The Word of God
Most women spend their Saturday evenings with a date or a husband, or perhaps they cruise the bars with their girlfriends, hoping to pick up an unattached male. Shannon McCole spent her Saturday nights discussing the Bible. As the host of the radio talk show The Word of God, which aired from eight until midnight every Saturday, she sat in front of a microphone, talking to members of the listening audience who called in to make comments about social and political issues or ask for advice of a spiritual nature.
One Saturday evening Shannon was running late. She had gotten a flat tire on the way to work and had to wait for AAA to change it. At 7:54, she pulled into the parking lot of the Hyperion Communications building, slammed her car door shut, locked it with the remote and dashed into the lobby that served both the radio station and publishing company. Running at full tilt, she collided with a visitor who was on his way out.
"I'm so sorry," she apologized, as she stooped down to help the man pick up the papers he had been carrying.
"Don't worry about it," he replied with a captivating smile.
When Shannon looked into his eyes, she felt her knees go weak. He was by far the most handsome man she had ever seen.
"You must be in quite a rush," he said.
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.
When she opened the door to the studio, she was relieved to see that Lloyd Tilley, the assistant producer, was playing the extended version of the show's theme song to cover her absence. With a nod of gratitude to Lloyd, she went to her seat, adjusted the height of 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."
She pressed a lit button on the console and was connected to her first caller of the night.
"Hello. You're on the air."
It was a woman named Judy who was the mother of a fifteen-year-old girl.
"My poor baby has gone wild," the distraught parent cried. "She listens to that hippity-hop music, wears make-up and talks about boys with her girlfriends. Yesterday I found a pack of cigarettes in her purse. I don't know what to do. What does the 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 an appropriate response on the teleprompter. The host then read the message on the air and put the mother's mind at rest.
Having dispatched poor Judy, she looked at her computer monitor again. The number of callers had doubled.
"It's going to be a busy night," she predicted.
Two hours into the program, she took a 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. 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 you like mom except Myrtle," she said, signaling Lloyd to run a prerecorded commercial.
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 attractive man that she had run into in Hyperion's lobby the previous day standing on her doorstep.
"Y-yes?"
"I'm Detective Kent Spangler," he introduced himself and 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 in," the radio host said, stepping aside so that the detective could enter her home. "I was just about to make coffee."
While the coffee perked, Shannon ran into her bedroom and threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. When she returned to the kitchen, she saw that Kent had poured the coffee into the cups.
After the detective took a sip of the hot beverage, he said, "I understand you received a call last night from a man who claimed he was a voice crying out in the wilderness."
"I remember that one, all right. It was kind of creepy. He spouted the quote from Exodus about not suffering a witch to live and then hung up on me. Why do you ask?"
"Last night we found the body of a young Wiccan 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 only because she wanted to do her civic duty and aid the police in their investigation but also because she hoped to see the good-looking detective again.
Shannon did not 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 called the detective. Unfortunately, Kent did not answer, so she left a message on his voicemail.
Hoping to keep the caller on the line until she heard from the detective, she first took a call from a young woman named Beth.
"Hello, you're on the air."
Beth, a twenty-eight-year-old virgin, wanted Jesus's opinion on premarital sex since she was engaged to be married in three months and her fiancé was becoming impatient to consummate their upcoming union. Again, Shannon looked to her expert for help. She stalled as long as possible with the answer, and then, without hearing from Detective 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 analyze the tone, pitch and accent of his speech. But the caller sounded no different than hundreds of other men who had phoned the radio station in the past.
"What have you got for us tonight, 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.'"
Having had his say, the caller 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 with her after the show.
At 11:55, Kent Spangler walked into the radio station, and Shannon felt her pulse quicken when she saw him.
Damn, he's gorgeous! she thought.
At two minutes to midnight, the radio host hung up after speaking to her final caller.
"This is Shannon McCole, and you have been listening to The Word of God, brought to you by Otis Chevrolet and Myrtle's Fried Chicken. I hope you all tune in again next week. Until then, good night and God bless."
As Lloyd played her show's closing 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 really be a sicko. 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."
Shannon blanched. Since becoming the host of The Word of God six months earlier, she had to deal with some kooky religious fanatics, but she always believed they were essentially harmless. Now, she was faced with The Voice who had possibly murdered three people. 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 seven minutes shy of midnight, and there had been no word from The Voice.
"We have time for one or two last callers before we reach the end of our broadcast," she announced.
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: the voice crying from the wilderness."
"I remember you, Voice. You made quite an impression the last time you called in. My listeners are curious about you. Perhaps tonight you can tell us a little something about—"
"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 began, but the man hung up the phone before she could finish.
Shannon had tears in her eyes when she looked across the room at Wes Bowden, assuming 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. Good night and God bless."
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."
* * *
Early the next day, Shannon met Detective Spangler 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 involved! 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 several 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 indicates The Voice has some connection with your show. So, I ask you again: what do you know about Wes Bowden?"
"Not much, just that the producer of the show hired him because he's an expert on the Bible."
"He ought to be. He taught theology at Harvard."
"What is a Harvard professor doing working for a small radio station in a one-horse town in the heart of the Bible Belt?"
"That's what I'd like to know," the detective declared.
By the time they 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 was single and not currently seeing anyone.
"And what about you?" the charming law enforcement officer asked as he helped himself to an éclair and a second cup of coffee. "Is there a man in your life?"
"Not at the moment. I haven't been serious about anyone since I left college."
"Where did you go to school?"
"The University of Massachusetts."
"A Yankee, huh? What brings you down here to the South?"
"I couldn't get a job anywhere else," she replied.
"That's funny," the detective laughed.
"I'm serious," she countered. "I had no prior radio experience, so I had to take whatever I could get. Believe me. If I could have gotten a job somewhere else, even as a weather girl in Kalamazoo, I'd have taken it in a heartbeat. I'm only staying with the station until something better comes along."
"And what about your responsibility to your audience?"
"Have you ever listened to the calls I receive? Honestly, some of my listeners are no better than the guests on The Jerry Springer Show."
"They're people who are seeking spiritual advice so they can live happy, law-abiding, productive lives."
"Yeah, right! So, they phone into a radio show and ask an agnostic host to dig up a verse from a two-thousand-year-old book? It doesn't make much sense to me."
"You're an atheist?" the detective asked with surprise.
"An agnostic," she corrected him. "There's a difference."
"Either way, I think it's ironic that you're hosting a religious talk show when you don't believe what's written in the Bible."
"As I said, it was the only job I could find."
* * *
Shannon saw Kent three more times during the following week, once to discuss the case and twice to go out to dinner. As Saturday drew nearer, the radio host became anxious about her next show.
"The Voice has called me every week for the past three weeks. He's probably going to call me again, and someone else will die."
"I've got a man keeping watch over you, but if you're still worried about your safety," Kent said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a Glock 42 pistol, "you might want to carry this with you until we catch the killer."
"A gun? No way! 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 firearm.
"I don't even know how to use this."
The detective was more than willing to teach her.
* * *
Throughout her next 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 some electronic device that would relay a prerecorded message to the radio station? She recalled her previous conversations with The Voice. They could have been recordings 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 during the broadcast, 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.
Her eyes on the clock and her mind pondering Wes's guilt, Shannon did not look at her computer monitor before answering the call.
"Hello. You're on the air."
"I am the voice crying in the wilderness."
She 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 Micah, 'Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity. And I will execute vengeance in anger and fury upon the heathen.'"
Several times Shannon tried to interrupt him, but he continued as though he did not hear her. When she heard the click of the receiver, she 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 unlocked the door to her house, a car pulled into her driveway.
"Shannon, can I talk to you for a minute?" Wes asked as he approached her.
"This is a bad time."
"It's important. I think that caller, the one who refers to himself as 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. We must do something and soon. 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 who are 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 did not 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 could be only one answer to that question. He was there to kill her!
"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."
Wes took two steps toward her. As Shannon reached into her handbag for her cell phone, her fingertips touched the grip of the gun Kent had given her. When the former professor drew closer, she pulled the pistol from her purse and shot him.
* * *
Shannon screeched her tires as she slammed on the brakes. She jumped out of her car, ran up the stairs of Kent's condominium and frantically knocked on the front door. There was no answer, so she pushed on the unlocked door and went inside. There was a light burning in the bedroom.
"Kent? Are you in there?" she cried.
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 wooden crucifix dominated the room.
"Shannon. What are you doing here?"
The radio host ran into the detective's arms.
"Oh, Kent! It was horrible! Wes followed me to my house and pushed his way inside. I asked him to leave, but he wouldn't. I was terrified! He came toward me, and my hand was on the gun, and the next thing I knew I had shot him."
"Don't cry, my child," he said as though he were a clergyman comforting a member of his congregation. "He was a sinner; he deserved to die."
Shannon, trembling, pulled away and looked up into his face.
"You're The Voice!" she cried as the realization hit her.
"Yes, I am," he admitted with pride rather than guilt. "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 better accomplish 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 deliberately turned me against Wes, didn't you?" she asked, remembering that he was the one who first cast doubt on the Harvard professor. "And then you gave me the gun, hoping I might use it on him. If you wanted him dead, why didn't you kill him yourself?"
"I would have eventually, but I wasn't ready to go after him just yet."
"Then why the quote from Micah on tonight's show?"
"It wasn't intended for him. It was meant 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 Glock in her jacket pocket. She managed to point it at his midsection and pull the trigger, but the chamber was empty.
"I really did like you," he admitted. "Until I learned you were a nonbeliever. What a shame! The two of us could have been happy together, doing God's work, but as it is written in Jeremiah, 'I will not let my pity or mercy or compassion keep me from destroying' the lord's enemies."
Although Shannon fiercely fought her attacker, she lacked the physical strength to best him. As she felt herself losing consciousness, Kent's hands suddenly let go, and she fell to the floor. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Wes Bowden standing over her, holding a tire iron in his right hand. There was a bloody towel wrapped around his left arm.
"Are you okay?" the wounded man asked.
"You tried to warn me," Shannon sobbed hoarsely through her aching throat, "but I thought you were the killer."
Wes put down the tire iron, took out 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 theology professor put his good arm around his coworker and said, "It's not up to me to save the world from Kent Spangler. According to Romans 12:19, 'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'"
Salem once hosted a late-night radio show, but—like Conan O'Brien—he was replaced by Jay Leno.
