Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1)

by Barbara Golder

  “Process everything from this seat over three more, Lucy. You never know what might have fallen out when the good sheriff and his men went a-hunting up there.”

  Lucy nodded, then helped me pull the stairwell into place between the rows of seats. We snapped on our gloves and our chic, blue booties. I peered up into the recesses of the bell tower.

  “Let me go first,” Lucy said.

  Before I could respond, she had clambered up the narrow stairs and was standing above me.

  “Not much room, but enough. Come on up,” she said.

  I smiled to myself, glad that my forensic techs felt enough confidence to order the boss around when necessary.

  By the time I poked my head into the belfry, Lucy was already looking carefully at the perimeter of the wooden square that housed the great iron bell that called the faithful to Sunday Mass and irritated the neighboring heathens who were sleeping off Saturday night’s excesses. I stepped carefully around the opening and looked out over her to the expanse of street below. This would indeed have been the perfect place to shoot at passersby. And it wouldn’t take a sharpshooter to hit the mark.

  It took us about forty-five minutes to inspect, sweep, process and bag all the potential evidence — contaminated though it was, from the ten-by-ten square. At length, Lucy stood up, pinched the last bag closed and stretched her back.

  “Prints?”

  “You bet. At least dust the rails and the uprights. That’s the most likely place for the shooter to have put his hands.”

  She nodded and started to work. Ten minutes later, my compulsive nature was rewarded with a palm print on both rails.

  “Nice,” Lucy remarked as she lifted them with an artisan’s appreciation for a work of great beauty.

  I looked at the spot, imagining how the hand must have been laid on the green enamel of the wood, still shiny and new from recent renovation. I leaned out over the edge and indicated the outside of the rail.

  “Betcha there’s a couple of fingerprints out here,” I said.

  “Betcha you’re right.”

  Lucy leaned out over the edge, worked her forensic magic, and soon enough produced two full prints on the far side of one rail and one on another. I watched with satisfaction. At least there was something, and Tom Patterson was wrong. There weren’t prints everywhere. Just on those two rails. Now all that remained was to figure out whose they were.

  I helped Lucy pack up the rest of the forensic kit, and followed her down the rickety stairs. The fading afternoon sun had left the balcony in shadows, and there was still the little matter of the seats to process.

  “I’ll get the lights,” I told her as I headed downstairs. “Do you need help with this?” I called back.

  I knew the answer before her. “No, thanks” reached my ears as I searched the wall by the front doors for the proper switch. It took a few moments to find the right one out of the six.

  “That’s it, thanks,” floated down from the balcony as the door to the church swung open and Father Matt walked in. He was dressed in khaki pants and a sweat-stained tee-shirt. His face was weary and his shoulders stooped. I hadn’t seen him since our breakfast in the Bean. It pained me to see him so haggard.

  “Jane. It’s you. Why are you here?” He ran his hand through his hair and attempted a smile. The attempt failed.

  I pointed upward. “The belfry. We had to process the scene. For what it’s worth.” I stopped, unsure what else to say. Part of me knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man could not have shot anyone. Another part of me remembered the betrayal of a man I thought close enough to be my brother. The two parts of my mind did battle, and the result was a standoff. I sighed, hating the uncertainty and for the moment, hating my job. “Father, I’m going to need your fingerprints.”

  Father Matt closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them again, I thought I saw them well with tears. He shrugged.

  “Let’s go then,” he said, as he held the church door open for me, and I walked out into the gathering evening.

  **********

  One advantage to black clothes, thought Father Matt, is that fingerprint ink won’t stain them. He’d wiped his hand absentmindedly on his khakis when Lucy Cho had finished printing his right hand, leaving a smear just above his knee. He wondered, as he walked back to the rectory, whether he’d ever wear his cassock again.

  The door was unlocked as it always was. He glanced around the untidy room without turning on the light. His eyes came to rest on the chair Pete Wilson had been sitting in just a few nights before. Maybe if he had kept his door locked, Wilson would never have cornered him, never have written that article. Perhaps Isa was right. He needed to be more wary.

  Too late. He knew the drill. Even the slightest whiff of suspicion, and a priest was yanked from his parish, guilty until proven innocent. He’d stopped at the gas station outside of town and called back to the bishop’s office on his way back from his hike. The vicar general was coming tomorrow and until further notice, Father Matt was relieved of his faculties. He was forbidden to celebrate the Mass, hear confessions, present himself as a priest in any way at all. He flopped in the chair, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, at nothing in particular.

  He sat there, thinking and praying, until it was fully dark, the only light spilling in from the street lamp outside the window. Then he stood up, looked at the crucifix bathed in shadows on the wall and flipped on the light. He needed to pack. The bishop made it clear he couldn’t stay in the rectory. It wouldn’t take long. He wouldn’t need any of his black clothes.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JUNE 19, MORNING

  It was a miserable morning. Even if I hadn’t looked at the calendar to know it was the anniversary of John’s death, the ache in my very soul would have told me. I’d woken up just before dawn, tossing and fretting, unable to get back to sleep, much to the dismay of my two cats. My thrashing about eventually drove them, complaining, from my bed to find more hospitable digs, presumably with Ben or Pablo or Isa. After an hour or so of restlessness, spent uneasily in the twilight between sleep and full consciousness, I gave up, showered, pulled on jeans, a frayed white shirt and hiking boots, and headed into town.

  There was nothing to draw me to the office, so I headed up the trail to Bear Creek Falls, hoping to exorcise the restlessness with a good long walk. I stopped to look back over town as the trail rose, quiet and deserted, above Town Park. Telluride wakes up late on its best day, and no one was about, not even the construction workers, mostly Mexicans, who were building several new, expensive and expansive homes at the edge of town. One lonely dog, a golden retriever, trotted across the street, the only sign of life.

  Ordinarily such a peaceful scene would have given me some rest. Today it only irritated me. I headed up the trail, pacing out the distance with military rhythm and purpose, pushing through the winded fatigue that set in almost as soon as the trail took an upward pitch. I had lived in Telluride long enough to be acclimated to the elevation, but still found the first mile of any walk to be pure torture, all burning lungs and unwilling muscles. I had learned from experience not to give into it, to keep on by force of will. Eventually, my breathing would even out, my legs would warm up and my strides would become regular and easy, allowing me to put energy into thinking rather than moving. It was all a matter of will, of getting past the resistance that my body has to changing gears, to accepting challenges.

  I had not quite accomplished the break-in mile when I heard a noise behind me, a regular stride, approaching quickly, but a softer sound than that of hiking boots. I turned to see an early morning jogger effortlessly making his way up the trail, clad in green shorts, white singlet and garish orange running shoes. He lifted a hand in greeting without ever breaking stride, and I watched his form disappear around a bend in the trail, envious of such physical prowess. Awash in self-pity, I wondered why even the simple act of taking a walk to a pleasant spot in t
he woods was such a trial for me these days.

  John and I had loved to walk in the woods, even on the steamiest days in Florida. We’d wake early, before the sun was up in the middle of summer, and stroll through the hammock park that bordered our home, listening to the coo of doves and the drone of cicadas. Sometimes we’d take one of the children, and John would point out things along the way with his artist’s eye, things I saw but missed, being caught up in the patterns instead of seeing the pictures. But most of the time we’d walked alone, in our private start of the day, just as the quiet evening time drinking Jameson’s ended it, the children safe in the care of one or another relative that had showed up miraculously in need of assistance just when we needed a mother’s helper.

  The children, my kids, were all that I had left to link me to John. “How will we manage?” I had sputtered. Medical school and residency and law school loomed ahead, and I wasn’t at all certain how children would fit in those plans.

  “You’ll see,” was all that he would say. “It will work out. Trust me. Trust God.”

  And it had worked out. Children hadn’t come until I was past the brutal part of my law and medical classes and had already embarked on the relatively gentle schedule of a pathologist. We found a rambling old Victorian near the hospital with more than enough room for a large family when we finished training and started to make our way in the world, so that I could work from an office in the garage and still cover duties in the hospital. A wide assortment of relatives, friends of relatives, and relatives of friends turned up on our doorstep to stay with us and lend a hand.

  Looking back, I knew that it had often been chaos, with all the usual childhood illnesses and problems, with intermittent crises in both of our practices, with lousy partners and incompetent hospital administrators, and the deaths of parents, and a miscarriage, too much debt and too little income — but it had all worked out and I had loved it. I had loved John and not a single moment of it seemed a trial to me. It had all been joy because of John, my other half, the true mate of my soul, who had led me, uncertainly and sometimes unwillingly, from fear into generosity, from hiding into life.

  Such trust. In me. In God. In the Church. In everything and everyone. It had been his undoing, and mine. He never saw Tommy Berton coming for him in the parking lot that day, never had a chance to duck between cars because it never entered his mind that the car bearing down on him was actually meant to kill him. I’d learned to trust and to live with John, but Tommy Berton shattered it, and I would never get it back. Damn him.

  By the time I reached the falls, the jogger had passed me coming back. The sun was full up, I was sweating, and I was hungry. I splashed cold water on my face, and turned around, half jogging myself, almost enjoying the jarring twinge that my heavy-soled boots sent through my shins with each step.

  **********

  I was in no mood to cook breakfast for myself. I headed for Leona’s, a small bakery and cafe that had opened only a few months before. I usually avoided it because it served a side portion of politics along with the food, and I was generally averse to, and irritated by, propaganda about global warming, the evils of Republicans and the virtues of sexual liberation, and so tended to vote with my pocketbook and eat at establishments that realized on what side their economic bread was buttered. This morning the smell of frying bacon overcame me and I ducked inside.

  And ran right into Father Matt, already seated at a table, cup of coffee in hand. He motioned me to the table and pulled out a chair.

  “Join me.”

  He looked as glum as I was, and he was dressed in jeans.

  I sat down gratefully, and he motioned for the waitress to bring a cup of coffee. She acknowledged his wave, but languished near the pass through, and waited until the cook put up a plate before she poured the coffee. She brought it with the plate, putting a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage, garnished with a slice of ripe tomato on a bed of lettuce, in front of Father Matt.

  Breakfast has never been my favorite meal, and eggs are far from my favorite food. I’ve learned to eat them, at least, but to say that I am particular in their preparation is to understate the case. The eggs that Father Matt was about to tuck into looked rubbery and overdone. I decided to opt for my fall-back breakfast instead.

  “I’ll have a BLT, please,” I said as I took a sip of coffee from the mug. It was lukewarm. Great.

  The waitperson — a prominent sign on the restaurant wall declared that the servers were to be addressed in politically correct terms — looked up from her pad.

  “Sorry. That’s lunch. We’re only serving breakfast.”

  She adjusted the ring in her nose, raising unpleasant hygienic possibilities in my mind.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, incredulous.

  “We don't serve lunch until 11:30. This is breakfast. Do you want a menu?”

  I looked at the toast that Father Matt was using to wipe a bit of egg from the plate and the garnish that lay untouched on the side. I tried again.

  “Don’t you serve bacon for breakfast?” I asked reasonably.

  “Sure.”

  “And toast? Wheat toast?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I pointed to Father Matt's plate. “And what's that?”

  “Tomato. Lettuce. We use it to garnish the plates.”

  We were making progress. “So can you explain to me why you can't make a BLT for me?”

  “We don't get the mayonnaise out until lunch.”

  God help me, the woman was serious. I sighed. It wasn’t worth it.

  “You going to eat that?” I asked, pointing to the side of his plate.

  “All yours,” he answered around a bite of sausage and toast.

  “Okay, then bring me an order of wheat toast and a side of bacon.” I extended the cup to her, “and some hot coffee.” I’d give up the mayo in penance for the suffering souls in purgatory. I forced a smile. “Please.”

  “Sure.”

  Another adjustment to the ring and she was gone, snapping her gum as she left.

  “Gotta love it,” Father Matt said as he followed her retreating form. “What brings you here so early?”

  I toyed with a flip answer, but decided against it. John’s presence was too close. If I held Father Matt at bay, I was afraid I would push John away too. I answered honestly. “Couldn't sleep. It's the anniversary of John’s death. You?”

  “I couldn’t sleep either. The bed at the Victorian is a bit short for me.”

  It took me a minute to realize why he wasn’t in his usual cassock and why he was staying at the Victorian.

  “Surely the bishop doesn’t believe...”

  “It doesn’t matter what he believes. He has no choice. Bad enough to be accused of… impropriety. He can’t leave an accused murderer in charge of a parish, not even one this small.”

  “Give it time. It will all sort out. I promise.”

  It sounded hollow, even to me. How could I promise anything when I knew nothing? His sad expression told me he knew better. Over the time I’ve known Father Matt, we’ve developed the habit of quiet with each other, feeling no pressing need to talk when words are not the issue. I waited for him to find the words he was looking for.

  “You know, Jane, it took me a long time to quit running and enter the seminary. But since then, there’s nothing I wanted to be except a priest. It’s who I am. Only now, it looks like it’s not what I am going to be, ever again, and I don’t know what to do about it.” He took a deep, ragged breath, somewhere between sigh and sob.

  “You know that’s not true, Father.”

  I was surprised at my conviction and my candor. The walk must have jarred something loose in my soul. I reached my hand across the table and covered his. It was warm and soft, the hand of one unaccustomed to physical labor. The hand I expected from a priest. I realized with a start that, though I had shaken that hand many times, I'd not really felt it ever before.

  “And I know how you feel. Believe me, I do. My life changed i
n an instant, too, and I know what it’s like. Only for you, it will get better, because we’ll find out who’s shooting people, and it isn’t you and you aren’t...you aren’t…”

  I found myself unable to go on. My heart ached with a pain so physical it nearly doubled me over, but I was determined not to succumb to tears, not again and not here.

  Father Matt slipped his hand out from under mine to rest it on top of mine, heavy and protective.

  “No, Jane, I’m not. And you and Tom will figure it out. I just have to be patient. Sorry to burden you with my worries when you have so many of your own. Are you all right?”

  I sighed. “I’m not. I’m a mess. I can’t sleep. I can’t get on with life. My kids are worried about me. I’m miserable and I’m making everyone around me miserable. I can’t even do my job right anymore.” I paused again, to collect my thoughts, and drew in a sharp breath. “I just miss him,” I concluded in a small voice.

  Father Matt didn’t answer. He just left his hand on mine until the waitress returned with the bacon and toast. Then he slid it off, and assembled my sandwich, cutting it on the diagonal and shoving the plate across to me.

  “Eat,” he commanded. “And listen. Not a word, Jane. Just listen to me. John died. It was a tragedy, a terrible waste of a life. But it’s over, and it was his life, not yours. Like it or not, you’re still here, and you still have a life to live. You still have gifts and you have people who love you and who want to love you and you have things to do. You cannot let this eat away at you anymore. Time is running out, Jane.”

  Oddly, no tears threatened; I just felt hollow and alone. I swallowed a bite of sandwich and took a sip of the fresh cup of coffee, as lukewarm as the first. It was fitting. It was how I’d spent the last three years, lukewarm. Never hot, never cold, just lonely and tepid.