Dane said, “Look at this crowd. How are we ever going to find that gun?”
“I think perhaps I can help,” Bishop Koshlap said. He flung back his head and yelled, “Everyone please listen to me. There is a gun somewhere to be found. Please help our priests form search groups. If any of you saw this man shoot this woman, please step forward.”
Dane watched all those people, at least four hundred of them, grow silent and calm because the bishop himself had given them a task, a task that really mattered. He saw Archbishop Lugano speak to the priests, saw them divvy up the crowd and set to work. Dane looked down at Nick, frowned, and took back his folded handkerchief to press it himself against Nick’s face. “You weren’t pressing directly on the gash. You’re still bleeding. But no matter, it’s nearly stopped. I can see it’s not bad, thank God.
“You know what, Nick? My brother would have been very pleased about this.”
Savich said to Delion, “I’m not so sure there’s a gun to find. If I were the shooter, I’d have another guy here so I could hand the gun off to him.”
Delion knew he was right, but they had to look, just in case. “Yeah, I know.” He heard sirens, and quickly went to Nick. “The paramedics are nearly here. You can bet the media will be right behind them. I want you to go with the paramedics back to Bryant Street. The last thing we need is photos of you in the Chronicle. We’ll meet you there.”
“But Dane, I’ve got to go with him to the cemetery.”
Dane said, “It’s okay, Nick. Delion’s right. If the media see you, it will be a nightmare. I’ll see you back at the police station.” He paused just a brief moment, lightly touched his fingertips to the wound on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
FIFTEEN
When Delion called a halt to the search, all the mourners formed a car processional that wound a mile to the west, to the Golden Gate Cemetery. The sun was shining, although the day remained cold, and there was the heavy scent of the ocean in the air. Dane looked down at the rich earth that now covered his brother’s grave and said, “We just might have gotten him, Michael. I pray that you know that.” He stood there a moment longer, staring down at the mound of earth that covered his brother’s body. Michael was gone and he would never hear him laugh again, hear him tell about the drunk guy who tried to steal the bishop’s miter and ended up hiding in a confessional.
He didn’t approach his sister, couldn’t look at the pain in her eyes and say something comforting. Eloise, her husband, and her kids were clutched together, and that was good.
When at last Dane turned away from his brother’s grave, he saw Sherlock and Savich. He hadn’t noticed that they’d flanked him, not saying anything, just there, solid and real.
Dane drove his rental car to the police station on Bryant Street, Savich and Sherlock following. Delion had wanted Savich to go downtown with them immediately, but Savich had just smiled, shaken his head. “Important things first,” he’d said, nothing more, and taken his wife’s hand in his and followed Dane to the cemetery.
When Dane walked into the homicide room nearly two hours later, he immediately saw Nick, seated in the chair beside Delion’s desk. He said her name and she turned. “You look like a prisoner of war with that bandage on your hair.”
“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks. No stitches necessary. The paramedics couldn’t stop talking about what had happened, and I think they lost it with the gauze.”
“All right, but you just try to relax, all right?”
She nodded.
“It still shakes me to my toes that I didn’t protect you better. If you hadn’t bowed your head at just that moment, the bullet would have hit you square on and you’d be dead. Jesus, I’m sorry, Nick.”
Nick realized this very well, in an abstract sort of way. It hadn’t really sunk in yet, which was probably a blessing. When it did, she’d probably shudder and shake herself to the nearest women’s room. She said, “I wish you wouldn’t try to take credit for this. Just stop beating yourself up, Dane. This wasn’t your fault. Do you think this means God doesn’t want me to die just yet?”
“You mean that it isn’t your time? Fate rules?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“I don’t have a clue. I’m just really glad he didn’t succeed.”
“I bowed my head because I was crying and I didn’t want you to see.”
He gulped, but didn’t say anything more.
“What you said about Father Michael Joseph, it was very moving, Dane. Did he really catch that touchdown pass? Really tore up his knee?”
He nodded, got a grip on himself. “Yes. You know, this thing about Fate or whatever—if you like, we could get drunk one night and discuss it.”
It was a slight smile, he saw it. It made him feel very good.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’d like that.”
Lieutenant Linda Purcell came up to them, looking resigned. “We found the bullet. That’s the good news. Unfortunately, it shattered against a concrete wall. No way to know if it was from the same gun that killed Father Michael Joseph. No matter. It’ll all come together anyway. Delion’s doing his thing. Just hang around and listen, don’t interrupt. We decided to let the guy think about the wages of sin and left him downstairs in the tank for a couple of hours. We just brought him up here. We don’t have any one-way mirrors here so keep back from the doorway so he doesn’t focus on you.”
Dane looked toward the guy who’d shot Nick. His head was down between his arms on the scarred table. He was sobbing, deep gulping sobs that sounded like he believed life as he knew it was over. And he was right, Dane thought, the bastard.
Nearly all of the inspectors hanging around in the homicide room were close enough to the interrogation room to hear. They all looked exactly the same, excited and on the edge. Dane imagined that if they were in an FBI field office, there would be no difference at all. Women agents, in particular, didn’t cut any slack to a murderer who broke down in tears. That had surprised Dane when he was new in the FBI, but over the years he’d changed the opinions he supposed he’d absorbed by osmosis all through childhood and adolescence.
Delion sat across from the sobbing man, not saying a word, just watching, arms crossed over his chest, his mustache drooping a bit. Patient, like he had all the time in the world. They watched him examine a thumbnail, heard a soft whistle under his breath, watched him trace a fingertip over a deep gash in the scarred wooden table between them.
They’d taken the guy’s long dark woolen coat, hat, and gloves, which left him in a gray sweatshirt and wrinkled black pants. Dane couldn’t tell if he was just like the man Nick had originally described. But he saw he was slight of build, looked to be in his forties, and had a full head of dark hair—just as she’d said. And she’d recognized him from across the church.
Finally, the guy raised his head and said between gulps, “You’ve been holding me for a long time, haven’t spoken to me, and now I’m up here in this crappy little room with cops standing outside the door watching. What do you want from me? Why did that big guy try to kill me? I’m gonna sue his ass off. His pants’ll fall right off him.”
Sherlock snickered.
Both Dane and Nick drew in their breaths. The guy’s face was really white, like he hadn’t seen the sun in far too long. Just as Nick had said.
Delion said, “We asked you before if you wanted a lawyer and you said you didn’t. You want a lawyer now, Mr.—? Hey, why don’t you tell us your name.”
The man tilted his head back, as if he were trying to look down his nose at Delion. He sniffed, swallowed, and wiped his hand across his running nose. “You already know my name. You took my wallet hours ago and then you just left me alone to rot.”
“Your name, sir?”
“My name’s Milton—Milt McGuffey. I don’t need no lawyer, I didn’t do nuthing. I want to leave.”
Delion reached over and took the guy’s forearm in his hand, shook it just a little bit. “Listen to me, Mr. McGuffey, that guy who hi
t you is a cop. He just wanted to keep you from running away from the scene of a crime. He was being efficient, just doing what he was supposed to do, you know? Trust me on this: You really don’t want to sue him or his ass. Now, why don’t you tell me why you tried to kill Nick Jones at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral mass.”
“I didn’t try to kill no Nick Jones! Is that the broad who was bleeding all over the place? Hey, I was just standing there listening and then everything went wild and I heard her yelling. I just wanted to get out of there and so I pushed open that side door and ran. Then that big guy tried to kill me.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So then, tell me, Milton, why you were at Father Michael Joseph’s funeral. You a former priest or something?”
He wiped his nose again, rubbed his hand on his sweatshirt sleeve, and finally mumbled something under his breath.
“I didn’t hear you, Milton,” Delion said.
“I don’t like Milton. That’s what my ma called me just before she’d whack me aside the head. I said that I like funerals. So many people sitting there trying to act like they give a shit about the deceased.”
Savich touched Dane’s arm to keep him from going into the room. “Easy,” he said in his slow, deep voice, right against Dane’s ear. “Easy.”
“I see,” Delion said. “So you just wandered into Saint Bartholomew’s like you’d walk into a movie, any movie, didn’t matter what was playing?”
“That’s right. Only a funeral’s free. Wish there was some popcorn or something.”
“So you didn’t know the star of this particular show?”
Milt shook his head. His eyes were drying up fast now.
“Where do you live, Mr. McGuffey?”
“On Fell Street, right on the Panhandle.”
“Real close to Haight Ashbury?”
“That’s right.”
“How long have you lived there, Mr. McGuffey?”
“Ten years. I’m from Saint Paul, that’s where my family still is, the fools freeze every winter.”
“Hey, my ex-wife is from Saint Paul,” Delion said. “It’s a nice place. What do you do for a living?”
Milton McGuffey looked down at his hands, mumbled something. It was getting to be a habit.
“Didn’t hear you, Milt.”
“I’m disabled. I can’t work. I collect benefits, you know?”
“What part of you is disabled, Mr. McGuffey? I saw you run, saw you turn around, ready to fight. You were fast.”
“I was scared. That guy was really big. He was trying to kill me, I had no choice. It’s my heart. It’s weak. Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to perform a public service—I’m gonna sue that cop; he’s dangerous to everybody.”
“Where did you get the silencer for the gun?”
Very slight pause, then, “I didn’t have no gun. I don’t even know what a silencer looks like.”
“We’ll find that gun, Milt, don’t ever doubt that. Was it the same gun and silencer you used to kill Father Michael Joseph?”
He nearly rose right out of his chair, then slowly sank down again, shook his head back and forth. “I didn’t kill no priest! I’m nonviolent. All we gotta do is respect and love each other.”
“Do you prefer a gun to taking a poker and striking an old woman dead?”
“Hey, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What old woman?”
“You remember that piece of doubled-over wire? Do you like that the best, Milt? Pulling that wire tighter and tighter until it’s so tight it cuts right through to bone?”
“Stop it, man. I’m nonviolent, I told you. I wouldn’t hurt nobody, even a parole officer. Hey, you think I shot that broad in the head? Not me, man, not me.”
Delion rolled his eyes, mouthed toward the open door, Prime asshole.
“What were you in jail for, Milt?”
“It was just one mistake, a long time ago, a little robbery, that’s it.”
“There was a guy whose head you bashed in along with the robbery. Don’t you remember that?”
“It was a mistake, I just lost it—you know, too much sugar in my diet that day. I served my time. I’m nonviolent now. I don’t do nuthing.”
“Do you watch the show The Consultant?”
“Never heard of it.” The guy looked up then, and there was no doubt about it, he was puzzled by the question. Genuinely puzzled. He had no clue what The Consultant was, dammit. That, or he was an excellent actor, and unfortunately Delion didn’t think that was the case. Well, shit. That was a surprise, a bad one.
Delion leaned forward, delicately smoothed his mustache with his index finger. “It’s about this murderer who kills people and then taunts a priest about it, all in the confessional, so the priest can’t turn him in. He kills the priest, Milt. This guy’s a real bad dude.”
“Never heard of it. Not a word. I don’t like violent movies or TV shows.”
Delion looked up at Dane, then beyond him, to Savich. Slowly, after but a moment, he nodded.
Savich walked into the small interrogation room, took a seat beside Delion, and said, “How are you feeling, Mr. McGuffey?”
The guy pressed himself against the back of his chair. “I know who you are. You’re that big fella who tried to kill me.”
“Nah, I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Savich said, a smile on his face that would terrify anyone with half a brain, still in doubt in McGuffey’s case. “If I’d wanted to kill you, trust me, you’d be in the morgue, stretched out on a nice cold table, without a care in the world. What did you do with the gun?”
“I didn’t have no gun.”
“Actually, yes, you did and you gave it to that other guy. You know, Milt, the thing is that I saw you. I was watching the crowd, that was my assignment from the lieutenant, to watch, because just maybe the guy who killed Father Michael Joseph would be there, to get his jollies, to make him feel really proud of himself. Sure enough you came. But you weren’t there just because you were proud of your work; nope, you were there to kill Nick Jones because she can identify you. You really moved fast, didn’t you? It’s only been a couple of days since she gave your description to the forensic artist and the drawing of you was in the newspaper. How’d you find out it was Nick Jones?”
“Look, man, I did see that drawing in the paper, that’s true, but I didn’t know who the guy was. Wait, you can’t really think that guy was me. No way, I don’t look nuthing like that dude. Mean fucker, that’s what I thought when I saw his picture and read the story.”
“Yeah, right, Milt,” Savich said. “Whatever. Now, don’t get me wrong. That was a real slick move you made—you palmed the gun, silencer still attached, and handed it off to your partner as you ran past him. He slipped it into his coat pocket. You never broke stride. It really was well rehearsed and well executed. Only thing—I was watching. You weren’t lucky there.”
Savich leaned forward until his nose was an inch away from McGuffey’s.
He said very slowly, “I saw you do it. They’re looking for him right now. I gave a really good description. They’ll bring him in and he’ll rain all over your picnic.” Savich looked over at the door, knew that Sherlock was close.
McGuffey’s eyes followed.
Sherlock stepped right up into the doorway, gave Savich a big smile, nodded in satisfaction, and stuck her thumb up.
“Ah,” Savich said, “at last. Didn’t take our guys too long, did it? Just over two hours. I told you I gave them a great description. Now we have him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? Nuthing! You couldn’t have caught no guy because there wasn’t a guy.”
Savich rose suddenly. “You can go back to your cell now, Milt. You’re tiresome, mouthing all that crap, crying, for God’s sake. Just look at poor Inspector Delion. He’s nodding off, your lies have bored him so much. You need lessons, Milt. You weren’t really all that good a show.”
Savich leaned over and splayed his hands on the
tabletop, got right in McGuffey’s face. “We’re going to hold you on the attempted murder of Nick Jones. After your accomplice talks—and he’ll fillet you but good, Milt, don’t doubt it—the DA is going to have a solid multiple-murder case against you. He’s going to enjoy parading you in front of a jury—talk about a slam dunk. He’s even got a witness, you know who she is, all right—Nick Jones. You saw her standing out there, didn’t you? The white bandage around her head? She sure sees you, and believe me, she knows who you are.
“Yeah, the DA’s really going to be happy about this one. You know what else is great about California, Milt? California’s got the death penalty. Killing a priest and an old woman, now there’s just no excuse for that at all—rotten childhood, too much sugar, chemical imbalance in your brain; none of that will work. They’ll drop-kick you right into San Quentin’s finest facilities. You can appeal for years, but eventually you’ll exhaust everything our sweet legal system has to offer you, and then you’re toast.”
Savich snapped his fingers in McGuffey’s face. “Dead. Gone. And everybody will be real happy when you’re off the face of the earth. See you at your trial, Milt. I’ll be waving at you from the front row.”
Savich walked out of the room, whistling.
McGuffey rose straight up and yelled, “Wait! Dammit, wait! You can’t just walk off like that!”
Savich just flapped his hand toward McGuffey, not turning around.
“Wait!”
SIXTEEN
Savich smiled at Dane, and very slowly turned, a dark eyebrow raised, obviously impatient.
McGuffey said, nearly falling over his own words he was talking so fast, “He’s a liar, he’d roll on his own mother, I didn’t do nuthing, do you hear me? You can’t believe a word he says. Old Mickey’s a king shit, got no sense of right or wrong, a real moral asshole.”
“Mickey seems just fine to me,” Sherlock said, coming to stand beside Savich, leaning against the door frame. “I spoke to him for a good ten minutes. He seemed real upright, not a lying bone in his body. I think everyone’s going to believe what he has to say, Mr. McGuffey, you know? I believed him.”
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