by K. L. Murphy
“Hey,” a man yelled from behind. “You can’t go in there.”
Without turning, Cancini raised the badge again. He pulled aside the curtain at the first room on his right, letting it drop just as quickly. Not Father Joe. Two more cubicles. Still not him. The next two rooms stood empty. He looked to his left, and a strong hand caught him by the shoulder, spinning him around. A heavyset man in a dark uniform glared. “You can’t just come barging in here.” Cancini held up his badge a third time, and the security man’s eyes flickered over it and back to the detective’s face. He stood close to the detective, imposing his bulk. “You’re supposed to follow procedure,” he said. “There are patients here.”
Cancini looked over his shoulder. Four rooms on the left were occupied. He considered brushing by the man, but thought better of it. “I’m looking for one of those patients. Gunshot wound.”
“Yeah?” His expression was unchanged. “We get a lot of those.”
“This one’s a priest.”
The security guard’s face changed, his eyes registering surprise. Shit. Maybe he should’ve just pushed by the man. Martin would have a field day if the press caught wind of a second priest shooting.
“Older guy?”
“Yes.”
The man pointed to the last room on the left and stepped out of the way. “He came in about an hour ago.”
Cancini’s pulse quickened. He slipped his badge back in his pocket, saying, “I may need to talk to you. Can you wait?”
The man straightened his shoulders, thumbs tucked in his waistband. “I’ll be at the front desk, right outside.”
“Thanks.” He crossed the floor to the last room and pulled back the privacy curtain. Father Joe lay on a rolling bed, tubes protruding from both arms. White as a sheet, the old man looked more dead than alive.
A woman in blue scrubs stood near the bed, writing in a chart. She looked at him, eyebrows raised. “And you are?”
“Detective Mike Cancini.” He pulled out his badge one more time and held it up. She leaned in but said nothing. “How is he?”
“He got lucky—just a flesh wound in his thigh. No major damage, but he won’t be running any races anytime soon.” The words were spoken in an impassive monotone, the voice of a woman who’d seen far worse and would again. “The bullet went clean through. We gave him a sedative and he’s on an antibiotic drip. Monitoring his vitals. He’ll be moved upstairs soon, but for now, we’re letting him sleep.”
Relief washed over him. His chin fell to his chest, and he let out a ragged breath.
“Detective, if you’ll excuse me, I have other patients.” She closed the chart and hung it from the end of the bed.
As she moved past Cancini, he caught her arm. “Wait. Did he say anything about the shooting? Anything at all?”
“Not to me,” she said. “I think he was in shock. You might ask the paramedics who brought him in.”
“Do you know—”
“You’ll have to ask at the front desk.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Good luck,” and pulled the curtain closed again.
Cancini sank into the guest chair, his head in his hands. A flesh wound. Not fatal. The blinking monitor beeped. He looked up, forehead furrowed, and studied the numbers. Again, he felt a sense of overwhelming relief. All the old man’s vitals appeared normal. For another minute, he watched the rise and fall of Father Joe’s chest. Even in sleep, deep lines ran across the old man’s broad forehead, and heavy jowls framed his square chin. His normally pink skin had the appearance of chalk, dusty and dry. Cancini reached out and took one of the man’s hands in his own. The soft flesh was warm to the touch. He bowed his head and held on.
Chapter Twenty-one
2013
The waiter picked up the bottle of wine. He glanced at the clerical collars they wore and hesitated. “Would you like a refill?”
“Not for the old man,” Matt said, face somber. “His liver can’t take it.”
Father Joe lowered his head, hiding his smile. The waiter made a quick exit, and Matt burst out laughing. “I couldn’t help it. He doesn’t know what to make of us now.” Still chuckling, he took the bottle and filled his mentor’s glass. “You’re not mad, are you?”
“That I will never be able to drink a glass of wine in this restaurant again? No, why should I be?”
Matt’s smile faded. “I was only kidding.”
“So was I.” Father Joe smiled and raised his glass. “To you, Matthew. Your first year as a priest. You’ve achieved exactly what you hoped, and I’m so proud of you.”
Matt grinned again, his face both proud and sheepish. “I couldn’t have done it without your support.” He lifted his own glass. “I mean that. You were there for me, even when I didn’t believe you were.”
The old priest blinked away tears and drank. “Enough of that. Have you received your permanent assignment?”
“I have.” Matt set his glass back on the table and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Father Joe waited. “It’s an old church with lots of history, but it’s run down. The neighborhood’s bad. It’s not exactly packed on Sundays. The truth is, I think attendance is at an all-time low. There’s not much money in the coffers.” With each word, Matt saw the old man’s expression change, turn wary. The pride and anticipation he’d witnessed moments earlier were replaced by furrowed brows and a downturned mouth. Matt knew the old man suspected, but he kept talking anyway. “I’ll be mostly on my own with some help coming in weekly. The diocese was against it at first, but I insisted. It’s exactly what I wanted.”
Father Joe pushed his glass away. Seconds ticked by. When he spoke, his voice shook. “And where is this parish, Matthew?”
Matt held his gaze. “Here in D.C. At St. William.” The old priest’s mouth closed and he looked away. “I know what you’re thinking, Padre, but I can bring that church back to life. I know I can.” He paused, adding, “It’s where we met. You were filling in that day.” He pressed his palms against the table. “Remember?”
“I remember a scared boy running from a thug.”
“I wasn’t that scared.”
The old man raised a single silver eyebrow.
“Okay, I was. But that’s why I want to come back, and you know it. You found me, and it’s because of you that I’m a priest today. I could be dead, but I’ve made it. I want that opportunity. I want to do that for someone else.”
“It’s not the same, Matt. In the years since you lived at Barry Farm, the neighborhood has gotten worse. And the church is no better. St. William has fallen into further disrepair. The weekly offerings are so small, I heard talk in the diocese about closing the parish. It’s barely hanging on.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re just being nostalgic, Matt.”
“It’s not nostalgia. It’s payback.”
“Ah.” Father Joe cocked his head, his expression stern. “An eye for an eye?”
Matt threw back his head and laughed. “You should see yourself, Padre. So serious.” Still smiling, he looked at his mentor, the lines around his eyes softening. “Not that kind of payback. What I meant was, this is the neighborhood that killed my mother, that kills so many. I’ve been given so much these last few years. Now is my chance to turn the neighborhood around, to stop all of it, to give the hopeless hope.” He opened his palms. “How does the saying go? Fight with love, or something like that?”
“That’s an honorable dream.” He held up a hand at Matt’s protest. “But it’s still a dream. I don’t think you understand what you’re getting yourself into there. I’ve heard talk the church might be combined with St. Anthony’s.”
“I’ve heard that, too,” Matt acknowledged. “But they’re willing to let me give it a shot.” His golden-brown eyes glowed under the restaurant’s soft lighting. “St. William will be beautiful again,” he said, his tone wistful. “Can’t you just see it, Padre? The stained glass windows sparkling, the pews polished and full of people. It’ll be gorgeous, just like it used to be
.” He raised his glass again, and his face split into a toothy smile. “C’mon, Padre. We’re here to celebrate.” Matt tipped his glass and swallowed the rest of his wine. He sat back, satisfied. “It’s all gonna happen, Padre. I promise.”
Father Joe smiled, but his eyes remained doubtful.
Matt sighed. “What is it? What’s bothering you?”
The old man’s finger trailed the rim of this glass. He licked his lips. “It’s not just that the church is old and the neighborhood is more crime-ridden than ever. That’s all true, but returning to D.C., do you think that’s a good idea?” He paused and lowered his voice. “He’ll know you’re back.”
Matt didn’t answer right away. They both knew whom the old man was referring to. Once he’d confessed to Father Joe, he’d held nothing back but a few details the old man was better off not knowing. Father Joe’s concerns were valid, but Matt had vowed not to let his fear change what he wanted to do with his life, what he needed to do. He wasn’t afraid—at least not the way Father Joe was. He’d seen what he’d seen and never gone to the police. Hadn’t enough time passed? He shrugged. “It’s the only way.” He picked up the knife and turned it over on the plate. “I can’t run away anymore. I’m doing the right thing here.”
Father Joe didn’t agree, worry on his face and in his voice. “He has a lot of people around him now, a lot of bad people.”
Matt scratched at his chin. “And how would you know that, Padre? Have you been hanging around the old neighborhood? Infiltrating gangs?”
The old man blushed. “Of course not. You know I volunteer at St. William once a month. I keep my ear to the ground. I hear things.”
The young man’s mouth opened and closed. It would do no good to brush aside Father Joe’s concerns. Besides, what he knew could prove useful. “You never fail to surprise me, Padre.” He gave a shake of his head. “Tell me, what have you learned?”
“He’s more dangerous now.”
Matt laughed again, but this time, the sound was bitter. “I’m not afraid, Padre. If I was, I wouldn’t be here.”
“He’ll find out you’re back.” Father Joe spoke softly, but Matt could hear the concern in his voice.
“He already knows.”
Father Joe’s pink skin blanched. “How?”
Matt lifted his chin, gaze steady. A vein throbbed at his temple. “I told him.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Is Father Joe okay?”
Cancini could hear the concern in Julia’s voice, a concern he shared. She’d met Father Joe once and liked him immediately. Still, Cancini didn’t want to worry her. “He will be. It’s not serious. Probably go home soon.”
“It is serious, Mike. He was shot.”
Cancini dumped three aspirin on his desk. “You’re right. I just meant he’s going to be fine.”
“And after he’s home? Will he be safe?”
He tipped his head back and swallowed the aspirin. Covering one ear to block out the battery of noise in the precinct, he spoke softly. “Why would you ask that?”
“He was shot, wasn’t he? It’s only been two days since that other priest was murdered. What if someone’s going around targeting priests?”
He hesitated. So far, there was nothing to link the shootings other than the priest’s professions and the fact that they knew each other. Father Joe had been shot in what looked like a drive-by. The nature of that kind of crime was different from the cold-blooded murder of Holland. Until they had evidence otherwise, he’d been informed the shootings would be treated as separate crimes. He didn’t completely agree, but it wasn’t his call. “I don’t know yet. We’ve just begun the investigation.”
“But you’ll make sure he’s okay?”
“Yes.”
“How’s your dad? Does he know?”
“I haven’t told him.”
“Can you speak up?” Julia asked. “I can’t hear you.”
Around him, phones trilled and the booming voices rose and fell in waves. He spoke louder. “I don’t want to worry him.” Since the discovery of Holland’s body, he’d only been able to call his dad twice, both times speaking to the day nurse. Somehow, the man kept defying the odds, kept hanging on. Father Joe called it a small miracle. Cancini wasn’t convinced miracles had anything to do with it, but he, too, wondered where his old man got the fight. “He’s been really tired.”
Smitty approached, caught Cancini’s look, and nodded. “Going for some coffee. Be back in five.”
Cancini mouthed his thanks. “Julia, I’ve got to go.” He hung up with a promise he’d keep her posted and walked over to the whiteboard dotted with lines and circles and magnets. With his finger, he traced the line from Father Holland to Father Joe. Two shootings. Two priests. Less than forty-eight hours. Coincidence? It didn’t feel right, and the hammer in his skull pounded harder. He whirled around at the hand that landed on his shoulder.
Captain Martin stood over him, a thick file folder in his hand. “In my office. Now.” He pointed at Smitty. “You too.”
“Word got out about the shooting of your friend Sweeney.” Martin’s lips pursed as he spoke. “Some ambitious reporter is trying to call it a serial attack on priests.”
“Shit,” Smitty said.
“No kidding. I need to make a statement, and fast. What have we got?”
Cancini opened his notebook and read from the notes he’d already called in. “Paramedics arrived within twelve minutes after the 911 call. A neighbor called it in after hearing the gunshot. That same neighbor said they heard a car take off down the street immediately after the shot. I did a check on the area and there were two other shootings in that neighborhood in the last year. One was a domestic. The second shooting was a confirmed drive-by.”
Martin sat forward. “We know all that already. Is there anything new?”
“No.”
“Fine. That’s how we’re going to play it then. An unrelated drive-by. Are we clear?”
Cancini slumped down in the chair, his arms crossed.
Smitty cocked his head at his partner. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” Cancini thought about his conversation with Julia. There was no real evidence that Father Joe had been targeted, and yet . . . “We have one dead priest and another injured. Both shootings. The priests happen to be friends. They’re planning to meet for breakfast the morning the first is shot. Two days later, the second priest is shot. Sounds like an awfully big coincidence to me.”
Martin scowled at Cancini. “With that kind of talk, we’ll have reporters crawling all over this story.”
Smitty raised a hand. “Coincidences aside, there are too many inconsistencies to link the shootings without knowing more.” Cancini watched his young partner tick through his fingers one by one. “First of all, Father Holland was shot at close range in an empty church. Somebody knew he was alone. Father Joe was shot on an open street in the middle of the day. Second, although we can’t know this for sure, it’s probable that whoever shot Father Holland knew him or was hired by someone who knew him. We can’t make those assumptions with Father Joe. Drive-bys are not unheard of in that neighborhood. Third, Father Holland was shot at close range, no question to kill. In Father Joe’s case, the shooter fired from some distance we haven’t yet determined and hit him in the thigh, hardly fatal.”
“Good.” Pleased, Martin made notes. “I can use that.”
Cancini stared down at the floor. Everything his partner said made sense, but his stomach churned.
“And there’s the cross,” Smitty said.
Cancini frowned. “What about it?”
“Assuming the killer painted it as a calling card, the murder had to be personal, like a message.”
Martin seized on Smitty’s theory. “That’s right. The shooting of your friend looks random. No calling card. No message. Not connected.”
“Just because it’s not obvious doesn’t mean there’s no message.”
Martin snorted. “We’re not looking f
or messages. At least not ones that need to be shared outside this office. I agree with Smitty. For now, we stick to the assumption the shootings are unrelated. That’s how we’ll play it at the press conference. Understood?” Both detectives agreed. “One more thing,” the captain said. “Have they found the bullet that hit your friend yet?”
Cancini shook his head. “Not yet. We’ve got a team searching the perimeter of the church, the trees, the fence, anywhere the bullet could’ve lodged. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Keep me posted,” the captain ordered.
Walking out of the captain’s office, Smitty said, “Mrs. Harding is here for her second interview. Are you ready?”
Cancini ran his fingers over his head, brushing up the short dark hair. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Erica blinked when they entered, her hand rising to her throat. A box of tissues and a Coke sat in the middle of the table. Neither had been touched.
“Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Harding. Hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Cancini said.
“Not too long. I left work a little early.” She bit her lower lip, her heart-shaped chin quivering. “I don’t know what else I can tell you, but if there’s any way I can help . . .”
Cancini asked a few basic questions, studying her from under his lashes. Even under heavy makeup, dark circles hung under her eyes. An unnatural pink color on her cheeks only accentuated her pallid skin. She wore a long skirt and a turtleneck that rose to her chin. Matronly pearl earrings were clipped at her ears. Her ash-blond hair fell across one eye, partially hiding the left side of her face. It reminded him of a pinup from the World War II era. He turned the questioning to the church’s finances.
“I think the church used an outside accountant for the big stuff.” She touched one large pearl. “Mr. Henderson is on the church financial council. He’s a parishioner and works at a bank. The council met once a month and went over stuff. I usually took notes and typed the minutes.”