Matter of Trust (45 page)

‘As long as you're subtle,' said David. ‘I wouldn't want you to make a big deal of it.'

‘No – I see where you're going with this,' said Will, the sweat now saturating his eyebrows. ‘And like I said, I want to help.'

David fished into his shirt pocket to hand Will his card. ‘You got a pen?' he asked McNally.

‘Sure,' said the detective, pulling a biro from his top jacket pocket.

‘Here's my new office number here in Newark, and the number at my mom's house where I'm staying,' David said to Will. ‘You can call anytime.'

‘Okay,' said Will, taking the card. ‘I'll see what I can come up with.'

‘Thanks, Will,' said David, resting his hand on the boy's shoulder. ‘We're lucky we ran into you. It's been a good morning all round. You'll keep in touch then?' he said, as he and McNally turned to leave.

‘I'm all over it,' said Will.

‘I don't doubt it,' whispered McNally as they continued their journey across the Saint Stephen's seniors' quadrangle. ‘Like a black widow spider, sitting patiently over a fly.'

*

‘Jesus,' said McNally.

‘I know,' replied David as they moved through a side door to the main building.

‘Don't tell me – those class rings have been the same for decades.'

‘Probably,' said David.

McNally smiled. ‘So what's the kid going to do now?'

‘He's lost his ring – his expression told us as much. Maybe he knows he lost it before January, or maybe he knows he lost it after. Maybe we've even convinced him that he lost it in Marilyn's apartment on the night of the murder. But wherever he lost it, if he's guilty, which he sure as hell looks to be, then he's going after a new one just in case we start asking for DNA.'

‘He won't ask for another,' suggested McNally. ‘He'll guess we'll be checking in with Father Patrick and he won't want to get caught requesting one.'

‘What choice does he have? He might try to steal one from another senior, but either way, he's getting another ring.'

‘Suddenly he's got lots to worry about,' smiled McNally.

‘Pity that,' said David, relieved to be returning the smile.

They took the linoleum-tiled corridor to reception.

‘One problem,' said McNally. ‘What if he asks Delgado if he can borrow his ring?'

‘Not going to happen.'

‘Because . . . ?'

‘Because Delgado will want to know why. Will thinks we're about to embark on a DNA scavenger hunt so there is no way he's going to incriminate himself in front of a friend who's one of two people providing him with an alibi.'

McNally smiled again. ‘We really did piss in his coffee.'

‘We needed to rattle him, McNally – keep him on side while forcing him into some sort of panic.' They rounded the reception area and McNally waited while a grateful David handed the ring to the receptionist asking her to return it to Father Patrick. Then David asked a second question, before joining McNally at the door.

‘At the very least, if Cusack tries to get his hand on another ring we'll know for sure that he's involved,' David whispered as they pushed through into the daylight once again.

‘Oh, he's involved all right,' returned McNally.

David nodded. ‘Which means he'll react in one way or another – and when he does, he'll confirm our suspicions without knowing it.'

David looked at his watch as they hit the pavement. ‘Jesus, it's almost two. Sara will be freaking.' He wondered why she hadn't called and quickly checked his cell to see if she had texted him.

‘You've gotta run, Cavanaugh,' said McNally. ‘The Sands hearing starts in a little over half an hour.'

‘I know, but . . .' David stopped. ‘I was hoping I could run by the church to see Mike.'

‘You don't have time.'

‘I know,' David repeated, looking at his watch once again. ‘But I haven't seen Mike since I got back. Father Patrick will tell him we've been here and I don't want him to think I'm avoiding him.' David took a quick breath while deciding on the best way to voice it. ‘Part of the reason I left in January – Mike and I, we made the wrong assumption about Chris, and I think deep down Mike regrets it. I need him to understand why I'm back, and I need him to know I want all of us to be in this together. Does that make sense?'

McNally nodded. ‘As much as anything,' he said. ‘But that stuff's gonna have to wait. You miss this hearing, the judge will be seriously pissed.'

David knew he was right. ‘Okay. The receptionist said Mike takes confessions at two so I've probably missed him in any case.'

‘You head into that confessional you'll not only miss the hearing but mostly likely the entire trial as well,' joked McNally, obviously relieved at the progress they had made.

‘I don't see you casting any stones, McNally,' smiled David.

‘Not yet, my friend. Not yet.'

F
ather Michael Murphy sat back in his cushioned confessional chair and tried to compose himself.

He was not sure what it meant.

He had missed Father Patrick's call. The old priest had rung his cell, not the church office, which meant the information he wished to impart was confidential. His message was brief and stilted – something about David coming to visit with some rather concerning queries. When Mike went to call him back, the priest was away from his desk, which meant Mike wouldn't get the opportunity to catch up with him for at least another hour – an hour he would spend absolving the meagre sins of the pious regulars, who turned up every Wednesday desperate to cleanse their spotless souls.

What could David want? Why hadn't he dropped in to see Mike after visiting with the headmaster? If David was back, defending Chris again, it meant that he no longer believed Chris was guilty. But did he blame Mike for questioning their friend's innocence all those months ago? Was he avoiding Mike because he believed Mike still thought Chris was capable of murdering the girl who had been so much part of all their lives?

It had been a mistake to share portions of Marilyn's confession with David. He knew that now, and regretted it. Mike knew Chris was innocent.
Way down deep in his soul, he knew Chris Kincaid could never hurt the girl who had stolen his heart and held it at ransom until her final breath was taken. And when Mike thought about it, he realised that even after death, she still held both their hearts – Chris's, which was no doubt breaking at the loss and the predicament it found him in – and Mike's, which had ached for her when she lived, and now bled with sorrow at her passing.

He heard the door to his right open and once again tried desperately to focus on the task at hand. He was a priest, for Christ's sake – a man of God whose role in this confessional was to act as a conduit to the Lord Almighty. He was supposed to help his brothers and sisters seek forgiveness from a higher being – and here he was, mourning the death of a woman he could never have had.

He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Please Lord, he prayed silently. Please help me transcend my human frailties so that I might serve you as you deserve. But it seemed to Mike that his request fell on deaf ears, for what followed did nothing to ease his heart, nor reduce the burden of his responsibility. On the contrary, it wrapped its slippery fingers around his all-too-human soul and pulled him deeper into the abyss.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.' The boy's voice was low and shaky, and Mike turned his head ever so slightly to confirm the profile of the young man he suspected it to be.

‘It has been two months since my last confession and I . . . I . . .'

‘Yes, my son,' said Mike, relieved that the boy was here, wanting to talk, immediately snapping him out of his own selfishness. ‘You know that God is warmed by your intention to seek forgiveness. You have nothing to fear here, my son. You—'

‘I killed somebody,' said the boy, his words slicing through the thin wire lattice that separated them and shattering Mike's briefly attained composure.

‘My son,' Mike began, trying desperately to remain calm. ‘Who . . . how?'

‘The woman the Senator is supposed to have killed. We . . .' the boy corrected himself. ‘
I
did it. I killed her. It wasn't him, it was me. And the guilt I am carrying, Father – with Connor's father in jail . . .' The boy took a breath. ‘I didn't mean to do it – I mean, in the beginning it was just about . . .' Another breath. ‘But then I found out that she was alive when
she was thrown in the river and now, I wish more than anything, that we . . .' He stopped.

‘You did not act alone?' asked Mike, both registering the horror that Marilyn had been alive when she entered that freezing water, and noting the boy's vacillation between ‘I' and ‘we'. ‘Because if that is the case, son, you—'

‘No,' interrupted the boy. ‘It's my decision to be here, Father. I can only ask forgiveness for the role that I played – and I killed her, Father. I ended that poor woman's life.'

Mike exhaled a shuddering breath. ‘My friend,' he said, ‘we need to talk about this. You need to tell me what happened. You need to go to the authorities, explain your situation. And I will come with you. I will be there beside you, constantly. You will never be alone.'

‘I can't do that, Father,' said the boy, as if all was lost.

‘Why not, my friend?' asked Mike.

‘Because this isn't the way things were meant to go.' Another pause. ‘You cannot tell anyone, am I right, Father? I mean, no matter what, you cannot tell anyone what I've told you. That's the only reason I came here, because I trust in you, Father – and the decision to do this was
mine
, and mine alone. And if you told,' the boy shook his head, the shadows created by his movements exaggerated across the tiny confessional booth, ‘if you told, there would be others, who made different decisions, who would suffer.'

Others
– thought Mike.
More than one.

‘I will not breathe a word of this, my son,' Mike said with conviction. ‘You have my word, as a priest, as your friend.' And no matter what the consequences, he meant it. ‘But . . . please, Jack.' He said the boy's name for the first time. ‘Please allow me to help you. You need to free yourself from your guilt – by speaking up, by doing what is right.'

‘It's a little late for that, don't you think, Father?'

Mike didn't know how to reply.

‘I have to go,' said the boy at last. ‘I am so sorry, Father. Please ask God to forgive me.'

And with that Jack Delgado rushed out of the confessional, leaving a shell-shocked Mike sitting all alone in his tiny cubicle of candour.

T
hey were stuck in traffic. David had tried to call Sara from the car, but her cell continued to go through to voice mail.

‘
Shit
,' said David, as McNally, who had offered to drive David's Land Cruiser from the school to the courthouse, weaved in and out the busy Market Street traffic.

‘It's only five to,' said McNally. ‘You still have time.'

‘I hope so. You were right when you said it won't look good if I'm late. Sara must have gone ahead and turned off her cell so that it would not interrupt proceedings. But she's only just been accredited, she'll be nervous – and it looks unprofessional if Chris's lead attorney doesn't front on time to a hearing he requested.'

‘You're babbling,' said McNally, obviously trying to calm him. ‘I know everything seems to be happening at once, but for now, you have to put Will Cusack out of your mind and focus on convincing that judge that granting admissibility of your client's priors would be a massive travesty of justice.'

David managed a smile. ‘Listen to you. Defence attorney extraordinaire.'

‘Just trying to keep you focused, Cavanaugh,' he said as he pulled over to the kerb. ‘You better get out here. I'll park the car and meet you up there.'

‘Thanks,' said David, as he opened the door and leapt quickly from the car.

He broke into a run up the steep West Market Street, past the historical Hall of Records, and the tiny flowered plaza named for Rosa Parks.

He was rounding the small garden near the Veterans Courthouse entrance when he saw her – pulling her cell from her suit pocket while proceeding to pace restlessly in front of the County of Essex shield.

‘Sara,' he called.

‘David.' She looked up and rushed toward him. ‘I was just about to call you. I turned off my cell in the hearing and . . .'

‘The hearing is over?' He couldn't believe it.

‘There was an administrative error. Apparently it was always scheduled for one. Luckily a court clerk rang me at twelve-thirty to check on a filing number and I grabbed our notes and raced down here. I tried to call you, but your cell went to voice mail, and by that stage I knew there was no point in leaving you a message because you wouldn't have made it back in any case and . . . Oh David, I am so sorry.'

He could see it in her face then: the pure disappointment of it all.

‘The judge denied our request,' he said.

‘I'm afraid so. Marshall went in guns blazing. He was well prepared. The judge barely allowed us an argument – said he didn't know why we wasted the court's time with our request in the first place. He said he didn't need a hearing to teach him the nuances of New Jersey law and the Lorraine Stankovic matter was fair game if it was already a matter of public record.'

‘But it
wasn't
a matter of public record. No one knew about it until Marshall spilled the beans at the arraignment – a move bordering on illegal in any case.'

Sara was shaking her head. ‘You're right – but what we didn't know is that Chris's old lawyer, Edward Fisk, filed a statement on the matter on Chris's behalf.'