Until Judgment Day

by Christine McGuire

  He ran the Stryker saw around the perimeter of the skull, creating an upside-down bowl that, using both hands, he twisted back and forth. When the calvarium was loose, he lifted it off.

  He set aside the skull and inspected the brain.

  And gasped.

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  Fields and Escalante crowded close.

  With a gloved fingertip, Nelson pushed against a hard, white, puffy, dense mass that clung to the front of Granz’ brain. Like an anemic crab, its spiny, claw-tipped legs dug tenaciously into the soft, pinkish gray brain tissue. The brain had swollen and turned an angry red where it tried unsuccessfully to fight off the intruder’s invasive roots.

  “My God that’s ugly,” Miller said. “What is it?”

  “Brain tumor—the biggest I’ve ever seen.”

  “What caused it?”

  Nelson shook his head. “No way to say—medical science hasn’t discovered the cause of brain tumors yet—we think most result from environmental factors.”

  “Such as?”

  “Low-frequency electromagnetic fields, radiation, chemicals, viruses—severe head injury.”

  “What caused his?”

  “Impossible to say, but he’s suffered two life-threatening head injuries—the first at the hands of the Gingerbread Man behind the Seacliff Hotel a few years ago—that one damn near killed him. Could’ve caused a tumor that the second head injury compounded.”

  “What was the second?” Escalante asked.

  “The car accident the night before Thanksgiving.”

  Miller cleared his throat. Fields shuffled his feet. Escalante squeezed her lower lip between a thumb and index finger.

  Nelson snipped the brain stem, carefully lifted out the brain, and set it on a tray.

  Fields sighed. “Now what?”

  “I take a biopsy and send it for testing.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t really matter. A brain tumor does its damage through the pressure it exerts on the brain, disrupting the nerve-cell activity. Eventually I’ll dissect and analyze it.”

  He rolled off his latex gloves and motioned for the others to do the same, then led them into the hallway.

  “You three get out of here. I’ve got research to do. Let’s debrief tomorrow morning—say, eight o’clock in the Sheriff’s conference room.”

  As Fields, Miller, and Escalante stripped off their paper gowns, Nelson told them, “You might want to grab some sleep tonight and get back to work looking for your priest killer tomorrow.”

  Fields frowned. “I’m confused. Are you telling us that Granz wasn’t the shooter?”

  “Possibly.” He leaned against the wall and started to go on, but his voice caught.

  “If Granz had any idea how sick he was—and given the size of that tumor, it’s inconceivable to me that he didn’t—he might not have gone to that church tonight to kill anyone else.”

  “Why, then?” Fields asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Maybe to commit suicide.”

  “Cop-assisted suicide.” Fields squeezed his eyes shut tight, and recalled Granz’ last words: I’m sorry.

  “Our priest killer might still be out there,” he added.

  “Get some sleep,” Nelson said. “Let’s hope I have a better answer for you tomorrow morning after I do my research.”

  Chapter 51

  TUESDAY, JANUARY 14, 8:00 A.M.

  SHERIFF’S CONFERENCE ROOM

  AN ARCTIC COLD FRONT moved into Santa Rita overnight, dusting San Lorenzo Park with a rare blanket of ice that twinkled in the brilliant morning sun like a Tiffany’s display case loaded with backlit diamonds.

  Two dozen kids stopped on their way to school to scoop it up and roll rock-hard ice balls that they threw at passersby, then ran away, screaming with the carefree delight that graces only the young and innocent.

  Inside the Sheriff’s conference room the mood was grim.

  Inspector Donna Escalante and Sheriff’s Chief of Detectives James Miller sat close together, gazing out the fogged-up window, quietly lost in their separate, private thoughts.

  Escalante was halfheartedly picking at a blueberry scone and Miller was sipping a cup of coffee when DA Chief Inspector James Fields trudged in. He head-jerked a nonverbal “hello” and collapsed into a chair with his back to the window, as if to deny that the world could ever be bright and cheerful again.

  “Morning.” Escalante watched him, worry clouding her usually stoic face. She wore neither lipstick nor eye makeup, and her jet-black hair was still shiny-damp from the shower.

  He exhaled through pursed lips like a child blows out the candles on a birthday cake.

  “I’m beat,” he told them.

  Miller set down his paper cup to study his long time friend and professional counterpart from the DA’s office. “Ain’t my business, Jim, but you look like shit.”

  “You’re being overly generous.”

  “You get any sleep last night?”

  Fields yawned, covering his mouth with his left hand. He was clean-shaven and wore a fresh white shirt, tie, and meticulously pressed wool business suit, but his face was drawn and haggard.

  “Not a damn wink. How about you two, were you able to sleep?”

  Miller glanced at Escalante, who shrugged as if to say, He already knows.

  “Not much,” Miller told him. “We tossed and turned all night.”

  Miller didn’t mention that he and Escalante had made love before they fell asleep. Afterward, he’d confessed to an overwhelming guilt. She’d told him that death can awaken a hunger for closeness that often translates into sexual arousal, that he shouldn’t feel he betrayed his friend.

  He had slipped out of bed and into the shower still feeling guilty. She had found him there crying, climbed in with him, and held him until he stopped.

  Fields clenched his fist. “I replayed that damn shooting a thousand times. Maybe Nelson’s right. Dave had me cold—could’ve easily killed me, but he hesitated long enough to shift the advantage my way. I should’ve seen it. Maybe I lost my nerve when the chips were down, I don’t know.”

  Miller couldn’t find his voice, so Escalante leaned across the ancient, Formica-covered table and placed her hand over Fields’.

  “I’d have been too pumped to do anything but shoot first and worry about the consequences later,” Escalante told him. “It took clear thinking and courage to give him the chance you did.”

  Miller nodded. “She’s right. Last time someone pointed a gun at me I had to go home and change skivvies. Granz shot at you, don’t forget that.”

  Fields tapped his chest with a finger. “I was wearing body armor.”

  “He didn’t know.”

  “Yes he did; I told him.”

  “All the same,” Escalante said, “you cut him a hell of a lot more slack in that church than most cops would have. Don’t beat up on yourself.” She squeezed Fields’ hand and sat back.

  Miller thought she’d never looked so beautiful, and appropriate or not, decided life was too short not to ask her to marry him soon. He hoped Dave would understand the timing.

  The door swung open and Morgan Nelson entered wearing last night’s bloodstained scrubs, face shadowed in salt-and-pepper stubble, purple bags dragging down his lower eyelids like a bloodhound. He glanced around, set his coffee on the table, and fell into the chair beside Fields’.

  “How’s Kathryn?” Escalante asked.

  “Sleeping. I spent the night riding the elevator between the basement and fourth floor. Soon as I determined she hadn’t suffered a concussion from the fall at the restaurant, I sedated her.”

  “The baby?”

  Nelson raised his eyebrows. “Touch and go. Once paramedics stabilized her, the shock was no longer life-threatening, but a rapid drop in blood pressure, of that magnitude, even for a short time, could still kill the baby. I put her on a glucose and salt IV to normalize and regulate her blood pressure, then called her gynec
ologist. Doctor Burton’ll take over from here.”

  “Emma’s all right?”

  The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “She didn’t want to leave, but didn’t want an unexcused absence on her record, either. So, I faxed an excuse letter to her school this morning. She’s with her mother, waiting for Burton.”

  “You do any research?” Miller asked.

  “When I wasn’t with Kate and Emma, I was on MedLine.”

  “We still looking for the priest killer, or do you have his body in your morgue?”

  “My research convinces me that Granz not only knew he had an inoperable brain tumor, but that time had run out.”

  “How would he have known?”

  “Could’ve looked up his symptoms on the Internet, or any medical reference.”

  “What symptoms you talkin’ about?”

  “Headaches, chewing, staring, spacing out, momentary but total blackouts accompanied by memory loss. Symptoms I observed but didn’t do anything about.” Nelson sipped his coffee.

  “Hell, I noticed those things myself occasionally,” Miller admitted. “I figured he was havin’ a bad day.”

  “You’re a layman. I’m a doctor, for Chrissake. Kathryn spotted them, too, and asked me what to do.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “Someone ought to kick my ass.” Nelson snorted. “I should’ve tried harder—insisted she make him see a doctor, and if she didn’t I should’ve done it myself.”

  Miller tugged at an earlobe. “Maybe he did, and that’s what drove him to set Fields up to take him out.”

  Nelson nodded. “I thought of that—it’s possible.”

  Escalante frowned. “Why would he go to the trouble of having Chief Fields kill him? Why not eat his pistol like other cops?”

  “Life insurance policy exclusionary clauses,” Miller explained. “They don’t pay on a suicide. He kills himself, Kate, Emma, and the baby don’t see a damn nickel.”

  Escalante looked at Nelson, then at the others. “What about brain surgery to remove the tumor?”

  “The cure’s worse than the disease,” Nelson answered.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The tumor invaded his brain’s frontal lobe. That’s the center of all higher cognitive functions—appreciation for music and beauty, memory, intelligence, reason, logic—the very things that make us human. Cutting out even a tiny tumor would destroy so much brain function that he’d probably be a vegetable or worse—a slobbering idiot.”

  “Jesus!” Fields whispered. “No wonder.”

  “Exactly,” Nelson said. “Unthinkable for a man like Granz. He preferred to go out on his terms. How better than to orchestrate a scenario that he could manipulate into a fatal shootout?”

  “Fatal for him.” Fields’ explanation was unnecessary.

  “That’s right.”

  “Why me?” Fields’ pain was palpable.

  Nelson thought. “Most people want someone they know and care about with them when they die—more important, someone who cares about them. He was no different. That’s why he chose you. Strange as it seems, it was an expression of affection.”

  Fields closed his eyes and opened them slowly, then sighed. “Doesn’t make me feel any better, but there’s a certain weird logic to it.”

  “That’s my point—his brain tumor induced epilepsy, disrupted his brain’s electrical impulses, and triggered seizures that screwed up his ability to think and problem-solve.”

  Nelson interlaced the fingers of his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m absolutely, unalterably convinced Granz went to that church to commit suicide-by-cop.”

  “I’m not sayin’ you’re wrong.” Miller crossed one leg over the other. “Hell, anything’s possible, but someone’s gotta play devil’s advocate. You’ve given us a buncha theoretical mumbo jumbo that doesn’t add up to squat except a convenient excuse for a friend who’s maybe a serial murderer.”

  Miller held his hands up quickly, palms out. “No offense intended, Doc.”

  “None taken.”

  Miller looked at Escalante. “How do you see it?”

  “I’m not sure, but—”

  She was interrupted by her cell phone’s version of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. She dug it out of her handbag and flipped open the cover.

  “Escalante.”

  She listened for a moment. “I’m in a briefing, George, can’t this wait?”

  She listened again. “All right, wait a sec.”

  She covered the mouthpiece with her hand. “My investigative aide’s dug up something. Better take it.”

  “Time for a break anyway.” Miller said. “Think I’ll hit the john, then grab more coffee, fill the tank up again. Anyone want somethin’ from Starbucks?”

  “I’ll go with you,” Fields told him.

  “Make it a threesome.” Nelson followed Miller and Fields to the door but stopped before they opened it. “Think about it: Why would Granz murder a priest?”

  Chapter 52

  ESCALANTE HADN’T MOVED from her chair when the others returned, and Nelson deposited a sack of pastries in the center of the table with a mushy thud.

  Miller flipped the plastic lid off a cup and blew the steam away, slurped his fresh coffee, then sat beside Escalante and bit the top off a bran muffin. Fields dropped into a chair beside Nelson’s, stripped the safety seal off a pint of Gizdich Farms apple juice, and pointed at the Saint Sebastian High School yearbook on the table in front of Escalante.

  “What’s that for?” The cover was white with a stylized blue bulldog gripping a football in one front paw and a textbook in the other, elongated ears sticking up through the center of a yellow halo.

  “My aide might have just found the answer to Doctor Nelson’s question,” Escalante told him.

  Nelson stopped with a scone halfway to his mouth. “What question?”

  “Why Sheriff Granz might murder a priest.”

  “It was a rhetorical question,” Miller said.

  “Bullshit.” Nelson dropped the scone, looking intense, like he was about to challenge Miller to a duel. “I was serious. Unless you convince me otherwise, I’ll keep believing Dave seized an opportunity and committed suicide. Your shooter’s still running around loose.”

  “Be cool, Doc.” Miller spoke softly.

  “Cool, my ass,” Nelson muttered, more to himself than to the others.

  Escalante slid the dog-eared yearbook across the table to the doctor. On two pages, Dave Granz’ photo was circled in red ink.

  Nelson read the caption and scowled in confusion. “Okay, maybe Granz went to Saint Sebastian High School in San Diego, and played linebacker on the freshman football team. So what?”

  Miller gulped and spat a mouthful of coffee on his lap. “Shit, I just had these slacks dry-cleaned.”

  He wiped most of it off and stretched his hand out to Nelson. “Lemme see that.”

  Fields circled the table and read over Miller’s shoulder. “Son of a bitch.”

  “What’s the problem?” Nelson wanted to know.

  Fields carried the yearbook back to his side of the table and sagged dejectedly into his chair. “After Davidson’s Grand Jury testimony, Miller asked Granz where he went to high school. Granz never said a goddamn word about Saint Sebastian.”

  “Worse.” Miller dabbed at the spilled coffee with a napkin. “He lied—said he graduated from Mira Mesa High School in seventy-three.”

  “You sure he didn’t?”

  “Actually, he might have,” Escalante interjected. “My aide says his picture didn’t appear in any year-book after this one—nineteen-sixty-nine.”

  Miller was shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter, he never mentioned attending Saint Sebastian at all.”

  “Maybe he forgot.” Nelson’s voice rose defensively.

  “Fat fuckin’ chance. You remember what schools you went to?”

  “Of course but—”

  “There you go,” Miller said wi
th a wry smile.

  “I told you epilepsy can erase the memory.”

  “It’s too convenient to remember Mira Mesa but forget Saint Sebastian. When a man doesn’t tell the whole truth, he’s covering up something.”

  “Am I the only person here who thinks our friend might be innocent?” Nelson challenged.

  Fields, Miller, and Escalante felt a sudden urge to inspect the tabletop. Escalante stirred dust with a fingertip. Fields polished a spot with the tip of his necktie.

  Miller broke the silence. “I wanta think Dave’s innocent, too, but twenty-plus years as a cop breeds a nasty cynicism that’s hard to get past.”

  “Did Dave say he didn’t go to Saint Sebastian High School?” Nelson persisted.

  As Miller composed his thoughts, he scraped the unidentifiable detritus from hundreds of past meetings into a pile on the table with the edge of a ruler and looked up. “No, but we were investigating a string of ugly murders. An intentional half-truth’s bad as a lie, ’specially when it comes from the top cop and sends investigators off in the wrong direction.”

  Escalante touched Miller on the arm. “Remember what Sheriff Granz said when I mentioned we brought back the yearbooks, and you told him if the shooter was in one of them we’d find him?”

  Miller sucked on a tooth and jutted out his lower jaw. “Guess not—jog my memory.”

  “He asked if we’d looked through them yet and when I said ‘no’—”

  Miller slapped his forehead. “He offered to do it for us—‘to speed things up,’ according to him.”

  “Right.”

  “He knew his boat had sprung a leak and tried to stick his finger in the hole and stop the flooding.”

  Nelson’s face turned red. “You’re implying he was plotting to derail the investigation.”

  “I’m stating the facts,” Escalante responded without emotion. “He asked how long it’d take my aide to go through them. I said three to four days. That was at the Garcia crime scene Friday night.”