“Why did you have that oil with you?”
The father clenched his fist. His nostrils widened. “I’m a priest! This oil is used to anoint the sick! Exactly what I did this afternoon with Mr. Patterson! Don’t you listen to what people say?”
“Didn’t you yourself state to us that the holy oils are kept in some recess near the baptismal font?” Murphy asked, snark oozing out of her like pus from an infected wound.
“You illiterate, agnostic idio—”
“Father!” The lawyer slammed his hand on the table. “Don’t say a word more!” Turning to the detectives, in a soft voice, he overarticulated every syllable as he answered for his client. “I believe that Father Matthews meant to say that, he, as an ordained priest, is allowed to carry a small sample of the holy oil with him, so he can provide the Last Rites, if needed.”
Murphy turned to Rosebud, and he nodded. He should have thought about it. Sure, Murphy had no idea, but he knew that. He’d just forgotten. Sleep deprivation probably had something to do with that.
But they still had the rosaries.
“I’ll go and follow up with the lab,” Rosebud said as he got up.
Rosebud poked his head into the room where Fuller and the prosecutor stood. A light creaking made them both turn toward him.
“Not looking so good,” Fuller said, shaking his head. “Better hope the lab finds the victim’s DNA on those rosaries. Because the probable cause we had is quickly evaporating.”
“The Patterson story?” Rosebud asked.
“I dispatched officers and they can’t get anyone to answer the door at either 6A or 6B. We’re following up with the landlord and 911 dispatch. If the father’s not lying, then Patterson could have been taken out by ambulance.”
“Murphy said something about Wang trying to track down a man who may be able to prove Matthews was at Amanda McCutcheon’s house earlier this week.”
“Well, she’d better act quickly on that,” said the prosecutor. “We’re running out of time.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Her gut had been wrong.
Kate stewed in silence as she watched Rosebud address Father Matthews. “You’re in the clear. Sorry about the confusion, Father. Hope you won’t hold it against us. We were just following our leads, trying our best to catch our killer.”
“I appreciate your working hard to catch this evil, evil man. But I can assure you that I am not him. A man of faith doesn’t kill in the name of God!”
Kate was nothing short of flabbergasted. Had he really said that?
“I’ll drive you back to the cathedral, Father,” Rosebud said, sending an evil eye toward Kate.
She clenched her fist and exhaled loudly. Rosebud knew her too well. But she had managed to keep her mouth shut, to not tell the father that most religions, Christianity included, had collectively been responsible for countless deaths since the beginning of mankind.
As Kate watched them walk away, she racked her brain. Where had they gone wrong? If not Father Matthews? Then who?
The security footage in the Pattersons’ apartment building, and Mr. Patterson’s admittance to the hospital, had given him a bulletproof alibi.
But they still had a few leads out there… The mysterious Danny neighbor. Still unaccounted for, but they had his full name, and confirmation that he was not in Vegas. Or at least not checked in under his name at any hotel in the city.
And they still had that anonymous tip from California. Those New Bedford detectives would hopefully share some useful tidbits with Chainey.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Monday, July 2nd, 2018
Father Coffedy paced the sacristy as he continued rehearsing the words of his upcoming sermon.
He knew the crowd wasn’t going to be large—today was a weekday after all—but that didn’t mean his most fervent parishioners didn’t deserve an inspiring message from him.
In a world where fake news, violence, and crime seemed to matter more than caring about each other, he owed it to those who came to pray with him. He took solace in the fact that the kindness of their communal words and prayers could make a difference.
He’d been told his well-chosen turns of phrases could help some see hope through dark times. His faith—and the faith of his parishioners—could positively affect the world, of that, he had no doubt. When even Father Matthews had been erroneously arrested for the murder of a young woman in the community, there was no clearer sign that the world was in clear need of help. Of His help, through the comforting words of his well-rehearsed sermon.
Confident his message would come out right, he moved toward his recently dry-cleaned alb hanging on the hook in front of him. He spotted the tag still stapled to the hem and pulled it off before slipping the garment over his head.
Uncertain whether his stole had also been to the dry-cleaner, he proceeded to inspect it, not wanting to look unprofessional with something as trivial as a tag sticking to his precious vestment. But what he found surprised him.
He looked around the sacristy as his mind wondered about what the item was, but also what it did.
Feeling as though it could be important, he headed down the hall to the admin office, which was empty at this time of day. But fumbling around through the items that covered the desk, he found what he was looking for: one of the detectives’ business card.
He called her number from the desk phone. It rang once, twice, three times.
“Detective Murphy,” she said.
“Detective, this is Father Coffedy, from St. Alban’s.”
“What can I do for you, Father?”
“Well, this may be nothing, but…”
“Go ahead.”
“While donning my stole this morning, I noticed something unusual.”
“I’m sorry. Your what?”
“My stole.” A long pause followed making Father Coffedy shake his head at the lack of education in the world these days. Shouldn’t detectives be more knowledgeable than that? Then again, she hadn’t struck him to be much of a Christian when they’d met.
“You do know what that is, don’t you?” he said in a tone he hoped was understanding but he’d heard it for what it had been: a little condescending.
She cleared her throat on the other end of the line before speaking. “Can’t say that I’m familiar with the term. Is that what you call your robe?”
“No. My robe is called an alb. The stole is the colorful piece of fabric I wear over my alb, around my neck.”
“Ah! Thanks for clarifying those terms for me.”
“I noticed a little something stuck to my stole.”
“Could you please describe it for me?”
“It’s small and hard. Not even half an inch square. It’s flat and dark gray—”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes, I’m holding it in my hand right now.”
“Thanks so much you for reporting this. Are you at St. Alban’s?”
“Yes, I’m getting ready for mass.”
“I’m coming to you. I need to pick it up right away.”
Chapter Sixty-Four
He bought a copy of the Boston Globe: a souvenir for his collection. He’d heard parishioners mention something about the mayor, once again, holding a press conference. Not having a television or computer at home limited his options, but the written word was always better anyways. He’d be able to add clippings to his collection. His work was beginning to be acknowledged. All of Boston and Massachusetts would soon know of his good deeds.
But once he began reading his coverage, sitting at his kitchen table, he nearly lost it.
“‘A mad killer is targeting innocent women.’ What’s wrong with them? Don’t they get it? I helped those whores. If only their souls could sing from Heaven and tell the world they’ve been freed.”
He tossed the paper aside, fury making his breathing ragged, then walked over to his altar and knelt down. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to calm down. He began to pray to the All Might
y, for he needed reassurance. He needed His wisdom.
“Dear Lord, give me the strength to continue the holy mission you’ve assigned to me. Grant me the determination and clarity of mind to choose the right people to save. Bless me with Your wisdom, Your knowledge, and Your guidance, for I am but a servant to You. Thank You, my Lord. Amen.”
With his right hand, he crossed himself then got up again, returning to the kitchen and fetching the scattered pages of the newspaper that littered the floor.
“She doesn’t get it, but I’ll teach her. I’ll show her my process.”
The detective had left her card at St. Alban’s church. He could easily call her to explain it all, but what fun would there be in that? Plus it would put an end to his role as a savior of lost souls.
No, he had a much better idea.
Not only would he make her understand, he’d prove it to her.
After rummaging through a drawer to find his scissors, he cut away the picture of Detective Murphy and pinned it on his board, next to the photo of his sister, the article about Lori’s Death, and that of Jessica’s. The detective’s face was half hidden behind her raised hands, but a house number was clearly visible in the background. He memorized it. Google could probably tell him where she lived.
Grabbing a handful of vials filled with his cleansing solution, a pair of disposable gloves, and a disposable surgeon’s cap, he tossed the items in his pants pocket and headed to church. He had some research to do to find the detective. But he was confident his Lord’s guidance would continue to bless him.
He would teach the detective a lesson she wouldn’t live to forget.
Chapter Sixty-Five
“So we know how the killer has been acquiring his information,” Kate said, tossing the evidence bag that contained the small bug onto Fuller’s desk. “We thought only priests or close friends would have it, but now this little piece of plastic has just widened our suspect pool. Again. Anyone could have walked up to Father Coffedy and stuck this onto him. No fancy pick-pocketing skills required. I’ve attended mass. Even I could have stuck this little guy onto him. Not sure who would know where to buy such things, though. Even less so how to operate it and monitor the conversations.”
“Fuck, guys!” said Fuller. “That’s not the sort of news I want to hear. We need leads, suspects… Hell, we need to arrest the right killer already. What’s the distance on this?” He raised his chin toward the device sitting on his desk.
“I showed it to an expert,” Kate said. “Pretty good range as long as there’s no steel or concrete in the way. Anywhere within the church would be fine.”
“So any parishioner sitting on a bench, with earbuds could have been listening in?”
“Yep,” Rosebud said. “Other people would have assumed they were listening to music. None the wiser.”
Fuller slammed his hands on his desk and got up. “That’s not what I want to hear from you guys!”
Kate took a step back but kept her shoulders straight. “We’re following everything we’ve got, sir.”
Fuller cracked his neck, then opened his left desk drawer to pull out an orange pill container. He tossed a couple of white tablets into his hand, then brought them to his mouth, not bothering to wash them down with any liquid. Then he dropped his entire weight back onto his chair. “What else have you got?”
Kate swallowed before speaking, knowing her words weren’t going to please him more. “We’re tracking down a tipster from out-of-state.”
“Where?”
“California, according to the phone number.”
“That ain’t next door. What useful titbit could he have possibly provided?”
“She gave us a strangely precise detail about another case, so we’re looking into it, but it’s outside of our jurisdiction. New Bedford. Chainey’s on it.”
“What else?”
“Wang’s still trying to track down Amanda’s neighbor and get the sketch artist to draw the man he saw at her apartment.”
“Good. I really like the sound of that one. What else?”
Kate looked at Rosebud who raised his shoulders.
“That’s about it.”
Fuller framed his head with his forefingers. “So did we cut off all possible leaks? Are we certain the confessions are no longer being eavesdropped on?”
“I spoke with the other two fathers and requested they check their vestments for bugs, I showed it to them.”
“Did they have anything on theirs?”
“No. But their clothes had just come back from the dry-cleaners.”
“That’s convenient. Any chance they could all use the same dry-cleaner? Or any chance the dry cleaner for the one priest had something to do with it?”
Rosebud chimed in after shrugging and frowning. “Worth a shot. Maybe one of the employees could be involved. I’ll look into that.”
“Possible,” Kate said. “Anyways, I told the priests to keep an eye on their clothes and contact us the minute they spot anything.”
“Confessionals?” Fuller asked.
“I had them all inspected weeks ago,” Kate said. “We can do it again, though.”
“Do it!” barked Fuller. “And fucking find that killer before he hits again.”
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chainey sat on the edge of one of the tables, a thick manila file in his hands and a stoic expression on his face.
“What you got?” Kate asked before turning to see Rosebud stuffing his face with yet another chocolate muffin. “Seriously? Again?”
But Chainey began speaking, so she returned her attention to him.
“I got a copy of their case file. Well, the important bits.”
“And?” Rosebud asked in between bites.
“There were quite a few young men suspected at one point or another, but all of them were crossed off the list. They still don’t have a single good lead.”
“Anyone connected to our current cases?”
“No. Well, Father Miller led the funeral service, but that’s not relevant. At least I don’t think so.”
“And how can you say that for certain?” Kate asked, slightly annoyed that her gut had been wrong. She could have sworn something fishy was going on with their local churches. Well, something fishy that didn’t involve molestation. Those beans had long been spilled and exposed.
“Miller’s obviously not twenty-six years old. More like seventy-six or eighty-six. Plus, I checked, and he had an alibi for the day Thompson died. He was hospitalized. Confirmed with the hospital records. The man had a minor heart attack. He left the hospital after Thompson died. He just did the service.”
“Can we not catch a break?” Kate asked before exhaling loudly.
“There is one thing I found out.”
“Please let it be good. Fuller’s going to crucify me if we don’t bring him something. Anything—”
“Crucify you?” Rosebud interjected between mouthfuls. “I think this case has been messing with your brain.”
“Well, it’s been weeks. Three lives have been lost, and we still have nothing to show. Not a fucking lead worth anything.”
“Hold on, Murphy. We may have one. Guess what Thompson did for a living?”
“No time for games, Chainey.”
“Home-school teacher.”
“And?” Kate’s desire to grab Chainey by the collar and give him a little shake was growing by the second. Doesn’t he get the urgency of the situation?
“Care to venture a guess as to who he taught?” Chainey asked.
Kate could feel her face get hotter as she did her best to hold back her boiling anger. “Shit or get off the pot, Chainey!”
“Indulge me. For just one little guess.” Chainey flashed his pearly whites at her and waggled his bushy eyebrows, forcing a faint smile to grow on Kate’s lips, even though she fought it with all of her might.
She had to relax.
Getting upset at her colleague wasn’t going to help her solve the case any faster. Plus, she
was seriously exhausted. They were most probably feeling the same way.
Kate shook her head, giving up on getting Chainey to get serious. “Father Matthews?”
“You really have something against that guy, don’t you?” Rosebud said as he crumpled his brown paper bag and tossed it toward the garbage can, missing his target by a solid foot.
“Who then?” Kate asked, choosing to silence the one-liner she wanted to throw at Rosebud and his serious lack of athletic skills. How had he gotten through police academy? Or did all of his health and fitness evaporate after he became a detective?
“Two young twins named Anderson and Penelope Carson.”
Kate’s head turned back toward Chainey. “Anderson as in Candidate Anderson?”
“The one and only.”
Kate couldn’t have gotten up faster if a firecracker had been lit under her ass. Was this it? “Did Anderson have an alibi on the day of Thompson’s death?”
“Yep. Officially, he was never a suspect. No motive they could think of. He hadn’t been in contact with his teacher for several years. He was questioned by the detectives and answered that”—he flipped open the file to pull from it—“he’d left home, gotten himself an apartment, and then entered seminary after their home-schooling ended. That was the last time he’d seen Mr. Thompson.”
“Did they even ask him where he was the day Thompson was killed?”
“They did. They confirmed it, too. He was here in Boston, helping out with mass. Some other priest confirmed it. And no, it wasn’t Father Matthews. It’s not a conspiracy.”
Kate sat on the edge of the table, making it lift from the other side. “Fuck!” Kate brought her palm to her forehead, pushing it up toward her hairline as though the mere motion could bring forth a stroke of genius. But nothing.
“What was the cause of death? Strangulation?” Kate asked.
The Last Amen Page 22