by Rachel Lee
The answer should have been a prompt “yes.” This was, however, the church hierarchy he was dealing with, and in his experience if the hierarchy could find a way to be secretive, it would do so on principle. He was sure they didn't want a loose cannon like him shooting off his mouth without supervision. Or maybe up there they thought of him as a loose “canon.” The pun brought a grim smile to his mouth.
“Let me talk to the bishop, Quinlan.”
The bishop, the Most Reverend Arthur A. Rourke, was a kind and gentle man who probably had no idea that he was surrounded by a moat of politically motivated alligators. Then Brendan sighed inwardly. He was being unfair and he knew it. Most of the people in the chancery weren't like Crowell, who, he would bet, had his eye firmly fixed on cardinatial red.
“Of course, Monsignor. But I will point out that the police are here now, and they want to talk to some of the parish employees.”
“Well, of course they must cooperate,” Crowell said, as if realizing he was walking perilously close to a cliff edge. “I imagine no one knows anything anyway.”
“Except for the murderer or murderers, I’m sure you're right.”
“Just see to it that no one talks to the press. Any information will have to come through the diocese.”
“I assumed so. I’ll warn everyone.”
Without saying good-bye, Crowell hung up. He always ended conversations abruptly, at least when dealing with Brendan.
Sitting at Lucy's desk, in an all-too-rare moment of solitude, Brendan closed his eyes and allowed himself to feel the gravity of this day, of the event that had unfolded in his church. Allowed himself to feel some of the grief and shock that any mind could be so twisted, that any human being had been killed such a way.
He hoped to God he'd never seen the victim before in his life.
Unfortunately, he was not to be so lucky.
As he was coming out of the side door of the rectory into the courtyard, Brendan ran into Father Dominic Montague, who was coming in through the back gate, ostensibly on his way back from the parish hall.
A tall man with graying hair and eyes the color of gunmetal, he was an imposing figure. The kind of figure Brendan had often wished he were. Everything about Dominic suggested that he was destined for the hierarchy. Monsignor at the very least. So what was he doing as parochial vicar under a much younger man? Brendan couldn't figure it out, and his network of friends didn't have a clue. And if Dominic knew, he wasn't saying either.
“What's going on, Brendan?” he asked bluntly.
“There's been a crucifixion in the church,” Brendan answered with equal bluntness. As soon as he spoke, he wanted to call the words back. They showed nothing of his usual tact or consideration. In fact, they sounded almost like a joke.
That was Dominic's initial reaction. He could see the flicker of impatience in the older man's gaze, then saw realization dawn. “You're not kidding, are you.”
“I wish to God I was. Is the rehearsal over?”
“All except the cops trying to get everyone's names, addresses, and phone numbers. It's making them all very uncomfortable. And people are demanding to know what's going on.”
“Oh, man.” Torn, Brendan hesitated. On the one hand, there was the victim in the church. On the other, his newest flock members were being needlessly upset. What would any of them know about this? They'd all arrived in the church this morning after Sally and her teachers. “Let me see what I can do. Is there a detective over there named Matt Diel?”
“No detectives, just uniforms.”
“All right, hang on a minute.”
From the courtyard, the entrance to the church led directly into the sacristy, where priests robed for Mass. From there, he walked directly onto the altar. Detective Diel was still there, he saw, making notes and talking to one of the criminologists. Chloe was still there, too, sitting in the front pew, her arms folded, her gaze watchful, looking, he thought, like a Valkyrie ready to spring into action.
“Detective Diel,” Brendan called out.
At once the detective turned. He said something to the criminologist and came over to Brendan. The body, thank heaven, was still shrouded, though men were now on ladders poring over the huge wooden cross.
“Yes, Father?” Diel seemed amiable enough, but Brendan didn't trust the friendliness.
“I want to know why your men are upsetting all the people in the parish hall.”
“We need to know who they are. We might need to question them later.”
“The church can provide that information. But you need to stop upsetting them. They're supposed to come back into this church tonight for their Rites of Initiation. I don't like you scaring my flock away.”
“I don't like people being murdered either,” Matt said flatly. “But it happens anyway.”
“Can you give me one good reason why you need to treat these people like criminals?”
“There's been a murder.”
Point non plus. Brendan felt irritation rising in him. “You have no reason to think any of them are involved.”
“Father, they were here when the body was found. One of them might have been here for … another reason.”
Brendan's face set against the anger he was feeling. “Do you really think a new convert would want to do something like this? Why would they be here if they felt that way? This was a thrust at the heart of the church.”
Matt nodded. “It could also be directed at you, Father.”
That set Brendan back on his heels. He didn't know what to say.
“This is a bizarre way to murder someone,” Matt continued almost conversationally. “It screams message.”
“Yeah,” said Chloe, joining them. “It does. But it could just as well be a message to anyone in the parish.”
Brendan told himself not even to think about that. He had more important concerns. “You have a crime to investigate, but I have a parish to shepherd. Your men are getting in the way of that.”
Now it was the detective's turn to look taken aback. “I’m doing my job, Father. I’m sorry it's making your people upset, but whoever's hanging on that cross was probably pretty upset too. Sometimes it's an upsetting world.” He turned to Chloe. “You of all people should know that.”
“Don't you dare,“ Chloe snapped. ”Don't you dare disrespect the victim and my priest and my parish by making this about me. You can question these people as well on Monday as you can today. The parish has their names.”
Matt seemed about to say something but cut himself off with a shake of his head and turned to Brendan. “Okay. I’ll stop taking names and numbers. As long as you promise me you can get them for me if I need them.”
“Call my secretary Monday morning. And be nice to her. She's not as easygoing as I am.”
Chloe gave a half smile. “Go, Father,” she said.
Matt scowled at her, and Brendan felt the electricity swirling between them again, a snap and crackle that was almost tangible.
“You're grasping at straws,” she told him flatly. “This wasn't done by someone who's been working hard for the last nine months to get into the church.”
“Hey, Matt?” called one of the criminologists from the ladder to the right of the cross. The hand was now uncovered, and Brendan felt his stomach turn over.
“Yeah?” Matt answered, turning.
“We're not going to get the body off this thing. We'll have to take it all down together.”
“Why not?”
“You wanna come up and look at these nails?”
Matt shook his head. “No thanks.”
“We'd need the cross anyway.”
“So take the whole thing down.”
Some part of Brendan felt he should object. The cross, after all, had been the gift of a parish member nearly fifty years ago when the church had been built. It was as much a part of St. Simeon's as the stained-glass windows and outdated confessionals. It had survived the post-Vatican II upheavals, when churches began to take down their stat
uary and move their crucifixes from the altars in search of total ecumenism, to the point where many new churches were identifiable as Catholic only by the sign at the driveway.
But he also knew that cross could no longer stay in St. Simeon's. Not after this.
It hung by chains from the domed ceiling over the altar, and came down with little trouble except for its weight. Four men had to grip it from the bottom, and the men on the ladders steadied the cross beam. But down it came, in fits and jerks, until it was lying on the floor of the altar area.
“Oh, Blessed Mother,” whispered a voice behind Brendan. He turned and found Sister Philomena LeBlanc standing a little behind him, dressed in her usual jeans and T-shirt emblazoned with the parish logo. Sister Phil, as everyone called her was a tall, rail-thin redhead who liked to make her third-grade students laugh by describing herself as a stop sign. She always had a smile. Or usually did. Right now she was staring in horror.
Reaching out, she took Brendan's hand. “Chloe called me. Are you all right, Father?”
“Oh sure, Sister,” he said, on autopilot. He was thinking about the body on the cross, about the unfortunate victim. About what he needed to do. Without another word, he approached the body. Kneeling beside the cross, he began to murmur prayers for the dead. Too late for an anointing. He felt bad about that. Phil came to kneel across from him, joining his prayers. For a minute, everyone in the church observed a moment of silence.
Then someone — Brendan didn't notice who — leaned over and lifted the shroud from the face.
His world tumbled, shock slammed into him until he couldn't breathe. He knotted his hands together until his knuckles turned white, rocking slowly on his knees, murmuring, “No no no no no …”
It was Steve King.
Chapter 3
“You sanitized the area?”
“Completely,” the watcher answered. “We mucked it up so much, nobody is going to be able to tell where that kid was murdered.”
“What did you do with the body?” the second man asked.
“No,” said the first man. “I don't want details.”
It was always this way, the watcher thought. They'd set their ugly little balls rolling, but they didn't want to sully their hands or their minds with the detail work. It was left to people like him to take care of things and keep their noses clean.
“You can read about it in the paper,” the watcher said finally.
“Not the paper,” said the second man.
Hell, what did these idiots think was going to happen? You couldn't murder people and not get in the paper. Not unless you made them vanish completely, and vanishing wasn't in their plan. Not at all.
“I took care of it,” the watcher said flatly. “Nobody's going to figure out what really happened.”
“That's all that matters,” said the first man, giving a stern look to the second. “Any idea why the cannon did this?”
The watcher shook his head. “No. You picked him because he wanted the priest. It's anybody's guess why he took this kid down.”
“Well, so long as he can finish his job …” The second man's voice trailed away.
Yeah, thought the watcher. Keep your eye on the ball and never mind the messy trail of bodies in its wake.
Maybe he was in the wrong line of business.
With some difficulty, the cross had been carried out, the body of Steve King still attached. Because the press had already gathered out front, the crucified body had been thickly shrouded in black plastic.
Matt Diel, who'd already yanked all the information he was going to get at this time from the criminologists, turned to watch Chloe Ryder. She sat in the front pew, folding delicate little animals out of small squares of white paper. A collection was growing on the wooden seat beside her.
She appeared to be oblivious to the doings around her, but Matt knew her better than that. If he knew her at all, that was. She was an enigma to him, and had been since they'd met during their days in uniform. She'd had a good nose, and he'd figured back then that they'd both be homicide detectives someday. Instead, Chloe had left the force under a cloud, and he'd made the squad.
And now she was sitting in the front row of this church, driving him nuts with those endless paper creations when he knew damn well she wasn't missing a thing. And still, damn her, every bit as beautiful as ever.
Except colder now. She hadn't been cold when he'd known her. Right now he felt as if he'd get frostbite if he came within six feet.
But he'd never been one to be deterred by a little danger. So he marched over there. She was plugged into this parish, and she'd better be willing to talk.
He sat in the pew behind her, hoping to unnerve her as she was unnerving him. No such luck. She didn't even glance over her shoulder at him, nor did her fingers pause as they continued to make tiny folds.
“Okay,” he said, an indirect acknowledgment of her attitude. “What do you know about the vic?”
“A little.” She kept right on folding, didn't look at him. Now he wished he'd taken a seat beside her. “Twenty-two,” she continued. “About to graduate from USF with a degree in business administration. Seriously considering going to the seminary in the fall.”
“He wanted to be a priest?”
She held up a tiny white unicorn and turned it around, as if trying to decide if it was complete. “You're letting your prejudice show. Matt.”
“It's not prejudice. It just beats me why any kid that age would want to give up all the fun in life.”
“Women, you mean?”
“And other stuff.”
“I see.” She set the unicorn down, apparently content with it, and pulled another square of paper out of her purse. “I’m sure a lot of priests don't see it as giving up all the fun in life. In fact, I read a study not too long ago that says the majority of priests are very happy in their work.”
“Really.”
“Really.”
Stonewall. God, she was a good stonewall. “What else do you know about him?”
“He was kind. A good young man. Well respected in the church. A great volunteer. He was working his way through school. A job at some fast-food place, I think.”
“But you don't know which one?”
She shook her head.
“Parents?”
“Dad's dead. About eight years ago. Mom's in prison. Hit-and-run DUI with serious bodily injury. You'll find that Steve King was taken out of the home a couple of times because he was abused. Apparently she'd go on drunken binges, beat him up, get sent to rehab, and stay clean for a while.”
“Yeah, I get the picture. So he was running away.”
Now Chloe did turn and look at him, but the victory felt hollow. “The church doesn't want people who are running away. It's not a good place to hide.”
He didn't answer that. All he felt was another surge of antagonism toward her. That bothered him, too. He couldn't figure why he kept wanting to shake her out of her icy composure. What the hell difference did it make to him?
“Was he gay?” He didn't know where the question came from, and it was out before he even realized it.
“Stereotyping, Matt?”
He felt defensive. Thinking “outside the box” was one of his strong points. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Oh, just that nobody would want to be a priest and give up women for the rest of his life unless he was gay, right?”
He leaned forward until his face was just a couple of inches from hers. He met those glacial blue eyes of hers and ignored their chill. “Let's get something straight here. I’m working a murder case. I want to know every possible thing that might have caused somebody to murder that poor kid. Are we straight on that?”
“Sure.” Her inflection revealed nothing.
“So get off your high horse and quit acting like I’m threatening your turf here. I’m trying to find out what kind of fucker would nail that young man to a cross. And if it hasn't crossed your mind yet, it's certainly crossed mine that i
t was one hell of a barbaric act.”
Her gaze never wavered. “He was gay.”
“Drugs?”
“I don't know where he would have fit them in. He was motivated enough to be getting ready to graduate summa cum laude, he worked enough to support himself with some student loans, and he seemed to be here all the rest of the time. He was clean, Matt.”
Matt nodded and settled back in the pew. “Not a lot of motivation for a murder.”
At last Chloe's expression changed. For the first time he saw something like grief in her face. “No,” she said quietly. “There was no reason at all for anyone to want to murder him.”
But both he and Chloe knew that couldn't be true. There was almost always a reason for killing, however shallow or crazy it might be. Most of the time, the motive leapt up and bit him on the nose: greed, fear, hatred, anger.
A murder like this, though … Matt looked toward the altar, the absent crucifix as vivid to him as if it still hung there. A murder like this required something more than simple motivation. There was a message in this one.
He looked down at his pad, at all the scrawled notes. “Who should I talk to about the vic?”
“Father Brendan. He was Steve's spiritual counselor.”
“What's that?”
“Basically, he was helping Steve decide if he had a true vocation.”
“Gotcha. Who else?”
“Merv Haskell, he's the facilities manager. Steve helped out a lot. And Sally Tutweiler, the Director of Religious Education. Steve was one of her catechists.”
“Anything else?”
Again she looked at him. “He was an Eagle Scout, Matt. Until recently, anyway. I think he sent back his badge after that court case.”
Matt sighed heavily. “He had to have done something to really piss somebody off.”
Chloe shook her head. “Maybe he just got in the way of somebody who's pissed off at the church. Or at someone in the church.”
“How long has Father Brendan been here?”
“A little over six months.”