The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  Cancini sighed. It was true Bronson got on his nerves, although Jensen was worse. “It’s not my job to make friends. It’s my job to find out who killed Father Holland.”

  Smitty was quiet a moment. “Well, like it or not, it’s their job, too.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The younger detective faced Cancini. “I don’t have to. Martin will do plenty of that.” He looked away briefly and took a deep breath. “Look, no one likes being told what to do or how they aren’t great cops—even if it’s true.”

  Cancini raised one eyebrow. Smitty had been his partner for more than a year, the longest he’d had a partner since he could remember. Smitty was smart, detailed, and a damn good cop. Cancini glimpsed Bronson hunched over his desk, speaking into the phone. It was true he’d been hard on the man, and it wasn’t the first time. But it was also true the job didn’t require him to make friends. It required him to find murderers as quickly as possible without making mistakes. Guys like Bronson and Jensen seemed to have trouble with both of those things. He sighed again and looked back at Smitty. “So, what you’re saying is you agree with Bronson? I’m an asshole?”

  A slow grin split Smitty’s face. “Not exactly. Bronson definitely acts like an idiot, and you are absolutely an asshole.”

  Cancini laughed, some of the tension between his shoulders melting. “Good. Then we’re all in agreement on that.” He looked back at Smitty, and the smile left his face. “I’ll try not to be such grade A jerk all the time.”

  His partner shrugged. “Maybe you could just tone it down once in a while. Bronson may be an idiot, but we need him.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  Cancini nodded. His partner was right again. They had a lot of ground to cover, and with each passing hour, the trail would grow colder. The more manpower, the better. “Got it.” He gestured to the glass. The secretary was sitting again, head cradled in her hands, and shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. “What about her alibi?”

  “The husband and wife say they were both home all night.”

  “Anyone else able to back that up?”

  “Not so far.”

  Cancini let it go. He knew it was more likely they were home together on a Sunday night than not. Still, it proved nothing. “The janitor didn’t seem to like the lady much.”

  Smitty grinned. “Maybe she didn’t give him any sandwiches.”

  Cancini gave a short laugh. “Yeah. Maybe.” He watched through the glass another minute. “Ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  “It can wait.” Both detectives turned to find Martin clutching a pile of papers. “You need to see these e-mails first.” The detectives exchanged glances. “We’ve got our guy.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Terry Landon pushed his glasses up on his nose and turned the laptop toward Cancini. “These are all the dates your victim received e-mails from this particular address.”

  The dark-haired detective leaned forward. “That’s more than three years.”

  “True, but they were sporadic until recently.” The young man pointed at the screen. “Most of them were all sent in the last couple of weeks, sometimes more than one a day.”

  Cancini scanned the dates. Several e-mails had been sent in the days leading up to Holland’s murder. He straightened. “So, what were the e-mails about?”

  Landon held up a thick folder. “At first, they were kind of friendly, but real short. Stuff like ‘good to know you’re not dead’ and ‘don’t be a stranger.’ Nothing exciting. A couple of weeks ago, that changed.”

  Smitty took the e-mails from Landon and skimmed several. He paused, then read one out loud. “‘Don’t turn your back on me, Matty. We been through too much. Remember who was there for you when you had nowhere else to go.’” He flipped through a couple more, then read again. “Here’s another one: ‘Friends don’t desert friends. I did you a favor. This is how you fucking repay me?’”

  Cancini rubbed his hand over his face and considered the message. “Not sounding so friendly anymore.”

  “Right,” Landon said, excitement in his voice. He handed Smitty another page. “This one’s from a week ago.”

  Smitty read, “‘I’m not playing around anymore. I don’t give a shit what your reasons are. You know I don’t do all that religion crap. Besides, I know the real you, and the guy I know sure as hell isn’t some pussy priest. You’ve done plenty of sinning. If you don’t do the right thing, you’re going to need a whole lot more than dumbass prayers.’”

  Martin spit a toothpick into the trash. “Get to the one from the day he was murdered.”

  Landon squinted at the trash can and wrinkled his nose. “Right.”

  Smitty took the paper from the forensic specialist and cleared his throat. “‘Matty, time is up. Don’t think I don’t know you’ve gotten every single one of my e-mails. You have till tomorrow. I’m watching, so you’d better not be late or you’re a fucking dead man. You got me? Bring the cash OR ELSE!!!! And keep your trap shut if you want to live.’” Smitty looked up. “Blackmail?”

  “That’s my take.” Martin folded his arms across his chest. “The priest didn’t pay up and got a bullet through the eye.”

  A heavy silence fell over the room.

  Cancini took the copies from Landon, reading the words again. There was anger—probably over whatever wrong was done—and the threat of violence, but there was something more. There was an intimacy, a feeling the relationship was deep-rooted. Again, he found himself wondering about the missing teenage years.

  “Did Father Holland respond to any of these e-mails?” Smitty asked.

  “Not that I’ve found,” the young man said.

  “Good work, Landon.” Martin clapped the young man on the back. “Let’s pick this guy up.”

  Landon gathered the pages and shook his head. “Unfortunately, I can’t trace this account. The e-mail service is free. I ran the name and the birth date on the profile, and this woman died twenty years ago.”

  “What about an IP address?” Smitty asked.

  “Also no use. I haven’t had time to go through every e-mail yet, but I’ve done about a quarter, and every one came from a public place like a coffee shop or library.”

  Cancini’s head began to pound. “How many places so far?”

  “Five or six. Maybe more. Whoever sent them moved around a lot.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Landon,” Martin said, voice raised. “What the hell can you tell us?”

  The young man reddened and returned to his keyboard. After a moment, he looked at Cancini, ignoring Martin.” All the e-mails I’ve checked so far are were sent from within a fifty-mile radius of the church where the priest was murdered. Some are in D.C., some in Maryland, and some in Virginia. That’s all I’ve got for now.”

  Cancini stood up. “Thanks. It’s a big help.”

  “What do you mean it’s a big help?” Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s five million people.”

  Cancini knew the captain was right, but he had another idea. “Maybe we can see if there’s a pattern to the free wifi places he used. Landon, can you get me a copy of each e-mail and a list of the IP addresses. And can you sort them by date and time, too?”

  Landon nodded. “I’m not done going through the victim’s computer, though. There are thousands of e-mails, and I’m trying to put together a picture of all the sites he’d visited in the days before his murder.”

  “Good. What about a contact list?”

  “I can get that now.” The young man pushed his glasses up again. After a moment, the printer spit out several pages. He handed them to Cancini.

  “Thanks.”

  Martin and Smitty headed out of the computer lab, but Cancini lagged behind. His fingers trailed down the contact list. “Landon, one more thing.” He pointed at an address on the list. “Can you tell me how many e-mails Father Holland sent to this address?”

  “Let me check.” The r
oom was silent except for the clicking of keys. “About one a week I’d say.” He typed a little more. “Except for this last week, when there seem to be a few more.” His voice dropped lower. “Three on the day he was killed.”

  Cancini blinked and turned his head away. Fresh pain radiated across his shoulders and up his neck.

  “Detective?” The young man stared up at him. “Are you okay?”

  “I need you to do me a favor.” He folded the pages listing the e-mail contacts and slipped them in his pocket. “I need you to send me copies of those e-mails over with the others.” Landon blinked, his head bobbing. “Make sure they’re addressed to me.” The young man nodded again.

  Cancini left the lab, his head throbbing. He’d told Martin that Father Joe wasn’t involved. He’d been blindsided by the close relationship between the priests and now the e-mails. Why had Holland e-mailed Father Joe several times that week and three times the day he was murdered? Father Joe knew something. Cancini could feel it in his bones.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The secretary twisted the mascara-stained tissues into a ball. “I put together the bulletin, set up and maintained the Web site, answered the phones. Really, I did just about whatever Father Holland needed.” Makeup wiped away, she looked no older than a college student or recent graduate. She plucked a fresh tissue from the box.

  Cancini held his pen over his notebook. “Did he ask you to do anything unusual over the last few days? Did you answer any strange phone calls?”

  “No. Everything was the same as always.”

  “Did Father Holland seem worried or preoccupied?”

  Her brows drew together. “I don’t think so. I mean, not any more than normal anyway.”

  “What would be normal for Father Holland to be worried about?”

  She squeezed the wadded-up tissues. “Well, he was always worried about money. We all were. Lots more people were coming to church, but most of them were poor. The Sunday offerings hadn’t grown as much as he’d hoped, and the diocese didn’t want to increase the church funding.”

  Reminded of the e-mails Landon had discovered, Cancini wrote, Money troubles? in his notebook.

  “The word was spreading about Father Holland and how kind he was and how he wanted to help the community. It’s not that people didn’t want to give. Everyone loved Father Holland.” She sniffled and pressed a tissue to her nose. Cancini glanced over at Smitty, who stood against the wall, his arms crossed. “Sorry,” she said. “I just can’t believe it. He was doing such good work.”

  “But there wasn’t enough money to keep doing that work?”

  She sighed. “Well, no. There was just so much to do. The people he was helping, some of them were coming to church, and that was good. He was making their lives better. But a lot of those were single moms or prostitutes or, you know . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Drug users?” Cancini filled in.

  “Yes.” She leaned forward, earnestness animating her face. “Father Holland was trying to help them, offer them a place to pray, to get closer to God, show them another way.”

  “And how was that working?”

  “More were coming every Sunday. His message was getting out there.”

  “What exactly would he have done with more money if he had it?”

  She sat back against the chair and ticked off a list. “Lots of things. He wanted to fix the stained glass windows, finish some of the repairs around the church. He wanted to grow his outreach for the drug users, help get them into programs. He wanted to increase the church donations to the poor in the community. He had a list he kept tacked to the bulletin board in his office.”

  “I saw that list. It was pretty long.”

  Her lips turned up in a wistful smile. “Father Holland dreamed big. He wanted to do everything and help everyone.” The smile twitched and faded. “He was going to change the world.”

  Cancini paused over his notes. “You don’t sound like you believed it.”

  Flushing, she looked down at her hands again. “I did. I wanted to. I guess I’m more realistic. I don’t believe everyone wants to be helped. Some people are just looking for a handout and don’t really want to change.” He raised an eyebrow at the harder edge in her tone. “That sounds terrible, I know, but it’s true,” she added.

  “Did you ever tell him that?”

  She paled. “Of course not. That’s not my place. Besides, compared to Father Holland, we’re all pretty cynical.” She reached up, fingers trembling, and smoothed her hair. The sleeve of her dress fell away, exposing the length of her slender arm. She pulled the sleeve back over her wrist, but not before Cancini saw the black and blue marks dotting her forearm.

  “What happened to your arm?”

  Her lips parted and she pulled her arms close to her side. “I banged it.” She tossed her head and forced a laugh. “I’m a klutz, always tripping over something.” She raised a hand to her head. “I’m sorry. I’m really tired. Do you think I could go home now?”

  Cancini stood and slid his card across the table. “We’ll have someone see you out.”

  After she was gone, Smitty asked, “What did you think?”

  “The janitor was right. I wouldn’t describe Mrs. Harding as overly friendly.” He hesitated. “The list of things the church needs is extensive, though. Could be Holland’s worry over money is somehow connected to the threatening e-mails.”

  “He got in with some bad people?”

  “More likely someone while he was doing outreach or someone he knew before—maybe even from those years he disappeared. It would help if we could get a handle on where he was and what he was doing then.”

  Smitty shrugged. “I can keep looking. Maybe something will turn up.”

  Cancini picked up his notebook and read over the words he’d jotted on the page. “Did you notice the bruises on her arm?”

  “I didn’t have a great view.”

  Cancini frowned. “I could be wrong, but one of those bruises reminded me of a handprint, like someone grabbed her tight and just held on.”

  Smitty cocked his head. “Husband?”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Not much other than the job and when they moved here. I’ve seen him, though. He’s a big guy.”

  Cancini slid his notebook into his pocket. “Let’s get Bronson to see what he can find out.”

  Smitty hesitated at the door, turning back to Cancini. “Do you think the bruises mean anything?”

  Cancini didn’t comment for a moment. He knew about Smitty’s sister, about the ex who’d used her as a punching bag. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions. “That’s what we have to find out.”

  His young partner’s shoulders seemed to loosen. “Sounds good.”

  Cancini watched him leave. Smitty’s sister had lost her hearing in one ear and still wore long sleeves to cover the burn scars on her arms. His young partner blamed himself for not knowing, for not seeing it sooner. He wore that guilt like a mantle. Cancini didn’t know if Erica Harding’s husband had touched her. Maybe she was klutzy and had only fallen and someone—her husband—had caught her by the arm. It was a reasonable explanation. But if that was true, why lie?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cancini lifted the glass to his lips, savoring the warmth of the scotch as it passed over his tongue and slid down his throat. His eyes flicked from the TV to his silent phone. He wrapped his hand around the cell phone, bringing it to life, then tossed it back on the bar.

  “Who were you hoping to hear from?” Smitty lowered himself onto the stool next to Cancini.

  “No one.”

  “Bullshit.” Smitty raised a hand to the bartender.

  Cancini looked back at the TV as SportsCenter counted down the top ten basketball plays of the weekend. He traced the rim of his empty glass, watching the screen, seeing nothing. Cancini rarely frequented the “cop” hangouts, preferring Monty’s, with its minimal crowds and minimal conversation. He stayed away on most weekends when
the loudmouths and drinkers took over. The music played louder, and the clientele got sloppier. It wasn’t his scene. Smitty showed up occasionally when he needed to talk about a case, or sometimes for no reason at all.

  “So, who was it you were hoping to hear from? Father Joe or Julia?”

  Monty ambled over with a beer and another scotch. Smitty drank straight from the bottle and grabbed a handful of pretzels. Cancini sipped from his glass. “Father Joe.”

  “I figured.” He pushed away the empty bowl. “Do you think he knows more than he’s saying?”

  “I do.” Cancini ran a hand over his short, spiky hair. He hadn’t yet read the e-mails Landon had sent over. “He’s not going to make it easy, I can tell you that.”

  Smitty shifted on his stool. “What do you mean? He’s a priest. Doesn’t he have to tell the truth? Tell us whatever he knows?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Sounds pretty simple to me.”

  Cancini reached for the bowl of peanuts that appeared in place of the pretzels. “It wouldn’t be about lying so much as omitting the truth.”

  Lines creased the young man’s forehead. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  “Yes and no.” Landon’s e-mails came to mind. “Let’s assume Father Holland told him why he wanted to meet Monday morning but asked him not to tell anyone. Father Joe would never knowingly violate that trust.”

  Smitty set his bottle back on the bar and faced Cancini. “I know I’m not Catholic and I don’t get the whole confession thing, but this is just a conversation right? Not one of those things where you get forgiven for your sins. We just want to know what was bothering him.”

  Cancini sighed. “But what was bothering him could be part of some ongoing confession. If Father Joe felt free to tell us, he would have. It’s not going to be easy to get him to open up if that’s the case.”

  Smitty’s light brows drew together. “But you can get him to, right?”