Steven James - Opening Moves

“Amens” from the ragtag congregation.

“As the Lord told Ezekiel in the thirty-sixth chapter, the twenty-sixth verse: ‘A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh.’”

Tate’s voice took on a flavor of fire born of love. “This new spirit comes to us only from God and is a gift of God and draws us closer to God. Amen?”

More amens. Two disabled vets, one of whom was missing a leg, and both of whom lived under an I-94 overpass, lifted their foam cups in an impromptu toast to the preacher.

Tate wrapped up his brief but passionate homily: “This new heart, this new spirit, this new hope, come to all who will turn to the Lord to find forgiveness and atonement for their sins. This, Petey did right here in this very cafeteria, one month ago. And this you can do today, if you have never done so before. Right here, in the same place where Petey was saved, you can be too.” He took an expectant breath. “Let us pray. And let us take responsibility for our sins, let us bring our hearts to God, let us trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, the one whose blood-”

— Blood. Always blood-

“-cleanseth us from all sin.”

Tate began his prayer by referencing St. Paul’s conclusion about the struggle against his sinful nature: “Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I thank God through Jesus Christ our Lord…”

As Reverend Tate went on, Joshua felt the crushing weight of his past, of his choices, nearly smothering him.

He had to leave.

So, while everyone else’s eyes were closed and heads were bowed, Joshua slipped out of the cafeteria. He made it to his car before he started to cry. And there he prayed and prayed, begging the God who had spoken those words to Ezekiel so long ago to speak to him today.

“A shedder of blood shall not live. He hath done all these abominations; he shall surely die; his blood shall be upon him.”

He tried to grab hold of hope, but the promise of a new heart, a new spirit, a gift offered, was overwhelmed by a palpable darkness, one that felt almost visceral and alive, a consuming presence sliding into his heart, rising above the moment and muscling its way into his soul.

Joshua ended his prayer.

Wiped away his tears.

It was too late for redemption.

He left to pick up the shoebox.

Corsica and I were almost to the offices of Hathaway and Erikson, LLC.

Everything was cycling around inside my head: the abductions, the murders, the unsolved missing persons cases. All seemingly intertwined, yet separate. Depending on how you looked at it, they were all one case, or more than a dozen.

How all that worked, I wasn’t quite sure.

Corsica spoke up, interrupting my thoughts. “I heard about you and Taci.”

“What?”

“You and Taci. I heard what happened.”

“Oh.”

“People talk. You know. You two have been together for a while. I…Well, we heard it from one of the doctors who works over there at the medical center.”

“I see.”

I pulled onto the road that would take us to the acquisitions firm. As far as I was concerned, we couldn’t get there quickly enough.

“It’s hard,” Annise said. “Going through something like that.”

I could hardly believe she was talking to me like this. We’d never before spoken about anything remotely personal and I really had no idea how to respond.

She went on. “Just wanted you to know, I feel for you. I know you cared about her.”

I pulled into the parking lot.

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have to hate someone for loving something else more than you. You know?”

I was about to say that I didn’t hate Taci, that I would never hate her, but I stopped myself short. I figured Annise must certainly know that. “Thanks,” I said again.

“Okay.” And then the conversation I never would have expected was over.

Though I might not have liked Annise very much, might never like her very much, as we left the car, I realized I was ashamed that I’d never tried to understand her. But she had just now, in her own way, tried to understand me.

Inside the building, we showed the receptionist our IDs and when we requested to speak to someone about their corporate flights to out-of-state accounts, she directed us to the senior vice president, a woman named Faye Palmer.

Palmer’s corner office was stylish and yet simple. The window peeked out over a parklike employee break area outside. Everything about Palmer seemed to say “high-level corporate VP”: designer pants suit, stylish hair, a pleasant yet brisk and professional demeanor.

She got right down to business. “So, how exactly can I help you, Detectives?”

I told her forthrightly about the flights, asked her for the names of the people who’d been aboard them.

She tapped a finger against her desk but gave no indication that she was going to grant the request. “And you’re certain that someone on these flights is involved in some way in these crimes?”

“By no means.” Corsica’s voice was unequivocal. “We’re simply pursuing every possible lead.”

After evaluating that, Palmer nodded and went to her file cabinet. It took her a little while, but at last she produced a manila folder-I just couldn’t seem to get away from those things this week. She shuffled through the sheets, then pulled out three.

I could tell she was about to glance them over, but then without doing so, handed the pages to me.

She must have noticed my surprise that she didn’t look at them. “I don’t want my perception of any of my employees to be shaded,” she explained, “even marginally, with unfounded suspicion. I’m sure you’ll let me know if you find anything regarding any of them.”

“I’m sure we will,” Corsica answered.

We thanked Palmer for her help and excused ourselves from her office.

I could barely contain my curiosity as we returned to the reception area.

Finally, when we were alone and in a corner of the room, I held up the papers, and Corsica and I examined the names.

Three names appeared on all three lists: Janelle Warner, Andre Demell, and Richard Basque.

Just three names.

The violent nature of the crimes made it highly unlikely that a woman would be the killer. Yes, we would speak with Janelle, but I wanted to start with the two men on our list.

“Which one first?” I asked Corsica. “Demell or Basque?”

“Let’s go with Mr. Demell.”

We asked the receptionist to try his office number, but when she consulted her appointment book, she informed us that he would be out most of today meeting with some of their clients.

“But he is here in town?” I said.

“Yes.”

We set up an appointment for four thirty.

Janelle Warner would meet with us at one fifteen.

“What about Richard Basque? Is he in?”

The receptionist sighed and I got the impression she was growing tired of helping us, which didn’t bother me one bit as long as she got us the meetings we needed.

She rang Basque’s office, spoke for a moment on the phone, and then announced that he would be out in a minute. Somewhat impolitely she flicked her hand toward the chairs in the reception area. “You can have a seat if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Corsica told her with a slight touch of attitude. “If it’s only going to be a minute.”

I folded up the flight manifests and slid them into my pocket.

And thought of the best way to frame the questions I was going to ask Mr. Basque.

12:25 p.m.