Rourke nodded toward the body. “He ran the choir. The pastor said he liked the choir kids to wear their white robes when they practiced. Thought it cut down on the fooling around. Said the father always wore his, too.” He glanced down at the blood-soaked garment, which was now mostly brown. “I guess that used to be white,” he added.
“What was his name?” Devlin asked.
“Patrick Donovan.” It was Costa, reading from his notebook. “He’s been curate here for seven years.”
“Are the priests here part of any order?”
Costa shook his head. “They’re diocesan priests, according to the pastor.”
Devlin glanced around the sacristy. The crime scene appeared well established. The patrolmen who had responded to the initial call had closed off all entrances to the church. They had gathered information from the choirboys who had found the body and from the pastor, to whom the boys had gone first. Then they had isolated all of them under guard in the church proper and taken statements.
When Rourke and Costa arrived, the patrolmen had passed on all information gathered, along with their initial observations. Then, under the detectives’ direction, the area had been secured with crime-scene tape, while additional units were brought in to guard the exterior of the church.
“Did the kids notice anything or anyone?” Devlin asked.
Rourke shook his head. “They were scared shitless. Wouldn’t have seen Christ himself, he floated down from the altar.” He tilted his head to one side. “Good thing, though. Kept them from walking through the crime scene and contaminating everything. They just ran like hell for the pastor when they saw the body.”
Devlin nodded. “I’d like you both to canvass the area. Stores, people living near the church, anyone who might have been passing by. Tell one of the uniforms to wait with the body. I’m going to talk to the pastor.”
Monsignor Anthony Fucci was a short round man with a thick shock of white hair. His face was as round as his body and bore webs of broken capillaries that spoke of someone who liked his wine a bit more than he should.
Devlin smiled at the boys still gathered around the priest, then identified himself to the pastor and explained that he had a few questions.
“Could we move away from the children?” Fucci asked.
Devlin nodded and followed the priest to a pew at the rear of the church.
“Was it a robbery?” the priest asked.
“There’s no indication of that, but we’ll want you to check the sacristy and the rest of the church when our forensics people finish.” Devlin inclined his head toward the sacristy. “Was any money, or anything of value, kept back there or out here?”
“No. At least nothing that should interest a thief, nothing that could be easily sold.” The pastor looked down into his lap and shook his head. “Money is removed each day to the rectory. It’s deposited into the parish bank account almost immediately.”
“Was Father Donovan in the habit of carrying much money on his person?”
Again, Monsignor Fucci shook his head. “Just walking-around money. Our incomes aren’t very substantial, and to my knowledge Patrick didn’t have money of his own.”
“Did he have any enemies, anyone he’d had difficulty with who might hold a grudge?”
“No. Everyone loved Patrick. He was a gentle soul, not at all confrontational. In fact, he abhorred confrontations of any kind.”
“What can you tell me about him? His friends? People he worked with?”
“Nothing that would lead to this. Oh, God.” Fucci closed his eyes. “Maybe it was God’s mercy.”
“Why do you say that?”
The pastor drew a long breath. “Patrick was dying. He was very ill, and the condition was going to worsen, according to his doctors. He had only a year, perhaps less.”
“What was wrong with him?” Devlin asked.
Fucci placed his hands over his face and rubbed softly. “He had AIDS. It was in a very advanced stage. And the medication he was taking wasn’t working.”
Devlin kept his eyes on the pastor’s face, watching for any hint of something hidden. “Was it from a blood transfusion?” he asked.
Fucci rubbed his face again, shook his head. “No,” he said. “And he wasn’t a drug user to my knowledge.”
The pastor had fallen silent. Devlin waited, and when nothing more came, he laid a hand on the priest’s shoulder.
“Monsignor, I have to know all of it if we’re going to find the person who did this.”
The priest nodded. “I know, I know. But I was also his confessor. So I can only tell you things I knew outside of that.”
Devlin waited again, then finally asked, “Was Father Donovan gay?”
Fucci let out a long breath. “Yes. He made no secret of it. In fact, he served as an advocate for the gays of the parish.” He looked toward the altar and smiled sadly. “It’s not something that finds favor uptown.” He turned back to Devlin and offered his sad smile again. “There are certain elements in the archdiocese who prefer to live life with blinders on.”
“Did the archdiocese know about his illness?”
“Yes, of course. There was even talk about transferring him to another parish.” He smiled again. “To get him out of Greenwich Village. Away from the occasion of sin, so to speak.” Tears came to his eyes. “I opposed it. God, I wish now that I hadn’t.”
Devlin knew he had to keep the priest talking before his grief got in the way. “Monsignor, now comes the hard part,” he began. “It’s possible this was done by someone Father Donovan knew as a gay man. I’ll need names of anyone he was especially close to or was possibly involved with.”
The pastor shook his head. “If I knew that it would be from the confessional. But I honestly don’t. I never asked for names. I only dealt with the sin and counseled him on how he might avoid it.” He drew another breath. “Patrick was well known throughout the gay community. I’m certain others can help you with names.”
Devlin glanced toward the choirboys seated toward the front of the church. “It’s an ugly question, but was there any involvement with young boys?” He saw anger flash in the monsignor’s eyes and hurried on. “It’s been known to happen, Monsignor. And sometimes relatives of a child become vengeful.”
“No, definitely not. He would have told me that, and he never did.”
“You understand that the boys will have to be questioned. We have officers who specialize in that sort of thing. I assure you it will be done discreetly and in a way that won’t be harmful to the kids.”
The priest let out a long breath. His jaw tightened. “Do what you have to do,” he said.
Devlin waited for the forensics team and the medical examiner to finish with the crime scene and then contacted Rourke on his cell phone and told the two detectives to meet him back at the church, forthwith.
“So the priest was gay,” Rourke said, when Devlin had explained. “Seems to be a lot of that goin’ around.”
There was a grin on the detective’s face that caused the scar on Devlin’s cheek to whiten. “That is not to go outside the investigation,” he said.
Rourke raised his hands, immediately contrite. “Hey, it won’t come from us. But you gotta understand. Some newsie starts nosing around down here, we can’t control what the local poofs might say. Christ, they find out a priest who was one of their own got iced, they might even have some kinda protest parade.”
Devlin knew he was right but kept the warning in his voice. “Just remember, this gets out, some people in the archdiocese will be very unhappy. That will make city hall unhappy, and when city hall’s unhappy the bosses at the Puzzle Palace get downright miserable. So unless you fancy wearing the blue bag again, make sure nothing comes from you.” Rourke started to speak, but Devlin waved him off. “Let it rest. We don’t have time. I want you out in the neighborhood right away. Find out who this priest was close to … in a romantic way. Then I want that person or persons run through the grinder. I want to know what they
did and where they were every second of the day. Are we clear?”
“You got it, Inspector,” Rourke said.
Chapter Three
It was seven o’clock when Devlin got back to the SoHo loft he shared with his lover, Adrianna Mendez, and his ten-year-old daughter, Phillipa. As he opened the door he saw Phillipa sprawled on a sofa, stereo earphones clamped to her head, feet dangling over the sofa’s arms, toes dancing in the air. He let out a sigh. She had been a toddler when his wife was killed in an automobile accident, and he had raised her alone until she was eight, his delight in the child growing each day. Then Adrianna had come into his life, and Phillipa had accepted her eagerly, as though she had been yearning for a mother figure. Now it was Adrianna to whom Phillipa turned when “things” had to be discussed. He once had asked her why she bypassed him in these discussions. Phillipa had rolled her eyes and tolerantly explained that there were things women had to talk about with other women.
The statement, precociously naïve though it was, had hit him like a brick. There was no question it held an element of truth. Adrianna seemed to understand the child far better than he. She even understood Phillipa’s taste in music, which had blossomed over the past year. To Devlin it was cacophony mixed with sexual innuendo, uttered by emaciated young men, distinguishable only by their bizarre taste in clothing or lack thereof. Had he seen them gathered on a street corner he would have watched and waited for the inevitable drug transaction to take place.
He had tried to overcome this growing gulf between himself and his child, had even visited a music store, boned up on the names of some of the supposedly popular groups, and then raised them in discussion with Phillipa. She had smiled—again, tolerantly—and explained that he was talking ancient history.
Later, Adrianna had commiserated. Then she had explained that today’s preteen music icons rose and fell within days. Just listen, she had advised. Let her tell you about them. Don’t try to make her think you understand any of it yourself, because you probably never will.
So he had surrendered, lost one more point of contact with the child he adored. There were days when he wondered if he’d ever get any of them back.
Adrianna came out of the portion of the loft she used as a studio, looking paint-splattered and beautiful. She was a highly successful artist, whose paintings sold for more money than Devlin made in several years, and it provided their family with a lifestyle—and him, in particular, with an independence—that few honest cops ever enjoy.
“You’re late, and you look exhausted,” she said, as she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
To Devlin she was incredibly beautiful, yet far from classically so. In truth, her nose was just a touch too large, her mouth a bit too wide, and her light-brown eyes too great a contrast with her raven-black hair. Yet in combination it all came together to make her one of the most striking women he had ever seen. And her sensual Cuban disposition only added to that delightful mix.
“I’m afraid my day isn’t over yet.”
Adrianna raised her eyebrows, and Devlin explained how his one new case had suddenly become two. She grimaced when he told her about the priest, glancing quickly at Phillipa to make sure the earphones were still in place.
“I left a message for Sharon and Ollie to stop by here before they head home,” Devlin added. “I need them to fill me in on their day. Howie’s going to want an update on both cases before he goes to bed.”
Adrianna rolled her eyes at the mention of the mayor, and Devlin smiled, wondering if that was where Phillipa had picked up the gesture. No, he decided, it was definitely something inbred in the female of the species.
“We had Chinese takeout for dinner,” Adrianna said. “I’ll warm a plate so you can eat before Sharon and Ollie show up.”
He went to the sofa and squeezed in next to Phillipa’s supine body. He lifted the earphones from her head, kissed her nose, and said, “Hi, kiddo.” From the earphones the strains of young male voices filtered through a heavy bass beat. “Who you listening to?” he asked.
Phillipa grinned at him, a bit too knowingly, he thought. “Backstreet Boys.”
The name was lost on him. He smiled. “How was school today?” he asked, changing the subject.
Her grin widened (knowingly?). “Easy, like always,” she said. “You must have a new case for the mayor,” she added.
“How do you know that?”
“You’re home late. You’re always home late when you have a new case.”
“Very good detective work,” he said.
“Tell me about it.”
“Uh-uh.”
“Mmm. Must be a good grisly one,” she said. “You never want to tell me about those. Who got killed?”
He knew she would read about it in the paper the next day, making a point of it just to show him she could find out. “A Catholic priest and a nun,” he said.
“Yikes. Sounds like a religious nut,” she said.
Devlin shook his head. Where did it come from? He had to cut down on her television time. “They’re separate cases, far as we can tell,” he said.
“Double yikes.” She gave him a knowing look. “Definitely a religious nut, Dad. I guarantee it. And the two cases have to be connected. Don’t waste time on any other theories.”
Devlin fought back a laugh. “Thank you, Inspector. When I talk to the mayor I’ll pass along your theory.”
Phillipa raised her chin a bit haughtily. “Wait and see,” she said.
Devlin bent down and kissed her nose again. God, he loved this kid—precocious and lovely and innocent, and ten years old going on thirty. He ran a hand against her blond hair, noted how the once-prominent freckles were disappearing from her nose and cheeks. Every day she looked more like her mother. The thought sent a pang through him. How he wished Mary could be here to see her child blossom into a young woman. He was certain she would handle things just as Adrianna did. She would probably understand her daughter’s music as well.
Sharon arrived an hour later, minus Ollie Pitts. “I sent him home,” she explained. “He was still snarling over our little encounter with those Opus Christi clowns.”
“What happened?” Devlin asked. “They try and stonewall you?”
“Not in the least,” Sharon said. “They gave us every thing we wanted. Access to all their members who were at the headquarters. Separate rooms to interrogate the men and the women.”
“So?”
Sharon told him about the two “numerarier” lawyers. She shook her head. “Every time I asked a question, the person I was interviewing would look at this numerarier—which by the way is some kind of muck-a-muck in their order. If he nodded they would answer. If he didn’t, they would say they didn’t know. It was the same with all of Ollie’s interviews. There were a lot of ‘I don’t know’ answers. We might as well have just interviewed these numerarier guys and called it quits.”
They were seated at the kitchen table. Devlin leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “What’s with these people? One of their nuns gets murdered in an obvious drug deal. Embarrassing, sure, but the mayor and the department have promised to cover them with the media as best we can. And they still throw one roadblock after another in front of us. With the press waiting in the wings, these people are nailing their own asses to the wall. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Unless they’re involved in the drug thing themselves,” Sharon said.
“A religious order of the Catholic Church? What for? That makes even less sense.”
“Maybe somebody inside the group.”
“That’s a possible, sure. But when you think about it, it doesn’t make a lot of sense either. It would have to be someone with enough authority to make a young nun work as a drug mule. I just can’t imagine that happening.”
Sharon let out a weary breath. “I can’t either. But, dammit, something is going on there. And until we find out more about these people, we’re not going to have a chance in hell of finding out what it is.�
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Devlin tapped a finger against his lips. “I know a Jesuit who teaches philosophy and religious history at Fordham. I’ll make an appointment to see him tomorrow. Maybe he can shed some light on these people. What about that young nun, the one who seemed so shaken at the funeral?”
“She wasn’t there. According to Matthew she was out doing missionary work.” Sharon made quotation marks in the air around the last two words and added, “Whatever the hell that means.”
“Let’s keep after her.”
“I will.” Sharon paused a beat. “I heard about the new case, the murdered priest. Any possible connection?”
Devlin smiled at her. “My daughter thinks so. But the evidence doesn’t point that way.”
Sharon returned the smile. She was aware of Phillipa’s penchant for offering up theories on their cases. Then she listened as Devlin filled her in on what they had found at the murder scene.
“Gay. Dying of AIDS.” Sharon gave him a pained look. “You think it was an old lover the priest gave it to? Or maybe the person who gave it to the priest, afraid he might out him as a carrier?”
“We’re checking both angles. The priest was also the church choirmaster. We’re interviewing the parents of all the kids too.”
Again, Sharon grimaced. “God, I hope it’s not that. Not more kids sexually abused by a gay priest. If it is, I’ll start rooting for the killer.” She shook her head. “Listen to me. Do I sound homophobic, or do I sound homophobic?”
“You sound homophobic,” Devlin said. “Nothing stirs up homophobia like a sexually abused kid. Even for gay police sergeants.”
Chapter Four
Father William Martin’s office was on the top floor of the faculty building on Fordham’s Lincoln Center campus. Martin was very much the aesthete, and every inch of his tall, lean body exuded his Jesuit training. Devlin had first met the priest years ago when Martin taught ethics to new trainees at the police academy, and he had formed a friendship with the scholarly priest that had lasted over the intervening years.
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