“Would you mind telling us something about your ministry?” Mercer asked.
“Why, sir? Has one of my worshippers done something illegal?”
“No reason to think so, Reverend. We’re just trying to help some detectives in another state. Trying to get an understanding of these extreme ministries. Found you in the phone book and thought you could give us some general answers. May I ask where you’re from?”
“Came here about a year and a half ago from Nashville, Detective.”
That city wasn’t directly in our path of homicidal destruction.
“To establish this church?”
“Exactly so, Mr. Wallace. And this academy.”
“What academy would that be?” Mike asked.
“You must be here because you’ve been told that some of our brethren in the evangelical movement have taken on mixed martial arts as a way of reaching out to young men.”
“Only men?” I asked.
“That’s correct, ma’am. Surely you’re aware that in churches across the country, the attendance numbers for young males — well, young white males; you’ll excuse me, Mr. Wallace — is regrettably low. Dropping all the time. Go to our services on a Sunday and you won’t have but a handful of men between the ages of eighteen and thirty-six. That’s a sad fact. Pretty much all pastel and girlylike, so our programs are developed to be an outreach tool to the community.”
“How so?”
“Many men are led to find Christ when they come to understand that Jesus was a fighter. Do you know what mixed martial arts are?”
Kelner’s voice was syrupy but he sneered at my ignorance. “No, I’m afraid I don’t. What we walked in on,” I said, “just looked to be brutal and violent. Anything but spiritual and uplifting.”
“What you saw was a sport called cage assault. Highly popular, ma’am. Always draws a crowd, especially when you put on a show before the prayer service.”
“A blood sport, obviously.”
Mike could see I was offending Reverend Kelner. He slid behind me and pinched my forearm to urge me to keep quiet.
“So, mixed martial arts,” Mike said. “Kickboxing, wrestling, full-contact karate — ultimate fighting, is that it? A little more machismo in your ministry.”
“Yes, sir, Detective.”
“I get you,” Mike said, although I knew him well enough to know he was stroking the reverend. “The church is becoming too feminized for your folk.”
“Gentle shepherding is just fine,” Kelner said, “but not at the price of strength. There are so very many young men who’ve grown up without fathers, without direction. They’ve struggled to find hope, and today’s religious institutions don’t really have a place for them. Our group tries to make Christianity more appealing. Fighting as a metaphor — like Christ fought — is very attractive to many fellows.”
“Joining faith to fighting,” Mike said.
“That helps us promote true Christian values. We’ve got almost seven hundred churches across the country.”
I was sickened to think of this as a religious movement. It seemed so antithetical to the teachings of every mainstream culture. I turned away from Kelner and watched one of the fighters mop the stained floor of the platform.
The loser had limped off to sit on the sidelines, against the wall of the old garage, still marked with faded red paint in the shape of a road sign that warned drivers to stop.
“So what were we watching?” Mike asked.
“One of our new recruits. He’s going to fight tonight, in fact. I call him the Fury. That was some Muay Thai he was angling to do.”
“Asian.”
“The Art of Eight Limbs, as they call it in Thailand. American boxing involves two points of contact — just the fists.”
“Yeah,” Mike said.
“This lets you go at the other guy with eight points,” Kelner said, pleased with the telling. “It allows punching, kicking, kneeing, elbowing.”
“And some Brazilian jujitsu thrown in, wasn’t there?”
“You know your stuff, Mr. Chapman. Tell your girlfriend over there — she’s seeming a bit squeamish — that’s the only one likely to do more than bloody a boy’s nose. That was the choke hold you saw.”
“Full-contact combat sport.”
I whispered to Mercer, “Just ask him about the case — and a possible perp — and let’s get out of this place. It’s disgusting.”
“Oh, and some sambo,” Kelner said. He was pushing the envelope with me now, sensing my displeasure. “You know sambo? That’s one to kill with. You maybe came in too late to see the takedown.”
“What’s sambo?”
“How’s your Russki?”
“Nyet. Nonexistent.”
“A Russian acronym, Detective. Stands for self-defense without weapons — sambo, in their language.”
“Now I know what you’re talking about. It was a top-secret Red Army technique to create a deadly kind of hand-to-hand combat after the Revolution, right?”
“Entirely. Didn’t even make it to the US until recently. Focuses on getting your opponents to the ground, Detective, no matter how you do it. It’s all about submission,” Kelner said, almost gloating at the way he had suckered Mike into his pitch. “Now, is one of these martial arts how your mysterious killer works, Mr. NYPD Homicide Detective, or can I go back about the business of building God’s army?”
“No sambo, Reverend. Don’t even think there was kickboxing involved.”
The truth was we had no idea how Naomi and Ursula had become hostage to the maniacal killer. Neither body bore the bruising of the mixed-martial-arts takedown, and the toxicological tests were still days away from yielding clues.
“Then why y’all coming around my church, stirring up my men, Chapman? We’ve been scapegoated for just about everything in town, one place or ’nother.”
“You think this idea of yours is gonna fly in the big city, Rev?” Mike asked. “I can point you to more fighting fools than could fill up your benches.”
“Bring ’em on, Mr. Chapman. I’ll lead them to the Lord.”
“You know if there’s an extreme ministry anywhere near Atlanta?”
“Quite a few on the outskirts.”
“How about eastern Kentucky?”
“You bet. Kentucky and West Virginia. We’re growing like hayseed down South.”
Mike had printed out the photograph from Daniel Gersh’s driver’s license. “Ever seen this guy?”
Kelner pretended to give it his best shot. “Not one of ours.”
“How about a tall man, maybe long dark hair, his face kind of scarred with blemishes of some sort?”
Kelner thought about it but gave a firm no.
“Many other of these churches in town?”
“Not yet, Mr. Chapman. But we’ll take hold. We have a way of doing that where we’re most needed,” Kelner said. “Meanwhile, you might try across the river. We’re becoming real popular in south Jersey. And you might give some mind to being a bit more prayerful yourselves — all three of you.”
“Thanks for your help,” Mike said. “Peace to you.”
Reverend Kelner just grinned and stood his ground, making sure we were on our way.
I wondered how much blood had been mopped from the floor of the church in the short time it had been in existence. It would be a forensic nightmare for Crime Scene to try to sort out the samples if someone was actually killed in the deep recesses of the old garage.
We were halfway down the center aisle of the jury-rigged church when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I retrieved and opened it. The woman on the other end was trying hard not to sound hysterical.
“Alex? It’s Faith Grant.”
“Yes, Faith. What—”
“Chat called. She’s in trouble.” I could hear now that she was crying. “I wasted time ignoring your concerns and now she’s in desperate trouble.”