Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jim turned away from the coffee pots to reach for the sugar. He usually didn't use it in coffee, but today he not only needed the extra kick, but the coffee was bad. Whoever had made it didn't know what they were doing, obviously.

He turned back to find himself inches from a body. He almost stumbled as he stepped back. A hand settled on his arm to steady him.

"Sorry," Marty mumbled. He picked up the coffee pot and poured a cup.

"Marty, you have to say something when you walk up." Jim grabbed the counter tightly.

"I'm tired, wasn't thinking. Anyway, I thought you'd hear me."

Jim shook his head. "I didn't. I'm tired, too." He started laughing.

Marty joined in. After a minute he said, "Why are we laughing?"

"Because we need a lot of coffee." Jim took a sip of the doctored beverage and grimaced.

Marty choked on his own drink. "You make this?"

Jim shook his head. "I do know how to make a decent pot of coffee."

"I'm dumping it out."

Jim heard him slide the pot out of the maker and reached out to stop him. "Here." He carefully felt for the opening at the top and lifted the lid to pour his cup out. "You bring the water, I'll make a fresh pot," Jim offered.

"Sounds good," Marty said, halfway out the door.

Jim sifted through the contents of the cupboard and pulled out a coffee can. He found the filters and was searching for the measuring scoop when he heard footsteps coming back. "Where's the scoop?" he asked.

"In the can," Fisk said. "But I already made coffee."

Jim's fingers fumbled over the filters. He heard another set of footsteps pause in the doorway. "Oh, you made the coffee?"

"Yeah. Where is it?"

"Marty and I drank it," he said.

"Yeah," Marty piped up. "We really need the caffeine. What with the late night and all."

"Let me know when you get a new pot brewed," Fisk said and left.

Jim kept his back to Marty until he was sure the boss was out of earshot. Then he turned and gave Marty a horrified look.

Marty burst out laughing. He patted Jim on the arm. "Here's the—" Marty cut himself off and Jim heard something thunk on the counter. "There's the water."

"Boss said you two drank all the coffee he made," Karen said, walking in. "You drank it?"

Jim shook his head. "That's not possible, Karen." He measured out the coffee.

She laughed. "I know. I guess that's the second thing you need to know—bad handwriting, bad coffee."

"Third thing's the charm, what is it?" Jim poured in the water Marty had brought.

"Really bad at karaoke."

Jim grinned. "He sings?"

"He had a few too many at the Christmas party last year. We had to threaten to lock him up as a public disturbance if he didn't stop." Karen turned away. "Bring me a cup when it's ready, okay?"

Jim hoisted himself up on the counter to wait. "Looks like I'm coffee boy today."

"How's your shoulder?" Marty asked.

"Better." Jim tested it to make sure and found it was still only a little sore. "You want me to bring you a cup when it's done?" Jim offered.

"Nah. Maybe I'll hang out a few minutes."

"You and me okay now?"

He pictured Marty shrugging before he said, "You're a tough guy to hate, Jim."

Jim forced a little smile. "Sounds like that's a bad thing."

"I guess I figure, we work together, your personal life is your business, and we can be cordial, even if we're not friends."

"I can handle that."

"But I meant what I said about earning my respect."

Jim nodded. "I can handle that, too. Thanks."

"We'll see," Marty said, but his tone was friendly. "Good luck today."

"Hey, Jim."

Jim looked up slowly. He wanted to continue to feel good about the case, but with Rob Mulhaney in the room… He felt a sudden depression in the air. The case hit too close to home. He bit his lip. "Rob."

"I just stopped by to get those files…"

Jim nodded. "They're in the lieutenant's office."

"I hear you have a confession."

"Yeah. It wasn't exactly the one I wanted to hear, but we do have one."

"Is Gary in?"

"He ran down to the DA's office." Jim started to get up. "You want me to get you the files?"

"Nah. Nah, I'll just stay around here for a while. Fill me in?"

Jim settled back at his desk and nodded. "Grab a chair." He waited for Rob to pull up a chair from the desk facing his.

"Hey," Tom said, walking up. He stood behind Jim, leaning against the window. "You're going to keep looking into Josiah?"

"It's the only real lead we have," Rob said sadly.

Marty cleared his throat. "Jim's going down there later to talk to him."

Jim nodded. "And I know where he's supposed to be for the next few days."

"What's he like?" Rob asked. "You met him before, right? Gary told me…"

Jim grimaced. "Just how much did he tell you?"

"Not much."

"You won't like him." He shook his head. He didn't want to think of Brian, the young, happy kid he'd met years before, under the influence of Uncle Josiah. He didn't want to think about Rob Mulhaney meeting Josiah and seeing exactly what may have happened to his son.

"Jim?"

Jim pulled his hand away from his mouth and looked back up. He'd have to remember not to think so much.

"You don't want to tell me?"

"I'll tell you," Tom said. "I was there, too."

"Tom." Jim held up his hand to stop him.

"Jimmy," Rob said, "you don't need to protect me. I know Brian was involved with some pretty serious stuff that I can't be proud of. I just want a better impression of what we're up against."

Jim nodded, and together the three detectives laid it out for him, what all they'd learned from Josiah, Michael, and Antoine.

"I know we have a confession," Jim said as he slowly unclipped his seatbelt, "but when we go in there…"

"Act like he's the guilty party?"

"Yeah. I don't trust him."

"I know."

"I want your best impression."

"Okay."

"I trust you. I want to know what you think. Exactly."

"Okay," Karen said, grinning. "All right already, you can stop flattering me. This is my job."

Jim took her arm and stepped up onto the sidewalk. "I don't trust a lot of people."

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

"Yeah, Jim." She laughed. "You're not all that hard to read."

"Really?"

"We're gonna go in there, and you're going to take the lead, as usual. But you'll let me introduce us. The whole time you're going to be thinking of whatever the hell happened at the church the last time you were here."

Jim nodded. He could feel the building looming before him, giving him a touch of vertigo.

"And the first thing you're planning to ask is why he killed Samantha, am I right?"

"That's the plan."

"Have a seat," Uncle Josiah said.

"No thanks," Jim replied. Karen had told him the room was the old church library, but all the shelves were empty. Just a table and chairs, not even a picture. Jim shifted his feet on the old carpet. It felt thick, like old shag.

Josiah laughed almost gleefully. "I guess I wasn't so nice last time we met, was I?"

"This isn't about that."

"No? So tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"I'm surprised you, of all people, would take pleasure in anything."

"But I do. I'm a very happy man."

"I'm sure you are," Karen broke in.

"Your partner wasn't here for my whole sermon, Miss Bettancourt," Josiah said calmly. "He missed a lot."

Jim shook his head. "Like I said before, we're not here about that. We're here about the murder of several of your followers."

"Parishioners, if you please."

"Whatever you call them, why'd you kill them?"

Josiah stood suddenly and Jim braced himself. "Me? I wouldn't kill my parishioners!"

"Then maybe it was at your suggestion?"

"Where is a preacher without someone to listen? Every single one of those people is my lifeblood!"

"So the fact that they're being poisoned by you—"

"Ask them! I would never harm—"

"Right, ask them. After you've turned them into sheep? I'm sure David Koresh's followers thought he was a swell guy, too."

"I did not form a cult, detective," Josiah said, struggling for control in his voice.

"No?"

"No!" He took a few deep breaths. "People come to me in pain—"

"And you make it worse."

"I give them medication to help ease their suffering. Insulin, anti-psychotics—"

"How do you explain the poison? We know you developed one."

There was a short silence. "That," Josiah said, "is not for mass market. I developed it to… help ease them out of this world when their bodies couldn't sustain them any longer." Neither Jim nor Karen said anything, so he clarified. "Euthanasia a term you're familiar with? But trust me, that's a last resort. Comatose patients, ones in pain that will never heal…"

"And it's turning up in your parishioners because…?" Karen prompted.

"It shouldn't be!" He turned and moved away, talking half to himself. "I keep a tight reign on all my medications." He spun back. "I'm here to help people, not kill them."

Jim shook his head. "I'm just not inclined to believe you."

"Why'd you make it untraceable?" Karen asked.

"Euthanasia's not held in high regard in this country. If it came back to me, how would I continue to supply the sick and homeless with medications they desperately need to survive?"

"Tell me, how do you finance this venture?" Jim asked.

"Donations."

"Donations by people who later find themselves homeless? Donations by people who go to their banks and find they never had accounts there?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Is this how you get new parishioners, too?"

"I spend most of my time in my lab, detectives, not recruiting more lost souls. I wouldn't create a lost soul by taking all their finances and leaving them destitute."

"Or by stealing their identities and assigning them to other people?"

"No."

"You have people in charge of all that for you? So you have more time to develop drugs that don't work and poisons that kill people you say you're fond of?"

"Doesn't everyone need to delegate some responsibilities? I have people in charge of my finances, but my drugs work fine! I don't have people recruiting—"

Karen stepped forward and flung down her notebook onto the table. "We'll need the names of all your delegates. Because if you're telling the truth, which I doubt, then one of your people has gone on a poisoning spree."

"And we'll need you to come back to the station with us," Jim added.

"What for?"

"We need a statement on what it is you do, exactly," Karen said.

"I help people. You'd see that if you gave me a chance."

"Jim?" Fisk asked.

Jim looked up and took his hand away from his mouth. He twisted his chair so he was facing the boss.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Fine."

"You gonna be ready for the interview when this guy comes in?"

Jim was quiet a second, chewing on his lip. "As much as I want to talk to this guy again… I'd almost rather just watch."

"Let Tom and Marty take over?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"With me it is. You'll have to ask them."

Jim nodded. "I just feel like when I'm talking to him, sometimes I miss an opportunity to ask him something important."

"Okay."

"Thanks."

"Anything else on your mind?"

Jim shook his head. "I wish I believed him. I think the city could use a philanthropist like him. Someone who really could help people where they need it most."

"But you don't believe him?"

"I tried. But no, I don't trust him."

Jim unfolded himself from the chair when the boss left and headed for the snack machines, where he could hear Tom and Marty goofing around.

"Give me the peanut butter ones and you take the breath mints," Tom was saying.

"It's not my fault you hit the wrong button," Marty said.

"You know you can use these, man."

Jim walked around the corner. "What's going on?" he asked with a smile.

"Come on, Jim, tell him he needs these mints. You would know."

Jim shook his head. "I'm not getting in the middle of this." Jim heard a little scuffle that sounded like Tom had lightly pushed Marty backwards.

"You shouldn't have had the garlic for lunch, man," Tom said.

"Let me breathe on you," Marty answered. Jim heard a package of candy being opened.

"Guys…" Jim started.

"Yeah?"

"What is it?" Tom asked, sounding a little concerned.

There was silence and Jim knew he had their undivided attention. "Would you two interview Uncle Josiah when he gets here?"

"What?" Marty asked incredulously.

"Yeah, I thought you wanted his punk ass," Tom said.

"I do."

"Cold feet?" Tom asked.

"No. I just… I have trouble really listening to him when I'm in the same room. The same way Karen felt with Michael, like you forget what you really want to ask and go off on some tangent. We talked to him for thirty minutes this morning and never did get to any specifics."

"I don't want to talk to him," Tom said.

Jim nodded and shrugged. He turned to leave.

"Just joking. I mean, I don't, but I will."

Jim smiled. "Thanks."

"But you better run in and save our sorry butts if he pulls any of his mumbo jumbo. I don't want to end up thinking I'm a French fry and wander aimlessly up and down Broadway looking for a vat of boiling oil to throw myself into, got it?"

"Well, gosh, I hope I haven't offended anyone," Josiah said insincerely. Jim could hear the smile in his voice as he asked where Detective Dunbar was off to.

"He's busy," Tom said.

"He just waved at the mirror," Karen whispered next to Jim in the observation room.

Jim set his lips. He just wanted to take the cocky bastard down, but he also knew you couldn't put a guy away based on a bad vibe and a couple parlor tricks.

"Let's talk about Samantha Whittleton," Marty said.

"Samantha?" Josiah asked, sounding sad. "What about her? I heard she was shot, but I never did get my hands on the final coroner's report." He sighed. "She was a good kid."

"You want us to arrest you for insurance fraud?" Tom asked.

"Excuse me?"

"On her medical records, you were listed as her husband. The insurance came through you," Marty explained.

"Because I married her. She was my wife."

"A little young for you, wasn't she?"

"She was so sweet. And she was of legal age. I asked her to marry me, she accepted. We were never very close and she left me after a while, about six months ago. As we weren't legally separated, she was still entitled to my insurance, which I happily obliged as she needed the medical care."

"Tell us about your relationship. How you met her, what she did for you. How you found out she died."

"We kept in touch. We were still friends. I met her at church, or after church, to be exact. She was sitting around after the service crying, curled up in the corner on the floor outside the sanctuary. I tried to comfort her. And as you are probably aware, I have my own unique take on the story of God and on our journey here on Earth. It made sense to her, too. After that, it was history. We were inseparable. She wanted to help spread my word." Josiah laughed. "It was really important to her, my new brand of truth."

"She thought she was a prophet?"

"That's putting it a little strongly."

"But she did."

"She would joke about it. About feeling like one of the prophets. And she would chastise me about not taking my message seriously." He stood up and walked a little. "I had other things that I thought were more pressing."

"Don't touch me," Marty said suddenly. "Sit back down."

Josiah laughed. "Relax."

"No. Sit."

A chair was pulled back out and Josiah sat. "Where was I? Oh yes, my other business, which I'm sure you know about. I dabble in medications for my parishioners. I find that I can make my own medications much more cheaply than any pharmacist and they work just as well. It's my own blessing."

"What about this poison?" Tom asked.

"What poison?" Josiah asked.

"The untraceable one."

Josiah laughed. "That's not even possible. Untraceable? There's always a trace of something left in the bloodstream, don't you know that?"

"What we know is that you have been making this substance that's almost untraceable, but yeah, it leaves a little something behind."

"I wouldn't kill anyone. What would I have to gain from that?"

"You tell us."

Jim kept his back to the mirror and didn't bother turning to Karen. "We should have taken a statement back at the church on that stuff."

"He never would have admitted to anything on paper," Karen said. "We don't have enough to go on."

"Did he admit to making the substance?" Fisk asked.

"Sort of."

Jim leaned his head back against the wall. "Sort of isn't good enough. This is why Walter could never pin anything on him."

"We'll find something," Karen said.

Jim shook his head, staring straight ahead, feeling defeated. Josiah was the ultimate proof that evil men didn't always get punished on earth. The police couldn't touch him, and no god was going to come down and smite him.

"Do you know someone named Rico Artez?"

"Samantha's little friend? She was staying with him. He had a couple kids, didn't he? Or were they his sister's kids?"

"What do you know about the kids?" Marty asked stiffly.

"Kids are nice to talk to. I get some of my best ideas from them, they're so innocent."

"You don't… experiment on them?"

"No! Of course not! Kids are healthy, why change that?"

"So you don't know anything about why Artez and his sister might have been in danger?" Tom asked.

"In danger of what?"

"Of ending up like Glenn Bartlett and Samantha Whittleton?"

"Glenn?"

"You don't know anyone named Glenn?"

"No… Not everyone comes to me using their given names, but no, I don't think I know anyone named Glenn."

"You wouldn't, would you, if he was just Michael Hershach's pal," Marty said.

"Oh," Josiah said, like he finally understood. "This is about Michael!"

"Your little friend told us all about you," Tom said. "And don't go telling us he's delusional."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Tell us about Michael."

"He hasn't been the same since his parents died. I was a friend and mentor to him, but you know, you can only do so much."

"When you killed his parents, I'd guess he'd have nowhere else to turn?"

"He told you this is revenge for killing his parents? Did you know they died naturally? They were both very sick and it's sad when something like that happens, when they died so close together, but there's no way I could have had anything to do with that. I didn't know he was blaming me for their deaths, though."

"You had nothing to do with it?" Tom asked.

"How do you give a man a heart attack?"

"You would know. They can be medically induced."

"And cancer? Can I cause cancer?"

Tom and Marty were both quiet.

"Look, I would be glad to testify, if you need me to. About Michael."

"On his behalf or against him?"

"I would only tell the truth. It's up to the jury to decide how to take it, isn't it?"

"As far as you know," Marty said, "what's Michael been up to?"

"As far as I know, he's been selling my medications on the street."

"Has he killed anyone?"

"Michael? He's not the type."

"No?"

"No."

Karen lightly touched Jim's arm. "He's lying."

"You sure?"

"From back here, I'm pretty sure I can read him."

Jim nodded. It would complicate Josiah's life if he told the truth about Michael. He could be booked as an accessory to murder if he said the wrong thing, if he admitted to knowing how Samantha died. The less he admitted about Michael, the better, the less he'd implicate himself.

"That's odd," Marty said, "because he told us he killed Samantha."

"Michael? I wouldn't believe it."

"Why? Do you know something we don't know?" Tom asked.

"Well, I haven't talked to him. If he confessed, I'd guess he did it."

"How do you think Samantha died? If Michael didn't kill her?"

"I thought it was… one of Michael's friends."

"Did you know she was seeing Michael? Romantically?"

"Samantha wasn't the romantic type. But yes, I knew they were involved."

"And you think one of Michael's friends killed her?"

"Yes, I thought it was the one with brown hair, always walked around barefoot." Josiah went on to describe Glenn's physique.

Marty left the room momentarily. "Don't say anything important while I'm gone."

"He has a Polaroid," Karen said quietly when Marty returned.

"Is this the kid you're thinking of?" Marty asked.

"Yes."

"That's Glenn Bartlett. What did you know about him?"

"I only ever saw him. I never talked to him."

"He died before Samantha did. Now who do you think killed Samantha, if not Michael or Glenn?"

"I wouldn't know."

"Why are you so calm? If she was your wife? And knowing we have a confession from a friend of yours?" Tom asked.

"She's been dead a while. I don't need to break down and sob hysterically, do I? Wouldn't that be false grief? I don't know who killed her, but like I said before, Samantha and I weren't really connected on that emotional level. She wasn't built that way."

"If Michael's your friend, think really hard about who might have killed Samantha. Otherwise he's going to jail for her murder."

"I feel bad for him," Josiah said blandly.

"Damn," Fisk said. They'd talked to Josiah for over an hour with no results. Josiah was too smart to implicate himself, even if he had given orders to Michael to do certain things.

"Well, good-bye Josiah," Tom said to no one in particular. "I almost feel sorry for Michael."

"Are you sure you didn't want a crack at him?" Marty asked Jim.

Jim shook his head and settled back into his seat.

"I feel kinda let down," Karen said. "He was so… normal. I didn't get the same creepy vibe here as I did at the church."

"He's a showman," Jim said. "And he's very good at what he does. All we can do is keep an eye out and hope he slips up."

"How's Michael?" Karen asked.

"Still alive," Fisk said. "We're being extra careful about who sees him and why. We're tightening security all around and making sure there's no way any of this business with that Schmidt guy could happen again."

"Let's go talk to Michael," Karen said.

"Guess who we just talked to," Karen said.

"I don't know," Michael said with mock excitement. "Who?"

"Uncle Josiah."

"Oh goody!" he said sarcastically.

Jim pulled out a chair and sat across the table. "You know what he told us?"

"That he's taking over for Saint Nick?"

"That he doesn't believe you killed Samantha."

The room was silent. Jim couldn't even hear Michael shrug or shake his head. He waited, knowing Karen would clue him into any non-verbal communication he'd be missing.

"What reason did he give?"

"He thought it was your friend, Glenn Bartlett," Karen said.

"I told you, I shot her. Josiah was there. He gave her the poison."

"Then why'd he say he thought Glenn killed her?"

Michael sniffled. "Because he can't get to me in here. He tried and he failed and he doesn't have anyone else in here. I'm safe and he wants me dead."

"And you wouldn't confess to a murder you didn't commit just to get away from Josiah?" Karen asked.

"If Josiah suddenly finds an alibi for me and sends it over, don't believe him. I'm sure he'd love to get me off the hook for her murder so he can take care of me himself. But remember, I killed Glenn, too."

Fisk sent them home early. Jim walked down with Karen.

"Well," she said.

"I wanted Uncle Josiah," Jim said.

"I know. I did, too."

They'd already looked into his alibi for the day Samantha was murdered. Of course he had an alibi. He probably had an appointment calendar full of them.

"It's early," she said. "You going home? You want a lift?"

"I think I'll walk a while, clear my head. Thanks, though." He waved and headed off down the sidewalk.

"Jim," Karen called.

He turned back.

"If you need to talk to anyone…"

"Thanks," he said and shook his head. "I was just sort of disappointed. After all I went through…" He heard Karen walk back toward him. "It pisses me off that one minute he can make me feel like that, then the next he can pretend he never did anything wrong."

"I wish I'd been there," she said.

Jim smiled and she squeezed his arm.

"Good-night," she said.

Jim felt a little better as he walked off. Karen would have been there for him, if she could. That's exactly what a partner was for.