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The Word of God |
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Saturday night. Most women spent the evening with a date or a husband, or perhaps they cruised the bars with their girlfriends. Shannon McCole spent her Saturdays discussing the Bible. As the host of the weekend talk show, The Word of God, from eight until midnight every Saturday, she sat in front of a microphone, talking to members of the radio audience who called in for advice. One particular Saturday evening Shannon was running late. She’d had a flat tire and had to wait for AAA to come and change it. At 7:54 she pulled into the station’s parking lot, slammed her car door shut, locked it with the remote and ran into the building—right into a visitor who was on his way out. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, as she helped the man pick up the papers he’d been carrying. “Don’t worry about it.” When Shannon looked into the man’s eyes, she felt as though an electric shock went through her system. He was by far the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He smiled at her, and she felt her knees go weak. “You must be in quite a rush.” Suddenly she remembered the time. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go. I’m due on the air.” “Don’t let me keep you,” the stranger laughed as he stuffed the loose papers into a manila folder. “Sorry again,” she said as she headed for the studio. When she opened the door, she was relieved to see that Lloyd, the producer’s assistance, was playing the full version of the show’s theme song to cover her absence. With a nodding of gratitude to Lloyd, she went to her seat, adjusted the microphone and quickly scanned her computer monitor to see what callers were on the line. “Good evening, everyone, this is Shannon McCole, and you’re listening to The Word of God, brought to you by Otis Chevrolet and the good folks down at Myrtle’s Fried Chicken. Let’s open the lines and hear what our listeners have to say. Hello. You’re on the air.” Judy, the first caller, was a mother of a fifteen-year-old girl. “My poor baby has gone wild,” she cried. “She listens to that hippity hop music, wears make-up and talks about boys with her girlfriends. And yesterday I found a pack of cigarettes in her purse. I don’t know what to do. What does the good lord have to say about saving my daughter’s soul?” Shannon rolled her eyes and looked toward Wes Bowden, the show’s resident expert on the Bible and religious matters in general. Wes quickly typed a response on Shannon’s teleprompter. The host then read the message on the air and put the mother’s mind at rest. Having dispatched one caller, the host looked at her computer monitor again. The number of callers had doubled. It looked like it was going to be a busy night. Two hours into the program, Shannon took a quick break while Lloyd ran through a list of local church announcements. She returned to her seat after the assistant producer was done and took her next call. “Hello. You’re on the air,” she said. “I am the voice crying out in the wilderness.” “All right, Voice. You’re on the air. Do you have a question?” “I want to share with your listeners a line from Exodus: ‘thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’” Before Shannon could ask him why he had chosen that particular quote, the caller hung up the phone. “Well, thanks for sharing with us, Voice. We’ll hear from our next caller in just a minute, but first, a word from our sponsor, Myrtle’s Fried Chicken. Nobody treats like you mom except Myrtle,” she said, signaling Lloyd to run a commercial. God, I can’t wait until midnight, she thought. <> <> Sunday mornings Shannon usually slept late. That Sunday, however, she was awakened by the sound of her doorbell. She stumbled out of bed, grabbed a robe from her closet and opened the door. “Miss McCole?” Shannon was speechless when she saw the tall, dark and handsome man she’d run into outside the radio station the previous day standing on her doorstep. “Y-yes?” “I’m Detective Kent Spangler,” he introduced himself as he showed her his badge. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about one of the calls you received during your program last night.” “Come on in,” the radio host said, stepping aside so that the detective could enter her apartment. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” “Sure, if it’s no trouble.” While the coffee perked, Shannon ran into her bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt. When she returned to the kitchen, she saw that Kent Spangler had poured the coffee into the cups. “Cream and sugar?” he asked. “Skim milk and Sweet’n Low.” The detective, who took his coffee black, cautiously sipped the hot, bitter brew, and said, “I understand you received a call last night from a man who said he was a voice crying out in the wilderness.” “I remember that one, all right. It was kind of creepy. He spouted a quote from Exodus about not suffering a witch to live and then hung up on me. Why?” “Last night we found the body of a young woman in back of St. Michael’s Church, and we think your caller may have had something to do with her death. What could you tell me about the man’s voice? Was it high or low pitched? Did he have a lisp? Did he stutter? Did he speak with an accent?” “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. All I can tell you was that it was a man’s voice.” “Would you be able to recognize it if you heard it again?” “I honestly doubt it. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but I spoke to close to fifty people last night, roughly half of which were men.” The detective finished his coffee, and took a business card out of his jacket pocket. “This is my number. If you should hear from this guy again, will you give me a call?” The radio host agreed, not just because she wanted to do her civic duty and aid the police in their investigation but also because she wanted to see the handsome police detective again. <> <> Shannon didn’t have long to wait. The following Saturday, just before nine o’clock, the man phoned the radio station again. As soon as she saw The Voice on her computer monitor, she signaled Lloyd to run the Otis Chevrolet commercial. With her microphone turned off, she took her cell phone out of her purse and phoned the detective. Unfortunately, Kent didn’t answer, so she left a message on his voice mail. Hoping, to keep The Voice on the line until she heard from the detective, she took a call from a young woman named Beth. “Hello, you’re on the air.” Beth, a twenty-eight year old virgin, wanted Jesus’ opinion on premarital sex, since she was engaged to be married in three months and her fiancé was becoming impatient to consummate their love. Again, she looked to her expert for help. She stalled as long as possible with the answer and then, without hearing from Det. Spangler, she took the call from The Voice. “Hello, you’re on the air.” “It is I, the voice crying out in the wilderness.” Shannon shut her eyes and tried to dissect the tone, pitch and accent of his speech. But the caller sounded no different than hundreds of other men who had called into the radio station in the past year. “What have you got for us this week, Voice?” she asked. “Leviticus 20:13,” the caller announced. “‘If there is a man who lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed a detestable act; they shall surely be put to death.’” Again, having had his say, The Voice hung up the phone. Only moments after the end of the call, Shannon felt her cell phone vibrate. Lloyd ran another commercial and a public service announcement while she spoke to the detective. “I can’t talk right now; I’m on the air,” she informed him, and he agreed to meet her after the show. At 11:55 Kent walked into the radio station, and Shannon felt her pulse quicken when she saw him. Damn, he’s good looking! she thought. At two minutes to midnight, the radio host hung up on her final caller. “This is Shannon McCole, and you’ve been listening to The Word of God, brought to you by Otis Chevrolet and Myrtle’s Fried Chicken. Good night and I hope you all tune in again next week.” At the familiar sound of her show’s theme song, Shannon clicked off the microphone and removed her headphones. “He called again,” she told her visitor. “My guess is that he had something to say about homosexuality,” the detective said. “How did you know? Were you listening to the broadcast?” “No. I just came from a crime scene. Two gay men were killed behind a bar on River Street.” “You think The Voice killed them?” “If he wasn’t the actual killer, he at least knew about the deaths, just as he knew about the murder of that Wiccan girl we found last Saturday.” “He killed three people because of verses he read in the Bible? This guy must be a real sick twist. You’ve got to catch him.” “Right now the only way we have to get to him is through you. We’ve contacted the station’s owner, and he’s agreed to let us put a trace on the phone,” the detective informed her. Shannon blanched. Since becoming the host of The Word of God she’d had to deal with some kooky religious fanatics, but she always believed they were harmless. Now she was faced with The Voice who, if he did kill the witch and two gay men, qualified as a serial killer. Suddenly, she felt extremely vulnerable. Radio personalities, like other celebrities, were often targeted by deranged listeners. Bob Cook from Tucson and Alan Berg from Denver were prime examples. The Voice might want to make Shannon his next victim. “What if he tries to come after me?” she asked. “My guess is that you’re safe, but I’ll have a patrolman keep an eye on you anyway.” Just the same, Shannon would feel a lot more comfortable when the killer was caught. <> <> The following Saturday night Shannon McCole looked up at the clock in the studio. It was ten minutes shy of midnight, and there had been no word from The Voice. “We have time for one more caller before we reach the end of our broadcast.” When the name blinked on the monitor, Shannon’s initial instinct was to ignore it, but if she did, The Voice might never be brought to justice. She had to answer the call and keep him on the line as long as possible. “Hello. Welcome to The Word of God. You’re on the air. Who am I speaking to?” “It’s me again: the voice crying from the wilderness.” “Yes. I remember you, Voice. You made quite an impression on the audience the last time you called in. My listeners are curious about you. Perhaps tonight you can tell us a little something about yourself.” “Again, I draw your attention to Leviticus. ‘If a man commits adultery with another man’s wife—with the wife of his neighbor—both the adulterer and the adulteress must be put to death.’” “Voice, wait…,” the host said, but the man hung up the phone. Shannon had tears in her eyes when she looked across the room at Wes Bowden, knowing the death toll had increased by two. “We hope you’ve enjoyed tonight’s program,” she said in a strained voice. “Come back next Saturday night to hear The Word of God brought to you by Myrtle’s Fried Chicken and Otis Chevrolet.” At the conclusion of the broadcast, Kent called Shannon on her cell phone. “Please tell me you know where he is,” she cried. “No, damn it! We couldn’t trace the call. He must be using a disposable cell phone.” “And the adulterer and his girlfriend?” “No bodies have turned up yet, but I’ve got all patrol cars on the alert.” “Well, let’s hope they don’t find anything.” <> <> The following day Shannon met Kent for Sunday brunch. She could immediately tell from the look on his face that the killer had struck again. After filling Shannon in on the facts of the most recent murders, Kent asked her, “What do you know about Wes Bowden?” “Wes? Surely you don’t think he’s the killer. He couldn’t be. He was in the studio with me all three times The Voice called.” “In all three instances the victims were murdered hours before your show went on the air.” “But the phone calls….” “Look, I’m not saying he’s the guy, but we’ve uncovered a new lead that The Voice has some connection with your show. So I ask you again, what do you know about Wes Bowden?” “Not much. I do know the producer of the show hired him because he’s an expert on the Bible.” “He ought to be. He taught theology at Harvard. That was before he became involved with one of the students on campus and lost his job.” “Why is a Harvard professor wasting his time in this small town?” “That’s what I’d like to know,” the detective declared. By the time they had finished the main course and were examining the choices on the dessert table, Shannon had skillfully steered the conversation away from the murders and toward more personal subjects. She was delighted to learn that Kent single and not currently seeing anyone. “And what about you?” the detective asked as he helped himself to an éclair and a second cup of coffee. “Is there a man in your life?” “No, not at the moment. I haven’t been serious about anyone since I left college two years ago.” “Where did you go to school?” “Essex Green, Massachusetts.” “And what brings you down here to our little radio station?” “I couldn’t get a job anywhere else,” she replied. “That’s funny,” the detective laughed. “That’s true,” she countered. “If I could get a job somewhere else—even as a weather girl in Kalamazoo—I’d take it in a heartbeat.” “And what about your responsibility to your audience?” “Those pathetic losers? Honestly, some of my listeners are no better than the guests on the Jerry Springer Show.” “They’re people who are seeking advice so they can live happy, law-abiding, productive lives.” “So they phone into a radio show and ask an agnostic host to dig up a verse from a two-thousand year old book. Doesn’t make much sense to me.” “You’re an atheist?” the detective asked with disbelief. “An agnostic,” she corrected him. “There’s a difference.” “Either way, I think it’s ironic that you’re hosting a religious talk show.” “Like I said, it was the only job I could get.” <> <> During the next week, Shannon saw Kent four times, once to discuss the case and three times to go out to dinner. As Saturday drew nearer, the radio host became anxious about her next show. “He’s called me every week for the past three weeks,” she confided in the detective. “He’s probably going to call me again, and someone else will die.” “I’ve got a man keeping watch over you, but I’m worried about your safety,” Kent confessed. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a small pistol. “I want you to carry this with you until we catch the killer.” “A gun? No. I hate guns. I think they should be outlawed.” “Look, I’m not asking you to join the NRA. I just want you to be able to protect yourself if that lunatic comes looking for you.” Reluctantly, she accepted the pistol. “I don’t even know how to use this.” The detective was only too willing to teach her. <> <> During her Saturday broadcast, Shannon kept a surreptitious eye on Wes Bowden. Could the former Harvard professor have already murdered someone that evening? Was he now waiting to trigger a prerecorded device that would phone into the station? The radio host went over her three conversations with The Voice in her mind. It could have been a recording since at no time did the caller deviate from his pattern: he identified himself, quoted a phrase from the Bible and then hung up the phone before she could question him. At one point Wes met her eyes and gave her a curious look. Her hand trembled as she reached for her bottle of water. I could be working next to a serial killer, she thought, wondering how author Ann Rule reacted when she learned her coworker, Ted Bundy, murdered an estimated thirty-five women during a five-year period. Her mind pondering Wes’ guilt, Shannon didn’t look at her computer monitor until she answered the call. “Hello. You’re on the air.” “I am the voice crying in the wilderness.” Shannon turned to stare at Wes. What was he doing with his hand in his pocket? Could he have some kind of remote control device hidden there? “Will you answer a question for me, Voice?” she asked. The caller did not reply, but continued with his message. “According to Matthew 23:28, ‘Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.’ And let us not forget Micah 5:15, “And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen, such as they have not heard.’” Several times Shannon tried to interrupt the caller, but he continued as though he didn’t hear her. When she heard the click of receiver, Shannon turned toward Wes and was surprised by the look of fear on his face. Did he guess that she suspected he was The Voice? Promptly at midnight, Shannon left the radio station and headed home. As she opened the door to her house, a car pulled into her driveway. “Shannon, can I talk to you a minute?” Wes asked, as he crossed her lawn. “This is a bad time. Can we talk tomorrow?” “It’s important. I think that caller, the voice in the wilderness, might be dangerous.” “Please, I really can’t talk now. Why don’t you phone me tomorrow?” Before Shannon could close her front door, the former Harvard professor pushed his way past her. “I’m sorry to barge in, but I really need to talk to you. I think that caller was talking about me this evening. I think he wants to kill me.” “You?” “Yes. All that crap about outwardly righteous men full of hypocrisy and iniquity. I used to teach theology until I had an affair with an eighteen-year-old pre-med student. I think the caller wants to execute vengeance in anger and fury upon me.” Shannon didn’t know what to do. Was Wes really afraid that The Voice posed a threat to him, or was he the killer himself? If he was, what was he doing in her home? There was only one answer to that question: if he was the killer, he probably believed that an agnostic hosting a religious talk show was full of hypocrisy. He’s here to kill me! “You’ve got to go, now!” she screamed. “Get out before I call the police.” “No! Don’t phone the police. I don’t trust that Detective Spangler.” As Shannon reached into her handbag for her cell phone, Wes took two steps toward her. The radio host’s fingertips touched the grip of the gun Kent had given her. As Wes drew closer to her, she pulled the gun from her purse and shot him. <> <> Shannon screeched her tires as she slammed on her brakes in the parking lot outside Kent’s condo. She ran into the main entrance and up the three flights of stairs to his door. She knocked, but there was no answer, so she opened the door and went inside. “Kent? Are you here?” she cried. Although there was no sign of the detective, a light in the bedroom was burning. “Kent? Are you in there?” she asked as she pushed on the door. She caught her breath when she walked into the room and found a Spartan interior, with a bare mattress as its only piece of furniture. On the wall above the mattress, a five-foot high crucifix dominated the room. Shannon shut the door and walked back to the living room. On the shelf above Kent’s television was a photograph of the detective in seminary school. He never told me he studied to be a priest. “Shannon.” The radio host ran into the detective’s arms. “Oh, Kent! It was horrible. Wes followed me to my house. He pushed his way inside. I asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. I was so frightened. He came toward me, and my hand was on the gun, and the next thing I knew I had shot him.” “Don’t cry, child,” he said as though he were a parent comforting his child. “He was a sinner; he deserved to die.” Shannon pulled away and, trembling, looked up into his face. “You’re The Voice.” “They kicked me out of the seminary. They said I didn’t have the temperament to be a priest, that I was intolerant and intractable. I have since learned that I can accomplish more of God’s work outside the confines of the church. As it is written in Psalm 118, ‘The stone which the builders refused is become the head stone of the corner.’” “You set me up to kill Wes, didn’t you?” she asked, suddenly remembering that he was the one who first cast doubt on the Harvard professor. “If you wanted him dead, why didn’t you kill him yourself?” “I would have eventually, but not yet.” “Then why the quote from Micah?” “It wasn’t intended for him. It was for you. You’re the hypocrite, the nonbeliever. Read Mark 16, ‘he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned.’” As Kent placed his hands around her throat, Shannon reached for the pistol in her jacket pocket. She managed to point it at his midsection and pull the trigger, but the chamber was empty. “As it is written in Jeremiah, ‘I will not let my pity or mercy or compassion keep me from destroying them.’” Although Shannon fought her attacker, she lacked the strength to best him. As she felt herself losing consciousness, Kent’s hands let suddenly let go, and she fell to the floor. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at Wes Bowden, who was holding a tire iron in one hand and a bloody towel over his shoulder with the other. “You tried to warn me,” Shannon sobbed hoarsely through her aching throat. Wes put down the tire iron, picked up his cell phone and called 911. As Shannon stood up she saw Kent lying on the floor and stifled a scream. “Don’t worry. He’s not dead,” Wes assured her. “Why didn’t you kill him?” Shannon asked. “He wouldn’t have hesitated to kill you or me.” The former Harvard professor put his good arm around his coworker and said, “...for it is written, vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
Salem once hosted a late-night radio show, but the station let him go because he kept falling asleep behind the microphone.
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