It sounded like the prayers had wrapped up and the imam was speaking informally, maybe reminding everyone of the upcoming bake sale while passing around the collection plate, or whatever their version of that was.
Once the imam finished, people began to emerge from both doorways, chatting as they put on their shoes. Caleb approached Brodie along with an elderly man with a short gray beard who wore a flowing black robe and a white turban. The man stared at Brodie with his deep-set eyes, then said something in Arabic and walked away.
Caleb seemed a little uncomfortable. “Imam Hassan says we will talk in the hallway. Come.”
Caleb and Brodie followed the imam into a hallway near the stairs lit by dim fluorescents. The imam stopped walking once they seemed out of earshot of the congregants. He asked Brodie, “Who is you?”
“Jack Davis. As I told Caleb, I’m a friend of the American who was killed in the nearby park. I’m going around the neighborhood seeing if anyone saw him or interacted with him in his final days.”
The imam, who seemed to know a little English, nodded. “Sorry for you friend.”
“Thank you.”
“You friend police.”
“Yes. Military police. United States Army.”
“And you?”
“I’m a used car salesman.”
“Yes? And where you sleep in Berlin?”
“Look, I’m here to—”
The imam raised his hand to interrupt. “Police come. Talk to me.” He looked at Brodie. “You see police? Outside?”
“Yes.”
“They here”—he jabbed his finger toward the floor—“because person say come kill us. My daughter here. Caleb mother here. Little children here. This my home. They come kill us in home.” He pointed at Brodie. “Because of you friend. Muslim people kill him, yes? This they think. Always think Muslims bad people.”
“No one is accusing you of anything.” Except maybe supporting and financing Hezbollah, but he probably shouldn’t bring that up.
Caleb said, “Someone defaced the center with spray paint early this morning.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Brodie.
Caleb continued, “We talked to the police because we must, and because it was our duty as members of the community. But we need to think of our own safety, and not speak to… outsiders.”
The imam said something, and Caleb translated: “The imam wishes me to escort you out.”
Brodie looked at the imam, who stared back at him with his intense dark eyes. Brodie said, “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Caleb said to Brodie, “We usually open our hearts to strangers. But this is now, sadly, a time of distrust. A time of danger for us all.”
Well, he could understand how these people felt under siege, but it was also possible that the imam—and perhaps Caleb—knew something they weren’t telling him. Unfortunately, he had zero leverage to find out what that was.
Brodie said, “I don’t need an escort.”
“I insist,” said Caleb, who gestured back toward the landing. “You understand.”
Brodie walked down the stairs to the first floor, with Caleb following. When Brodie reached the lobby, he walked to the front door and turned to Caleb, who was standing near the foot of the stairs. “I hope your people told the truth to the police.”
“We do not tolerate lies in the house of God, Mr. Davis.”
“Right.”
Brodie stepped outside and passed between the two armed cops. He walked along the front of the Islamic center, then stopped to look at the wall next to one of the ground-floor windows. It appeared to have been freshly painted and was illuminated in the white glow of a nearby streetlamp.
