Everyone Pays (8 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I’d told Cope to wait for me at the Tenderloin station with as many other beat cops as he could find. Told him they’d better be wearing vests.

Before moving out, I went to Lieutenant Bowen, waited outside his office while he barked into his phone. In a minute or two, it became clear he wasn’t getting off any time soon, so I knocked, and he looked at me, raised his eyebrows. This was his way of inviting me in, such as that was. He held the phone away from his ear while someone talked on. His nod was the last invitation I would get.

“Got a lead on the cases I’ve been working. Heading out to the Tenderloin for a possible apprehend. Bringing—”

“Hang on,” he said into the phone. He checked his duty roster to see who else was on, ran his finger down the list. “Take Bennett and Coggins with you. And be sure to wear your vests.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks.”

“Donner.” He called me back. “Take these.” He tossed me the keys to the special gun lockup where we kept the real firepower. “Use the Benellis if you need them.”

I one-handed the keys out of the air and walked out before he could change his mind.

Bennett and Coggins were in the bullpen, pretending to do work, when I came back.

“You’re up,” I said, jangling the keys. “Put your vests on and protect your peckers, boys. We’re going to the ’Loin. Heading out for a possible apprehension of a killer with at least three bodies behind him.”

“Amen,” Bennett said, slapping his monitor on the side. “See
you
later.”

Despite his affinity for email forwards, he was not one who had a way with machines.

Hendricks walked in then, rubbing his hands. “Looks like I’m just in time.”

“Long as you got some beauty sleep, partner.”

“Donner, Jesus. You look like hell.”

I touched my hair, gauging its shape and size. I hadn’t paid attention to either in twelve hours. “Yeah, baby. Just like you like it.”

I brushed past him to the gun room, offering an air kiss as consolation. Inside, I could smell the oil and cold steel. These made me more than a little bit happy. Along the left wall were the SWAT team carbines and the guns we had confiscated in raids or arrests. These were on hand to try out at the range, so we knew what was out there, how it felt to fire what the other guys might be packing. Someone had even picked up a military-grade Barrett Browning, a .50 caliber cannon that would cut through a wall. I hadn’t gotten a chance to test it out yet, but Hendricks said it almost took his shoulder off with the recoil.

“That’s why it’s supposed to be mounted,” I had told him.

The carbines, AR-15s, were all reserved for SWAT. We never got our hands on these unless we put in for the extra detail.

The weapons on the right wall were what caught my attention: our Benelli M2 semiautomatic shotguns. If Bowen knew we were headed to a church, he never would have given me the keys. If any of us fired a shotgun in or near a church, our careers would be short.

I imagined the headlines and media attention that could draw.

Hendricks waited. Bennett and Coggins were right behind.

I turned around. “Ah, our suspect. He’s a priest. We’re heading to a church for the possible apprehend.”

“Oh.” Hendricks lowered his hands. “Guess we’ll have to do without the artillery,” he said.

We wore our bulletproof vests but only packed standard sidearms, Sig Sauer P226R, which I had gone to after deciding the 229R was too small for my hand. Given our destination and that none of the crime scenes had involved shootings, I figured we’d be all right.

The drive to the Tenderloin station was a quick eight blocks north on Seventh, but we crossed into a whole new world by just going that far. Not that 850 Bryant was any paradise, but crossing Market on Seventh put us right at UN Plaza and Civic Center, the heart of the city’s worst homeless encampment and junkie zone.

“Jesus,” I said, staring out the window as Hendricks drove. “Land of the living dead.”

“Never ceases to amaze me how far they let this stretch go.”

“Are you surprised our killer would come out of this?”

“A church? Yes. The ’Loin? No. But we’ll see what we find.”

I shuddered at the thought of what a beat cop on these streets must see on a daily basis. Then again, I probably spent more time with corpses.

We drove up Leavenworth past Golden Gate and turned right onto Eddy toward the district station. Out front, patrol cars lined up along the right side of the street, creating their own parking lot. When I radioed inside to Cope, he came out with three other officers, two cars’ worth. They fell into line behind us as we looped back down to Market at McAllister, then to Leavenworth again to reach the block of Golden Gate where St. Boniface was.

We set up a perimeter outside the church with our two homicide units and two black-and-whites from the precinct. I looked up at the big tan church, its bell tower and rose window. The entrance was set back from the street by a courtyard with a big palm tree in it.

As I got out, Bennett and Coggins were already closing in on the big wrought-iron gate. It looked closed, locked tight. They’d already drawn their weapons.

“Guys,” I said, “guys.” I waved them down, trying to calm them.

A patrolwoman came up to me from the last black-and-white unit. She said, “They’re open until one o’clock, letting the homeless inside to sleep. Then they close up shop.” She had her hair pulled back tight into a bun and looked killer serious, a necessity of the job. Her nameplate read “S. Bruce.”

I checked my watch: just after two o’clock. That explained the gate being locked.

“So how do we get in there?” I asked. “Where’s the doorbell?”

“Shelter and food kitchen across the street.” She turned to show me a big, modern building with “
S
T
. A
NTHONY
F
OUNDATION
” across its facade. A short, rough-hewn guard was already crossing the street.

“What happening here, Officers?” His mustache might’ve been trimmed with a Weedwacker. He wore a dark-blue nylon jacket that said “Security” on it and looked like he was used to handling a lot.

“We need to get inside the church. Any chance you can help?”

“Nobody in there but the priests, Officer.”

Officer Bruce told him to call inside, get someone to open up, and he went off like he’d been given a mission.

“This place have any back exits?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Old as this building is, I wouldn’t even know who to ask. But I don’t
think
there’s any way to get out to McAllister. That’s the next street over.”

Hendricks came around the car, and I pointed up at the towers, two columns of evenly spaced narrow windows climbing five stories high between a larger central bell tower that probably went up eight stories.

“Hate to chase someone up those if they’re running. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen.”

Hendricks looked up. “Amen, sister.”

I checked his face, trying to tell how aware he was of his religious terminology, but he didn’t crack a smile.

I fingered the safety strap over my holster, unsnapped it, and felt along the handle of my weapon. I hadn’t used it in a long time and didn’t want to.

A forties-ish Asian priest opened a side door off the church’s central facade and began his walk across the courtyard. He wore dark jeans and a gray sweatshirt, brilliant white sneakers. Definitely not our man.

I breathed a sigh of relief and inhaled deep. I had no idea what we might find inside.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The priest who came to open the gate was gray around the temples, with thick black hair above them, an older man, weathered but tight skinned, like he could deflect so much of what life threw at him with just his face. This was a man to stare down the world and let its problems wash off his back.

I assumed he was the head guy. Or the head guy under
the
head guy, to be more precise.

“There is no one inside now but us,” he said, coming up to the gate. “All parishioners across street eating lunch.”

I leaned down closer to him so I could speak quietly. “No, Father,” I told him. “We’re here looking for one of your own.”

His eyes cast down immediately, past the locks to wherever it is that you look when you know something you don’t want to tell the police. I’d seen this look before on a thousand witnesses and criminals, but never from a priest. Guilt rushed over his face in a hot flush. He had something to tell us but wouldn’t give it up until he was ready. I could wait. If all went well, we’d find our man first and talk later.

“Father Kevin,” he introduced himself as he opened the gate, and we shook hands.

I told him my name and rank, and he let something else pass behind his eyes, something like fear.

“What’s happening here, Father?”

He stepped back and away, laughed. “Isn’t that what I should ask you? Why you are here?”

I smiled despite it all, pulled out the artist’s sketch, and showed him. He nodded, too quickly, and held his arm toward the chapel. He wasn’t sure what was happening or what his man had done, but he had known whom, that this would be the one.

“Do you know this man?”

He nodded. “That is Father Michael.”

I waved to Hendricks to get in close, to be sure he was hearing this.

“He should be done with chores now. I show you to his room.”

I waved our guys in and had Officer Bruce and her partner hold the perimeter in case he managed to slip out. Bennett, Coggins, and Hendricks came with me. We followed Father Kevin across the courtyard. He moved none too quickly, but what could we do? I’d be damned if I was going to rush a priest.

Church was something I hadn’t been to since before high school. I dated a guy who was Jewish for a little while, and he liked to go to temple a few times a year at the high holidays, but church? Not in my world. Not even Christmas or Easter. Being in the quiet and austere space was more foreign to me than dealing with the anarchy and desolation on the Tenderloin.

Hendricks came up alongside. “Think he’ll come easy?”

“Shit, I hope so.” Immediately I regretted swearing inside the church grounds, thought about crossing myself as a request for forgiveness, but that would feel more strange. Instead, I waved for Bennett and Coggins to keep their guns down.

“Oh my,” said Father Kevin. He stopped. He had led us to a small alcove off to the side. The sounds of kids playing echoed from a nearby courtyard. “Please do not use those here. Can you leave?” He gestured with his hand back out to our cars.

“No. I’m sorry. I’m sure they won’t be necessary, but we can’t leave them outside.”

“I wish . . . ,” he started. “You would not have them here.” He pointed up toward the chapel.

We waited a beat.

“I’m sorry. We can’t leave our weapons outside. They’re part of the job.” I didn’t want to tell him Father Michael was suspected of taking people apart with knives, anything to indicate the violence of the crimes.

“Yes.” He waited again, I suppose hoping that something would change. Nothing did; these were the paths we each walked, the worlds we lived in.

“Very well,” he said, turning toward the interior.

“Believe me, Father, I recognize that discharging a firearm inside a house of religion is about the worst thing an officer could do. We’ll take every precaution not to.”

“Yes,” he said, “well.”

He opened the door and let us inside a dark hallway with white walls. I could see off to our right where a door led to the main chapel, possibly its towers, and the long winding stairs up. We were in some offshoot that the public didn’t use. Father Kevin led us to the left, down a hall toward what looked from the outside like residences—maybe what they’d call the rectory.

Bennett and Coggins still had their superagent routine going, and Hendricks looked as uncomfortable as I’d ever seen him. He crossed himself as soon as he passed through the doors, and I had an image of him growing up going to Catholic school and attending catechism one afternoon a week. I didn’t see any sign of his weapon. It occurred to me that something in his background might be why he hadn’t suspected Debbie Shine might be talking about a priest.

Father Kevin said, “I take you to rectory. Perhaps he in his room.”

We entered a stairwell, and the priest led us down one flight to a dim basement level. The thick stone walls held the cold; it was probably ten degrees cooler in here than outside.

He pushed open a door and stood to the side. We exchanged a glance. Beyond him, I saw a narrow hallway where brown wooden doors lined each side, breaking spans of white-painted walls. Small lanterns, electric fixtures made to look like old lamps at just about head height, offered the only light.

“Father Michael room is second door on right.”

I ran the scenarios through my head, considered asking Father Kevin to knock and ask Father Michael to step outside.

As if he knew, he said, “I go no farther.”

“You could help us by asking him to step out. It might save someone getting hurt.”

I waited a beat for him to change his mind, just like he had waited for us to leave our guns. When nothing happened I proceeded into the hall, with Hendricks right behind me. As I walked, my flats clicked on the floor. I figured it had been quite some time since anyone had worn women’s shoes down here.

I tensed up, thinking about the scenes Father Michael had left behind: Doug Farrow, Dub, Jay Piper. I didn’t want to take any chances on scaring him off. Butcher or not—priest even—this guy liked his violence.

I slipped my shoes off and stepped down onto the cold concrete in my thin socks. I felt my bones chill. Down here, in this building made of stone, it likely never got warm.

Now I stepped quietly, sliding my feet and using my toes, conscious of the perspiration I was leaving behind. I raised my weapon. Hendricks still hadn’t drawn his. At the second door, I waved him across to the other side. He still had his shoes on but did his best to walk softly.

As I lifted my left hand to knock, Father Kevin started down the hall in a hurry. He waved me back, met my eyes, and nodded. I mouthed a thanks.

Now he knocked at the door, and I stood to his side. He was between Hendricks and me. I stood back across the narrow hall’s other side, my gun low but ready.

No sound from behind the door.

“Father Michael? Are you inside?” More knocking. “I’d like to speak to you.”

We all waited. Nothing.

I was aware of Bennett and Coggins waiting eagerly behind the priest. Bennett pointed commando-style at his eyes and then mine. I snorted.

Silence.

Father Kevin knocked again. “Father Michael?”

I tilted my head at Hendricks, angling him at the door, and he pushed the priest aside gently, started to lift his leg to kick it in.

“No,” Father Kevin said. “Please.” He reached for the knob and turned it. “We do not use locks here.” The door opened only slightly.

“Father Michael?”

I nudged past Father Kevin into the doorway, then pushed the door open with my toes. What I saw at first was just a small room with a table in the middle of it, like something that hadn’t changed since World War II. Pale morning light shone in through a window above a bed that lined the far wall.

Then I saw her: a woman sitting in the bed, kneeling in a prayer position.

She had bleached blonde hair. Just like the girls in the pictures. But hers was short, thin, stuck out at odd angles. Something was off about her.

At first, she had her back to us, faced the window like she hadn’t heard us enter, or wanted to pretend we weren’t there.

“Hello?” I said.

She shifted slightly and turned to see us out of the corner of her eye. I could only see her cheek from across the room, the skin creased and pockmarked. When she came all the way around to face us, her head held dark eyes set deep into their sockets, peering out at us. Her face was scratched. Maybe they were bites. Her neck had the remains of a wide bruise, now just brown and yellow.

I didn’t recognize her from any of the pictures I’d seen in the victims’ apartments, but she would’ve fit right in with the others—once. Now she looked like those had been the good times, before the lean. She’d lost too much weight, likely snorted too much meth to ever get back an appearance of “health.”

But something else had happened, something worse: this girl had been beaten, perhaps to within an inch of her life. Now she was halfway healed.

She offered us her arms, wrists up, scarred and scabbed, as if we should cuff her, even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, yet. So far she was the only thing right about any of this.

Maybe.

I knew I should go to her, protect her, and greet her like a hostage, but I was paralyzed. I didn’t know if the room was clear, and I also felt like an intruder in a place where I didn’t belong.

A quick scan showed a kettle, a hot plate, a large dresser, two straight-backed wooden chairs by the table.

Behind me, Hendricks said, “We’re here to help you. Do you know where Father Michael is?” He nudged me forward to enter the room.

Then she stepped down from the bed, one thin leg at a time. I could tell by her gauntness and the way she moved that she wasn’t all there; something was wrong. She had an air of discomfort about her, like one leg was longer than the other. Maybe something was broken. I wondered at what all she had been through.

Her arms clenched around her ribs like something inside her hurt.

“Get an ambulance down here,” I said to the officers in the hall.

Her cheeks were pinched in, hollow. She didn’t smile. Her gaze stayed on the floor.

Then a low whine started in the back of her mouth, almost her neck.

“Stay where you are,” Hendricks said.

She didn’t act like she could hear, just kept coming. By the time she reached me, she was crying. Then she fell into my arms, and I caught her. She surprised me by how little she weighed. I held her there at the entrance to this small, strange room with my feet on the cold floor.

Noises came out of her throat, sounds like she was trying to say no over and over but couldn’t make the word. She kept her mouth closed the whole time. It sounded like she didn’t have a tongue.