Posts Tagged ‘detective stories’

garden

“Gardening shears? You’re sure about that?”

“Without a doubt. It’s the murder weapon. Hector Williams’ fingerprints are all over it. The blood is his wife’s.”

Ruben stood up in his bedroom, excited by the news. One of the church members had apparently developed a guilty conscience. In exchange for immunity, he gave the department a pair of bloody gardening shears he was hiding for his pastor. There was now ample evidence to try and convict Hector Williams for the murder of his wife.

Vasquez hung up the phone and dressed. His wife was away for the weekend, staying at her mother’s in another county. Ruben was glad for this. It was two in the morning, and he hated waking her up inadvertently when working on a case.

He approached the front door when, like a peal of thunder, a crash rang out from the back of his house. It sounded like a window breaking. Ruben pulled his weapon from his belt and stalked towards the back door, slowly and silently. On the floor lay a brick surrounded by sparkling shards of broken glass. Peering out the window and exposing himself to the humid night air, he saw nothing.

He was about to unlock the door when he heard another crash, this time from the front room. Running as fast as his tired legs would permit, Ruben reached the front door in a matter of seconds. Upon reaching his destination however, he immediately realized that this had been a hasty, careless mistake, and it was going to cost him dearly.

The sound of gunfire reverberated through the home as Ruben staggered forward. There was now a bullet in the outer left side of his back, but he felt no pain. The adrenaline coursing through his veins permitted no feeling but that of self preservation. But he had to act fast—otherwise, that feeling would be worthless. He spun around and fired his pistol before even glimpsing a target. Nonetheless, the weapon’s discharge had been quite effective, as the man who had presumably thrown the brick through the back window fell to the floor with an agonized cry. The intruder, shot in the chest and far worse off than Vasquez, managed to lift his gun for a moment, but the detective bit through his pain and rushed forward, kicking the weapon from the man’s hand.

The intruder himself died within seconds, but Ruben didn’t see it happen. All he could see were stars and then blackness. Something had forced its way down to the back of his head, and it very nearly cracked open his cranium. He fell to his face, fighting hard against the blackness, using every ounce of willpower he had to stay conscious. Rolling onto his back, he fired the weapon again, this time with his eyes closed. He strained to open them quickly, and was met with the sight of a large man in a suit holding a baseball bat and covered in blood. As this second intruder fell backwards, a third man was revealed to be standing behind him, already turning on his heel in an attempt to flee the scene. Ruben shot once and missed, but his second round reached its quarry in the calf muscles of the right leg. The man’s high pitched shriek was the only thing that kept Ruben from finally drifting into benightedness.

It took about five minutes, but Detective Ruben Vasquez used prayer and willpower to stand up on his feet and walk towards the third intruder, the only one still living. When he reached him and turned his crawling body onto its back with his foot, he wasn’t surprised at all to be staring down into the face of Hector Williams.

“You,” snarled the bleeding preacher, “you will answer for this. I am a warrior for the faith.”

Ruben’s face remained stoic, mostly because of the pain, but he almost came close to chuckling before he replied.

“You’re not a man of faith,” he said. “You’re a man of fear and hatred.”

Williams closed his eyes and bit his lip, the wrath and malice pulling taut all the muscles in his face.

“Sinner—”

“Shut up,” wheezed Vasquez. “Why did you come here? Why were you and your cronies after me? I wasn’t the only cop trying to put you away.”

“You judged me,” Williams replied, the pain in his voice becoming more and more evident. He was losing a lot of blood. “You insulted me.”

“Doesn’t God condemn personal vengeance? Doesn’t he condemn murder?”

“You…you don’t…have the right to judge me.” His breath was growing ragged. Ruben knew he had to call an ambulance for Williams as well as himself, but he was tempted to let the man bleed out and suffer. His wrestling match with his hatred was short-lived, however, and his integrity came out on top as he reached into his coat for the cell phone. As his ten second conversation with the dispatcher played out, Williams ceased all movement and closed his eyes. Ruben dropped the phone and stumbled towards him.

“Hang on,” he said. “They’re on their way.”

As Ruben grabbed Williams by the shoulder and shook him, the murderer opened his eyes. Somehow, they looked different. Hate was still there, pain was still there, and fear…but there was something else. Vasquez could only approximate the look to one of surprise.

“You ain’t gonna let me die?” whispered Hector.

“No,” said Vasquez, his voice tinged with disgust. “I’m not like you. You and your congregation give church a bad name, you know that? But no. You live. If only so Beth can rest in peace.”

“We follow God,” mumbled the pastor. “We follow God.”

Ruben wanted to say a lot of things. He wanted to tear Hector a new one with insults. He wanted to call him a small, pathetic little man who only pretended to follow the Lord. He wanted to say that his cult followed not God, but an evil man who himself followed nothing but anger. He wanted to tell him how heartbreaking it was that there were people like him in the world, leading people towards evil under the guise of truth. Thankfully, these people were in the minority of those who professed to believe. Ruben only wished that the world saw it that way. He wanted to say all these things, but he didn’t. He simply held on to Hector and waited for the ambulance.

“I’m a godly man,” sobbed the dying hypocrite. “I’m a godly man. I’m a—”

The sirens could now be heard. Detective Vasquez spoke once more before the responders bolted through the door. He said them not only to Williams, but to himself as well.

“Therefore thou art inexcusable, O man, whosoever thou art that judgest: for wherein though judgest another, thou condemnest thyself; for thou that judgest doest the same things.”

 

 

THE END

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Thirty two minutes later (Vasquez kept track of time religiously), Ruben and Rick pulled into a gravel parking lot in front of a burgundy building. The structure was tall and looming, with an air of classical beauty about it. It was the church, and about twenty of its members were standing outside, their faces expressionless.

A few squad cars were already on the scene, and the officers present were separating the church members into groups and interviewing them. Vasquez knew that this operation had to be handled delicately. There wasn’t yet any actual evidence linking the pastor or the church to the death of Zarabeth. The cops were simply talking to her friends, but Ruben was gazing up at the high windows of the church with longing. He needed to see what was in there.

“Hey, James,” he said, tapping a plain clothes officer on the shoulder. “You been up there yet?”

The man nodded.

“Yeah, Vasquez. We combed every inch of the place. Nothing in the building.”

Ruben frowned before replying.

“Well, are they talking? Anything interesting?”

“No. A few nods, a yes or a no—that’s it. I get a bad vibe from the lot of them. Too damn quiet. Not like any church I’ve ever seen.”

Ruben looked back at Andrews and gave him an “I told you so” kind of smirk.

“I don’t know,” continued James. “Maybe they’re just nervous. Or heartbroken.” His tone was practically soaked in sarcasm.

“Uh huh,” said Ruben. He snaked his way through the groups of people, shifting his eyes all the while. Eventually, he found who he was looking for.

Hector Williams stood alone. The officers interviewing him had walked away as soon as they saw Vasquez approaching. Ruben didn’t think he would hesitate to talk to the man, but he was wrong. There was something strange about the preacher’s demeanor, facial expression, and sheer presence. Though not especially tall, he somehow towered over everyone else. And that smile…Ruben had been in gunfights, seen murder first-hand, and even been involved in hostage situations, but no moment in his entire life had ever frightened him to the core like Hector’s smile now did.

But Ruben’s bravery was well-renowned. After a brief moment of eye-locking, the detective extended a hand to the suspect.

“Hector Williams? Detective Vasquez. I’m sorry about your wife.”

Hector’s smile went away, briefly and unconvincingly. The perturbation remained.

“Thank you, officer,” he answered. “Truly means a lot. Her soul rests with the Almighty now. I just can’t imagine who could have done this to her.”

Vasquez shifted his feet. It was difficult to talk to this man, especially due to the likelihood of him being a wife killer. But a preacher…a man of God, the God Ruben himself believed in…it would have been the height of hypocrisy. And yet, here the man stood, smiling, pretending to care for his departed wife, and lying straight to Ruben’s face.

“So,” continues Vasquez, “you’ve been asked the usual questions, I presume?”

“Yes sir. I’ve been asked questions all day. About the quality of my marriage, about Beth’s personal life, all kinds of things. But no one’s asking themselves the important questions.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Williams?”

Hector’s face changed. It became a visage of grief, and Vasquez actually believed it to be genuine.

“No one’s asking,” Williams said quietly, “if this happened to Beth for a reason. If God carried this out as an act of vengeance. Not one of your officers has considered that. You’re all blind. You’re all blind to the fact that this is an example of His power. A lesson, that vows made before Him are to be obeyed.”

“Such as fidelity, for instance?”

Hector’s expression remained unchanged, though he did seem to glare at Ruben a little harder.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s a big one.”

“Well,” sighed Ruben, “I’m gonna tell you two things right now, Hector. Number one is that God didn’t do this. God doesn’t cut people’s eyes out, with blades or otherwise.”

“I know that,” replied Williams. “Do you think I’m ignorant? All I was saying was that He uses certain people as his instruments. I don’t know who did it, and I wish it hadn’t happened.”

“Well, that’s thing Number Two, Hector. You do know who did it. You did it. You or one of your mimes. We’re not sure yet, but don’t worry, we’ll figure it out. We’ll get the evidence, and then, we’re going to cuff you.”

Within the span of a microsecond, the preacher changed from Hector Williams into something else entirely. The change was so sudden and shocking that Vasquez and a few of the officers standing by put their hands on their pistols. The man was now an animal, his face beet red and his voice explosive.

“How dare you!” he snarled. “You, an unbeliever, accusing me and threatening me with arrest? I loved my wife. I miss her with my entire soul. You don’t have a clue who you are dealing with.”

“Oh,” smiled the ever brave Detective Vasquez, “I think I do. I’m dealing with a liar. A wife-killer. A hypocrite. I can’t do nothin’ about it yet, but I will. So go back inside your church and…grieve for your wife. Or for yourself.”

Hector stared into the detective’s eyes. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he rushed back into the church, with most of his flock following him. For the next few hours, the police searched the church, the preacher’s home, and the woods. All three areas were within seven miles of where Beth’s body had been discovered.

They didn’t find a thing.