Until Judgment Day
Page 22
Miller handed a set of Menendez’ ballistics photos to each of them. “DOJ IDed the Duvoir and Garcia murder weapon. A Remington sniper rifle from the Sheriff’s Department arsenal.”
“Pretty convincing,” Escalante said. “But any cop can walk into that arsenal, wave at the deputy on duty, and walk out. I’ve done it myself.”
“You didn’t have a motive to murder those priests, neither do other cops.”
“You’re certain about that?” Escalante challenged.
“Meaning?”
“Granz had no reason to kill Duvoir or Garcia, and the rifle didn’t kill Thompson or Benedetti.”
“You heard Doc—the psychosis induced by the brain tumor might have generated a hatred for all priests. Not only that, but a .25 automatic killed Thompson, and Granz claims he lost his. Convenient, right?”
“Half the three hundred cops in the Sheriff’s Department are Catholic,” Nelson speculated. “Newspapers reported that the Boston Archdiocese admitted to eighty-four cases of pedophile priests and paid thirty million bucks to settle the cases. Similar stories came out of Santa Fe, Dallas, New Orleans, Tucson, Los Angeles, St. Louis, Palm Beach, Santa Rosa—every place in the country. Hundreds—thousands—of boys have been molested by priests, and Granz isn’t the only cop among them.”
“Granz is the only one who disguised himself, sneaked into Holy Ascension, and tried to waste Fields.”
“Dave had two overwhelming reasons to commit suicide-by-cop,” Nelson surmised, “shame and guilt that all survivors of sexual abuse experience and a terminal medical condition—and he was the only one who knew about that setup at the church. He didn’t try to kill Fields—he had the chance but didn’t do it.”
Miller shook his head sadly. “Can’t argue with that,” he conceded, then told them about the stock-pile of pills he’d found when he searched Granz’ office. “And that ain’t all,” he added.
He reached into his briefcase, pulled out the voice changer and pick gun, and laid them on the table in front of him without speaking.
Escalante picked up the voice changer and inspected it. “Why would he have one of these unless he placed those calls himself?”
“Every active and ex-field narc has ’em. When he was Chief of Detectives, he was head of the County Narcotics Investigation team, active in a lot of investigations.”
“Okay, I can see the reason for having a voice changer, but why a lock pick—that’s how the shooter got into the gym to kill Benedetti.”
“I know. They cost thirty bucks on the Internet. Every locksmith has one and for that matter so does every burglary dick I ever knew. We keep ’em in the equipment room—ostensibly to help homeowners who get locked out by mistake, along with SlimJims to pop car doors for folks who lock their keys inside. They might not look good for Granz under the circumstances but they don’t mean diddly. What’d Menendez turn up on the shoe comparisons?”
“I’ll show you the photographs,” Escalante volunteered, bending over to open her briefcase.
“Summarize it, please,” Miller suggested.
“After this morning’s briefing I drove to the hospital. Kathryn gave me permission to search their house. I seized a set of size-ten Nike Airliners from the Sheriff’s closet. On my way to DOJ I stopped by Miller’s house and picked up his—they’re identical, even the same size. Menendez photographed both pairs, printed transparencies, and overlaid them on the composite prints from the Benedetti crime scene.”
“And?”
“Inconclusive.”
“That’s why I submitted my own shoes,” Miller explained. “To prove that this long afterward, with the changes to tread patterns caused by wear, any set of size-ten Airliners might have left the prints at the gym.”
Fields’ question was direct and blunt. “Are you Catholic?”
Miller stared. “You serious?”
“Damn right.”
“Baptist—heathen if you ask my ex-wife. And I’ve never been sexually molested by a Catholic priest or anyone else. Haven’t killed anybody, either.”
Nelson removed his bifocals and rubbed the red spots on the bridge of his nose. “Where does this leave your investigation? Half the evidence points to Granz but the other half could point to hundreds of other men, some of them cops.”
“If the murders stop, we’ll have our answer,” Escalante said.
“Not necessarily,” Miller told her. “If you were a murderer and someone else went down for your crimes, and if you didn’t want to get caught, what would you do?”
“I’d stop killing.”
“Exactly.”
“So, unless the shooter hits again, or we locate Granz’ .25 and match it to the slug that killed Thompson, we can’t prove Granz murdered Thompson,” Escalante summed up.
“Even if we find his weapon,” Miller added, “we won’t be able to prove anything because he reported it missing. Filed a police report on Monday after the Thanksgiving weekend.”
“How about the throw-down the shooter left by Benedetti’s body?” Escalante asked.
Miller looked at her. “What about it?”
“We could go back, look into all the cases Granz handled over the years. If any involved a seized Python, check to be sure it’s still in the evidence locker.”
“What good would that do?” Nelson demanded.
“We’d know whether or not Granz was the shooter,” Escalante answered.
“I know that!” Nelson’s face turned red. “You could trace the damn cell phone calls, too. What I meant was—so what if he was the shooter and a search of old cases, or a cellphone-call trace proved it? He’s dead, for Chrissake—what good would it do to pin the killings on him except to improve the Sheriff’s crime-solving statistics? Can’t we leave Kathryn and her daughter Emma the doubt, the dignity of not knowing for certain—leave them with a tiny, loving piece of his memory?”
“I sorta came to the same conclusion.” Miller nodded. “Besides, the County changed storage facilities twice in twenty years. There’s no indexing system and occasionally we purge evidence from cases after they’re disposed—return what we can to the owners, burn the drugs, send guns to Sacramento to melt down. If a Python still exists we’d never find it. Forget it. As for the cell phone calls, I don’t give a shit if he placed them or not, wouldn’t necessarily prove he killed anyone.”
“Thank God for that.” Nelson sighed deeply. “Now what, Sheriff?”
“We investigate the names in the yearbooks, see who turns up. If the killings stop, we’ll probably never know for sure, and that’s fine with me.”
Nelson looked at the others. “Is there anything we can do to help Dave’s mother?
Fields flicked his tongue over his lips. “I asked her what I could do.”
“What’d she say?”
“That I’d done enough.”
Miller looked at his friend sadly. “You didn’t deserve that.”
“I understood. As I was leaving, she said, ‘Were you really my son’s friend?’ I told her I was, and she says, ‘There is one thing you can do for me.’ ‘Name it,’ I told her. ‘Prove my son isn’t a murderer,’ she says.”
“What’d you say to that?” Miller asked.
“I promised I would.”
“You oughta be more careful what you promise. Nobody can prove he didn’t murder those priests—because he prob’ly did.”
“I know, but couldn’t bring myself to tell her so.”
Nelson jutted out his chin. “Even if every shred of evidence that exists points to Dave—even if he actually did kill those priests, he didn’t know what he was doing or remember that he did it. That means he didn’t have the necessary malice aforethought, so it wouldn’t have been murder.”
“I feel your pain, Doc.” Miller’s head wagged skeptically. “But I’m not sure I can buy that.”
“The tumor induced epilepsy and seizures that caused blackouts and loss of memory.”
“You said the blackouts are momentary.”
“I said they’re usually short-term. But status epilepticus seizures last for hours. They’re unusual but not unheard of.”
“Not likely though, right?” Miller prodded gently.
“No. But a brain tumor that big could’ve induced a deep psychosis that caused Dave’s rational, justifiable hatred for the priest who molested him, Thompson—and the one who covered it up, Benedetti—to metastasize into an irrational, unjustified hatred for all priests.”
“Explaining why,” Fields filled in, “if he was the shooter, he didn’t stop after getting even with the two priests associated with his own molestation.”
“Precisely,” Nelson confirmed. “Of course, the last three killings could’ve been copycats as well. But if it was Granz, in his condition killing those priests would’ve seemed reasonable. Unless someone proves otherwise, and no one can, it adds up to reasonable doubt in my mind that he knowingly murdered anyone.”
Chapter 55
“THANK YOU FOR BRINGING me clean clothes.”
Kathryn had dug through the overnight bag while Escalante told her of Mr. Granz’ death, then they had both cried as Escalante related to her the ugly story of the sexual abuse her husband had endured as a boy. The catharsis of mutual grief made them feel better for the moment.
Kathryn slipped on clean underwear, tugged her Belly Basics cotton stretch pants over her hips, and buttoned up the matching knit maternity shirt.
“And thanks for driving Emma to school this morning,” she added. “She thinks you’re the greatest.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“How did she seem when you dropped her off?”
“Grieving and worried about you.”
“She hadn’t left my bedside since Monday night. Getting out of this dreary hospital was the best thing for her.” Kathryn managed a small, sad smile. “How can a girl her age be so strong?”
Escalante perched on the edge of the bed. “I’m worried that you’re strong enough to leave.”
“My doctor can’t do anything for me in the hospital that she can’t in her office.”
“I meant strong enough emotionally.”
“I can’t hide in the hospital.”
“I wouldn’t call a couple of days in the hospital hiding.”
Kathryn fingered the bandage on her forehead. “I’ve got to take control of my life.”
“What about the baby’s condition?”
Kathryn sat in the chair and slipped on her flat-heeled shoes.
“Doctor Burton says my lowered blood pressure probably diminished the baby’s oxygen supply long enough to cause brain damage.”
“I’m sorry, Kathryn.”
“She also said your quick action and the paramedics’ might have saved him. There’s no way to be sure until he’s born.”
“Did she suggest—”
“Yes, but I can’t abort Dave’s son.” Kathryn leaned over the sink, applied her makeup, and studied herself in the mirror. “God, I look terrible.”
“Even if I agreed, you have good reason.”
“You’re always so diplomatic.”
Kathryn stuffed the dress, bra, pantyhose, and shoes she wore Monday night to The Shadowbrook into a plastic laundry bag, held it out at arm’s length, reconsidered, pulled it back, then held it out again tentatively.
“Seems like I wore these clothes in another lifetime,” she said. “The dress has blood on it.”
Escalante took the bag. “I’ll have them cleaned for you.”
“Thanks,” Kathryn said. “I’d like to go home now.”
Chapter 56
ONFRIDAY, JANUARY 17, Kathryn and Emma Mackay flew to San Diego, where Emma met her grandmother for the first time at the funeral of Chester Granz. Mass was celebrated at St. Didacus Parish by the Very Reverend Michael Robinson, an old family friend. Immediately following the ceremony, the three rode a taxi to Lindbergh Field and caught a flight to San Jose.
The next day, James Fields stood on the altar platform inside Holy Ascension Catholic Church and delivered a eulogy to his friend David Granz. Afterward, Mary Enid Granz kissed Fields on the cheek and whispered in his ear. Whatever words she spoke brought tears to his eyes, but he never shared them with anyone.
It was a gorgeous, warm day outside following the private service, the kind that makes you check the calendar to be sure it’s still winter, and the ocean shimmered like a blanket of jewels in the distance.
The sun glinted brightly off the polished-brass trumpet when Sheriff James Jazzbo Miller, in full-dress uniform, played “Taps” on the steps of the church and laid the memory of David Granz to rest.
At eight A.M. Monday, DA Chief Inspector James Fields announced his retirement after thirty-one years’ service as a police officer.
That night, Jazzbo Miller fulfilled a commitment to play at the Jazz Club. He opened with a solo instrumental rendition of “When I Fall in Love,” which he dedicated to Donna Escalante. They sat together talking quietly over a glass of wine after the combo finished playing and he asked her to marry him.
She said “yes.” The next morning she made reservations at Las Hadas Resort in Manzanillo, Colima, Mexico for their honeymoon.
Miller decided that instead of cementing over the Sheriff’s conference room windows, he would pay for weekly cleanings out of his own pocket. Later he had the floor carpeted, walls painted pastel blue, replaced the beat-up furniture, and hung No Smoking signs around the room in prominent spots.
Mary Granz put the house where she and her husband had lived for forty years and raised their son up for rent. She moved into Kathryn’s condominium, which was being converted to a rental since Kathryn and Emma moved into Dave’s house following their marriage. Mrs. Granz said she wanted to be near her grandchildren.
Miller and Escalante’s continuing investigation led, through multiple layers of corporations and holding companies, to a retired University of Nevada mathematics professor and his wife, a statistician and computer programmer. They operated Roulette-On-Line from a spare bedroom in their Elko, Nevada, home on a Compaq server fed by three phone lines, running self-written gambling algorithms.
Phone company records disclosed several long-distance calls to the Monterey Diocese at the approximate times Bishop Jeffrey Davidson received telephone death threats. The Bishop declined to press charges.
Under Sheriff Miller’s close supervision, his Internal Affairs Officer identified seventeen male Sheriff’s deputies who admitted having been molested as boys by Catholic priests, in addition to one female deputy’s husband, a CPA. None of the murdered priests was accused of being the violator.
Seized yearbooks yielded four men in Santa Rita and adjacent counties who attended Saint Sebastian High School and played football during Father John Thompson’s tenure. Due to the passage of time, most could not account for their precise whereabouts at the exact times that each priest was murdered, but none had criminal records and could not be tied to any crimes. All four were eventually cleared as suspects. None admitted to ever having been sexually molested by a Catholic priest.
No more priests were murdered. Although never officially closed, after months of dead ends the “Holy Homicide Probes”—so dubbed by the media—were placed on the back burner in favor of more urgent investigations.
Chapter 57
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29
PARIS, FRANCE
“LET’S TAKE A TAXI.”
“No way, young lady, if you want to ride the grande roue Ferris wheel, we’re walking.”
“You’re riding it with me!”
“The only time I plan to be two hundred feet in the air’s on an airplane.”
“Chicken.”
“You bet I am.”
They slept late the morning after they flew into Charles de Gaulle Airport. When the baby woke them, Kathryn ordered a room-service breakfast of coffee, milk, juice, croissants, pains au chocolat, and fresh fruit. It was served on an ornate silver tray with scrolled, arching handles.
“Emma, you ate all the chocolate pastries.” Kathryn lay in a robe, back propped against the headboard of the bed with her ankles crossed, sipping coffee from a china cup and watching her children.
“They’re my favorites.”
“Mine too, thanks a lot!”
“Too late.”
The baby kicked furiously at the bottom of his sleeper, broke loose a couple of snaps, then gazed into his sister’s eyes and cooed.
“You’re a strong little guy,” Emma told him, brushing back his hair. “Just like our dad. But sit still so I can feed you breakfast.”
She mashed a banana and spooned a taste into his tiny mouth. He gummed it and smacked his lips, swallowed, then bounced up and down, waving his little arms and clenching his fingers, demanding more.
She wiped his chin with a napkin and he laughed. “He sure is a happy baby.”
“Happy, hungry, and healthy,” Kathryn said, then thought, Thank you, God.
She spun the top off a jar of Gerber’s cereal that she’d immersed in hot water in the bathroom sink, tested the temperature on her tongue, and handed it to Emma. “Feed him this before he fills up on fruit.”
“He likes bananas.”
“He sure does, but he’s got to eat other food.”
“I don’t see why you’ve gotta be too stingy to pay for a taxi,” Emma complained, changing mood and direction in the startlingly abrupt manner reserved strictly for teenage girls.
Kathryn smiled to herself, slid off the bed, grabbed a croissant, refilled her coffee, and padded barefoot across the deep paisley carpet to the window.
The maroon-bordered, floral-patterned tapestries were gathered at the middle and tied to the window sash with a thick, maroon felt rope, causing the drapes to hang in an exaggerated K.
The morning light leaked past a thin, streaky cloud cover that portended a cool rather than wet day, and filtered through the gauzy curtains, decorating the floor with delicate patterns drawn of hazy shadows.