The J, E, D & P Murders: A Tucker Tolliver Murder Mystery

By Rev. Thomas F. O’Donnell Esq.

First, Tucker's ex-wife turns up murdered on the very same day that he comes out of a four-year coma. For no apparent reason, she is found lying on the floor of her apartment strangled to death. No note, no nothing. Three months later a high society "escort" meets a similar fate. A cryptic biblical reference is left behind, signed only by "J." Within the week, two more bodies show up. First, liberal theologian Noah Templeton is found drowned in his bathtub after winning the prestigious Sophia award. Another biblical reference, this time signed by "E." Seventy-two hours later atheist extraordinaire Winston Caine turns up dead in his hotel room. Caine is bludgeoned to death beyond recognition with a note from "D" pinned to his chest.
J. E. D. Three down and one to go. All that remains is P. Who's next? J, E, D, and P, short-hand names for the anonymous writers of the first five books of the Old Testament. J, the Yahwhist. E, the Elohimist. D, the Deuteronomist. And P, the Priestly writer. But what does it all mean?
There is an "evangelical Christian whacko" on the loose, single-handedly trying to rid the world of persons with loose morals and those heathens who don't fall in line. That's what GOD is saying. Not that God. The other one. G.O.D. Garrett Osborne Donalty, the nighttime shock jock who comes to you every night from seven to ten over radio station W.O.R.D.
The police don't seem tuned in to GOD, though. Nor do they seem to have a clue. In fact, incredible as it sound, they may be in on it. It's either a "whacko," or a cover up, or??? Whatever it is, one by one the pieces of the puzzle seem to be falling into the hands of none other than Reverend Tucker Tolliver. All poor Tucker wants to do is to bring Sarah's killer to justice and get on with his life in the peaceful serenity of a brand new seminary named in his honor. But like it or not, he seems to be the only one connecting the dots, and the picture he gets when he connects them isn't very pretty. Sometimes seminaries aren't as peaceful and serene as they are cracked up to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 16, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462833078

Rev. Thomas F. O’Donnell Esq.

Reverend Thomas F. O’Donnell, Esq., is an ordained minister in the United Church of Christ serving as pastor of Plymouth Bethesda Church in Utica, New York. He is the author of numerous other works, including his most recent works of fiction, The Damnation of Tucker Tolliver and The J, E, D & P Murders.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Friday, 11:45 P. M.

He could hear his unsuspecting victim on the other side of the door fumbling for her key. He could almost hear her breathing, and he could definitely feel himself tighten as she inserted it into the keyhole. His eyes locked on the doorknob’s counter-clockwise movement. His heart fluttered. It was game time.

He straightened up on the balls of his feet against the inside wall, just to the left of the door. As though it mattered. The door to the third floor walkup swung open, and a beam of light instantly infiltrated the room, causing him to squint. His prey flipped on the wall switch, took one step forward, then another.

That second step was to be her last. He wrapped his two hands around her neck and began squeezing with every ounce of force his deceptively diminutive frame could muster. As if his very life depended on it. Except in this case, it wasn’t his life that hung in the balance. It was hers—Sarah Collingsworth. Oops, how impolite of me. I forgot to introduce myself, he whispered into her ear as she flailed about helplessly. Hi, Sarah, I’m—well, never mind who I am. That’s not important. You can call me whatever you want to.

A choking, guttural response came spitting out of her. Instinctively he tightened his grip. Oh, that’s right, you can’t call me anything, can you? Too bad. We’ve never met, but somehow I think if we had, we might have gotten to like one another.

It was a small neck. Actually, smaller than small. His size 8 ½ gloves had no trouble wrapping themselves around her neck and interlocking his fingers at the first joint. Which, of course, meant for maximum squeezing power. And maximum pleasure. Still, the little woman was a feisty one. No doubt fighting for your life can do that to you.

Nothing personal, he continued to whisper. Another time, another place, we might have even dated. Of course, you are a lot older, but then it doesn’t really matter, does it? Not now.

She fell limp in his arms, but only for a second. Her upper body started squirming and wiggling while she thrust her pelvis into his groin, trying everything she could to break away. It was, of course, no use, but she certainly deserved an A for effort.

Actually, I guess it is personal, isn’t it? But I had to start somewhere, didn’t I? And you, Sarah Collingsworth, were perfect. He let up on his grip ever so slightly, then tightened it. Like a surgeon messaging a heart in a last-minute attempt to save a dying patient. He scoffed at the irony—a surgeon trying to save a life—and squeezed harder. Everybody has to practice their craft if they are going to perfect it, he said as though he owed her an explanation. What’s that old joke about how to get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Another chuckle, another squeeze. You might say this is your lucky day. Or unlucky one, depending on how you look at it.

One weak elbow into his ribs, a little aimless flailing of the arms punctuated by a couple of gurgling noises, and it was over. Almost too easy. The body slumped to the floor at his feet. After grabbing at the wall switch to return to pitch-black darkness, he stepped over the body and flicked on his pocket flashlight. Now, for his favorite part. Actually, it was his second favorite part. His favorite part was laying in wait, feeling the adrenalin coursing through his body as his unsuspecting victim approached, his heart pumping faster and faster with the knowledge that he was the only person in the world who knew what was going to happen next. In total control. It was a good feeling.

In a way, the whole thing was anti-climactic. That’s what made the post-mortem ritual so much fun. Without it, it would just be work. And what’s work without a little fun? Now that the business part of their meeting was over, who said it couldn’t get a little personal? He scanned the room looking for just the right souvenir—some sort of figurine or bric-a-brac, maybe a picture, something to commemorate the event. The place was five stars compared to his hovel, but compared to what he expected, it wasn’t much. Actually, it was furnished not all that different from his: Early Crap. A tiny thirteen inch TV on top of a cheap laminate TV table sat in the corner nearest him; sticking out of the TV was a pair of rabbit ears with some crunched-up aluminum foil drooping down one ear. Directly across from and strategically facing the TV was a wicker rocker that had long since passed its prime. Next to the rocker, an open pizza box with a couple of old pieces of pizza decorated a small plastic table, the kind you usually find on a backyard patio. And next to the pizza box, a laptop computer. That was all. Except for one other thing. The rest of the room, which probably took up a good three quarters of living space was stacked with three or four rows of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, homemade jobs with stacks of bricks providing the support for unfinished wooden boards from your local Home Depot. Each shelf was jammed in with newspapers, magazines, hardbacks, paperbacks, you name it.

Just when he was about to give up and search her pocketbook for something, a stack of books in the far corner of the room caught his eye. At least a couple of dozen he estimated, all threatening to topple over from their own weight. But that was not what interested him. Unlike the other thousands of literary pieces stuffed aimlessly into the shelves across the way, these had obviously been neatly stacked at one time. Lovingly. And they were all the same. Who owns twenty copies of the same book? he wondered out loud. With his beam of light aimed in their direction, he inched his way forward. "The Damnation of Tucker Tolliver, he mumbled, by Sarah Collingsworth Tolliver."

He looked back at the pile of flesh over by the door, then grabbed at the top copy of the book, flipped it over, and stared at the author’s picture. Sure enough, Sarah Collingsworth was also Sarah Collingsworth Tolliver. Everybody knew the name Sarah Collingsworth. How could you not? She made Danielle Steele, John Grisham, and Tom Clancy all look like also-rans. Wait Until Tomorrow, The Day After, Not On My Watch—these were all household names in the world of contemporary fiction. But this one, The Damnation, had him stumped. Somewhere in the cobwebs of his mind the name Tucker Tolliver sounded familiar. This Tolliver fellow was famous for doing something, but for the life of him he couldn’t come up with it. Interesting, though, this one was about a man. All the others were a weird combination of women’s romance stories set in the world of international intrigue. Go figure.

He scanned the room once more, this time wondering how it could possibly be that a woman like that could live like this. Some people were just plain weird, he surmised, then returned his attention to the book. Quickly fanning through the pages from back to front, looking for nothing in particular, he stopped when he came to some handwriting on the inside cover.

May your life never cease to amaze you.

It was simply signed Sarah, and above the handwriting was a single blank line.

This is perfect, he thought to himself. Triumphantly he tucked the book under his left arm. He grabbed up a couple of more books from the pile, causing the entire collection to tumble at his feet. Just like dear Sarah did moments ago. He flipped to the inside cover and discovered the same exact inscription. No sense being greedy. He tossed the extra copies back into the mess on the floor. Backtracking to the door, he swept up the laptop for good measure and slipped away into the darkness of the night.

It was just a twenty-minute walk from Sarah’s place to his, a perfect night for a midnight walk. He took in a deep breath of cool nighttime air, then another as he shot a glance across the river and beyond the city skyline. The stars in the sky were smiling down upon him. As he made his way up Culver Street and over 31st, the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps kept him company. He never felt more alive in all his life. They say the first is the hardest, but if this was hard, he couldn’t wait for the second. No sense in rushing things, though. Take it slow. Enjoy tonight’s victory. There will be plenty of time for planning the next one tomorrow. That was the key. Planning. He had chosen Ms. Collingsworth very carefully, stalked her for months, getting to know her every move, where she would be and when, when she would be alone and when she wouldn’t. Tonight was the perfect time; the apartment was the perfect place; and everything went exactly as planned. Without a hitch.

A little over an hour from now, her unsuspecting lover would return to Sarah’s apartment looking forward to a nightcap and a late-night romp in the sack with her partner. Like every Friday night since he started keeping an eye out on things. The very idea of it sent shivers up his spine. But there would be no nightcap tonight. All her friend would find when she gets there tonight is Sarah’s cold body lying in a heap on the floor. That’s one greeting he wished he could be there to see. He should have left a note, something like She made her choice, and choices have consequences. No, that was too obvious. Something more subtle. Something out of the bible. Yeah, something biblical.

Maybe next time.

And don’t worry, Miss Sarah Collingsworth Tolliver, I promise to heed your advice. I promise my life shall never cease to amaze me.

Meanwhile, same time, different place,

A heavy-set woman graying at the temples stood at the doorway, transfixed, her tired eyes bulging like saucers, her mouth open halfway to the floor. Before his very eyes, her blood started draining from her body until her complexion matched the color of the uniform she was wearing.

Instinctively, he tugged at the paper-thin gown that was supposed to insure his dignity. But as soon as he realized what he was doing, he stopped. He had far more important things to deal with right now, thank you. Dignity would just have to wait. It was odd, though—her reaction. So what if he was standing there half naked? And so what if maybe a little bit more was hanging out than was supposed to? It isn’t like he appeared in her doorway. She came to him. She looked like she belonged, but who was she? And why was she here? For that matter, why was he here? And where was here?

If you would kindly help me find my pants, he sighed a sigh of frustration, we both would feel a lot better. He gestured around the room as if to say he had looked everywhere. In this case, everywhere included the two drawer stand next to the bed, the three drawer bureau with one knob missing over under the window, and the tiny little closet with one naked coat hanger just outside the bathroom. He was out of places to look. And out of patience. Please, help. I can’t find my pants and whatever I was wearing for a top. And my watch, my keys, my wallet—everything is missing? What happened? Where am I? And where’s my stuff?

The woman stared on. Her mouth began moving ever so slowly, but nothing came out. Just something that sounded like Rev—Rev… .

I’m sorry, but I just don’t have time for this now. I have to get out of here, wherever here is. I have to find Sarah. Something has happened to Sarah. I can feel it. Where is she? Please help me, I have to find Sarah.

Rev–Rev Tol–Tolliver, Reverend Tolliver, is that you? the pasty white woman in the pasty white uniform mumbled.

Of course, it’s me. Who else would it be?

B-but what are you doing out of bed?

I’m getting up. Just like I always do. Now are you going to help me find my stuff? If not, would you please get someone who will? I have to find Sarah. The woman was beginning to blur in and out of focus. For that matter, so was the whole room.

This time the woman didn’t respond. Instead, she disappeared down the hallway, calling out something like, Coat, jeans. Coat, jeans.

He didn’t remember having a coat with him, but he probably did. A strange way to search for his clothes, he chuckled to himself. To go rushing down the hallway calling them out by name. Don’t forget wallet, keys. But just so long as it worked, what did he care? Just so long as he could get out of wherever he was and go find Sarah wherever she was… .

The room was beginning to spin now. He made his way back to the edge of the bed and sat down. Just a case of a little light-headedness, he assured himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. For that matter, he couldn’t remember a heck of a lot of late. All he knew was that he had to get out of there and find Sarah.

Outside, in the hallway, a loud voice boomed over the intercom. Code Green, Code Green—Hummingbird Wing, Room 107, Code Green.

Code Green, that’s what she was calling out. When somebody’s stuff is missing, you’d think it would be a Code Red or Code Blue, not a Code Green. But as long as it gets action, what did he care?

Reverend Tolliver, may I come in? This time the voice belonged to a large man in a suit standing in the doorway. My name is Sherman Donnelly. I am the Director here at Whispering Willows.

Whispering Willows. It sounded vaguely familiar. A motel? A resort? What was he doing in a resort? By himself? Come to think of it, not much of a resort. A bed, a couple of bureaus, and four antiseptic gray walls with one cheap print of a generic meadow hanging over the bed. Besides, why was he dressed in this flimsy gown looking for his clothes? And why was Director Donnelly twirling around uncontrollably like he was in a vortex of some sort? What was going on?

Director Donnelly made his way over to the bed and sat down along side him. The bed creaked, and so did Donnelly. He carried himself like a funeral director, grim. Reverend Tolliver, he began in a solemn tone, like he was about to deliver bad news, you have taken us all by surprise, I’m afraid.

What’s so surprising about a man wanting to get dressed and get out of here? I don’t understand.

Oh, it isn’t the clothes, I can assure you. Do you know where you are?

Never mind where I am for now. Do you know where Sarah is?

Sarah?

Yeah, Sarah. My wife. Or, he paused to correct himself, I guess I should say my ex-wife.

Oh, yes, you mean Sarah Collingsworth. I’m afraid Ms. Collingsworth hasn’t been around for the better part of a year now. But let’s get back to talking about you for a minute. Do you know where you are, Rev. Tolliver?

I’m right here. You just told me. In a place called Whispering Meadows. And what do you mean Sarah hasn’t been around in over a year? That’s impossible.

Whispering Willows, the man in the suit corrected him. Do you know what we do here? He stood, walked over to the bureau under the window, and leaned up against it. It was obvious the esteemed Director-what’s-his-name was stalling for time. Why, Tucker, couldn’t fathom a guess. But one thing for sure, this guy didn’t know what to do next.

Neither did Tucker. But the room was still spinning, so he stayed in place. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, he began, choosing his words carefully, but I just don’t have time for guessing games right now. I have to get my things and get out of here. What time is it? In fact, what day is it? I have to find Sarah—before it is too late. And once I find her, I have to get back to work. I’ve got a sermon to preach on Sunday, and I don’t even have an idea for it.

Look, Reverend Tolliver, I will be straight with you. You are in what we call an elderly care facility. You have been here for four years now.

Four years? What are you talking about? How? Why? What happened to me?

That’s not important right now. What is important is that you… .

Excuse me, Tucker shouted, but I’ll be the one who decides what’s important or not right now. Now, tell me: What happened to me?

You were in a car accident… .

A car accident—I don’t remember anything like that.

"Of course, you don’t. You have been in a coma, a mild one but still a coma, and this is the first time you’ve been conscious since coming here. Today is Tuesday. It is twelve noon, June 17.

What are you talking about? I’m the pastor of… . In the excitement of everything, he couldn’t even remember the name of his own church. . . . . I’m the pastor of a local church here in town. He started to stand, but fell back onto the bed.

Director Donnelly folded his arms and continued, When you came here, you were the pastor of a local church. But not any more. Four years is a long time. That church is no longer in operation."

That couldn’t be. This all had to be a dream, a horrible, despicable dream. Silence lingered in the air. Tucker had nothing to say, so he said nothing.

Director Donnelly unfolded his arms and shifted his tone, You can’t imagine how pleased we are that you are awake, alert, and remember what you remember, but, as I am sure you can appreciate, we must insist that we take things slowly. Gone was the tone of a patronizing funeral director, replaced by that of a loving parent trying to give comfort to a terrified child in the middle of a nightmare. The room is spinning, isn’t it?

Reluctantly, Tucker nodded.

And your legs are wobbly, aren’t they?

Another reluctant nod.

That’s all very understandable. But still we have to do this very carefully. Now why don’t you lie back down and relax. Let us do what we do best. I promise you we will let you go just as soon as we are satisfied it is safe to do so.

But instead of lying down, Tucker leaped to his feet. This can’t be happening, he shouted in protest. This is all a terrible mistake. Get Sarah. She’ll straighten this whole thing out. And if you can’t find Sarah, get me Father Patrick Kerry in town. But first, get me my pants and my shirt, my wallet, and my keys. I’m leaving. He stood, stumbled half way to the door, and fell listlessly into the waiting arms of the guy in the suit.

CHAPTER I

Orthopraxy 301

Wednesday, September 6, 10:57 A. M.

Today was the third anniversary of his resurrection. It’s funny how, once you are resurrected from the dead, time changes. How you experience time certainly changes. You tend to savor each and every moment of your life as if it may be your last. How you even measure time also changes. Everything that ever happened in your life is broken down into B. C., before-coma, and P. C., post-coma. Three months ago today Tucker Tolliver rose from the dead. Or at least from the unconscious. Three months P. C. and counting. It was also four years and a month since the accident, B. C.; four years and three months since the divorce became final, B. C.; and a good thousand years since he last stood in front of a classroom full of students eager to hear what he had to say. Or, at least willing to listen to what he had to say. Well, let’s just say required to be there.

But that was then; this was now. Back then, he was a rookie, a no-name nobody, fresh out of college, determined to change the world one fifth-grader at a time. But then it was just him and Sarah, simpler times. Long before he ever entertained the crazy idea of law school, never mind the crazier idea of walking away from the law and heading off to seminary. In other words, long before things got so complicated. Back then he didn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing, but just so long as he showed up for work every day at Morgan Elementary School and kept his nose clear, nobody really cared.

Simpler times, B. C.

Today it was entirely different. Except, of course, for the knots in his stomach—they were the same. Today, everything was complicated. Today he was a pro, and everybody seemed to care. Not only was he trained as an attorney expected to know what he was talking about, he was also an ordained minister talking about God. Talk about a double whammy. As if that weren’t enough, he had been to the Valley of Death, spent four years there, and now he was back. You could call it resurrected, or you could call it whatever you wanted to. Either way, he had crossed over. Who better qualified to talk about God? Or so they thought. On top of all that, it was his name on the building—The Tucker Tolliver Theological Institute and Church of the Hub & Spokes. T. T. T. I., for short. All in his honor. Even he was intimidated by that one. Leave it to Sarah.

Complicated times, P. C.

Tucker shot a quick glance around the maddening crowd. Well, not quite maddening—maybe a dozen so far, sprinkled around the cavernous amphitheater affectionately nicknamed the Pit. According to the class registration list, that left another dozen yet to wander in, and according to the outstretched arms and white gloves of Mickey Mouse strapped to his wrist, they had three minutes to do it. The watch was a present Sarah had given up on his graduation from seminary. Inscribed on the back, To my beloved Tucker, who always keeps me guessing. With all my love, Sarah. That was a long time ago, B. C.

Sitting there in the bottom of the Pit, trying to size up the group trickling in without being caught doing it, he felt a little bit like Jonah must have in the belly of the whale. Or maybe Daniel in the Lion’s Den. Either one worked. This particular room with a seating capacity in the triple digits had what they called tiered seating. On each tier, a semi-circular conference table made out of some sort of environmentally friendly material ran the width of the room. Behind each table, a series of metallic chairs with black vinyl seats were aimed directly at the lecturer below. The front row was on the same level as the lectern, and each row thereafter rose higher toward the heavens. Hence, the Pit. Those fortunate enough to be blessed with a place in the heavens could look down with judgmental eyes upon the poor, defenseless creature relegated to the role of lecturer. Hence, the Lion’s Den.

So far, the not-so-maddening crowd had parked itself into the last couple of rows, furthest from the lecturer and closest to the exits/heaven, leaving late arrivals no choice but to sit closer to the front. Just like in church. A sea of empty seats in the first three or four rows stared back at him. Just like in church.

Wednesday, September 6, 11:00 A. M.

At precisely the moment Mickey’s long arm struck twelve, Tucker stood at the lectern, took a deep breath, and began. Good morning, my name is Reverend Tucker Tolliver—please call me Pastor Tucker or Pastor Tuck or just plain Tucker—and this is Orthopraxy 301. If anyone is in the wrong place, don’t worry, I won’t be offended, feel free to make your escape now.

Two or three embarrassed coeds stood to leave as a nervous, albeit polite, chuckle, rumbled through the crowd.

As many of you know, Tucker continued, my name is on the building in which we are now standing. The Tucker Tolliver Theological Institute and Church of the Hub & Spokes. Actually, the church stands on its own, and we like to refer to the Institute as T.T.T.I., but I want you to know none of this was my idea. In fact, while this place was being built, I was asleep in a deep coma, so I get to disclaim any responsibility for any of this. With his left hand he made a wide-sweeping gesture as if to take in all thirty-some-odd acres that made up the entire campus. That’s not to say I’m not grateful. I am. Very grateful. And now that I’m back from wherever I was, I’m very excited about the prospects for this experiment we are pursuing here on the rolling hills of the Whispering Willows campus. But I will say this, if I did have anything to do with it, and in the future I will, one of the first things I would do is get rid of course titles like ‘Orthopraxy—301.’

More nervous chuckles. More rumbling.

This morning it is important that we begin to get to know one another. But instead of the typical seminary exercise for first year seminarians—going around the room with each of us telling a little about ourselves and how we arrived at the decision to come here—I’d like to go at things a little differently. He paused to register the blank stares staring back at him. In an intentionally accusatory tone of voice he blurted out, Why did you sign up for a course entitled ‘Orthopraxy—301?’

A young man probably in his late twenties called out from the heaven a/k/a the top row, Because it fulfills one of the practicum requirements.

Ah, very good, young man. A practical answer. But not everyone is here to work toward a degree. By a show of hands, how many of you are here to obtain a seminary degree?

Five or six hands went up.

While I’m at it, how many here are already ordained ministers?

Another five or six hands.

And how many are working toward ordination?"

Another half dozen hands went up.

That leaves the rest of you as wanderers in the wilderness, huh? My kind of people.

A young lady with a bright smile and brighter red curls for hair piped up in the next to the last row, Reverend Tolliver—

Please, let’s get used to being not so formal.

Pastor Tucker, she re-phrased, I am here because as I understand the word ‘orthopraxy’ is set against ‘orthodoxy.’ It has to do with a study of religion through the lens of ‘right practice’ as opposed to ‘right beliefs,’ or doctrines, or creeds.

OK, good, Tucker nodded, so what do you expect to get out of this course? And please, tell us your name.

Gee, she giggled, my name is Penny, and I guess I don’t really know what to expect. She wore her bright red hair in two frizzy ponytails corkscrewing out the sides of her head. Her oversized crimson sweatshirt with HARVARD across the chest clashed with her hair. If they ever decided to make a sequel to cover Little Orphan Annie as an adult, Penny could definitely play the lead. I guess that’s why I’m here—to come up with a laundry list of right practices?

Tucker squeezed his eyes shut as if in anguish and cried out, OUCH! Wrong answer, but thanks for playing. He leaned forward on the lectern, then added, Anybody else want to try?

A gangly young man located in the center of a middle row stood to speak. Th-the Bible gives u-us the laundry list of right practices, he began, obviously nervous. B-but, it’s all so confusing. So contradictory. You can get whatever you want out of it. In the end, it allows everybody to think what they want to think. Th-at, th-at doesn’t seem r-right.

Have you ever read the Bible, young man? Again, please, your name?

My name is Brian. Brian Benderson. The young man just stood there, his silence a desperate cry for help.

OK, Mr. Benderson, have you ever read the Bible?

B-bits and p-pieces, he finally managed to spit out.

That’s OK. Don’t worry. Very few people have ever read the Bible. Here’s what Henry David Thoreau once said about the Bible, ‘Most people favor the Bible outwardly, defend it with bigotry, and hardly ever read it.’ You may sit down, son. Don’t worry, if you haven’t read it, you are in good company.

Brian sat down. With chin tucked into his chest, it was obvious how relieved he was to have that ordeal behind him.

By the way, Mr. Benderson, Tucker added, you are right. It isn’t right that the Bible should be all things to all people. Therein lies the problem. And the solution. For now we’ll leave it at that.

Tucker wandered away from the lectern and made his way up the center aisle. He stopped on the third tier, about a quarter of the way up. Here’s the thing, orthopraxy and orthodoxy are not separate and distinct categories. Or, at least, they shouldn’t be. It’s like the dog and the dog’s tail. Which wags which? Does the dog wag the tail? Or does the tail wag the dog?

A woman in her mid-thirties started to raise her hand, then pulled it back. But it was too late. Tucker spotted it. Yes, did you want to say something?

Well, if orthodoxy—right beliefs—is the dog, then I think that historically, at least in the case of Christianity, the dog wags the tail. As an afterthought, she added, Oh, yes, my name is Harriet. Harriet Wilson. Mrs. Harriet Wilson.

Mrs. Harriet Wilson wore her hair in a beehive and came equipped with knitting needles in hand. She reminded Tucker of Trustee Felicia Newbury from his former church. Trustee Newbury never attended a single Trustee’s meeting without her trusty knitting. That way, she always said, at least the night wasn’t a complete waste of time.

OK, Mrs. Harriet Wilson, tell us how you get to the dog wagging the tail.

The beliefs dictate the practices, whether they be the ethical practices, the ritual practices in worship, or whatever other kinds of practices there might be. Like how involved you might get in politics, your attitudes on the environment, what you believe your very purpose on this earth is, everything, the knitting lady replied.

Tucker was trying his best to listen to Mrs. Wilson, but it was what he was looking at that demanded his undivided attention. Harriet Wilson’s nimble fingers were racing about, almost faster than he could follow them, knitting up a storm. The yarn was baby blue, and she seemed to be knitting some sort of circular thing. B. C., something like that might have bothered him, somebody knitting in class. But not P. C. After you’ve been to the Valley of Death, everything is different. OK, then, he continued, let’s make our operating premise that the dog wags the tail, and the dog is orthodox Christian beliefs. For now, let’s stick with the Christian story. There are plenty of other courses around here, and there will be plenty of other experiences, that will allow you to integrate these thoughts about Christianity with a number of other religious traditions, more –isms and –anities than you could ever want. So the next question is: what is the heart of Christian orthodoxy?

A voice in the back spoke up, Geez, Pastor Tucker, that’s a tough one. This time the speaker rose to identify himself. My name is Harold. Harold Myerson. And I guess it all depends on who you talk to—one man’s orthodoxy is another man’s heresy.

Myerson was a big guy, barrel-chested with bulging biceps of the Popeye the Sailor Man variety. Instead of a sailor’s uniform, though, he wore a black and canary yellow, horizontal striped rugby shirt that was stretched to the limits. He reminded Tucker of a buff bumblebee.

Exactly, Tucker pounced. Exactly. One man’s orthodoxy is another man’s heresy. But still, let’s agree for now that there are certain basic elements of the Christian faith tradition that can be identified, at least historically, as ‘essential.’ In other words, without them you have no right be call yourself a Christian. What would be included in the ‘essential elements?’

There were some nods in the audience, but more frowns. After an awkward silence, a kid in a tie-dyed T-shirt and a mullet from out of the ’70’s chimed in, God is good?

OK, that’s certainly a safe one. We’ll walk before we run. But get rid of the question mark in your voice. God is good!

Silence.

Who’s next?

More silence, even more awkward.

Let me give you a hint. It is called Christianity.

A dark-haired woman said in a hushed tone, Jesus Christ is the Messiah? She was a large-mouthed woman with the whitest teeth Tucker had ever seen. Not counting Deidre D. Devonshire, that is. She spoke very slowly, careful to enunciate every word. A kindergarten teacher, maybe first grade. Question or declaration? Tucker snapped back.

Jesus Christ is the messiah! came a clearly stated response. And my name is Av-er-y. John-son.

Some other voice from the other side of the room in the back punctuated it with a sarcastic, Hallelujah.

Wednesday, September 6, 11: 28, A. M.

Duane probably shouldn’t have said that, probably should have kept his mouth shut. No sense directing everyone’s attention to the fact that he was almost a half hour late. He couldn’t help it, though. The traffic getting out of Newpolis was brutal. In the future, he would have to leave plenty of time for getting up here. He slipped into a seat on his far left in the next-to-the-last row. It was good to be back in class again, even it was half over. It had been a long, hot summer, especially after he all went through. Too bad Central Seminary University had to shut down on him just like that. One day it was open for business and he was registering for Fall classes, and the next it was all shut down like it had never been there. Just nine credit hours short of his degree. In the heart of Newpolis, Central was so convenient, a twenty minute walk from his apartment. This place was a two-hour drive, one way. Two-and-a-half hours, today. And it was just getting off the ground. Lots of unknowns. But then, the degree didn’t really matter. He never intended to use it. It was just too much fun, infiltrating a bunch of idiots like this. And besides, once he got the idea of how he was going to do GOD’s work for him, it made even more sense. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. He should be grateful to the guy down there in the bottom of the Pit and his Church of the Hub & Spokes, or whatever they called it.

In hindsight, though, the sudden and unexpected closing of Central was a classic case of good news, bad news. Talk about a small world. Here he sat, waiting for Reverend Tucker Tolliver to begin a class on something they called orthopraxy, and just three short months ago he had his hands wrapped around the Reverend’s ex-wife squeezing the very last breath of life out of her. None of it was planned, that’s what was so crazy about the whole thing. Well, what happened to Sarah Collingsworth or Sarah Collingsworth Tolliver or whatever she called herself: that was planned. But she brought that on herself. She made her choice, and choices have consequences. Winding up at Tucker Tolliver’s very own theological center certainly wasn’t planned, though. If he believed in God—and he didn’t, not that God, anyway—he could see it all as pre-ordained. Pre-destination. Him. Sarah Collingsworth. Now, Tucker Tolliver. Like it was supposed to be.

But it had been a long, hot summer, and it was good to get started again. Taking the summer off—his choice, of course, and in hindsight maybe the wrong one—but taking himself out of the action certainly raised the stress level. As he learned that fateful night in June in Sarah Collingsworth’s apartment, snuffing out the life of a human being with your very own hands can be a great relaxant. And as he learned during his self-imposed layoff, he missed it. Then again, it was good to have plenty of time to prepare. Everything was is in the preparation. In fact, thanks to the extended time off as well as the good fortune of helping himself at the last second to that laptop, he already had his next three victims all staked out and ready to go. At first he wasn’t going to bother with the laptop. He knew something about computers but not all that much. But he had a friend who knew a friend… and before you knew it they were inside. Once inside, a whole new world opened up to him. Every file contained a veritable goldmine of invaluable information for a man in his line of work. GOD’s work, that is.

Again, if he believed in God—and he didn’t, not that God anyway—he could see it all as preordained. Pre-destination. They say their God works in mysterious ways, he chuckled to himself. His GOD does, too. The files were a miracle, if you believed in that mumbo-jumbo. They contained names and biographical information on more potential victims than there were in the entire alphabet, so basically he spent his summer culling the list down to his final four. That’s all he needed. Four. J, E, D, and P. At least, that’s all he needed for Phase I. After that, only time would tell. If it turned out a second phase was in the cards, thanks to the laptop he still had plenty of candidates to choose from. For now, with Labor Day come and gone, J, E, and D were cast in stone, and it was time to get on with the business at hand. Until now, he thought he was all set with P, too, but with this latest wrinkle, maybe not.

Seated next to him, a silly looking girl with a pixie nose, green eyes, and red curls leaned over to him. Hi, there, she whispered with a smile and her hand extended, my name is Penny. What’s yours?

Duane, he replied and turned away.

Wednesday, September 6, 11:31 A. M.

Tucker didn’t quite catch who delivered the sarcastic Hallelujah, although he thought it might have been the kid in the back who had just slipped in, the one now seated next to the perky redhead with curls named Penny. He couldn’t be sure, though. OK, he repeated the line with the same cynical tone in which it was delivered. Jesus Christ is the messiah. Hallelujah! We’ve got ourselves a skeptic. He smiled.

All of a sudden the floodgates opened. Jesus Christ is the Son of God!

Jesus Christ is the incarnation of God.

Born of the virgin Mary.

Jesus Christ was resurrected and sits at the right hand of God, from thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead. This one came from one of the late arrivals, hence he was closer to the front. He wore a clerical collar and was frantically scribbling in the notebook in front of him.

Ah, the class secretary. This is good. We need a class secretary. What is your name, sir?

The young man raised his eyes to meet Tucker’s. He edged himself forward in his seat and, speaking with extreme self-confidence, announced as though introducing a well-known dignitary, My name is Reverend Randall Bateman IV of the Church of the Everlasting Gospel. Then he added with a grin from ear to ear, You can call me Reverend Randy, though.

Reverend Bateman sat tall in his chair, a good foot taller than the knitter, Mrs. Harriet Wilson, next to him. His hair was thinning with wispy sideburns that came to the bottom of his ear lobes. His teeth were crooked, but his smile was undeniably infectious. Far and away his most distinguishing feature was his Adam’s apple, which bobbed up and down whenever he opened his mouth. Reverend Randy reminded Tucker of what he had always envisioned Ichabod Crane, that fictitious character out of Washington Irving’s Legend of Sleep Hollow, would look like. OK, Reverend Randy. I am pleased to meet you and honored to have you with us. Can I ask you, sir, to be our class secretary?

Reverend Randy looked around surreptitiously. Like he had just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and was hoping someone would come to the rescue.

No one did.

I didn’t mean to embarrass you, sir? It’s just that I’d much rather have one person acting as the recorder of our conversations, so that everybody else can focus all their attention on the conversation rather than everybody trying to do everything. Just like Christianity, Tucker grinned, it isn’t good to try to be all things all the time.

Well, I—I’m not sure, Reverend Randy began to stammer…

But Tucker cut him off with an offer of an olive branch, Maybe each class we could choose a different secretary for the day—that way everybody gets a turn without any single person being overburdened.

Unconsciously, Reverend Randy tugged at his collar, like it was getting a little hot in there. Oh, OK, I guess it would be all right, Reverend Randy agreed as he tugged some more.

Great, Tucker said. Turning his attention back to the rest of the class, he encouraged them to continue.

Over the next few minutes, the class went wild. Poor Reverend Randy’s fingers were flying just to keep up with them. The list included: The Resurrection, The Doctrine of Heaven, the Doctrine of Original Sin, Hell, Eternal Salvation, Predestination, the Ten Commandments, and, of course, the Trinity. With five minutes left to go, Tucker decided to end it. He had more than enough to make his point, adjourn, and get down to the refectory in time to meet Father Pat for lunch. Although he and Patrick Kerry had crossed paths a couple of times P. C., this would be the first time since Tucker’s return to the living that they would actually have time to talk.