If you wish to drown, do not torture yourself with shallow water (Bulgarian Proverb).

The two detectives stomped their way up the river rock steps of Camel Creek Community Church. The landscaped slopes on either side of the broad steps were covered with junipers, which Rourke had long considered to be the orcs of the plant kingdom. The automatic sprinklers on a timer were busily spritzing them, which just made the recipients wet botanical orcs. The two men stopped at the top step, turned around and looked at the parking lot they had just escaped. Twenty acres of asphalt stretched out before them, tastefully interrupted with enclaves of trees and bushes.

“There might be more asphalt over the horizon but the curvature of the earth makes it tough to tell,” Bradford said. Rourke ignored him.

They had called the previous day to arrange for interviews. A cheery voice on the other end had greeted them (almost convincingly) with, “It’s great to serve the King! How may I direct your call?” Everyone was most cooperative. After the call from the prosecutor forced them to set up interviews at the church, Rourke had gone off to tie up the details of their previous case—which meant washing his wife’s Civic—and had told Bradford to make himself knowledgeable about all things Camel Creek. This Bradford had done with a considerable amount of wicked enthusiasm, and he was bursting to show off his information.

“See that? Guess what those are for.” Bradford pointed to a line of five shuttles parked off to the right. Since Rourke was not being chatty, Bradford continued merrily. “Those are shuttles to run people in from the far end of the parking lot.”

Rourke started muttering. “My church has a little lawn in front of it that takes me ten minutes to mow. And that’s if I have to do any weed whacking around the Holy Mother. I’m on the mowing committee, you know. Three years. What this place must look like Sunday morning!”

“Sunday? Why limit anything to Sunday morning? Services start Friday night. One on Friday night, one on Saturday night, and three Sunday morning. Three to ten thousand people a pop, depending on the service. This guy must be good.”

“What’s that?” Rourke pointed to a cluster of buildings off to the right.

Bradford looked down at the map he had printed off the church web site. “That,” he said with satisfaction, “is King’s Academy Christian School, K-12. Six hundred students or thereabouts.”

“Very good, Bradford. You will go far. Knowing how to read is crucial in detective work. And that?” Behind the school’s campus, on a wooded hill sloping away, were several small buildings in modeled cinder brick, with a pile of electronics on the roof. They looked like Russian fishing trawlers off Long Island at the height of the Cold War, antennae everywhere.

“Radio station K-I-N-G. Serving the King —get it?—since 1995. I spent the evening last night listening to it. They told me to ‘Tune in to the KING’ a bunch of times. ‘He’s always broadcasting,’ but apparently my heart hasn’t been listening. After a couple hours my wife wanted a divorce. I told her no. The station had a number for her to call about such things, but she wouldn’t.”

Rourke turned slowly. “What about this half of the world? What does the left side of the parking lot have for us?”

A small red colonial job was nestled up close to the main sanctuary. It looked like a bank in the old city of some East Coast town that had architectural restrictions on new buildings. A white, little cupola sat perkily on the roof, and the detectives could see, even at that distance, that the place had way too many curtains. Open the front door and the foofiness would just tumble out onto the front porch.

“That’s New Hope Crisis Pregnancy Center.”

“Huh. And what is that serious piece of work?” On the far side of the pregnancy center was an office park arrangement, with multiple buildings, walkways, and trees that were too big for the age of the buildings.

“Completing our tour of the external grounds, we see here the headquarters of TrueLife publishers. Lester’s first book took off like a rocket ship, and gave something called the Prayer of Jabez a run for its money, and we are talking about a New York Times bestseller list kind of run for its money. His first book was, um . . .” Bradford looked at his papers again. “There it is. Secrets of the Passionate Disciple.” Bradford grinned. Rourke didn’t, and Bradford stopped.

They both turned around and looked at a vast array of glass doors that led to the main building. “Don’t you hate it when they do that?” Bradford said. “On weekdays, which one is unlocked? Probably the last one we check.”

“From what you have described about this joint so far, I would bet they’re all unlocked all the time. A locked door would imply some kind of value judgment. Might turn a seeker after Jesus away.” The first one they tried was unlocked, and Bradford checked one on each side. Both unlocked.

“This way, Detective Bradford.”

The atrium was like the one in the upscale mall on the north side of town. The two men walked along the concourse, shoes clicking loudly. Past the food court. Food court. Then a book shop. Then a music store. Lights were on, and people were in there. Quite a few people were in there. Skylights above let in just the right amount of mall light, gracefully falling down upon the mall cobblestones. Down the center of the concourse was a row of faux-stately mall trees. The detectives reached the end of the mall area, and Bradford started to head back.

“What are you doing?” Rourke asked.

“We must have missed the Victoria’s Secret. I was going to pick up a little something for the wife. Make up for that radio station business. Lacy things can avert divorce.”

“Or get you one, depending on who they’re on. But I doubt your wife would want anything with a Jesus fish on it.”

They both laughed and turned to look at the wall in front of them. There, in a mounted glass case, was the mall map they needed. “Here you go. The sanctuary is back that way. Bet they don’t call it a sanctuary. That must be where those six escalators went. You said they have a service tonight?”

“Yep. 7:30 of the pm.”

“This is above and beyond, Bradford, but I think we need to go to it.”

“I thought you might say that. But only if we stop at East Village Square on the way back to the station. Real malls have a Victoria’s Secret.”

They were staring at the map again. “We need the church offices. What’s down this way?”

Bradford jabbed the glass with his finger. “That’s WildLife 4 Youth Rampage. You don’t want to go down there.”

“It says they only rampage on Thursday nights. But we need to go the other way anyhow. Here are the offices. C’mon.”

* * *

“Good morning. I’m Detective Rourke. This is Detective Bradford.” Sharon Atwater stood up quickly, came around the desk, and shook both their hands.

“Good to meet both of you. I’ll tell Chad you are here.” She started off.

“No hurry, ma’am. We need to interview you too. Why don’t we just start with that?”

Sharon felt something tighten in her throat. Her hand went up, and she quickly tucked her dark hair behind her right ear. “Chad was eager to visit with you. But we can do that. Please, have a seat.”

“Is Chad Pastor Lester?” Bradford asked.

“Yes, yes. No formalities here at Camel Creek. Chad believes that a pastor must be approachable.” Wrong word. Approaching has all the wrong connotations. Call him Chad. When the conversation is filled with Rev. Lesters it must cool the adulterous vapors. At least in this denomination. Probably a turn-on in others. Focus, Sharon. She sat down behind her desk and watched the detectives drag chairs over.

“That’ll take some getting used to on my part. In my church back home, if I had ever called Pastor Hill Bruce, my mother would have found the dullest butter knife in her drawer, and would have skinned me with it. Then she would have had the knife mounted as a trophy. No remorse on her part at all.”

Sharon just stared at him. Tried to smile but her cheek just twitched.

“Thank you, Detective Bradford, for sharing that with us. My partner, Miss Atwater, has a slight touch of autism. Now if you don’t mind . . .”

“My son was autistic.” She didn’t know why she was talking. She wanted to stop talking. No one at the church even knew she’d had a son. “I gave him up for adoption.”

The detectives were looking at her. Rourke was trying to look sympathetic. Bradford was gaping.

Shut-up, Sharon. Why am I talking like this? “I was in high school. I wouldn’t give him up now. Not that I would have had him now. I wasn’t in the fold in high school. I’m not married.” She gripped herself firmly. Forced her mouth shut, and looked away from the detectives. They were like priests to a long-lapsed and desperate Catholic. She stared at her computer. And there, her only comfort in life and in death, was the monitor wallpaper about a free milk-shake given to God.

“I’m not really autistic,” Bradford said.

“I know,” she said.

“Um,” Rourke cleared his throat. “Sorry about that, ma’am. I didn’t mean any insensitivity.”

“No, of course not. That’s fine.” She even laughed. “I don’t really know why that came out.” She laughed again. “Go ahead with your questions. I’ll try not to drag my life-story in again.”

The next fifteen minutes were predictable and routine, as such interviews go. How long have you worked here? Eleven years. Have you had the same job since you were hired? Yes. Did you worship in this church before you were hired? Yes. How long? About a year, maybe a little more.

But at some point Robert P. Warner II slowly crept into the conversation. Sharon did not share Chad’s gift for making panic invisible and she was talking to detectives. They probably knew everything already. She would not be caught in a lie. They weren’t asking questions that needed lies. Do not tell a lie. Nobody is asking you to. There is no guilt here. You do not need to feel guilt. Answer the questions and then stop talking. But despite her good advice to herself, she began to share far more than the detectives had been expecting. Rourke was watching her hands and eyes, watching her hair get tucked behind her ears, watching her stare at her feet only to make herself look up at him and then glance away to that woman with the milkshake on her computer screen. Rourke’s eyebrows went up, and his vast nautical experience taught him to expect a little plain sailing ahead. He jotted a note to Bradford, let her talk, let me ask. She never even looked at Bradford.

Two more years. Back to Tennessee. Didn’t sleep at all. Don’t want to go to prison, especially not for Chad. What to do? What is this interview? Do I need an attorney? If I say anything about an attorney do I look guilty of something? Not for Chad. But there is no guilt here. Plenty elsewhere, but not here.

Sharon may have been visibly nervous, and her confidence was rattled, but still, her secretarial competence had been running on all eight cylinders before the detectives got there. She had a packet waiting for them.

“The paper said that Robert P. Warner claimed these incidents occurred ten years ago. That was one year after I came here, and I was the one who set up our current system of counseling logs. Here is the log for that year, and here are copies of the logs for the times when Warner claimed he was here. I can give you these because nothing in them pertains to what the people were seeing Chad about. Just the names and dates are here.” Sharon’s eye fell on Suzanne Perkins as she handed the copies across. I remember her. Good thing the logs don’t say anything about having bazooms fondled. She looked back at her computer trying not to look like she was thinking about anything. That woman got her free milkshake. Came out of there with her blouse buttoned very differently than when she went in. As I recall. Funny. The milkshake lady looked a lot like Suzanne Perkins.

Sharon stopped. Rourke wasn’t looking at the packet. He just sat, quietly watching her, and so she resumed. “And so I think Warner’s claims are simply not credible.” Rourke knew that she had something else to say, and would say it if she had to. Do I have to? Do you know? It depends. I don’t think it’s relevant. But perhaps we should judge that. I don’t want to get into trouble. Not worth it. Not for Chad. We are not on a crusade. You can trust us. Rourke liked how this telepathic exchange was going.

“There is one more thing. But please . . .”

“Go on.”

“I really don’t think there is anything to this Warner. I don’t know what got into him. But there have been, from time to time, a few heterosexual . . . missteps.” Is that enough?

Not quite enough. “How are you sure?”

“Well, let’s just say that a secretary sees and hears a lot. If Warner were a woman, I would have a hard time disbelieving the story. But as it is . . .” That enough? You see? I was cooperative from the very first.

Rourke nodded, satisfied, so Bradford did too. “I will try to keep it there.”

“Thank you.” Thankyouthankyou. “Do you want to see Chad now?”

Rourke nodded again. Make a note to tell Bradford. Always talk to the secretary first. You learn more about the boss from the secretary than you do from the boss about the secretary. Sharon walked down a hallway leading off from the reception area, put her head in at a door they couldn’t see, and then came back. “Chad is ready to see you.”

***

Chad had been sitting magisterially behind his desk, but nobody was looking. Doesn’t hurt to practice. Why were they taking so long with Sharon? Erica had been a disappointment too. Very unresponsive. All she wanted to do was talk about the newspapers. Appreciated a pastor who remembered her needs and problems in the midst of his own. Made me late.

The two detectives walked in. “Detective Rourke. Detective Bradford,” Sharon said. Chad stood up and came around the desk, hand extended. “Please, call me Chad,” he said heartily. Bradford winced, but Rourke jumped right in. “Pleased to meet you, Chad.”

Sharon was backing toward the door. “May I bring you all something to drink? Soda?”

“Yes, please, Sharon,” Chad said. “Detective Rourke?”

“7-Up, please.”

“Detective Bradford?”

“Diet Brown something. Thanks.”

“And I’ll have my usual water. Thanks so much, Sharon.”

After they were settled, drinks in hand, Rourke cleared his throat. “Chad, as the newspaper article made clear, Robert Warner has filed a civil suit against you and against the church. This is not a criminal case at all. At the same time, the allegations have caught the prosecutor’s attention, and he wanted us to interview you at least once for our files.” Rourke stopped to take a drink. The newspapers will be filled with Warner, Warner, Warner. The public already knows how to spell Warner. They need to know how to spell Radavic.

Chad nodded. “Go on.”

“You are not a suspect in any criminal case, or even a person of interest. We just want to ask a few questions. Nevertheless, if you want to have an attorney present, that is certainly your right . . .”

Chad waved his hand dismissively. He had already talked to the attorneys, and they had gone over what he should and should not say. They thought it was best for him to talk with the cops without them, for at this stage of the proceedings, what could be better than nonchalance? And besides they knew that Chad was good. Nobody slipperier. If the investigation turned serious, or turned into a real investigation somehow, the attorneys would then cluster round. “Right now,” said Smith the young attorney, “this is just to get Radavic into the papers. Our worry is the civil suit.”

The same fifteen minutes was spent gathering background data, and the first speed bump came at “married?” Yes, for eighteen years. But unfortunately, the divorce is almost final. Sorry to hear that. Reasons? Grew apart. Still the best of friends, though. Children? Two lovely girls, Kimberly and Shannon. Still in high school.

Robert P. Warner II? “Ah, here is where our interview has to end, but not because I want to be uncooperative. I know absolutely nothing about the man. Sharon has given you the logs. I am unable to help you. But I would help if I could.” Chad smiled a sad, pastoral smile. Rourke looked at him, sympathetically impressed. Man, this guy is good. But I have been on the force for many years, my friend, and I am just as good. He’s telling the truth for now, just this moment. But he is a liar telling the truth, and it almost suits him.

Rourke just sat and watched admiringly. Chad chose his words with care, but with a carefree care. Everything was parsed, but looked as though it was spontaneously lying about. Shabby chic.

“ . . . obviously a troubled young man, and I would help him if I could. For anyone to abuse a pastoral relation with a young man that way . . .” Rourke noted the effortless way in which Chad denounced pastoral abuse . . . with young men. Everything positioned just so. Everything anticipated. Plausible deniability in every direction.

The detectives rose to go. Thanks so much. Anytime. At your disposal. We want this resolved as fast as possible. Can you direct us to Miguel Smith’s office? Morning. Morning. Enjoy the sun. Thanks again. Sure. Bye.

***

Miguel Smith, unlike virtually everyone else at Camel Creek, had blue collar roots and blue collar sensitivities. He had worked the orchards as a young man, knew what calluses were, and did not put on affectations. Got his CPA in night classes, and was, taking one thing with another, an industrious and robust character, belonging to the classic Long John Silver school of thought. Enrolled in the curriculum of the seven deadlies, he almost entirely bypassed sloth, and had a double major in avarice and lust. His gruff manner had all the bookkeepers cowed, and was one of the reasons he had such an easy time keeping a second set of books. It was a sweet set-up. He had the sweetest set-up in the history of the world, short of a few popes. No shareholders. No product. No inventory.

Every collection was counted with three deacons in the room at all times, and was counted three times. At Miguel’s insistence, the procedures were established so that each deacon had to sign a paper verifying the amount on the deposit slip, and the bag and deposit slip were then left with Miguel. He would take ten percent off the top, fill out a new deposit slip, amazed that nobody appeared to know what he was doing, and would report to the elders and deacons the combined totals for all the services every weekend. He had started the operation at two percent, but it worked so well that he inched himself up to ten percent, and there he settled. No point in being greedy. Since the deacons who signed their respective papers were only there for one service, and Miguel didn’t break it out for them in the report, and the sum totals always looked close, and the remaining ninety percent that they did have was enormous, Miguel looked like a rock of integrity at its finest. If he had been more evangelical than he was, and if he had ever actually read the Bible, he would have justified things to himself with that passage about an ox and a muzzle and treading grain. But he needed no justification because he felt no guilt. Good strong personal finance. Tax-free.

The only one he hadn’t been able to fool was Chad, who was more than happy to look the other way, so long as the hidden funds were available to help out the occasional fallen woman. “Miguel,” he would say, “can you help me out with a troubled lady?”

Occasionally Miguel would whistle through his teeth and mention that hookers in nearby towns were cheaper, but at the same time, he was philosophical about it. Nearby towns would involve gas money.

“Detective Rourke. Detective Bradford.”

“Good to meet you. Miguel Smith. How can I help you?”

“This is a question in the abstract. I am not asking for this now, but just wanted to know what would happen if I did ask. If we were to ask you if any money had ever been paid out to a Robert P. Warner, would you be able to tell us?”

“Well, boyo, it’s like this. If you were to ask, and if you had a subpoena, we could get you that information in ten minutes. Without a subpoena, can’t tell you anything,
though I might go so far as to say, ‘Oink, oink, I smell bacon,’ but only in the nicest way. With a subpoena, you could ask, and it would come up empty. Already ran the check. Sorry I can’t give you any papers to that effect without a subpoena. But just so you know, you’re yelling up the wrong rain spout. Warner has not received any money from Camel Creek. Not that he doesn’t want to, mind. Come back in a year and I might be able to show you a big check made out to him. But that wouldn’t help you gentlemen any.”

On the top of the river rock stairs, facing the waiting parking lot, Rourke and Bradford just stood quietly for a few moments. Suddenly Rourke broke the silence.

“Bradford, as much as it troubles me to do this in front of you, I have to admit that I don’t understand these people at all. You’re already ahead of me with that radio station thing, and we both have to come to the service tonight. And maybe we should go back inside to the bookshop, and buy ourselves a few best-sellers. A couple by the Rev. Lester might be helpful.”