De Profundis (Kate Gardener Mysteries Book 2)

by Gabriella Messina

  “And the pain?” Hagen asked, a concerned frown creasing his brow.

  Pierce smiled weakly. “It’s nothing, sir, really.”

  Hagen looked at his sergeant for a long moment, noting the tension in his face, the way he was carefully holding his body as still as possible. Pierce was clearly in a good deal of pain.

  “Rick, I don’t mind telling you my instinct is to force leave on you. You could go home, rest, self-medicate with alcohol.” He saw Pierce open his mouth to speak and raised a hand to silence him. “Let me finish. I think you should go home, but if you feel that being here, working, will be better for you than sitting at home stewing… Then I’ll concede. However…” Hagen watched Pierce tense again, either from a wave of pain or from the anticipation of Hagen conditions. “However, you will be riding that desk out there for the duration. Understood?”

  Pierce nodded quickly, relief flooding his handsome face. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “Now, I will have some interviews to do today, follow-ups and such. I’ll take Paul with me. You will need to go through the paperwork that Specialist Crime is sending over.”

  “Specialist Crime, sir?” Pierce asked, puzzled. “Paperwork?”

  “Father Coyle… had a C.A.I.C. file.”

  Pierce’s jaw tensed again, his eyes widening. “He was a pedophile?”

  “Accused only.” Hagen answered. “In fact, the accusation was never proven, despite Specialist doing their due diligence. He was never prosecuted and the accusation never went public.” Hagen took a sip of his chai before continuing. “As soon as Owens found the record, I phoned Clive Reynolds at home. Poor man has the plague or something, but in between fits of coughing, he managed to get the gist of what I was telling him and was quite —”

  “Concerned.” Pierce finished.

  Hagen nodded. “An understatement. A Catholic clergyman, the hint of molestation charges in the past, such a violent death…” He trailed off, shaking his head as his frown deepened. The phone on his desk began to ring, once, twice. Finally, Hagen sighed and reached to answer it.

  “Hagen.” He paused for a moment, listening to the speaker. “Yes, of course. We’re on our way.” He hung up and stood, taking a final sip of his chai. “Best get going. Paul and I will have to make a stop before we begin our interviews. At Lambeth.”

  “The post mortem is in already?” Pierce stood, wincing as his weight shifted and pulled slightly on the sling holding his left arm in place against his body.

  Hagen shook his head. “No, only the preliminary. But our presence has been formally requested.”

  Hagen opened the door and motioned to Owens. “Paul, grab your coat.” He turned back to Pierce. “I have to say, I’m relieved that you’re staying here. Under the circumstances.”

  Pierce narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t Doctor Monaghan on the phone, was it?”

  Hagen heaved a ragged sigh. “No, unfortunately, it was not. And the last thing I need right now is you in any kind of altercation with Jerome Wilkinson. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” Pierce replied, trying to suppress his smile. Hagen’s concern was not unfounded. The animosity between Pierce and Crown Prosecutor Jerome Wilkinson was searing on the best of days and, with Pierce in pain… who knows what could happen.

  “All right,” Hagen announced, glancing around the Murder Squad room at the handful of detectives there. “Carry on, everyone. Sergeant Pierce is in charge.” He buttoned three buttons on his coat, then carefully placed his fedora on his head. “Paul? Let’s go.” Hagen strode out of the squad room, with Owens a few steps behind him.

  4

  2 November 2011

  Conference Room, FSS Lambeth

  “Mark Coyle, age forty-two. Multiple comminuted and complex depressed skull fractures of the frontal and temporal lobes, breaching the dura mater, dissecting cerebral arteries, and lacerating the meninges. The cause of death, anoxic encephalopathy resulting from massive blood loss.”

  Jerome Wilkinson closed the folder and tossed it abruptly onto the conference table. The darkly-handsome barrister looked at the small group assembled in the room with him. Seated at the table, Hagen and Owens sat quietly, their eyes looking anywhere but at Wilkinson.

  The barrister frowned and turned to the statuesque blond woman standing nearby, her expression cool and calm. “In other words, his head was smashed in and he bled to death.”

  Forensic Pathologist Diana Monaghan shifted slightly, her track pants creating a whispering sound as one leg brushed the other. She nodded her assent before adding, “Correct.”

  “Well, keep me informed. I’m due in court.” Wilkinson closed the file and tossed it on the conference table.

  “Clinical, concise and wonderfully brief. I should have him come in and do all my presentations.” Monaghan sits down in one of the conference chairs and runs her hands through her short blond hair. “In any case, Doug, I really don’t have more for you. I haven’t completed the full autopsy yet, toxicology is not in, DNA will obviously take at least a few days for a preliminary.”

  Hagen nodded. “I understand. We would be out interviewing witnesses already, but for Wilkinson phoning.” He motioned to the report that Wilkinson had unceremoniously tossed onto the table. “Anything else you can tell us based on your initial examination? Anything that struck you? Anything on the body?”

  Monaghan shook her head. “No. He was very fit for a priest, at least in my opinion. He had probably showered recently, perhaps within the two hours before his death. His fingernails and toenails were very well-maintained, manicured even, though he may have cared for them himself. No particulate matter on the body to speak of other than blood, brain matter, bone. Samples were taken, of course, but we’ve heard nothing from trace yet, but Jimi went over to rattle their cages a bit. She used to work in Trace, you know.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Hagen cleared his throat, fiddling with the brim of his fedora as he continued. “Ms. Khan is, uh, colorful.”

  Monaghan smiled. “Very. And one of the brightest technicians I’ve ever worked with. Of either sex.” She paused for a moment, looking at something behind the two detectives. “And there’s another one.” She nodded toward the hallway outside.

  Hagen and Owens both turned in time to see Kate Gardener walking down the hallway. Her suede knee-high boots padded softly along the hallway, and the gold chain belt at her waist jingled as she walked. She looked up as she passed the conference room and, seeing the group gathered inside, smiled at them, waving enthusiastically.

  The two men nodded formally, while Monaghan waved back with a smile. Kate disappeared around the corner and Monaghan’s smile quickly dimmed.

  “I heard there was a problem at the scene with Zielinski.”

  Hagen cleared his throat again. “Quite.”

  Monaghan sighed. “Yes, well… Zielinski is… well… I’m sure he’ll file a report. Kate already has.”

  “Already,” Hagen said, his eyebrows raised and his voice full of surprise. “She didn’t waste any time.”

  “No,” Monaghan replied. “And, unfortunately for Zielinski, Kate’s complaint has more credibility.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because of her memory,” Monaghan answered. “Clinically documented to be accurate.”

  Hagen frowned. “Clinically documented?”

  “Miss Gardener has an eidetic memory, sir,” Owens offered. “She remembers anything she sees.”

  “Remarkable.” Hagen stood, grabbing his fedora off the table and his coat off the back of the chair. “I hope some of our witnesses have memories half as good. Paul? We had best get started or we’ll be at this all day.” He turned to Monaghan and gave her a broad smile. “Thank you, Diana.”

  Monaghan gave him a salute and a smile. “Come by anytime. We’re always open.”

  Hagen slipped his coat on as he exited the conference room. Owens paused briefly by the door and nodded to Monaghan. “Doctor Monaghan.”

  Monaghan gave him
a regal nod. “Constable.”

  ***

  Hammersmith Hospital, Acton

  Hagen glanced at the clock on the wall of the private hospital room. He and Owens had been at it for nearly six hours with little result. The two elderly couples who had been at the church had come in only moments before the body was found and had seen nothing suspicious, and two of the Altar and Rosary Society ladies had been busy with the altar linens, at least until the screaming began.

  The individual responsible for that screaming now lay in the hospital bed across from him and, judging by the frown on her elegantly-aged face and the set of her jaw, getting any substantive answers out of her would be difficult at best.

  Hagen smiled affably. “I appreciate your agreeing to see us at such short notice, Lady Wexford.”

  “I have already answered your question, Superintendent.” Lady Amelia Wexford waved a hand dismissively at Owens. “I gave my statement to this young man. And I am very, very tired.” She adjusted her nasal cannula and smooth the tape around the I.V. in her left hand. Beside her, the heart rate monitor she was connected to kept a steady and regular pace as her heart beat.

  “Of course, of course,” Hagen said, his tone soft and solicitous. “It would be extremely helpful, Lady Wexford, if you could clarify a couple of points in your statement.”

  Lady Wexford’s frown softened, but only slightly, as she nodded her head quickly. “Very well, Superintendent.”

  Hagen glanced at Owens, watching as the young constable took out his tablet computer and stylus. Owens looked up at Hagen, giving him a subtle nod to signify he was ready.

  “Lady Wexford,” Hagen began, “In your statement, as given to Detective Constable Owens, you said that you went to the sacristy to deliver linens. Is that correct?”

  “Vestments.” Lady Wexford fiddled with the nasal cannula perched above her upper lip. “I had brought the cleaned vestments to the sacristy, and I needed to take another set of vestments to be cleaned.”

  “Vestments, of course. Was this something you usually did just before services?”

  “I had had several appointments earlier in the day, so I was unable to bring them to Father Coyle before that.”

  Hagen nodded. “All right. Now, did you see anyone around the church, inside the church, other than fellow parishioners? Anyone that shouldn’t have been there, or that you might have deemed suspicious?”

  “No.” Lady Wexford’s response was brief, clipped. It was a decisive answer, but, as Owens short-handed her answer into his tablet, he noticed a change in the steady beep of the heart rate monitor. He glanced up at the monitor, noting that the heart rate had increased to 110 beats per minute. Owens watched as Lady Wexford shifted in the bed, obviously uncomfortable.

  Hagen was not giving up, though, and pressed on. “I’m sorry to press you on this, Lady Wexford, but are you certain you didn’t see anyone else around the church, around the sacristy — “

  “No. I was quite focused on getting the vestments to Father Coyle before services began. I really wasn’t paying attention.” Owens watched the regal lady’s eyes blink rapidly and her gaze shift to the side. She’s lying, Owens thought to himself, making note of it on his tablet.

  “How long had you known Father Coyle?” Hagen asked.

  Lady Wexford took two quick breaths before she replied. “A good many years. Since before his ordination, in fact.”

  “Then you are well aware of the troubles he had had in the past?”

  Silence was the only answer, except for the steadily increasing pace of the heart monitor. Lady Wexford shifted again in the bed, her right hand rubbing at the left side of her chest, then her shoulder.

  Hagen pressed on. “Lady Wexford, I have seen the investigation file regarding Father Coyle’s pedophile accusation. I have already read the testimony that you gave on his behalf.”

  Lady Wexford took several deep breaths, as if she was preparing to yawn, before she spoke. “I told… the truth. Father Mark… never touched that boy… or any boy… He was an innocent… man.”

  The heart rate monitor suddenly made a huge jump, all the way to 200 beats per minute, and began to alarm. Hagen looked quickly to the alarming machine, then back at the older woman in the bed. “Lady Wexford, are you all right?”

  “My... heart...” Lady Wexford’s eyes fluttered shut, though she continued to struggle for breath. The pattern on the monitor suddenly took an erratic turn, the peaks and valleys looking more like a seismograph printout than a cardiac printout. Hagen jumped up to push the emergency call button on the wall.

  Within seconds, the door slammed open, propelled by a “crash cart” and the nurses and doctor accompanying it. Hagen and Owens moved out of the way as the medical team began to work on Lady Wexford.

  The pair of Met detectives stepped out into the hallway.

  “I shouldn’t have pushed her.” Hagen fiddled with the brim of his fedora, his face set with a deep frown.

  “It isn’t your fault, sir,” Owens replied. “The monitor should have alarmed when her heart rate changed the first time.” He dropped his voice lower as he continued. “She was lying about not seeing anyone.”

  Hagen nodded in understanding. “Now we may never know who.”

  5

  2 November 2011

  Photography Lab, FSS Lambeth

  Kate blinked rapidly as the music switched from Electronic New Age to Hip-Hop. It was an old trick she’d used since college, when staying awake and being alert was crucial if you wanted to pass a Friday morning quiz after two nights of partying at the soccer house. Now, as she sloshed more film into the developing solution in the flat red pan in front of her, she said a little prayer of thanks for her iPod and speakers. Trying to stay awake and alert in a darkroom after a sleepless night with no coffee at-hand? Might need to add more Hip-Hop to the rotation.

  Sleepless nights were not unusual for her, her mind often unable to turn off the sensory-overload of the day. Strenuous exercise helped, as did a generous amount of alcohol on occasion.

  In all honesty, it was at least partially her own fault… Kate did have a tendency to marathon-read when she discovered a new e-book, and her latest fascination with paranormal romance had led her to read chapter after chapter until the wee hours of the morning night after night.

  That’s what happens when you don’t have a life outside of work, she sighed to herself, using the tongs to shift the photographic paper in the flat blue pans beside the dual sinks. She could get out more, meet people, have a life of some kind…

  The timer chimed and Kate focused on the next job at-hand. Developing film almost seemed archaic in this age of digital technology and instant gratification, but the truth was that, when it came to crime scene photography, film photos were just better. Digital photography was an essential part of any crime scene photography job, used for back-up photos, even video recording of the scene. It was great for close-ups, and the ability to capture a photo and immediately send it on to technicians at the lab had been essential to Kate on several occasions.

  Film, though… there were several advantages to film usage. Courts loved those precious negatives because it was so difficult to manipulate the photographs they yielded, unlike the more easily ‘shopped digital images. Film was also easier to enlarge, often the only option when a documented crime scene had been disturbed. The high resolution of a film negative ensured that the enlargement, no matter how detailed, would retain its clarity, while a digital image would have long-since pixelated.

  Plus, the solitary time spent in the darkroom developing film negatives and photos was a great chance to relax. Kate enjoyed the limited stimulation, the ability to control the environment’s sounds and smells, and the subdued red light was soothing for her often overstressed senses.

  A low grumbling sound interrupted her thoughts and Kate looked down in the direction it had come from… Her stomach. She quickly took out her mobile, scooted to a corner and shielded the light that shone when she turned i
t on. It was nearly seven o’clock… No wonder… She hadn’t eaten since morning, if grabbing a handful of mini bran muffins on the way out the door counted as “eating” at all. As she mentally ran the list of take-away that delivered in the area, the phone screen suddenly sprang to life as it began to ring. She glanced down quickly, making sure the light wasn’t shining on any of the film negatives or developing photos, and read the name on the screen. A smile spread across her face. She plopped down into the nearest desk chair as she answered the call.

  “You aren’t standing behind me again somewhere, are you?”

  The warm notes of Pierce’s laugh echoed over the phone line, then he answered, “Uh, no. Find anything in the photos yet?”

  “Nothing yet. Still developing, though I should be done shortly.” Kate craned her neck to look into the solutions tubs. “Probably twenty minutes and the last batch will be drying.” She sat back again, pulling her legs up and nestling into the desk chair. “So, you find anything yet? Oh, hey! How’s your shoulder?”

  “Dislocated. Again.”

  “Again?”

  “Fourth time.” Pierce sighed. “I need to have it pinned… Eventually.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah. As to your first question, though, nothing substantive yet. Hagen and Owens are out interviewing witnesses, and I am stuck here at my desk going through old paperwork.”

  Kate could hear the rustling sound of papers being leafed through rapidly. “What kind of paperwork?”

  She could hear Pierce hesitate before he answered. “An old file on Father Coyle from C.A.I.C.”

  “Okay, American here, have no idea what you’re talking about. What the hell is C.A.I.C.?”

  Pierce chuckled. “Right. Sorry. It’s the Child Abuse Investigation Command.”

  “Child abuse?” Kate shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “So the victim was a pedophile?”

  “That’s what I thought when I heard about the file, too. But after spending all day going over these files, I can’t imagine why they even opened an investigation. Other than the climate at the time, what with all the allegations against priests, everything happening over in Boston and such.”