Healing - Day 4

Two nights later, Logan was again going through the channels and saw another Billy Taylor crusade on the television. This time he was in Minneapolis. Logan thought about the time he had spent in Minneapolis. It was nice in the summer, but in the winter it wasn’t a fit place for anyone. The program was basically the same as the one he had watched a couple of nights before. It was the same music, same lighting, same people falling down silliness. How can people buy into this crap, questioned Logan to himself. Then he noticed something, a light blue handgrip on one of the wheelchairs at the front of the stage. This didn’t make sense. Unless he was watching the same show or the same location, how could the same wheelchair be at the front of the stage?

A couple of minutes on the Internet and Logan found his answer. Tonight, Billy Taylor was in Minneapolis. Two nights ago they were in Memphis. Were the wheelchairs on the stage just a prop? Did they carry wheelchairs around the country? Logan knew it was nothing but a show, but. . . No, he thought. I’m going to watch a whole crusade before I pass judgment. There’s nothing illegal about stage props. It was immoral, maybe, but not illegal. Logan watched the crusade four more times that week, four different towns, but same basic show. In each town, there was the wheelchair with the light blue handgrip. Each time it was in a different place, but each time it was there.

Frank had taken off Thursday mornings for years. And for him, Thursday morning meant golf with Bob Damien, Father Bob Damien, childhood friend and priest. Usually, when they began their Thursday round, one or two people would volunteer themselves to play along with them. Neither man was a scratch golfer, but neither one of them would ever appear in the record books.

The Lacy thing was still pulling on Frank. It wasn’t that it was the only matter on his mind, he probably had a dozen files on his desk being worked. Besides, Lacy wasn’t even a murder. The woman had quit her treatments on her own. She had decided to stop. Suicide? Maybe. Murder? No. But the one thing he couldn’t get off his mind was that damn wheelchair with the light blue handgrip.