Until Judgment Day

by Christine McGuire

  Benedetti stopped preaching to concentrate on basketball. He bent at the knees, dribbled to the paint on the far end, finger-rolled in a left-handed lay-up, and raised his clenched fist over his head.

  • • •

  When the priest ran to the opposite end, he strode purposefully but silently across the court, pulled the priest’s horn-rimmed glasses out of the gym bag, and crushed them on the floor with his shoe, then sat on a bleacher seat near the top.

  Benedetti dribbled the basketball back toward the near basket, reciting the sermon under his breath, pulled up, and launched a jumper from beyond the three-point line. The ball whispered through with a swish and bounced back to him on the backspin.

  “Father Benedetti?”

  “Yes.” The priest stopped. “Who’s there?”

  “May I talk to you?”

  “I suppose so.” Benedetti picked the towel up off the floor, wiped his face, and trotted toward the bleachers. “Is it important?”

  “Very.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I called your secretary. She told me where to find you.”

  “How did you—” Benedetti paused, confused. “I locked the doors.”

  “I let myself in.”

  “I don’t understand. Where are my glasses?” Benedetti fumbled in his gym bag, then dumped its contents on the seat and squinted toward the voice. “Do I know you?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “I’m not sure I like this.”

  Benedetti frowned and took a step backward, but pulled up abruptly when he stepped on the remains of his eyeglasses.

  “What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “Business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  He reached under his jacket and pulled out a 6-inch .357-magnum Colt Python.

  “The unfinished kind.”

  Benedetti involuntary gasped. “Wha-what are you doing?”

  “Finishing business.”

  “Don’t do that!”

  He aimed the Python, tightened his sphincter muscle, and squeezed the trigger.

  The high-velocity slug ripped through Benedetti’s left hip, spun him around, tore his femur out of its socket, and shattered his pelvic bone, releasing great rhythmic spurts of blood.

  The priest collapsed, groaning, falling onto his back, his left toes still pointed unnaturally down toward the floor. Blood coursed down his thigh and pooled under his buttocks.

  The shooter clomped down the bleachers and stood over the priest, his right hand dangling at his side, still grasping the pistol.

  Clutching his thigh, Benedetti tried to crawl away, but made it only a few feet before the shooter stuck the bottom of his shoe against the top of the priest’s bald head.

  “Help me, please,” Benedetti looked up at his attacker and pleaded.

  “Go to hell.”

  “My God, I’m bleeding.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Why do you want to hurt me?” Benedetti whimpered.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, I want to kill you,” he spat, then blew away the top of Reverend James Benedetti’s head.

  The shooter stared at the twitching body for a moment, dropped the pistol, and strode across the shiny hardwood floor. He pulled out his tools, locked the door behind him, tugged off the latex gloves, and shoved them in his front pants pockets with the pick gun.

  Chapter 10

  “EMMA, COME IN HERE, PLEASE.” Kathryn Mackay was at her computer in the spare bedroom that she and Dave shared as a home office, e-mailing last-minute Christmas greetings to her relatives in Detroit and Cleveland.

  Emma stuck her head around the corner of the door and peeked in.

  Their yellow Lab squatted on his haunches, staring at Kathryn adoringly. The dog’s muzzle, beyond the reach of his long tongue, was dusty white and powdered sugar hung from his whiskers like fresh snow clinging to bare tree branches. He licked his lips, yawned, and burped.

  “Jeez, Sam, you’re so uncouth!”

  “Yes, Mom?” Emma asked.

  “Did you feed cookies to Sam?”

  “A couple.”

  “Define ‘a couple.’”

  “Four.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “’Cause it’s seven-thirty, and Dave’s not home with dinner yet, and me ’n’ Sam were starved.”

  “Sam and I were starved.”

  “You too?” Emma lost the battle to keep a straight face. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t give the dog any more sweets.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve.”

  “You’ll make him sick.”

  “What a Grinch.”

  “Emma—” The sound of a key in the front door interrupted Kathryn’s lecture on canine nutrition.

  “That’s Dave.” Kathryn clicked the Send key, zapping her e-mails into cyberspace, and logged off her computer.

  “I hope he’s got lots of Christmas presents.”

  “I’m sure he does. I’ll clean Sam up. You go help Dave.”

  Emma arranged four sets of silverware and red Christmas plates with green napkins at each corner of the glass-topped coffee table, while Dave set out a spread of French bread, Brie, snack crackers, sliced avocado, and a bowl of fresh cracked crab on ice.

  Kate carried in a tray with two stemmed glasses of white wine and one with Martinelli’s sparkling apple juice, and sat on the sofa beside her husband.

  Emma took her glass. “Mom said you were picking up a deli tray.”

  “Changed my mind when I drove by the wharf and saw a crab boat offloading a fresh catch.”

  “M-m-m, I love crab.”

  “You must be starved,” Kathryn told Dave.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “You haven’t taken a bite of food yet, but you were chewing like crazy.”

  “I was? I didn’t realize it. Who’s the fourth plate for?” he asked.

  “Sam,” Emma said.

  Dave looked around. “Where is he?”

  “Must be in my room.”

  “Usually you can’t keep him away from food.”

  “He already ate,” Kathryn answered.

  “Well, after dinner I’ll give him a couple of cookies for dessert,” Dave said. “After all, it is Christmas.”

  “Yeah,” Emma said, then told Dave, “I’m glad you’re not a Scrooge.”

  “What?”

  “Private joke between Mom and me.”

  “Oh.”

  Dave tinked his wineglass against Kathryn’s and Emma’s. “To our family.”

  Emma ate some crab, avocado, and a piece of bread, then reached for more bread.

  “Try some Brie,” Kathryn suggested.

  “I like Jack cheese,” Emma said; then, eyeing the new gifts, she asked, “Anything under the tree for me?”

  “I doubt it,” Dave teased, “but why don’t you check before we decorate the tree?”

  Emma plopped down by the tree, started four piles—including one for Sam—and announced the recipient of each gift. When all the gifts were separated, she methodically rattled each of her own and guessed what it contained. She saved the biggest one for last, held it to her ear, shook it, and turned it upside down and shook it again. “What is it?”

  “Gotta wait till tomorrow morning,” Dave answered.

  “That’s torture.”

  “I know,” Dave conceded with a smile.

  “It’s child abuse.”

  “Tough.”

  “Gimme a hint.”

  “Nope.”

  “Silver Bells” was playing on the stereo. Kathryn stopped humming along, leaned over, and whispered in her husband’s ear, “What is in that big package?”

  “The CD Walkman and French language disks you asked me to buy. When I had it wrapped, I asked them to put it in a larger box so she couldn’t guess it.”

  “Very devious—I like the way you think.”

  “You like the way I do anything else?” he wh
ispered back.

  She checked to be sure her daughter wasn’t watching and ran her hand up his thigh. “Maybe—I’ll let you know later.”

  “Didja tell Dave about that weird phone call, Mom?” Emma asked.

  “I forgot, thanks for reminding me.” Kathryn quickly described the voice-changed call. “Whoever it was hung up when I asked for a number so you could call back.”

  “What time?”

  Kathryn thought for a moment. “Five, maybe five-fifteen.”

  “You sure the voice was mechanically changed?” he asked, arching his eyebrows.

  Kathryn tilted her head. “Maybe I’m wrong—maybe there was just a bad connection.”

  “I’ll bet that’s it. I checked my office voice mail with my cell phone while I was driving home—there were no messages on it, so it couldn’t have been very important.”

  “Well, there’s nothing you can do about it now,” she said. “Let’s decorate the tree.”

  Dave strung the lights, but they wouldn’t come on until he tightened the bulbs. When he found the errant bulb the multicolored strand sprang to life. When he finished, Kathryn hung ornaments, singing to herself.

  Emma pretended to supervise. She was working on a cookie when the phone rang. She jumped up and dashed toward the kitchen. “I’ll get it.”

  Emma listened, said, “Uh-huh,” and handed Dave the phone. “It’s County Comm,” she told him, her voice reflecting her disappointment. She knew a call from County Comm meant either her mother or Dave—or both—were being called out.

  He listened for a minute, said they’d be right there, and hung up. “There’s been another one-eighty-seven,” he told Kathryn with a shake of his head.

  “One-eighty-seven means murder,” Emma said. “I knew it—you have to go out.”

  “Afraid so, honey. Your mom, too. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay, Dave, I’m used to it.”

  Kathryn stood up. “I’ll call Ruth, ask her to come down and stay with Em.”

  “Mom! I’m old enough to baby-sit.”

  “That’s different,” Kathryn protested.

  “No it isn’t—why do you think I’m taking baby-sitting classes at the Red Cross? I’ll finish decorating our tree.”

  “Get a pillow and blanket off your bed,” Dave told Emma, “lie on the sofa and watch TV with Sam. Call us if you get scared. We’ll only be a couple of hours.”

  “You’re sure it’ll be all right?” Kathryn asked when Emma left.

  Dave picked up the phone. “I’ll call Ruth, ask her to drop in and wish Emma Merry Christmas, eat some cookies, watch television for a couple of hours.”

  Chapter 11

  SHERIFF’SCHIEF OFDETECTIVES Miller, Granz, Mackay, and forensic pathologist Nelson stood quietly in a tight circle around the body as if by not acknowledging what they saw, it might turn out to be a terrible mistake.

  “Reverend James Benedetti,” Miller finally commented grimly.

  Mackay stuffed her hands in her coat’s hand-warmer pockets. “Two priests shot dead in three days.”

  Miller nodded. “That’s why I asked you to come out, Doc,” he said to Nelson. “Figured it’d help if you saw it up close and personal.”

  “You were right,” Nelson told him.

  “Any idea how the perp got into the gym?” Granz asked.

  Miller shrugged his shoulders. “Not yet. Yamamoto’s team’s checking all the doors and windows—there’s a shitload of ’em—so far, no sign of forced entry.”

  Nelson bent over at the waist and studied the body, then straightened up and rubbed his lower spine. “My damn back isn’t getting any younger. The crime scene been photographed yet?”

  “You know Yamamoto—if he hadn’t finished shooting his crime scene, we wouldn’t be standing here,” Miller told him. “They’re scouring the rest of the gym for evidence now.”

  Nelson pinched his lower lip between his thumb and index finger. “The head wound was inflicted second, as an afterthought.”

  “What makes you think so?” Mackay asked.

  “Those bloody smudges on the floor that start ten or fifteen feet from the body and end under the buttocks.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ll know more after the autopsy, but the hip shot damn near tore Benedetti’s leg off, severing the femoral artery in the process. I figure he fell and tried to crawl away, but didn’t get very far because he was as good as dead from blood loss. The head shot entry wound’s in the forehead—he was lying on his back when the second round was fired.”

  “Looking at his killer,” Mackay observed, “just like Thompson.”

  “Yep.”

  Nelson knelt, rolled the priest’s head to the side, inspected the gaping exit wound in the back of the head, and pointed to a hole in the floor that had filled with blood. “Probe that, you’ll find the slug.”

  “If Benedetti was obviously dying, why would the murderer take the time to stand over him and shoot him in the head?” Mackay wondered.

  “My guess—to watch him die,” Granz answered.

  “Like Thompson,” Mackay interjected. “Same MO—could it be the same shooter?”

  Miller rubbed his palms together to warm them. “I don’t think so. Thompson’s shot once with a little .25-caliber automatic that the perp takes with him. Benedetti’s killer blasts him twice with a cannon, drops it, and hauls ass.”

  Granz’ eyes widened. “We’ve got the weapon?”

  “Yamamoto recovered a Colt Python on the floor beside the body.”

  “I haven’t seen a Python in twenty years,” Nelson said, “but a .357-magnum would certainly do the kind of damage to the body that we see.”

  “That’s another MO dissimilarity,” Miller said. “With Thompson, there was just enough force used to get the job done, not to mention Thompson was offed in his rectory, while Benedetti was in a gym playing basketball.”

  “Thompson was a parish priest,” Mackay pointed out. “Benedetti was a basketball coach. They were both killed where they worked.”

  “True,” Miller conceded. “But Thompson’s killer walks up and sticks the pistol barrel against his head and pulls the trigger once, execution style. To me that says ‘I’m pissed.’ Benedetti’s killer stayed at a safe distance.”

  “Doc says the second shot was unnecessary, fired from an arm’s length,” Mackay told him.

  Miller nodded. “You’re right.”

  “That says ‘I’m pissed’ just as loudly.”

  “Possibly.”

  “They were both about the same age, they were both alone when they were shot to death,” she argued.

  “Most murders go down without witnesses,” Miller noted.

  “True, but there are too many similarities in these two for them to be coincidence.”

  “It might be the same perp,” Miller conceded. “I was just yankin’ your chain.”

  “Let’s not rule out the possibility there are two killers out there,” Granz said. “On the other hand, if there’s not, we’ve got a shooter with a serious hard on for Catholic priests.”

  Nelson nodded. “Maybe a hard-on literally.”

  Granz looked at the pathologist. “Meaning?”

  Nelson licked his dry, chapped lips and pulled away a piece of dry skin with his teeth, which he spat on the floor. “With two dead priests, if it is the same perp, it might be a sexual-molest victim.”

  Granz glanced at the body and unconsciously brushed his hair back off his forehead, thinking. “Nothing about it suggests a sex-related or homosexual killing. Let’s not jump to conclusions, Doc.”

  “Jump to conclusions?” Nelson challenged. “Hundreds of pedophile priests have been exposed in the past year or so, all across the country. Some guy in Baltimore tried to blow away the priest that molested him. Too bad he was such a lousy shot, or he would’ve succeeded. Who’s to say Thompson and Benedetti weren’t molesters?”

  “Who’s to say they were?” Granz retorted. “New church guidelines re
quire a Diocese to report any allegation of sexual abuse of a minor to civil authorities. We’ve received no such reports.”

  “Not yet,” Nelson told him. “Besides, they’re only required to report future offenses to civil authorities. For past molestations, only an internal church investigation and removal of the priest from the ministry are required.”

  “True, but neither Thompson nor Benedetti had been defrocked so there must’ve been no prior allegations against them,” Granz pointed out. “We ought to keep it in mind, but I say it’s no more than a remote possibility.”

  “You’re probably right.” Nelson motioned for two of his deputy coroners, who waited by the door. When they started loading the corpse into a body bag, he said, “I’ll autopsy him tomorrow.”

  Granz turned to Miller. “How about you attend the autopsy instead of me for a change?”

  “I was hopin’ you’d let me.”

  Miller, Granz, and Mackay walked away to let Nelson and his team do their jobs.

  “Who found the body?” Granz asked.

  “His secretary.” Miller checked his spiral-bound notebook. “Name’s Mary Shotwell.”

  “How’s she handling it?”

  “Surprisingly well.”

  “Is it possible she’s the shooter?”

  “I doubt it, she’s in her late fifties or early sixties.”

  “So was Benedetti. Maybe he was involved with her.”

  Miller puffed his cheeks out with air. “She weighs at least two-twenty.”

  “You got something against overweight people?” Mackay challenged.

  Miller patted his stomach. “Not me, I kinda like ’em, but Shotwell’s also got white hair, thick bifocals, and false teeth.”

  “Different strokes,” Granz commented. “You interview her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the gymnasium office. I posted a uniform outside the door.”

  Granz turned. “Let’s go talk to Secretary Shotwell, see if she can shed some light on the Reverend’s murder.”

  Chapter 12

  “IT’S MY FAULT.” Mary Shotwell lay on a sofa with a folded damp washcloth on her forehead, but sat up when Granz and Mackay entered the gym office. Her eyes were red and puffy, but she wasn’t crying.