Bad Blood

“We’re talking about law enforcement, not television. Nothing’s perfect. Without the information . . .”
    “I’d hate to see you quit and leave town,” Jacoby said. “You’re better than TV. Business is up ten percent since you started coming in.”
    “Happy to do it, Bill. Just wish this could come to a better end.”
    The waitress appeared and slid a saucer with a slice of blueberry pie across the table.
    Virgil picked up the fork and cut into it, became aware of the silence around him. He looked around and said, “What?”
    The guy in the booth behind Jacoby asked, seemingly fascinated, “You really gonna eat that?”
    Jacoby twisted, said, “Hey!” Back to Virgil. “That’s perfectly good . . . pie.”
     
     
    THE CONSENSUS in the café was that Virgil should keep pushing, and find a way around Spooner’s confession; the patrons voted unanimously that she was lying, that Crocker’s death was murder.
    “Maybe we should get up a lynch mob,” Jacoby joked. He added, “That was a joke.”
    “I’ll hang around a day or two to see what happens,” Virgil said. He ran the tip of his tongue around his gums. “I’m really gonna miss the . . . pie.”

    WHEN HE CAME out of the café, with a feeling that he had purple sticky stuff lodged between all of his teeth, he still had some time to kill. He looked up and down the street, spotted the redbrick tower of a church, and ambled down that way. The sign out front said, “Good Shepherd Lutheran Church,” and Virgil climbed the granite steps, pulled at one of the big wood doors, and walked in. A woman was pushing a dust mop down an aisle between pews, looked around at him, said, “Can I help you?”
    “Is the pastor around?”
    “He’s in the office. Do you have an appointment?”
    “No. I’m an agent with the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I’d like a few minutes of his time, if he’s got it.”
    “Well, c’mon back. He’s not doing anything but reading the paper, anyway.”
    Actually, he was polishing his shoes, with his feet on the paper he’d apparently finished reading. He was a soft, middle-fiftyish man, with white curly hair, blue eyes, and gold-rimmed glasses that sat on a wide German nose. He was listening to soft rock on a Wave radio.
    Virgil introduced himself and the minister half-stood and put the polish rag in his left hand and stuck out his right. “John Baumhauer,” he said. “I’ve heard about you, Virgil. Down at the café.”
    “I do my best thinking there,” Virgil said. And, “I guess Joshua was right: the house of God still has its hewers of wood and drawers of water.”
    Baumhauer brightened, ticked a finger at Virgil, and said, “Not many people pick that up, Baumhauer being a chopper of wood. And you know your Old Testament.”
    “My dad’s got a church over in Marshall.”
    “Flowers? Oh, heck yes. He’s your dad? We’re old pals, we overlapped in grad school, he was a year ahead of me. How’s your mom? She was a looker, let me tell you; still was, I saw them a year ago at a conference up in St. Paul. . . .”
    They spent a minute or two connecting, then Virgil said, “John, I’ve got a problem. We’re starting to turn up some answers on this string of murders, and also the murder last year of Kelly Baker, down across the Iowa line.”
    “I remember that. That was a mystery.”
    “It was, but now . . . Look, I’ve got to ask you first, I want to keep this talk private,” Virgil said. “At least for a while. Even if it turns out you don’t know anything, or don’t want to talk about it.”
    Baumhauer was interested, intent with a small smile. “Sure. As long as it’s not, you know, illegal.”
    Virgil nodded. “But you might not want to talk about it when you hear the question.”
    “The question is . . . ?”
    “I’ve only been here a couple days, but we’ve made some progress—but everywhere I turn, in this thing, I stumble over the World of Spirit.”
    “Those guys,” Baumhauer said.
    “Yeah. Have you heard anything that would suggest there’s something wrong with that group? Something not right?”
    “You do make me feel a little like a rat,” the minister said. “But . . . yes, a bunch of us church people in town have thought about them. We had a Catholic priest here for a few years, Danny McCoy—he’s up at the archdiocese now, doing something important. We used to play poker with a couple of other guys. He was no good at it, he couldn’t bluff worth a