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“I never heard it from Jerry or any of his group or from anyone else in this church. Only from outsiders, barging in here with wild charges, people totally depraved, every one of them.”
    Dave gave him a one-cornered smile. “I didn’t think See-No-Evil, Hear-No-Evil, Speak-No-Evil were Christians,” he said. “I thought they were monkeys.”
    “You and I both know where the evil is in this neighborhood,” Shumate said, “and it’s not in Bethel Church.”
    “Did Dawson have a high-pitched, gravelly voice?”
    Shumate blinked. “You could describe it like that.”
    “Easy to mistake for anyone else’s voice?” Dave asked.
    “You couldn’t miss it,” Shumate admitted. “Why?”
    “He captained the raid on Lon Tooker’s shop,” Dave said. “Six men. Masked. They all claimed afterward they were downstairs here, praying. Now—if they lied to the police that time, they could have lied to them about Dawson’s whereabouts on the night he was killed. Now, I’m asking you—did they have some action planned for that night?”
    “And I’m telling you,” Shumate said, “I don’t know. If Tooker believed Jerry Dawson raided his shop, then why doesn’t that suggest to you what it suggests to the police—that Tooker killed him?”
    “For one thing, the raid took place ten days before Dawson’s death. Why would Tooker wait?”
    “Maybe Jerry went there that night?”
    “A witness says no. And Dawson didn’t see relatives that night. He didn’t see friends. He didn’t come here to the church. He wasn’t at his business. Where was he? Whom did he see and for what reason?”
    “His life was an open book,” Shumate said. “I knew the man almost as well as I know myself. He was uncomplicated, straightforward. He had a successful business, gave God the credit, contributed generously to this church—and not just in money; in works, good works of all kinds.”
    “He was around here a lot,” Dave said. “All right, then tell me this—did you notice anything out of the ordinary about him before he was killed? Was there any change in him? Did he make any out-of-the-way remarks? Was he—?”
    “Hold it.” Shumate frowned, pressing his temples with his fingertips, eyes shut. “There was something. Yup. I’d forgotten about it.” He gave Dave a look that was half smile, half frown. “You must get high marks in your job, Mr. Brandstetter.”
    “I’ve been at it a long time,” Dave said. “You’re about to break the Dawson case wide open, are you?”
    Shumate laughed. “I don’t think so. But it did seem a little odd at the time, a little out of character. It was after Sunday-morning service. In the parking lot. I went around there, wheeling an elderly parishioner in his chair. He only gets out on Sunday. It cheers him up to have a man to talk to for a few minutes. He’s surrounded at home by a wife and three daughters. And after he was in the car and I was putting the wheelchair into the trunk, I noticed Jerry Dawson in a far corner of the lot talking to a big young fellow in a cowboy hat, cowboy boots.”
    “A stranger,” Dave said.
    “I’d never seen him before. He had been inside for the service, though, way up in the balcony at the back. He was noticeable because he has a beard.” Shumate smiled faintly. “Like an Old Testament prophet. And bright blue eyes. Black beard, black brows, blue eyes.”
    “You didn’t hear what they were talking about?”
    “No, but I think they were quarreling. The boy swung away angrily. He slammed the door of his truck. It was one of those outsize pickup trucks, with big, thick tires. Some sort of machinery in the back. He burned rubber leaving that parking lot. But that wasn’t all that was unusual. Jerry Dawson looked as if he’d seen a ghost. I waved to him, since he’d noticed me watching. But he didn’t speak or wave back. He just walked off to his car.”
    “And he didn’t bring the matter up to you later?”
    “There was no later,”