Nailed by Joseph Flynn Page A

he’d had to make the trip. So, how would a grandmother from inner city Oakland know how to reach a small resort town in the Sierra? He was about to ask when Mahalia Cardwell interrupted his thoughts.
    “Do not give my grandson’s body to anyone else before I arrive,” she commanded.
    Who’d want it, Ron wondered.
    Before he could ask any of his questions, the phone was hung up.
     

Chapter 10
     
    Ron found out who else would want the body ten minutes later when Sergeant Stanley knocked on his door and stepped inside. In a quiet voice, the sergeant said, “Chief, there’s someone here regarding the Cardwell case. I think you should see him.”
    “Is there a reason you’re whispering, Sarge?”
    “The media crowd’s gotten bigger. Annie’s taking them over to the civic auditorium. I want to give her a minute to get them out of our hair before you talk to this gentleman. I thought a little discretion might be in order. I’ve got him talking with the deputy chief in his office at the moment.”
    “Okay,” Ron said, “bring him in when you’re ready.”
    The sergeant slipped back out before Ron could ask who the mystery man was. So he mentally sorted through the possibilities. Goldstrike had any number of celebrity residents, though many of them were seasonal, from entertainment people to business magnates to politicians. He thought it had to be somebody with a high profile or what would be the need for the sergeant’s subterfuge?
    And who among the Goldstrike glitterati would know anything about a man of the cloth who ministered to the poor in Oakland?
    Sergeant Stanley returned with the man who answered the chief’s questions: the Reverend Jimmy Thunder, the most famous black televangelist in the country. His dark, handsome face, proud bearing and deep, booming voice were known to millions. Including, as the sergeant knew, the media pack that had just been shuffled off to another part of the Muni.
    This morning, Thunder looked nothing like the image he projected on his weekly television show. Oh, he wore his usual conservative blue custom made suit and his hand-tooled shoes. But his hair wasn’t its usual perfect closely cropped white halo around his head. The normally taut skin of his face was deeply creased, his flashing eyes were muddied and red, and his athlete’s shoulders were slumped. Jimmy Thunder looked like he’d spent the last several hours lost in deep despair.
    Deputy Chief Gosden had accompanied the reverend and Sergeant Stanley into the chief’s office. He gave Ron an inquiring look as to whether he should stay. Ron nodded.
    Ron stood and said, “Thank you, Sergeant,” dismissing Stanley. He extended his hand to the televangelist. “What can I do for you, Reverend Thunder?”
    “I’ve come for my son’s body.”
    The implications of those six simple words hit Ron like a pile driver. If Isaac Cardwell were Jimmy Thunder’s son, the press would really go crazy. A black man is murdered — crucified — and he turns out to be the son of one of the most prominent African American religious figures in the country. Ron remembered the words he’d heard just minutes ago from Mahalia Cardwell: Sweet Jesus, save us. Then he remembered the old lady’s injunction against releasing the body to anyone but her. If there were going to be a grotesque family squabble over the remains of Isaac Cardwell, the situation would be an even worse circus.
    On the other hand, Ron thought perversely, where there was family strife, a cop could often find a reason for violence and even homicide.
    Ron made sure he kept all such thoughts off his face.
    He gestured to a guest chair. “Please, Reverend. Have a seat.”
    Thunder and Oliver sat down, as did Ron.
    “Tell me, Reverend Thunder,” Ron said, “did you know your son was in town?”
    “Yes. He’d been staying with me.”
    Ron nodded. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”
     
    In the beginning, as anyone who’d read his autobiography knew, the