I’m not afraid any more.
But of course Sam was still afraid. In the end, when he had to decide, his fear won out.
I tried to feel anger for him, but couldn’t pull it off. In my heart, I realized Sam wasn’t acting to preserve his own self interests. Not entirely. Since birth, he’d been conditioned to protect the piece of plastic he wore on his uniform, the one above his left breast pocket that said Baldwin.
And there was also that videotape.
A charge of homosexuality was one thing. Depending on the proof I could dig up, Sam could still deny it, possibly accuse me of having a vendetta against him. At the least, he could create doubt in people’s minds.
But not if the tape became public.
Before I left, I asked the guard if he knew which vehicle Sam had driven off in.
“He has a green Caddy.”
There were several in the parking lot. “Did you see him drive off in it?”
“No. But it’s the only vehicle he has.”
As I walked away, I considered calling Simon to put out an APB, but realized that was a waste of time. Regardless of what I did, Sam wasn’t going to cooperate until I gave him a reason.
Like finding that original of the tape he was being blackmailed with.
I shook my head. If the tape was in Congressman Harris’s possession, it might as well be on the moon.
Exiting the building, I called Simon to relay the bad news. When he answered, his voice sounded strained and for a instant I thought I had the wrong number.
“We’ve entered the rectory, Martin. We’ve found two, so far.”
“Two?”
Then I realized he meant bodies.
32
Four. We now had at least four victims.
Enrique drove like a madman, wheeling the limo in and out of traffic and riding the horn. Normally the drive to the Church of the Sacred Heart on the north side of Arlington should have taken close to twenty minutes. We made it in fifteen and change.
Unlike the scene outside Talbot’s residence, there was no media circus present. That would change once word of the killings got out. A female cop manned the driveway and as we turned in, she made a circling motion, indicating we should go around back.
We followed the asphalt around the stone church, wound past a gym, and arrived at a rambling two-story Victorian house with a large front yard. Four blue and white cruisers were jammed in the circular driveway, their lights flashing. Several civilian vehicles sat in a small parking area about thirty yards to the right. One was Amanda’s Saab. Enrique squealed to a stop behind the cruisers and we hurried up a long brick walkway toward the front door.
Two uniformed officers were stringing yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of a the yard. Under a light post beside the walkway, a third cop—a sergeant—was interviewing a frightened looking Hispanic man in coveralls. Addressing the sergeant by name, Enrique asked him how many victims were found.
“A woman and couple priests.”
We were up to five.
“One of them Father Carlacci, Eddie?”
“Haven’t heard.” Eddie kept looking my way, as did the Hispanic man. Like the majority of the human race, they’d never seen a glow-in-the-dark shirt before. I felt compelled to explain my presence by informing Eddie that I was an agent with the OSI.
“Uh-huh.” Eddie’s skeptical gaze shifted to Enrique as he gestured to the Hispanic man. “How about giving me a hand, Enrique? This guy’s a church janitor and doesn’t speak much English. He’s from Colombia.”
Enrique rattled Spanish to the janitor. The man’s head bobbed and he said si a couple times.
“Give me a minute, Eddie,” Enrique said.
We reached the front stoop and donned latex gloves. The door was partially opened and we heard faint voices. Enrique went in first and I followed. “Careful,” he said.
It was the woman.
Her body lay sprawled in the middle of the alcove, maybe five paces from the door, legs angled toward us. She was a matronly woman in her early sixties, with a pile of brown hair. In her youth, she’d been pretty, but she didn’t look pretty now. She’d been shot once in the base of her scalp, the bullet angling up and exiting her forehead. She stared out with sightless eyes, her head resting in a pool of tacky blood. The wire glasses she’d been wearing were lying a couple feet away, the frame bent, the lenses cracked.
Enrique knelt, touching her upper arm with the back of his wrist. “Cool. Blood’s dry. Dead for hours.”
A shell casing lay against the wall, just inside the door. I bent down to inspect it.
“Looks like a forty-five,” Enrique said.
“It is.”
The casing told us the weapon was an automatic. The fact that the killer hadn’t picked it up indicated he hadn’t considered it incriminating, probably because he intended to ditch the gun.
Rising, I verbalized what had transpired. “She answered the door. As the guy followed her inside, he shot her.”
“One cold bastard,” he grunted.
The operative word was cold. This proved Simon’s earlier assessment was wrong. A guy this ruthless wouldn’t give a damn about killing a cop.
We carefully stepped around the body. The house was a cavernous, rustic structure that had been built near the turn of the century. The walls were covered with my grandmother’s flowery wall paper and there was a slightly musty smell. A worn oak staircase rose before us to a railed landing with a missing spindle. To the our left was a dining room; to the right, a living or family room. The voices were coming from the second floor and we could hear a woman sobbing.
“Hello, Millie,” Enrique said. An attractive female cop with curly brown hair had materialized in the entryway of the living room.
Millie managed a wan smile. “Thought that was your voice, Enrique. Second victim’s in here. Father Garrigos. Lieutenant Santos figures he heard the shot that killed Mrs. Talley.”
As we moved toward her, Enrique asked if Mrs. Talley was the housekeeper.
“A volunteer,” Millie said, easing into the room to let us in. “According to the church secretary, Mrs. Blake—that’s who’s crying—Mrs. Talley came over once a week to look after the priests. Helluva thing, huh?” She gestured with a thumb. “On the rug.”
We entered a cozy space dominated by a flared-back couch and two user-friendly recliners, all arrayed around an ornate coffee table. Across from the couch was a cabinet with a television and that’s where Enrique and I were looking now.
Specifically at the throw rug in front of it, where the body of a wavy-haired man in his thirties lay sprawled on his back. He was dressed casually in Docker slacks and a pullover shirt, sans a priest’s collar. Like Mrs. Talley, he’d been shot in the head. Unlike her, he had also been shot in the chest.
“Chest first,” Enrique said. “Then the head to finish him off.”
The powder burns on Father Garrigos’s forehead verified the sequence. Recalling the silenced rifle used in Coller’s murder, I asked Millie why Simon was so certain Father Garrigos had heard the shot that killed Mrs. Talley.
“His drink.” She indicated a glass lying on the floor beside the farthermost recliner. “It’s like he got out of his chair in a rush and dropped it.”
I nodded, noting an open Bible on an end table beside the recliner. Enrique’s head began shifting between Garrigos’s body and the recliner. He was thinking that the priest had only managed to make it a few feet before being shot. I glanced around for shell casings and spotted one back by the entryway. A second winked up from beneath the lip of the television cabinet.
The killer had moved fast.
Too fast?
He wouldn’t have had time to plan this killing. Once he’d obtained Carlacci’s name from Talbot, he’d have been desperate to silence the priest before Talbot’s murder became public. Since two other priests resided here and there was only one more victim, it came down to whether our boy had called first to ensure Carlacci would be
present. If not and we got lucky—
I shook my head at Millie’s response. So much for luck.
We left to view Father Carlacci’s body.
Mrs. Blake was crying softly as we made our way up the stairs. We crossed the landing into a darkened hallway, rooms running down either side. A cop stood at the far end, watching us with more than passing interest. By now I’d had my flip top OSI credentials hanging from my shirt pocket, to prove I was a military investigator not a Miami Vice throwback. As we continued toward the cop, we peeked into a room where the crying was coming from.
A petite woman with black hair sat on a brass bed, hands over her face. Amanda hovered over her, speaking in comforting tones. Noticing us, Amanda shook her head and kept on talking.
Enrique and I went down the hall.
As we walked up to the cop, he nodded to a doorway. From within we heard Simon’s voice.
We entered a bedroom that was much larger than the first. It was austerely furnished; a bed, a night stand, two dressers, and little else. Father Carlacci apparently took his vow of poverty seriously. Faded flannel pajamas and a threadbare robe were laid out at the foot of the bed. As he conversed on the phone, Simon sadly contemplated the clothing, his free hand working his rosary.
“…if Father Carlacci mentioned something to you?” Simon was saying. “Some reason for the murders? We know Major Talbot confided in him regularly and we’re convinced—” He noticed us. “Excuse me, Father.”
Covering the phone, his face smoothed into a mask. He announced, “They killed priests.”
As if that was the ultimate sin. To Simon, it probably was.
His eyes seemed to look right through me. “You understand this alters everything now.”
I frowned. “Alters it how? What are you going to do?”
His gaze chilled, matching the temperature in his voice. “Whatever is necessary, Martin.”
Ominous words. I glanced at Enrique. Unlike me, he didn’t seem the least bit troubled by them.
Simon viewed the world through his own ethical prism. If he considered a goal just, then any method he employed to achieve that goal was equally just. On occasion, he’d been known to play fast and loose with the Fourth Amendment. While I’ve never seen him do anything blatantly illegal—he might bully an uncooperative suspect or bribe a parking attendant to search a suspect’s car—I’ve heard the rumors. The most notable instance occurred during the arrest of the child killer whom Enrique had almost beaten to death. The case against the killer had been questionable until Simon miraculously discovered key evidence in the suspect’s previously searched apartment. Immediately the rumors started flying that Simon had planted the evidence. While nothing was ever proved, the rumors persisted to the point where I asked Simon if it was true. Had he planted evidence?
I didn’t really expect him to tell me. Despite our friendship, he’d be crazy to admit to anything.
But he did…sort of.
“I did what was necessary,” he said.
Almost identical to the words he’d used just now.
“Simon,” I said. “I wouldn’t do anything rash. We have to play this one by the book. We’ll never make a case stick if we—something funny?”
He was watching me with tolerant smile.
“You misunderstood, Martin. By “necessary,” I was referring to my determination to leave no stone unturned in resolving this case.” He actually said it with a straight face.
“You’re telling me you weren’t determined before?” I mirrored his straight face, but tossed in a cynical tone.
“Not to this extent. Now it’s personal.”
An oblique reference to the connection he felt for the dead priests, a fraternity he’d almost joined.
We could have danced around this subject for another round, but nothing I could say was going to change Simon’s mind. He was a man on a mission and would pursue the killer with the passion of a zealot, legal niceties and police protocol be damned.
I shook my head at him. “Do me a favor and keep me out of it.”
He looked hurt. “Martin, you of all people should know my standards of conduct.”
Precisely.
“Father Carlacci in there?” Enrique asked.
He was focused on a doorway in the opposite corner. Through it, we glimpsed white tile and the edge of a sink. On the floor, we could also make out the glint of shell casings.
Simon nodded. “He was shot three times.
As Enrique and I walked over to the bathroom, he resumed his conversation on the phone.
33
The nude body of Farther Carlacci lay slumped in the bottom of a tub, knees bent, his torso tilted in our direction, his head hanging limply off to the side. He was a small, wiry man who looked about seventy. Midway up the tile backsplash, we noticed two starred bullet holes, confirming he’d been standing when he’d been shot. Edging closer, Enrique and I saw that both rounds had struck Carlacci in the side of his chest. As with the other priest, a final shot had been fired from close range into his head.
“Still a few water droplets,” Enrique said. “The killer must have left the shower on.”
This explained the lack of blood in the tub. Refocusing on Carlacci’s chest wounds, I noted they were within an inch of each other. “Our boy is good with handguns too.”
“Three,” Enrique murmured.
He was standing beside me and reacted to my frown.
He shrugged. “When I called Simon from General Baldwin’s apartment, I mentioned that Colonel Kelly and General Baldwin might have had marksmanship training. He said that made three.”
“He tell you who the third person was?”
“Uh-uh. He did say they weren’t a suspect.” He contemplated Carlacci. “Kinda risky, don’t you think? The way the killings were carried out.”
This was something I’d noticed also. “Yeah. The killer was lucky Carlacci was in the shower. If not, he’d have heard the shots. Maybe gotten to a phone.”
“A pro wouldn’t take that chance. He’d have rounded everyone up first before killing them.”
“The killer could be an amateur. One who can shoot.”
“That’s what I don’t get,” Enrique said. “If Harris is behind the murders, you’d think he’d hire a pro. Someone who knew what he was doing and could be trusted to keep his mouth shut.”
“Harris is a politician, not a mob boss. It’s not like you look up hit a man in the Yellow Pages.”
“I guess…”
He still appeared unconvinced.
I’d seen enough and was about to go when I noticed Enrique toss me a couple of quick looks. After the third one, I asked him what was on his mind.
“No offense Marty, but Simon’s right. Your way won’t work. You’ll never get a guy like Harris, playing by the rules.”
In the past, I’d had similar conversations with Simon and Amanda. Was I the only one who believed the oath we took as cops actually meant something? “So you believe the ends justify the means?”
“Sure. Sometimes.”
“Enrique,” I said patiently, “we’re cops. We’re supposed to follow the law. We represent the law.”
“Even if it means a killer walks.”
I met his measured gaze with one of my own. “Even then.”
“The bastard killed five people, Marty. Five.” For emphasis, he looked at Carlacci’s body, then refocused on me.
“Doesn’t matter.”
I waited for the inevitable look of disgust. When it came, it was accompanied by a slow head shake. Watching him, I began to wonder if maybe it hadn’t been an accident when he almost killed that child murderer.
He said, “So the way you see it, the law should always be followed, even if the guilty go free. There are no exceptions.”
Trying to get me to back down from an absolute. “None.”
“I see.” He studied me. “You wouldn’t bend the rules to prevent a multiple murderer from becoming president?”
I he
sitated.
“Yeah. Thought that might make you reconsider.” He winked. “Welcome to the club.”
I wouldn’t go that far.
Simon was still on the phone as we left the bathroom. While Enrique left to play the Spanish version of twenty questions with the janitor, I eavesdropped on Simon’s conversation, then verified my suspicions by asking the cop in the hallway if Simon was talking to the third priest who resided here.
“Yeah. Father Coughlin. He’s on a Catholic retreat near Richmond. He’s damned lucky to be alive. He left right after dinner. If he’d hung around for another thirty minutes—”
“Hold on. You know the time of death?”
“The lieutenant figures it’s around eight P.M., give or take. He talked to that lady down the hall…”
“Mrs. Blake.”
“She said that the priests ate at seven. And the dead woman…”
“Mrs. Talley.”
“Always went home after she finished washing the dishes. Usually that was around eight-thirty or so. Since there are still dirty dishes in the kitchen, the lieutenant figured the killings had to occur before…”
He kept on talking, but I was no longer listening to him. Not since Simon had said a word that caught my interest.
Blackmail.
I reentered the bedroom to find Simon pacing, his expression grim. “That’s all Father Carlacci shared with you, Father? He only said that Major Talbot was being blackmailed? He never explained why—Think, Father. Did he ever mention a videotape or Major Talbot’s homosexuality? I see. So much of what Carlacci learned was in the confessional. Yes, yes, I understand the information is sacrosanct. Again, I’m sorry for your loss. I should be here when you arrive. If you can think of anything else…thank you, Father. Drive safely.”
Simon’s pacing ended when he punched off the call. His eyes dropped to his rosary beads and he deflated a little.
Disappointed.
I said, “The missing tape. That has to be it. That’s what Major Talbot was being blackmailed with. And Sam must be his lover on it, which is why they’re targeting him. Hell, it all fits.”
A Slow Walk to Hell Page 20