Voodoo Daddy (A Virgil Jones Mystery) by Thomas L. Scott Page A

complex.
    Pate was seated at his desk and on the phone when we walked in. He motioned me in with an exaggerated circular arm movement then pointed to a chair in front of his desk and into the phone he said, “Yes, yes he’s here now. I’ll call you later.”
    After seeing the size of the lobby and its carnival-like atmosphere I suspected Pate’s office would be large and extravagant but I was wrong. The room was no bigger than my office downtown and it was modestly decorated in muted tones, a contrast so stark from the rest of the building I was almost more amazed by its utilitarian form and function than I was of the lobby just down the hall.
    Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people will carry a look of the profession they practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled at me, I noticed his eyes held a certain light which felt both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and I noticed both arm pits of his shirt were soaked through and damp from perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform I suspected they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.
    Pate stood to greet me, but before he did he affixed the metal bands of his arm crutches around his forearms, grasped the handles, then pulled himself out of his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, pointed to the chair with the end of one of the crutches and said, “Welcome Detective. Please, have a seat.”
    We shook hands and when Pate squeezed my fingers harder and longer than necessary, I said, “That’s an impressive grip, Mr. Pate. Please release my hand.”
    He chuckled as if caught in a polite fib, the kind one might tell to save another of an unnecessary embarrassment. “I prefer Reverend, if you please,” he said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve spent years moving around with the aid of these crutches. It tends to build up one’s musculature, wouldn’t you agree? I often forget my own strength. How exactly may I help you, Detective? My wife said you wanted to speak with me about Franklin’s unfortunate passing.”
    I noticed two things right away: Like his wife, Pate had referred to the victim by his first name, which is indicative of a certain level of familiarity beyond a business relationship, and two, he had referred to Dugan’s murder as a ‘unfortunate passing.’ I decided to go for some shock value.
    “The victim was shot to death in his own driveway, Reverend. The top of his head was blown off and you could use what’s left of his skull for a gravy boat. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate passing.”
    Pate seemed to ignore my statement in its entirety and said, “There is a war going on out there, Detective. I witness it every day. The book of Revelation speaks of what is to come and the fate that will befall those who choose to ignore the word of God. The script is already written, the players already cast. The outcome for those who follow the teachings of the bible is a foregone conclusion. The only real question left to ponder, the only real way to fight the war, is to ask yourself, where do you stand in the eyes of the Lord, Detective? Do you stand in the light of God, or in the darkness like those who would murder a man in his own home? You come to my office with intentions of questioning me over something I know nothing about regarding I man I knew as a professional, a friend, and a member of this church. I find your behavior and your demeanor not only questionable but repulsive.”
    I pointed my finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you