Silent Mercy

THIRTY-SIX

“HARD punches! To the head! Again, to the head!”

The man’s voice was yelling commands to someone farther back, out of sight, in the cavernous, dark space. An old garage had been split into a series of large open areas, the one through which we entered decorated like a primitive church.

“Work the head! Finish him now!” The shouts were loud and delivered with fierce direction, incongruous as the words were within a house of worship.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see the makeshift altar and the white cloths draped over it. Brass stands held tall candlesticks, not lit now, on the floor at the end of a few dozen rows of benches without backs.

We followed the voices past the pews, through an open, undecorated area, winding up in a brightly lit corner of the garage where a handful of men who appeared to be in their twenties and thirties were noisily cheering on the two figures punching at each other on a raised platform that resembled a boxing ring.

“Punch again! Finish him!” The screamer was older than the others, dressed in a sports jacket and slacks, while the onlookers, like the pair in the ring — were in black T-shirts and gym pants, all heavily tattooed and well-muscled, with shaved heads and carefully shaped goatees.

No one noticed us until Mercer stepped up to the side of the group. All the spectators stared at him, then at Mike and me. I didn’t know whether the hostility of their expressions was because we so obviously looked like law enforcement or because Mercer’s ebony skin was so different from the complexions of the all-white onlookers.

“Whoa! Hold it right there,” the man in charge called out, wanly smiling at us while he ordered his subjects to stop throwing punches.

The obvious winner of the round didn’t want to be halted. He continued to pummel the guy who was on his back on the platform floor.

Two of the men vaulted up into the ring to grab their friend. Before they could calm him, he slammed one knee down and placed his opponent in a choke hold.

“Did Jesus tap?” he shouted.

“Break it up, you hear me?” Mercer said, stepping in to stop the fighting.

“You tapping?” the fighter asked, throwing more punches when his opponent didn’t give him an immediate answer. “Jesus never did, did he?”

Mercer wrapped one of his enormous hands around the wrist of the guy who was on top and wrenched him back. He fell over onto his side, screaming up at Mercer, who was palming his gold detective shield for the group to see.

“What’s this fuss?” the man in the sports jacket said. His Southern drawl was as thick as the blood running from the mouth of the injured fighter, who was trying to roll over and catch his breath.

“Exactly what I’d like to know,” Mercer said. “What was Jesus tapping?”

“That means giving up in our sport. Christ never gave up, don’t you know? Now who might y’all be?”

“NYPD. Homicide,” Mike said. “I’m Chapman. That’s Wallace and Ms. Cooper. Never tapping either, till we get our man. You mind telling us who you are and what your sport is?”

“And why you’re beating the holy crap out of each other in a church?” Mercer added, shaking his head as the bloodied fighter refused his hand, struggling to his feet unaided.

“I’m the Reverend Harold Kelner. This here’s my church.”

“And your flock?” Mike asked. “Is this one of the lost tribes, or they really think they’re doing the Lord’s work in a boxing ring?”

“Timothy 6:12. ‘Fight the good fight of faith,’” Kelner said, motioning to us to step away from the men gathered around the platform.

I couldn’t stop looking at the guy who was trying to steady himself and rise to his feet, blood dripping from his chin and holding his neck at an angle, as though the choke hold had made a permanent impression.

“Would you mind telling us something about your ministry?” Mercer asked.

“Why, sir? Has one of my worshippers done something illegal?”

“No reason to think so, Reverend. We’re just trying to help some detectives in another state. Trying to get an understanding of these extreme ministries. Found you in the phone book and thought you could give us some general answers. May I ask where you’re from?”

“Came here about a year and a half ago from Nashville, Detective.”

That city wasn’t directly in our path of homicidal destruction.

“To establish this church?”

“Exactly so, Mr. Wallace. And this academy.”

“What academy would that be?” Mike asked.

“You must be here because you’ve been told that some of our brethren in the evangelical movement have taken on mixed martial arts as a way of reaching out to young men.”

“Only men?” I asked.

“That’s correct, ma’am. Surely you’re aware that in churches across the country, the attendance numbers for young males — well, young white males; you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wallace — is regrettably low. Dropping all the time. Go to our services on a Sunday and you won’t have but a handful of men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-six. That’s a sad fact. Pretty much all pastel and girlylike, so our programs are developed to be an outreach tool to the community.”

“How so?”

“Many men are led to find Christ when they come to understand that Jesus was a fighter. Do you know what mixed martial arts are?”

Kelner’s voice was syrupy but he sneered at my ignorance. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. What we walked in on,” I said, “just looked to be brutal and violent. Anything but spiritual and uplifting.”

“What you saw was a sport called cage assault. Highly popular, ma’am. Always draws a crowd, especially when you put on a show before the prayer service.”

“A blood sport, obviously.”

Mike could see I was offending Reverend Kelner. He slid behind me and pinched my forearm to urge me to keep quiet.

“So, mixed martial arts,” Mike said. “Kickboxing, wrestling, full-contact karate — ultimate fighting, is that it? A little more machismo in your ministry.”

“Yes, sir, Detective.”

“I get you,” Mike said, although I knew him well enough to know he was stroking the reverend. “The church is becoming too feminized for your folk.”

“Gentle shepherding is just fine,” Kelner said, “but not at the price of strength. There are so very many young men who’ve grown up without fathers, without direction. They’ve struggled to find hope, and today’s religious institutions don’t really have a place for them. Our group tries to make Christianity more appealing. Fighting as a metaphor — like Christ fought — is very attractive to many fellows.”

“Joining faith to fighting,” Mike said.

“That helps us promote true Christian values. We’ve got almost seven hundred churches across the country.”

I was sickened to think of this as a religious movement. It seemed so antithetical to the teachings of every mainstream culture. I turned away from Kelner and watched one of the fighters mop the stained floor of the platform.

The loser had limped off to sit on the sidelines, against the wall of the old garage, still marked with faded red paint in the shape of a road sign that warned drivers to stop.

“So what were we watching?” Mike asked.

“One of our new recruits. He’s going to fight tonight, in fact. I call him the Fury. That was some Muay Thai he was angling to do.”

“Asian.”

“The Art of Eight Limbs, as they call it in Thailand. American boxing involves two points of contact — just the fists.”

“Yeah,” Mike said.

“This lets you go at the other guy with eight points,” Kelner said, pleased with the telling. “It allows punching, kicking, kneeing, elbowing.”

“And some Brazilian jujitsu thrown in, wasn’t there?”

“You know your stuff, Mr. Chapman. Tell your girlfriend over there — she’s seeming a bit squeamish — that’s the only one likely to do more than bloody a boy’s nose. That was the choke hold you saw.”

“Full-contact combat sport.”

I whispered to Mercer, “Just ask him about the case — and a possible perp — and let’s get out of this place. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh, and some sambo,” Kelner said. He was pushing the envelope with me now, sensing my displeasure. “You know sambo? That’s one to kill with. You maybe came in too late to see the takedown.”

“What’s sambo?”

“How’s your Russki?”

“Nyet. Nonexistent.”

“A Russian acronym, Detective. Stands for self-defense without weapons — sambo, in their language.”

“Now I know what you’re talking about. It was a top-secret Red Army technique to create a deadly kind of hand-to-hand combat after the Revolution, right?”

“Entirely. Didn’t even make it to the US until recently. Focuses on getting your opponents to the ground, Detective, no matter how you do it. It’s all about submission,” Kelner said, almost gloating at the way he had suckered Mike into his pitch. “Now, is one of these martial arts how your mysterious killer works, Mr. NYPD Homicide Detective, or can I go back about the business of building God’s army?”

“No sambo, Reverend. Don’t even think there was kickboxing involved.”

The truth was we had no idea how Naomi and Ursula had become hostage to the maniacal killer. Neither body bore the bruising of the mixed-martial-arts takedown, and the toxicological tests were still days away from yielding clues.

“Then why y’all coming around my church, stirring up my men, Chapman? We’ve been scapegoated for just about everything in town, one place or ’nother.”

“You think this idea of yours is gonna fly in the big city, Rev?” Mike asked. “I can point you to more fighting fools than could fill up your benches.”

“Bring ’em on, Mr. Chapman. I’ll lead them to the Lord.”

“You know if there’s an extreme ministry anywhere near Atlanta?”

“Quite a few on the outskirts.”

“How about eastern Kentucky?”

“You bet. Kentucky and West Virginia. We’re growing like hayseed down South.”

Mike had printed out the photograph from Daniel Gersh’s driver’s license. “Ever seen this guy?”

Kelner pretended to give it his best shot. “Not one of ours.”

“How about a tall man, maybe long dark hair, his face kind of scarred with blemishes of some sort?”

Kelner thought about it but gave a firm no.

“Many other of these churches in town?”

“Not yet, Mr. Chapman. But we’ll take hold. We have a way of doing that where we’re most needed,” Kelner said. “Meanwhile, you might try across the river. We’re becoming real popular in south Jersey. And you might give some mind to being a bit more prayerful yourselves — all three of you.”

“Thanks for your help,” Mike said. “Peace to you.”

Reverend Kelner just grinned and stood his ground, making sure we were on our way.

I wondered how much blood had been mopped from the floor of the church in the short time it had been in existence. It would be a forensic nightmare for Crime Scene to try to sort out the samples if someone was actually killed in the deep recesses of the old garage.

We were halfway down the center aisle of the jury-rigged church when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I retrieved and opened it. The woman on the other end was trying hard not to sound hysterical.

“Alex? It’s Faith Grant.”

“Yes, Faith. What—”

“Chat called. She’s in trouble.” I could hear now that she was crying. “I wasted time ignoring your concerns and now she’s in desperate trouble.”

“What do you know? We’ve got an entire police department ready to mobilize. What did she say?”

“It was impossible to understand her. The words were all slurred. Nothing made sense. She sounded like she’d been doing drugs.”

That would have been the first step in the killer’s routine — more likely to have been administered involuntarily.

“Did you make out anything at all?”

“It was so hard, Alex. I tried to get her to keep talking, but either the cell went dead, or someone grabbed it away from her. She kept telling me she was cold.”

“Cold?”

“Yes, freezing. That’s the clearest thing I could make out.”

“Did Chat say where she was?”

“Believe me, Alex. I asked all the questions I should have. First she said something about a truck. But then she said it was a train. Everything was muddled and confused.”

I was playing with the letters of the words that Max had strung together from the Gersh papers. Train had been one of them. Truck was a longer shot. What would there be to connect the two?

“It will take us about twenty minutes to get up to you, Faith. Are you safe? Are you still at the seminary?”

“Yes. I’ve got two faculty friends with me. They know everything.”

“What number did Chat call on? Your office phone?”

“No, no. My cell.”

“Did she say who was with her? Did you ask her a name?”

“No names. She wasn’t listening to me. She was just trying to talk. A bridge. Chat said something about a bridge. Then a truck and a train.”

“What bridge, Faith? Think.”

We were out of the church now, and I was jogging behind Mike and Mercer as we ran to the car. The island of Manhattan was linked to the rest of America by bridges and tunnels. Picking the right one would be crucial.

“She didn’t say,” Faith said, trying to regain her composure. “There’s something about Chat I didn’t tell you, Alex.”

This was real life. There was almost always something the most well-meaning witness decided not to tell me. In this case, the omission was probably to protect a loved one.

“I know she’s a free spirit, Faith. Don’t worry. If it’s about drugs, it’s not a problem. We’ll find her.”

“It’s not drugs, Alex. That was never one of Chat’s problems.”

“She strikes me as gutsy. Chat had a little attitude going with Mike this morning. If she’s got some fight in her,” I said, hoping to bluff some confidence into our operation, “she’ll hang on till we get her.”

“She’s got fight in her all right,” Faith said. “My sister left Kansas because she killed a man.”