Dead Hypocrites

By Laura Ware

Detective David Hill questions his faith in God from time to time. But when a serial killer comes to Palmetto City, Hill’s faith is shaken to the core.

As Christians branded as “hypocrites” by the man known only as Truthbringer die, Hill struggles with hunting down the murderer while retaining his trust in God.

About the Author:
LAURA WARE’s column “Laura’s Look” runs weekly in the Highlands County News Sun. Along with her numerous epublished works she has sold several short stories to various publications; one appeared in a Pocket Books anthology. Laura lives in Central Florida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JJ Press
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465988447

Laura Ware

Laura Ware writes in a variety of genres. Her novels are mostly inspirational fiction, although she is currently working on a fantasy series as well. Her short fiction ranges from mainstream to fantasy/science fiction and several things in between. Her stories have been published in a number of Fiction River anthologies, including Past Crime, Last Stand, Editor’s Choice and Feel the Fear. Laura also writes a weekly column for the Highlands News-Sun and her essay “Touched by an Angel” was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Random Acts of Kindness in 2017.

Book preview

DEAD HYPOCRITES

Laura Ware

DEAD HYPOCRITES Copyright © 2011, 2012 by Laura Ware.

Cover picture and illustration by Kathleen Hardy

Cover design by JJ Press

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version

Published by JJ Press

Smashwords Edition.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part in any form. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. 

To Don, my husband, the love of my life.

For always believing I could do this, even when I didn’t.

CHAPTER ONE

If Eric Thompson and Monica Brown had known that they would be dead before midnight, they might have ordered dessert with their room-service dinner.

Instead, they had enjoyed a candlelight dinner of chicken Caesar salad and warm rolls in their Palmetto City, Florida hotel room before abandoning the food for the real purpose for this tryst.

What did you tell your wife? Monica asked as they cuddled under the covers.

I told her the truth, Eric said as he stroked Monica’s bare shoulder. A member of the congregation needed counseling, and due to confidentiality concerns I couldn’t tell her who.

Monica giggled. Yes, I need counseling, brother. I’m love-starved.

He chuckled and bent to kiss her lips. And what did you tell Tom?

I’m working late, she said, stretching. Eric’s eyes traveled down her body. "He wasn’t happy about it, but of course he wants to be a supportive husband."

Lucky you, Eric murmured, running a hand through her thick blond hair.

She put her hand behind his neck. Shall the counseling begin?

Before he could answer her, the door to their room creaked open.

Eric’s head jerked up. He felt his face grow hot. His first thought was that he’d been caught. If the congregation finds out…

Then he saw the gun in the man’s hand and his body went from hot to cold. Monica saw the gun as well, and Eric heard her sharp intake of breath as she prepared to scream.

The gun made a soft, spitting sound. Eric felt it pass close to his face and the sickening sound it made as it struck Monica’s forehead. Blood spattered his cheek and he felt her body sag next to him.

The gunman closed the door behind him. Eric saw long gray tangled hair, and a thick beard of the same color. Tinted glasses hid the man’s eyes.

W-who are you? What do you want? Eric managed. He couldn’t make himself look at Monica. He brought a hand to his cheek and felt the warm wet stickiness there. He gulped back the bile that surged up his throat.

The gunman, dressed entirely in black, came up to the foot of the bed. Eric stared at the man’s face, frowning. I – I know you, don’t I?

Yes, Eric Thompson, you know me, the man said. He spoke in a harsh whisper. His gun never wavered from Eric’s head.

Eric was a fan of action movies. He thought of Tom Cruise and Harrison Ford, who no doubt would launch themselves across the bed and take down this threat without breaking a sweat or mussing their hair.

But Eric wasn’t an action hero. He was a preacher of God’s word, doing something he knew he shouldn’t be doing, sinning even as he preached against sin.

Why are you doing this? What do you want? Eric asked. He bunched up the green-and-blue patterned spread to his chest as if it would protect him somehow.

The gunman laughed, the sound low and malicious. Why Eric, I thought you knew. My name is Satan. I’ve come for one of my loyal servants. I’ve come for you.

CHAPTER 2

In the weight room of the Palmetto City, Florida police station detective David Hill strained to lift the barbell. He was on his back on the bench, his arms and shoulders screaming at him in outrage.

Sweat covered him as he managed to extend his arms fully. His partner, Calvin Anderson, hovered over him as his spotter. Come on, Dave, two more.

Hill grunted. Easy for you to say. He struggled as he lowered the weight, then fought to bring it back up.

Anderson gave him a wolfish grin. A brown towel was draped over his large shoulders. His dark eyes sparkled. Come on, Preacher Boy, give me two more.

Adrenaline surged through Hill at the jibe. He felt strength flow through his aching arms and before he knew it he’d done two more reps.

Good job, Anderson said approvingly. He helped Hill replace the barbell on its holder and then dropped the towel on top of his partner.

Hill sat up, using the towel to blot the sweat from his face. You know I hate it when you call me that, he said.

Yeah, but it worked, Anderson smirked. Besides, don’t you preach?

I share my faith with others, Hill said. He rolled his shoulders.

Didn’t you preach one time last month? Anderson asked.

Hill sighed as he got to his feet. I spoke at an evening service, yes. Along with two other men.

See? Anderson grinned. You’re a preacher.

As the two detectives wound their way around weight machines and fellow officers perspiring on them, Hill countered, Can’t be a very good one. You’re still a committed non-church goer.

Ouch, Anderson said, placing a hand over his chest. You have wounded me, partner. I’m hurt. I really am.

Hill grinned. It doesn’t appear fatal. He held open the door to the locker room and bowed. But I’ll hold the door open for you anyway.

Anderson laughed. He was a large man, most of it muscle, and he laughed a large man’s laugh. You are so generous. I forgive you wounding me.

Hill smiled. Thank you, O generous one. Now, if I could only get you to try one service…

Anderson held his hands up. I’ve told you before, Dave. My folks dragged me to church when I was a kid. They were all pious and holy on Sundays. Rest of the week my mom drank like a fish and Pop cussed like a sailor. He shrugged. I’ve got the drinking and cussing down – gotta admit two out of three ain’t bad.

Hill shook his head but knew it was time to drop the subject. I’m gonna shower.

Anderson sniffed. Yeah, you need one.

Hill popped his partner with the towel in his hand. Anderson yelped in mock pain and grinning, headed for his locker.

Ten minutes later Hill stood in front of the tiny mirror at his own locker, running a comb through his short blond hair. He grinned at the picture that was pasted above the mirror: his wife of 10 years, Jennie, and their two boys, Mike and Nick.

When it had been taken for the church directory, Mike had just started kindergarten and Nick was a toddler. That had been three years ago. Jennie had been telling him they needed to update it. He guessed they should.

As he slammed his locker shut, he saw Anderson heading towards him. The large man was already dressed, his dark brown suit coat straining at the shoulders. He carried a file folder and all good humor was gone from his face.

We got something? Hill asked. He checked for his pistol, snug and safe in its shoulder holster. Then he took his Beretta out of his locker and strapped on the ankle holster.

’Fraid so, Anderson said. The lieutenant wants you on this one. Looks like we have a nut on the loose.

CHAPTER 3

The September sun blazed down as Hill and Anderson headed to the crime scene in Anderson’s black Ford Explorer.

Hill remembered when he was younger, a Palmetto City paper had offered a free issue if the sun didn’t shine once during the day. There’d be no freebies today, he thought as he looked at the soft blue sky where a few clouds chased each other.

Hard to believe we almost had a hurricane last week, Anderson observed.

You should see my yard, Hill smiled. Leaves and stuff all over the place. I believe it.

The conversation was deliberately banal. Both men were trying to relieve the tension that rose in them whenever they approached a murder scene.

Here we go, Anderson said, turning off 34th Street into the Holiday Inn parking lot. You ever stay here?

Hill shook his head. Can’t say that I have. It looks normal enough.

Won’t ever be normal again, Anderson predicted as he swooped into a parking place. This kind of stuff sticks.

Hill and Anderson went to the front door of the hotel. People were already gathering near the entrance, small whispering groups that looked at Anderson and Hill curiously.

No press yet, Hill said as he opened the door. Cold air flowed out and over him.

They’ll be here, Anderson said. He glared out at the crowd. At least they’ll be here doing a job, not just being nosy.

A young uniformed officer came up to the two detectives. Sorry, guys, hotel’s closed.

Relax, amigo, we’re part of the same team, Anderson said, flashing his shield. Hill also displayed his.

Oh! The young man’s face became a little less pale. Um, sorry.

Where’s the crime scene? Anderson asked.

Upstairs…room 322.

Thanks, Anderson started forward.

Hill hesitated. You okay, officer? he asked putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

The young man nodded once, his jaw clenched.

Hill dropped his voice a little. First crime scene?

The shoulder under his hand tensed a little as the officer nodded again.

Hill nodded. He squeezed the young man’s shoulder. Don’t worry. Unfortunately, you’ll get used to it.

The officer nodded. Hill gave him what he hoped was a reassuring look and went to join Anderson, who was waiting impatiently at the foot of the stairs.

I was never that green, he said as the two of them jogged up the stairs to the third floor.

Sure you were, Hill said. You just have a bad memory.

Anderson shook his head. That’s what I like about you, Dave; you are so supportive of my ego.

They came to the third floor. It wasn’t hard to find room 322 – yellow police tape covered the open doorway and uniformed officers swarmed in and out of it.

Hill showed his shield to another uniformed officer in the doorway. What have we got?

Double homicide, the officer replied. Man and a woman. It’s a weird one, guys.

Anderson was already examining the door. Signs of forced entry?

Nope, the officer replied. A master key card has come up missing.

Hill had his notebook out. He checked the officer’s nametag. Officer Larsen, who discovered the bodies?

A maid who came in to clean the room, Larsen replied. She’s in the manager’s office having hysterics.

When did she discover the body? Hill asked.

About 9:15 this morning. Manager took one look at the room and called us.

Hill nodded. Anderson had already put on latex gloves. Hill stuck his notebook into his jacket pocket and pulled on a pair of his own. Ready?

Let’s do it, Anderson said.

CHAPTER 4

One thing that Hill never got used to at a crime scene was the smells.

He had seen dead bodies over his many years on the force. His faith, which told him the body was just a shell, that what made a person a person was long gone, helped him to look at the dead with some equilibrium.

The smells though – people who were hooked on the numerous cop shows on television never understood the stomach- churning stench that often came with death.

Hill had learned to keep his stomach contents where they belonged, but there was still an initial twist and foul taste of bile that he had to endure when he got his first whiff.

The bodies were laid out on the bed, side by side. Dead eyes stared up at the ceiling. Both bodies were covered by pages from a book that had been piled on like a paper snowfall.

Nancy Liu, a Palmetto City medical examiner, was shaking her head as she studied the pages. Another person from her office was snapping pictures, the flash strobing again and again.

What is this? Anderson asked.

Looks like someone tore up a Bible, Liu said, pointing to one of the pages. It held two rows of print, some of it in red.

Hill nodded. He walked to the other side of the bed and found the empty front and back covers tossed in a corner. Looks like a Gideon Bible, he said as he knelt to take a closer look.

Any forensic evidence? Fingerprints? Anderson asked.

Liu shook her head. She lifted one of the dead man’s hands and examined the fingernails. Not so far. Our perp has been nice and careful.

Lucky us, Anderson muttered. Can we see what’s underneath the paper now?

Julie, you done with the photos? Liu asked the photographer.

One more, the petite blond said. There was a final flash. Okay, that’s it.

Hill stood as Liu began to move the papers off the bodies. She handed them to a cop who placed them into plastic bags.

He shook his head. Why would someone cover bodies with Bible pages?

Blood, Liu said suddenly.

Anderson was examining a wallet he’d taken from a pair of slacks on the floor. Yeah, it’s a murder scene, Nancy.

There’s blood on these bottom pages, Liu replied, holding one up. Blood had seeped onto it.

Another wound? Hill asked, coming around to stand next to the medical examiner. The dead man stared up at him. Something tugged at Hill’s memory.

Liu nodded. Let’s get this off him and see. She scooped up more of the bloodstained pages, moving them off to the side.

Hill saw a jagged wound in the man’s chest. As the Bible pages came off, he saw there was more than one.

Liu gasped as the extent of the wounds were made apparent. Anderson let out a burst of profanity. What is that?

CHAPTER 5

Hill couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Someone had carved a phrase into the dead man’s chest: 1 Cor 6 9-10.

It’s a Bible verse, Hill said. He yanked his stained latex gloves off his hands and pulled his small Bible out of his back pocket. Frowning, he began to thumb through it.

Liu raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. You carry a Bible with you?

Yeah, he does, Anderson said, his voice still a little shaky. He never knows when he’ll run into us heathens.

Liu frowned. Speak for yourself, Anderson. I may not be a Christian, but that hardly makes me a heathen.

According to the Bible-thumpers, you’re no better than me, Anderson argued.

Hill ignored the comments – he knew Anderson was trying to deal with the shock of finding a message carved in flesh. Truth to tell, he was having a hard time dealing with it himself.

He found the verse reference and read it out loud. Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor effeminate, nor abusers of themselves with mankind, nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.

Well if that’s true, I’m in big trouble, one of the uniform officers offered with a wry chuckle.

Anderson looked down at the wallet he still held in his hand. This guy’s name is Eric Thompson.

Wait a minute… Hill frowned. That name rang a bell. He looked back at the dead man’s face, and it clicked. I know who he is. He’s a preacher.

A preacher, eh? Anderson said. Yours?

Hill shook his head. No. His gaze drifted over to the dead woman. Is she his wife?

A uniformed officer picked up a black leather purse. He pulled out a wallet and opened it up. Not if her name isn’t Monica Brown.

Liu moved the papers off the woman’s naked body. Hill averted his eyes, feeling his face grow warm. No marks on the woman’s torso, Liu said.

Was Thompson alive when this was carved into him? Hill asked. He looked over the jagged marks. The cuts were deep, and the detective knew they would have been painful to endure.

Can’t tell you that yet. I don’t think so, though. Liu said.

How well do you know the family, Dave? Anderson asked.

Hill shrugged. I’ve heard him preach a couple of times. My wife and his wife are friends, I think.

Some preacher, Anderson snorted.

Hill dropped his head. How could Eric do something like this to his family? And how would his congregation deal with this blow?

CHAPTER 6

The killer smirked as he stood with the other spectators in front of the Holiday Inn. They were all clueless.

He wondered what the police were making of the crime scene. Crime scene…that was funny. It was a scene designed to teach, to educate those who let people like Eric Thompson make them feel guilty and inferior. It was designed to tell the truth about charlatans like him.

The killer smiled. His hair was now blond and in a neat ponytail. He was clean-shaven with dark wraparound sunglasses shielding his eyes. His hands were stuck in the pockets of his jeans and his work boots were well-scuffed.

It would take a sharp and knowing eye to equate him with the gray-haired man who had visited last night. And no one here was that sharp – or that knowing, for that matter.

He wondered how much the police would release to the public. Not as much as they should, he was sure of that. They would want to keep a fact or two to themselves.

Well, he couldn’t have that, could he? After all, the whole point of this was to expose the Eric Thompsons and Monica Browns of the world, or at least those who lived in Palmetto City.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to depend on the police. The killer sauntered to a nearby bus stop. An older woman was already there waiting.

He smiled at her. Her own smile was tinged with nervousness, and he noticed her skinny fingers clutch her black handbag a little tighter.

He had to suppress a chuckle. No, lady, I’m not dangerous to you. Well, probably not. You aren’t poisoning young minds with myths, are you?

He had to look away from her before he started laughing in her face. Fortunately, the bus came a couple of minutes later. He gestured for her to get on ahead of him.

The woman relaxed a tiny bit. Thank you, she said in a soft voice as she slowly ascended into the bus.

He tipped an imaginary hat to her and smiled again. Then he followed her up and took a seat by himself.

He got out two stops later. He then walked three blocks to his destination: a cyber café. It was one of a number of such places scattered in the city. He’d checked it out and knew it had computers for the public’s use.

He ordered a triple shot latte while he waited for a machine to free up. He paid cash for the latte. He’d taken one of Thompson’s credit cards: he’d use that for the Internet time. It was a calculated risk, but he was almost certain that Thompson’s clueless wife hadn’t been notified yet, and so no one would have gotten around to canceling the card.

When a pimple-faced young man got up from a terminal, the killer took his seat. After swiping the credit card he went about accessing one of his Hotmail accounts.

Then he typed from memory the list of email addresses he wanted to give his message to. He was almost certain that someone would publicize it – the kind of stuff he’d tell them was red meat to the media.

DEAR MEMBERS