The FBI Thrillers Collection (33 page)

Father
Binney immediately rose to greet them from behind a small reception desk. He was very short, and on top of his neck sat the head of a leprechaun. Dane had never before seen hair that red, without a single strand of white. Not even Sherlock could match this. Father Binney was also nearly sixty years old. Amazing.

He stuck out his hand when he saw Delion, but in the next instant he looked like he was going to faint. He grabbed the edge of a chair, staring at Dane.

“Oh, you gave me a start.” He grabbed his chest. “You’re Father Michael Joseph’s brother, that’s it. Our sweet Father in Heaven, you’re so much alike, you scared me there for a moment. Ah, do come in, gentlemen, do come in. Inspector Delion, it is good to see you again. You must be exhausted.”

“It was a long night,” Delion said as he followed Father Binney. He said to Dane, “I visited briefly with Father
Binney this morning about eight o’clock, after the forensics team finally cleared the church for use again.”

And you didn’t say a word about it to me, Dane thought. He would have been surprised, though, if Delion hadn’t been camping on the rectory’s doorstep as quickly as possible.

“He spoke to everyone,” Father Binney said. “You didn’t find anything in Father Michael Joseph’s room, did you, Inspector Delion?”

“Nothing that one wouldn’t expect.”

Father Binney was shaking his head as he led them into a small parlor. It was packed with dark-grained Chinese furniture, old and scarred and graceful, sitting on an ancient Persian carpet that was so frayed in spots that Dane was afraid to walk on it. The heavy red drapes had black dragons woven into them. “Do sit down, gentlemen.” He turned to Dane. “I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Carver. Everyone is. We loved Father Michael Joseph, it’s a horrible thing. Oh my, you look so much like him, it’s a shock even though I’ve seen a picture with the two of you—peas in a pod, the same smile. Oh my, this is very difficult. As I told Inspector Delion this morning, I’m the one who’s responsible. If only I hadn’t agreed to let that man come to the church for confession so late.”

Father Binney sank down onto an overstuffed red brocade chair, all black against all red, except for his white clerical collar. Suddenly he covered his face with his hands. There were red hairs on the backs of his hands. Finally he looked up. “Please excuse me. It’s just that I have to get used to looking at you, Mr. Carver, you’re just so much like Father Michael Joseph. To have him gone, just gone, it’s too much. Nothing like this has ever happened here at Saint Bartholomew’s, and it’s my fault.”

Dane said in his deep, calm voice, “It isn’t your fault, Father. It isn’t mine either. It’s this madman who killed him—he’s the only one to blame here. Now, please, Father, tell us what you know about this man.”

It steadied Father Binney. Slowly, he raised his head. He shuddered one more time as he looked at Dane. Dane saw that his feet barely reached the threadbare carpet, probably a good thing, since the thing was so tatty.

“As I told Inspector Delion, the man phoned late Sunday night, around eight o’clock, I think it was. I was on the desk for that hour, which is why I took the call. He said it was urgent, said he was very ill, that if he didn’t speak to Father Michael Joseph, then he might go to hell if he died. He was very fluent, very believable. You understand, we have set times for confessions, but he pleaded with me, didn’t let up.”

“What was the man’s name, Father?” Dane said.

Father Binney said, “He said he was Charles DeBruler, promised me he’d confessed to Father Michael Joseph two previous times, that Father had really helped him. He said he trusted Father Michael Joseph.”

“What did my brother say, exactly, when you told him of the call?”

Father Binney frowned, his brow pleating deeply. “He was very angry, truth be told. He said he knew this man, that he didn’t want to speak to him, not ever again. I was surprised, told him that I had never known him to fail to minister to anyone who asked for help. He didn’t want to, but you see, I made him feel as if he was failing in his duty if he didn’t see the man. I also told him that I never knew him to turn down a person who wanted confession, no matter the time requested, no matter what he thought of the penitent. Father Michael Joseph didn’t wish to discuss the man with me, but he said he would see him one more time. If he couldn’t do anything to change the man, it was the last time. Then he said something about having a decision to make, a decision that could change his life forever.” Father Binney fell silent.

“What do you think he meant, Father, by ‘change his life’?” Dane asked.

“I don’t know,” said Father Binney. “I can’t imagine.”

Dane slowly nodded. “The man asked for my brother three times. Why? If he didn’t come to repent, then why did he want to see my brother, specifically?”

“I have asked myself that over and over,” said Father Binney. “Three times he saw Father Michael Joseph. Why didn’t Father Michael Joseph want to see him again? Why did he talk about making a decision that night that might change his life?”

“It sounds to me like this man had no intention of repenting his sins,” Delion said. “Maybe it’s possible that the man came to brag to your brother, you know, maybe he wanted to brag to someone about his crimes who was helpless to do anything about it. That’s why your brother was angry, Dane, why he didn’t want to see this man again. He knew the man was playing games with him. What do you think? It explains why Father Michael Joseph didn’t want to see him again. Hey, am I off the wall here?”

“I don’t know,” Dane said. “The man came three different times.” He fell silent. “The third time he killed my brother.”

Father Binney’s eyes filled. “Ah, but why would the man taunt Father Michael Joseph? Why?” Father Binney rose, began pacing. “I’ll never see Father Michael Joseph again. Everyone is immensely saddened, and yes, angry. Bishop Koshlap is distraught. Archbishop Lugano is extremely upset by all of this. I believe he met with Chief Kreider this morning.”

“Yes,” Delion said. “He did.” He turned to Dane. “The janitor, Orin Ratcher, found Father Michael Joseph just before the police came, right?”

“Yes,” Father Binney said. “Orin has trouble sleeping, keeps odd hours. He said he was mopping in the vestry, thought he heard a pop, ignored it, then finally he came in and found Father Michael Joseph in the confessional.”

“He didn’t see anyone?”

“No,” Father Binney said. “He said there was no one, just dark silence and Father Michael Joseph, still sitting in
the confessional, his head back against the wall. Just a moment later a patrol officer came, said there’d been a call about a murder. Orin showed him Father Michael Joseph’s body. Orin is in very bad shape, poor man. We have him staying here for the next couple of days. We don’t want him to be alone.”

Delion said, “I already spoke to him, Dane. He didn’t see the woman who phoned in the murder either. Nothing. Zip.”

“Father Binney, do you have that list of Father Michael Joseph’s friends?”

“There are so many.” Father Binney sighed and reached into his pocket. “At least fifty, Inspector Delion.”

Delion pocketed the list. “You never know, Father,” he said.

“Father Binney, could you tell us the dates and times of the two other visits my brother had with this Mr. Charles DeBruler?”

Father Binney, pleased that he could do something, was only gone for five minutes. When he returned to the sitting room he said, “Father Michael Joseph heard confession last Tuesday night until ten p.m. and last Thursday night until nine p.m.”

Dane asked to look through his brother’s room even though Delion had already searched it. At the end of nearly an hour, they had found nothing to give them any sort of clue. There was a pile of Dane’s e-mails to his brother, beginning from the previous January, which he’d printed and kept, just over a year’s worth. That was when Michael had finally gotten himself on-line and went e-mail mad. “Have your guys checked out my brother’s computer?”

“Yes. They haven’t found anything hidden on the hard drive, if that’s where you’re headed. No coded files, no deleted files that look like anything.”

They spoke to two other priests, to the cook, the maid, three clerical assistants. None could add anything relevant. No one had ever spoken to or seen Charles DeBruler.

“He knew his murderer,” Delion said when they were back in the car. “There’s no doubt about that. He knew he was a monster, but he wasn’t afraid of him.”

“No,” Dane said, “not afraid. Michael was repulsed by him, but he wasn’t afraid of him. Charles DeBruler spoke two other times to my brother, last Tuesday and last Thursday, both in the late evening.” Dane took a deep breath. “For Michael to be that upset, for him to be angry about seeing this man, it’s my best guess that the man must have done something horrendous around both those other times. Delion, were there any murders committed here in San Francisco on those days or perhaps a couple of days before?”

Delion hit the steering wheel with his hand and nearly struck a pedestrian who was stoned and walk-dancing across Market Street. He gave them the finger, never breaking stride.

“Yes,” Delion said, turning the Ford sharply to make the guy jump out of the way. “Damn. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”

“You’re exhausted, for a start.”

Delion blew that off, fingered his mustache. “Okay, Dane, let me think. We’ve had three murders, one a couple of weeks old. We’ve got the guy—a husband we believe who just wanted to collect on his wife’s life insurance. That was Donnie Lunerman’s case. He just shook his head when he walked out of the interview with the man. It boggles the mind what some people will do for fifty thousand dollars.

“I’ve got it. Last Monday night—just one night before the first confession—there was an old woman, seventy-two, who lived alone in the Sunset District, on Irving and Thirty-third. She was murdered in her home. No robbery, no forced entry, no broken windows. The guy clubbed her to death in her bed and took off. Thing’s a dead end so far.”

“He didn’t shoot her,” Dane said thoughtfully, bracing
one hand against the dashboard as Delion took a sharp turn into the police garage.

“No, he bludgeoned her to death. Then, last Wednesday, and this is the one that everyone is all up in arms about, a gay activist was murdered, outside a bar in the Castro. Lots of witnesses, but no one close and no one can agree on what the guy looked like. He was straight, he was gay, he was fat, thin as a rail, old, young—you get the picture. That’s not my case. The chief formed a special task force, that’s how high profile this guy was.”

“How was he killed?”

“Garroted.”

“Okay. Blunt force, strangulation, bullet. The guy is all over the board.”

“If,” Delion said, “if—and this is a really big if—if the guy killed both those people and taunted your brother about them, then why would he kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Dane said. “I’m really not sure, but I’ll betcha that our profilers would have an idea about that.”

“Oh man,” Delion said, screeching into a parking place in the garage, “the Feds are coming to roost on my head after all.”

“They’re good people, Delion.” Dane paused a moment, then said, “You know, I’m wondering about that woman—the one who called in my brother’s murder—why she was there at midnight on Sunday?”

“Yeah, everyone was wondering about that. No way to find her. Let’s hope she calls us again.”

“I wonder what she really saw.”

“We’ll probably never know. I don’t think we’ll have any luck finding her.”

Dane said, “Maybe she’ll be on Father Binney’s list.”

Delion glanced over at him. “You ever find anything out that easy?”

She
stood on the bottom step of the ugly Hall of Justice building on Bryant Street.

It was a beautiful Tuesday morning, gloriously sunny, with just a nip in the air, actually a typical winter day in San Francisco, as she’d been told many times. Yes, the air was so clear and sharp you couldn’t breathe in deep enough.

She’d only been here about two weeks, and there had been other days like this. But this morning, this incredibly crisp, clear morning, she felt little pleasure. She walked slowly to the top step, people streaming around her, most of them moving fast, focused on where they were going. No one paid her any attention.

She was scared, really scared. She didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d tried for a solid two minutes to convince herself that Father Michael
Joseph’s death had nothing to do with her, but of course that was not going to work.

It was time to step up.

She went through the metal detector, made her way through the crowded lobby, and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

She’d been to the police station once before, when she’d first arrived in San Francisco. She’d had a weak moment, thought she would just waltz in and tell someone what had happened, see if someone would help her. But she realized soon enough that she was dreaming. She’d snuck away. That first time she hadn’t noticed the series of black-and-white photos that lined the walls, many of them taken before the earthquake. She walked through the door to Homicide, into the small reception area. There was no one behind the high counter. She paused a moment, then walked through the door. She’d seen a lot of homicide rooms on TV and this one looked much the same except it was smaller, about a dozen big, scarred light oak desks shoved together in pairs, heavy old side chairs beside each one. There was a computer on top of each desk, stacks of loose paper, folders, books, a phone, and what looked like mounds of just plain trash. What struck her was that there wasn’t much noise, no cursing, no yelling, no chaos. Just the steady low hum of a dozen simultaneous conversations. On one side of the main room were two small interview rooms, with no windows, that looked like soundproofed coffins. Finally, from one of those rooms, she heard some raised voices.

There were eight or so men in suits standing or seated at their desks, speaking on phones, working on computers. She didn’t see any women.

Half a dozen other people stood around the room, some of them thumbing through the ancient metal file cabinets that lined every wall, some just studying their fingernails, some looking really worried. She wondered if they were
criminals or lawyers, or maybe some of each. One young guy with purple hair and pants so low she could see that his navel was an outie, sauntered out of one of the interview rooms, winked at her, and smacked his lips. He must be really desperate, she thought, ducking her head down, to come on to her.

Other than the kid with the purple hair, no one paid her a bit of attention. She wondered if anyone would be willing to take the time even to listen to her. Everyone looked harassed, too busy—

“Can I help you, miss?”

It was a uniformed patrol officer. There wasn’t a smile on her face. On the other hand, she didn’t look like she was ready to chew nails either.

“I need to speak to the detective who’s investigating Father Michael Joseph’s murder.”

The woman lifted a dark brow a good inch. “They’re not detectives here in San Francisco. They’re inspectors.”

“I didn’t know that. Thank you. May I please see the inspector? Really, I’m not here to waste anyone’s time.”

The officer looked her over, and she knew what the officer was seeing. It wasn’t good. Finally, the officer said, “All right. I see that Inspector Delion is at his desk. I’ll take you to him.”

There was a man seated in the chair beside Inspector Delion’s desk, his back to her. The set of his shoulders, the color of his hair were somehow familiar to her. A criminal being interviewed?

The officer said, “Hey, Vince, I’ve got a woman here to see you about Father Michael Joseph’s murder.”

“Yeah?” He looked as harassed and as impatient as every other man in the room. Then he grew quiet, his dark eyes on her face. She knew what she looked like. Was he going to sneer at her? Tell her to get lost? No, he just sat there, staring at her, fingering his mustache. He didn’t say anything else, just waited.

“Yes, I need to speak to you, sir.”

The man seated in the side chair rose and turned to face her. She stared at him, unable to take it in. She had to be dead, there was no other conclusion. She didn’t feel dead, but who knew? Here he was, looking at her, and he was dead, she had seen the bullet hole through his forehead, seen his eyes.

She squeaked, nothing more than that, and folded up on herself, fainting for the first time in her life.

Dane caught her before she cracked her head on the edge of the desk behind her. The inspector sitting there jerked back and said, “Hey!”

“I’ve got her, it’s okay,” Dane said.

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” Delion shoved back his chair, splaying his hands on his desktop. “Damnation, it’s only eight o’clock in the morning. Here, Dane, take her into the lieutenant’s office. She and the captain are in a meeting with Chief Kreider, so it’s free.”

Dane hauled her up in his arms and carried her into a small glass-walled office. Like every other free space in the area, it was lined with old gray file cabinets that had seen better days a half century before. He laid her on the rattiest, ugliest old green sofa he’d ever seen. No, there was one just as ugly in the rectory at St. Bartholomew’s.

“You got some water, Delion?”

“Uh? Oh yeah, just a moment.”

Dane went down on his haunches next to her. He gave her a cop’s once-over, quickly done, assessment made. She looked homeless—torn jeans, three different sweaters, one on top of the other, all of them on the well-worn side, not dirty, just old and tattered. She wore no makeup, not a surprise. Her hair was a dirty blond with a bit of curl, longish, tied in the back with a rubber band. Even with all the bulky layers of sweaters, it was easy to tell she was thin, pale, no more than twenty-seven, -eight, max. Not doing well in life, that was for sure. She looked like she’d been in a closet for too long without a glimpse of the sun, or tucked away in a homeless shelter. She also looked like she
needed a dozen good meals. She’d been carrying a wool cap. Even unconscious, she still clutched it in her fingers.

They had a homeless woman for a witness?

Of course, that was just the outside. What a person was like on the inside was what was important, what was real. But if her outsides gave any clue at all, it was that something bad had happened to her. Drugs? An abusive husband? Alcohol?

Why did she faint? Hunger?

“Here’s some water. She show any signs of life yet?”

“Soon.” Dane lightly slapped her cheeks, waited, then slapped her again.

A couple of inspectors stuck their heads in. Delion waved them off. “She’ll be okay, don’t call the paramedics, okay?”

A woman officer said, “She looks really down on her luck. The last person she should want to see is you, Delion.”

Her eyelashes fluttered. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinked a couple of times, and focused on Dane’s face above her.

“Oh no,” she said, so low he could barely hear her. She tried to get away from him by pressing herself against the back of the sofa. “Oh God, am I dead?”

Dane said, “No, you’re not dead. I’m not dead either. You knew my brother, didn’t you? Father Michael Joseph?”

“Your brother?”

“Yes, my twin brother. We’re identical twins. My name is Dane Carver.”

“You’re not a priest?”

“Nope,” said Delion. He brought his face down close to hers, which made her shrink back even more. Delion backed off, said, “He’s the other end of the scale.”

“You’re a criminal?”

“No, I’m not. That was just a bit of police humor. Here, drink a bit of water.”

He cupped the back of her head, brought her up a bit,
and put the paper cup to her mouth. She sipped at it, then said, “Thank you, no more.”

Delion pulled up one of Lieutenant Purcell’s chairs, straddled it, waved Dane to the only other chair in the small room. Dane pulled it up next to the sofa.

Delion said, “You here to tell us about Father Michael Joseph? You know something about his murder? You wouldn’t be the woman who phoned in the murder about midnight Sunday night, would you?”

“Yes,” she said, unable to look away from Father Michael Joseph’s brother. She lifted her hand, touched her fingertips to his cheek, the small cleft in his chin. Dane didn’t move. She dropped her hand, swallowed tears. Dane saw that her fingernails were as ragged as her sneakers, her hands chapped. “You’re so like him,” she said. “I only knew him for two weeks, but he was always kind to me, and I know he cared about what happened to me. He was my friend. I’m not Catholic, but it didn’t matter. I was there Sunday night, in the church, when that man shot him.”

Delion said, “Why the hell didn’t you come forward right away? Good God, woman, it’s Tuesday morning. He was murdered midnight Sunday.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry. I had to call you from a public phone, and I finally found one that worked by a convenience store about two blocks from the church. I called nine-one-one, told the operator what I’d seen. But I couldn’t stay, I just couldn’t. This morning I knew I had to come and talk to you, that just maybe I could help, but I really don’t think so.”

“Why couldn’t you stay and talk to us on Sunday night?”

“I was just too scared.”

“Why?”

She didn’t say a word, just shook her head.

“Okay,” Delion said, backing off for the moment. “I want you to take a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself.
Now then, I want you to tell us everything that happened Sunday night, and don’t leave out a single detail. We need everything. Can you do that?”

She nodded, closed her eyes a moment against the fearsome pain, the terror of Father Michael Joseph’s violent death.

Dane watched her twist the old red wool cap between her long fingers, thin and very white.

She stared down at that woolen cap as she said, “All right, I can do this. I was sitting in one of the front pews on the far side of the church, waiting for Father Michael Joseph to finish.”

“So you came in after the man had already gone into the confessional?” Delion asked.

“No, I’d been speaking to Father Michael Joseph, and he wanted me to stay, to talk to him when he’d finished hearing this one confession.”

Dane said, “Was anyone else in the church?”

“No, it was empty, except for the two of us. It was very dark. Father Michael Joseph left me, walked to the confessional, and went inside.”

“You saw the person come into the church?”

“Yes, I saw him. I didn’t see him clearly, mind you, but I could see that he was slender, lots of black hair, and he had on a long Burberry coat, dark. I wasn’t really paying all that much attention. I saw him go into the confessional.”

“Could you hear either Father Michael Joseph or the other person speaking?”

“No, nothing. There was pure, deep silence, like you’d expect in a church at night. A good amount of time passed before I heard a popping sound. I knew instantly that it was a gun firing.”

“How’d you know it was a gun?” Delion asked. “Most people wouldn’t automatically think
gun
when they heard a popping sound.”

“I went hunting a lot with my father before he died.”

“Okay, what next?” Dane said.

“Just a moment later the man came out of the confessional. I think he was smiling, but I can’t be sure. He was holding a big ugly gun in his hand.”