The 7th Canon (26 page)

“OK, what theory would you start with?”

Ross rocked back in his chair. “A guy like Connor? I’d guess revenge above anything else.”

Donley stopped pacing, a thought coming to him. “Connor showed up at San Francisco General on Christmas Eve to talk with a young man from the shelter he put in the hospital the night they arrested Father Tom. Why would he do that unless maybe he was looking for something?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Maybe I’m coming at this from the wrong angle. Maybe Connor didn’t kick the door in because he wanted to plant evidence. Maybe he thought there was something inside the office he wanted. Maybe that’s why he broke open the desk and the file cabinets.”

“What’d the young man say?”

“I don’t know. After Connor’s visit, he took off. I haven’t been able to find him.”

“So how do you know this happened?”

“Because I was at the hospital and tried to talk to him.”

“Christmas Eve?”

“That’s the night I got the call about Father Martin being beaten. I missed Connor by minutes.”

Ross folded his hands in his lap. “Christmas Eve. That’s admirable.”

“I owe it to Lou. The archdiocese is his biggest client.”

“Bullshit,” Ross said. “I know a lot of attorneys who wouldn’t have done what you did, no matter how big the client.”

Donley looked to the framed photographs and certificates on Ross’s shelves. He suspected Frank Ross, once a decorated police officer, wasn’t sitting in a Tenderloin office that smelled of mold by choice. Something had happened in his past that had relegated him to this life.

“All right. I’ll tell you straight up. No bullshit. I need to exorcise some demons from my past to get on with my life, and I think defending Father Tom might help me do that.”

Ross stared at him, but for a brief moment, his eyes flicked to the photographs on the shelves.

“So, will you help me?” Donley asked.

Ross ran a hand across his chin and looked down at the flashing light on his answering machine. “I have a client who is not going to be too happy with me. He’d like his deposit back, and I’m not inclined to give it to him. He lied to me. Common sense says he should go away quietly, but he’s a lawyer, and no offense to you, they don’t usually have much common sense.”

Donley smiled and picked up the phone. “What’s his number?”

Father Martin had told Donley he’d chosen the location for his shelter, six blocks west of the Polk Gulch, because it was an easy walk straight up O’Farrell and Ellis streets. The four square blocks that ran north and south between Geary and Ellis and east to west from Van Ness to Polk represented the mouth of The Gulch. Ellis was a main tributary, a one-way street that emptied onto the main artery, Polk Street. At night, Polk Street was alive with local bars, trendy restaurants, and not-so-trendy liquor stores, corner markets, adult-video stores, and an occasional fast-food eatery.

Ross drove the Cadillac past the shelter. Yellow police ribbons crisscrossed the front entrance, and an unhappy-looking police officer stood on the top step with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He kept his shoulders turned to avoid the cold winds blowing small tornadoes of dirt and litter up the street.

“Overkill,” Ross said. He turned the corner and drove down an alley so narrow, Donley thought the sides of the Cadillac would scrape the buildings’ concrete walls, but the big car emerged unscathed.

“You always want to start with the crime scene,” Ross said.

“I told you, I don’t have time to get a motion filed for an expedited view,” Donley said.

“No, you don’t.” Ross turned right on Ellis and parked next to a ten-foot-high, chain-link fence enclosing a square slab of concrete.

The back side of the building formed one of the walls in the park. Amid graffiti and gang symbols, someone had spray-painted a square approximating a baseball strike zone. Round marks indicated where a ball had been repeatedly thrown. The park was twenty feet lower than the front entrance to the building on Eddy Street, a configuration not uncommon in San Francisco because of its steep hills. Buildings were pitched on slopes. A jungle gym sat atop a rubber mat that looked like a puzzle missing several of the interlocking pieces.

“Show me that map again. Where was the priest before he found the kid?”

Donley took out the sheet of paper with the crude sketch Father Martin had drawn during their visit. “At seven that evening, he went here, to his office, to pay bills and do paperwork. At about ten minutes after nine, he put the log of residents in his Bible and locked both in his desk. Then he got up to lock the front door to the building.” Donley used his finger to demonstrate Father Martin leaving the office and walking toward the front entrance. “He said he stalled and went to the dormitory. That’s the room here, at the opposite end of the hall. He stayed there for a few minutes, talking with a new kid who had checked in that night, then he left to lock the front door.”

“I assume the kid is long gone.”

“I would assume so, but if we can find Danny Simeon, he can vouch for Father Tom’s presence in the dormitory.”

“Simeon’s the guy Dixon Connor visited in the hospital?”

“That’s right.”

“What does your guy say happened after he left the dorm?”

Donley finished explaining what Father Martin said happened up until the moment he found Andrew Bennet.

“What’s the estimated time of death?”

“Medical examiner’s preliminary assessment has it between six and nine thirty p.m. Can’t be any more specific.”

“What’s the report say about whether the body was moved or not?”

“Inconclusive. The report indicates a blow to the back of the head but concludes the body was stabbed at the shelter.”

“Somebody could have knocked Bennet out and carried him in.”

“That’ll be my argument—if I get to make it.”

“What about the drops of blood?”

“Could have come from blood spatter or dripped from the murder weapon.”

“The letter opener.”

“Again, the ME can’t say with certainty.”

“Who wrote up the report?” Ross asked, sounding frustrated.

Donley had to dig the report out of his briefcase and flip to the last page. “A Dr. Wendle Tong.”

“Dr. Undetermined,” Ross said.

“What’s that?”

“Tong has a well-deserved reputation of never wanting to go out on a limb and provide a definitive cause of death. They refer to him as Dr. Undetermined. That could help you.” Ross looked up at the building. “Make me a list of what you want.”

“You’re going in?”

“Can’t think of a better way.”

Donley considered the building. He’d broken into more than a few during his teenage years, but now, he would be putting his career at risk. Then he thought of Father Martin turning down a plea of twenty-five years.

“If you’re going in, I’m going with you.” Donley folded the diagram and put it back in his pocket.

Ross shook his head. “There’s not much anyone can do to me if I get caught. You have a career.”

“Maybe not after Thursday,” Donley said, and pushed out of the car.

Ross met him on the passenger side of the car and offered Donley a stick of gum. “Chew it good.”

Donley chewed the gum as he followed Ross between a gap in the chain-link fence to the back of the building. Ross paused to study a ground-floor window protected by iron bars, then continued to an overgrown hedge. He pushed it aside, revealing a sunken stairwell. The door at the bottom had no handle, just a metal plate.

“That’s got to be the door that leads to the boiler room,” Donley said.

Ross looked about the playground. “At night, it would have been completely hidden.” Ross walked down the steps, surveying the concrete. Donley knew he was looking for drops of blood. They found none.

They moved to a fire escape hanging from the second story, a San Francisco building-code requirement. Ross considered the lowest rung, which was out of reach, then stood with his back to the building and cupped his hands. “Give me your foot.”

Donley stuck the sole of his shoe in the cup, and on the count of three, Ross lifted him up and he grabbed the lowest rung. The fire escape unfolded in a rush, like an accordion, the clang of metal echoing in the quiet canyon of the concrete park. They froze, but the sentry wasn’t interested enough to leave the comfort of the front steps.

Ross followed Donley up the fire escape stairs, which swayed and shook, to a landing outside a locked door. Ross searched the door frame for an alarm before kneeling and removing a black-leather case from his blazer.

Donley took the piece of gum from his mouth. “Do you want my gum?”

Ross looked at it with disgust. “Why would I want your gum?”

“I assumed you needed it to cut off the alarm or something.”

Ross shook his head. “You’ve been watching way too much television. You looked nervous. Chewing gum helps relieve anxiety.”

Donley must have looked unconvinced.

“Seriously, it’s a medical fact,” Ross said, sliding on a pair of surgical gloves. He handed Donley a second pair, then unzipped the case, revealing a set of stainless-steel tools.

“Tools of the trade?” Donley asked, putting on his gloves.

“I confiscated it from a burglar when I was a beat cop. The deputy DA used it to convict the guy, and I expressed admiration for the stuff. I like things like this. Don’t ask me why. Bet he never thought I’d use it to break into a building.”

“Can you?”

Ross smiled. “Oh ye of little faith. Time me.” He removed a miniature can of graphite spray and looked at Donley. “I’m serious. Time me. I like to challenge myself.”

Donley played with the buttons on the side of his watch. “OK, MacGyver. Go.”

Ross sprayed the lock, explaining the graphite freed the tumblers of dirt and grime. He then explained that he was using an Allen wrench and a tool known as a “rake” to apply force to the lock and worked to free the tumblers. After several attempts, the lock clicked. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. “Time?”

Donley looked at his watch. “Two minutes twenty-three seconds.”

Ross smiled and put away the tools.

Inside, they walked down the hall past a small kitchen and a larger room with a worn-looking pool table. At the end of the hallway, they came to a closed door. Ross turned the knob and pushed it open, revealing metal-framed beds.

“Dormitory,” Donley whispered.

“Reminds me of the army,” Ross said.

Six of the beds had covers thrown to the side. “How many were here that night?” Ross asked.

“Father Martin said eight checked in, including Bennet.”

Ross nodded to two beds still made. “Maybe someone else besides Bennet wasn’t planning on staying.”

They left the dormitory. Donley’s shoes squeaked as they made their way down the linoleum to the other end of the hall, stopping at a door near the stairwell.

“Should be the office,” Donley said, referring to the diagram.

The lock had been busted. Ross pushed open the door and stepped in. Donley followed. The space was cramped, with a metal desk and a three-drawer, green file cabinet. Athletic lockers lined a wall. The padlocks had been broken. Donley opened each locker. Inside, he found cash, rings, gold chains, cigarettes, and a Walkman tape player.

“Good instincts,” Ross said, keeping his voice low. “Someone
was
looking for something, but it wasn’t money or something they could pawn.”

As Ross stepped to the window and looked down at the front entrance to ensure the police officer had remained there, Donley turned his attention to the desk. The locks on the drawers had also been punched in. He pulled open the upper right-hand drawer. The Bible with the log of occupants was not there. He checked the other drawers but did not find it.

“It’s not here,” he said.

Ross looked in the drawers. “You sure he said the desk?”

“I thought so. Maybe he meant the file cabinet.” Donley turned his attention to the top drawer. “This is where Connor claims to have found the photographs.”

The manila files inside the cabinet were neatly arranged and individually tabbed.

“Somebody this anal isn’t likely to leave the murder weapon lying on the desk,” Ross said.

Donley did not find the Bible.

He pulled open a door at the back of the office, revealing a room no bigger than a walk-in closet with a metal-framed bed. Hooks screwed into the wooden sill beneath a small window served as a place to hang clothes. A lamp had been mounted to the wall over the head of the bed near a shelf holding half a dozen novels. Father Martin liked thrillers. On the wall above the bed hung a small crucifix. Splinter cracks radiated from the nail in the plaster. If Father Martin was to spend the rest of his life in a cramped jail cell, he was well prepared to do so.

But there was no sign of the Bible or logbook.

Donley walked back into the office. “It’s not here.”

“And it wasn’t on the list of evidence they took that night?”

“No.”

“Then somebody had to have taken it,” Ross said. “Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.” He started for the door. “Let’s check out the recreation room.”

Across the hall, yellow police tape crisscrossed two tall doors. Ross reached under the tape, pushed open the door, and ducked into the room. It reminded Donley of the many gymnasiums found in the upper stories of city buildings in which he’d played as a kid. There was only so much space for concrete parks. Basketball hoops hung on the walls at each end of the room. A knotted climbing rope dangled motionless near a pegboard. At the front of the room, a white cloth covered a folding table set up beneath a wooden crucifix. The image of Christ, head bowed, eyes closed, hung limply from the wood. The Nativity scene was to its left.