Fear Has a Name: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) Page 4

  Jack looked around, guessing the house was forty or fifty years old. It had hardwood floors and thick, soft rugs. The interior wood trim was dark gray, and the walls were done in rich sage green and cocoa brown, giving it an early-American look. Rustic abstracts of doors and windows hung in just the right spots on the walls, and pretty colored glass bottles of all sizes sat along each window.

  “I feel bad about getting so upset with the other reporter on the phone,” Wendy said. She handed Jack a bottled water. “But I was absolutely shocked that his story talked about suicide. To see it on the front page …”

  “I completely understand.” Jack opened the bottle. “If it had been up to me … well, listen, let’s just start from scratch. Can we do that?”

  “Yes.” She sat near him on the edge of a leather recliner. She had short, spiky brown hair and was slight and youthful looking in jean shorts and Crocs. “I’m ready.”

  “First of all,” Jack said, “you saw the blurb from Faith Line?”

  Wendy nodded. “I got it in a blanket email, like everyone else. That was the first I’d heard anything public about suicide. I couldn’t believe they put it in there. When I called, they told me they hoped it would lend urgency and generate some leads to help find Evan, but again—to make public mention of it, before we even know what’s happened?”

  “When did you last see Evan?”

  “Friday morning.” She spoke confidently. “He left for work just like always.”

  “Did everything seem okay?”

  “Normal. Everything was normal. He got up early, as usual, although he didn’t go on his morning run; he hasn’t been doing that lately. So I didn’t think anything of it that he missed that day. Some mornings he’s just not in the mood. But he had breakfast with Silas, our youngest, then showered and left for the church. I was up too. Our other boys, Nathaniel and Zachary, were still asleep. Everything seemed okay.”

  “And did he make it to the church?”

  “Yes. One of the secretaries, Barbara Cooley, saw him. He was in his office for about an hour, then left. Friday is his day to do hospital and home visits. I’ve asked the assistant pastor if he can tell me who Evan may have been planning to visit.”

  “The assistant pastor.” Jack looked for the name in his notes. “Dr. Andrew Satterfield?”

  “That’s right.” Wendy bit the inside of her lip, and her eyes shifted to her lap, where her fingers were interlocked.

  “I do plan on talking to him.” Jack wrote a note to himself along the top-left edge of his pad, where he jotted things he needed to follow up on. “But as far as we know,” he said, “Barbara Cooley was the last person to see Evan?”

  “We think so.”

  “All right, let’s see.” He reviewed some quotes he’d written on his pad from the church news story. “Can we talk about this? Where it says Evan took with him ‘a significant quantity of medication’?”

  Wendy’s shoulders arched back. She took in a deep breath and let it out. “On and off over the years, Evan has struggled with depression. He’s taken antidepressant medications. He told me recently that it had been several weeks since he’d had any.”

  “And how was he doing without them? What state of mind was he in?”

  Wendy peered out the sliding glass doors for a moment, then leveled her eyes on Jack. “He hasn’t been sleeping well at night, so he’s been dragging during the day,” she said. “He thought he had the flu—a bit of an upset stomach. I thought that was why he hadn’t been exercising lately.”

  “Anything else out of the ordinary?”

  “He’s been a bit down,” Wendy said. “There are a lot of challenges with his work.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “A lot of pressure,” she said. “Anyway, a few of the leaders at the church knew about the medicine. I guess he kept some in the restroom in his office. There was also some Valium in there. Apparently, since it’s not there anymore, they reported it missing.”

  Jack took notes, then looked back at her. “Okay, I guess that leads us to the next obvious thing.” He was careful to read the words he’d written from the church’s news story. “The online story says Evan ‘left behind communication indicating his intention to take his own life.’” He left off the part about Evan’s body not yet being found, thinking it would be insensitive and morbid to mention. “‘Coworkers believe he was genuinely determined to follow through on his expressed intentions …’”

  The corners of Wendy’s pretty mouth turned down, and she pressed her trembling fingers hard against her forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. McDaniel,” Jack said. “Can I get you a Kleenex?”

  She stood. “I’ll get it. Excuse me. I’m sorry.” She left the room.

  Jack felt empty. What an odd case. The people at the church seemed so sure Evan was out to take his own life, yet his wife seemed so sure otherwise. Or perhaps she was simply in denial—it would be understandable.

  “Okay, I’m going to pull it together.” Wendy reentered the room holding a small box of tissues. “Thank you for your patience. I told myself I wasn’t going to do that.”

  She sat back down in the same chair and folded her tan legs beneath her. “There was a note on Evan’s keyboard, on his desk at the church, in an envelope. It was supposedly written by him, but it was typed. I couldn’t find it on his computer. I don’t think he wrote it.”

  “A suicide note?”

  “Yes … supposedly.” She shook her head and wiped her nose. “Evan just wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t leave his boys; he wouldn’t leave me. Besides, the note doesn’t even sound like him. I just … I’m so confused.”

  “Can you tell me what it said?”

  She crossed the room to a desk built into the kitchen wall, came back, and handed Jack a white folded sheet of paper. “I asked for a copy.”

  He unfolded it and read the plain type.

  To those I leave behind,

  I am sorry to have failed you. God knows I tried to be a good husband, father, and pastor. My goal has always been to live a life of service to you, my beloved Wendy and boys, and to you, my church family. However, after much struggle and spiritual warfare, I have come to believe certain people are not meant for this world. There have been glimpses of light, but overall the depression has simply overwhelmed me. Everyone will be better off with me gone. I will be at peace now, I pray (if God forgives me for this), and you will be free to move on and make a better future for yourselves.

  With love, forever,

  Evan (Daddy)

  Jack looked at Wendy. “He didn’t sign it?”

  “I don’t think he wrote it, Mr. Crittendon. And whoever did, didn’t want to try to forge his handwriting, because we would have known it wasn’t his.”

  She was really grasping.

  “If Evan didn’t write this, who do you think did?”

  Her face melted slowly into a quiet daze, and she stared slightly off to Jack’s left.

  He turned to see what she was looking at. It was a framed painting of a small white cottage, an old wooden dock, some seagulls, and a vast body of blue-green water. The artist had left plenty of white space amid the choppy water, making it look real yet abstract at the same time.

  “That’s Evan’s favorite place on earth.”

  Jack looked back at Wendy, whose glazed brown eyes were still fixed on the painting.

  “Where is that?”

  “Englewood, Florida. Gulf Coast. Between Sarasota and Fort Myers. Best seashells anywhere. And tons of sharks’ teeth.”

  “Do you go there often?”

  “Every spring since before the boys were born; sometimes more often.” She continued to stare. “It’s changed some. The beach has eroded a lot, but Evan and the boys still boogieboard in the surf most of the day. I read and walk. We never want to come home.”

  “Has Evan gone off the antidepressants before?” Jack asked. He knew that quitting some of those things cold turkey could send users into a deeper state o
f despair than before they started taking them.

  “Yes, like I said, he’s been on and off.”

  “Was he weaned off the meds under a doctor’s supervision, or did he just quit taking them, do you know?”

  “I know what you’re getting at, Mr. Crittendon,” Wendy said. “And I’m not sure of the answer. I think he may have just quit all at once.” She squinted, as if trying to open the lid of a jar that was stuck shut. “Look, if you’re implying Evan had antidepressant withdrawal symptoms, the answer is yes. His doctor cautioned him about it. He’s been restless. He’s even had a few of those electric shock feelings, like tremors. But I know my husband, and I know he would not quit on us.”

  Jack reached for one of the tissues and handed it to her.

  She took it, nodded thanks, and wiped her eyes.

  It sounded to Jack as if Evan had some kind of chronic biochemical imbalance—something he couldn’t just will or wish away.

  “Mr. Crittendon, Evan is a very difficult person to read, even by me. He’s very emotional. But I believe with everything in me that he would not do this—not in a million years.” Wendy shook her head and peered back up at the Florida painting. “He would not leave us.”

  “So what do you think happened?” Jack said. “Do you have suspicions?”

  “Suspicions?”

  “Does he have any enemies?”

  Her eyes got wide. “Enemies? I wouldn’t go that far. Disgruntled church people? Every pastor has those. Tension at work? Sure, but nothing I can think of that would cause someone to want to harm him.”

  “When you say disgruntled church people, are there one or two who stand out? I mean, who are angry at Evan?”

  “You know …” She pursed her lips and made her head sway back and forth as if she had a kink in her neck. “You might talk to Andrew Satterfield about that.”

  “I take it he and Evan work closely—”

  “On second thought …” She paused. “Write down this name: Hank Garbenger.” She spelled the last name. “He cheated on his wife, and Evan ended up disciplining him in front of the church. It’s a biblical procedure most churches don’t adhere to anymore. There’s a long story about how it all unfolded, but we don’t need to get into that.”

  “Okay.” Jack combed the scribbling on his pad and made a note to follow up on Hank Garbenger. “You mentioned tension at work. Is that worth getting into?”

  Wendy looked at the shady scene beyond the sliding glass doors and scratched her forehead. “Just for background, I guess.” She locked her fingers together again, turned to Jack, and sighed. “The associate pastor, Satterfield, has never liked Evan.” She rubbed her face. “Oh, I shouldn’t say that. Forgive me. I’m not sure of his feelings. But the thing is, he’s made it clear he thinks Evan is unfit to pastor because he suffers from depression and has a need for medication.”

  “Really?”

  “He’s brought it up in meetings with the elders and deacons. He’s made it very clear he believes Evan should step down as pastor or be asked to step down by the leadership, at least until he can ‘overcome his deficiencies’—I think that’s how he once put it.”

  “Wow. That’s pretty harsh, coming from someone under your husband.”

  “Yeah, well, Satterfield has a very fundamentalist background. He views depression as a weakness instead of an illness.”

  Jack nodded.

  “The unfortunate thing is, he’s convinced some of the elders and deacons to believe the same thing.”

  The longer Jack sat with Wendy, the more intriguing the story became.

  A door slammed in another room, followed by what sounded like Spain’s running of the bulls.

  Suddenly the kitchen was raided by three tan, sweaty, panting, pink-faced boys of all sizes. Ignoring their mom and the stranger sitting nearby, they methodically went to work. The littlest dropped to his knees, opened the cupboard, and filled his small arms with three huge plastic cups, each featuring the Ohio State University logo. Perched on a stool, the middle one yanked a huge ice tray from the freezer, hoisted it to the counter, and banged it down. The oldest one, who must have been approaching six feet in height, pulled an enormous pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and stood at the counter, poised to pour.

  Wendy cleared her throat loudly enough for her sons to take notice. All three looked into the living room at the same time.

  “Hi, Mom,” said the little one.

  “Hello there, boys.” Wendy stood, rubbing her hands together. “We have company. Would you come in here and say hello for a minute?”

  Each of them wore long shorts and tennis shoes with no socks. The oldest didn’t have a shirt on, and Jack could see the waist of his blue-and-red-checked boxers. The youngest and oldest had their mother’s eyes, while the middle one resembled their father, who Jack remembered from the marriage seminar and photo that ran in the Dispatch.

  “This is Mr. Jack Crittendon.” Wendy put her hand out toward Jack, who stood up. “He’s a reporter for the Dispatch, and he’s going to be doing some stories on Daddy and our family. Mr. Crittendon, this is Silas.” She rubbed the blond hair of the youngest boy. “He’s seven.”

  “Hi.” Silas gritted his teeth, gave Jack a viselike grip, craned his little neck sideways, and stared up at Jack for a response.

  “What do you say to Mr. Crittendon?” Wendy prompted.

  “Nice to meet you.” Silas shrugged.

  “Next is Zachary.” Wendy squeezed her middle son’s shoulder. “He’s eleven.”

  “How do you do?” Zachary’s handshake was equally … painful.

  “And last but not least,” Wendy said, “this is Nathaniel, our fourteen-year-old.”

  “Good to meet you.” His voice was surprisingly deep, and he shook Jack’s hand with not quite so much thought about breaking every bone in it. “You can call me Nate.”

  “It’s good to meet you guys. Wow.” Jack looked at Wendy. “They have powerful grips!”

  Silas hooted and slapped his leg on his way out of the room, and the other two laughed as they followed him back to the kitchen.

  “What great manners,” Jack commented.

  Wendy nodded and rested her hands on her waist. “They’re good boys. Their dad has had a lot to do with that.”

  Jack’s phone vibrated, but he ignored it. He’d be out of there in a second.

  He whispered to Wendy, “We’re going to do all we can to help you find Evan.”

  Wendy crossed her arms and rubbed her biceps, as if she was chilly. “Thank you so much.”

  His phone vibrated again. Without looking at it, he hit the power button twice, sending the caller to voice mail.

  “If anything else develops, or you need publicity,” Jack said, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’ll do everything I can. You have my number, right?”

  “Thank you.” She nodded. “Yes, I do. And I will be calling.”

  “Excellent.” Jack made for the door.

  “Will you be able to clear it up,” Wendy said softly from behind. “About the suicide?”

  Jack got to the door and turned to face her. She was indeed tiny. “What I plan to do is interview some people at the church and get with the police; then I’ll write a detailed piece—”

  “Is there any way I could see it before it gets printed?”

  He frowned and shook his head. “No. Sorry. I can’t do that. But it’s going to have all the facts, including your side of the story. You know, much of what you’ve told me here today.”

  Wendy nodded like a scared child trusting her father when he says everything will be okay.

  “You know what?” Jack said. “I should have a copy of that letter. Would that be okay with you?”

  “You’re not going to run it in the paper.”

  “Oh no. I just mean for me to have, you know, as the investigation continues.”

  “I don’t have a copy machine.”

  “I could take a quick photo.” Jack reached for his phone. “Ca
n we do that?”

  While Wendy smoothed out the “suicide letter” on the kitchen table, Jack glanced at a text message that awaited him.

  Call me now!

  Sent from Pam’s cell phone.

  He snapped a quick photo of Evan’s letter and headed for the door. Surely Pam would call him if it were an emergency.

  “Mr. Crittendon … there’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

  He opened the door.

  “I should have told you earlier, but it just looks so bad.”

  “What is it?” Jack tried not to sound too hurried.

  “We own a handgun, for protection.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Ironic that would come up.

  “Well … it’s gone.”

  Jack squinted. “Just since Evan’s disappearance?” He needed to make this short.

  “I think so. But I’m not positive.”

  “Was the gun loaded?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he kept two of those metal bullet holder things in a separate place, and they’re gone.”

  “The magazines? Okay.” He let it sink in, then shook his head, trying to keep everything clear. “I assume you told the police.”

  She shook her head quickly. “I couldn’t. It looked so—incriminating.”

  Jack’s cell phone vibrated again; it was ringing now.

  He put a hand on it. “That’s a call I’ve got to take. It’s my wife. We had a break-in at our house, and she’s still shaken up.”

  “Oh my gosh, how terrible. I remember your wife,” Wendy said. “Go ahead and take it, by all means.”

  “I’ll grab it as I leave.” He stepped outside.

  Jack squeezed the vibrating phone in his hand, feeling dizzy from the pressure of both worlds colliding in his head. He nodded reassuringly but lifted a commanding finger toward Wendy’s chest. “Call the lead investigator, now. Tell about the gun. They need to know everything. I’ll be in touch.”

  He bounded down the steps and toward his car, sliding the answer button on his phone at the same time.

  “Sorry, honey. What’s going on?”

  “My Bible’s gone, Jack.” Pam’s tone was one of controlled chaos. “I couldn’t find it this morning. I thought I just misplaced it, but it’s not here!” Her voice trembled. “I searched the whole house.”