know you will do everything you can for us.”

“Can you tell us though,” asked the detective, “who may have wanted to kill LeRon?”

“It could be about half the gangs in Columbus for all I know.”  Replied the pastor.  “We have youth missions in about fifteen different neighborhoods, and basketball outreaches in a dozen more.  Every one of them has been drawing kids away from the drugs and gangs scene for the past two years.  LeRon was very good at reaching out to the kids.  His ministry was very effective.”

Martin looked down at the floor for a moment then asked, “But do you know if anyone in particular had put out a threat on LeRon?”

“No.”  Mike answered, “I don’t know of any specifics threats, there have been several general ones over the years, but never anything specific that made us really look into it.”

“Nothing at all?”  said Martin.

“Look,” replied the pastor, “I manage the ministries of my church from an executive level.  I let the ministers who work under me run their own work in a manner that best fits them, and to do that I use a hands off approach, letting them have maximum control over the work so that they can have the maximum efficiency.  I have never micromanaged the programs here. LeRon and L’il Mac have had almost free reign ever since they took that ministry over.  I don’t know the specifics of the threats that may have been made against them.  Perhaps you should wait at the hospital and ask L’il Mac.   He may be able to tell you more.”

“He is in a coma and has a bullet lodged in his brain, the doctors are not sure he will survive the night.”  Replied the detective.   “Is anyone else close to that ministry that may know something more?”

“No.”  Replied the pastor.

Detective Martin rose from the couch, straightening his tie and pulling at his wool sport coat.  He stretched out his hand towards Mike and the pastor stood, taking the hand in his own.

“Thanks for all you are doing,” said the pastor, “I am sure you will find these people and take them down.”

Det. Martin pursed his lips, staring at Mikes face for a few seconds then nodded his head in agreement.  “Yes sir, we will get it done.”

They released their handshake and Martin walked to the door.  “Pastor Farris, you have my card.  Call me if anything comes up or you remember something that will help OK?”

“I will.”

It was three hours later before the crime scene unit was done with their picture taking, measuring and information gathering.  Just before two AM Mike Farris locked the door to his house, climbed the stairs to his bedroom, collapsed on the mattress of the gigantic king size bed, curled up in a fetal position and let wave after wave of great sobbing convulsions overcome him as he mourned the loss of his wife and only child.

The following week was a blur of visitors offering their condolences.  Saturday the memorial service and funerals were held for all three of the dead.  L’il Mac was holding on to life in the hospital but was still in a coma and not expected to last much longer.

Mike asked the elders to let him take a month long leave of absence while he sorted things out and decided what direction to take next.  They said that he could have that month, and as many more as he needed in addition to that.  He thanked them as they went out, then closed and locked the door when the last car left his driveway.  A tear again ran down his cheek and he whispered, “Father, please forgive me.”

In his bedroom, Mike made sure the blinds were closed then went to the large walk in closet in the back of the room where he changed his clothes.   He took off the pastoral looking tan Dockers and white dress shirt and replaced them with loose fitting black denim slacks a dark blue polo shirt and a black Columbia jacket. 

Against the wall, behind the multi-colored, crisply pressed shirts and neatly hung tan, black, brown and grey dress slacks stood a heavy looking black steel cabinet with a combination lock keypad. 

Mike punched in the code, twisted the locking lever and pulled the heavy gauge door open silently.  Reaching inside he pulled out an immaculately clean and oiled custom-made SOCOM M1911A1 .45 caliber pistol.  He put a magazine into the well in the handle and chambered a round.

“Forgive me.”  He whispered again.
 

From the Pulpit

Click on the Chapter link you would like to go to:

1   2  3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   13   14   15   16   17   18   19   20   21   22   23   24   25   26   27   28   29   30

Check out all of my writing at http://basilsands.gather.com