The Trouble with Believing

By Mary Base

“The crime scene photos are logged into evidence. All I have with me is a picture of a picture,” he said. “So it’s not a great shot.”
The girl had dark, shoulder-length hair. Both eyes had been blackened, one swollen shut, the other a narrow slit into dead vacancy. An uncomfortable prickling began at the back of my neck. I felt flushed. Could it be?...
Gingerly, I picked up Braddick’s cell phone and brought it closer to my eyes. I’d only met her once. And I didn’t want it to be her.
“You know her?” he asked.
“I...I think it might be Aysu,” I said, weakly.
Detective Sergeant Margaret (Magnum) Schultz looked away from the strangled girl in the picture and wondered what sort of a religion gave a stamp of approval to murder.
After nearly 16 years in law enforcement, Magnum had thought she’d seen it all: deranged serial killers, rapists, perverted child molesters, even a foray or two into the woo-woo side of the supernatural. But this had to be the most disturbing. A religion so committed to their own tribal convictions about what God expected of them that common sense morality was shoved aside, making way for a heartless cruelty beyond her understanding. How else to explain an otherwise loving father willing to murder his own daughter; a culture that controlled women not only through how they were allowed to dress, but through female genital mutilations? And it wasn’t just foreign religions who were so self-righteous these days. At what point had it become a Christian ideal to treat anyone with the disrespect she’d seen recently from so-called religious people in the good ol’ USA? She was beginning to feel that with the amount of hate in the world being expressed in the name of religions, atheism might be the sole remaining keeper of love for humanity.
Magnum stood up, shook her head, and slid on the sunglasses. Time to get to work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Base
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463349113

Mary Base

I was raised til age 15 on a farm in Central Idaho. My dad was a Czech immigrant and my mom was an Oklahoma City business woman. I graduated from Gonzaga University in 1968 with a B.A. in English.In the days before women routinely became street cops, I'd read a book about a woman who did that and decided that was for me. Beginning in 1981 I worked for 21 years as a police officer, first in Davenport then in Cheney, Washington .In 2002 I hung up my gun belt and went back to school for a BA in Education so I could teach Criminal Justice at Lewis & Clark High School in Spokane. After three years of that, I decided that the public school system and I were not going to see eye-to-eye, so hung up my lazer-pointer and turned my attention to the martial arts school I'd established in 1998.I'd studied marial arts since 1974 and, over the course of 34 years, earned a 4th degree black belt in Goju-ryu Karate. But I'd also, with my husband, team-taught women's self-defense based on the well-known "Model Mugging" system.Since I'd first been able to put words to paper, I'd aspired to be a writer. So, here I am.

Book preview

The Trouble with Believing

A Magnum Schultz Mystery Novel

By Mary Baše

Copyright 2018 Mary Baše

Smashwords Edition

Cover Image

iStock by Getty Images

*****

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this e-book. It remains the copyrighted property of the author(s), and may not be reproduced, copied, scanned or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without permission from the authors.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer, where they can also discover other works by Mary Baše and Editor Lynn Bain.

*****

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1—The Speaker

Chapter 2—The DV

Chapter 3—Desecration

Chapter 4—The Churches

Chapter 5—The Congregation

Chapter 6—The History Sub

Chapter 7—Leads

Chapter 8—Gone Missing

Chapter 9—Foot Pursuit

Chapter 10—Overnight Guest

Chapter 11—Murdered

Chapter 12—Unidentified

Chapter 13—IDed

Chapter 14—Duran Owen

Chapter 15—Peggy’s Car

Chapter 16—Solomon

Chapter 17—Belinda

Chapter 18—Derya Saladin & Tararrush Gamea

Chapter 19—God is Great

Chapter 20—Taurus on the Run

Chapter 21—Transitions

Chapter 22—Possession Arrest

Chapter 23—First Amendment Right

Chapter 24—Ayaan Speaks

Chapter 25—Changing Gears

Chapter 26—Second Church Visit

Chapter 27—The Debate

Chapter 28—Crotchety Aunt Jane

Chapter 29—Astro Van

Chapter 30—Auntie Elma

Chapter 31—The Body Snatchers

Chapter 32—Finding Ibrahim

Chapter 33—The Signs

Chapter 34—The Universe

Epilogue

About the Author and the Editor

Other Titles by Mary Base and Lynn Bain

End Notes

Prologue

At three o’clock Jesus cried out with a loud voice, Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani? which means, My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, Listen, he is calling for Elijah. And someone ran, filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink, saying, Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to take him down. Then Jesus gave a loud cry and breathed his last.

Mark 15;33

On the cross, Jesus was an agnostic. He was willing to face death with a why on his lips. Sometimes, in the comfort of a sunny afternoon, when much less is at stake, I have found the strength to entertain such questions myself. And when my beliefs are stirred by the gusts of doubt, and my knowledge is silhouetted against the beauty of mystery, I feel the uneasy presence of something beyond my capacity to speak, and I am grateful for all I don’t know.

Kent Hayden, M.Div. Student, Thinker, Writer

Graduate of Princeton Theological Seminary, and a student at Washington University in St. Louis School of Law. He has been a carpenter, a farmer, a book seller and a writer. And now an attorney.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d2DZ8bbxd8U

*****

Chapter 1—The Speaker

Tuesday

1920 Hrs.

Code 3! panted Jaydeen over the airwaves. Officer needs help, lot 10!

She sounded desperate. I activated the lights and siren and stomped on the gas. Behind me, Travis’s overheads flashed on. We had just rolled into Porterville’s city limits only blocks from Eastern State University’s campus. I snagged the radio mic.

9-0-9, Porterville. We just re-entered the city. Enroute to back ESU!

Copy, said dispatch. 9-0-9, 9-0-4 in the city, enroute to back.

Seconds later, both of our vehicles squealed into lot 10. Two ESU cop cars stood adjacent to the side door of the school’s auditorium. A large number of civilian cars for a Tuesday night filled the parking lot.

About fifty feet from the double side doors, Jaydeen wrestled on the pavement with some dude. I slammed the car into park and leaped out. Travis’s vehicle screeched to a halt on my left. Damn Travis and his longer legs - he was going to get there first!

He played dog pile, with me right behind.

Jaydeen had one handcuff on the struggling man and was fighting to corral his other wrist.

Travis jammed his left knee into the small of the man’s back, securing him to the ground. He grabbed the cuffed wrist and pinned it alongside his knee. Jaydeen backed away, spent and out of breath. I slipped in, dodged beyond the reach of the man’s flailing arm, trapped the wrist with both my hands and wrenched it up behind his back. Travis ratcheted the second cuff.

What the hell did you do to get him so mad? I clambered to my feet and brushed at the knees of my new stretch Levis. I’d be pissed if they’d gotten ripped already.

Me? I was as sweet as pie, said Jaydeen, still panting. I guess the asshole didn’t like what the speaker was saying.

It was all lies! spat the man beneath Travis’s knee. You can’t blaspheme God like that!

Ever heard of the First Amendment, pal? asked Travis, as he helped the cuffed man stand upright.

Fuck the First Amendment!

True patriot, I commented.

This is what I love about evangelicals, drawled Jaydeen. Holier than thou, but boy-howdy, can they ever curse when things don’t go their way.

The side doors of the auditorium crashed open and two of Jaydeen’s fellow officers trotted toward us.

Thanks for the backup, Jaydeen whispered to Travis and me. If it weren’t for y’all, I’d still be rollin’ around on the pavement with this dip shit.

We were just coming back into town when your Code 3 went out, said Travis. So, don’t mention it.

Sorry it took us so long, puffed the older of the ESU officers. After you removed this douche bag, a couple other hecklers started their crap. Thought we’d better keep an eye on things. They finally just got up and left. I guess that speaker’s pretty far out for conservative, little ol’ Eastern Washington State. We’ll take him from here, Jaydeen, if you need a break. He took hold of one of the angry man’s upper arms.

Happy to let you have him. He’s gotten on my last nerve, said Jaydeen. But I won’t be taking any breaks until that speaker’s done. The way things are going, he might need an armed escort to get out of the building. Here, this is his. She nodded her head toward the cuffed man and handed the older officer a tri-fold wallet. "I was just going to charge him with a simple disorderly, until he threw a punch at me. Now he’s going on felony assault of a police officer."

With that new bit of info, the prisoner cursed again and threw a kick at the officer holding the wallet. The two Eastern officers yanked him around, told him to simmer down, and walked him to one of their patrol units.

Good grief, I said. Who is this speaker of yours, Adolf Hitler?

His name is Sam Harris, said Jaydeen. I’ll give you a holler when we’re done here and explain over coffee. I’ll even buy.

I shrugged, looked at Travis, and said, Okee dokee. Dave, let’s get back to the station and do our paperwork. You’re probably anxious to call it a day.

I was anxious to do that three hours ago, Sarge, said Travis.

2045 Hrs.

With a full tummy, I stepped into the chilly air on the small front porch of my rented farm house and paused to appreciate the early October colors. Leaves were turning gold and red in earnest and the few remaining roses in the flower beds radiated with colors in a last hurrah. I zipped up my leather jacket, ready to go back to the station. Jennifer, my 16-year-old, had made tacos for dinner then retired to her attic bedroom to finish her homework. Not all children of divorced moms knew how to partner with their parent, but my golden-haired girl was definitely my partner.

I skipped down the steps through the porch light’s ring of brightness and trotted to the detectives’ car, a charcoal gray Impala, where I climbed behind the wheel.

Jaydeen’s mid-western draw came over the police radio. University 8-10 to Porterville 9-0-9. Got time for that 53?

Sure do. Zips?

*****

Ten minutes later, I wheeled the Impala into Zip’s nearly empty parking lot, and backed around next to Jaydeen’s Chevy SUV. Jay already sat in the back booth, facing the front door. She raised a hand at me. I waved back and signaled with thumb and pinky finger tipped to my mouth that I was going to grab a coffee. Jaydeen nodded.

Once at the table, I set the mug down and slid in across from her.

Now, who is this Sam Smith dude that’s getting your students upset enough to take a swing at you? I asked.

You got two things wrong just in that one sentence, grinned Jaydeen.

Well, that’s kinda mean.

"It’s not mean if it’s true. That dude is Sam Harris, not Smith, and the guy who took the swing at me isn’t a student. In fact, most of those students like Harris. They’re the ones who requested him. But, when Harris was scheduled as one of this year’s special speakers, a couple of the local churches got their panties in a wad. Tonight’s jerk was the father of a student who got upset at Harris and tried to take it out on me. Besides being a neuroscientist and author, Harris is a big-time atheist."

Atheist? That’s what got your wrestling partner so upset?

"Well, Harris told the audience that ‘the position of the Muslim Community in the face of provocation is: Islam is a religion of peace, and if you say that it isn’t, we will kill you.’"¹ Jay grinned lopsidedly at the irony.

Jesus!

"Not hardly. Because then Harris said that Christians can be just as fanatical as Muslims and that basically, religions have caused almost all conflicts and wars in the world. The irate dad stood up about then and started yelling that it was the atheists causing all the problems, that Harris was doing the devil’s work, poisoning the minds of children. This riled a couple college students who yelled back, ‘Sit down, old man!’ Never mind that the alleged ‘old man’ is about my age. Should I be offended? Then one of the college students, who looks like a younger version of Hulk Hogan, stood up in the isle and told the guy if he didn’t like it, he’d be happy to show him the door.

"It was about to go to fisticuffs when the three of us uniforms got between. Hulk Hogan was okay with that, but then the religious dude started screaming at us - like how dare we bring this spawn of Beelzebub to his daughter’s school! We told him it was time for him to leave. He started to calm down, but once outside, he got ornery again; made some remark about how it was obvious that women didn’t know their place these days, either.

I told him I was the wrong person to be airing his misogynistic views to. I’m starting to wonder, now, if he even knew what that word means, because that’s when he called me a bitch and took a swing at me.

What did he think you said?

Jaydeen leaned back in her seat, turned palms up, and shrugged. Hell if I know.

Well, you’re no fun.

You’re not the first to say so.

Who else does ESU have lined up as speakers this semester? Maybe we ought to dust off the riot gear.

Very funny.

Who’s being funny? I’m serious.

Well, to be honest, in a couple weeks, we’ve got a woman from Somalia who was raised as a Muslim, complete with female genital mutilation. To avoid being married off to a Muslim man she’d never even met, she ran away to Amsterdam. After a few years, she became an atheist and activist against the Muslim faith and got into some deep kimchi with the Islamic State, you know, ISIS. They want to off her.

So…. go ahead with the riot gear?

I hope not. However, our Muslim students may not be nuts about her. There’s a bunch of them this year, but they mostly keep to themselves.

I don’t know much about the Muslim religion, do you?

"Not really. I just know that they want to annihilate all infidels."

Infidels. Who’s an infidel?

You and me, girlfriend.

*****

Chapter 2—The DV

Still Tuesday

2315 Hrs.

All Porterville units, the dispatcher’s voice crackled over my portable radio. Respond to 2339 Monterey Drive for a possible D.V. in progress. 9-1-1 hang-up. On call-back, a male voice stated that the call was accidental, but female heard sobbing in the background.

Copy, dispatch, Travis’s voice responded. Enroute from 2nd and Vine.

From 6th and Argonne, said Nick Peabody.

Copy, said dispatch.

I smiled bleakly at Jaydeen, snatched the portable off the table and headed for the door. "Thanks for coffee. I almost got to drink some of it. I headed to the Impala, speaking into the portable mic. 9-0-9, I’ll be from Zips."

Copy 9-0-9. Responding from Zips, parroted dispatch.

Tires squealed as I entered Hanford Avenue eastbound. So much for a quiet Tuesday night. Because we were shorthanded tonight, I was overlapping two shifts. Travis’ Crown Vic fishtail around the corner at 2nd Street, then plowed ahead of me up Hanford.

I hit the lights and siren and closed the distance between me and him. He waved a hand in his back window. I stuck on his butt as we made the left on Sherman then the right onto Monterey Drive. Because we were getting close to our target, all three units cut emergency lights and sirens.

It’s about a block and half up on your left, Travis told me on the radio.

Got it, thanks

We cut the headlights and cruised the last distance in darkness.

Half a block away, Travis pulled to the left curb with me directly behind him. We climbed out in unison just as Peabody slid his SUV smoothly behind my car and joined us.

I’ll get the front with you, Dave. Nick, you go around to the back.

Got it, Sarge, said Peabody.

The three of us moved toward the little brown house bearing the numbers 2339. Almost all lights were on, except in a back corner. A BMX bicycle lay dropped on its side just in front of the small front porch. An older model blue Chevy cargo van sat in the driveway. As we entered the front yard, Peabody veered to the left and disappeared into the shadows.

We’re only a couple of blocks from the U district, whispered Travis. Students, you think?

Could be, I said. Roommates don’t always see eye to eye.

*****

Travis stood to the left of the front door, I to the right. We listened. I tried to peer in at the edge of the window on my side, but the curtain hung too tightly to the frame. From somewhere inside, I heard a man’s angry tones. Couldn’t make out the words. I knuckle-rapped on the door. An inner door opened then slammed shut. Footsteps approached.

Who is it? a man asked gruffly.

Police, I called. Can you open the door?

What do you want? I told police station the 9-1-1 call was accident.

Some sort of foreign accent.

Yes sir, I said. But we’re not allowed to go away until we talk with you, face to face.

I don’t want talk.

See if you have any better luck, I whispered to Travis.

Sir, this is Officer Travis, Porterville P.D. You need to open the door, just so we can be sure everything is okay.

Immediately, we heard a dead bolt being drawn and chain removed from the door. I gave Travis a bug-eyed stare. He shrugged. The door cracked open and a face peered through. Medium-dark complexion, smoldering eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, thatch of dark hair, heavy dark mustache. The face looked at Travis, then at me. I’d seen that distasteful look before, during traffic stops, from men wearing snow white robes and white turbans. I figured they weren’t used to seeing women in a predominantly male job. The man stepped back to allow us entry.

Our dispatcher told us that he heard a woman crying, I said. May I talk with the woman just to be sure everything is okay?

My daughter was being corrected, the man said to Travis. I do not hit.

No one said you hit her, I reasoned. It’s just part of our job to make certain everyone is all right.

My wife is in kitchen. I will get, he said, then turned to face the back of the house and called Esen, please come!

Esen, a woman of about fifty, her head covered modestly by a light blue hijab, hurried from the kitchen. She had deep dimples and dark eyes that smiled when she saw us.

Hello? she asked. "Oh,…polis. No trouble, I hope."

Mrs., I started, then realized I didn’t have a name.

She is Mrs. Yasin, my wife.

I’m pleased to meet you both, I said. And what is your daughter’s name?

We have two daughter, smiled Esen proudly. I watched her glance at her husband who scowled disapprovingly. She lowered her eyes and went silent.

Their names, supplied Mr. Yasin, are Aysu and Deniz.

I wonder if we could speak with them both?

They are busy with homework.

Just for a minute, I tried to reassure him. Still frowning, he considered.

Esen will take you to their room.

Travis stayed behind with Mr. Yasin, while I followed Esen down the hallway. She rapped politely on the door before opening it, then stepped inside and made room for me to enter.

The room was small and cozy with rich Persian carpeting that seemed to favor woven red roses on both floor and walls. A double bed crowded with bright, colorful pillows, took up most of one corner. Girls’ clothing, shoes, books and papers lay on every surface. A small CD player, colorful scarves and other girly items covered the dresser. An exotic aroma warmed the air.

An older girl lay on her stomach on the bed; a younger one sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the bed. Both were strikingly beautiful. The younger one appeared to be about Jenny’s age, with long, dark hair in a braid that nearly reached her waist. The older one, possibly 19, wore her hair in a glossy black, shoulder-length bob. Expertly applied makeup gave her a Cleopatra look. Or would have, had she not recently been crying. Mascara ran in rivulets down the perfect cheekbones. Embarrassed, she grabbed a scarf and pressed it to her face, only to peer over the tops of her fingertips beseechingly.

Anneh! she cried in dismay.

No, no, my lamb, said Mrs. Yasin, moving to her daughter’s side and sitting beside her on the bed. It is okay. This polis not going to take you away. She only want to see that you are all right.

This is…Aysu? I guessed, figuring I stood a 50/50 chance.

Yes, said Esen. This is my eldest, Aysu. Here in America her many friends call her Sue.

That’s a pretty name, Aysu. My name is Margaret Schultz. I work at the police department. Someone called 9-1-1 from this house, then your father told our dispatcher there was nothing wrong. But we always check anyway, just to be sure everyone really is ok. Was it you who called?

Aysu was apparently too mortified or frightened to speak, and looked from her mother to me.

It was I who called, spoke up the younger girl. She looked at me from her seat on the floor near her mother’s feet. Her gray-green eyes were clear and confident. Papa got so mad at Aysu, because when she got back from University she was wearing too much makeup. He say it dishonor him if his children look like…prostitutes.

Deniz! admonished her mother. It is not right to say such a thing.

From her cross-legged position on the floor, Deniz rose in one graceful motion. She wore fitted blue jeans and a fashionable cranberry top, the kind Jennifer liked. She was taller than I, and elegantly slender. A defiant glint sparked in her eyes.

But it is what the polis do, Anneh, she said to her mother. "They come to help all the people. Papa was shaking Aysu so hard, I was afraid for her."

But he did not hit her, reasoned Esen. She is not hurt. Look at her.

We all looked. Aysu slowly lowered the scarf from her face. No visible bruises.

He did not hit me, came her soft voice.

Did he take hold of you? I pursued. Aysu dropped her eyes and nodded.

Did he shake you?

Silence.

How did he take hold you?

Silence.

He grab both her upper arms, Deniz blurted. Then shake her until her head snap back and forth.

Aysu, I said, can you please show me your upper arms?

At first, I thought she was going to refuse, but then, without looking up, she pushed up first one and then the other of the flowing teal blouse sleeves and revealed reddish-purple finger marks, four underneath on the triceps and one thumb on top of the biceps.

I nodded. Thank you, Aysu. You know that it is against the law in this country to physically assault someone who lives in the same household as you, right?

I know. It is call domestic violence. We have same in Turkey.

Good. I’m glad you understand, because I don’t have any choice but to arrest your father for assault fourth degree.

Oh, no! said Esen. You mustn’t. Ibrahim is good man! In our country it is permitted to discipline children.

In the United States, too, but in this case I have no choice.

Baba will be so angry with me! defended Aysu. Please. He is a good father.

Upsetting children was never my favorite part of this job.

It would be better if you stayed here in your daughters’ room with the girls for a little while, I told Esen. Both she and Aysu began to sob.

I will take care of them, said Deniz, settling on the bed between her sister and mother.

When I reentered the Yasin living room, Dave Travis was visiting with Mr. Yasin and with a small boy who had joined them.

Hey, Sarge, said Travis. This is young man is Kadir. What did you tell me that name means in your language?

"It means powerful, the boy said, puffing out his small chest. Doesn’t it, Baba?"

Smiling, Mr. Yasin nodded and tousled the boys thick, dark hair affectionately. Since I was standing slightly behind the man, I signaled to Travis—pointed meaningfully at Mr. Yasin with index finger—then thumb jerked toward the front door.

Travis nodded almost imperceptibly and led the way with, Mr. Yasin, we need to speak with you outside on the front porch.

Yasin turned to stare darkly at me.

Kadir, my son, he said to the boy. Stay here until your mother comes from dealing with your sisters. I will be right back. Oh no, you