The Mormon Cleric Murder

By Shawn B. Childers

In an Indianapolis suburb, a high-level official in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (aka, Mormon Church) has been found murdered. Detective James Creekbaum, not being a Mormon himself and finding that the Latter-day Saints seem to have their own peculiar culture and language, encounters some confusion as he begins investigating the case. Enter Alan Marrett, a Latter-day Saint financial analyst, who gets paired with the non-Mormon detective. Creekbaum takes the opportunity to ask and receive answers to many of the more commonly-asked questions about the Mormon Church and its teachings as the two pursue their investigation, a hunt that eventually puts them on the trail of an enigmatic killer who, calling himself Kishkumen, has killed once and may kill again, his next target being the prophet and worldwide leader of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

The author is a lifelong, practicing member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If you are seeking accurate and correct information regarding the practices and teachings of said church in casual, non-threatening language, the author promises that buying this book will not bring the Mormon missionaries knocking on your door.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475959741

Shawn B. Childers

Shawn Childers has a bachelor's degree in information systems from Western Kentucky University. He has previously published four other books including his autobiography, "Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends" and a couple of science fiction novels including "Earth Incorporated". He currently lives in Brownsburg, Indiana, a suburb of Indianapolis, with his wife, a college-age daughter and two cats.

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Copyright © 2012 by Shawn B. Childers.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5973-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5974-1 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920799

iUniverse rev. date: 11/05/2012

The author of this work is a lifelong, practicing member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and, while he believes the information regarding Mormon doctrine and practices as contained herein to be essentially true and correct, he warns that such references are not to be construed as official statements from the leadership of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

INDEX TO

LATTER-DAY SAINT DOCTRINES, BELIEFS

AND OTHER RELATED TOPICS DISCUSSED HEREIN

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

For more information regarding the

Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

contact the local branch in your area or

visit the church’s official web site at

www.mormon.org

CHAPTER 1

The bolt cutters would make short work of the chains on the gate. Kyle Richter held the tool close to his side as he and his friends emerged from the woods to cross the grassy lot to their target—a church construction site. A chain link fence still surrounded the nearly-completed house of worship as the small party approached the gate attempting to stay in the shadows as much as possible despite the security light on the premises. An office trailer just inside the fence offered some cover as they crept toward the gate in its shadow, but one of them would have to venture out into the light to cut the chain before they could get inside the fence and seek the shadows next to the building itself.

Okay, Kyle said to the others while pulling out the bolt cutters. You guys wait here while I cut the chain. Flexing the cutters, he added, It shouldn’t take long with these babies.

The mop-haired youth sprang out into the light and nimbly approached the gate while his teenage associates watched from the relative shadows behind the trailer. Upon reaching the gate, Kyle expected to see a heavy chain secured with a padlock holding the two halves of the gate together. But there was none. Kyle operated the latch and gave a push. The gate swung open freely.

Ha! laughed the youth, turning back to his friends. The stupid Mormons forgot to lock the gate tonight. It’s open; come on.

The others leapt from their hiding place to enter the opening in the fence. First was Kyle’s blond girlfriend, Sarah Petersen, followed by two other male associates called Snotty and Stinky, each aptly nicknamed after the various emissions which often exited their bodies. These latter two bore the stolen flats of spray paint cans they had brought for the purpose of their ill-conceived mission this night. The small group stole around the side of the building away from the security light which shown next to the shed.

Crouching around the paint cans which were now on the ground, Kyle grabbed one in each hand. Okay, soldiers, arm yourselves, he said. Let your artistic juices flow free.

As if on queue, Stinky released an emission of his own particular brand. The others boys snickered.

"He didn’t mean to let those kind of juices flow free," Sarah scolded.

Still snickering, the others grabbed up cans of spray paint and began to spread themselves out around the building, Snotty and Stinky even taking one of the flats along to split between them. Sarah stayed near Kyle, the closest thing she had to a boyfriend, as they approached the religious edifice.

Are you sure we want to do this? asked Sarah, getting cold feet.

Kyle turned to her. What else is there to do in a little burg like Avon, Indiana?

"I don’t know, but there is a big burg called Indianapolis right next door. I’m sure we could find more exciting things to do there."

"Maybe. But what could be more fun than defacing a Mormon Church—I mean, even before they get to use it?"

Sarah conceded in silence.

Go on down the side there and do something, Kyle instructed. I’m going to begin my masterpiece right here. And with that, the youth began releasing the spray paint onto the side of the building. Over bricks, over windows; it didn’t matter. The message was the thing.

Sarah ventured away from her boyfriend and into the deepening darkness. It was an overcast night. No moonlight helped illuminate the scene. It’s dark over here, she complained. I can hardly see where I’m going.

Go on, wussie, Kyle retorted good-naturedly as he bent to retrieve yet another can of paint to continue his handiwork. He had finished the first word and was beginning the second when he heard his girlfriend cry out. Sarah? You alright?

I fell, came the voice from the nearby darkness. I tripped over something.

Over what? Your own two feet?

Eww! There’s something here! the girl exclaimed. There’s something wet and sticky on my hands.

Like what?

I don’t know. I can’t see; it’s dark over here. Does anybody have a flashlight?

Sarah wandered over to a corner of the property where she could get some illumination from the security light near the fence. Though the light was still some distance away, she could begin to tell what she had gotten on her. It’s red—and sticky, she observed. I got it all over my hands and—oh, look! She noticed that the sticky goo was all over the front of her denim jacket as well.

Kyle came to her side. What is that? he exclaimed. Blood?

Ooh, don’t say that, Sarah whined. That would be so gross! Maybe it’s just red paint somebody spilled.

Hey you guys! Kyle called out into the darkness. Did either of you bring a flashlight?

I did, came Stinky’s voice.

Bring it here! We may have found something!

Stinky came trotting over while fishing the small flashlight from his pocket. Where? he asked.

Over there, Sarah pointed, leading the other two back down the side of the building.

Stinky activated the flashlight and a small, but not particularly powerful, beam of light pierced the darkness. The beam lighted upon a small pile of bricks and other rubble.

"Is that your blood? Kyle asked his girlfriend, the first vestiges of worry and concern entering his voice. Did you cut yourself on something?"

I might have tripped over those bricks, Sarah answered, but what I landed on was somewhat softer… and slimy.

Warily, the teenagers ventured back over to where Sarah had taken her spill.

Look, there on the ground! the girl pointed. "There is something there. Shine your light over there."

Stinky directed the beam of light in the direction Sarah was pointing. The teens’ eyes widened in unison with their mouths gaping open as the light revealed that there was indeed something else there in the darkness.

It was a dead body.

CHAPTER 2

Detective James Creekbaum entered the Avon Police Station with the second of his morning doughnuts in one hand and a half full paper cup of coffee—the remains of his usual morning repast—in the other. Approaching his desk, he saw the sticky note from the chief asking to see him ASAP. Without sitting, Creekbaum balanced the half-eaten doughnut on top of the sippy-cup lid on his coffee, pulled up the sticky note and went to see the chief.

The chief revealed that they had just received news of a murder—or at least a dead body which seemed to have met an unnatural demise—and Creekbaum should leave immediately to investigate. Chief said the body had been found on a construction site, the construction foreman had discovered it right after arriving for work that morning and had called to report it less than an hour ago. Officers were already on-site securing the crime scene, the coroner’s office had been notified and were on their way but chief would call and tell them to leave everything as it was since Creekbaum was on his way. The chief then handed Creekbaum a slip of paper with an address on it and suggested the detective go do what he did best. Creekbaum retrieved the remainder of his breakfast and, with half-eaten doughnut in one hand and unfinished coffee in the other, left the station house the same way he had entered.

Driving to the crime scene, Creekbaum mused about how things were starting to pick up for him although he next chided himself for feeling that way. As a homicide detective, the things that made life interesting and exciting for him were usually bad news for someone else. Extremely bad news. Still, he could not help feeling pleased though someone had just lost their life. Homicides were not common in a little town like Avon, Indiana. Creekbaum had originally come here for the peace and quiet. After several years on the neighboring Indianapolis police force where something was always happening, after the workload had cost him his marriage, Creekbaum had left the big city to get away from it all. As a detective in a small town, his detecting skills were usually limited to petty theft and the occasional runaway. He mused that he might still be married if he had been working in a town like Avon all along.

But of late, he had begun to grow restless. Maybe Avon was too quiet. He was beginning to miss the challenge of the good old days on the big city police force and was even contemplating trying to go and get his old job back. Then just in the nick of time, an honest-to-goodness murder pops up to challenge his dusty skills. Yes, things were beginning to look up for Jim Creekbaum—though it was sure to be bad news for someone else.

Creekbaum arrived at the address given him by the chief and observed the general melee of police vehicles and yellow tape that was part and parcel with crime scenes. This was the place alright.

Having finished his doughnut, Creekbaum wiped the last vestiges of crumbs from the bushy mustache which lurked beneath his ample nose and head of thinning gray-brown hair as he climbed out of the car. He took a few moments to survey his surroundings before focusing on the crime scene proper. The property in question appeared to be a construction site on the verges of Avon’s northern frontier. The new building, apparently a church-to-be, occupied the northwest corner of the intersection of two county roads. Across the street, the northeast quadrant was occupied by a new hospital that had been built in the last two years. The southeast and southwest corners were populated by small stands of trees which bordered two housing subdivisions further south. Many of these trees would no doubt be sacrificed at a later time to make way for some commercial monstrosity like a convenience store but such had not occurred yet. The church lot itself was bordered on the west by another small stand of trees which separated it from another subdivision further to the west. The county road that extended northward was otherwise unencumbered as it stretched toward another intersection a mile to the north being bordered as it was currently only by fields and trees. This was the edge of civilization as far as Avon, Indiana was concerned.

Creekbaum recalled that the town of Avon itself did not exist when he started years ago as a rookie cop on the Indianapolis police force. It was just a wide place in the road that started growing along U.S. Highway 36 stretching westward out of Indianapolis. Businesses started popping up along this thoroughfare to attract and service commuters going to and from the big city. Then homes started popping up to house the people who worked in those business and before many years had passed, the wide place in the road had been incorporated as the town of Avon, Indiana.

The detective turned his attention now to the crime scene at hand. It was a construction site with the building and grounds still surrounded by a metal chain link fence with a metal gate that was now standing open with yellow crime scene tape stretched across its mouth. A small building on wheels—evidently the construction office—stood just within the gate. Several men in work clothes loitering in the parking lot were apparently construction workers who were enjoying some time off with pay having shown up for work only to be detained by the police and coroner’s offices.

Creekbaum made his way through the yellow tape at the gate and approached a group of men down along one side of the building. He recognized his police associate, Kenneth Proctor, speaking with other officers as he presided over a small mound covered by a tarp—evidently the body of the deceased. The two long-time associates exchanged greetings as the detective approached.

What’s the frequency, Kenneth? Creekbaum asked.

Proctor grinned. The line was a private joke between the long-time colleagues. What’s the Frequency, Kenneth? was the title of a 1994 song by the rock group, R. E. M. which was based on a bizarre event in 1986 during which network television news anchor Dan Rather reported being attacked on a Manhattan street by a crazed lunatic who kept asking, Kenneth, what is the frequency? as he repeatedly struck Rather. The attacker was later apprehended and a psychiatric evaluation revealed that the crazed man blamed the news media for controlling his mind by beaming radio signals into his brain. He felt he could counteract the signals if he could just learn the correct frequency. Nowadays, the query, What’s the frequency, Kenneth? was Creekbaum’s signal to his colleague to bring him up to speed on happenings at a crime scene.

White male, early fifties—according to his driver’s license, Proctor began. Name of Nicholas Crowley—also from the driver’s license.

Let’s see, Creekbaum said as he began to kneel beside the tarp.

Proctor also squatted and took hold of one corner of the covering. This is pretty ugly, he warned. Just so you know.

Murder is seldom pretty, the detective remarked.

Proctor pulled back the tarp to reveal the body of the dead man. He was middle-aged as Proctor had said with dark brown hair that Creekbaum could observe was graying at the temples—at least he could observe such where the hair wasn’t coated red with blood. The face and skull had been caved in as if struck by great force with a blunt, heavy object. What remained of the face was covered in blood and a significant amount of blood had also pooled on the ground around the head. Some of the blood had been smeared as if someone had touched the body after it had been dead for a while.

Got a murder weapon? Creekbaum asked.

Proctor pulled back another small sheet nearby. Big chunk of concrete, about forty or fifty pounds, he announced. Pointing at the man-made rock with a pen, he added, You can see the blood stains along here where it made contact.

Uh-huh, Creekbaum acknowledged. It’ll be almost impossible to lift any fingerprints off a rough piece of concrete like that.

We’ll take it along to the lab anyway, said Proctor. See what we can find out, but I would agree that ‘almost impossible’ is a good guess.

Creekbaum rubbed his chin and rose to his feet. He indicated to the waiting coroner’s staff that they could take the body. What else do we know about our victim? he asked Proctor.

A company ID says he is a chemist at Eli Lilly in Indianapolis but the address on the driver’s license says he lived here in Avon.

Any money in the wallet? Creekbaum asked.

About forty bucks, came the reply. The wallet didn’t seem to be disturbed. We had to fish it out of his pocket.

So the motive wasn’t robbery. Creekbaum muttered to himself. And then, speaking more clearly, he asked, Who found the body?

That would be the construction foreman, Proctor answered, fumbling through his notes, "a Mr. Mark Estes—said he found the body when he came to work this morning. He said the gate