Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [25]
The Southside United Freedom Church was on a leafy street in a virtually all-black area, surrounded by modest houses on small plots of land. A group of boys dressed in Little League uniforms—he gauged their ages as somewhere between ten and twelve—milled around in front of the church, waiting for someone to pick them up and deliver them to a ball field. Brixton parked on the street and approached them on his way to the rectory.
“Got a big game today?” he asked.
His question was met with shouts followed by high fives. The other team didn’t have a chance, if their bravado was any indication.
Brixton looked past them and saw a man he assumed was the minister standing on the small front porch in front of the rectory. He was imposing in height and weight. He wore a black suit and white shirt with a clerical collar. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were neatly trimmed. He raised his hand. Brixton returned the wave.
“Looks like a bunch of all-stars out front,” Brixton told him.
The Reverend Lucas Watkins laughed. “Their enthusiasm makes up for any shortfalls on the playing field. Come in, Mr. Brixton.”
The inside of the rectory was neat and orderly, the air smelling of fresh paint. “Coffee, tea?” the minister asked.
Brixton opted for coffee. Watkins had a glass of water. They sat in what Watkins termed his study, a compact, nicely furnished room with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on one wall and a large open window looking out over a small backyard. A set of lacy orange-and-yellow curtains fluttered in a welcome breeze. Brixton noted that among an array of photographs hanging behind the desk was a large color photo of Eunice Watkins with her daughter. He commented on it.
“Breaks my heart every time I look at it,” Watkins said, slowly shaking his head. “Louise was a victim and paid the price.”
“A victim? Of what?”
“The society we live in, Mr. Brixton. She fell under the influence of evil people who inhabit it.”
Brixton was tempted to challenge the statement. As far as he was concerned, today’s society was no different than it ever had been and most people didn’t fall victim to anything. For Brixton, life amounted to nothing more than a series of decisions. You make good ones, and barring some freakish act of nature or accident, a tornado or being hit on the head by an air conditioner falling from a high window, things go pretty smoothly. Make bad decisions and things don’t go so well. But he wasn’t there to argue philosophy.
“I understand that it was you who urged your mother to come see me about Louise,” he said.
“That’s correct, Mr. Brixton.” Watkins’s voice filled the room and Brixton visualized him delivering a fire-and-brimstone sermon. “However, I didn’t suggest you specifically. I simply told her that she might engage the services of a private investigator.”
“Had your sister told you about being paid to go to prison? I know she told your mother.”
“No, she did not. Louise and I suffered the sort of sibling rivalry that occurs in most families. Being older and male, I had different interests and friends. I felt my calling to God at a very early age, Mr. Brixton, and Louise was aware of it. I, of course, was aware of her lifestyle and the wrong path she was going down. It wasn’t a situation conducive to her sharing intimate thoughts with me, although I tried to reach her. I regret I was unable to provide a counterbalancing influence.”
“You’re referring to her drug use.”
“Yes.”
“But I’m under the impression that your mother—and now I assume you—are more interested in clearing her name regarding the stabbing than in finding out who shot her when she got out of prison.”
“Being shot is not a sin, Mr. Brixton. She happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. But to have spent four years behind bars for a crime she did not commit is a legacy I believe should be corrected.”
“When did you learn of Louise’s claim that she’d been paid to take the rap?”
“A few