Before He Sins. Блейк Пирс
given Sunday, if you count both services we hold, there’s anywhere between five thousand and seven thousand people that attend. And with such a large group, we require several elders to handle the business and concerns of the church. Here at Living Word, we have six – well, we had six. One of them had started to sort of raise some concerns among the others before he left. I don’t think he would have it in him to do something like this but…I don’t know. Some things he had been insinuating…it sort of caught everyone else off guard. Other elders…employees…”
“What’s his name?”
“Eric Crouse.”
“And what sort of things?” Mackenzie asked.
“He kept spouting off about how things left in the dark will come to the light and how that light could be blinding. That maybe being burned by the light is exactly what Living Word needed.”
“And how long had he been behaving this way?”
“About a month or so, I’d say. From what I understand, he left of his own accord about two weeks ago but there was talk before that among the other elders and Pastor Woodall about releasing him. But the thing of it is that everything Eric was saying was scripturally accurate. Things Jesus said, things that most people that attend Living Word believe. But…and I know this is going to sound dumb…it was the way he said the things. You know? Like, he had some hidden context to them. More than that, he never spoke like that before. He was an elder, sure, but never one to just spout off scripture or starting giving these hellfire-and-brimstone-type talks.”
“So if you don’t think he was capable of murder, why are you mentioning him? Was it just the sudden personality change that alarmed everyone?”
Wylerman shrugged. “No. Some people started to notice that Eric was doing everything he could to avoid meetings or small groups where Pastor Woodall would be in attendance. They’ve never been best friends, but always got along. Then all of a sudden, when he started talking about all of this light shining in the darkness stuff, he also seemed to distance himself from Pastor Woodall.”
“And you say he left the church two weeks ago?”
“Yeah, give or take a few days. I don’t know if he’s attending somewhere else now or what. And what’s strange is that it’s almost as if Eric knew Pastor Woodall’s schedule. He had just gotten back from a retreat a few days ago.”
“A retreat?”
“Yeah, it’s this little getaway he takes twice a year. It’s a really quiet little island off the coast of Florida.”
“And how long had he been back?” Mackenzie asked.
“He and his wife got back home five days ago.”
Mackenzie thought about this for a moment, cataloguing it in her mind. She then turned matters back to the man Wylerman had mentioned – the former elder, Eric Crouse.
“Would you happen to know where Crouse lives?” she asked.
“Yeah. I’ve been in his house a few times for small groups and prayer.”
Mackenzie wasn’t sure why, but something about this creeped her out. The timing of Eric Crouse leaving Living Word was nearly perfect for the type of suspect she was looking for. To imagine this grieving man clasping praying hands together with a man who might have been responsible for three deaths over the last few days was unsettling.
“Can you tell me where?”
“I will,” Wylerman said, “but I’d really rather you not tell him that you got the information from me…or anyone else at Living Word, for that matter.”
“Of course not,” she said.
A bit reluctantly, Wylerman gave her directions to Eric Crouse’s house. Mackenzie typed them in on her phone, noticing that while Wylerman might have been interacting with her, his mind was very much still with his grieving friends out by the church. He was looking in that direction now, wiping tears from his eyes as he looked at them through the passenger window.
“Thanks for your time, Mr. Wylerman,” Mackenzie said.
Wylerman nodded without saying anything else. He then got out of the car. He hung his head low before he even reached the small crowd of people. She could see him trembling. She had never understood how people could have deep faith in an invisible God, but she did respect the sense of community that was evident among those who shared a common belief. She felt very bad for Dave Wylerman in that moment, as well as those who attended Living Word and the void they would feel on Sunday morning.
With that sense of sympathy pushing her, Mackenzie pulled out of the Living Word lot and headed west, to what looked to be the first solid lead this case had churned up.
CHAPTER NINE
It was 6:40 when she arrived in front of Eric Crouse’s home. It was located in a well-to-do neighborhood where the houses were more important than yards, each house pressed in tightly against the other. The garage was closed, making it impossible to know if anyone was home – though given the early hour, she assumed there would be someone there to answer the door.
As she made her way to his door, Mackenzie wished she’d picked up another coffee from somewhere. It was hard to believe that it was not yet seven o’clock. She did her best to shake the vestiges of sleep from her face as she rang the doorbell of the Crouse residence. Right away she could hear footfalls behind the door. Seconds later, the door opened just a crack and a woman peered out.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked, clearly suspicious.
“Yes,” Mackenzie said. “And I do apologize for the early hour, but this is pressing. I’m Agent Mackenzie White with the FBI. I’m looking for Eric Crouse.”
The woman slowly opened the door. “That’s my husband. He’s…well, he’s received some terrible news this morning. I assume that’s why you’re here? About the murder this morning?”
“It is,” she said. “So if I could speak with him…”
“Of course,” the woman said. “Come in, come in.”
Mackenzie was ushered inside to the smell of cooking bacon and freshly brewed coffee. The Crouse home was beautiful not overly so. There were high ceilings, crown molding, hardwood floors, and granite counters and a bar space in the kitchen. In the kitchen, the woman led her to a large dining room table; this was the type of kitchen that served as a dining room as well. A man and a boy of about ten sat at the table. The boy was eating a bowl of cereal while the man sipped at a cup of coffee and read something from a laptop.
“This lady is here from the FBI,” Crouse’s wife said.
Crouse looked up, blinking in a what’s going on kind of way. He then got up and walked to Mackenzie. He smiled tiredly at her and she could see from his face that he, just like Dave Wylerman, had been doing his fair share of crying this morning.
Crouse extended his hand for a shake and Mackenzie obliged. She watched his face the entire time, looking for some flaw in what was either a great disguise of emotion or a front to fool her. She could not see either and, therefore, could not decide if he was hiding any guilt.
“I assume this is about Pastor Woodall?” Eric asked.
“Yes,” Mackenzie said. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“Um, yeah,” Eric said. He looked at his son and patted him on the shoulder. “Can you and Mommy run to the bathroom and finish getting ready for school? Get those teeth good, okay?”
The boy looked at his cereal, clearly not finished, but obeyed his father. So did the wife, as she escorted their son out of the kitchen and toward a hallway that sat off to the right. When they were out of sight, Eric looked at the coffee pot on the counter and asked: “Coffee?”
“Yes, please. That would be fantastic, actually.”
Eric walked into the kitchen and Mackenzie followed. Eric grabbed a cup from a cupboard and filled it with coffee from the pot on the counter. “Cream?