Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09

by Prayers for the Dead

  The eyes moved frantically. “Can you come around to the rectory?”

  “Where?”

  “The side area. You’ll see a door there. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The door closed. Decker climbed down the stairs and walked around to the side. He followed a well-lit, stepping-stone pathway that hugged a wall; behind it looked to be a courtyard. About five hundred yards down was a two-story stucco building. The door was open when he got there.

  The eyes belonged to a kid…twenty if that. His chin and forehead were still dotted with acne. He wore jeans and T-shirt and blocked the doorway. “Father Sparks is…his door is closed.”

  “Why don’t you knock on it?”

  A voice in the background asked who it was.

  “Police,” Decker shouted out.

  Sparks came out, draped his arm around his young charge. “Thank you, Jim, you can go back upstairs now.”

  “I didn’t want to disturb—”

  “It’s fine, Jim.”

  “Are you sure, Father?”

  “Positive.” Bram smiled. Weary. Edgy. “Bye.”

  Jim stared at Decker, then turned and walked up a staircase.

  “Come in,” Sparks said.

  The place was halfway between an office suite and a residence. A living room at one side, a receptionist’s office on the other. Once it might have been a dining room.

  “This way.”

  Sparks led Decker past a small kitchen into a den area. A few beat-up sofas populated the room. He unlocked a pair of french doors and took Decker outside into a courtyard illuminated by low-voltage spots. It was thickly planted with flowers and foliage. A three-tiered fountain sat in the center of the landscape, spilling out glittery drops in the white light. Cool out here. Peaceful, too. They walked down a colonnade into a separate one-story bungalow marked CHANCELLERY.

  Sparks opened the door.

  “Welcome to my mess.” He quickly crossed himself. “Watch your step. I’ve got material on the floor, too.”

  Mess was an understatement. Sparks’s entire office was crammed with junk. Enough papers and books to replenish a tropical rain forest. Piles upon piles of notes on his desk—his desks. There were three of them. Walls of bookshelves, all of them overflowing with reading matter. As Decker looked around, there was some loose logic to the categories. Books inscribed in Greek were all placed together in one case, matter written in Russian or some other obscure Cyrillic language occupied another case. The Latin and English tomes comprised the biggest portion of his collection, taking up the entire back wall.

  But Decker’s eyes were transfixed by other things. The texts written in Hebrew and Aramaic. Specifically, a Hebrew Bible, a Chumash, along with a complete set of Talmud that took up two shelves.

  The holy books of his newfound faith.

  There were other Hebrew books as well, but Decker couldn’t understand the titles. For just a moment, he wished Rina were here. Then he scratched that thought. Because he could only imagine how uncomfortable she would feel in this library. Because Orthodox Jews feel antsy about anyone outside the faith dissecting their sepharim—their holy books. Yet here was a slew of holy books that Rina kissed because God’s name was written inside of them—sitting in bookshelves, handled by a priest in an office that also held an enormous wall crucifix of Jesus.

  Fighting fatigue and a pinch of uneasiness, he forced himself into his professional mode. A man had been brutally murdered. He had a job to do.

  Next to the wall crucifix were several framed photographs. The first was a candid—Bram in a cassock, sitting at a table, his head resting on his open palm, reading a tome in Latin. The other two were posed shots. Bram with old men dressed in ornate religious vestments. In the last photo, Decker recognized all the parties. Bram with the Pope.

  Sparks said, “Rome and I get along.”

  “I can see.”

  The priest took a pile of papers off a chair and placed it on the floor. “Please. Have a seat.”

  Decker sat. “I came around through the front. Pity that churches have to lock their doors.”

  Sparks took a seat behind one of his three desks, unplugging the phone and answering machine. “When someone controls the vandalism, I’ll keep the door unlocked.”

  “Fair enough.” Decker took out a notepad. “The rectory. You have residential quarters there?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you live at the church.”

  “Basically, yes. I’ve been the resident priest here for seven years. But I’ve always maintained a one-bedroom apartment off grounds. Growing up in a large family, once in a blue moon, I have a fierce need for privacy.”

  “Who’s Jim?”

  “The young man who answered the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s one of my many pass-through seminarians. Currently, I’ve got two. They’re doing field training here. They send them down from St. John’s in Camarillo. That’s where the Los Angeles diocese runs its seminary.”

  “You’re the church’s sole priest?”

  “Sole resident priest. If I’m out of town, Loyola/ Marymount will send over some guys to do Mass for my congregants.”

  “Do you teach?”

  “Currently, I’m conducting six different classes here—basic Bible, faith in the face of adversity, the true meaning of Christmas, current events and religion…things like that.” Sparks looked at Decker. “I have brochures. But I suspect that’s not why you’re here.”

  Decker smiled. “Maybe another time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you teach at the University as well?”

  “Occasionally. But academic teaching is time consuming. I’ve got a parish to run.”

  Decker’s eyes swept over the room which was more of a library. “You seem like the…academic type.”

  Bram smiled. “Should I take that as a compliment?”

  “A simple statement. The chancellery’s full of books.”

  “I do some independent work for Rome, mostly translating ancient papers and documents. I was a Classics language major in college. I’ve got a natural feel for words. But it’s the church that owns my heart. It’s my family.”

  “You have lots of family, then.”

  “Yes, sometimes it’s too much of a good thing. But I’ve no complaints…” Sparks shook his head. “Until tonight…”

  “How are you doing, Father?”

  “Call me Bram. I’m doing lousy. But thanks for asking.”

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Not at all. I was up…trying to make sense…driving myself crazy actually. Asking myself why him?”

  “I have no answer for you.”

  Bram sighed. “I’m a purveyor of faith. I’m used to ambiguities, believing without seeing. I try to see God’s will in everything. But this…” He threw up his hands. “Maybe it’s a test of some sort. If it is, I think I’m flunking.”

  “You’re allowed to grieve, Father.”

  “I suppose. Hard being on the other end. Receiving comfort instead of giving it.”

  Bram grew quiet…pensive. Decker studied the priest. Calm, but not because he lacked emotions. Just not overtly effusive. Well suited for the clergy. “I meant to ask you this at the house. Does your father have living parents?”

  “No. My paternal grandparents are dead. Dad has a brother. He lives in Indiana. He’s coming out for the memorial service tomorrow.”

  “Uncle Caleb.”

  “Ah, you have a memory.”

  “No, but I take good notes,” Decker said. “Is he a doctor also?”

  “A pastor.”

  “Runs in the family.”

  “According to my dad, that’s the way it was in the Midwest back then. Oldest son goes into the profession to support the younger son who goes into the ministry.”

  “You did it backward in your family.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re the priest and your brother Mike is the docto
r.”

  Sparks rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Becoming a priest wasn’t part of the play. What can I do for you, Lieutenant, at…” He checked his watch. “At two-fifteen in the morning. You keep going this long, we can say morning prayers together.”

  I don’t think so. Decker asked, “Do you have patience for a few quick questions?”

  “Certainly. We’re both after the same thing.”

  Suddenly, the priest let out a small laugh.

  “What?” Decker asked.

  “Nothing. Inside joke. How can I help you?”

  Decker pulled Azor Sparks’s Harley card from his pocket and handed it to Bram. “Any idea what this is about?”

  A smile rose to the priest’s lips—genuine. “Son of a gun.” He shook his head. “Can I keep this?”

  “Not at the moment. I found it in the car, so it’s evidence. What is it?”

  “My father…” Sparks chuckled. “Believe it or not, my father rode with a club.”

  “A motorcycle club?”

  “Your basic weekend warrior.” Bram sat back in his chair, stared at the card. “My brother Luke and I went with him to buy his first bike. We begged him to take us along. Because some people see an older man…they take advantage. I don’t know about you, Lieutenant, but when I go out to buy something specialized, my knowledge of the acquisition is usually pretty bad. I remember when I had to buy some computers for the church. The salesperson started talking about megabytes and RAMs and ROMs and CD-ROM for virtual reality. I didn’t have a clue.

  “My father goes to buy a motorcycle. The salesman takes him over to a bike.”

  Bram laughed softly, his eyes watching a distant memory.

  “Dad starts launching into this lecture of what’s wrong with the motorcycle. The cam chain tensioner isn’t calibrated to exact zero. The front hydraulic fork isn’t welded properly to the brake caliper. The rear drive sprocket…” He smiled. “All these years of education and I still don’t know what a sprocket is.”

  “It’s the teeth in a gear that fit into a wheel,” Decker said.

  “Good for you. I can see why—” He stopped midsentence. “Anyway, Dad blew the salesman away. They became instant friends. He’s been riding with this hard-case leather pack for a couple of years now. They call him Granddaddy Sparks.”

  Bram looked at the card, handed it back to Decker.

  “Apparently he enjoyed it a lot more than he let on. Which was typical of my father. He kept it close to the heart. It’s nice to know my father indulged in fantasies.”

  “Did you call them to come to the service tomorrow?”

  “You mean his motorcycle friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, tonight I only called the relatives and Dad’s church friends. I wouldn’t even know how to get hold of these guys.”

  He thought a moment.

  “I suppose I could call the dealership tomorrow.” Again, the priest smiled. “Now that would be something to see. Dad’s biker buddies sitting next to the church ladies.” His eyes suddenly moistened. “So needless. What a horrible, horrible… tragedy. As much as I try to fight it, say it was in God’s hands…because we’re all in God’s hands…I keep asking myself why my father? Why Azor Moses Sparks? Who did so much good. Just a colossal…waste!”

  “I’m sorry.” Decker waited a beat, then said, “If you’re up to it, I’ve one more question.”

  “Sure.”

  “I was comparing notes with a few of my detectives. Did you often eat Sunday dinner with your family?”

  Bram looked at Decker. “Why do you ask?”

  “Please, Father. Just bear with me.”

  “If I had no church obligations, I would eat Sunday dinner with my family. Why?”

  “Ever any tension at the dinner table?”

  Sparks gave Decker a quizzical look. “Lots of opinionated people under one roof. Sure, there was occasional friction. In general, the dinners were remarkably polite. You can’t judge us by the way we were this evening.”

  “I realize that.”

  “No, it goes even further than the fact that we were all in terrible shock. My siblings and I have an enormous respect for our parents. We keep the conflict to a minimum when they’re around.”

  “Always?”

  Again, Sparks stared at Decker. “What do you want to ask me, Lieutenant?”

  “Your father once had a colleague of his and her husband over for dinner.”

  “A colleague of his and her husband.” Bram brushed long hair out of his eyes. “Dr. Fulton. Her husband’s name was Drew. Drew McFadden. Funny. I couldn’t remember her name earlier this evening. But her husband’s, a man I met maybe two times…I remembered his name in a snap. What would Freud say about that?”

  Decker said nothing.

  Sparks said, “Maybe he left a bigger impression on me than she did. Anyway, what about the evening?”

  Decker looked the priest in the eyes. “He said you got into a big argument with your father. Something about evil thoughts.”

  Sparks maintained eye contact. “I don’t argue with my father, Lieutenant.”

  Decker said. “Maybe I should say your father was arguing with you.”

  Again, Sparks pushed hair from his face. “I don’t know a thing about Mr. McFadden or his wife, Dr. Fulton, or their relationship with each other. Not a thing, all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “So this digression is theoretical, okay?”

  “Go on.”

  “Suppose Mr. McFadden is a passive type of person. A guy who might be happy to stand back and let his wife support him, take care of him. So he can do his own thing. A person like that, who lets others run his life, might choose to avoid confrontation. In that person’s misguided perception, it is possible for him to misinterpret a theological discussion as an argument.”

  “A heated theological discussion?”

  “Not heated. Nothing much more than what you witnessed earlier this evening with my sister, Eva. Would you call that heated?”

  “She was aggravated.”

  “She was stunned over her father’s untimely death.”

  “So Mr. McFadden was wrong? There was no argument?”

  “No argument. There was a discussion.”

  “Funny, because he told us that it was very much an argument. As a matter of fact, he told me it wasn’t just your father. He said everyone was dumping on you. And you just took it.”

  “Why is this important? Are you trying to establish a year-old animated discussion between my father and me as a motive for murder?”

  Decker raised his brow. Maybe. Because at the moment, he was grasping at straws. He said, “I’m merely asking a question, Father.”

  Sparks exhaled, rubbed his eyes. “I remember the discussion. We were talking about the different religious perceptions of evil thought versus evil action. Were the two equivalent? Not in a judicial sense. No one was debating the difference between evil thought and action in American jurisprudence. We were talking theology. Before the eyes of God, are evil thoughts indeed evil actions?”

  Bram looked at Decker, gauging him. “Yes, it’s weird. But it beats ‘how ’bout them Dodgers.’”

  Decker said, “I understand what it’s like to live in a religiously driven home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Go on.”

  Sparks said, “Evil thought as a moral trespass is a Christian concept—a very Catholic concept as well. Evil thoughts require confession, penance, and absolution just like evil action. Why? Because if evil thoughts aren’t dealt with…atoned for and expunged from the idiore-pertoire of our mental workings, they will lead to evil action.”

  “Okay.”

  “Two schools of thought. Evil ruminations grow into monsters unto themselves until the individual is forced to act upon them. Or my philosophy, which certainly isn’t original, that with ninety-nine percent of us, evil thoughts are pressure valves. A way to release our frustrations or lusts or anger. Ergo, a
re penance and atonement really necessary for evil thoughts or immoral fantasies? Furthermore, are religious representatives—such as myself—doing a disservice to their flocks by convincing them to drive away these thoughts? Cutting off an avenue of escape from tension. I suggested this kind of narrow-minded repression might even be potentially harmful. My family—especially my father—took exception. Said a clean mind was tantamount to a clean soul. Words that my mother agreed with wholeheartedly.”

  “How’d you respond?”

  “I didn’t. I backed down. And that, my friend, is it.”

  Decker rolled his tongue in his cheek. “Why’d you back down?”

  “My, you’re inquisitive.”

  “I’m a detective. It’s my job to find things out. Not unlike yours, Father.”

  “Hardly, but why go into that now.” Sparks looked down, then up. “I don’t argue with my father because we don’t have parity. As religious and learned as he is, he is at a distinct disadvantage simply because I’ve had more theological education. I can pull rabbits out of my hat. He can’t. As far as my sibs go…Lord, I’m tired.”

  Decker waited.

  “I backed down with my sibs because I didn’t want to come on too strong in front of our parents. Religion is my field, my calling, my life. If I make a brilliant analysis using theological exegesis, in their eyes, I’m not Bram, the learned priest. On the contrary I’m Bram, the golden boy, scoring brownie points with my parents. Uh-uh, I’m not going to play that game.”

  “You’re all adults.”

  “You’re right. It’s absurd to have to think about these things at thirty-five. But old habits are hard to break.” Bram grew pensive. “And there’s a history behind it. They grew up with a brother to whom being right was the eleventh commandment.”

  His eyes grew far away.

  “I used to love to debate…argue. I could always use words to drive someone into the ground. A big power lust for me.”

  His eyes refocused, zeroed in on Decker’s.

  “I had a cherished friend once. A man who could use words better than I. We used to spend hours together, arguing about God. I loved him like a brother. Then one day he started seeing double. He took sick. Ten months later, he was dead.”

  He swallowed hard.