M Sellars - The Law Of Three

“I think I do.”

“Good. Now can you give me any details from that call?”

I nodded. “I can try.”

I searched my memory for a moment, trying to remember specifics of a conversation that seemed to have taken place ages ago but in reality was no more than twelve hours old. My thoughts were muddy from lack of sleep and an overabundance of sensory input. I swam through the murk and seized on the snippets I found floating about the dark mental waters.

“His biblical references were all Satan specific,” I finally recalled aloud. “Ecclesiastes three, three. Second Corinthians, Book of Revelation. I’m pretty sure they were all from the King James Version.”

Kavanaugh scribbled a note on the legal pad. “Why does that stick out in your mind?”

“Because he follows the covenants and procedures of the Malleus Maleficarum,” I told her and then added a short explanation. “It’s a Witch-hunting text that was written by a pair of inquisitors posing as theologians in the year fourteen eighty-four. The King James version of the Holy Bible wasn’t published until over one hundred years later in sixteen eleven.”

“What do you think is the significance of that?” she pressed.

“It’s probably just a part of his mental state,” I offered. “It may be nothing. Truth is, the King James version of the Bible is the most commonly available, but what is so peculiar to me is that he has gone to a great deal of trouble to research things. From the Malleus Maleficarum, to various practices of the Inquisition, and even the pomp and ceremony of the executions. When I had my run-in with him last year, he was wearing the clerical collar of a Catholic priest. So in a way, I would have halfway expected him to use the version of the Bible connected with that period of history. All of it is the Christian faith, yes, but the translations aren’t exactly the same.

“However,” I said, “The prison ministry that is most likely responsible for sending him down this path is Evangelical, Old Testament, fire and brimstone. His indoctrination would have come from the KJV, so the discrepancy might be moot.”

“You never know. So your perception is that he is confused?” Kavanaugh asked as she scribbled.

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Or at the very least, mislead.”

“What about his threat to rape your wife?”

“That was yet another thing that tied in to his research,” I stated flatly. “And he even told me as much. The fact is that it wasn’t uncommon for inquisitors to rape the accused as a form of torture. But the real reason he made the threat was to piss me off. What started out for him last year as a re-establishment of the fifteenth century Inquisition has now become focused on a personal vendetta.”

“Because you shot him?”

“That’s part of it, probably,” I acknowledged. “But I have a feeling that I was on his list long before that. When he makes references to me being the spawn of Satan, it’s not just a metaphor. I think he honestly believes, that by killing me, he is effectively beheading the monster. Eliminating the source of WitchCraft.”

“Why do you think he became so focused on you?”

“Just lucky I guess,” I quipped and then made a dismissive gesture of apology. “I’m sorry. Seriously, if I had to guess, it was probably because at the time he started his crusade I was in the public eye. There was a newspaper article running about me because I was teaching an ongoing alternative religion and tolerance seminar for the city police department.”

Kavanaugh nodded thoughtfully and underlined a couple of specific passages in her notes. “Is there anything else you can remember from that conversation?”

I took a sip of the coffee from the thermos cup and realized it had cooled considerably. Still, it wet my throat and that was primarily what I was after.

“His manner of speech, maybe,” I replied.

“How so?”

“This morning he was much more formal. He seemed calm, and his selection of wording was less conversational and more like it was staged. That’s pretty much how he was that night on the bridge as well. Deliberate and rehearsed.”

“That’s not uncommon when dealing with a psychosis,” she returned, making a quick note. “The insane will often slip between conversational and non-conversational English. It’s an indicator of the individual’s current state of stability.”

“Yeah.” I nodded in agreement. “But this whacko is a wildcard. It’s when he sounds rational that I really get worried.”

“That’s how most of them are,” Agent Kavanaugh replied with a curt nod as she proceeded to circle a few more spots within her page of notes. “I want to go ahead and get this out to the team so they can get it up on the board for the negotiator,” she told me as she stood up, still perusing the handwritten words. “I shouldn’t be gone for very long. There’s an agent right outside…”

“…To make sure I stay inside,” I completed her sentence.

“I was going to say, in case you need anything,” she replied flatly.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, unable to keep all of the sarcasm out of my tone.

“But since you brought it up…” She purposely allowed the comment to go uncompleted.

“I’ll be good,” I replied. “But could you do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Ben Storm,” I said. “The detective I was with. Could you let him know where I am? He tends to worry like a mother hen.”

“He already knows,” she told me. “But I’ll say something to him.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

Agent Kavanaugh had only been gone for a minute or so, and I was finally starting to come down from the most recent in the daylong series of adrenalin dumps my body had been experiencing.

I looked behind myself, first over my left shoulder; and then over my right, just to make sure I wasn’t about to touch something that I shouldn’t; then I leaned back against the wall of the van. This was no easy task considering the bulk of the flak vest I was trussed up in. If I hadn’t thought Kavanaugh would throw a fit, I would have taken it off before she returned.

The metal bench I was seated on wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it beat standing. I gave a quick glance down its length and postulated that I just might be able to stretch out on it if I positioned myself correctly. After a healthy measure of seconds spent considering the idea, I decided I had better not.

It seemed ironic to me that I had just been sitting here discussing the mental state of Eldon Porter with an FBI agent because in reality, right now my own psyche was as fragile as spun glass. I was rafting on emotional whitewater, and my oar was lodged under a boulder two hundred yards behind me.

On the one hand, I was relieved that Porter was holed up in the building because at least now we knew where he was. On the flip side, I feared for the safety of his hostage, not to mention the overwhelming guilt I felt because that hostage was Star.

Then there was everything in between. I was jittery, disgusted, sad, excited, angry, and virtually any other emotion you could think of, all at once. I was struggling with the sudden shifts from one to the next as I would run through the full range, only to find myself repeating it all over again in the very next moment.

The one thing that remained constant was the fact that I was just flat out exhausted.

I tilted my head back and tried to relax. I knew Agent Kavanaugh would probably be back any moment, and as soon as she was, the questions would start all over again. Her story had impressed upon me the importance of this interview, but I was still dealing with my overwhelming impatience.