Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

Her accent was manufactured, or if that is not fair of me to say, then perhaps it was simply acquired from her time spent in Texas, the way a person’s skin will darken after weeks or months spent outdoors in the summer sun. But she had always spoken with a Midwestern twang the way the rest of us do and I somehow found the sound of the words that came from her mouth as contrived as any meaning or sincerity they might have held.

Her name when I knew her in high school had been Amanda Habern, but her married name now was Pate. I heard a number of years ago she and Sermon Sam had married, but at the time Pate was not yet famous in our part of the country, and Amanda was just a girl I knew a long time ago for a very short while. Under any other circumstance I might have been surprised that she recognized or even remembered me, but Amanda and I have a history of a single shared encounter, one which could have been beautiful, or at least just plain old fashion fun, but in the end was neither of those.

I accepted her invitation and crossed the threshold of the front door and when I did, I felt suddenly conflicted about the nature of my visit and her eagerness to so willingly invite me into her home. I was in her house as an investigative officer of the state of Indiana and not a casual visitor or long lost lover from decades ago, and I wondered if the warmth in her eyes and the look of fondness upon her face were as manufactured as the accent of her sing-song voice. Regardless of the purpose of my visit, I had to admit she was still as easy to look at now as she was twenty years ago. She wore tennis whites, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. When she closed the door the two of us endured one of those clumsy moments old lovers are often faced with when an unexpected chance encounter brings them together. She stepped forward, her arms open to hug me at the same time I put my right arm out to shake her hand. It was awkward, but I thought she laughed a little too quickly and perhaps a touch too long. In the end, we went with the handshake.

We looked at each other for a moment, and I was the one who broke the silence. “It’s been a long time, Amanda.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said. “I just put some coffee on. Why don’t you come join me and we can catch up a little.”

She placed her hand in the crook of my arm in an effort to lead me through the house, but I held myself steady and refused to go along with her. When she felt my resistance she turned her head, and I saw her smile falter. “I’m here in an official capacity, Amanda. I need to speak with Samuel. Perhaps yourself as well, but I’d like to have a word with your husband first.”

“Is this about Franklin?” she asked. “Why would you want to talk to Samuel about that?”

I made note of her referral of the victim by his first name, then answered her question. “Yes, it is about Franklin Dugan’s murder. I’m investigating on behalf of the state. It’s what I do, Amanda. Is your husband home?”

“No, I’m afraid he is not home, Detective.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at the church. They always tape Sunday’s broadcast a few days ahead of time then edit it down for time. I know a lot of people think it’s live, but it’s not. It’s taped. We make no secret about that, you know.”

I suspected the defensiveness she displayed might be a large part of her life in general so I drew no conclusions from the words she spoke or the manner in which they were delivered. “I wouldn’t know, Amanda.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything other than I am not a member of your church, and I don’t watch your televised broadcasts. How well did you know Franklin Dugan?”

“Are you asking me that question in an official capacity? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”

“We only read you your rights if you are under arrest, which you are not. Could you please just answer the question?”

“I could, but I choose not to. My rights are the same whether I’m under arrest or not and in this particular instance, I choose to remain silent. If you have any questions for me or my husband, I suggest you contact our attorney. Better yet, I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. And your boss.” She opened the front door. “It was great seeing you, Jonesy,” she said, her manufactured east Texas accent suddenly gone, but her voice still thick with sarcasm. “Maybe next time we see each other it won’t be in an official capacity.”

“I seriously doubt it, Amanda. Have your husband call me as soon as he gets home.” I tried to hand her my business card and when she refused to take it I laid it on the small receiving table next to the door. As soon as I set it down a gust of wind swirled through the doorway and blew the card onto the floor as if the table were no more willing to accept my contact information than the woman who stood at my side. I stepped out into the sunlight and the sound of the brass door knocker tapping against itself as the door slammed shut behind me.

I had no misconceptions as to whether or not Amanda Pate would tell her husband to call me, so I drove over to the Pate Ministry complex located on the outer edges of a shopping center on the city’s west side. The massive brick building situated in the center of the property was so non-descript it looked more like a small hospital or office building than a church. Most of the property had been paved with blacktop and dedicated to parking, and when I turned into the entrance of the complex the parking lot was completely full. I parked next to the yellow-curbed sidewalk in front of the building then set a laminated placard on the dash identifying my truck as an official state vehicle.

A landscaper was spreading fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules and they crunched under my boots as if I were walking across a crushed shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the deep south. Four sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick pillars fronted the building, and when I was less than ten feet away they all opened at once as a throng of people exited the building and made their way to the parking lot. The scene reminded me of quitting time at the factory where my grandfather had worked his entire life. My mom or my grandmother would sometimes take me along to pick him up and we’d sit at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was on fire and about to explode.

I had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of people to pass before I could get inside the building. The lobby area of the church was bigger than I expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request to God before they left the building. There was a cafe of some sort along the eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants, and the aroma of the prepared treats washed over me and made my stomach rumble. Small tables with open umbrellas in their center holes lined a vertical railed enclosure where people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their heaven on earth. Next to the cafe was a bookstore where still more people browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. I turned back around and looked at the doors through which I had just entered feeling a little like Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a mystical place that made no sense to her at all.