by K. L. Murphy
Cancini dropped his gaze and turned his attention to his notepad. He wrote for several minutes, and the silence in the room lengthened. Smitty, Martin, and a lawyer from the district attorney’s office waited on the other side of the glass.
Ketchum stood up. “This is bullshit. You have no reason to bring me here. I have rights. I haven’t done anything.”
“Sit down.”
The man glared at the detective and crossed his arms.
“Suit yourself.” Cancini read from his notebook. “Tuesday evening, you broke into your father’s garage and stole his El Camino. At approximately one a.m., you drove the car to Maryland Drive and placed some accelerants at the rear of the church. You were seen leaving the scene by a neighbor.” Cancini looked up. “Arson is a crime, Mr. Ketchum.”
“You can’t prove any of that.”
“I don’t have to prove it. That’s what the prosecutor is for. I just need enough evidence to arrest you, get you off the streets and behind bars.”
The man’s face paled, but he recovered quickly. “I’m not going to jail.”
“You are. Arson is a felony offense, punishable by up to twenty years. Add in breaking and entering and grand larceny, and you could spend the rest of your life behind bars.”
The man laughed. “Breaking and entering? Even if I did borrow my dad’s car, that’s my house. I can go anytime I want.” His upper lip curled. “Please.”
“You don’t live there. Your parents kicked you out because they didn’t want you there. You came onto their property during the night and stole one of your father’s cars. That’s breaking and entering.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. My dad will never let you get away with that shit.”
“Oh? Are you and your father close?” Cancini drank from his cup, letting the words hang in the air. “We can place the car at the scene of the arson, and there were traces of accelerant in the back of the trunk. Your father keeps a record of the miles on every car. Did you know that? He didn’t drive the car. There’s only one set of keys, and only three people who know about them. Your parents and you. Do you really think one of your parents is going to take the rap for you on this?”
“They don’t have to. You still can’t prove anything.”
“By itself, it’s suggestive, circumstantial, but you made one very simple mistake.”
“You must be talking about someone else. I don’t make mistakes.”
“You wiped down the inside of the car, the steering wheel, the door handle”—Cancini paused—“but you didn’t wipe down the key.” Ketchum blinked, his face pale again. The fingerprint was only a partial, but Ketchum didn’t know that. “That makes it a slam-dunk.” Cancini closed his notebook. “You were at St. William for Sunday Mass recently. You came in with another man just before communion. Several parishioners can identify you.”
The man had regained his composure and shrugged. “So what? I went to church. That’s not a crime.”
“But I think you were there for the same reason you started that fire.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re part of a group of specialists, aren’t you? It’s known by a few different names, but I believe Death Squad is the most well-known.”
Ketchum laughed. “Do you believe everything you hear, Detective?”
“You perform jobs that require your special talents, if you will, for those who can pay.” The man folded his arms again. “What was the job when you went to Mass? Was it a warning? Did you come back and shoot Father Holland?”
The man snorted. “I didn’t shoot anyone.”
Cancini lifted one shoulder. “How do I know that?”
The man shook his head. “I didn’t off that guy.”
“Then who shot Father Holland?”
“How the fuck should I know? You’re the detective.”
Cancini closed his notebook. “I guess I got it wrong.”
“You got that right.”
“We know you set that fire, Ketchum, and as soon as we get a warrant for your apartment, you will be spending the rest of your days behind bars. You can help yourself if you cooperate.” Ketchum’s eyes drifted to the one-way window. “You didn’t just decide to burn down St. Ignatius or go to St. William that night. Someone hired you, paid you to target that specific church, the same way Father Holland was targeted. I want to know who that someone is.”
The man stared, the fight draining from his body. The tough edge slipped away, and his face slackened. “I want a lawyer.”
Chapter Sixty-six
“It’s not enough.” Assistant District Attorney Emma Lawrence spoke in the same clipped tone she used in the courtroom. Precise. Direct. “You can’t charge him with murder.”
Martin groaned audibly, his face drawn.
Silent, Cancini recognized she was right. They had a dozen witnesses who could place Ketchum in the church a couple of hours before Holland was murdered, but every one of those witnesses also saw him leave before the Mass ended. Even if they suspected his attendance was a threat, being there wasn’t a crime.
She swung around to face Cancini. “Tell me again how the fire is connected to the murder of Father Holland.”
“Father Sweeney knew both Holland and Vega when they were boys. He stayed close to Father Holland and was his confessor.”
Emma chewed her lower lip. “You think Holland told this Father Sweeney about the money and where it came from in a confession.”
“Yes.”
“And you think Vega knows it.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tie Vega to the money?”
“Not in any way that will hold up in court. Not yet.”
She nodded. “What about Ketchum? Can you connect him to Vega?”
“We’re doing the best we can,” Martin said.
“Good. There’s nothing more I can do. I’ll present the request for a search warrant as soon as Judge Koon is finished in court.” She stood and looped her bag over her shoulder. “Ketchum’s lawyer knows the deal if they decide to play.”
“Humph.” Martin grouched. “The way this case has gone, how likely is that to happen?”
She shrugged. “Honestly? Not very.” She looked at Cancini. “Nice bluff, but a partial print and his military experience is not enough to beat reasonable doubt. If his lawyer’s any good, he’ll tell him to take his chances. We might be able to indict him on the fire, but a conviction is a long shot without more evidence. If we get the warrant, it better be worth it.”
Martin threw his pen down on the desk. “Damn.” After she left, he gnawed through two toothpicks in succession, ignoring the packs of gum on the desk. “Heard anything from Sweeney?”
Cancini swallowed. To focus on the investigation, he’d tried to ignore the lump of dread growing in the pit of his stomach, but with each passing hour, it was getting harder. There’d been no word on Father Joe. “Not yet.”
“He’s probably holed up with one of his priest friends. Don’t they do that?”
“Sometimes.” It was possible he’d spent the night with a friend, but it didn’t explain why Cancini hadn’t heard from him.
“He’ll turn up.” When the captain’s wife called, Martin pushed the toothpicks away, and Cancini ducked out.
Smitty waited at his desk and handed him a large cup of coffee.
“Ketchum is downstairs in holding. His lawyer just left. Are we gonna charge him?”
Cancini took the cup. “Thanks. Don’t know yet, but Lawrence doesn’t think he’ll take the deal. She thinks his lawyer will roll the dice. My gut tells me he’ll keep his mouth shut for now.”
“So, what do we do?”
“We wait. In the meantime, I’m gonna take a run at Harding.”
“Can I join you?”
Cancini eyed his partner. “Normally, I would say yes, but you haven’t been yourself about this guy. Earlier, when Bronson told you about the broken wrist, you let it get personal.” The l
anky detective’s narrow shoulders sank down into his chest. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me I’ve made a mistake.”
Smitty’s white-blond head fell to his chest. He sighed, letting out a long breath. “You’re not wrong.”
Cancini glanced around the squad room. Every detective’s face wore the wrung-out expression of long hours and no sleep. Ketchum was the carrot, but Vega was the prize. Harding was something else, a different kind of depravity. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Smitty lifted his head. “Not right now. Later.”
Cancini looked away. Bronson had put Harding in the small conference room farthest from Martin’s office. Had Harding broken his wife’s wrist? It appeared to be a pattern, but that wasn’t Cancini’s biggest problem with the man.
“Cancini.” Martin’s anger vibrated in his beet-red face. The compassion from earlier had evaporated. “Why the hell is Bronson sitting in a conference room with Sonny Harding? Did I not make myself clear? I come out of my office to find Bronson taking food to this man, a man who is not supposed to be here.” His chest heaved with each word. “Goddammit, Cancini. This is the kind of shit I’m talking about. We’ve got a suspect. We need to be focused on bringing in that suspect.”
Cancini pressed his lips together and breathed in and out through his nose. The only sound came from a cell phone chirping and distant voices being carried up the stairs. He felt the eyes of every detective in the squad room. “Turns out Harding doesn’t have an alibi for the time of Holland’s murder.”
“So? What does that have to do with Vega?”
“Vega’s smooth, Captain. If we get an indictment, his lawyers will throw suspicion elsewhere. Harding is violent. He didn’t like Holland. Bronson is working to eliminate Harding as a suspect to protect the case against Vega. Call it insurance.”
Martin blinked, opened his mouth, and closed it again. “Insurance, huh?” He glanced at Smitty. “This sounds a lot like bullshit.”
Cancini shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I’m just covering all the bases, Captain, the way you would want.”
Martin scowled, then checked his watch. “Shit. I’ve gotta go. The mayor wants a personal update on the case an hour ago.” He pointed a finger at Cancini’s nose. “We’ll finish this when I get back.”
The sound of Martin’s steps as he stomped down the stairs echoed across the room. The murmur of voices rose again, and Cancini pulled his hands from his pockets, uncurling his fingers one by one. If nothing else, Martin was consistent. In Cancini’s mind, the man had no imagination, no instinct, but he’d gotten just enough right over the years to move up the ladder. He made a better captain than detective. Still, Cancini didn’t like the suggestion he wasn’t doing everything in his power to find Holland’s killer. That rankled, burned.
“You know, it might’ve been bullshit,” Smitty said, tone approving, “that whole business about insurance, but it does make some sense. Eliminating Harding makes the case against Vega more solid.”
Cancini shrugged again. What Martin thought mattered less than whether he got some answers. Harding’s flimsy alibi bothered him. He looked up at his young partner. “Can you keep the personal out?”
Smitty returned his gaze and nodded once.
“Good. Let’s go.” He picked up his notebook and slipped it into the pocket of his worn leather jacket. He pushed open the door to the conference room, Smitty at his heel, Martin already forgotten.
“Mr. Harding,” Cancini said with a grim smile. “Glad you were able to come in today.”
Chapter Sixty-seven
Sunday, February 21: The Day of
Matt walked down the aisle behind the altar boys, his pace slow and measured. The candles flickered in the late-afternoon light and he stood erect. The last notes of the processional faded away, and he raised his hands and his voice. “Let us pray.”
The first reader’s voice droned on, and he lowered his eyes. Underneath the cassock, his heart pounded, and sweat trickled down his back. Would his plan work? He had no idea. Sophia had promised to speak with Carlos at the first opportunity, but there was no telling when that might be and no guarantee the man would listen. Long ago, there would have been no doubt. The Carlos he’d grown up with would have walked on fire for his mother. Matt remembered Carlos as a boy who would have done anything to protect her, to keep her safe. But they were both just boys then. His mind drifted back to the day he’d landed on Carlos’s doorstep, no money in his pocket, no bags.
Carlos had scratched at a pimple on his face and tossed him a blanket. “Sorry, man. That’s all I got.”
Matt had caught the thin fabric in his hands and fingered the scratchy wool. “It’s okay,” he’d said. “I can sleep in my hoodie, too.” He’d cleared his throat. “Thanks for letting me crash. I just couldn’t go to that place, to those people.”
Carlos had flopped into a faded brown chair, his long legs spread apart. “No problem. If I was you, there’s no way could I live with anyone but my real mom. It’s just not the same. It’s like some kind of fake people trying to be your fake mom and dad. No way. And your mom was cool, too. It sucks.”
Matt had swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”
“You can stay here as long as you want, you know.”
“I’m not going to school. No one can know I’m here. Not even your mom.”
Carlos had rubbed his hands across his thighs, and his face had clouded. “I get the school thing, but my mom lives here, too. Gonna be tough to keep you a secret.”
“I can’t go back.” Matt had heard the quiver in his own voice.
“Sure, man, I get it.” Carlos had leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “You can help me if you stay.”
“Help you?” Matt’s hands had tightened on the old blanket. “Are you running again?”
Carlos picked at the loose strings hanging from the torn knees of his jeans. “Some, but I’ve got get my own crew now, too.”
“Your own crew? Wow.” It had been only a few months, and things had already changed. His mother’s death still fresh, he’d turned away, hiding his tears.
“It’s just weed, man, and if I don’t run it, somebody else will. That’s the hood and we both know it. Shit, I’d rather the money go to me than some other asshole.”
Matt’s head had dropped into his hands. It was just business. No one knew that better than he did. Hadn’t he been a runner, taking money from users even while his own mother was sinking further and further into her own abyss? He’d rocked back and forth while Carlos had talked.
“Look, you don’t have to. You can stay anyway. My mom won’t know. She works all the time. You can sleep on the floor in my room. She don’t come in there ever, and if she does see you, we’ll just say you’re visitin’, but she won’t ask. She’s too tired all the time anyway.” He’d taken a breath. “That’s why I gotta run my own crew. I gotta make some serious cash and change things. I don’t want my mom livin’ in Barry Farm forever. Hell, I don’t want any of us living in this shithole.” He’d paused again. “People fuckin’ die here.” Matt’s head had jerked up, mouth hanging open. Carlos had looked him straight in the eye. “It’s the only way out. You of all people know that.” A heavy silence had settled over the teens. “I’ve got a plan. You used to have a plan, too. Remember?” Matt had nodded once, uncertain. “It’s no skin off my back, man, if you don’t wanna run, but you could earn some cash.”
Matt told himself it would be for only a little while. He would leave when he’d had enough, when he had a plan of his own. He’d looked up. “What about your mom?”
“She’ll be cool with you poppin’ in and out. We’ll say you have a guardian or something and you’re staying here sometimes ’cause we’re such good friends and all.”
“That’s not what I mean. Does she know? About the running?”
“Fuck no. Did your mom?”
“I don’t know.” He’d remembered how she kept pressuring him to be good, to do goo
d. “Maybe.”
Carlos had leaned forward, his expression a mix of fear and determination. “Well, not my mom. Ever. It’s between you and me. You got it?”
Matt had sighed. He’d understood. Sophia Vega was a God-fearing woman. She went to Mass every day. She worked hard for low wages just to put food on the table. She didn’t drink, and she didn’t take drugs. She wouldn’t understand. “I got it.”
Father Holland looked up as the second reader finished, the past slipping away. The congregation rose to sing. He moved toward the pulpit, his robes brushing the threadbare carpet. His book lay open to the Scripture. At the end of the song, he looked out at the expectant faces and said a silent prayer. When he was a teenager, Carlos had included Matt in his plans, pulled him along. After the stabbing, Matt had left, no longer able to ignore the life he was being drawn into day after day. He’d made a new life. Carlos was supposed to leave him alone, but he’d broken his promise. Matt hadn’t asked for the money. He hadn’t asked for any of it, but there it was for the taking. Now he had his own plan.
Chapter Sixty-eight
Sonny Harding wore a heavy jacket, a flannel shirt, and loose-fitting jeans. Even seated, his bulk filled the small conference room. Cancini slipped out of his jacket and took the chair opposite Harding. Smitty took the chair at the farthest end of the table.
“It’s a bit warm in here. Maybe you’d like to take your coat off?” The man’s nostrils flared with each breath, but he didn’t move. “Your choice.” Cancini crossed his legs and leaned back. “I understand you didn’t go to work today, Mr. Harding. Is there a reason for that?”
Harding faced the institutional gray wall, eyes averted.
“Take your time, Mr. Harding. I have all day.”
The man blinked. His massive shoulder moved an inch, maybe two. “Just taking the day off.”
“So you could follow your wife?” Harding’s skin reddened. A minute passed and his hands gripped the table. “Did you follow her to the hospital, Mr. Harding?” Cancini leaned across the table, his voice soft. “After you broke her wrist?”