“It doesn’t say,” Lopez replied. “He’s been in and out of private rehabilitation clinics ever since. Doesn’t make any sense though. He’s never held full-time employment except at the institute, so where’d the money come from?”
“The father?” Tyrell guessed as he opened the door to the church foyer.
“Father’s unknown, according to this.”
Tyrell led the way to a broad reception desk overlooked by a brightly painted mural of a crucifix atop a hill, the sun casting beams of light upon it and the sky emblazoned with three inspirational words:
Rehabilitate. Rejuvenate. Rejoice.
Resurrect, Tyrell thought, but didn’t say.
The receptionist in the entrance foyer was a petite, slim, and bespectacled woman in her forties who seemed perturbed by the presence of two police detectives and their need to speak to Kelvin Patterson himself.
“I’m afraid the pastor is preparing for tonight’s presidential rally,” she said politely, “but I can arrange an interview for tomorrow if that’s convenient?”
Tyrell smiled tightly.
“It’s not. We need to speak to Mr. Patterson urgently, regarding the death of a patient.”
The receptionist frowned and turned away without another word, moving across to a phone and dialing a number. Tyrell watched her body language become defensive as she spoke. Finally, she set the phone down.
“If you’ll follow me this way, please.”
She led them through a myriad of corridors, many of them bearing vast canvases on the walls depicting biblical scenes. Tyrell struggled to remember his Sunday schooling as he noted images of the crucifixion, of the Garden of Eden, and what he guessed might have been the destruction of Babylon. Or was it Babel?
“Mr. Patterson is a very busy man, you know,” the receptionist said over her shoulder.
“As am I,” Tyrell replied.
“He has an immensely important rally tonight with a presidential candidate.”
Tyrell felt a squirm of irritation. Lopez hurriedly spoke beside him.
“Which candidate?”
“Senator Isaiah Black, Texas.”
Tyrell looked across at Lopez, who raised an eyebrow.
“Isn’t Kelvin Patterson the man who said New Orleans was destroyed by God because it hosted a Gay Pride rally?” Tyrell inquired.
The receptionist raised her chin as she walked, not looking back at him. “Who is to say that He didn’t?”
Tyrell chose not to reply.
They reached a large set of ornate double doors at the end of a long corridor that seemed to orbit the church’s main hall to their left. The receptionist knocked briskly on the doors before opening them and calling into the room.
“Pastor? The two police officers are here to see you.”
There was a muffled response, and then the receptionist backed out of the doorway and gestured for Tyrell to enter.
The expansive office, dominated by a huge chrome crucifix on one wall and by towering windows on the other, seemed to make Kelvin Patterson more diminutive than he actually was. He turned and smiled regally as the receptionist closed the door behind Tyrell and Lopez.
“Detectives,” he greeted them.
Patterson was wearing an expensive silk shirt and dark trousers, and a navy blazer hung from a chair nearby.
“I understand you have a big night ahead, Pastor,” Tyrell said.
“It is a big night for America,” Patterson replied. “Much hangs on how the crowd views us tonight.” Us, Tyrell thought quietly as they followed him across to his broad mahogany desk, complete with bronze eagle and the Stars and Stripes. “What can I do for you?”
“The Evangelical Institute,” Tyrell said. “You own it?”
“It is owned by the alliance.”
“And it is used as a rehabilitation site for drug addicts.”
“The hospital provides a place for the poor to gain access to free health care, food, and accommodation,” Patterson said as he picked up his tie. “Only a small part of the hospital is dedicated to long-term patients.”
Tyrell nodded. “Your staff there, how are they recruited?”
Patterson tucked his tie under his collar and began tying the knot.
“We advertise for volunteers. Why do you ask?”
Tyrell ignored the question.
“What background checks do you have in place when recruiting them?”
“All of our procedures follow recruitment laws,” Patterson replied without elaboration.
Lopez sensed her moment instinctively when Tyrell let a silence hang in the room.
“Do you have records of all members of staff?”
Patterson began fastening his cuff links. “The hospital’s records are very thorough.”
Tyrell spoke quickly, giving Patterson no room for thought.
“Where do the funds come from to finance the hospital itself?”
“From our congregation. We have almost thirty million members across the United States.”
“It is more blessed to give than to receive,” Tyrell ventured.
Patterson appeared surprised, and smiled. “It is indeed.”
There was a long pause when neither Tyrell nor Lopez said anything, simply looked around the sumptuous office.