The Chosen Read Online Free PDF Page B

him?”
    â€œYes.”
    Ben turned and waved at Fran Morrow.
    â€œHey, Fran…hold up a minute, will you? We might have an ID on the victim.”
    Fran frowned at January, then glared at Ben.
    â€œShe won’t know a hill of beans. She just wants a scoop on the others.”
    â€œNo cameras. I promise,” January said.
    Fran stopped the men who were moving the body into the van and then unzipped the upper portion of the bag.
    The head rolled a bit to the right, then tilted back toward the left before it came to rest.
    January swallowed the bile that rose up her throat and peered in.
    â€œIt’s him,” she said, and then covered her face with her hands. “Dear God, it’s him.”
    â€œHim, who?” Ben asked, as Fran zipped the bag and proceeded to load up her cargo.
    â€œHe calls…called himself Brother John,” she said.
    â€œAnd how do you know him?” Ben asked.
    January dropped her hands and looked away.
    â€œJanuary! Look at me,” he demanded, but she was staring down, as if she’d taken a sudden interest in his shoes.
    Ben took her by the shoulders, gently but firmly.
    Startled by the unexpected contact, she pulled out of his grasp.
    â€œGet your hands off me,” she muttered.
    â€œFine,” Ben said, and jammed his hands into his pockets. “But you invited yourself into my investigation, so you can answer the questions. How do you know him?”
    â€œI work the streets a lot. You know that,” she said.
    â€œSomehow I can’t picture you listening to sermons on street corners.”
    She looked up at him. “Why, Detective, I didn’t know that you pictured me at all.”
    This time it was Ben’s face that turned red.
    â€œListen to me, lady. This isn’t a game. What do you know about that man that I don’t?”
    She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “He called himself Brother John. He’s from somewhere in Louisiana, and he’s a Vietnam vet. That’s all I know about him.”
    There was a slight inflection to the word him that led Ben to believe she might know something else indirectly related to the case.
    â€œWhat aren’t you telling me?” he asked.
    January hesitated. What she knew was mostly a bunch of suppositions and guesses, and she was too much of a professional to put her reputation on the line with a story she couldn’t prove.
    â€œThat’s all I know about him. Really.” Then she added, “But I think there’s something else going on down in that place. There’s a man down there who calls himself the Sinner, and there’s gossip on the street that he’s doing some really weird things.”
    â€œHomeless people do weird things. My next-door neighbor does weird things. The world is full of weirdos, and Jesus freaks are everywhere.”
    â€œFine. You asked. I told you. Now if you’re not going to give me anything else, I’ve got a story to turn in.”
    â€œYou don’t have anything,” Ben said.
    â€œI have enough. Chopping a man’s head off is news, whether you like it or not.”
    She turned abruptly and ran toward the van.
    Ben watched her go.
    Â 
    Whether Ben liked it or not, January DeLena’s information about their victim being a Vietnam vet was paramount in helping them with identification and locating his next of kin. By ten o’clock the next morning, he’d learned the man’s name was Jean Louis Baptiste. He had one daughter, a woman named Laurette Bennet, who lived near New Orleans. She’d cried all the way through their conversation, then thanked him for the call before she hung up.
    Ben followed suit by laying the receiver back on the cradle. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a bottle of aspirin and shook three out into his hand. He’d awakened with a headache, and it wasn’t getting any better. He would have liked to blame it on January DeLena’s unexpected