Presumed Guilty & Keeper of the Bride (28 page)

Sam nodded. “We found his body this morning. He was in his car, parked in a field in Scarborough. He died from a gunshot wound to the head. The gun was in the car with him. It had his fingerprints on it.”

“A suicide?” she asked softly.

“That’s the way it looks.”

She was silent, too shocked to say a thing.

“We’re still waiting for the crime lab report. There are a number of details that bother me. It feels too neat, too packaged. It ties up every single loose end we’ve got.”

“Including the bombing?”

“Including the bombing. There were several items in the car trunk that would seem to link Brogan to the bomb. Detonating cord. Green electrical tape. It’s all pretty convincing evidence.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“The problem is, Brogan had no explosives experience that we know of. Also, we can’t come up with a motive for any bombing. Or for the attack on you. Can you help us out?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about the man.”

“Are you familiar with the name Brogan?”

“No.”

“He was familiar with
you.
There was a slip of paper with your address in his car.”

She stared at him. His gaze was impenetrable. It frightened her, how little she could read in his eyes. How deeply the man was buried inside the cop. “Why would he have my address?” she asked.

“You must have some link to him.”

“I don’t know anyone named Brogan.”

“Why would he try to kill you? Run you off the road?”

“How do you know
he
did it?”

“Because of his car. The one we found his body in.”

She swallowed hard. “It was black?”

He nodded. “A black Ford.”

Five

S
am drove her to the morgue. Neither one of them said much. He was being guarded about what information he told her, and she was too chilled to ask for the details. All the way there, she kept thinking,
Who was Jimmy Brogan and why did he want to kill me?

In the morgue, Sam maintained a firm grip on her arm as they walked the corridor to the cold room. He was right beside her when the attendant led them to the bank of body drawers. As the drawer was pulled out she involuntarily flinched. Sam’s arm came around her waist, a steady support against the terrible sight she was about to face.

“It ain’t pretty,” said the attendant. “Are you ready?”

Nina nodded.

He pulled aside the shroud and stepped back.

As an ER nurse, Nina had seen more than her share of grisly sights. This was by far the worst. She took one look at the man’s face—what was left of it—and quickly turned away. “I don’t know him,” she whispered.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

She nodded and suddenly felt herself swaying. At once he was supporting her, his arm guiding her away from the drawers. Away from the cold room.

In the coroner’s office she sat nursing a cup of hot tea while Sam talked on the phone to his partner. Only vaguely did she register his conversation. His tone was as matter-of-fact as always, betraying no hint of the horror he’d just witnessed.

“…doesn’t recognize him. Or the name either. Are you sure we don’t have an alias?” Sam was saying.

Nina cupped the tea in both hands but didn’t sip. Her stomach was still too queasy. On the desk beside her was the file for Jimmy Brogan, open to the ID information sheet. Most of what she saw there didn’t stir any memories. Not his address nor the name of his wife. Only the name of the employer was familiar: the Good Shepherd Church. She wondered if Father Sullivan had been told, wondered how he was faring in the hospital. It would be a double shock to the elderly man. First, the bombing of his church, and then the death of the janitor. She should visit him today and make sure he was doing all right…

“Thanks, Gillis. I’ll be back at three. Yeah, set it up, will you?” Sam hung up and turned to her. Seeing her face, he frowned in concern. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.” She shuddered and clutched the mug more tightly.

“You don’t look fine. I think you need some recovery time. Come on.” He offered his hand. “It’s lunchtime. There’s a café up the street.”

“You can think about lunch?”

“I make it a point never to skip a chance at a meal. Or would you rather I take you home?”

“Anything,” she said, rising from the chair. “Just get me out of this place.”

N
INA PICKED LISTLESSLY
at a salad while Sam wolfed down a hamburger.

“I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “How you go straight from the morgue to a big lunch.”

“Necessity.” He shrugged. “In this job, a guy can get skinny real fast.”

“You must see so many awful things as a cop.”

“You’re an ER nurse. I would think you’ve seen your share.”

“Yes. But they usually come to us still alive.”

He wiped his hands on a napkin and slid his empty plate aside. “True. If it’s a bomb, by the time I get to the scene, we’re lucky to find anyone alive. If we find much of them at all.”

“How do you live with it? How do you stand a job like yours?”

“The challenge.”

“Really, Navarro. How do you deal with the horror?”

“My name’s Sam, okay? And as for how I deal with it, it’s more a question of
why
I do it. The truth is, the challenge is a lot of it. People who make bombs are a unique breed of criminal. They’re not like the guy who holds up your neighborhood liquor store. Bombers are craftier. A few of them are truly geniuses. But they’re also cowards. Killers at a distance. It’s that combination that makes those guys especially dangerous. And it makes my job all the more satisfying when I can nail them.”

“So you actually enjoy it.”

“
Enjoy
isn’t the right word. It’s more that I can’t set the puzzle aside. I keep looking at the pieces and turning them around. Trying to understand the sort of mind that could do such a thing.” He shook his head. “Maybe that makes me just as much a monster. That I find it so satisfying to match wits with these guys.”

“Or maybe it means you’re an outstanding cop.”

He laughed. “Either that or I’m as screwy as the bombers are.”

She gazed across the table at his smiling face and suddenly wondered why she’d ever considered those eyes of his so forbidding. One laugh and Sam Navarro transformed from a cop into an actual human being. And a very attractive man.

I’m not going to let this happen,
she thought with sudden determination.
It would be such a mistake to rebound from Robert, straight into some crazy infatuation with a cop.

She forced herself to look away, at anything but his face, and ended up focusing on his hands. At the long, tanned fingers. She said, “If Brogan was the bomber, then I guess I have nothing to worry about now.”

“If he was the bomber.”

“The evidence seems pretty strong. Why don’t you sound convinced?”

“I can’t explain it. It’s just…a feeling. Instinct, I guess. That’s why I still want you to be careful.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his and found his smile was gone. The cop was back.

“You don’t think it’s over yet,” she said.

“No. I don’t.”

S
AM DROVE
N
INA BACK
to Ocean View Drive, helped her load up the Mercedes with a few armloads of books and clothes, and made sure she was safely on her way back to her father’s house.

Then he returned to the station.

At three o’clock, they held a catch-up meeting. Sam, Gillis, Tanaka from the crime lab, and a third detective on the Bomb Task Force, Francis Cooley, were in attendance. Everyone laid their puzzle pieces on the table.

Cooley spoke first. “I’ve checked and rechecked the records on Jimmy Brogan. There’s no alias for the guy. That’s his real name. Forty-five years old, born and raised in South Portland, minor criminal record. Married ten years, no kids. He was hired by Reverend Sullivan eight years ago. Worked as a janitor and handyman around the church. Never any problems, except for a few times when he showed up late and hung over after falling off the wagon. No military service, no education beyond the eleventh grade. Wife says he was dyslexic. I just can’t see this guy putting together a bomb.”

“Did Mrs. Brogan have any idea why Nina Cormier’s address was in his car?” Sam asked.

“Nope. She’d never heard the name before. And she said the handwriting wasn’t her husband’s.”

“Were they having any marital troubles?”

“Happy as clams, from what she told me. She’s pretty devastated.”

“So we’ve got a happily married, uneducated, dyslexic janitor as our prime suspect?”

“Afraid so, Navarro.”

Sam shook his head. “This gets worse every minute.” He looked at Tanaka. “Eddie, give us some answers. Please.”

Tanaka, nervous as usual, cleared his throat. “You’re not going to like what I have.”

“Hit me anyway.”

“Okay. First, the gun in the car was reported stolen a year ago from its registered owner in Miami. We don’t know how Brogan got the gun. His wife says he didn’t know the first thing about firearms. Second, Brogan’s car
was
the black Ford that forced Miss Cormier’s Honda off the road. Paint chips match, both ways. Third, the items in the trunk are the same elements used in the church bombing. Two-inch-wide green electrical tape. Identical detonator cord.”

“That’s Vincent Spectre’s signature,” said Gillis. “Green electrical tape.”

“Which means we’re probably dealing with an apprentice of Spectre’s. Now here’s something else you’re not going to like. We just got back the preliminary report from the coroner. The corpse had no traces of gunpowder on his hand. Now, that’s not necessarily conclusive, since powder can rub off, but it does argue against a self-inflicted wound. What clinches it, though, is the skull fracture.”

“What?” Sam and Gillis said it simultaneously.

“A depressed skull fracture, right parietal bone. Because of all the tissue damage from the bullet wound, it wasn’t immediately obvious. But it did show up on X ray. Jimmy Brogan was hit on the head.
Before
he was shot.”

The silence in the room stretched for a good ten seconds. Then Gillis said, “And I almost bought it. Lock, stock and barrel.”

“He’s good,” said Sam. “But not good enough.” He looked at Cooley. “I want more on Brogan. I want you and your team to get the names of every friend, every acquaintance Brogan had. Talk to them all. It looks like our janitor got mixed up with the wrong guy. Maybe someone knows something, saw something.”

“Won’t the boys in Homicide be beating those bushes?”

“We’ll beat ’em as well. They may miss something. And don’t get into any turf battles, okay? We’re not trying to steal their glory. We just want the bomber.”

Cooley sighed and rose to his feet. “Guess it’s back to the ol’ widow Brogan.”

“Gillis,” said Sam, “I need you to talk to the best man and the matron of honor again. See if they have any links to Brogan. Or recognize his photo. I’ll go back to the hospital and talk to Reverend Sullivan. And I’ll talk to Dr. Bledsoe as well.”

“What about the bride?” asked Gillis.

“I’ve pressed the questions a couple times already. She denies knowing anything about him.”

“She seems to be the center of it all.”

“I know. And she hasn’t the foggiest idea why. But maybe her ex-bridegroom does.”

The meeting broke up and everyone headed off to their respective tasks. It would take teamwork to find this bomber, and although he had good people working with him, Sam knew they were stretched thin. Since that rookie cop’s death in the warehouse blast a week ago, Homicide had stepped into the investigation, and they were sucking up men and resources like crazy. As far as Homicide was concerned, the Bomb Task Force was little more than a squad of “techies”—the guys you called in when you didn’t want your own head blown off.

The boys in Homicide were smart enough.

But the boys in Bombs were smarter.

That’s why Sam himself drove out to Maine Medical Center to reinterview Reverend Sullivan. This latest information on Jimmy Brogan’s death had opened up a whole new range of possibilities. Perhaps Brogan had been a completely innocent patsy. Perhaps he’d witnessed something—and had mentioned it to the minister.

At the hospital, Sam learned that Reverend Sullivan had been transferred out of Intensive Care that morning. A heart attack had been ruled out, and Sullivan was now on a regular ward.

When Sam walked in the man’s room, he found the minister sitting up in bed, looking glum. There was a visitor there already—Dick Yeats of Homicide. Not one of Sam’s favorite people.

“Hey, Navarro,” said Yeats in that cocky tone of his. “No need to spin your wheels here. We’re on the Brogan case.”

“I’d like to talk to Reverend Sullivan myself.”

“He doesn’t know anything helpful.”

“Nevertheless,” said Sam, “I’d like to ask my own questions.”

“Suit yourself,” Yeats said as he headed out the door. “Seems to me, though, that you boys in Bombs could make better use of your time if you’d let Homicide do its job.”

Sam turned to the elderly minister, who was looking very unhappy about talking to yet another cop.

“I’m sorry, Reverend,” said Sam. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some more questions.”

Reverend Sullivan sighed, the weariness evident in his lined face. “I can’t tell you more than I already have.”

“You’ve been told about Brogan’s death?”

“Yes. That policeman—that Homicide person—”

“Detective Yeats.”

“He was far more graphic than necessary. I didn’t need all the…details.”

Sam sat down in a chair. The minister’s color was better today, but he still looked frail. The events of the last twenty-four hours must be devastating for him. First the destruction of his church building, and then the violent death of his handyman. Sam hated to flog the old man with yet more questions, but he had no choice.

Unfortunately, he could elicit no new answers. Reverend Sullivan knew nothing about Jimmy Brogan’s private life. Nor could he think of a single reason why Brogan, or anyone else for that matter, would attack the Good Shepherd Church. There had been minor incidents, of course. A few acts of vandalism and petty theft. That’s why he had started locking the church doors at night, a move that grieved him deeply as he felt churches should be open to those in need, day or night. But the insurance company had insisted, and so Reverend Sullivan had instructed his staff to lock up every evening at 6:00 p.m., and reopen every morning at 7:00 a.m.

“And there’ve been no acts of vandalism since?” asked Sam.

“None whatsoever,” affirmed the minister. “That is, until the bomb.”

This was a dead end, thought Sam. Yeats was right. He was just spinning his wheels.

As he rose to leave, there was a knock on the door. A heavyset woman poked her head in the room.

“Reverend Sullivan?” she said. “Is this a good time to visit?”

The gloom on the minister’s face instantly transformed to a look of relief. Thankfulness. “Helen! I’m so glad you’re back! Did you hear what happened?”

“On the television, this morning. As soon as I saw it, I packed my things and started straight back for home.” The woman, carrying a bundle of carnations, crossed to the bed and gave Reverend Sullivan a tearful hug. “I just saw the church. I drove right past it. Oh, what a mess.”

“You don’t know the worst of it,” said Reverend Sullivan. He swallowed. “Jimmy’s dead.”

“Dear God.” Helen pulled back in horror. “Was it…in the explosion?”

“No. They’re saying he shot himself. I didn’t even know he had a gun.”

Helen took an unsteady step backward. At once Sam grasped her ample arm and guided her into the chair from which he’d just risen. She sat quivering, her face white with shock.