Fairstein, Linda: Silent Mercy

“Go ahead, Coop,” Mike said. “Wrong church, wrong pew. Got to be something in this. More than your average murder-and-dump job.”

Sergeant Grayson didn’t agree. “Some local kills a girl. Maybe it’s a rape, maybe not. What else is he gonna do but toss the body? Maybe he’s a parishioner here. Could be he’s looking for salvation.”

“Aren’t we all?” Mike said. “The star might have belonged to the killer.”

“Too feminine a piece,” I said. “It’s tiny. And wafer-thin.”

“You still can’t assume it was hers. She could have ripped it off the guy’s neck during a struggle.”

I walked ahead of him, past Amos Audley, who was standing watch over the entrance to his beloved sanctuary. “I realize how unusual a decapitation is. What else did you mean about this not being an average murder, Mike?”

“Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make a statement. Kill a woman, decapitate her, get up and over that tall fence or come from within this place. Could have dumped his prey somewhere a lot more remote and make a much easier escape than climb to the front steps of Mount Neboh, get away clean. If the murder happened inside the church — and I guess we’ll know that shortly — he could have just left the body here. And if she’s Jewish, then what’s the point of bringing her to a Baptist church?”

Amos Audley mumbled something, but I couldn’t hear him.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“The dead girl, she a Jew?” he asked.

“It’s possible. We don’t know who she is yet.”

“Well, maybe the Lord just brought her on home,” Audley said.

“Home?” I didn’t get where he was going.

“Take a look, Ms. Cooper.” Audley favored his left leg as he limped out of the vestibule.

I continued on after him, and saw that there must have been more than a thousand seats in the barrel-vaulted sanctuary of the church. A great organ with towering pipes filled most of the wall at the opposite end.

“Overhead,” he said.

I stretched my neck for a better view of the trio of splendid stained-glass windows that arched above me, forming a triptych of gigantic skylights.

“You see that?” Audley asked. “Those letters in the glass?”

“It — it looks like the writing is in Hebrew. Is that possible?”

“Indeed it is.”

I couldn’t read the ancient language, but the lettering was clear, as were the various symbols of the Jewish faith etched into the amber, emerald, and cobalt-blue glass. In the middle frame were the two tablets displaying the Ten Commandments, topped by a sixsided Star of David.

“Mercer — Mike,” I called out to them, “you’ve got to see this.”

“A hundred years ago, Ms. Cooper,” Audley said, proudly showing off the church he’d been associated with since his birth, “this here was built to be a synagogue.”

Mike rested his hands on my shoulders as he leaned back to look up.

“What kind of detective you be, Mr. Chapman?” Audley asked. “In that pediment up over the columns, above the front door, didn’t you see those tablets with the Ten Commandments?”

Mike didn’t have a ready answer.

“Didn’t you even notice those numbers carved in the cornerstone as you walked past? Big as you are? Says 5668. That’s the Hebrew calendar, year she was built. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t miss no clue like that. Means 1908, when Harlem’s population was mostly Jewish. Rich and powerful ones, merchants and such. This girl just come home.”

“That’s one view of it,” Mike said. “I’d like you to show us all these things in daylight. I’ll bring Dr. Watson along. Make sure we don’t miss anything.”

“Just you come back with Ms. Cooper. I think she gets it.”

Maybe it was a hate crime after all. If the Star of David was in fact the victim’s, maybe it was no coincidence that her body was deposited on the steps of this particular church.

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Mr. Audley,” Mike said. “Strange and mysterious ways.”

“Amen, Mr. Chapman. The Lord be making these mysteries, He can help you solve them too. Just you figure it out before anybody else get dead.”

“MYname is Wilbur Gaskin, Detective. I’m a member of this congregation. Our pastor is out of town and I’m hoping to be of some assistance to you in his place.”

It was shortly after three a.m. The body had been bagged and removed from the church, and the remaining uniformed cops had ushered in this gentleman when he appeared at the gates in response to a call from Amos Audley.

“Mr. Audley said you could help us with whatever we need.” Mike made the introductions, and Gaskin gave each of us his business card. I guessed him to be in his midfifties, and the title on the card identified him as an executive in private banking at Chase.

“Do you know the name of the deceased?” Gaskin asked. He was about Mike’s height, and lighter-skinned than Mercer, dressed in gray slacks and a crewneck sweater that he must have thrown on when Audley awakened him.

“Not a clue.”

“Do you think she worshipped here?”

Audley bowed his head. I thought he wanted to speak, but he deferred to Wilbur Gaskin.

“She’s Caucasian, Mr. Gaskin,” Mike said. “You tell me.”

The banker bristled. “You may not be familiar with our church, Mr. Chapman. In addition to a long, fine reputation in the religious community, we’ve got one of the best gospel choirs in the world. You’d be surprised what a service looks like here. Perhaps you’ll come. You won’t be the only white man. And you certainly won’t be the only cop.”

“I’ll do that,” Mike said. “And I apologize for my rudeness. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”

Gaskin glanced around at the four detectives who were making their way through the sanctuary of the church, fanned out between the rows of seats as they looked for any evidence of an intrusion or violent crime. “Is all this necessary, Detective?”

“It is, Mr. Gaskin. One way or another, a dead body wound up on your front steps.”

“She could have come from anywhere,” he said, gesturing with both hands as if in protest to Mike’s suggestion.

“I’d say her mobility was limited, sir. Just like her access. But we can rule out the inside of your church pretty quickly, if you’d let us.”

“There’s a small office through that door to the left, behind the altar. Come with me, please.”

Amos Audley limped ahead of us, keeping a keen eye on the detectives as they scoured the sanctuary. Mike suggested to Sergeant Grayson that he wait at the entrance to the building to direct the comings and goings of investigators, and to keep out the press.

Mercer and I followed as Mike walked behind Wilbur Gaskin. The small room he led us to — bare except for a table and six wooden chairs — was cold and drafty. I seated myself away from the old lead-glass windows that rattled whenever the March wind kicked up.

“Isn’t this about the point when I’m supposed to tell you to get a search warrant?” Gaskin scratched his head and phonied up a smile, though I didn’t think he was as unsophisticated as he tried to appear.

“This church is a crime scene. Up to me, I think we’re entitled to scope it out. But my specialties are dead folk and the detritus of their late, lamented lives, Mr. Gaskin. Ms. Cooper’s your law jock. Ask her what you’d like and the decision’s up to you.” Mike started toward Audley, who moved out of the way of the door, as I leaned forward to express my opinion.

“That’s all right, Detective. I don’t want to hold things up. Suit yourselves.”

“How many people have keys to the church?” Mercer asked.