Chapter 1: Pool of Evidence
“So, what do you think?”
Detective David Walker looked up from the body at his partner of seven years. Instead of answering, he frowned. “What are you eating? We’re at a crime scene, you know.”
The nave smelled of cedar—thick and sharp—cut with old dust that drifted through the early light spilling in from the stained glass above the main entrance.
Detective Mark Vargas took a big bite of his egg-and-bacon sandwich. “I know, I know. I didn’t have time to eat. I had to rush here when you called, remember?” His big brown eyes stayed on David while his bushy mustache shifted with every chew.
A bitter January chill sat inside Saint Elizabeth Church, tucked in the heart of the city’s largest neighborhood of blue-collar and service workers—the so-called common area. Wooden pews lined the nave, split by a central aisle with narrow side aisles on either side. Wall sconces cast faint light down the stone, pooling on the floor beneath them. Some pews had been recently repaired, fresh wood standing out against older, weathered benches. Everything faced a simple altar dressed with the usual statues and symbols.
Their voices carried through the empty nave, drifting over the travertine floor where the body lay. In the cold, each exhale showed—thin and white—before disappearing.
David shifted his weight, shaking his salt-and-pepper head in disappointment. “Just keep your distance so you don’t contaminate the scene,” he said, stepping carefully around the pool of blood.
Then he stopped. “Wait. Repeat what you said—what you heard from the pastor.” He paused, searching for the name. “Novak, right? That’s his name?”
Vargas placed his sandwich on the nearest pew and fumbled for his notebook. “The deceased’s name is Samuel Brooks. He was a pastor himself, but from Magnolia Estates,” he said, scanning his notes. “He’d been doing charity work around here for close to a year.”
“And Novak found him, right?” David asked, stepping closer to the body.
“Yeah, he did. He’s officially the pastor in charge of Saint Elizabeth. He, along with the janitor, Carlos Diaz, found Brooks around 7:30 this morning. Called 911 right away,” Vargas confirmed.
David nodded as Vargas summarized. “And I’m assuming they didn’t see anything unusual?”
“Correct. Just the body, nothing else out of the ordinary,” Vargas confirmed.
David gave a curt nod and resumed pacing around the body, continuing his careful examination.
Vargas picked up his breakfast and quietly backed away, moving to the far side of the nave, giving David space as he worked on his second breakfast sandwich. Despite his best efforts to keep quiet, the crinkling of the wrapper echoed through the stillness of the church, amplifying his unease. He glanced over, hoping he had not irritated David any further.
David was hyperfocused, locked on the body in front of him. Pastor Brooks’ face looked both youthful and weathered—a sun lover, maybe, David thought. His mostly gray hair was disheveled, thrown out of place by the fatal blow to his head. David estimated the pastor to be in his mid-to-late 60s, noticeably slim. He was dressed in a stylish black wool zip-up sweater over
a dark blue and white striped button-down shirt, paired with blue jeans and comfortable black loafers, a well-coordinated outfit for someone who had clearly taken care with his appearance.
David squatted down, slowly pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, and gently lifted Pastor Brooks’ left sleeve, then his right. No watch. Was this a robbery gone wrong? Or just a crime of opportunity?
His mind briefly wandered back to his first case as a detective, a senseless murder committed by a minor who had bounced through foster homes, simmering with rage. The victim was an elderly man, not much older than Pastor Brooks. David pushed the memory aside and refocused on the body in front of him.
Maybe it was just some broken guy who snapped. Maybe it was something bigger. Either way, it was going to land on more than one family. And when the cameras showed up, it would turn into fuel—another reason for people behind the walls to point and sneer.
Ever since the community system had formed over 25 years ago, the divide had only deepened, with each community seeing the other as an adversary. It was a zero-sum game, where any victory for one seemed like a loss for the other. No matter how the investigation unfolded, David feared the growing resentment would only escalate, justifying, in the minds of many, the very reason the walls had been built in the first place. And somehow, in the midst of it all, he and Vargas were leading the charge toward an even greater divide. Is this the world he had envisioned for his children and grandchildren? A world full of hate and distrust? David had the privilege to know a world before walled-off communities. But the younger generation, including his own two sons, knew nothing about the world without walls.
In the old days, crime was spread out across cities and suburbs, but it was by no means an epidemic. However, politicians seized on isolated incidents to rally their base, building support for their campaigns and consolidating power. The media amplified this fear, eager to sell
more advertising and capture the public’s attention. What began as fearmongering soon evolved into a systematic effort, sometimes even subsidized by local and federal governments, to extend heavy-handed protection beyond the rich and famous. A much broader population, willing to pay, now sought walls around their neighborhoods and hired security companies to guard them.
At the time, this rapid societal shift made David uncomfortable—not just as a younger law enforcement officer, but as a resident of a major city. Yet, despite his unease, he felt powerless to stop it or even raise his concerns with his superiors. In a way, he had become an instrument of the very change he opposed, leaving him with a persistent sense of guilt he could never shake.
After slipping the pen back into his pocket, David kneeled carefully, leaning forward until his face was as close to the floor as possible without disturbing the body. He pressed his palms against the cold travertine stone and squinted, trying to get a better view of the wound on the back of the pastor’s head. It was barely visible from this angle, but he resisted the urge to shift the body—an intrusion best left to the medical examiner. As he mulled over various theories, the faint sound of wind whistling through the church added an eerie layer to the already tense atmosphere, sending a chill down his spine. This place, once a symbol of unity for the community, now stood at the center of a tragedy that would only deepen the divisions.
Slowly, David rose to his feet and stepped backward through the center aisle, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the quiet walls of the church. He stopped at the third row, his hands raised, palms outward, as though feeling the weight of the scene. His left hand stretched toward the pew where the body lay, mentally labeling it the "murder pew" for reference.
As David held his hands high, his gaze caught on the life-sized statue of Jesus above the altar. Something about it felt wrong—like it was watching the exact spot where the body lay. A chill ran through him. Was it intentional, a ritualistic choice by the killer? Or was it simply his
own perception—statues always seem to follow you with their eyes, don’t they? He could not shake the feeling, though. Coincidence, or not, it added a layer of unease to the already grim scene.
David turned to Vargas, a hint of impatience in his voice. “When’s the ME supposed to get here? I’m getting tired of pacing around it without being able to turn it over. We need them to do their job so we can get on with ours.”
Vargas perched up on his toes to look through the half-open doors and onto the street. “Hang on, I think I see them. They’re offloading their gear.” He then crumpled the sandwich wrapper, put it in the brown bag along with his empty coffee cup and placed it on the pew.
David crossed his arms over his rounded belly and said, “Good! It’s about time. He then rested a hand on his chin, pointed at the body and muttered, “I’m still confused.”
He resumed his slow circuit around the body, careful to avoid the dried-up blood pool. Vargas leaned against the edge of the front pew, facing David as he continued his observations.
David pointed to the blood pool on the floor at the far end of the murder pew. “He was killed right here, no question about it. But for some reason, after a while, he was moved to this spot—what, four feet away?”
Vargas nodded and asked, “I don’t see a big blood smear, so how do you know he was moved later?”
David responded, “Exactly. This amount of blood should take about thirty minutes to coagulate—let’s say an hour since last night was relatively cold. With so little smear, the blood was pretty dried-up. So, it’s safe to say he was moved later. Let’s be conservative and estimate an hour and a half later. Once we know the time of death, we can figure out when he was moved and see if anyone saw anything around that time.”
Vargas nodded. “Yeah, I see it now. It’s kind of obvious once you mention it. Once they check it out, we’ll have a much better timeline.”
David affirmed, “Yeah, for sure.”
Vargas asked, “Does he look like he was beaten to death?”
David studied the body, his tone thoughtful. “He definitely looks like he took a beating, but I’m not convinced that’s what killed him. With that much blood, I’d say his head was slammed hard against a solid surface rather than hit with a fist or an object like a bat. I don’t want to turn him over yet, though. Let’s wait until the ME gets a look at him in this exact position.”
He paused, then continued, “I don’t think his head hit the pew, since there’s no visible damage to it. But that’s for the ME to confirm the cause of death. Still, I’d bet that’s what it’s going to be.”
Vargas nodded. “In this kinda neighborhood, I’m surprised they didn’t just shoot him.”
David responded, “Well, making too much noise might have been a concern, and maybe the whole thing wasn’t premeditated. Perhaps it was a struggle—an argument that turned violent?”
Vargas nodded again, “Yea, maybe.”
“Did you see any signs of forced entry?” David asked.
Vargas answered, “None. Neither the pastor nor the janitor saw anything out of the ordinary. The door was still locked when they arrived.”
David nodded thoughtfully. "But a door like that can be locked just by pulling it shut on the way out. So, the fact that it was locked doesn’t really tell us much.”
He paused and continued, “But we’ve got to figure out why he was here in the first place. Nobody from Magnolia Estates ever comes to the common area, especially in the middle of the night. The charity work is not a very convincing reason to be here that early in the morning. I don’t buy that story.”
David ran his fingers slowly through his hair, pressing his fingertips firmly against his scalp as though trying to squeeze out every last ounce of brainpower to crack the case. “What the hell was he really doing here?” he muttered.
David didn’t give Vargas time to react. He turned on him, eyebrows up, like the annoyance had been waiting in his chest.
“By the way—before I forget,” he said, “do you always have to eat a full breakfast?” He flicked his eyes down toward the sandwich, then back to Vargas. “Don’t you have an energy bar or something?”
David made a small, impatient gesture toward the outside. “And couldn’t you have eaten that thing in your car before coming in?”
It came out like bickering—automatic, familiar—like an old married couple who’d been doing this for years.
Vargas blurted out, “Jesus Christ, Walker!” He quickly covered his mouth, glancing around the church with a guilty expression, realizing he had just used the Lord’s name in vain in the middle of sacred ground.
He continued in a hushed voice, “First of all, I’m already done eating, so I don’t know what the hell you’re bitching about.” He cleared his throat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then lifted his eyebrows at David like, see? “Secondly, those bars are full of sugar, and
with my diabetes, that’s the worst thing I could eat in the morning.” He gave David a quick, accusing look. “So, thanks for trying to kill me.”
He shifted his weight, patting his stomach once like it was evidence. “I need a lot of protein in the morning to manage my blood sugar. Not all of us can have the body of a model like you, Walker.” A small snort, half laugh, half complaint.
“Thirdly—” he held up a finger, like he was building a case— “driving while eating is exactly what we need. Me crashing the car.” He tilted his head, imagining it, then shook it off. “The headlines would say, ‘Fat Cop Crashes Car While Eating Junk Food.’” His mouth twisted. “Yeah. That’s just what we need, as if people don’t hate us enough already.”
David smirked, shaking his head—he clearly enjoyed teasing Vargas.
Vargas dragged his knuckles once across the corner of his mouth, then kept going. “But seriously, you should’ve seen their faces when I pulled up. It was like they could smell a cop a mile away.” He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, and shook his head. “I get it, though. They never see a cop when they actually need one. But something happens at the church, and suddenly, the whole force shows up.”
David glanced at Vargas, then turned his attention back to the scene. It stung, hearing that the very people they had spent their careers serving didn’t seem to appreciate the work they did.
Vargas asked, “Wait. It just occurred to me, when did you even start noticing I was eating?”
David shook his head, “That’s why I love you Vargas.”
Vargas chucked but quickly changed the subject, “Alright, I’ll go see what’s holding them up.” He grabbed his brown bag of trash and headed up the aisle toward the main doors. Descending the steps into the church’s modest courtyard, he tossed his bag and empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can.
It was a crisp winter morning. The sun cast a gentle warmth on his stubbled face, but the cold still bit through, creating a mixed sensation that prickled his skin. He closed his eyes briefly, savoring the moment. Snapping back to the task, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pair of rubber gloves, and slipped them on with a bit more care than usual. He’d already tested David’s patience enough today.
Before heading back inside, Vargas glanced up at the church’s facade, up and down, admiring its elegant architecture, which stood in contrast to the squat apartment buildings surrounding it. People on the sidewalk were beginning to notice the commotion. Some pointed, while others glanced over with curious expressions. The yellow warning tape across the courtyard and the parked ME van added to the scene’s intrigue, drawing more eyes.
“Let’s get moving, people!” Vargas called out to the team.
He climbed the steps and walked back into the nave, keeping his eyes on David, who was examining the murder pew. David’s frame, once lean, had grown into the familiar bulk of an aging cop nearing retirement. His hair had grayed significantly since they’d been paired seven years ago, and his mustache had become a precinct signature, making them the infamous “stache duo.”
David still looked as puzzled as before. He looked up at Vargas, shook his head and once again said, “This makes absolutely no sense.”
Vargas was out of responses to give, hence he just nodded while staring at the body.
“Sorry, guys, it took us so long to get here.”
David and Vargas turned toward the voice. Dr. Park, head of the Medical Examiner’s Office, and his deputy, Dr. Laura Sorensen, were walking toward them.
Dr. Park continued as they approached, “Power’s out at the precinct again. Finding the right tools with a flashlight in one hand isn’t exactly ideal. Thank God for Sorensen here—she got in early and kept things moving; otherwise, we’d be another hour behind.”
“Another outage?” David asked, clearly disappointed.
Dr. Park nodded, shaking his head. “Yeah, fourth time in two weeks. Starting the day in the dark is becoming routine. But who’s counting?”
Vargas added with a hint of bitterness, “Wonder how many blackouts the folks in those fancy communities have seen lately. My guess? None.”
The group chuckled grimly at the reality.
Dr. Park tipped his head back with a small, relieved laugh. “Well, I’m grateful we haven’t had many outages over in our own community.” He glanced around the table. “Guess no one wants to mess with the power in ‘copland.’”
His eyes landed on Vargas. “Vargas—you’ve been there the longest. Longer than Walker, even.” He paused, like he was genuinely curious. “You seen any major blackouts?”
Vargas nodded, “Yeah, I’m the resident old-timer. Not much, really. When the neighborhoods first got split with walls and security checkpoints, there were outages here and there, but they pretty much stopped once everything was established. I’m not a fan of the way we’ve divided people into walled-off zones, but I’ll admit, it has its perks for those who can afford it.”
Dr. Park said, “That’s right, I remember those days. I guess in the end, it worked out for some people.”
He paused, then went on, “And to make things even worse, traffic was horrendous.” He shook his head like the memory still irritated him. “We seriously should be able to use those roads reserved for the premium communities. I know they paid for them so they can get anywhere they want without sitting in traffic, but for cases like this? We should be able to use them.”
Vargas let out a low, humorless laugh. “Yeah—good luck with that.” He leaned back a little, eyes narrowing like he’d had this argument a hundred times. “They’d drag it all the way to the Supreme Court just to stop us from using their roads for emergencies. No local PD’s been able to touch those private lanes anywhere in the country.” He gave a small shrug. “When you’ve got your own private security force, you don’t care about cozying up to local PDs.”
Before anyone could add to the conversation, David cut in, switching gears. “Okay, Doctor—here’s the body.” He stepped back and opened the space for him.
The group shifted with him, shoes scuffing on stone as everyone remembered why they were there in the first place.
David kept it moving. “The pastor and the custodian found him this morning when they opened up. Name’s Pastor Samuel Brooks—only he wasn’t the pastor here.” He flicked his eyes toward the altar, then back to Park. “Oddly enough, he lived over in Magnolia Estates. Which adds a layer of mystery. We need to figure out why he was here.”
He hesitated, catching himself. “Novak—the pastor here—he’s being pretty cagey. I haven’t spoken to him yet. Vargas has. Sounds like he’s holding back.” David exhaled through his nose. “But that’s not your concern, Doctor. Just thinking out loud.”
He nodded once toward the body. “You tell us cause and time of death. Anything that stands out—call it in as soon as you can. We need to get this rolling.”
Dr. Park’s brows lifted. “That’s… puzzling.” He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing as he took it in. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone from Magnolia Estates in common neighborhoods. Heck, I don’t see anyone from any other communities around here unless they’re looking for drugs or cheap hookers.” He paused, thinking. “Isn’t Magnolia Estates the same community where that famous pastor who preaches prosperity gospel lives? The guy with multiple private jets and a giant mansion. What’s his name?”
Vargas responded, “Kevin Coleman.”
Dr. Park replied, “That’s it. Whatta piece of work he is.”
They all nodded.
Dr. Park took a deep breath and continued, “Okay, let’s begin. I’ll let you know when we have some preliminary estimates.”
Both David and Vargas nodded and started walking toward the door. Vargas asked, “Two more beat cops just got here to help out. Should I have them canvas the area to see if they find something out of the ordinary?”
David responded, “Yeah, have them search the area and also ask them to keep an eye out for anyone who’s too curious about what’s happening in the church. You know, the type who comes back to check on his work.”
Vargas acknowledged, “Got it. Let me radio that in. By the way, Novak is in his office if you want to get him to spill the beans on Brooks.” He pointed at the small door next to the main
entrance. “You see that door? It leads to a hallway that takes you right to his office. You can’t miss it.”
“Okay, I’ll go talk to him, and you wrangle the beat cops. If you’re done early, come to his office in case we need to play good cop/bad cop,” David said.
Vargas nodded and turned to exit the church.
As David was about to walk over to the pastor’s office, something gnawed at him. “Hey, Vargas!” he called.
Vargas stopped and turned to face David. “What’s up?” he responded.
“Do you know the Titan’s security chief at Magnolia Estates?” David asked.
Vargas shook his head. “I don’t.” He said it like it wasn’t even worth pretending. Then he hooked a thumb back toward the precinct. “But I’m sure somebody over there’s got a connection—him, his assistant, somebody close.” He let out a dry little huff. “They all wanna work for Titan one day, so they’re networking the hell out of it.”
He paused, then continued, “Wait a minute, doesn’t your son know anybody there? I know he doesn’t work at Magnolia Estates, but he still works for Titan, right?”
David responded, “I doubt he knows anybody high up who could help us. He only joined a couple of years ago. He doesn’t know a lot of people.”
He paused, then continued, “Okay, keep it in the back of your head. As soon as we get back to the precinct, we need to explore our options. I’m pretty sure they’re not going to make our life easy investigating this murder. They’re going to try and do their own thing and keep us out of it. I guarantee you.”
Vargas responded, “I agree. It’s not going to be easy, but hey, we gotta do what we gotta do.”
David nodded and headed toward the door leading to Pastor Novak’s office. He pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped into a dimly lit hallway. The cold, damp smell and uneven flooring under his feet gave David the same sense of neglect he had witnessed throughout the church. The dated fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead as he walked through the hallway in search of Pastor Novak’s office.
After turning a corner, he was met with two doors side by side. One was clearly an office door, wide and solid, while the other seemed like a utilitarian door, perhaps leading to a storage room.
He stood behind the office door and knocked firmly three times. The solid wood was hard on his 63-year-old knuckles. He rubbed them to alleviate the slight pain. After several seconds, he heard a faint voice coming through the thick door, “Come in.”