The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  “Not for me.” Both detectives watched as the assistant medical examiner tagged the body, careful to preserve evidence on and around it. “Does he have an alibi?”

  “We’re checking it out.”

  Father Joe had risen to his feet, his balance wobbly and his face wet. Cancini shivered, his skin clammy under the wool jacket. “Can you take him downtown? I want to talk to Will and have another look around.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Smitty disappeared, and Cancini rubbed the back of his neck. He looked up at the shadows on the ceiling, his mind both charged and tired. It was going to be a long day. He stepped outside to get some air. Icy rain spit and swirled in the gusty wind. From the corner, he watched Smitty escort Father Joe Sweeney outside, one hand at the man’s elbow. The priest was not a young man and carried more weight than he should. He walked purposefully and carefully. In spite of the weather, the small crowd still huddled on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape. A handful of reporters shouted questions that no one answered.

  Halfway to the car, the old priest stopped, face turned toward the street. Following his gaze, Cancini saw a man. Tall and lean, he stood alone on the other side of the street. He wore a long, dark leather coat and held an umbrella in his right hand. His hair and eyes were hidden from view. A heavy beard covered the lower half of his face. The man dropped his head, stepped back, and vanished around the corner. Cancini ran a hand over his face, wiping away the rain dripping from his hair.

  Lightning cracked across the sky, close and angry. A rumble of thunder followed and the rain came down harder, slashing against the church, and he ducked back inside. Church bells rang out, their chimes muted in the thunderstorm. He let out a long breath. The face of the dead priest flooded his mind and he could still smell the tinny odor of death clinging to his skin. He touched his hand to his head and without thinking, swept it across his chest in the sign of the cross. He waited but no prayer came. His hand dropped back to his side.

  He walked back down the center aisle of the sanctuary to the altar. God couldn’t stop death and murder, and he couldn’t stop the news cycle. This case would be headlining the midday news and be featured again at five and eleven. The shooting of a priest—in his own church—guaranteed a story.

  He moved past the assistant medical examiner, past the body, and up to the altar. Crouching, he leaned in, his long nose only inches from the cloth. The cross, already half dried, would be bagged and taken in. They would test for fingerprints and for DNA that might have mingled with the blood of their victim, but he didn’t expect to find either. The cross wasn’t a careless afterthought. He stood again, his bones cracking as he rose. The killer had shot the priest at close range. Even without DNA, without evidence, Cancini already knew the murder was a cold and calculated act. There’d been no panic. Instead, the killer had taken the time to paint the cross on the cloth using the dead man’s own blood.

  It had been years since Cancini had attended Mass, but he hadn’t forgotten everything he’d learned as an altar boy. The cross itself had many meanings. It represented the Holy Trinity: the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Different versions could symbolize the birth of Jesus, the resurrection, or the Christian faith. The lines around his mouth deepened, and the twisted knot of nerves between his shoulders hardened. The cross drawn on the cloth was not a celebration or a pronouncement of faith. It was crude and deliberate. Cancini recognized it for what is was. The bloody cross embodied the ultimate sacrifice. Death.

  Chapter Three

  The victim’s apartment, neat and spare, smelled of aftershave and ripe bananas. A small television sat perched on a stand in a tiny living room furnished with only two chairs and an end table. A cluttered desk had been pushed into the corner. Cancini thumbed through a short stack of spiral notebooks but saw only handwritten drafts of sermons. Inside the refrigerator, he found milk, eggs, and a few other items, all still fresh. The closet held only robes, dark pants, and a handful of shirts. One pair of dress shoes and a pair of sneakers sat on the floor. Like most priests, this one lived on a fixed income. A laptop, a few years old, sat on a battered nightstand. Cancini made a note to get Landon from the forensic department to take a look at the hard drive. Nothing appeared out of place. After one final glance around the apartment, he pulled the door shut.

  Striding across the church grounds, he turned his collar up against the wind and rain. He ducked under the yellow tape and entered through the sanctuary. The altar, now empty, was bathed in darkness. Only a pair of officers remained inside. He passed through to the Commons, stopped short and blinked, the canned fluorescents jarring after the dim lighting inside the church. An elderly man sat hunched on a bench, his face pale and somber.

  “What’ve we got?” Cancini asked a third uniformed officer.

  “Forensics is still in the vic’s office. The photographer left a few minutes ago.”

  The detective gestured toward the man on the bench. “And him?”

  “Janitor. Says he comes in every morning at nine. There was a secretary that showed up, too. When she heard about the priest, she broke down pretty bad. The guy with her took her home.” He handed Cancini a piece of paper. “This is her name and number.”

  “Thanks.” Cancini crossed the floor to the bench and sat down. He placed a card in the space between them. “I’m Detective Cancini.”

  The man drew a deep breath and lifted his head. Deep hollows under his cheekbones gave his face a skull-like appearance. With yellowed eyes, he glanced once at the card, then down at his knotted hands. “Tony Santos.”

  “I’ve been told you’re the janitor here, Mr. Santos.”

  “Been coming every day at nine except for Sundays for fifty-eight years now. Never missed a day of work.”

  “Fifty-eight years. That’s a long time.”

  The man grunted.

  “How long had Father Holland been the priest here?”

  Santos raised one bony shoulder. “Not long. A few years.” He clucked his tongue. “This is gonna be bad for the church, really bad.”

  “Why do you say that, Mr. Santos?”

  He ran his tongue over cracked lips. “Father Holland was the only thing keeping this place going. Before him, wasn’t much work to do.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “We used to have the best priests in town, you know, but they all moved out or got old. Big crowds for Mass every Sunday back then.” He sighed. “We had some lean years for a while, but Father Holland, he was gonna change all that. He was changing it.” He swallowed hard, and tears slid down his face.

  A radiator rumbled to life and blew tepid air over Cancini’s head. He let his gaze wander over the Commons. Old photos of bishops and cardinals hung on a pockmarked wall, and a dark hallway led toward the back of the building. The only furniture was the bench and a pair of worn chairs. “Tell me about how Father Holland was gonna change it.”

  “What’s to tell? He got people to come back to the church. That’s how.” He gave a shake of his head. “It’s not right.” The tears flowed freely now.

  Cancini waited. He shifted on the bench, turning toward the janitor. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know this is hard, but any help you can give me would be appreciated.” Santos sniffled, his head bobbing up and down. “What can you tell me about Father Holland?”

  “A good man,” he said after a moment, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. “Kind. Friendly.” He hesitated. “Treated everybody like they was somebody, like they was worth something.”

  Cancini nodded. “Anything else?”

  “He gave me sandwiches. This coat.” The janitor held out his arm. “Always helping people, you know.”

  “How about some other folks who worked here at the church? Can you think of anyone else I can talk to about Father Holland?”

  “Deacon Bob. Deacon Joe. They do Sunday at nine. Been here almost as long as me. They’ll say the same. Everyone loved Father Holland.”

  Cancini wrote down the names and Santos rattled
off a few more names of old-timers. “Anyone else? Maybe someone in the office?”

  The old man picked at the fabric of his blue uniform. “Mrs. Harding. She works in the office.”

  Cancini recognized the name as the one belonging to the secretary. “Did anyone else work in the office I should talk to?”

  Santos sucked in his cheeks, his lips pressed into a hard line. “Just her.”

  With a small staff, it wouldn’t take long to interview those on the list. The congregation would take longer. Assuming there was no interference from the diocese, the secretary should be able to give him any contact information he needed. “What’s Mrs. Harding like?”

  The janitor pushed himself up to his feet. “Don’t really know her,” he mumbled, averting his eyes. Gnarled fingers fumbled at the buttons of his coat.

  Cancini stood, too, the hair on his arms raised. “Didn’t you see her every day?”

  “I see lots of folks every day. Doesn’t mean I know them.”

  “I understand,” he said, tone gentle. “You’re saying you knew Father Holland well but not Mrs. Harding.”

  “He was friendly. I told you that.”

  “I see.” The man might not have come out and said he didn’t like the secretary, but his message was clear. “Father Holland and Mrs. Harding must have spent a lot of time together though.”

  The man’s hand froze over the last button. “I wouldn’t know. I’m just a janitor.” Santos eyed the door. “Can I go now?”

  Cancini stepped aside. At the door, the janitor looked over his shoulder. “Father Holland was a good man, Detective. A very good man.”

  Chapter Four

  “Is he a suspect?” Captain Martin stood next to Cancini, the toothpick in his mouth bobbing up and down with each word. “Doesn’t look like the type, but you never know. I’ve seen stranger.”

  On the other side of the glass, Father Joe Sweeney sat at a wooden table, his hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He stared straight ahead, eyes puffy and red. For a moment, Cancini was struck by how old he looked, how lost. Shaking off the thought, he glanced over at Martin. “He found the victim. Called it in.”

  The captain stepped closer to the glass until he was near enough to see his breath. Both men watched the old man sip the coffee. “That doesn’t mean he didn’t shoot the guy.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Martin spun around. “Why? Because he’s a priest? That’s no get-out-of-jail card in my book. Plenty of sleazy priests out there.”

  Cancini faced the captain, his face stony. “He’s not sleazy.”

  “Oka-ay.” Martin dragged out the word. “He didn’t shoot the guy and he’s not sleazy.” He flicked the chewed toothpick into the trash. “Either somebody got pretty cozy on the drive over here, or I’m guessing you got something you wanna tell me.”

  Cancini looked away. Grief lined Father Joe’s face and was evident in the lethargic, heavy way he moved. “He’s a friend. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”

  Martin’s mud-brown eyes opened wide. “Wait a minute. Is that the same Father Joe Lola is always talking about? The one that helps take care of your dad?”

  It was Cancini’s turn to be surprised, though he didn’t know why.

  “He’s a close friend of yours, right?”

  Cancini hesitated. It would be just like his ex to spill details about his life to Martin, her new husband. She’d always been a talker, something he’d once thought made them a good pair. He didn’t like to talk. Lola never quit. He hadn’t counted on having to listen, or that she’d find someone else who would. The failure of his marriage came down to more than that, of course, and yet, for reasons he didn’t quite understand, she still talked to his father regularly—probably more than he did. It was just another part of his life where he failed on a daily basis. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. One and the same.”

  “Perfect.” Martin shook his head. “The one witness we might have happens to be buddy-buddy with my top detective.” Cancini was surprised again. It wasn’t like Martin to offer compliments. “Shit. I sure as hell don’t need this kind of complication after that friggin’ shooting last month. IAB’s already up my ass as it is. Christ.”

  Cancini tuned out, letting the captain rant. Behind the glass, Father Joe hunched over his coffee, stiff with sorrow. Cancini squared his shoulders. It wouldn’t be easy, but he would have to put aside his sympathy for the old man. The victim deserved that at least. Martin jolted him from his thoughts.

  “You’re off the case.”

  “What?” Cancini’s eyes flashed. It was just like Martin to be quick to the trigger. “Why?”

  “Did we or did we not just establish you’ve known this guy practically your whole life?” He stepped closer to Cancini, spit flying from his mouth. “That’s your damn reason. Not to mention Clark’s on desk work for drunk and disorderly, and I don’t need this crap.” He paused, glancing once more at the man waiting on the other side of the glass. “I’m sorry about your friend. I am, but there can’t be so much as a whiff of favoritism or anything else with this case. The press is gonna go bonkers with this story as it is and you know it.” He laid a meaty hand on Cancini’s shoulder. “It’s better this way. You’re off.”

  “Captain?” Smitty came in with a tray of coffee. “May I say that sounds like a wise decision?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah.” Martin took a cup. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Cancini muttered.

  “By the way,” Smitty said, “initial reports show Father Sweeney is clean. No gunpowder residue on his hands, clothes, or hair.”

  “He could’ve changed his clothes.”

  “Good point, but unlikely in this case. He was dropped off at St. William at seven this morning by a friend he’d been visiting last night. That’s been confirmed. He has an alibi for last night and this morning. He phoned the police less than five minutes after arriving at the church. Tough for him to change clothes and get rid of the gun in that amount of time.”

  Martin squinted. “So, you’re saying he’s not a suspect.”

  Smitty nodded. “Solid alibi. But better to be safe than sorry. No one can tell you how to run your department, Captain.” Martin shot him a look, and the young detective smiled broadly back at the boss. “Bronson’s available though. He and Jensen could take the case.”

  Martin snorted. “Christ. The Penguin and the Joker? Bronson couldn’t find his own ass if you lit it on fire.”

  Cancini choked but kept quiet.

  “They’ll do better this time,” Smitty said.

  The captain paced the small room. “Is that all we’ve got?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shit.”

  Behind them, through the open door, file cabinets clanged and cell phones trilled. Voices rose and fell. Cancini remained silent.

  “Shit,” Martin said again. He dumped his cup. “Scrap what I said earlier. Cancini, you can stay, but I want Smitty taking lead with the priest. Bring Bronson and Jensen in, too. We need as many eyes and ears on this case as we can get. I want this thing closed yesterday. Got it?”

  “Got it,” the detectives said in unison.

  “And make sure I get updated every couple of hours. No holding shit back.” He frowned, eyeballing Cancini. “If there’s even a hint your priest might be a suspect, even the tiniest bit, you’re out.” He didn’t wait for a response, turning on Smitty next. “And don’t think I don’t know what you did.”

  Cancini watched the captain leave, heard him bark orders to the detectives at their desks, then slam his office door. Cancini gave his partner an approving nod. “Pretty damn slick.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But we’re stuck with Bronson and Jensen.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Smitty said.

  “If you say so.” Cancini filled Smitty in on his interview with the janitor and the search of the apartment. The secretary was expected later in the day. He gestured toward the glass. “W
hat’ve you got so far?”

  Smitty flipped open a notebook in his right hand. “This is from the statement given at the scene.” He paused. “Father Sweeney was meeting the deceased for breakfast. Stayed with a friend last night, and that friend dropped him off in front of the church at seven. He went around back to the apartment where the deceased lives, but there was no answer. Went back to the church and found the body. Called 911. Claims he didn’t touch the body or anything else.”

  “Then he didn’t. What else?”

  “That’s it. Said he was done talking. Except for one thing. He asked for you.”

  Cancini sighed. The knot between his shoulders throbbed, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  After a vending machine stop, Cancini and Smitty entered the interview room. Cancini set a sandwich and napkin on the table and slid a fresh cup of coffee toward Father Joe.

  “Thanks, Michael,” the old priest said. His voice held only the trace of a tremor. Bloodshot eyes looked out of a pale, spotted face.

  “I’m only here to observe,” he told Father Joe. “Detective Smithson has some questions for you.”

  “Whatever you say, Michael.”

  Smitty took the seat across from the priest, and Cancini pulled out a chair at the far end of the table. He twisted in his chair and looked back at the glass. The captain, along with Bronson and Jensen, observed from the other side.

  Smitty cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming in today, Father Sweeney. I know this is hard for you.” He paused a second. “I also know you already gave a brief statement, both to the officers at the church and to me earlier, but we’re going to need you to do that again.”

  “Right.” Father Joe’s gaze drifted to the camera set up in the corner of the room. “Is that on?”

  “Yes,” Smitty said. “Is that a problem?”

  The priest shook his head. “Not at all. Just making sure we only have to do this once. Your time is valuable.”

  Smitty shot Cancini a questioning glance.

  “Father Joe’s showing you his smartass side,” Cancini said. “Saves it for his friends.”