"purge The Evil" - Chapters 1 - 4

PURGE THE EVIL By Bill Dunn Chapter 1 Sunday, October 24th, 1:50 a.m. “Last call!” the bartender yelled. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!” Eddie Dykes glanced up from his barstool perch and looked at the clock next to the TV. Almost 2 a.m.!, he thought to himself. Oh man, Cheryl’s gonna kill me! Two hours earlier, when Game One of the World Series ended, the Spigot Café had been packed. But now only a handful of tipsy stragglers remained. Eddie cursed the TV set. “It’s that damn ESPN’s fault,” he muttered. “They keep running highlights of the game and I keep watching, and the next thing you know, it’s closing time.” Eddie quickly gulped the remainder of his 14th beer, and then slowly slipped off the barstool, steadying himself for a moment before making a slow, zig-zagging journey toward the exit. Hammered again, he thought. When am I gonna stop doing this? As he climbed behind the wheel of his pickup truck, Eddie’s thoughts turned from his sure-to-be angry girlfriend Cheryl to a more pressing concern: how to make the two mile trip from the Spigot Café to his house without being pulled over by the cops. Eddie Dykes was all too familiar with that scenario. How many times had he been arrested for D.U.I.? He wasn’t quite sure. The first two times, the charges were dropped after I went to “Drunk School,” he thought with a smile, remembering that he had been drunk at many of the “Drunk School” classes. But at least three other D.U.I.’s are on my record, he thought as his smile disappeared, including the last one only four months ago, when he somehow avoided jail time since, as his lawyer had pleaded to the judge, no one got hurt. Eddie was not eligible to have a valid driver’s license, however, for at least another three years. Eddie slowly pulled onto Prospect Avenue, looking in all directions for any sign of a dreaded Crown Victoria. Since the time he first started mixing drinking and driving at the age of 16, almost two decades ago, Eddie could spot the official law enforcement vehicleof-choice a mile away. Turning right onto Boulevard, Eddie was thankful there were almost no other cars out at that late hour. He was halfway home and felt a little bit more relaxed. He prided himself on being able to drive in a fairly straight line even when he was plastered. “A lot of practice,” he always bragged to his drinking buddies. Eddie looked down and noticed his speed was about 20 mph. Ooh, too slow for a 35 mph zone. Eddie knew that driving too

slow could attract a cop’s attention at 2 a.m. just as much as weaving back and forth. He gradually increased his speed to about 30 mph. OK, that’s better. When Eddie glanced again in the mirror, he gasped. There it was: the unmistakable silhouette of a Crown Victoria, following about a block behind him. Eddie stared straight ahead, focusing every bit of inebriated concentration he could muster on the task of driving straight and smooth. He felt his hands getting clammy. Sweat began to form on his forehead. Don’t panic, don’t panic. You haven’t done anything suspicious…yet. Dreading what he might see this time, Eddie looked up at the mirror and saw that the Crown Vic remained about a block behind. He’s not after me, he’s just on routine patrol, Eddie encouraged himself. Probably looking for a late night doughnut shop. Just drive straight and everything will be fine. Well before the intersection of South Quaker Lane, Eddie flipped on his right-hand turn signal. I never use that when I’m sober, he noted. He took the turn smoothly, although a bit slower than he would have liked. Almost home! A left and then a quick right and I’m safe. Eddie looked up and was horrified to see the Crown Vic also take the turn onto South Quaker. Oh no! Oh God, please help! Eddie was desperate. He knew another D.U.I. would put him in a world of trouble—maybe even prison. Again signaling long before the turn, Eddie steered his pickup left onto Kingswood. He took the first right onto his own street, Lancaster Road, and almost hit a parked car while looking frantically in the mirror. He accelerated down the center of the narrow road toward his house, one of many twofamily structures in the residential neighborhood. A common driveway separated Eddie’s house from the neighboring home, with each building having a detached garage in back. Just before turning left into his driveway, Eddie saw the Crown Victoria turn onto his street behind him, about half a block back. Eddie pulled into the driveway quickly and drove between the two houses. As he approached the garage in back, he turned off his headlights and coasted in the dark. Eddie desperately wished that he and his pickup truck somehow could become completely invisible. Just as the truck came to a stop a few feet in front of the garage door, the front bumper banged into a steel garbage can, spilling its contents onto the driveway with a resounding clang. Damn!! Eddie groaned, his whole body cringing. He put the truck into park, turned off the ignition, and lunged into the passenger seat out of view. Off in the distance, a dog started barking in response to the metallic clang echoing throughout the neighborhood. Eddie peeked through the back window of the truck cab just in time to see the Crown Victoria glide by and continue down the street. He breathed a monumental sigh of relief. Then his thoughts turned to Cheryl, asleep—hopefully—in their second floor apartment. Eddie looked up at the bedroom window. No lights were on. I don’t think the garbage can woke her up, he thought, more wishful than certain.

Cheryl doesn’t deserve this, Eddie thought. I don’t know why she doesn’t just leave me. Eddie had a point. It was Cheryl’s steady paycheck that paid the rent and bought the groceries. Eddie’s employment history was far too sporadic and unreliable. Besides, whatever money he did earn, he spent on legal fees and beer. He shook his head, disgusted at himself. I don’t deserve her. Not at all. While Eddie thought about Cheryl, he did not notice the Crown Victoria had pulled to a stop alongside the curb about three houses down the street. A man in a dark baseball cap and blue windbreaker jacket quietly got out of the car and walked toward Eddie’s house. Eddie exited his pickup truck via the passenger side and gently pushed the door closed as quietly as possible. The distant dog had stopped barking and Eddie marveled at the absolute silence in his neighborhood. He took a wobbly step toward the street, heading for the side entrance door of the house, and realized that he was still very drunk. When Eddie was a few steps away from the door, he looked up and froze in surprise. A man stood at the end of the driveway by the sidewalk. The dim glow of a faraway street light allowed Eddie to see that the man had on a dark baseball cap, pulled low over his eyes. Both of the man’s hands were in the pockets of his jacket. Eddie could not see the man’s face. Eddie’s mind raced in confusion. This is a safe neighborhood, he thought. We don’t have any gang-bangers or muggers around here. This is West Hartford, for God’s sake. Besides, that guy isn’t dressed like a gang-banger. He’s, like, middle-aged, or something. The man raised his head slightly, and in a low voice said, “Excuse me. I’m trying to find Trout Brook Drive. Is it this way, or that way?” The man pointed this way and that way by nodding his head left and right. His hands remained in the jacket pockets. A wave of relief flooded over Eddie. I’m not getting mugged. And no D.U.I. either. This is my lucky night. Eddie stepped toward the man and whispered, “OK, this is what you wanna do.” Even while whispering, his words were slurred. “You head straight out here to the end of the street.” He gestured with his left hand as he spoke. The man walked a couple of steps toward Eddie, listening intently. “That brings you to Farmington Avenue. Then take a left on Farmington,” Eddie continued to whisper. “And you just follow it down about half a mile and you’ll reach Trout Brook.” When he said, “…follow it down…” Eddie waved his left arm in a wide sweeping motion, turning his whole body to the side. As he gazed off into the darkness, envisioning Trout Brook Drive a half mile away, the man slid his right hand out of the windbreaker’s

pocket, and in a smooth, quick motion, raised a silver .32 caliber revolver to arm’s length and fired one shot, point blank, into Eddie’s head just above the right ear. Eddie Dykes was dead even before his face hit the driveway with a thud. The firecrackerlike pop echoed through the still night sky. In the distance, the same dog barked at this new noise. The man in the windbreaker crouched down beside Eddie’s body and listened for any other sounds. He glanced around to see if any bedroom lights turned on. Within seconds he was satisfied that nothing, beside the dog, had stirred. With the gun safely tucked back into the windbreaker, the man reached under Eddie’s body and with his left hand, clad in a tight leather glove, shoved two glass vials of cocaine and a $100 bill into the front pocket of Eddie’s jeans. Then the man stood up, looked around once again, and walked quickly and silently down the sidewalk. He slipped into the Crown Victoria and slowly pulled away from the curb. The car reached the end of the block and turned right. Only then did the driver finally turn on the car’s headlights.

Chapter 2 Sunday, October 24th, 11:55 a.m. Father Dan Cavanaugh stood on the front steps of St. Lawrence’s Church, squinting in the bright October sun. He greeted parishioners after the last Mass of the day. As usual for the 11 o’clock Mass, it had been a sparse and unenthusiastic crowd. Many had already departed right after communion. Now the rest were in a hurry to leave. Some paused briefly to shake hands with the priest and mumble, “Hi Father,” “Thanks, Father,” or, “Nice homily, Father.” Others took a wide path away from where the priest stood and avoided eye contact, lest a quick pleasantry delay their goal of exiting the parking lot as quickly as humanly possible. Fr. Dan went through the motions of shaking hands, forcing a smile, and engaging in idle chit-chat. Then he looked over at the parking lot and was surprised to see his younger brother, Michael Cavanaugh, a detective with the West Hartford Police Department, leaning against the front of his car. As Mrs. Mullen was about to begin complaining about the music—as she did at least twice each month—he cut her off with a pleasant but forceful, “And it’s so nice to see you, too, Mrs. M. Excuse me, please.” Then he broke away from her handshake and hurried down the steps, careful not to trip on his robes. “Hi, Mikey!” Fr. Dan exclaimed as he shook his brother’s hand and grabbed him by the shoulder. “I thought I saw you sitting in the back pew.” Although Dan was two years older than Mike, at age 49 the priest was a veritable youngster among his fellow priests.

Mike, on the other hand, at age 47, was a senior citizen in the law enforcement world. “You haven’t been to Mass in a while,” Fr. Dan said. “Why today?” “Well, I was in the neighborhood,” Mike replied. “There was a murder last night a few blocks away from here. Quiet neighborhood off of Farmington Avenue. The guys from the State Police Crime Unit are crawling all over the place over there, so I thought I’d take a break and stop by, you know, to check out your act just in case I run into Mom and she asks what I thought of your homily. I assume she was at 7:30 Mass, right?” “Of course. Front pew,” the priest said with a laugh. “My harshest critic. But what about this murder? Here in West Hartford? What happened?” “I’m not sure.” Mike answered. “The call came in about 6 a.m. I think the newspaper delivery guy found the body. A man laying in his driveway. One bullet hole in his head. Point blank.” “Wow. Who did it?” “I dunno,” Mike said. “No one saw anything. The victim’s girlfriend says she was sleeping upstairs, no more than 30 feet away. Didn’t hear a thing. Says she went to bed early while the guy was out watching the World Series with his buddies, probably at a bar.” “Do you know his name?” Fr. Dan asked. “Is he in our parish?” “We haven’t officially released any details yet, but we know him. Bad apple. Lots of D.U.I.’s. We found cocaine in his pocket. It was probably a drug deal gone bad. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’s not a member of your parish. You won’t have to do a funeral Mass this week, and say a bunch of nice things about a lowlife bum you never met.” “Now, Mike, don’t laugh. I have to say those nice things for the grieving family. It gives them comfort. And I do have to do a funeral Mass this week—three of them! It seems half my parish is dying of old age, and the other half is leaving to join the Faith Cathedral.” “Yeah, that place is a zoo,” the detective said. “Every Sunday morning New Britain Avenue is in gridlock. A real pain in the butt for the Traffic Control fellas. The Department should bill that church for all the extra overtime. We even see cars from outof-state in their parking lot. Massachusetts, Rhode Island, New York. People come from all over to hear that guy preach.” “Thanks for the update, Mikey,” the priest said with a scowl. “I appreciate you reminding me…of what a failure I am.” “Oh Dan, come on. Don’t say that. It’s two totally different things. That guy, he’s into show biz. All those people show up because it’s like going to a concert. And you,

you’re…I mean, we, we’re Catholic. You, you do the Mass. And the Mass is, you know, the Mass. It’s not flashy. Never was. it’s just…different.” Fr. Dan nodded as he continued to scowl. It was obvious Mike’s stuttering attempt to boost his spirits wasn’t working. “And,” Mike concluded, “it’s important. The Mass is really important.” “Right. Is that why you go only twice a year, because it’s so important?” “Now Danny, come on,” Mike said sternly. “You know the deal. Ever since Susan divorced me and then I met up with Monica, it’s not like I’m really welcomed anymore.” “Little brother, let’s not go there again. You know what the Church teaches about that, and why. And you know my view on it. Jesus is just as much into love and forgiveness as He’s into rules and regulations and kicking some butt once in a while. You are always welcomed here.” “Yeah, I know, big bro,” Mike said with a smile. “I’m just real busy.” Desperate to change the subject, Mike looked up with a playful grin and said, “Hey, speaking of kicking butt, I know I can kick yours!” “Oh yeah?” the priest said with a hearty guffaw. “Never happened yet in 47 years, no matter how many times you tried, and never will!” The two brothers embraced again in a tight hug. Finally Fr. Dan said, “It is really good to see you, Mikey. Don’t be a stranger. Stop by more often.” “Sure,” the cop replied. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you tonight at Mom’s for dinner—if she’ll let me in.” “Hmm, when was that last time you were at her house, you know, the first and only time you walked in…with Monica?” “Uh, almost a year ago.” “Well,” Fr. Dan said thoughtfully, “she might be over it—maybe. I’m not really sure.” “Yeah, good point,” Mike said, shaking his head. “I’d better steer clear of the old homestead for a little while longer.” “Yeah,” the priest said. After a pause, he added, “Take care of yourself, Mike. I mean, really. Be careful. A drug murder in West Hartford! What the hell?!” “Yeah, yeah, no problem, Danny,” Mike said as he opened the door of his car. “I’ll be fine. And what the hell kind of talk is that for a priest, huh? Now you gotta go to Confession for swearing!”

“Get outta here, you jerk!” Fr. Dan said with a big smile. He slapped the hood of Mike’s car as it backed out of the parking space. He really loved his younger brother, and he worried about him. He worried about his safety because of his job, and he worried about his soul. Fr. Dan looked up and glanced around. The parking lot was almost empty. He turned back toward the church and saw Mrs. Mullen waiting impatiently at the bottom of the steps. Her arms were folded and her lips were pursed. Oh crap, the priest thought. Now I really gotta go to Confession—for what I’m thinking about her.

Chapter 3 Sunday, October 24th, 12:15 p.m. On this bright, sunny fall day, the parking lot of the Faith Cathedral, as usual, was filled to overflowing. During his long ministerial career, the non-denominational church’s founder and senior pastor, Rev. G.W. Morton, never had a problem gathering large crowds to listen to him preach. And the people who came from far and near to listen, never seemed to mind that the services often lasted more than two hours. Just seven years ago the Cathedral itself, a gleaming steel and glass building with comfortable seating for over 1,500 people, was nothing more than a vision in Rev. Morton’s mind. But with a fervent zeal and a seemingly endless supply of personal energy, he raised over $4 million to convert an abandoned industrial site in the Elmwood section of West Hartford into one of the largest evangelical Christian communities in New England. The Faith Cathedral was not actually a cathedral; it was more like a performing arts center with stained glass windows. Although the building was not as large as some of the mega-churches found in other regions of the country, it was certainly quite impressive for a part of the nation that generally looks down its nose at loud and boisterous “old time religion.” Similar to Midwestern and California mega-churches, the Faith Cathedral presented Broadway quality productions each week, complete with professional musicians, singers, and actors. Attendees always received a good dose of the Gospel message and a great dose of entertainment. Not to be outdone in entertainment quality, Rev. Morton himself was a one man show. His sermons always evoked the full gamut of emotions in his listeners: joy, anger, shame, repentance, laughter, hope, and determination. He was considered by most observers to be the most inspirational preacher in the Hartford region in at least 30 years. Rev. Morton had a knack for bringing people into a closer relationship with Jesus, and for motivating them to be “faith warriors” not just on Sundays, but also every other day of the week. Besides supporting the Faith Cathedral’s sizeable monthly budget, Rev. Morton’s flock

generously donated to area charities, including the donation of countless hours volunteering at soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and crisis pregnancy centers. Many in the flock once were on the receiving end of those very same charitable services. Hundreds of people in central Connecticut are quick to credit Rev. Morton for the dramatic change in their lives. Many broken marriages and shattered lives were healed by the care and compassion offered by Rev. Morton and his church. No doubt about it, the community of believers at Faith Cathedral were on fire for the Lord and the cause of virtue and decency, and taking their cue from Rev. Morton, they didn’t mind saying so to everyone they met. Rev. G.W. Morton was born to be in a pulpit. Except he never actually was in the pulpit. He was incapable of preaching while standing still. He had too much energy to park himself in one spot for an hour. G.W. was a pacer. He strode back and forth during his sermons, sweating profusely and rarely looking at his prepared notes. To Rev. Morton, delivering a sermon was an athletic event, an aerobic workout. By the time he was done preaching at the 10 a.m. service, well after noon on most Sundays, his cheeks were bright red, his thick shock of wavy silver hair was matted down, and his formerly immaculate three-piece suit and tie were rumpled, drenched, and often tossed aside. Some church members noted that you could always tell when Rev. Morton was just about finished with his sermon: the only article of clothing that hadn’t been loosened or discarded were his trousers. And, of course, a virtuous, straight laced man of the cloth like Rev. G.W. Morton was not about to drop his drawers in public. On this particular morning, Rev. Morton was in fine form. “And again I say to you,” he thundered while thrusting his worn Bible into the air, “can a society survive if lawlessness and chaos are allowed to reign supreme? Does God Almighty wish to see this nation—a nation He created and blessed—slide into complete anarchy?!” Before Rev. Morton could answer his own rhetorical question, many in the congregation yelled, “No!!” It was a reasonably enthusiastic response, especially for a crowd comprised mostly of Connecticut natives. But it was nothing like ol’ G.W. remembered from his days back in his home state of Missouri. In the foothills of the Ozarks, a church with 200 people easily could out-shout 1500 stiff Yankees sitting on their hands. “The good Lord commanded his people what to do in this situation,” Morton continued. “In the book of Deuteronomy, chapter 21, God said to the Israelites: If a man has a stubborn and rebellious son who does not obey his father and mother and will not listen to them when they discipline him, his father and mother shall take hold of him and bring him to the elders at the gate of his town. They shall say to the elders, ‘This son of ours is stubborn and rebellious. He will not obey us. He is a profligate and a drunkard.’ Then all the men of his town shall stone him to death. You must purge the evil from among you. All Israel will hear of it and be afraid.

Looking up from his Bible, Morton exclaimed, “The word of God is true, yesterday, today, and forever! If this divine command was good enough for Moses and the ancient Israelites, it’s good enough for us today!” The crowd stirred with approval. Some said, “Amen.” Others clapped briefly. Everyone in attendance knew exactly what Rev. Morton would say next. It was the topic Morton mentioned virtually every week for more than a year: the ghastly triple murder in the nearby suburban town of Wallingford. The state of Connecticut rarely makes the national news. But during July of the previous year, satellite trucks from all the major news organizations descended on central Connecticut to report a horrific story. The wife and two daughters of a prominent Yale University professor were brutally raped and murdered inside their upscale home. Two suspects were immediately apprehended, each possessing extensive arrest records. When it was discovered that both of the career criminals had been given early release soon before the murders, simply because the parole board was concerned about prison overcrowding, the citizens of the state went ballistic. Candlelight vigils, letters to the editors, and “get tough on crime” speeches by politicians occurred with great frequency in the wake of the tragedy. But then, slowly but surely, the public outraged subsided. Within weeks the satellite trucks packed up and left Wallingford. Within months the state legislature, after promising to crack down on repeat offenders walking free, forgot all the passionate rhetoric and ultimately did nothing. Only two lone voices continued to bang the drum about the lax criminal justice system: Rev. G.W. Morton; and a Hartford media icon, the inflammatory radio talk show host, Dave “Pit Bull” Peterson. “When dangerous convicted criminals can walk our streets freely,” Rev. Morton proclaimed, “when we as a society allow evil in our midst and do nothing to stop it, then our society soon will dissolve! If the duly elected and appointed officials will not lift a finger to protect us, to purge the evil from among us, then we…” Rev. Morton paused. He was rarely at a loss for words, and he was not at a loss now. In his passion and fervor, he was about to conclude his sentence by shouting, “…we must take matters into our own hands!” But in the instant before he said that, he quickly thought, No, Captain Bradford said not to say or do anything that might raise suspicion. Finally, after a short pause that seemed much longer to Rev. Morton than it really was, he finished his sentence by saying softly. “…then, uh, we must do all we can to elect and appoint new officials who will do their jobs. And most of all, we must continue to pray.” Then Rev. Morton gathered up his suit jacket, led the congregation in a brief prayer, and nodded toward the music director, the signal to lead the 16-piece band and 40-voice choir in a lively closing hymn. While the congregation rose to its feet and sang joyfully, Rev. Morton, who usually sang along with gusto, seemed lost in thought.

When the third verse of the hymn began, pretty near everybody in the building looked in their hymnals, since even passionate, dedicated Evangelicals don’t have every word of every song memorized. Rev. Morton took this opportunity to glance up casually and look toward Tom Wilkins and his family, who were located is their usual spot, the fifth row on the far right aisle. Wilkins was the owner of Wilkins Ford-Nissan, the largest car dealership in West Hartford. He was an enthusiastic supporter of the Faith Cathedral, giving generously of both his money and his time. Wilkins was one of the many who credited Rev. Morton for turning his life around. A spiritual renewal transformed Wilkins from a high living, “booze and broads” businessman into a sober and devoted family man. Regardless of any past gratitude, Wilkins now returned Rev. Morton’s glance with an icy stare, a stare that seemed to say, We have to talk—right now!

Chapter 4 Sunday, October 24th, 9:10 p.m. Three men sat on worn folding chairs in the Service Department of Wilkins Ford-Nissan. One florescent light flickered overhead, casting odd shadows throughout the large room, where a half dozen cars were parked in the bays, waiting to be worked on first thing Monday morning. The oil stained concrete floor was cold on this chilly fall night. The men could have sat in the pleasant showroom area, but there, large plate glass windows faced the street. The Service Department was located in the rear of the building. No one driving past the dealership would be able to detect that people were on the premises at this odd hour. Tom Wilkins, the owner of the facility, rose from his chair and asked, “Does anyone want more coffee?” A fidgety man wearing a red fleece pullover looked up and said, “No, no thanks. That’ll just keep me up. I’ve got to get to bed soon. You know, 3 a.m. comes really early!” Tom Wilkins rolled his eyes. Dave “Pit Bull” Peterson loved being the voice of Hartford morning radio. His 5:30 a.m. to 10 a.m. show was consistently the top-rated program in the market. The one thing Dave had never gotten used to, even after more than twenty years, was the 3 a.m. alarm clock. As a result, at least five times each day he would say to someone, or occasionally to no one in particular, “You know, 3 a.m. comes really early!” Waking up in the dead of night was a brutal but necessary chore. Dave needed the time to read four newspapers and surf dozens of websites. By the time his show began, when most people were still asleep or just beginning to stir, Dave was in full “Pit Bull” mode, ready to rail against everyone and everything for the next four-and-a-half hours. From the studios of WCTR in downtown Hartford, 640 on your AM dial, The Dave Peterson Show could be heard throughout Connecticut and Western Massachusetts.

“Pit Bull” Peterson relished being one of the only conservative media voices in a very liberal region. The format of his morning drive program was officially news-sportsweather-traffic. But at least two-thirds of each show was devoted to Pit Bull’s blunt opinions and his often heated exchanges with callers, guests, and prominent political figures. Dave’s signature phrase, “You’re making my HEAD EXPLODE!” was first shouted in exasperation in the early 1990s during an interview with the then-governor of Connecticut, Lowell Weicker. Peterson’s impromptu outburst caused Weicker, already frustrated with the Pit Bull’s pointed questions and disrespectful attitude, to hang up the phone in mid-interview. Now the phrase was Peterson’s trademark. Whenever he said it during the show, the studio engineer played the sound effect of a nuclear explosion. When people saw him on the streets of Hartford, they would affectionately yell, “Pit Bull! You’re making my HEAD EXPLODE!” Dave always smiled and waved. He loved the attention. Tom Wilkins turned to the other man seated, a man wearing a blue windbreaker jacket and a dark baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and said, “How about you, Ray? You want any coffee?” Ray Bradford, a captain with the West Hartford Police Department, ignored the question. “Where the hell is he?” he muttered. Pit Bull Peterson turned to Bradford and said, “So, Captain Ray, everything went OK, right?” Bradford turned his head slowly and starred at Pit Bull. “I already told you. No problem. Mission accomplished.” “Wow, wow,” Peterson said nervously. Both of his feet tapped uncontrollably on the floor. “After all this time just talking and talking, we finally did it. We finally put our plan into action. So Ray, how did it feel when you, you know, did it?” Captain Ray Bradford was not a “feelings” kind of guy. The younger officers on the WHPD referred to him as “Old Stone Face”—behind his back, of course. Bradford was a tight-lipped, clenched jaw, intense cop who successfully kept his emotions bottled up deep inside, except for the emotions of disgust and anger. Actually, Dave Peterson was not a “feelings” kind of guy, either. He was extroverted and emotional, yes, but oftentimes he implored his liberal callers to “stop feeling and start thinking—for once!” He believed feelings were fine, but following feelings alone made for bad decisionmaking, not to mention bad public policy. Bradford stared at Peterson again. He said nothing. Peterson needed an answer. “Well, how did it feel?” Realizing Peterson would pester him forever, Bradford finally offered a slight smile and said in a monotone voice, “It felt…right.”

There was a knock at the door, which came from the far corner of the service area. “There he is,” Tom Wilkins said as he walked into the dark toward an entry door next to the last of four roll-up garage doors. When Wilkins opened the door, a tall man with a thick shock of silver hair came inside. “Come on in,” Wilkins said loudly. Then, as he shook the man’s hand, he added in a low voice, “You scared the hell out of me this morning, G.W. I thought you were about to announce our secret plan to the whole damn church!” Rev. G.W. Morton nodded. “Don’t worry, Tom,” he said. “I was a little fired up, but I’d never do anything that stupid.” The two men walked over to the lit part of the room. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” Rev. Morton said. “Our Sunday night service went a little longer than scheduled.” Wilkins rolled his eyes again. He loved his pastor, but everything the good Reverend did went longer than scheduled. The four men sat down on the folding chairs and faced each other. They looked like a card game without a table. Rev. Morton spoke first. “I heard it on the news this afternoon. Seems everything went according to plan.” “Yup, sure did,” Tom Wilkins answered. “Captain Ray was perfect.” They all looked at Bradford, and he gave a slight nod. “What about the weapon?” Rev. Morton asked. “Done,” Wilkins replied. “I’ve already disassembled it and melted some of the parts with that welder over there.” He pointed to a long bench with many different tools and machines. “By midnight the pieces will be at the bottom of three different lakes.” “Good,” Morton said. Dave Peterson could hardly contain himself. He was shaking with pent-up energy and nervousness. He stood up and paced behind his folding chair. “Man!” he exclaimed. “It’s real now. It really happened. Jeez, I can barely believe it. Do you realize…because of us, a guy is actually…dead?!” “A scumbag is dead,” Captain Bradford corrected. “David, you’re not having second thoughts, are you?” Rev. Morton asked. “No, no, of course not,” Peterson quickly replied. “It’s just…I dunno. We, we finally crossed the point of no return. After months of planning, now it’s real. And I’m just wondering,” he paused and slumped back into his chair, before continuing slowly, “I’m just wondering if we’re doing the right thing.”

All three men reacted to Peterson’s comment, but each reacted differently. Captain Bradford gave Peterson yet another icy stare, the kind of stare he reserved for traitors, cowards, or for young patrolmen who did not follow his orders immediately. Tom Wilkins buried his face in his hands, shook his head, and grumbled, “Dammit, Pit Bull, It’s too late now for that kind of crap.” Rev. Morton did not react with anger or frustration. He knew Peterson was having a momentary crisis of faith. He could recognize the symptoms a mile away. And he knew how to build up a person’s faith—that was his calling in life. He also knew getting angry at the person was never effective. He slid his chair closer to Pit Bull and began speaking. “David, it’s alright. You’re feeling some conflict. Your guts are churning, aren’t they?” Peterson nodded. “You’re an honest, decent, hard-working, law-abiding American. You love your country, and you know right from wrong. All your life you’ve strived to do right and avoid wrong. But now you’re conscience is perplexed, and it’s asking you a simple question: ‘Is shooting a man to death wrong?’” Peterson exhaled and said, “Yeah, I know we’ve gone over it a million times, and I know in my head we’re doing what we have to do, but in my guts it just feels…I dunno, I guess it feels kind of like…murder.” “OK, now you’re being honest, Dave,” Rev. Morton said. “That’s good. But, as you know, this is not a simple situation, and so, simple questions can be misleading. We are living in extraordinary times, with extraordinary problems. Problems that demand extraordinary actions. No one know better than you how messed up our society is right now. You talk about it all the time on the radio. And you do a great job, by the way, of analyzing the situation. “For the last forty years evil has been allowed to flourish in America.” Rev. Morton got up from his chair. Whether he knew it or not, he was shifting into preaching gear. “The police do a heroic job trying to protect honest citizens,” he said while gesturing toward Captain Bradford. In reply Bradford scowled and continued to stare at Peterson. “But when the police arrest dangerous criminals, what happens? The bleeding heart whiners feel sorry and make excuses for the poor dears. Then slimy, godless A.C.L.U. lawyers manipulate the system, and make a mockery of justice. The next thing you know the dangerous animals are back in circulation, just waiting to wreak more havoc on innocent people. “David!” Rev. Morton declared forcefully, startling all three men. “We are in a war. A cultural war. A spiritual battle of good versus evil. You are on the side of good. I’m on the side of good, as is Tom and Ray. Our little secret group with our secret plan is on the side of good. We are soldiers of righteousness. We are taking extraordinary steps here because we have to. If the criminal justice system worked properly, we wouldn’t have to take these extreme measures. But it’s not working properly. It’s completely broken down. Evil

men—murderers, rapists, drug dealers, deviants—are now running the show. And good, decent folks are forced to cower in fear behind locked doors. Well, that situation is wrong, my friend. Very wrong. What we are doing, what we really have been forced to do —what we are called to do—is to right a terrible wrong. If our government leaders allow themselves to be hamstrung by perverted lawyers, and if they refuse to purge the evil, then it is our divinely-ordained duty to do it for them! We must, David, we must purge the evil from among us! It is the only chance our society has of surviving!” Dave Peterson took a deep breath, exhaled, and smiled weakly. “Yeah, you’re right. We have to do it. Too many innocent people are dying. If we really care about our country, we have to get rid of the scum. We really have no choice.” “Damn right we have no choice,” Captain Bradford said, more animated than he had been all evening. “The time for choosing is past. We’re all in this now—till the end. And no one—do you hear me, no one…!” he looked at Dave Peterson as he spoke, “…is gonna screw this thing up! Understand?” The other three men nodded vigorously. Rev. Morton nodded with joy, certain that he was engaged in a holy undertaking. Tom Wilkins nodded with determination, certain that it would take a lot of effort to carry out this difficult mission. And Dave Peterson nodded in fear, certain that the menacing figure staring at him, Captain Ray Bradford, was truly psychotic. As Peterson looked at Bradford’s tight, grim face, a single thought kept swirling through his mind: this man, less than 24 hours ago, put a bullet into the head of a total stranger—and he’s not the least bit fazed by it! After a long pause, Tom Wilkins said, “C’mon, it’s getting late. Let’s start planning our next move.”