next to the class and meeting schedule announced that an in-house memorial service would be held Thursday at 7:00 p.m. I made a note of that, but I already knew Ihad a conflict in terms of my grandmother’s services. Maybe Kendall Jackson could cover it.
“Funeral services for Brother LaShawn will be held on Friday from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m. at African Bible Baptist on MLK Jr. Way,” the posting continued. “Anyone needing bus transportation to or from the funeral should sign up on the sheet below.”
It was only Wednesday morning. Already fifteen names appeared on the list. I wondered if people were planning on attending LaShawn’s funeral because they wanted to go, or had they been ordered to attend…or else?
“May I help you?”
I turned around to see Pastor Mark standing behind me. He had arrived soundlessly in a pair of white tennis shoes that were a stark contrast to his black pants, black short-sleeved shirt, and stiff clerical collar. His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His wire-framed glasses gave him the jaunty look of a with-it college professor. The array of jailhouse tattoos that cascaded down both bare arms told another story.
I held out my hand. “My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont. I’m an investigator for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. I believe I saw you yesterday at Mrs. Tompkins’s home, but we were never properly introduced.”
“You’re a cop?” he asked.
Considering Pastor Mark’s divinity degree was of the jailhouse variety, his question was entirely understandable. Ex-cons and cops have a way of recognizing one another on sight. We tend to run in the same circles.
I nodded.
“Then I’ll need to see your ID,” he said.
He studied it for a long time. “Special Homicide InvestigationTeam—SHIT. This is a joke, right? But it’s a little too early for April Fool’s.”
Displaying my SHIT ID tends to have that effect on people. Once they go down that road, it’s hard to get them to take you seriously.
“It’s no joke,” I said. “I’m looking for Elaine Manning.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, then,” Pastor Mark replied. “Sister Elaine’s not here.” Something steely came into his tone. I recognized that as well.
“You have no idea where she might be?” I asked.
“None at all.”
“When did she leave?” I asked.
“Sometime Saturday morning. I’m not sure when.”
“And what about Friday evening?” I continued. “Where were you around seven p.m. or so?”
Kendall Jackson had told me that was the approximate time LaShawn Tompkins had been shot.
Pastor Mark gave me a slow but confident smile—a Cheshire cat kind of smile, as though he knew way more than I did. “I was right here,” he said. “I was here with everyone else eating dinner between six and seven. Seven sharp is the beginning of Evening Bible Study, which I conducted myself that evening. New Testament, Book of John, chapters six and seven. Cora can give you a list of the people who were at dinner as well as the people in my study session if you wish. Beyond that, however, I’ve been advised to answer no additional questions without my attorney being present. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Clerical collar or not, Pastor Mark Granger was an experienced but oddly polished ex-con, a felon who knew exactly when it was time to lawyer-up. I noticed something else about him,too. Underneath that polished exterior lurked a seething anger that he managed to hold in check—but only just barely. And men like that—the ones with explosive tempers lurking right beneath the surface—are often the most dangerous, especially when thwarted in any way.
Knowing all that, recognizing the reformed Pastor Mark for what he really was, I couldn’t help wondering how it was that Etta Mae Tompkins had managed to send the man packing in full retreat the day before. It could have been the power of her considerable righteousness. On the
“Funeral services for Brother LaShawn will be held on Friday from 2:00 to 4:00 p.m. at African Bible Baptist on MLK Jr. Way,” the posting continued. “Anyone needing bus transportation to or from the funeral should sign up on the sheet below.”
It was only Wednesday morning. Already fifteen names appeared on the list. I wondered if people were planning on attending LaShawn’s funeral because they wanted to go, or had they been ordered to attend…or else?
“May I help you?”
I turned around to see Pastor Mark standing behind me. He had arrived soundlessly in a pair of white tennis shoes that were a stark contrast to his black pants, black short-sleeved shirt, and stiff clerical collar. His graying hair was pulled back in a ponytail. His wire-framed glasses gave him the jaunty look of a with-it college professor. The array of jailhouse tattoos that cascaded down both bare arms told another story.
I held out my hand. “My name’s Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont. I’m an investigator for the Washington State Attorney General’s Office. I believe I saw you yesterday at Mrs. Tompkins’s home, but we were never properly introduced.”
“You’re a cop?” he asked.
Considering Pastor Mark’s divinity degree was of the jailhouse variety, his question was entirely understandable. Ex-cons and cops have a way of recognizing one another on sight. We tend to run in the same circles.
I nodded.
“Then I’ll need to see your ID,” he said.
He studied it for a long time. “Special Homicide InvestigationTeam—SHIT. This is a joke, right? But it’s a little too early for April Fool’s.”
Displaying my SHIT ID tends to have that effect on people. Once they go down that road, it’s hard to get them to take you seriously.
“It’s no joke,” I said. “I’m looking for Elaine Manning.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, then,” Pastor Mark replied. “Sister Elaine’s not here.” Something steely came into his tone. I recognized that as well.
“You have no idea where she might be?” I asked.
“None at all.”
“When did she leave?” I asked.
“Sometime Saturday morning. I’m not sure when.”
“And what about Friday evening?” I continued. “Where were you around seven p.m. or so?”
Kendall Jackson had told me that was the approximate time LaShawn Tompkins had been shot.
Pastor Mark gave me a slow but confident smile—a Cheshire cat kind of smile, as though he knew way more than I did. “I was right here,” he said. “I was here with everyone else eating dinner between six and seven. Seven sharp is the beginning of Evening Bible Study, which I conducted myself that evening. New Testament, Book of John, chapters six and seven. Cora can give you a list of the people who were at dinner as well as the people in my study session if you wish. Beyond that, however, I’ve been advised to answer no additional questions without my attorney being present. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
Clerical collar or not, Pastor Mark Granger was an experienced but oddly polished ex-con, a felon who knew exactly when it was time to lawyer-up. I noticed something else about him,too. Underneath that polished exterior lurked a seething anger that he managed to hold in check—but only just barely. And men like that—the ones with explosive tempers lurking right beneath the surface—are often the most dangerous, especially when thwarted in any way.
Knowing all that, recognizing the reformed Pastor Mark for what he really was, I couldn’t help wondering how it was that Etta Mae Tompkins had managed to send the man packing in full retreat the day before. It could have been the power of her considerable righteousness. On the
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