The Last Sin

by K. L. Murphy

  “Who, Matthew?”

  The young man admired how quickly the old man had recovered. If he was afraid, he hid it well. “I don’t want to get you involved.”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  Matt winced at the rebuke. Father Joe was right. The minute he’d entered the old man’s house, Father Joe had been involved. He wouldn’t have brought Father Joe into it if he’d had any choice. Maybe it was time to tell him the truth, tell him everything. The silence stretched out for several minutes, then he rose and stood before the priest. He fell to his knees.

  Father Joe took Matthew’s hands in his. “What is it, son?”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He whispered the words, his head bowed. “It’s been three years and eighty-nine days since my last confession.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Just got the word from Landon. The text came from a burner. No way to trace it.” Jensen handed Cancini his cell phone and stepped back. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Damn.” Cancini shook his head, unsure why he was so upset. The chances it could have been traced were slim at best. He slipped the phone in his pocket and circled his desk, stopping in front of a large rolling board. On the left side of the board, he’d written their victim’s name, Father Holland, in the middle. Circles and names spread out in a fan from the center. With a marker, he drew a dollar sign on the board and connected it to the deceased. After a moment, he added a question mark. He stepped back, turning his attention to the map pinned to the right side of the board. Push pins marked each location where the threatening e-mails to Father Holland had originated. The dates for each e-mail were listed on a printout next to the map. No matter how many times he studied the map, he couldn’t find a pattern. Three e-mails from a Starbucks in Arlington within one month, not again for a year. Six times from the public library in Northwest, spread over several months. The time of day varied. Without a consistent pattern, he couldn’t interview cashiers or librarians. Who would remember an occasional patron with a laptop? The origin of the e-mails was untraceable, like the text. His head pounded. “Can someone get me some goddamn coffee?”

  “I got it,” Jensen said, scurrying to the break room.

  Smitty watched the man go, then plopped down on the corner of his desk. “Jesus, Cancini. What’d you say to the guy this morning? He’s practically jumping out of his skin.”

  Cancini shrugged. “Not much.” He let his fingers trace the list of dates and times again. Jensen had a nasty habit of catching colds and missing work. Cancini had simply told Jensen if he was out sick during this investigation, he’d call the man’s wife to ask how he was feeling. Jensen had blanched, his thick lips blubbering, but before he could get a word out, Cancini had walked away. He didn’t care about the man’s gambling problem or that he hid it from his wife. He cared about finding Father Holland’s killer. As long as Jensen toed the line, kept his nose clean, and did his job, Cancini had nothing to say.

  “You sure? He hasn’t even told any of his stupid jokes this morning. At this rate, we’re going to have to stop calling him Joker.”

  Cancini rolled his eyes. Jensen wasn’t a stupid cop, but he was awkward. The bad jokes didn’t help. Cancini had always thought the man would be more comfortable balancing a ledger or working at a computer than hoofing it as a homicide detective. He just lacked the nose for it.

  Jensen returned with four cups of coffee, Bronson at his heels.

  “Glad you could make it today,” Cancini said, the words directed at Bronson.

  “Sorry. Overslept.”

  “Don’t let it happen again. You can sleep when the case is closed.” Bronson and Jensen exchanged glances. “We’ve got a lot to do today.” Cancini looked at his partner. “When do we get ballistics?”

  “Today. Also, Kate has the preliminary autopsy results. She’ll be ready for us in an hour.”

  They expected no surprises about the cause of death, but there could be other details in the autopsy that were relevant. “Jensen,” Cancini said, “Landon is going to meet you at the church office in an hour to start going through the financial records of the church. We’ve also got a request pending for copies of Father Holland’s personal records. I want to know about anything, and I mean anything, that looks odd. Do you think you can handle that?”

  “I got it. Go through all the records.” His head bobbed up and down with every word. “How far back do you want me to go?”

  “Start at the present and work your way backward—all the way to when Father Holland took over at St. William.”

  The man blinked. “Isn’t that more than three years?”

  “Good to know you can add, Jensen. That’s why you got the job.” He shifted his attention to Bronson. “Where are we on the interviews with the parishioners from the evening Mass?”

  Bronson cleared his throat, pulled out his phone, and scrolled through his notes. “I’ve spoken to about ten so far plus the deacons, and all said the same thing. Father Holland seemed fine. What’s weird is all the ladies had a thing for him. It was like he was George Clooney and Ben Affleck and Denzel Washington all rolled into one. They went on and on about him.”

  An eight-by-ten picture of Holland was pinned to the rolling board. Taken outside on the steps of the church, it showed him dressed in his black robes and smiling, one hand raised. His sandy hair fell in a soft wave over his forehead. Golden-brown eyes, Roman nose, chiseled chin. The only thing missing was the dimple. Movie star looks wrapped in black cloth. Bronson’s report didn’t surprise him. Cancini guessed Holland was the kind of guy women swooned over—or would if he wasn’t a priest. Aloud, he said, “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. A couple of the ladies looked for him after Mass Sunday night but couldn’t find him.”

  He thought about the Masses he’d attended as a boy and shrugged it off. “That’s not too unusual. The priest usually leaves the sanctuary during the recessional. He might have gone to his office or back to his apartment. Why were they looking for him?”

  Bronson consulted his phone again. “There were a couple of drunks that came in right before communion. They were loud and obnoxious—the ladies’ words, not mine. According to them, Father Holland handled it.”

  “How’d he do that?” Smitty asked.

  “They said he invited the men to stay, that everyone was welcome. Then he explained communion and offered to bless any guests. They said it quieted the men down and they left.”

  Cancini sat down and took a long swig of the office sludge they called coffee. “If Father Holland handled it, what did the ladies want to talk to him about? Were they worried?”

  “I think so. It was that bit where Father Holland said everyone was welcome. They didn’t really like that. That’s what they wanted to talk to him about.”

  “Maybe they didn’t want drunks at their church,” Smitty suggested. “I guess I can understand that, but it doesn’t sound very Christian.”

  Bronson shook his head. “No, that wasn’t it. Supposedly, Father Holland wanted everyone in the church to act as missionaries, teach the faith, offer forgiveness. The ladies worked with addicts, the homeless, lots of people. Father Holland called it Catholic Outreach for the People Eternal, or COPE for short.” Bronson looked up from his phone. “And the ladies said even though they lost a few parishioners, they got new ones over time. Folks were buying in.”

  Cancini leaned back, his gaze wandering up to the ceiling. COPE. It sounded familiar. Hadn’t he heard Father Joe talk about a Catholic program in the city not long ago, one that was targeting the roughest neighborhoods? Maybe he should’ve paid more attention. “So what was the problem?”

  “It was one of the drunks. He’d come in wearing a leather jacket, but took it off. Underneath, he wore a T-shirt, so they could see his arms. On his right arm was a tattoo.”

  Drunks with tattoos. Cancini thought Mass must have changed a lot since he’d been a kid. “What kind of tattoo?”

  Bronso
n pulled a page from inside his coat pocket and held it up in the air. The drawing was crude but clear. Cold fingers prickled at Cancini’s neck, and goose bumps rose on his arms. A sword through a skull, and three drops of blood. He knew that tattoo. They all did. It was the mark of a killer.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dr. Kate Stevenson smoothed her white lab coat and spread her hands on the desk, her face grim. “I know time is important, Detective, so I’ll get right to it. The victim died of a single gunshot wound delivered at very close range, possibly a .22 with a hollow-point. Ballistics should be able to confirm that.” Her red-stained lips were drawn into a line. “The right side of the victim’s face was severely damaged by the impact. The bullet appears to have entered through the right eye or just below it, and lodged in the brain. He died almost instantly.”

  Smitty brushed his hair from his forehead. “A .22 isn’t a big gun.”

  “No, it isn’t. But it wouldn’t have to be if it was fired at close range.”

  “And it’s easier to hide,” Cancini observed. “How close was the shot?”

  “Five feet, give or take a few inches.”

  Cancini extended his right arm, holding it straight. He looked back at the medical examiner. “Just far enough away to be out of reach.”

  “Probably. It’s not definite, but based on the temperature inside the church and the rigor mortis in the body, I’d put the time of death between approximately seven and nine p.m.”

  “Thanks, Kate. It’s a start.” Cancini wrote the time in his notebook. “Anything else?”

  The medical examiner touched the folder in front of her and opened it to several photos. “Looking at the crime scene photos combined with the angle of the gunshot entry, I’d say the victim was lying on the steps with his head tipped back slightly and looking up at the shooter.”

  “That’s about what we figured.” Cancini shifted in his chair. “Any fibers or hair?”

  “Nothing. His hands were clean. Other than the shot to the face, there were no bruises or anything to indicate he fought off his attacker. Overall, I’d say he was in good health.” She paused. “Based on the man’s bone structure, I’d say your victim was a very handsome man.”

  “We’ve heard that,” Cancini said.

  Her fingers plucked at the edges of the manila folder. “There is one other thing.” Cancini heard the hesitation in her voice, and his hands tightened on the arms of the hardback chair. “It’s only preliminary. We’ll have the full tox screen results later in the week, but one drug did pop up in the victim’s system. Ativan.”

  “Ativan? Is that prescription?” Smitty asked.

  “Yes. Do you know anything about it?” Both detectives shrugged. “Typically it’s used to alleviate symptoms of anxiety. Most doctors don’t prescribe it long-term as it has a risk of being addictive and can have some serious side effects, including headaches, dizziness, trouble concentrating, and depression.”

  Cancini’s body stilled. They had threatening e-mails and possible worries about money. “The victim was taking pills for anxiety?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Short-term?”

  “Right again. Someone with long-term anxiety issues or a history of panic attacks wouldn’t be a great candidate for this drug. At least not usually.”

  “My sister takes an antidepressant,” Smitty said, his voice quiet.

  “It’s not the same,” Kate answered. “Lots of people take those, but that doesn’t mean they feel anxious. Of course, it’s not uncommon for someone to have symptoms of both, but I didn’t find any evidence of an antidepressant or any other drug in the victim’s system during the preliminary tox screen. Not even an aspirin.”

  Cancini sat back. Whatever was going on with Holland, he’d been feeling the pressure. What were the chances Father Joe knew about that, too? He got to his feet. “Thanks, Kate. I think we have a doctor to visit.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Christ,” Martin said, his head in his hands. “It’s not as if this case isn’t already a fucking pain in my ass. Press is making this guy out to be some kind of hero already. Putting him up for sainthood. Have you seen the front page today? Can you imagine how the crazies would respond if it got out about that little calling card painted in the victim’s blood?”

  Cancini bristled. He had no intention of reading the paper. He was more concerned with solving the case, gathering evidence.

  Martin tossed the papers on the desk. “Now, you’re telling me our sainted victim is depressed. That just adds to the guy’s appeal. It’s like a friggin’ soap opera.”

  “Not depressed,” Smitty said. “Anxious.”

  “Whatever.” He fingered the bowl of toothpicks on his desk, his eyes drifting to a framed photo of his wife. “All right. Let’s go over this again.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve got a priest shot down in his own church. We’ve got the e-mails, but don’t know who’s been sending them. We’ve got an anonymous text about money that we can’t trace. We’ve got pills and—what was it you said earlier? We’ve got a gang member showing up at the church and scaring all the ladies.” He shook his head. “You can’t make this stuff up.”

  Cancini felt a moment of sympathy for the man. He wasn’t a fan of Martin—he had personal and professional reasons—but he was grateful that it was the captain who took the heat with the brass and the press. The captain might have been a plodding investigator at best, but that plodding mentality made him a natural administrator.

  “I need something,” the captain said. “What about the e-mails? Anything new?”

  While Smitty talked, Cancini’s attention wandered to the array of pictures on the wall. Martin appeared in every picture, grinning, arms looped over the shoulder of whoever happened to be closest. Lola was the newest addition to the wall. It was bad enough everyone knew she’d dumped Cancini for the captain. He’d seen it in their eyes, in the way they’d moved past him with a quick nod. He’d preferred it that way then. He hadn’t wanted questions or false sympathy. He’d just wanted it to be over.

  In the picture, Lola smiled up at Martin with red lips, her head thrown back as though whatever he’d said was incredibly funny. Cancini sincerely doubted that. The picture, framed in silver, highlighted Lola’s shiny blond hair and golden skin. No man with blood coursing through his veins could fail to see her beauty. It had always baffled him that a woman who looked like that would marry a man like him. Now it baffled him that losing her didn’t bother him more than it did.

  “What about that money thing?” Martin asked.

  “Jensen is working with Landon to get through all the bank statements and ledgers,” Smitty said.

  Martin rolled his eyes. “Jensen’s slow as molasses. The case’ll be cold before he finds anything.”

  “He has a business degree, Captain. Landon called and said they found what looks like a donation to the church in the last few weeks. Could be something. They’ll find it if there’s anything there.”

  The captain reluctantly agreed. “But get some more eyes on those statements if this turns into a marathon.” He shifted his focus to Cancini. “Where are we on this pill thing?”

  “I’ve got an appointment with his physician this afternoon. I don’t know what he’ll tell us, but he should be able to verify the prescription at the least. The dosage in his system was consistent with treatment for anxiety according to Kate.”

  The captain fiddled with the toothpicks in the bowl, touching them one by one. “And the man at the church with the tattoo? What gang is that?”

  “It’s not really a gang,” Cancini said, his tone dry.

  “Then what the hell would you call it?”

  “I’d call it what it is—a death squad.”

  The captain sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “That’s just a name to make them seem more powerful than they are.”

  “Yes and no. The Death Squad is part of a larger group, the Eastside Gang, but that’s only at arm’s length.” Cancin
i recited the little he’d learned. “They call themselves The Squad for short. I’ve heard there are only a few of them. The tattoo, the one Bronson got the sketch of, that’s their sign.”

  “And?”

  “And they’re more mercenary than thug. No drug organization, no pimping, no intimidation in the neighborhood. For the most part, they stay outta sight unless they’re needed.” Cancini rolled his shoulders, the cluster of knots tightening the longer he sat in the chair. “They’ve been around for a few years, but have stayed under the radar for the most part. It’s only been in the past few months that the FBI has even been able to find out anything. They still don’t know a lot, but they suspect members have specialized training, maybe even former military.”

  Martin uncrossed his arms. “Military? Why?”

  “The name isn’t just for fun. It’s not for street cred. It’s real. That’s what they do. They kill people for hire.”

  “Shit.” He fell back against the soft leather of his high-backed chair. “Hired hands.”

  “Looks that way, but we don’t know who the man with the tattoo was or why he was at the service. It could have been a threat. It fits the M.O. of the group, but for right now, we don’t have enough to go on.”

  “Fine. I want you—”

  Bronson burst into the office, his roundish frame filling the doorway. Sweat dripped from his temple.

  “What is it, Bronson?” the captain asked.

  Cancini rose, cold fingers stealing up his spine.

  “An incident was just called in over near St. Ignatius.” Bronson’s voice dropped, his pinball eyes on Cancini. “It’s your priest friend. He’s been shot.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Cancini flashed his badge and rushed past the nurse at the front desk. His shirt clung to his skin under his coat and he stopped short, struggling to catch his breath. Empty gurneys were pushed up against another nurses’ station, and smaller, cubicle-like rooms lined each long wall. Heavy curtains marked occupied spaces.