Until Proven Guilty - J. A. Jance [36]
“Just where in the hell are we going?” I asked.
“Kirkland. I’ve got some equipment at the house we’ll need to use.”
“I take it this is going to be an illegal wiretap as opposed to the court-ordered variety?”
“You catch on fast, Beaumont.”
“And you know how to work this illegal equipment?” I asked.
Peters’ response was prefaced by a wry face. “How do you think I got the goods on my own wife’s missionary?”
“And where do you propose to install this device?”
“I think I can make it fit right under the pulpit itself.”
“How long is the tape?”
“Long enough. It’s sound activated, so if nothing’s going on, it shuts off. It’ll get us just what we want.” Peters’ face was a picture of self-satisfaction.
It sounded like Peters knew what he was doing, but I decided to do a reality exercise, play devil’s advocate. “Of course you realize that nothing we get will be admissible in a court of law?”
“Absolutely,” he responded, “but it may tell us where to go looking for solid information.”
“As in where the bodies are buried.” That’s what I said aloud. I was thinking about Angel Barstogi and a man left dead in a Hammond, Indiana, alley. It seemed to me that God wouldn’t frown on our using a little ingenuity to even the score. God helps those who help themselves. Besides, there was a certain perverse justice in the idea of dredging the truth out of Pastor Michael Brodie’s very own sermon. Somehow that seemed fair.
Chapter 10
In the final analysis, we weren’t able to get it under the pulpit, but we got close enough. Suzanne Barstogi was still in the Penitent’s Room when we returned from Kirkland with Peter’s tiny sound-activated tape recorder. By this time her knees must have worn out. She was lying prostrate on the floor, sound asleep.
We were alone in the sanctuary. Peters sat down casually on a front bench and attached the recorder under the seat. He handled the equipment with well-practiced competency. As soon as it was concealed, I went past the sleeping Suzanne and knocked on the door to Brodie’s study. We had agreed to beard the lion in his den. We wanted to turn up the heat on Pastor Michael Brodie. We could at least give his self-confidence a good shake.
“What are you doing back here?” he demanded in a voice that caused Suzanne to stir and struggle once more to her knees. He looked around, presumably for Carstogi. “What do you want?”
“We want to ask you a few questions about your whereabouts on Thursday morning.”
Brodie’s florid face twisted. “Are you accusing me…” He broke off abruptly. “I was here, at the church, in my study. Are you listening to that heathen’s accusations?”
“You mean Carstogi? No, we’re just doing our job. Did anyone see you?” I prodded.
“I told you I was here by myself. Nobody saw me. Almighty God is my witness.”
“Have you ever been in Hammond, Indiana?” The tone of Peters’ question was deceptively mild. He leaned casually, almost insolently, against the entrance to the Penitent’s Room.
Brodie’s red face went suddenly slack and ashen. He recovered quickly. “What does that have to do with this?”
“Oh, nothing,” Peters said. “I was just wondering.”
“I know what you’re trying to do. Andrew is making trouble. He is a man with a burden of vengeance in his heart. He blames me for his fall from grace. You tell him from me that Jehovah sees into his vile soul. He will rot in hell for his unjust accusations.”
“So you claim you were here all Thursday morning, or at least until Suzanne Barstogi called you? Is that right?” I continued.
“That’s what I said. Twice.” His fists were tight and so was his voice. He was losing control.
“Why did you change her name? Are the others using different names too?”
I could tell that Peters’ roundabout questions were having the desired effect. Brodie’s eyes shifted uneasily back and forth between Peters and me as if he were watching an invisible tennis ball. We were developing into a team. I liked Peters’ way of approaching issues in an off-the-wall manner.
“We’re starting new lives with new names,” Brodie explained.
“And new wives,” Peters added. “What about