Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “No problem, Mr. Smith.” Of course not, Smith thought. Cops were experts at killing time. They had to be.

  Smith headed for the door, but the reporter intercepted him again. “Mr. Smith, I’m Mark Rosner from the Post. Give me a few minutes?”

  “Sorry, I can’t. I’m already running late for my class. Besides, I have nothing to talk about.”

  “The Singletary murder,” Rosner said. “Aren’t you serving as counsel to the cathedral?”

  “No.”

  “But it’s my understanding that—”

  Smith flashed a broad smile. “I think you should find better sources. I’m a college professor who happens to be a personal friend of the bishop of the cathedral. Excuse me, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m afraid I’m about to be.” He walked away, leaving the reporter with an expression on his face that indicated both annoyance and ambivalence.

  When Smith entered the lecture hall, most of his students were in their seats. They were a decent lot for the most part, with a few exceptions. That they were bright went without saying; you didn’t get into GW’s law school unless you could demonstrate as much. The problem, Smith often thought, was that, as with medical schools, intelligence and grades were virtually the sole determining factor for admission to law schools. But how do you judge a young man or woman’s sense of humanity, commitment to decency, to social justice, to using an excellent legal education to give something to the world and not just to take from it? When he dwelt too much upon that subject, as this morning, he became depressed, so he pushed it from his mind, went to the lectern, unloaded his carefully arranged briefcase, and wished the students a good morning.

  “Professor Smith,” Bob Rogers said, “anything new on the murder of the priest?”

  Smith had expected questions about Paul Singletary’s murder, and had decided during his walk to dismiss the subject as quickly as possible. He looked at the questioner over half-glasses and asked, “Have you read the newspapers, watched television?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you know as much as I do.”

  There was a ripple of sarcastic laughter.

  “What’s funny? No, sorry, that’s not true. Father Paul Singletary was a friend of mine.”

  Another student, Joyce Clemow, retorted, “Which is why we thought you’d know what was going on.”

  Before Smith could answer, another aspiring lawyer, Joe Petrella, said, “I heard you’re going to defend whoever in the cathedral murdered Father Singletary.”

  Smith placed his glasses on the lectern and shook his head. “What kind of attorney will you end up being, Joe, if you’re content to go with rumor that has no basis in fact?”

  Petrella sheepishly lowered his head. Beside him, Smith’s best student, April Montgomery, a thin, pale young woman with a facial tic that made it appear that something had lodged temporarily in her nose, said, “Do you believe it was an outsider who killed Father Singletary—say, a homeless person who came into the cathedral early in the morning?”

  “I have no idea,” Smith said. “The police have just begun their investigation.”

  “Have they found the woman who discovered the body?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Smith said. Other questions sprouted until he threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Look,” he said, “we have a great deal to cover here this morning, but okay, since the only thing on your minds seems to be the Singletary murder, let’s take fifteen minutes to discuss it.” He leaned on the lectern, thought for a moment, then said, “Here is what I do know. Father Singletary was killed by a blow to the side of his head. It appears upon casual observation of the wound that the object was heavy, and that it had a lip or ridge that caused considerable compression of the skull. MPD’s Forensic Unit did a thorough job of analysis of the crime scene, which was the tiny chapel known as Good Shepherd. Singletary was found sitting in a single pew, his body slumped against a wall. There appears to have been little bleeding, which has caused those who were on the scene to raise a question.” He paused. They looked at him. “Which is—?”

  April Montgomery said, “Whether he might have been killed elsewhere and moved to the chapel.”

  “That’s interesting,” Joy Collins said. She was the most exuberant of Smith’s students. “They didn’t have that on TV or in the papers.”

  “It will be, as soon as enough of the right questions are asked and facts digested. An autopsy is being performed or has been performed on the Reverend Singletary, and perhaps that will determine a number of things, including—what?”

  Several raised their hands.

  “The approximate time of his death, lividity, the advancement of rigor mortis, body temperature, the level of potassium in the eye fluid, rate of decomposition,” said Bob Rogers, who usually had such lists at his command.

  “Right. All will be taken into consideration. Many color photographs were shot, and detailed sketches were made. Each of you, of course, is familiar with the techniques used to evaluate a crime scene.” He surveyed their faces; he’d become a forensics expert when he was practicing criminal law. It was vitally necessary to understand forensic medicine in order to mount a credible defense for a client. Some of his students didn’t seem to be interested in such things, aside from morbid curiosity.

  “Any speculation on motive?” April asked.

  “No, but there soon will be. That will all be part of the criminal profile that develops once more information has been gathered by the authorities.” Smith knew that as scornful as Terry Finnerty (like most local law-enforcement officers) was of the FBI, he would need the help of the bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit—now part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC)—in developing a description of the type of person who might have committed the murder, using both psychological and investigative input. He told them so.

  “Maybe it was somebody who hates the church and clergy, somebody who flunked out of a seminary, or who was brought up in a repressive religious household,” Petrella offered. Joe Petrella seemed to especially enjoy the drama of law.

  “Maybe.”

  “Was Father Singletary married?”

  “No.”

  “Was he … gay?”

  “Why would you ask that?” Smith asked.

  “Well, you know clergy, they have—”

  “Paul Singletary was an Episcopal priest, not a Roman Catholic. Episcopal priests are free to marry and to have children. Why would the fact that he was a priest raise a question of his sexual orientation?”

  “Homosexuals are free to be homosexual, or to be heterosexuals, or to be bi-, to marry, and to have children,” said April.

  She was right, of course, and Smith ignored that line of conversation. He said, “The basic supposition at this moment is that Father Singletary was murdered by someone whom he confronted in the chapel, most likely an outsider. This unknown person would fall under the category of an unorganized murderer. All signs point to a lack of premeditation since no knife, gun, or other formal weapon was used. It is also safe to assume at this juncture that Father Singletary did not know his assailant, and was taken by surprise.”

  “But if he was murdered elsewhere, as you suggested was a possibility, Professor Smith, and brought to the chapel, that would certainly indicate a more organized murderer,” Joyce Clemow said. “If that happened, the murderer didn’t just swing something at Father Singletary and run. He thought about it, and spent time with his victim.”

  “You are correct,” said Smith. He looked at his watch. “Our fifteen minutes of diversion are up. I would now like you to turn to the cases assigned on writs of habeas corpus.”

  Chief of Homicide Terrence Finnerty sat in his office with six other detectives assigned to a task force to investigate Paul Singletary’s murder. Smith waited outside until the detectives left, and Finnerty invited him to come in.

  “Sorry to screw up your day, Mac,” Finnerty said as he poured himself a cup of black coffee from a batter
ed Thermos. “Want some?”

  “No, thank you. The British knew what they were doing when they named cop coffee ‘tonsil varnish.’ ”

  “Hey, this ain’t bad coffee, Mac. My wife makes it fresh every morning.”

  “That’s different. Thank you anyway.”

  Seemingly pleased that he’d set that record straight, Finnerty leaned back in his chair, put his scuffed black shoes on the edge of his desk, and squinted at some papers in a file folder.

  “Any word yet on the autopsy?” Smith asked.

  “No,” Finnerty answered without looking up. “I’ll get a prelim from the M.E. this afternoon. It’ll take a while for the blood and urine samples to be run. We’re busy in the chop shop.” He glanced up at Smith. “Any ideas?”

  Smith laughed. “Is that why you had me brought down here, to ask if I have any ideas? Why would I have ideas? Once you and your people took over, I was out of the picture, still am.”

  “Not in the papers.”

  “I just know what I read in the newspapers.”

  “Bull! After the funeral for Vickery you hung around the cathedral a long time, holed up with the bishop for at least a couple hours.”

  “Who told you that?” Smith asked, knowing the answer. Obviously, Finnerty had had one of his people keep an eye on his movements.

  “What did you talk to the bishop about?”

  “About having lost a friend,” Smith replied.

  “Two hours to talk about that? Must have been a hell of an interesting guy.”

  “He was. You know his reputation. Paul Singletary was probably the most involved and visible clergyman in Washington.”

  “Yeah, I know, but that’s just the public side. Tell me about Singletary, his private side. You knew him pretty good, right?”

  Smith thought of Annabel’s comments. “Probably not as well as you’re assuming. I wouldn’t call him a close friend.”

  “You asked him to marry you.”

  “No, I asked him to officiate at our wedding, which doesn’t necessarily indicate closeness. We wanted to be married in the cathedral. Bishop St. James was out of town. We knew Paul, and asked him to conduct the service.”

  “How come you were the one the bishop called the minute the body was discovered?”

  “I keep asking myself the same question. Annabel has been active in church affairs for a number of years, and I’ve been involved in a few aspects of the cathedral’s activities, been called upon to give some legal advice on occasion. I guess the combination of knowing the bishop fairly well and being an attorney was good enough for him to think of me first. I wish he hadn’t.”

  “He like girls?”

  “Father Singletary?”

  “Yeah.”

  “One of my students assumed Paul might have been gay because he was a single clergyman. Are you making the same assumption?”

  “No, Mac, not at all, but I have a feeling we’re going to have to get to know the real Father Singletary if we’re going to have any chance of solving this case.”

  Finnerty was right, of course, especially if Singletary’s killer turned out not to be a total stranger. In order for an effective profile to be drawn of the murderer, the police and the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit would need knowledge of how Singletary lived, his friends, his hobbies, his haunts, everything about how he lived his intimate life on a daily basis.

  “Paul was an attractive and engaging man,” Smith said. “He was dedicated to helping the disenfranchised of our society, and worked hard on their behalf, sometimes to the consternation of his peers and colleagues. I know he also found time for some semblance of a social life. Yes, he did like girls. I recall two occasions when he was accompanied at social gatherings by a woman.”

  “Same woman?”

  Smith shook his head. “No, two different women, both very attractive, I might add.”

  “He was in London just before it happened, right?”

  “So I understand.” Smith remembered George St. James’s mentioning that Singletary had returned from London a day earlier than scheduled. Why? That was one of the things he told the bishop he’d try to find out when he went to London on his honeymoon. Should he bring it up with Finnerty? He decided not to. Probably had no significance, but let Finnerty earn his money.

  It dawned on Smith that he was rapidly shifting into the defense-attorney mode—maybe not officially, but certainly psychically. This both interested and dismayed him.

  “We got a description from the bishop’s wife. Not a very good one, but it was the best she seemed to be able to do. Here.” Finnerty handed Smith a typed transcript of what Eileen St. James had given the interviewing officer.

  White female—somewhere between 40 and 60—reddish hair that probably was dyed because there were a lot of black roots—short, maybe five feet, maybe a few inches taller—kind of a narrow little face—pale complexion—had a black mole on her cheek (couldn’t remember which cheek)—wore a skirt (doesn’t remember color)—a black (or dark blue) sweater with buttons—another sweater, color unknown, underneath, maybe a white blouse under that—no recollection of shoes—no distinguishing marks other than the black mole—nervous personality (but Mrs. St. James said that could be because she discovered a body)—high voice (but she was crying all the time, so hard to tell what her voice was really like)—no accent—twisted her hands around each other a lot—used terms like “Dear Jesus” and “Father in Heaven”—maybe had alcohol on her breath but can’t be sure.

  Smith looked up from the page into the small black pupils of Finnerty’s eyes. “I think it’s surprisingly detailed, considering the circumstances. The bishop’s wife is observant,” he said.

  “Or the cop asking questions was good.”

  “Are you asking whether I know this woman?”

  Finnerty shrugged. “She doesn’t sound like either of the women I saw Paul Singletary with on those social occasions, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Not his type, huh?”

  “No, not his type.”

  “You ever get involved with any of his knee-jerk work?”

  Smith found the term offensive, but didn’t respond to that. He said, “Just once. Father Singletary was having a legal problem running a soup kitchen. Some of the neighbors hired an attorney and brought suit to have the place closed down. Singletary didn’t ask me to help. He brought it up at one of those social occasions I mentioned earlier, and I went to bat for him, talked to the neighborhood attorney and got him to understand that he didn’t have any legal basis upon which to demand the closing of the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve been involved in any other aspect of Paul’s … ‘knee-jerk’ … projects.”

  Finnerty grinned, obviously pleased that he had annoyed Smith, which only annoyed Smith more. “Any truth that you’re going to defend whoever murdered Singletary if it turns out he’s from the cathedral?”

  “No truth whatsoever,” Smith said. “Is that it, Terry? If it is, I really would like to get back home. I still have a busy day ahead of me.”

  “Including spending a little time at the cathedral again?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Careful, Mac, don’t get too religious.”

  “No need to worry about that, Terry. Call me any time. I’m as anxious as everyone else to see you resolve this. Good luck.”

  “It’s sickening what’s happened to this city,” the woman standing outside the Georgetown townhouse said to the uniformed policeman guarding the front door. “Animals, nothing but animals,” she said. “He was such a good man, and they killed him. They should rot in hell, whoever killed Father Singletary.” The officer responded with a series of “Uh-huh”s.

  Inside, two of the six detectives assigned to the Singletary case took photographs of the apartment and made notes. Its furnishings and decoration were eclectic, unconcerned Early Bachelor. The sofa and chairs were threadbare. The walls needed painting, and two cheap area rugs were stained and curled at the corners where double-faced tape
had dried out and let loose.

  “Nice VCR,” Joe Johnson, a black detective, said. It was a new model with many advanced features, and was hooked up to a large NEC video monitor. A wall of videotapes framed the equipment.

  “No books,” Vinnie Basilio said.

  “These Bibles,” his partner said.

  “Whattaya expect a priest to have, porn?”

  Johnson laughed. “Could be.” He started to tell of a case he’d worked on just after he’d been promoted to detective, a story his partner had heard too many times. He cut him off. “What I don’t figure is the security system.”

  “Say what?”

  “The security system on this place. Everything is wired, and this kind of system costs big bucks. What the hell would a priest have that’s so important he’d put in such a system?”

  Johnson laughed again, a pleasant rumble from deep inside. “A good VCR and TV.”

  The Italian American shook his head and grimaced. “Nah, this security system had to cost ten times what he was protecting. I don’t figure it, a priest doing this.”

  “Hey, man, he was no ordinary priest, right? I mean, this guy was in the papers every other day, walking the mean streets with the crackheads, feeding bums, stealing teeny-bopper hookers from their pimps. Maybe that’s why he’s got this system in here, to protect his neck.”

  “A lot of good it did him.”

  Detective Johnson responded to a knock. Finnerty stepped into the living room and closed the door behind him. “Anything?” he asked.

  They recounted what they’d been discussing. Finnerty did not seem as impressed with the security system as Basilio had been. “Files, letters, anything like that?”

  “We didn’t look yet,” replied Johnson.

  “Well, get to it quick,” Finnerty said. “We’re about to lose the place.”

  The two detectives looked at him.

  “The feds are coming in,” Finnerty said, his disgust obvious.

  “How come?” Basilio asked.

  “Beats me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s strictly a D.C. murder, but I got the word that when the feds get here, they run the ball club, so you remember that, too.”