We Were Killers Once

by Becky Masterman

  Would either of them have thought to discuss the Santangelo connection? Or not yet? Their conversation was clearly over, at least for now, if Meadows had been leaving the bar. If Quinn knew about the monastery, and went there, would the monks ID him? Probably not, they said there were pilgrims coming and going all the time, and he had never mentioned Santangelo specifically. But what if they said Santangelo had had a visitor besides Meadows? What if they described what Beaufort looked like? If they gave a good description of him she might make the connection with the man who befriended her husband. This was getting messy and had to be cleaned up before it got worse.

  Beaufort said, “Listen, you need to finish this job, and finish it before she gets to the monastery.”

  “This is sounding a lot like you’re ordering me around. I don’t like that sound.”

  “If you had taken her out when you were supposed to, we’d never be in this spot.”

  “And I agreed to kill the cop in return. The deal is done.”

  “The thing is, I didn’t kill a cop, you did.”

  “You idiot. If I go down, you go down as accessory to murder one, so stop threatening me.”

  For a few seconds, heavy breathing on both ends of the phone. Then they got their wits about them and went back to their corners.

  “I want that woman dead,” Beaufort said.

  “And I’ve had it with you,” Yanchak said. “I’ve put my neck out more than I should have already, and from here on, you’re on your own.”

  And that was that. Beaufort disconnected, his mind darting from one idea to another like like a squirrel who couldn’t remember where he left his nuts. Everything had been going so well. Think, he thought, think. The Quinn woman was nearly two thousand miles away and there was nothing he could do about her. But the evidence against him wasn’t two thousand miles away, it was just around the corner.

  All Beaufort had to do to be certain of that was remember the look on Santangelo’s face when he had said the name Carlo. What he could do was finish what he had come here for, get Carlo to give up the confession, which Beaufort was certain he had, and then get out of town.

  Forty–two

  I had thrown myself off the bar stool onto the floor, yelling at the bartender and anyone else in the place to get low. Then I crawled across the floor to the door, and by the time I got there the sound of the gunshots had been gone for a while.

  So I stood up and ran outside, wishing I’d been able to bring my gun. With a glance to recognize that I could no longer see the car that had driven by the bar, I knelt next to Meadows and put two fingers against the side of his throat while dialing nine-one-one on my cell phone with the other.

  I screamed, “Officer down.” And gave the location. Within a minute an ambulance and three squad cars arrived, but I had known it was too late. I told the officers who I was and how I had come to be at the bar with Meadows, both of which they could easily corroborate. But not all. If this had to do with me and Jeremiah Beaufort, or the Walker case after all these years, who knew who else might be in danger. Better to keep it vague, just an interest in his cold cases because I was ex-FBI, that kind of thing. I gave them my contact information and told them I’d be in town until the next day if anyone wanted to get in touch with me.

  I thought about Meadows, dead. The only thing I had to connect his death to was that he was working this cold case, and that he was intending to visit the abbey. Who knew this? And what information might still be found there now even after Santangelo was gone? Could he have known something about Beaufort’s drug deals, something that was serious enough to still get him in trouble? Was Beaufort’s reach this far and this strong? That seemed unlikely after all this time, but Meadows’s body told me otherwise. No, the monastery was the only lead I had. After the police let me go I checked into a Marriott in Sarasota, and called Carlo to reassure him that yes, though I had been talking to Meadows before he was killed, I was quite safe and Carlo shouldn’t worry no matter what he saw on the evening news, and that I was going to call St. Dominic’s to follow the only lead that Meadows gave me.

  Brother Eric, who identified himself as the guest master, picked up and, when I asked, told me that Abbot Franklin was in prayer.

  “This is very important. Please tell him that someone from the FBI is on the line, and needs to speak with him. It’s urgent.” I usually don’t wave those letters around, seeing as how I’m no longer with the FBI, but I didn’t have the time.

  Brother Eric sounded a little aggrieved when he said that evening prayer was of the utmost importance to the abbot, and did I realize it was evening?

  “If you won’t do it, then please have Jesus tell him that Detective Ian Meadows was shot to death a few hours ago and I’m concerned that someone might harm the abbot himself.”

  Apparently I called it right and they weren’t keen on that whole martyrdom thing.

  “Abbot Franklin here,” a deeper, older voice said, not trying hard to disguise a little irritation at the interruption to his prayers mixed with concern for the safety of himself and his monks.

  I explained what had happened with Meadows and how I suspected it had something to do with him intending to visit the abbey. Again, I didn’t at that point connect it to myself. “What can we do?” he asked, his concern crackling over the line.

  “Tell me if you know anything about Victor Santangelo that might help me find out who did this,” I said.

  “I can’t see what I could possibly know. All I can tell you is that Detective Meadows called here to speak with him. Is that why you’re calling, because you knew of that connection?”

  “I did, and I think Meadows must have been on to something. I think he was on to someone so dangerous that Santangelo’s death might not have been any more natural than his own.”

  “Victor … are you saying he was murdered?”

  “I don’t want to tell you anything that might put you in danger. How much can you trust the other monks in the abbey?”

  Franklin couldn’t help but laugh. “They’ve all been here for years. They’re getting on. We haven’t had a new brother in two decades. No, I can assure you these men can be trusted.”

  “Had to ask. What about some visitor? Did anyone call or come by asking about Father Santangelo? Wanting to see him?”

  There was a too long pause, I gathered not because he couldn’t remember that happening, but because he could all too well. When he spoke, it was with a cautious affirmative.

  “Man? Woman?” I asked.

  “A man.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “Funny, he might have said, but now I don’t recall it. So many visitors come here, and names are the least important thing about them.”

  “And did he ask about Santangelo?”

  “No. Well, I’m trying to remember, and we did talk about Father Santangelo when I showed him the infirmary, but I can’t recall which of us brought it up. Mostly I was thinking he was one of those lost souls who hope to hide their demons under a robe. And the reason I remember him more than any other is that something about him made me uncomfortable. You’ll think I’m odd…”

  “Try me.”

  “I’ve known so many religious, and I think I can tell a vocation when I see it. With this man, there was no vocation. I felt there was suffering there, but not goodness. That’s all I can say.”

  “And how long was it after his visit that Father Santangelo died?”

  “Only a couple of nights. But do you…” His silence was only broken by a soft crying.

  “I’m not suggesting … you said he was near death.”

  “But now that I think about that man? What might Victor’s final moments have been like? He came to us for peace. And I couldn’t give that to him. You must understand, nothing ever happens here. We go through our hours of the day as if the whole world is doing a frantic dance, and all that we do is keep time with the music. That we should have a visitor, and you should suspect that visitor, and the next day, t
hese events are singular and all of them connected. Now what must I do? Should I report it? Should I have his body exhumed for an autopsy to see how he really died? Are there others here who might have recognized the killer and be in danger as a result? Tell me what to do!”

  “I think what you should do is not jump to conclusions. Let me ask you one more question first. Did Father Santangelo ever speak about another priest named Carlo DiForenza?”

  “Oh my goodness. Why do you ask that?”

  “He’s my husband. Did you know he left the priesthood and married?”

  “Victor has spoken to me about this man at some length, about his life. You must be Jane. Victor thought the world of you.”

  A spark of annoyance, but nothing dies forever. “That was his first wife. She died about seven years ago, and I’ve been married for two years. Carlo said he called Victor some time ago.”

  “Yes, I know, that’s when Victor told me about him. And that’s not all. When we went through Victor’s few effects after his death there was a sealed package with a note that it was to be sent to Carlo. It was practically the only thing he had, and I don’t know what’s in the package. I’m afraid I haven’t gotten around to sending it yet. Shall I do that now?”

  “No, I don’t think we have time. And while I don’t think anyone knows which hotel I’m in, I don’t want to get out on the road and head in your direction in case someone is following me. Is there any chance we might meet in Tampa?”

  “I can be there first thing in the morning.” He sounded a little excited as his voice slipped into a Deep Throat impression. “Can you get to Temple Beth-El in Tampa without being spotted? The security is better there.”

  * * *

  The next morning I called a taxi to pick me up and drop me off outside of a Macy’s, and then called another taxi for the rest of the trip. There were no cars following. Now I was walking up the center aisle of the temple, toward an immense wooden ark that was the focal point. No statues, no pictures, stained glass with geometric designs. A man in a black suit sat facing away from me in the first pew on the right.

  “Abbot Franklin?” I asked.

  He stood and shook my hand when I introduced myself. Then brushed a hand over the arm of his jacket. “I came in disguise, you see,” he said, apparently pleased with himself. “And I’m old friends with Rabbi Norwitz so he let me in. I thought this was all safest.”

  “Well done,” I said. “Really well done.”

  “Now, before I give you—would you happen to have some identification?”

  That was going a bit far, and he had no idea who Brigid Quinn really was, but I showed him my driver’s license and he seemed contented. He handed me a nine-by-twelve manila envelope with a clasp and tape over the closing flap. From the look of the tape it didn’t appear he or anyone had opened the envelope.

  “Now what do we do?” he asked.

  “Abbot Franklin, I’m coming to this late and I have no right to advise you. But if I were you, I’d keep this just between us for now. Let me do a little investigating and see what turns up. Don’t even talk to the brothers about it, for their own safety. Can you do that?”

  “I can.” He sounded somehow absolved of sin and receiving his penance.

  “Does Rabbi Norwitz care if I stay here a bit longer?” I asked.

  “Are you Jewish?”

  “You might say I’m everything and nothing.”

  He nodded as if he understood better than I did. Patted my hand and said, “They’re Reformed. I’ll let him know on my way out.”

  I eased up the yellowed and hardened tape that might have been applied over fifty years ago. If this thing was authentic, I would be the only person alive who knew the complete truth of what had happened. As I started to read, I could hear the voice of the writer in my head. The voice sounded true.

  Forty–three

  Hickock’s Confession

  First of all, I have to begin by saying that some of this is repeated from my official confession, but that is necessary. It is impossible to tease out the facts that are not yet known from the official story, some of which is true and some of which is a lie. What with the stories that Perry and I told to Agents Nye and Duntz, then the one to Agent Dewey, and then the official confessions we signed, and me telling my story to another journalist, and the one I wrote myself, and what was told to a man named Truman Capote who wrote what he says will be called In Cold Blood (he is very famous for other books) plus God only knows what he actually wrote … well, you get the picture. Now I am going to “tell it straight.”

  The letter attached to this account explains the purpose of me telling the whole truth now. I am putting it behind a sketch Perry did of me and giving it to the priest who is coming to hear my confession. This part will explain what really happened with the Clutter family in 1959, and also what I know about the Walker family.

  Sometimes I think Perry took the chance because, if it goes into the book, it will be like a letter sent to the boy, sort of a love letter, that Perry is protecting him. I don’t know what happened between Perry and the boy, but I want to go on record that I have always behaved as one hundred percent normal, not like a queer or as a pedophile.

  But I should start closer to the beginning.

  I met Perry in Leavenworth where we were cellmates for only two weeks. But it was then he told me he had actually killed someone in Nevada once, and I thought he would be a good partner in crime for this reason, that he seemed to be open to all kinds of possibilities, and not much of a conscience. I had never killed anyone, and did not think I could do it. I got paroled first, and talked Perry into meeting me shortly after, when he was released. That’s how we hooked up, at a restaurant in Kansas City. It was there that I laid out the plan to get a car, drive across the state, rob the Clutters, and be back in Olathe in the same day so as not to make anyone suspicious. Perry agreed to the plan.

  I had been working as a mechanic in an auto shop in Olathe near where I was living with my parents on their small farm. It was easy to borrow a car from that place, load up a shotgun I had, pick up Perry who had moved into a motel in town, and head out very early one morning.

  Our destination was a small town outside of Garden City, four hundred miles away. This is where the Clutters were, and I was only thinking about the job. But Perry was thinking about Mexico. He talked and talked about what we would do in Mexico, what cities we would go to, as if the Clutters were just a stop for gas or food. I said would you please shut up about Mexico already and keep your mind on what we need to do tonight? He did not lose his temper at me the way he did sometimes, he just stewed.

  We were about fifty miles west of Olathe and had a long ways to go. I did not relish the thought of Perry giving me the silent treatment for the rest of the trip. When you are doing a job together you need to be together. Well, within a few miles of Perry’s silence we encountered the boy and the man, the boy waving wildly at us to stop. As we got close, I could see the man was old. He stood still next to the boy like a sad statue.

  It is true that they were on the side of the road and flagged us down, and that I was against picking them up. But it is more complicated than the story Perry ultimately told. And it was not about bottles.

  Because he had been giving me the silent treatment for so long, I was relieved when Perry finally spoke to me, but then it was to say let’s pick them up. I said are you kidding me? Do you want witnesses who can say we are in this part of the state today? I kept driving while Perry stared at them as we went past, and then looked back with his head out of the window.

  I thought that was that, but then Perry said pull over.

  I kept driving, and said you are just doing this because I said negative things about Mexico. I promise I will take you to Mexico when we are done. We just have to focus on the job.

  Perry said pull over or I don’t go with you.

  Oh, how I wish I had stuck to my guns and not given in to Perry. He talked me into bringing those two along, acting
like it was a good deed and not revenge for me waffling about going to Mexico. He said we would drop them off in the next town. I said that’s Le Loup and he said that town is too small, let’s take them to Emporia. I’ll never read the book, and I suppose I’ll never know for sure what Perry told Capote, but I’m not as stupid as they both think I am. I’ll bet that happened a lot, that Perry came across as good while I came across as bad, even though it was Perry who started the whole mess that brought me to this place in my life, facing the gallows. I would not be surprised if somehow Capote helps Perry get life while I am hanged by myself. But I digress.

  I backed up along the shoulder of the road and the boy and his grandfather got into the car. The boy said he and his granddad got kicked out of where they were living and were hitching their way from Pascagoula, Mississippi, all the way to an aunt’s place in Colorado. The kid asked us where we were going and Perry almost told him but then I said Wichita because I saw it on a signpost we had just passed. The kid asked could we take him there instead but I said it was not on the way to Colorado.

  Perry asked the boy how they managed to hitchhike so far, where did they sleep and how did they eat, etc. The boy responded that along the way they had been picking up bottles and turning them in for cash to buy food. He said the sides of the roads were covered with them because everyone threw them out the windows of their cars and no one cleaned up. There are some now, he said. You could see the sun glinting off the glass. Could we stop?

  Again, I was very angry at this turn of events, and it felt like Perry was taunting me when he said sure. So the three of them got out of the car and collected about two dozen bottles before they got back in. The grandfather was somewhat sick, but not sick enough to stay in the car. He helped a little.

  Now the way Perry tells it is that all this happened much later, after Mexico and California and maybe even after Florida. I can’t remember very well. But I do remember Perry made a whole lot more of the story, with a whole lot more bottles. He said he told Capote we must of picked up 1,000 bottles at 2 cents per. That got us twelve dollars and some change that Perry and I split fifty fifty with the kid and his grandfather. When we cashed the bottles in I was all for leaving the two of them at the quick stop, but they wanted to come with us further, and this is where Perry stopped telling the truth. He says we left them there. But we did not.