The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3)

by Brian Shea

  "Definitely not."

  Charles took a few more photographs while standing over the priest, then said, “I’m good. Ready to roll?”

  "Ready. Hey, Jimmy, can you grab his feet? We're going to do a roll," Kelly called out to Mainelli, who made an agreeable grunt. He was now used to his friend's nonverbal responses to work.

  "All right, on three. One, two, three."

  Tomlin’s body now rested on his left side. He was cold, but rigor hadn’t begun to set, making the roll easier than most.

  Charles took several photos from underneath the priest's right side and then of the exit wound outside his right temple area, which was much larger than the entrance wound.

  "We need a quick photo of that, with scale," Charles said.

  Kelly, already one step ahead of him, had the scale ready to go.

  After a few clicks of the camera, Charles said, "All set with that. Let's back out."

  Kelly worked himself out of the tight space, leaving the priest's body resting in its new position.

  "What the hell is that?" Barnes asked.

  "What’s what?" Kelly glanced around, excited at the prospect she had spotted the missing round.

  "That mark on his hand." Barnes was now peering over Mainelli's shoulder as Kelly and Charles squatted lower, hovering over the body.

  "Oh my God," Kelly said, seeing the carved X on the web of the priest’s right hand between his thumb, knuckle, and index finger. That same mark had been left on his partner, Danny Rourke—the perpetual red card on his murder board. An overlooked piece of evidence when his body was found over eight years ago.

  “This just went from bad to worse,” Barnes said.

  The group’s shocked silence affirmed her words.

  5

  "Let's run through it again," Kelly said.

  Mainelli rubbed his eyes and then buried his face in his large hands, completely masking his facial expression. But Kelly knew the tortured look he wore.

  Even with the conference room’s moderated temperature, Mainelli was sweating profusely. The fitness-resistant investigator was beginning to show signs of wear from the long day, which started at the church and was now closing in on its tenth consecutive hour of tedium, with the last four taking place inside the BPD Homicide unit’s conference room, affectionately referred to as The Depot. The room’s name started as a joke that stuck, though nobody could pinpoint its origin. It was a reference to the end of the line, a homage to the city’s public transportation rail system.

  At first glance, The Depot was anything but extraordinary, just an average-size conference room with a long outstretched table, several chairs, computer screens on both walls, and several keyboards enabling the detectives to access different files and pull them up for everyone to view. What made the room special were the cases solved within its walls.

  Kelly was old school when it came time to hash out a case, as were most of the people in the room with him. He used the room’s technology sparingly, preferring to spread the case out on the table and manipulate the tangible documents rather than use the monitor displays. And right now, he was looking down at the series of photographs Charles had taken at the scene, in particular those of Tomlin’s body in the confessional’s cramped space.

  They were reviewing the crime scene again, and Mainelli couldn't have looked more annoyed at the prospect. "Seriously, Mike?” he complained. “How many times do you want to look at it today? Why don't we take a break, call it a day, come back with this thing early in the morning, fresh? Who knows? Maybe we sleep on it, something pops into our minds.”

  “We’re all tired. But I don’t think we’ve hit a stopping point yet,” Kelly offered. Trying to coax Mainelli into focusing on the case was getting harder with each passing second.

  “All I'm saying is a break might be nice, Mike."

  Kelly gave him a stern look. Although Mainelli had been with Homicide for more years than Kelly, in the last few months Kelly had shown a tenacious drive mechanism that put some of his more senior partners to shame.

  Barnes sat at the table, unfazed at reinvestigating the scene from beginning to end in their fruitless attempt at finding the evidentiary needle in the haystack, the clue that could be lying just within arm's reach.

  Currently, they’d hit a stalemate. As if to punctuate the real reason for Mainelli's request for an evening recess, his stomach rumbled loudly.

  "Jimmy, feel free to cut loose at any time. I'm going to look at it again. I understand if you've got some things to take care of; go do it. No one's holding you back. Kris and I can hold down the fort."

  Mainelli looked at his watch and sighed, then followed with an exasperated roll of his eyes. Kelly knew he had won the battle by calling him out as the only member who would be leaving, an attack on his ego. Pride prevented his departure. Kelly played the card and it worked. Mainelli would be staying for another session of round table discussion, an additional examination of the crime scene and the clues spread out before them.

  "All right, good. We’re all in agreement, then,” Kelly said. "Let's start at the beginning and look at what we've got so far. Maybe we can find something to add to the board."

  Heads turned to the dry erase board affixed to the wall nearest Kelly. The board wasn’t held in much reverence by his colleagues, but for Kelly it was a tool he felt very comfortable with. He had used it during his time as a crisis negotiator and found the board’s visual fluidity an excellent way to highlight case facts and keep them in sight of the group. As the brainstorming continued, details would be added as needed, its simplicity a great way to keep a finger on the pulse of an investigation. Kelly always made sure he photographed the board prior to departing The Depot. The men and women of Homicide had a penchant for doodling, and he learned the hard way to capture and wipe the board prior to leaving for the night.

  The smudged writing on the board displayed key notes they’d obtained since the onset of the investigation. The list did not adequately convey the effort it took to reach its current state, a bleak outlook thus far for the case’s progression.

  Vic: Benjamin Tomlin, age 46 (priest)

  Timeline: 10:00-10:30 a.m.

  MOD: Gunshot left temple

  Caliber unk

  No round No casing

  Wit: Donovan O’Brien

  Interview: Y

  Deborah Shoemaker

  Interview: N

  Surveillance Cameras

  Interior: N

  Exterior: 3 (patrol checking)

  Forensics: Pending

  Autopsy: Pending

  UID: Mark on hand

  Suspect: None

  "We’re looking at a lot of dead ends on this board,” Kelly said. “The bloody footprints were confirmed to be from Officer Chandler’s boot, so that’s another dead end." The comparison had been quickly completed by Charles and his young crime scene tech protégé Dawes, photographed, and was now in the pile of pictures spread out on the tabletop.

  Kelly stared at the board, lost in thought. "So we've got no witnesses, no close-in cameras that may have picked anything up immediately around the church or on the inside. Patrol is checking a few externals from surrounding businesses, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “I’ve got a call into Jenkins at the Eleven,” Mainelli offered. “He’ll give us a heads-up if anything comes from it. His guys are working on pulling the tapes.”

  “O’Brien appears to have been first contact with the decedent. Nothing else we’ve discovered points to the contrary. With that, I think we have a pretty solid timeline established, and it’s an extremely tight window. Right now we have no description for a suspect. Shoemaker will be coming in tomorrow morning for an interview. More disturbing, though…" Kelly paused, focusing his attention on the lower half of the board. "We've got a single gunshot wound to the left side of Father Tomlin's temple, exit wound right-side temple, and pass-through with heavy cranial damage. The round struck the wall of the confessional on the opposite side. Cha
rles has confirmed after carefully evaluating the impact area and confessional chamber after the body removal that no round was found on scene. That’s a big problem for me. For a whole lot of reasons."

  Kelly turned to face Barnes and Mainelli, who were seated side by side across the table. "I don't like to make conjectures this early into an investigation, but for our suspect to remove the round from the wall shows me we have somebody with practical experience—possibly dealing with a professional."

  Mainelli rubbed his eyes for the second time in not as many seconds. "Like I've said before, anybody with internet and YouTube access can find ways to beat a crime scene. Or at least make it harder. Every banger we come across lately seems to know better than to leave their shell casings on scene, at least if they're not too high or drunk to do so. We're only catching the stupid ones now.”

  “Maybe you’re right and this wasn't a professional, but I’m with Mike,” Barnes weighed in. “Somebody took the time to make sure the round wasn't on scene and no casing was left behind. You take those two pieces of evidence out of the equation and we're grabbing at thin air."

  Mainelli was the portrait of frustration. They’d been stuck in this loop since Charles had confirmed the missing evidence.

  "I get it, but we have to consider that possibility. And then there’s the other problem." Kelly tapped the capped end of the dry erase marker in his hand against the board. This was the elephant in the room, the unspoken piece nobody really wanted to talk about. Were they looking at a serial killer? The mark cut into the priest’s hand was identical to the one carved into murdered BPD Patrolman Danny Rourke’s hand. The photograph from the case file of Kelly’s former patrol partner was nearby and open. The view of the strange X marked on his partner’s right hand in the web joining his thumb and index finger stared back at him.

  Kelly typed on the keyboard, and the monitor on the wall came to life with a side-by-side comparison of both photographs. Without going into the forensic aspect of what tool could have left the mark, on first inspection they looked eerily identical.

  "You think whoever did your partner is the same guy? He reappears after—what, eight, almost nine years to kill a priest? Please, tell me the connection. I’ve got to understand this." A hint of sarcasm was sprinkled not too lightly into Mainelli’s words.

  It was Kelly’s turn to rub his eyes in exhaustion. "If I knew the connection, we'd already be heading out of this room to find the perp. I can't make sense of it. That's why I've got it up on the screen and on the board. And you should know better than most that there's no such thing as coincidence in what we do."

  Barnes had remained silent for the majority of this round of conversation but decided now would be the time to insert herself. "I agree with Mike. It's just too damn coincidental, too close, too connected to not be the same. And what about Phillip Smalls, the rapist we found dead during the Wilson case? He had the same mark on his left hand.”

  A third picture popped up on the screen in line with the rest. All three hands bore the distinctive X on the outside web.

  "Tell me what it means, then," Mainelli said.

  "I don't have a clue. All I know is we have three unsolved murders with one glaring connection. We need some fresh perspective on this."

  "And that's why we've brought in some help," a voice grumbled from The Depot’s door as it opened. Sergeant Sutherland surveyed the room, taking in the screen, the papers strewn across the table, and the notes on the whiteboard.

  Behind him stood a clean-cut, athletically built man Kelly didn’t recognize.

  "Team, I'd like to introduce FBI Special Agent Sterling Gray."

  Kelly heard Mainelli curse quietly under his breath. Seeing the agent was like the nail in the coffin for his partner. With the FBI getting involved this late in the day, he now knew he wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. Kelly watched as this prospect sank into Mainelli, completely sucking the wind out of his partner's sails until he had deflated like a punctured helium balloon.

  "Hi, guys," Sterling said in a casual manner. His accent sounded as though he might be from the Southwest, or maybe even Texas. Hard to tell, but one thing was for certain: he definitely didn’t grow up local.

  Kelly had come to know many of the local FBI agents within the Boston network of task forces, but he was unfamiliar with Gray. His first guess was this was an out-of-towner.

  "I'm not trying to take over your scene, your case,” Sterling said. “This is your baby. I understand that, and the FBI does too."

  "Then why are you here?" Kelly asked, exhaustion adding an unintended edge of frustration to his voice. "If you're not here to take over, then why is the FBI getting involved with the case?"

  It was Sutherland who answered. "Media is already swirling into a real shit storm, Mike. They're breathing down the mayor's neck. And it’s starting to roll downhill. Everybody wants an answer. This murder has the community up in arms. It's not every day that a priest is executed, and within the confines of a church to boot. It's got people unnerved, unhinged. So we're doing everything we can to show the people of Boston we're taking this seriously. We’re bringing in all the heavy hitters and every resource at our disposal, one of which happens to be the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Do we have a problem, Mike?"

  Sergeant Dale Sutherland rarely spoke so forcefully, but it wasn't the first time Kelly had seen him bend to the power and strength of the command staff. Most recently, the sergeant had turned a blind eye to the politics that polluted Kelly’s investigation into a rogue undercover. It left him with a sour taste in his mouth with regards to Sutherland, but more importantly, some of the senior brass at the department. None of his personal misgivings changed the fact that a priest was murdered in his neighborhood. He was going to make sure he did everything in his power to bring about justice for that terrible wrong.

  And at this point, as he stared at the board and the markings on the three victims with their similarities but no connection, he was desperate for some assistance, whether he openly admitted it or not. Kelly was secretly interested in seeing what the FBI had to offer.

  "Like I said," Agent Gray offered, softening the aggressive introduction by Kelly's direct supervisor, "I'm not here to step on any toes. I know how Boston PD handles their cases. Your Homicide unit is top-notch and I’m just happy to have an opportunity to lend a hand. The resources of the FBI are at your disposal. Hopefully, it will help bring about a quick end to this case and give your community the closure it deserves."

  Community, Kelly thought. What does this guy know about the neighborhood? He didn't grow up there. He doesn't know what it's like. He doesn't have the connection to the people and places. He's not a hometown boy. He's not a townie. His motivations had to be purely political. Maybe he was a rising star in the FBI, and this was his way to get the face time he needed to climb the next rung. Or maybe he was considered an expert in this type of investigation. Whatever the reason, Kelly wasn't confident Gray would bring about much of a change in the course of things, but at this point, something was better than nothing.

  "Okay, Agent Gray, welcome to the team,” he said.

  "It's Sterling. Feel free to drop the ‘agent’ stuff. No need for it."

  Kelly couldn’t have agreed more and hearing the bureau man say it immediately improved his opinion of him. Rank was a hinderance to an investigation and held cops back from speaking plainly. It muddied the waters.

  Gray looked at the three images on the monitor. "I might be able to help with those."

  Kelly's interest was piqued.

  "Before you get into all that, a press conference is about to begin,” Sutherland said.

  “Son of a bitch,” Mainelli hissed, throwing his head back and staring at the ceiling.

  Sutherland cleared his throat loudly. “Jimmy, are you volunteering to speak? I know how much you like talking to the press.”

  Mainelli reset himself, leaning forward on an open case file atop the conference table.

  “It�
�s being held in the community room. When the brass delivers their message, they want the face of Boston Homicide standing alongside the FBI. So best get yourselves cleaned up." Sutherland added a wry smile. "You're going to be on camera."

  Kelly rolled his eyes. The thought of standing in front of a crew of reporters never jived with him, but it made even less sense at this point in an investigation. He didn’t do the job for the accolades or publicity. He did it for the sole purpose of delivering justice to those who needed it most, fighting for the people who couldn't fight for themselves.

  Since being assigned to Homicide, he understood his role. It was to speak for the dead, and the best way he could effectively do that was to find their killer.

  "I see the look on your faces. This isn't an ask or polite request. It's an order, and it comes from the top down. I'm just the messenger. Get yourselves prettied up.” Sutherland eyed Mainelli. “Especially you. You look like a wet sack of dog crap.”

  “Your kindness knows no bounds,” Mainelli retorted.

  “Oh yeah, almost forgot: be downstairs in five minutes. The press briefing will begin shortly thereafter."

  "They want us to talk, Sarge?" Mainelli asked.

  "Absolutely not. You're the last person the Boston public needs to hear from. You'll remove all sense of safety if you open that big mouth of yours."

  "Gee, Sarge, I never knew you loved me so much," Mainelli fired back.

  "Look, you guys know I'm at the end of my career. I don't need to ruffle any feathers. I want a smooth transition out of this PD. You understand me?"

  "You've been saying that ever since you banged your knee," Mainelli said, keeping the banter going.

  Every detective in Homicide knew the gruff sergeant had been working on getting his disability claim to reach a percentage that would enable him to take an early retirement. It was an ongoing battle, one the union had been fighting for several years. The longer the city jerked him around, the more disgruntled the once gregarious sergeant became.