"Right.
It’s…
the man is dead."
George, Stephen and Timothy were all at Simpson House, when Jack arrived. Jack worked the furthest from home. He had a 45 minute commute to a shelter in South Seattle, Harbor Island actually, near the old Lockheed shipbuilding plant. Today, Jack had the monthly administrative meeting, so he had an evening off, having finished the reporting for the board and staff and had given them out. Tomorrow was another day, but tonight he could rest.
Stephen had made meatloaf for dinner. You might think that wasn’t something to look forward to, but Stephen’s meatloaf could be served in a lot of family restaurants to improve their menus. He always used fresh herbs and mixed the meatloaf in an upper and lower section. Each part had some vegetable mixed in, zucchini, carrot, celery, summer squash or garden tomato. Tonight was not a good night to miss dinner.
That was the reason George hurried over to Sheila Simpson’s house. Not that she wasn’t a good friend who asked him to come over quickly, but also he hoped it would be a brief meeting, so he could have some of the meatloaf. When he arrived, he saw why it wasn’t going to be a quick meeting.
There were three police cars parked outside the original Simpson house. Two cars had the normal SPD logo, and one said, “Scene Investigator/Medical Examiner.” George’s blood ran cold for a moment as he registered what that meant.
Without thinking he crossed the street and walked up the narrow walled driveway that led both to the steps to the garden entrance of the house and the partly underground garage. George had walked that way a thousand times, including earlier today, to walk Sheila’s dog and check on her. He didn’t do that everyday, she had other people checking on her and walking her dog. Wednesday was his day to do it, it was the least he could do considering all she had done for the new ministry they were trying to begin. It was also something they had worked out together that would be appropriate, not taking advantage of his or her time, or other resources.
George had walked this way to get the dog this morning. Getting the leash from the garage and then climbing the steps to get the yard and the dog-run. It was just before climbing the steps that he saw the legs of someone laying on the garage floor, police officers taking pictures, and standing around looking at the contents of the old cement wall garage.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” an officer called out at George. He had inadvertently frozen at the bottom of the steps to the garden…
“I, uh… What happened? Who is it?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back,” said the man. He stood up and George noticed his flashlight and gloves he was wearing.
“I was just going to see Mrs. Simpson. She called…” said George.
“And who are you?” said the other officer, who had moved between George and the entrance to the garage. The officer was a tall and wide Chinese man, perhaps from Taiwan.
“I’m her pastor. One of ‘em,” George responded, always catching his shared pastoral role a moment late.
“Give me your name?” said the asian officer.
“Sure, George Anderson. I’m one of the pastors at Green Lake Lutheran Church down the street. Mrs. Simpson has been a member of that congregation for a long time.”
“And how long have you been there?” The officer, George realized, must have some knowledge of how a church worked. He’s probably a Protestant, thought George.
“I’ve been there for almost eight years.”
“Right. And Mrs. Simpson called you?” George noticed the name on the uniform, Chang.
“Right. It’s… the man is dead.” George asked for confirmation of his statement.
“It looks that way… You had better go inside. We may want to ask you questions later. Make sure you give your information to the detective inside.”
“Thank you, officer Chang.”
The officer gave George another inspection as he turned and climbed the steps. The driveway walls never impeded the officer’s gaze, starting at the sidewalk at three feet and rising only two more feet when they met the cement of the garage.
George had the feeling he was being measured all the way to the garden door.
“Excuse me, can I speak with Mrs. Simpson?” George asked another police officer who stood outside the sitting room.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Simpson’s pastor, George Anderson.”
“She is expecting you, but you’ll have to wait over here until the detective is finished with his initial interview.”
George took a seat at the shaker style table and chairs that filled half of the dining room across the entry from the sitting room. Both room led further back into the house to another sitting room on one side and through a pantry to a large kitchen on the other. George had helped in the kitchen, played cards in the front sitting room, and once help celebrate a birthday with Shelia’s great-grandson in the cozy back room.
“How are you doing, Sheila?”
“Oh Pastor, how could this happen? I’m just sick. Henry was always such a great help with Kenya and George, this is horrible and terrifying! … How could this happen?”
“Sheila, I’m so sorry. What happened? Or what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. I got back from a lunch with Stein and Judy, and lay down for a while in the back room with the local symphony recording from last year. The next thing I know I was sitting up, Kenya was barking, and I felt a bit strange. It was probably being disturbed from a deep sleep.”
“Right.” George was again thinking about ‘witness tampering’ and the problem of stories by ‘eye-witnesses’ when Kenya began barking again from outside. The barking reminded him that he was here as Sheila Simpson’s pastor most of all.
“Sheila, have you had any water, or juice, since you awoke?”
“What? No, I suppose not.”
“One of the things people forget in times like this is to take care of themselves. You need to keep yourself together, partly by trying to stay hydrated. It works better with your medicines too.”
“Can I get you some water from the kitchen?”
“Yes, please. Thank you Pastor George.”
George moved into the cream and black tiled old kitchen. The officers had receded into the front of the house and the garage. George caught a glimpse of the uniformed people still walking in and out of the driveway. Filling a glass from the faucet, he carried a tall glass of water into the back den.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do for you today, to help with the rest of the day?” George found that this question was usually responded to in the negative. If not, only one in three requests required any amount of his time – and Ms. Simpson was not one to put undue requirements on her pastor – one of them. Speaking of which…
Travis rang the doorbell and entered the house – the officers had apparently left the door open.
“Hello!”
Immediately surrounded by two detectives in front of him and one uniformed officer from behind, Travis shrank somewhat.
“Hello,” said Travis, re-shouldering his role as pastor to the distressed widow. “My name is Travis Stephenson. I am one of the lady of the house’s pastors.”
“Did she call you too?” one police officer asked.
“Too? Uh, no she actually, I came on my own accord to ask after her.”
“There is already a pastor back in the den with her.”
“Great! What a relief. May I see Ms. Simpson as well?”
“Yeah, sure, sure. Go on ahead. We’ll get your information before you leave.”
“Hello,” Travis said as his head, then the rest of his body popped in and then entered the den a moment later.
“How are you, Sheila? George.” The last recognition was a nod and look of recognition and question, meant to say – How are things going, really?
“Pretty okay,” said Sheila.
“Good,“ said George, “as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
band name: inci-pid
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