by Ed Gorman
‘Hell, yes. He was sure pissed off enough when he got here. Grimes was probably three-quarter dead anyway. Wouldn’ta taken much for Conrad to finish him. And when I took a peek inside I saw him goin’ through the dead guy’s pockets.’
Showalter’s body lurched. Between the booze and his urgency to find the recorder, restraint was difficult to come by. ‘Did he find anything?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Look, you stupid bastard. I want a yes or no answer.’
‘Well, I couldn’t see everything exactly but I’d have to say no.’
Hurt, not anger, was in Skully’s voice. He’d been cooperating with Showalter. He had to wonder why the man had turned on him.
Showalter’s breath came in a blast now. Despite the chill, he was sweating. He must have realized how undone he’d sounded.
‘I’m sorry, Skully. It’s been a long night.’
‘That’s all right.’
But Skully still sounded hurt.
To me, he said, ‘Your friend Edelstein still in town?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘The ME said she could have an autopsy for us in twenty hours if we’re lucky.’
The medical examiner, a middle-aged woman who carried a black medical bag and a pink umbrella, had spent her time in Cabin Six. Even though she must have been accustomed to working with corpses in various stages of decomposition, apparently the combination of the body and the vile condition of the cabin forced her to duck outside every few minutes and take in deep and grateful lungs full of relatively fresh air. When she’d finished, she’d taken Showalter aside to talk to him. She spoke so softly I didn’t catch a single word.
But an autopsy in twenty hours was not going to be easy, and if she felt she needed a toxicology report (which in this case would be prudent, as one of our former presidents liked to say) we were talking weeks.
‘I should throw your ass in jail until we get that autopsy, but I don’t want to waste my time hassling with Edelstein about bail.’
And if you threw me in jail, you wouldn’t have any way to follow me.
‘I’m free to go?’
‘You shouldn’t be, but you are. I’m calling your hotel at seven in the morning and you’d damned well better be there.’
‘I’ll be sleeping.’
He waved me away with his right hand and with his left jerked a cell phone from his jacket pocket.
Skully not only sounded hurt, he looked hurt. Showalter moved away enough with his phone for me to be able to say, ‘Don’t worry, Skully. He treats everybody like shit.’
But the hurt remained in those time-worn eyes.
There was even more press up by the highway. In the paper this would be page four at best. If tomorrow’s six o’clock news was story-hungry enough it would be story three or four.
Wade sat in his car with the door open, facing me. He was a man who knew how to relax. He waggled his cell phone at me. ‘I got the job.’
All I did was nod and walk on past to my own car.
The burly detective who’d arrived just after Showalter was talking to a reporter. He watched me as I climbed inside and started the car. Then he went back to talking.
FORTY-TWO
Long, long ago, I’d been an altar boy.
The Stations of the Cross on both walls, the statues of the Virgin and Jesus on opposite sides of the altar, the altar itself where nothing less than the Body of Christ was said to reside in the form of small thin wafers of bread, the pulpit from which the teachings of the church were spoken to us every weekend … and the sensual aspects of the altar, the scents of wine and burning candles and on occasion the sweet, almost hallucinogenic, aroma of heavy incense … all this made me feel devout as I served in my pretend-priest costume of white surplice and black cassock …
As I entered St Paul’s now I felt a melancholy usually reserved for lost loves. I don’t recall exactly when I fell out of love with the man-made rules emanating from the Vatican … But I did. Maybe sometime in tenth grade or so.
St Paul’s was so old it smelled of dampness. As I put my hand on the back pew it wobbled. The rubber runner separating the nave was worn so thin there were holes in it. The Stations of the Cross were faded paintings, and even from here I could see how worn the carpeting around the communion rail was.
At one time this had probably been a prosperous working-class church. But five presidents and numerous Congresses had seen fit to ship the bulk of good working-class jobs abroad, so as the parishioners suffered, so did the church.
Many votive candles were now battery operated. You got the glow but you didn’t get the mess. I knew this because an uncle of mine complained every Thanksgiving about how the church had given in to the atheists. That may make sense to you. It never has to me.
St Paul’s votive candles were the real thing – six slanted rows of them flickering now in greens and yellows and reds on a gold-painted metal stand that was shedding its skin. Over the stand, at a slight distance, loomed a welcoming statue of Jesus.
Behind me I heard the heavy doors at the front of the church open. I turned to see Wade rushing up the aisle.
‘I got waylaid by a traffic accident. Had to take the long way around. So what do we do?’
I took the match from my shirt pocket and explained its significance. ‘I assume if he hid it, it’s somewhere around here. We may as well start looking under the candles themselves.’
I walked over to the faux-golden stand, dropped to one knee and began feeling the metal underneath the candles. I pictured a recorder you could put in your pocket. It had to be at least large enough to be prominent under the bottom of the stand. The metal was hot below the candles. Hot and flat.
‘Anything?’ Wade asked.
‘Nope.’
‘I’ll start looking around by the statue. Maybe he hid it behind it.’
‘Maybe.’
I should have stood up and joined Wade in searching the general area, but I decided to make one more pass on the underside again.
Hot and flat.
Then I felt something smooth I’d missed before because it was tucked up in a corner. I ripped it down and examined it.
‘Is that a piece of tape?’
‘Yeah. Grimes must have taped the recorder up there but the tape got warm and it fell down.’
‘Then where’s the recorder?’
A heavy door opened on the side of the large stone building. Footsteps. A person out of breath. Wade and I just watched each other.
This was the night for old men. Grimes, Skully and now a bald, hefty priest who had to be as old as Skully. He wore the black shirt and Roman collar of his calling. He also wore faded blue jeans.
‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’m Father Niles. My bedroom window is right above this side of the church in the rectory so I can hear people in here talking. I just came over to see if there was anything I could do to help. Are you men in any kind of trouble?’
All those years of hearing confessions. He would be practically psychic at reading faces and voices. I’m sure both our body language and our expressions indicated that we were troubled.
‘I’m Detective Wade, Father.’
‘A detective – Lord, I hope none of our people are in trouble.’
‘No, Father. Nothing like that.’
Father Niles’s eyes fixed on mine.
‘I’m Dev Conrad. I’m the campaign manager for Congresswoman Bradshaw.’
‘Oh, well, there are a lot of things I like about her, but I can’t vote for her because of abortion.’
He shook my hand anyway.
‘Father, we’re here because of Frank Grimes,’ I said.
‘Frank? He’s a good man. Especially since his wife died. His faith really returned to him. I hope everything’s all right.’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t, Father. Frank died earlier tonight of a heart attack.’
‘Oh, Lord. Poor Frank. He was so confused lately. I said a lot of prayers for him. I’ll miss
him but I know he’s with his wife again now. He missed her so much.’
‘Father, you said he was confused lately. He sent me a letter about leaving something for me here at the church. I think the two things may be connected.’
The priest paused, then glanced away. He bit on his lower lip, thinking about things.
‘Do you know his granddaughter, Cindy, Mr Conrad?’
‘Yes, I do, Father.’
‘Well, before I say any more I think I’d better talk to her. And it’s too late now to call her. We’d better put this off until morning.’
‘No it’s not, Father. She’s one of the reasons we’re here. I can get her on the phone right now and she’ll talk to you.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘Yes, Father. At this time of night.’
I didn’t wait. I punched in my speed dial. Her line rang three times. My words came out in one long sentence.
‘Cindy, it’s Dev. We’re at the church here and Father Niles needs to talk to you so please tell him it’s all right to help us – here’s Father Niles.’
After some reluctance he took my cell phone and said, ‘Cindy, it’s Father Niles. I’m sorry about this late hour. I’ll say the six o’clock Mass for Frank. I’m so sorry about your loss, Cindy.’
I don’t suppose they talked much longer than two or three minutes but it seemed interminable. He wanted our identities verified – she couldn’t help him with Detective Wade – and our relationship to her grandfather clarified. And then he said, ‘Should I tell them everything?’
As he answered his gaze went from me to Wade and back to me again. ‘I’ll be praying for you and Frank both, Cindy. Good night.’ He handed the phone back to me.
‘Thanks, Cindy. I’ll talk to you later.’
‘I just want this to be over, Dev. It sounds as if Father Niles can help you.’
‘I sure hope so.’
When the phone was back in my pocket, I said, ‘Father, we think Frank taped something underneath the votive candles.’
For the first time, he smiled. He wore dentures.
‘Frank didn’t tell me where he was going to put it. If he had, I would have told him that the tape might get warm and not hold it. I found it earlier tonight. It’s one of those modern things. I wasn’t even sure what it was at first. I have a niece who likes to tell me her daughter knows more about this kind of thing than I do. Anyway, I was walking through the church tonight – we leave things open twenty-four hours because we have so many troubled parishioners now and I like to just walk through here in the evening hours – and I found it under the votive lights. As I said, at first I didn’t know what it was. I called Frank’s place but didn’t get any answer.’
‘Do you have it now?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s in a desk in my office at the rectory.’
‘Would you get it for us please, Father?’
The smile again. ‘You two look as excited as little boys.’
‘We’d really appreciate your help, Father.’
‘I’ll be right back, gentlemen. I just need a few minutes.’
We watched the priest make his slow way to the door and then disappear. Then he was only hollow footsteps on the bare concrete. The side door opened. That should have been followed by the thud of the heavy door closing.
But there was no thud.
Wade noticed it, too. ‘Did you hear the door close?’
‘No.’
Then came muffled voices. Two pairs of footsteps scraping on the concrete steps.
Showalter towered over Father Niles as he followed the old priest into the church. I wondered if the priest had noticed that Showalter held his Glock low against his leg.
‘This must be the night for visitors,’ Father Niles said in the tone he probably used when the parish had a party in the basement.
‘Father Niles has been nice enough to offer to get me the recorder,’ Showalter said. ‘But he wanted to make sure that it was all right with you two first. The Father here is a very careful man. But I told him you wouldn’t have any objections.’
‘I know you talked to Cindy, Mr Conrad. I just wanted to make sure you knew the chief was here.’ Again the party voice. ‘Can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be all right. Him being the chief and all.’
‘It’s fine, Father. Feel free to go get it.’
‘I’ll be right back then, Chief.’
Like most people, the priest was impressed with rank. Play to the one with the most stripes on his arm. Or the biggest badge.
The three of us stood about five feet apart, listening to Father Niles depart. Showalter showed no signs of drink now. He wore a comfortable, superior smile.
Wade said, ‘You followed me.’
‘You and Conrad looked too friendly when I pulled into River Cabins. I thought it was a good idea. And by the way, once I get the recorder, I’ll be expecting your resignation, Wade.’
‘Karen Foster resigned this afternoon. You going to take care of him the way you did her?’
‘You’re one aggravating son of a bitch, you know that, Conrad? You keep making accusations you can’t prove and I’m sick of it.’
‘If Karen regains consciousness you’re done, Showalter.’
‘A woman who created a fake identity for herself and then undermined the entire police force? That’ll be another tough sell.’
‘Real tough,’ Wade said. ‘You’ve got enemies who won’t believe anything you say.’
I was glad Wade had taken over the conversation because I needed to think through how I was going to attack Showalter if he gave me the chance. I knew better than to try to get to my Glock. He’d shoot me.
The only hope was to distract him. And right now there was only one way to do it that I knew of.
Wade said, ‘You’re smiling, Showalter, but you’re coming apart. You’ve got that stress tic in your right eye.’
The sociopathic smile. ‘It won’t work, Wade. I’m under stress and I can feel the tic but that hardly means I’m coming apart. I used to have a colonel who liked to play mind games like that. He always thought he was tougher than everybody else – superior – and he’d try and make you nervous by playing his games. You know what happened to him? He ate a .38 the night he caught his missus blowing a young lieutenant. I guess he wasn’t as tough as he thought. And you aren’t either, Wade, so you might as well knock off the bullshit.’
Then I heard the sound I’d been waiting for: Father Niles coming back into the church.
I shouted: ‘Don’t come in here, Father. Showalter’s going to kill both of us!’
‘What did you say?’ Father Niles tried to shout but his voice was weak.
‘Shut your fucking mouth!’
Now it was Wade’s turn. ‘He’s going to kill us, Father! Stay away! We don’t want you to get shot!’
His slow footsteps worked slowly up the concrete steps. ‘He’s going to kill you, you say?’
‘You bastard!’ Showalter lurched forward as he said this. We’d managed, as I’d hoped, to confuse him for a moment. Now he couldn’t afford to shoot us. We’d warned the priest. Showalter would have no way of defending our deaths with the priest as our witness.
‘I’m coming up there to see what’s going on,’ Father Niles said.
Showalter was close enough to try to slam his Glock into my skull, but I ducked under his move and brought my knee up between his legs.
There was a primordial shriek as the pain in his groin began to register. But even so he managed to twist the Glock back into the firing position. A shot fired in rage, it ripped into one of the Stations of the Cross across the nave.
That was when Wade ran three or four steps and launched himself onto Showalter’s back. He rode piggyback, using his hands to blind Showalter momentarily. I wrenched his gun hand until I simply slipped the Glock from his grasp. But then Showalter, carrying Wade, slammed into me and knocked the Glock I was carrying – Showalter’s Glock – to the floor.
Father Niles wa
s in the doorway now. ‘Somebody fired a gun in church! This is terrible.’
That was when Showalter backed up and managed to ram Wade into me. It was an effective move. Both Wade and I staggered backward. I tried to stay on my feet but I stumbled as I moved forward, and took both of us to the floor.
That was when the shots came.
I can’t say that I actually saw it. The bullet probably entered the top of Showalter’s mouth just before I managed to put both my hands flat on the floor and start pushing myself up.
And then I heard moaning behind me. Wade was on the floor. He’d been shot in the shoulder.
Through gritted teeth, he said, ‘Check on Showalter. Get the recorder.’
Father Niles cried out, then began praying. They were just holy words and phrases. I think in that instant he was trying to exorcise all three of us who remained alive. And his church. After what had just happened the church itself needed to cast out its demons.
Showalter lay on his back, his right hand still holding the gun he’d used to take his own life. There was such a mixture of blood and bone and tissue on the floor behind him I wondered if it could ever be cleansed away.
The old priest knelt next to the body and prayed frantically, crossing himself numerous times as he did so.
I hoped he had a few prayers left over for the rest of us.
FORTY-THREE
If you’ve followed the career of one Richard M. Nixon, then the name Rose Mary Woods will be familiar to you. She was, of course, his secretary and she was, of course, the woman who ‘accidentally’ erased a section of tape. Conventional wisdom is that the tape contained things that would have damaged his presidency even more.
My father the political consultant loved telling Watergate tales. He told them right up to his death, several years after the fact. He especially loved the Rose Mary Woods story – how it was impossible to have ‘accidentally’ erased it the way she said she had and how she was loyal to the point of facing prison for the villainous Dick Nixon (who’d actually done a number of very good things for our country, damn his paranoid hide). I’m no different. I love Watergate stories. And no matter how old I get, Rose Mary Woods will always make me smile in that superior way.