Perfect Murder, Perfect Town - Lawrence Schiller [169]
Finally he replied, “This is a sanctuary. I have to treat everyone in my church in an appropriate way. They came here to seek God and that is what they will find.”
I could see he was offended that I was asking him about matters he considered privileged.
“I am here to find the truth,” I told him. “If there are two murderers loose in your congregation, I would have no qualms about stepping over the boundaries of the church protocol to put them where they belong.” Then I said I hoped he would steer the Ramseys in the right direction. Hoverstock stood there quietly for a second or two. I seemed to have caught his interest.
“The greatest sin of all is taking another’s life,” I continued. “I would not want to have your job. Mine is much easier. I can catch the killers and turn them over without any struggles of conscience. I understand that you can’t. You have to save their souls.”
“That is my job,” Hoverstock said.
“Have you saved their souls?” I asked him.
He didn’t answer.
Then he asked me to leave, but in a nice way. “I do love you,” he said. “Come here, my brother,” and we hugged.
Then I left.
—Ken Harrell
The next Sunday, Ken Harrell didn’t go to church with Jeff Shapiro. When Shapiro entered St. John’s, he saw John Ramsey sitting alone, so he sat down right behind him, a couple of feet away. Shapiro even shook his hand when Rev. Hoverstock said everyone should take the Peace.
I took communion with him, drinking my wine as he drank his.
Rol came up to John and put his hand on his shoulder as if to say, “You’re going to make it through this. You’re going to survive. You didn’t do this.”
Then he came to me, looked into my eyes, and said, “May you accomplish everything the Lord has sent you here to accomplish.”
After the service, I talked to Hoverstock.
“I work for the Globe,” I told him.
“I’ve heard that.”
“When I’m undercover as an investigative reporter, I don’t tell anyone. I needed time to think out what I said to you last Sunday. I respect you, Father; you deserve to know the truth.”
“I respect you for telling me,” Hoverstock said, “but you lied to all of us.”
“I didn’t lie,” I told him. “I’m undercover.”
“What’s the difference?”
“There’s a big difference,” I explained. “If I were an FBI agent, you’d understand. But reporters have a role in a democratic society to find out the truth. That’s what I’m here to do.”
“That may have some merit. But what it comes down to is that I feel deceived.”
Then I showed Hoverstock a picture of JonBenét in makeup. She looked sad.
“That’s not the little girl I knew,” he said.
“But this is what this case is about. I’m here to avenge that girl.”
“So you’re telling me that you’re some holy avenger? No. You’re a predator. You’re all predators.”
“I’m here to make a difference. Someday you’ll understand I’m a good person.”
“You are a good person,” Hoverstock said. “But I don’t like the fact that you’re on John’s case all the time.”
“I’m not. I’m on Patsy’s case. We’re not in heaven,” I continued. “We’re still on earth, and God has given us our own laws to follow here.”
As I left his office I recited from the Bible a verse that Chris Darden quoted to the Simpson jury: “For the Lord doth hate these things: a proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood.”
Hoverstock looked hard at me.
Then I added, “Let justice be done though thy heaven fall.”
—Jeff Shapiro
After church, Jeff Shapiro called Frank Coffman, an occasional contributor to the Colorado Daily. Coffman, a friendly guy about to turn fifty, had first met Alex Hunter in 1982 during a citizens’ meeting and was currently writing articles on the Ramsey case. Coffman agreed to meet Shapiro at the Trident bookstore and café on Pearl Street, next door to the Rue Morgue mystery bookstore.
Over coffee, they talked about the case and eventually reached the topic of the garrote stick. In the photo the Globe had published, the wood looked like a manufactured item, slightly glossy and tapered. Then they looked at the autopsy and crime