"Lawrence. I remember him." He opened a drawer and shoved the magazine inside. "It's been so long since I've heard anything about him. Is he still... there? In prison, I mean?"
"Yes. Can you tell me what you remember about him?"
Pastor Rankin folded his hands and leaned forward. "I recall he was a good young man who made a horrible mistake." He was giving me that intense and puzzled stare again, but I didn't shift my eyes from his, though I wanted to.
"Can you tell me about that youth group?" I asked. "Like any names you might recall? See, some of my evidence has... disappeared."
"And this has caused you anguish. I can read that much in your face." He was smiling, head cocked. "Would you like to join hands? Pray, perhaps?"
My daddy used to say, "Don't wait to hear the alarm go off before you build the fire escape." Alarms were sounding, and I hadn't come prepared to deal with someone like this. The best I could do was keep him on track. I said, "Um, not right now. The names of the youth group members would help."
He leaned back in the chair, stared up at the ceiling for a second. "That was so long ago, Abby Rose. All I remember is how Lawrence was brought to our youth ministry by friends from his high school, and we were so glad to have a black boy join us. Christ does not discriminate, and all are free to worship here."
Christ does not discriminate? A black boy? The way he said this had me thinking about this man of God in a different light. Damn. I didn't want to think about lights. Just push forward, Abby. Get over the need to squirm while you do your job. "Do you recall even one of his friends, Pastor Rankin?"
"You'd think I would, but I have been cursed with the worst affliction a pastor can have—I'm horrible with names. I do remember hearing about the young woman he... he did away with. She was found in a bank parking lot less than a mile from our original building, and it was our youth group meeting that night. The police came with questions, but sadly, we couldn't help the black boy. Our meeting ended long before the girl was killed, as I recall."
"You visited him in prison, Pastor Rankin," I said. "I've visited myself, and it's not something you forget. Can you tell me about that?"
"Tell you what we spoke of? That would be wrong, even if I could recall our conversation. Confidentiality is sacred. But I can offer you this by way of explanation. The gospel of St. Matthew teaches us that both the righteous and the sinners will be judged according to six requirements: giving food to the hungry, providing drink to the thirsty, showing hospitality to the stranger, clothing the naked, visiting the sick and visiting prisoners. By rendering these acts of compassion to the least of our brothers, we perform them for Christ Himself. It was my sacred duty to visit him."
"To sum up—and correct me if I'm wrong—the visit was just part of the job?" I'm not good at hiding my opinions, and if it made this guy like me just a little less, be less fixated on my face, I was all for cynicism.
His gaze shifted to a heavy oak lectern where a massive Bible sat open, the red satin bookmark dangling. He started flicking at the corner of my business card with a fingernail, his other hand balled into a tight fist. " 'Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them.' Hebrews 13:3. I sense your distrust, a certain distaste, and I am sorry for that. Your spirit is admirable, however. Like you, I perform my duties and am glad to do so. If it helps your cause, the black boy and I prayed together, but he told me nothing about his crime... nor did I ask."
"He may have spent years in jail for a murder he didn't commit. Will your duty to God help me find the truth? Perhaps free an innocent man?"
He smiled, folded his hands in front of him. "God has guided you here, brought your precious light, and I would never refuse you anything if only I could remember more. I simply can't."
But despite his calm tone, I noticed his face had reddened. Maybe he had a blood pressure problem— or my light had given him a sunburn.
"What would help you remember?" I asked. "Pictures of Lawrence after his arrest? I could bring one."
"You simply do not understand, Abby Rose." His sanctuary voice had reappeared, his loud voice. Great for a Sunday service, a little much for an office. Obviously the guy was coming unglued—which, now that I thought about it, might not be a bad thing. Maybe he'd let loose with something unexpected.
"Think hard, Pastor. Tell me what Lawrence said to you in Huntsville. Tell me about the night of the murder. Help me learn the names of the kids he hung out with. Tell me—"
"Stop." Rankin covered his face with his hands. "You don't understand."
All of a sudden he was crying big old crocodile tears. If I wanted to drive this man crazy, it would be a short trip. "What is it that I don't understand, Pastor?"
He took a deep breath to compose himself. "1987 was the worst year of my life, Abby Rose. We had to deal with tragic events that had nothing to do with the black boy's troubles."
I wasn't sure I felt comfortable asking what those events were, and turns out I didn't have to.
He said, "We lost our daughter that year. The pain is fresh even today and supersedes any memories of prison visits or youth counseling or anything else from back then."
"I'm really sorry, but even though it was a horrible time—"
The door opened and I smelled an overpowering perfume before I saw the woman. "Andrew, I heard you—oh, my heavens. I knew something was wrong."
She rushed to Rankin's side, bent and held his face. "What's happened?" She looked my way. "What's going on?"
"I'm a private investigator and I came to ask a few questions about a case I'm working—one that dates back to 1987. I seem to have dredged up some bad memories, and for that I apologize."
"We lost Sara that year," the woman said softly, rubbing tears off her husband's cheeks.
"I really had no intention of upsetting the pastor."
She straightened, tugging at the short purple jacket that matched her skirt. She was shapely, and though I could tell she was in her fifties, she had aged well.
"I'm sure you had no idea about our child," she said. "How could you possibly know?"
Rankin said, "She came about Lawrence—you remember the black boy? But all of a sudden my thoughts leaped to Sara and—"
"Shh, Andrew. It's okay," said his wife. She looked at me. "Perhaps you should leave for now. Call me later. I'll try to help you, but right now, my husband needs me for reasons I don't need to explain."
"Certainly." I stood. "Sorry to have caused a problem." I was happy to go, because if I heard him say "the black boy" one more time, I might have had to slug a man of God, tears or no tears.
Mrs. Rankin smiled sadly. "Forgive me... forgive us. When you lose a child, the pain never goes away." She rested a hand on her husband's cheek again. "Andrew is a very sensitive man; so strong for others, but when it comes to Sara, well..."
"I'll ask for you when I call, Mrs. Rankin," I said.
She came around the desk, extended her hand and then rested her other over mine when we shook. "It's Noreen. And you're?"
"Abby."
"Abby Rose," said the pastor, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose. "Isn't that a beautiful name? Perfect for a spirited, glowing young woman. I have never before seen light surround someone like it does you, Abby Rose."
Mrs. Rankin glanced at her husband, and though she tried to mask her confusion, she failed. "Andrew, what are you talking about?"
"You can't see it? Maybe Sara has returned, resides in Abby Rose and—no, no. That's not right. I'm a little dizzy, Noreen. Where are my pills?"