When Mike walked into the office of the Clinton Street Evangelical Church the secretary denied him entrance. He was still dressed like a derelict. When he produced his badge and explained that he had been on an undercover detail the woman relented at last and asked him take a seat while she buzzed the pastor.

“Do you always treat ’street people’ like that?” Mike asked flatly as he seated himself.

“Like what?” The well-dressed woman behind the desk replied.

“You tell ‘em they can’t come in here?”

“Detective Joseph,” the woman sighed. “We have a mission downtown where we feed over 250 people a day. That’s where the street people belong. Not here. Not in this office.” The woman bobbed her head slightly as she finished in a condescending tone. He felt the sting of her venom but decided it, better to let it go rather than engage in a debate about Christian ideals versus behavior.

Two minutes later a paunchy middle-aged man strolled confidently down the middle of the hallway straight towards Mike with counterfeit grin pasted on his round face. Mike recognized the movements as the gait of someone who was accustomed to taking charge when he entered a room. The man extended his hand a half-dozen steps before he reached Mike. Then he let loose with a derisive chuckle.

“My secretary said you were dressed like a hobo. I see she wasn’t exaggerating.”

Mike took an immediate dislike to the round balding man but rose quickly and took the pastor’s hand in his, squeezing it harder than he normally would. Mike wanted to establish that he was in the position of power so he could control the conversation completely. It occurred to Mike then, that wearing his disguise might have been an error. He narrowed his eyes hoping to pierce the reverend’s ecclesiastic veneer and knocking him into a defensive posture.

“I’m Chief Detective, Mike Joseph. I’d like to ask you some questions about the murder of Melissa Anson.” Mike still clung to the man’s hand. There was an immediate response in the man’s face. The blood drained out of it leaving him an ashen gray.

“Um, yes… Detective. I’m… uh.” The man stammered while Mike clung to the man’s hand hoping to increase his discomfort. The reverend cleared his throat nervously, tugging his chubby paw from the Mike’s grasp.

“I’m pastor, Frank Watts.” With that, Mike released his grip on the man. Again, Watts cleared his throat and glanced around the room searching for a place to rest his gaze and conceal his inward distress.

“Can I get you some coffee or something? My secre…” The words seemed to catch in his throat. “She should be here, um…” The woman was no longer seated behind her desk.

“No.” Mike watched the man’s every move with a calculating eye. “Can we talk in your office?” Mike asked plainly.

“Sure!” The man answered nervously and he extended his hand down the hallway towards an open doorway near the end.

Mike pulled up next to the man and offered his hand in order to have the man walk in front of him. Every technique Mike could employ to keep control of this meeting was coming into play now. Pastor Watts moved down the hall in jerky movements towards the light streaming through the open portico.

Watts spun his high-backed chair a half turn and plopped down behind his large wooden desk.

“Sorry about this mess.” Watts was scooping up scattered papers. “I’ve been going over the financial statements before we have our annual Elder’s Meeting.”

“What can you tell me about Melissa Anson and her involvement in the church youth group?” Mike sat quickly and focused his stare into the man’s eyes.

Watt’s scanned the remaining papers on his desk, hesitated, then he drew a quick breath before he started.

“Detective Joseph, we have a long history of serving this community and when something like this happens we…”

“Like what?” Mike broke in.

“Hm?”

“When something ‘like what’ happens?” The question was fired at the pastor abruptly to keep him off balance. Mike recognized this was a man who was versed in techniques to control conversations and Mike was working hard to dominate the interview.

“This murder. It was awful.”

“Pastor Watts, I’m here to investigate a claim that Melissa was having a sexual relationship with several members of your church.” Mike dropped the bomb into the pastor’s lap and waited for a response.

The man licked his lips slowly and shuffled a couple of papers together uneasily. “Detective Joseph, do you have some proof that Melissa was sexually involved with any members of this congregation?” The minister continued while he fidgeted with the papers in his hands.

“I’m afraid I can’t comment on evidence in an on-going investigation.” Without hesitating Mike tried to set the hook. “Can I get a mouth swab from you for DNA evidence?” Mike fished small glass vial from the pocket of his grimy coat.

An involuntary blink came hit the minister before he spoke. “I don’t have to if you don’t have a warrant…”

“Do you want me to get one?” Mike deadpanned quickly. The minister shook his head slowly. “Okay then, how long before you can have the rest of your staff here?”

The minister’s eyes narrowed now.

“I think I’d like to have an attorney present for this.”

Mike didn’t miss a beat. “Fine. I’ll be sure to tell the judge you requested one when I file for the warrant.” He was rising out of his chair before he finished his statement.

“Chief Detective,” the pastor was waving Mike back into his seat. “Whatever we discuss between us will have to stay between just us.”

Mike fell back into his seat.

“I can’t guarantee that. But if none of your staff is involved in this murder I don’t see any reason to…” Mike paused to spread his hands wide, “… make harmful allegations that can’t be… corroborated.”

Watts put down the papers and stroked his chin several times between his index finger and thumb. He shifted his gaze out the window into the distance. Turning back slowly, the minister pursed his lips and stared directly into Mike’s eyes for a moment.

“I’ll have ‘em here inside an hour…”

Mike crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“Okay, now what can you tell me about Melissa Anson?”

*****

Pastor Frank Watts the head of Clinton Street Evangelical Church instructed his secretary to have the entire staff  come to the church for an emergency meeting while Mike put in a call for more DNA swabs kits with his cell phone.

Watts related his knowledge about the dead girl and the youth minister, only five years her senior.

During a teary confession the youth minister admitted to Watts that he and Melissa had some contact after the church services but the young man hadn’t given the pastor all of the details. After the murder the youth minister came to Watts baring his soul because he was heartbroken about her death and the implication that she was having sex for money. The man explained to Watts that there had been inappropriate contact between himself and Melissa but he pleaded for forgiveness and had assured Watt that they had never gone beyond petting.

“Petting…” Mike echoed the word like it burned his tongue. “Do you believe that?”

“Detective, like you stated earlier about ‘allegations that can’t be corroborated’… I have no reason to doubt him.”

The mellifluous tones rumbled through the pastor’s voice and Mike felt his advantage slip away that very second. He knew he had lost the element that put him in charge of the conversation. Silently, he cursed himself for allowing the pastor a modicum of wiggle room. He now saw the tiny crack open before his eyes into a chasm that the man would play to his advantage

“We’d like to have a list of everyone who uses the church’s computers.” Mike played again for an advantage.

“The church’s computers… What for?”

Mike shot a withering look at Watts “In case someone from here might have contacted Melissa. Email contact between the killer and the Melissa could’ve come through the computer’s here.” Damn it, Mike thought. I shouldn’t have said that. Get you head right Joseph, he admonished himself for leaving another door open to the pastor.

“Certainly,” Watts answered cheerfully as he was dialing phone. “Ruth would you print up a list of all the parishioners and staff with ‘administration’ access to our network.” Watts covered the receiver with his palm. “We’re in the process of upgrading from a Metro Area Network to a Wide Area… it’s all tied in with our cable carrier,” he finished in a half whisper just as a printer behind the pastor’s chair kicked on.

“Thank you.” Watts hung up the phone. “The electronic age has truly been a blessing to us. What, with our television ministry and electronic debits and credit…” The man spun around to pull a sheet of paper from the printer’s tray. “We never could have kept up with all this technology without our computers.”

Mike scribbled in his notepad. He had no idea what the man was telling him but he did not want Watts to catch on. Mike dutifully wrote down each and every term so he could research them later. The high ground Mike had held at the beginning of the interview was no more. All Mike could do now was work harder on the next dialogue.

*****

The church Youth Group Minister was a handsome young man who looked as clean cut as they come, but from the moment the man walked through the doors of the church Mike could see the man was edgy.

“Chief Detective Mike Joseph, this is Thomas Hampton.” Watts turned to the man now and in soft tones said, “Just tell Detective Joseph everything you told me.”

Mike felt his jaw flex. “Please, can I handle this?” He growled at Watts.

“Sorry.” The pastor held up his open palm and glanced away to stare out the window into the gathering dark.

Still scribbling in his notebook Mike was using a ploy to establish himself as being in the power seat. At last, he finished his set up and held the young man’s gaze for longer than usual before speaking.

“Where did you meet Melissa Anson?”

“Here… uh at Youth Group.” He cleared his throat several times waiting for Mike to finish writing again.

“Had you met with her outside the church?”

“Um, no.” The man turned to Watts who now stared back with no change of expression. “We had some… time… alone. Um.” He sighed before continuing. “We had some time, uh, here that we, um… had inappropriate contact,” he finished his sentence in a rush.

The details related were as Watts had promised but now Mike wanted to shake this young man up.

“You know sexual contact with a minor is Class C felony?” Mike asked plainly.

The young man swallowed hard before he nodded once.

“So where were you that Wednesday night that Melissa was murdered?” Mike asked in an even tone employing words and tactics he hoped would frighten the young man, possibly into some blunder or confession.

“Um, I was in charge of the Youth Group meeting that night. She wasn’t here. She’d been missing a lot of the meetings, lately.” He nodded to add punctuation to his answer.

“So you never met with her outside of church functions?”

The man glanced quickly at Watts who turned his head away instantly.

“Um… no. I already said that.” He stated in an unsteady voice.

“We have the murder placed between 2:30 and 3 AM. Were you still here at that time?”

The young man blinked deliberately. “I was at school, um at the Jesuit university at…”

“I know where it is…” Mike interrupted still pushing the young man in hopes of keeping him off balance, keeping the power in Mike’s court.

“I was in the dorm, asleep.” The man added nervously.

Mike tried to keep the man in the corner of his sight while he scribbled in his notebook. He was watching in case the youth minister shot some signal towards Watts. The intense dislike Mike had for the head pastor of the forth largest evangelical television station on the east coast was clouding his judgment and the moment Mike realized it he felt his shoulders sag. Gotta focus, he thought.

After taking a deep breath, Mike continued questioning the youth minister in a more civil tone. “Do you have a roommate who can verify that?”

“No sir, but we have a 24-hour charge-of-quarters who writes down everybody coming and… um…” Mike heard an audible gulp as the man swallowed. “Coming and going.”

“Do you use the computer’s here at the church?” Mike continued.

The young man shook his head and Mike noticed the Jesuit student didn’t look towards the Pastor when he answered the question. Mike believed him.

Continuing with the interview it was apparent to Mike the youth minister was not a prime candidate as a murderer. Keeping pastor Watts in the room during the interview was intentional but the instant he recognized that he had kept Watts in the room hoping to hang something on the pastor Mike regretted his decision. This case was causing too many errors in his polished interview techniques. Mike reminded himself to stay focused.

*****

One of the words he scribbled in his notebook and circled several times was: focus. He had written the same word while speaking to Lydia Anson. Mike was beginning to question his mental state. His interview techniques had been refined and honed by himself and many other law-enforcement professionals: what should have been second nature to him no longer reflected the light of truth in his practiced eyes.

Why has this case thrown me off my game? he wondered.

A young girl was dead after a foray into a world rarely seen even by veterans on the force. Pederasts and prostitutes were not uncommon but the particulars of this case covered relatively new ground. Mike sorted through two dozen files the department held on cases of underage sexual contact. This one case was different than any of the others. Underage male prostitutes were seen from time to time but neither side was apt to share much with police in those cases and the bulk of the cases of heterosexual prostitution were forced upon the girls by someone. These made for a clear cut case of evil—men and even women a couple of times—making it easy to determine the “citizens” from the “scumbags.” But this was terra incognito for Mike and everybody else who brushed against this.

In a discussion with a vice cop who specialized in underage male prostitution Mike couldn’t believe that the man actually commented that “these boys” weren’t really being hurt and he finished with, “They’re getting a lot more out of this than money.”

The man chuckled when he said it and Mike found a fire rising up inside his chest as he listened to the man’s callous interpretation of this vicious and dangerous usury lifestyle. Growing confusion, coupled with some commonly held moral myopia, was washing over Mike each day like a storm driven wave, and with each crash of it a panic inside him arose. He began to feel as though he would drown before he could reach the surface. Lizzy’s life connected to the streets—and those like her—was something Mike could not understand, and his own daughter’s age—so close to those other girls’—gnawed at him, turning him inside out with fear and apprehension. He needed some remedy or closure in this matter before he could calm the maelstrom raging inside.

*****

Mike rolled to a stop in front of the house that he and his ex-wife had shared: a house he hoped would have been the only one he ever knew, with the only wife he hoped he would ever know.

Prudence was skipping out the door before he stepped onto the walkway. His daughter aimed an air kiss at his cheek as she scurried past. Mike caught her and pulled her close, to encircle her small body, and hold her. He heard the front door slam and the knocker “clack” as he pressed his daughter to his chest.

“Jeez. Leggo, dad,” his daughter murmured trying to wrestle him to arm’s length. “What wrong with you?”

He held onto despite her efforts to affect an escape. “Nothing’s wrong.” He whispered as he finally released her.

“Well, yer actin’ goofy.” She murmured sliding into the passenger’s seat.

“Sorry,” he mumbled before he walked to the driver’s side and climbed in.

“Can we go get pizza at the mall?”

“Of course, Pru. Anything you want.” Accelerating away from the house Mike shot a broad smile at his daughter.

“You sure, yer okay?” Prudence popped with a hint of sarcasm tinting her voice.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Is this teenage rebellion?” Mike asked mockingly.

“Can you stop analyzing till after we eat?” She snapped.

Mike felt her sting. “Sorry. I didn’t think I was analyzing…” he started defensively.

“You never do, dad,” she interjected. “You never do.” She completed her rebuke in slow measured syllables

“Sorry.” He answered softly.

His daughter turned her face towards the window and they rode in silence.

*****

Mike sat across from his eleven-year-old daughter watching the steady parade of girls, not yet women, costumed in provocative garb, much too revealing for their age, he thought. That reoccurring panic was welling up inside him again, seeing so many young girls showing off their immature figures to the collective scrutiny of all. The images from the Melissa Anson’s computer and Lizzy’s series of photos floated in his vision—sunspots burnt into his retina—tearing at his composure, leaving ragged bloodied streaks to mark its path.

“What’s wrong, now?” Prudence broke his reverie.

“What?” Mike shook off his distraction.

“Tsk. If I wanted to eat alone I would’ve stayed home.” His daughter droned wearily.

“I’m just thinking about…” He stopped. “What do you mean ‘alone.’ Where’s your mom at?” He knew he was overreacting but caught himself too late. His ex-wife was no longer his concern but his daughter’s needs were still his, he rationalized.

His daughter stared at him with one brow raised and distress swabbed across her forehead.

“I, I… just wanna know why your mom doesn’t… eat with you. That’s all.” He stammered.

With a dull look in her eyes she explained that her mother was taking classes at the local community college and most were night classes so they only ate together four nights a week, now.

“So where do you go when your mom’s at school?” Mike asked with a lump in his throat.

“Jeez, dad. I’m eleven years old, now. Most of the time I baby-sit for one of mom’s classmates.”

“A man…” As soon as the words left his mouth he knew he had asked the wrong question.

Prudence wadded up her napkin. “Okay, I think you’ve fulfilled your obligation for the week.” She was standing by the time she finished.

Mike leapt to his feet, “Please, Pru. Don’t do this… I’m a… little distracted, I know… but I still want to spend time with you.” Mike pleaded.

“I’m not having fun,” the girl snapped. “Would you please take me home, now?” There was a note of finality to her voice.

Mike sighed heavily. “Okay.”

As Mike pulled to a stop in front of his ex-wife’s house his daughter opened the door and had one foot on the curb before he could speak.

“Wait!” Mike begged.

A tightness gathering around her lips, Prudence turned towards her father and gave him a smoldering glare.

“I’m… so sorry… I’ve been somewhere else, today.”

Prudence opened her mouth to speak. Then stopped. A moment slipped past, then she finished apologetically. “Maybe next week, we’ll have a better time.”

Mike nodded dumbly. His daughter leaned in quickly and kissed his cheek and was gone before he could react. Watching her saunter up the walkway towards the front door Mike fought to keep his growing panic at bay. His daughter could be leading a double life and he would have no idea, the possibility of that was twisting him inside out. He reached up and pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath. Letting it out slowly to calm himself and then he tried to turn off his emotions one more time.