by Brian Shea
“Nothing in particular. Wait—I saw Debbie Shoemaker. She was lingering about.” Donny paused and looked wide-eyed at Kelly. “You don’t think Deb could’ve done this, do you?”
“Honestly, I try not to jump that far ahead. I just put one foot in front of the other and see where things take me.” Kelly realized from his friend’s shocked expression that the answer he’d just given didn’t do anything to alleviate his worry. “But you and I have known Debbie for a long time. I seriously doubt she’s a cold-hearted killer, but it definitely gives me another person to talk to after I leave here.”
Donny looked temporarily relieved.
“Continue,” Kelly said.
“After replacing the wine, I went into the sacristy and changed out of my vestments. I wasn’t going to be presiding over the next service. Father Tomlin would have been taking the second half of today’s Mass schedule.”
“Is that normal? Do priests usually rotate?”
“No, not always. Depends. But today we split the workload. Father Tomlin's trying to establish himself within the community, and the more the parishioners see his face in front of the crowd, the more comfortable they'll be with him."
"Okay, so you were in the sacristy," Kelly confirmed. "And then what?"
"There was still about thirty minutes until the next service was scheduled to begin, so I went to my office in the back to catch up on Sports Center. The Pats are playing at three.”
Kelly saw his friend mentally punish himself for giving in to the guilty pleasure of his fandom. After a tragic event, people tended to play the “what if?” game. And Kelly knew his friend would find a way to blame himself for leaving the main space of the church. The priest’s Irish-Catholic guilt would be working its magic for a long time to come.
"Okay, you had another Mass coming in thirty minutes or so? When do you typically wrap up confession before the next Mass?"
"Again, it really depends on the number of people waiting to receive their penance. But we try to stop hearing confession about fifteen minutes before the next wave of congregants enter. I guess it’s roughly a thirty-minute window where confessions can be heard. Anyone who didn’t get a chance would be asked to come back at another time.” O’Brien shrugged. “To be honest, there usually aren't too many lingering to confess their sins after a service ends. Most are rushing for the door."
A thirty-minute window at best. Kelly made a mental note. He’d document it later in his notebook but wanted to give Donny his full attention now. "Who else was in the church? Any of the parish staff?"
"In the main area of the church it was just Father Tomlin and me. The altar boys had already changed and were long gone. Those kids can't get out of those clothes quick enough and get back out on the street. You remember how it was, right, Mike?"
Again, Donny was reminding him of a different time, and Kelly’s service as an altar boy within the Archdiocese of Boston. And yes, he could remember how quickly he could disrobe from his religious wear before cutting out to the street to play with friends.
"Was anybody here when you found the priest?"
"No," Donny answered. "Nobody was here."
"Nobody? Debbie wasn’t still present?"
Donny shook his head. "Whoever did this had to have been the last person Father Tomlin had seen."
"Do you keep a running list of who comes in? Is there a sign-in book for confession?"
"No, we'd never do that. That'd be like asking someone to put a placard out saying that they've sinned and 'look at me.' We don't keep track of those who come. It's supposed to be anonymous. That's why we still use the closed confessional box, Mike." Then Donny paused, and when he spoke next, his voice cracked slightly. “Do you want me to show you his body?”
"No, that’s not the way it works. I can’t have you re-enter the church until we’re done processing it. And I'm not walking into a scene until I've got as complete a picture as I can establish. With that being said, how many people have been in the church since you called me?"
"Just those two cops you saw me talking to. They entered the church to make sure nobody was hiding in there. They searched the area, confirmed that Father Tomlin was dead, and then came back out. So besides me, just those two officers down there."
Kelly took out his notepad for the first time since they'd begun talking and jotted down the notes he’d mentally accumulated. "And about what time was that, Donny, if you had to guess?"
"Oh, I don't know, Mike. Probably fifteen minutes or so before you arrived."
Looking at his watch, Kelly noted the time. "And before they arrived, when you called me, you had just found Father Tomlin?"
"Yes." Donny nodded.
"Okay, good, that gives me a nice window of time to work with. If you had to guess, how long of a gap between the last time you saw Father Tomlin and when you made that call to me? How much time had passed?"
"I don't know, Mike, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, if I had to guess."
Again, Kelly noted the time with a squiggly line to denote the approximate nature of it. But looking at it, he realized the murder would've happened at the very tail end of the confessional time period that Donny had explained earlier. The killer appeared to have waited until they were the last person inside the church. Unless more than one party was involved.
"Okay. That's good, Donny. That was really good. I think you've given me some stuff to work on."
"Thanks, Mike." Donny looked relieved.
Kelly knew his friend wanted to feel as though he was contributing, helping in some way, especially in such dire circumstances.
“One more thing,” Kelly said. “Was anything missing from the church? Money or any items of value?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so—I could check.”
Kelly jotted this down and looked up. “We can figure that out later. Just asking. Not a big deal right now. I know this is all a bit overwhelming.”
"So, what's next, Mike?" Donny asked, looking around as the crowd for the next Mass began to fill in along the yellow police tape, panic in their eyes.
Kelly turned and looked around. "Well, it’s going to be pretty crazy for a bit. The media will be all over the place. We're going to have to contain it as best we can. But as for me, I'm going to wait for my team to get here, and then we're going to walk through the scene by the numbers. We're very methodical in how we approach something like this. We don't do anything quickly. So Mass is going to be canceled for the day. We will be holding your church hostage for about a day until we get the scene processed, depending on what we find when we get inside. Do you have somebody you need to call, one of the higher-ups, to explain what's going on? Have you done that already?"
"I already made a call to Father Winslow, who said he'd notify the archdiocese of the situation. He seemed extremely upset."
"Father Winslow, you said?" Kelly confirmed the name and then jotted it in his notepad. "Do you keep files, like personnel files, here in the church?"
Donny cocked an eyebrow. "You mean like HR forms for priests?"
"Yeah," Kelly said, "something that says where so-and-so lives, their background, maybe a bank account. I know you have some stipend that you live on, right? Something that I could use to get a background into Father Tomlin's life so I can start looking at all the angles."
"Oh sure. Yeah. We have a record system. It's back in the rectory area. I can get it for you."
"Not yet," Kelly said, "I just wanted to know if you had access to that. When we clear the scene and you’re free to go back in the church, make sure you find that and get it to me, okay? That's going to help me out a lot."
"Sure thing, Mike," Donny said quietly.
"Hey, Kelly, what are you doing, assigning yourself your own cases now?" a voice called out from behind him.
Kelly turned. Standing next to Sergeant Connolly were Anthony Acevedo and Charlie McGarrity, two detectives from his Homicide unit. They also happened to be the next crew up for rotation, the next in line. Ke
lly had hoped to beat them to the punch and then jockey for position to take the case, since it was in his own neighborhood and directly involved one of his lifelong friends. He had a personal connection to the case and wouldn't feel comfortable leaving it in the hands of these two.
"Good to see you guys," Kelly said, sarcasm permeating his tone. "I thought you'd never get here." He looked at his watch, adding insult to injury. The fact that he hadn't been dispatched to the homicide yet beat the assigned detective squad there would sting.
"Very funny, Kelly. Just because a body drops in Dorchester doesn't mean you get first dibs. There's a pecking order here. Being a new guy to Homicide, maybe you should start learning how things work and the way cases are assigned."
Kelly threw his hands up in mock apology. "Hey, guys, no hard feelings. I was just talking to a friend of mine. There just happens to be a dead body inside," he said a little quieter, trying to keep his banter out of earshot of the onlookers.
The two detectives approached Kelly. They weren’t smiling and didn't seem to find any humor in his attempts at levity.
"Seriously, Kelly, take a hike," Acevedo said as he got closer. "This isn’t your case, and you being here means you get to write the first supplemental report. Maybe you should open with—‘Dear Chief, I can’t seem to mind my own damn business and ended up on somebody else’s crime scene.’ Sound good? Do you like writing supplemental reports on other homicide detectives' cases?"
"Not particularly," Kelly said, still not backing down from the younger detective.
Acevedo had been with Homicide longer than Kelly but had less experience on the street. He’d only been on the job for a little over six years and had fast-tracked his way into the unit. Acevedo's father was a captain and ranking member of the union. To say he had pull would be an understatement. His father had undoubtedly greased the wheels for his son’s career ascension, giving Acevedo the prestigious position of homicide detective over those more deserving. As far as respect went, Kelly had little for the man.
Kelly wasn’t just irked by the fact that nepotism had given Acevedo a leg up. This was Boston, and there was plenty of that to go around. His dislike for the detective came more from his work ethic. Kelly didn't trust his ability to handle the heavy load.
Kelly knew Acevedo and McGarrity were up for this case. When he received the call from Donny, he had rushed to the scene, not only to help his friend but also hoping he could beat the pair and take over the case. Because the likelihood of it getting solved under their watch was far less than if Kelly kept the ball in his court. Their closure rating was somewhere around forty percent, twenty percent lower than the average in Homicide, yet somehow Acevedo was able to maintain his position within the unit.
"What gives, Kelly, seriously? This isn't how business is done in Homicide. We don't just pick our cases. You get me? So go home! Take the rest of the day. And then tomorrow when you come in, how about you type up that supplement and put it on my desk? Sound fair, reasonable?"
"Everything—except the whole me-going-home thing and writing-you-a-supplement thing. I'm not writing a supplemental report."
"Why not?" Acevedo asked, getting a little too close for Kelly's comfort.
Under different circumstances, Kelly might've punched the man. But not here, not in the public eye, and definitely not on the scene of a homicide. He tabled his frustration and looked him square in the eye. "Because this is my case."
Acevedo looked to McGarrity and then back at Kelly, trying to process the situation. And while he was doing so, Kelly pulled out his phone and dialed the number he was preparing to call had he not been so rudely interrupted by the pair.
It rang once, and the gruff voice on the other end didn't seem pleased to hear from Kelly. "Mike, why are you calling me on a Sunday morning?"
Kelly assumed Sutherland already had gotten word through the universal message system, which notified when a body dropped just in case someone was out having a good time.
"Hey, Sarge, sorry to bother you, but I'm on the scene of a homicide, and I just wanted your take on things."
He heard the man sigh loudly. "What are you doing, Mike?"
Kelly distanced himself from Acevedo so he could privately converse with the sergeant of his squad. "Look, Sarge, you’ve got to back me on this one. You owe me."
Kelly didn't like using that as leverage, but Sutherland knew it was true. He hadn't backed Kelly previously when he needed him to, and Kelly was playing the trump card now.
"You can't give it to these two clowns. Sarge, this is going to be a big one. We’ve got a dead priest inside this church right now with a gunshot wound to his head. And whoever did it ghosted. I'm not sure what we're looking at—a robbery gone bad, something personal, a hit. Who knows? Regardless, it's going to be a media circus within the next fifteen minutes. And do you really want the face of this case to be Anthony Acevedo?"
Kelly waited. The other end of the line was silent. He knew his boss was probably rubbing his thick, stubby fingers against his hair and rolling his eyes. But deep down the pause was because he knew the truth. To let those two handle a major case would be a detriment to the case itself and potentially result in a black eye for the PD. And in an image-conscious world, the department couldn't afford another one of those.
Sutherland exhaled loudly, as if he’d been holding his breath for the past several seconds. "Fine, Mike, I'll make the call and talk to their sergeant. The case is yours. Send them packing."
Kelly clicked the phone off and walked back to the two men.
"And?" Acevedo folded his arms. He was shorter than Kelly, wire-thin and not in a good way, similar to the twigs of a willow branch. He was neither physically imposing nor mentally domineering. And watching him try to intimidate Kelly, his superior on both counts, was almost comical.
Kelly, not one for cockiness, ignored the gesture. "I'll be seeing you guys. Have a good Sunday."
"That's what we thought," Acevedo said with a smug look, nodding toward McGarrity.
"Happy trails," McGarrity added, his sarcastic overtone apparent for all within earshot.
A split-second later, Acevedo’s phone began to vibrate and chirp, and he looked down at the incoming call. Kelly knew it would be their direct supervisor, Sergeant Chad Williams. When Acevedo put the phone to his ear, Kelly watched the color fade from the man's tan face.
Kelly heard Acevedo’s side of the brief conversation as he muttered, "Okay," in a barely audible voice. "You know, I think this is... "
The phone call must've ended abruptly because Acevedo never finished his complaint. He pulled the phone from his ear but didn't pocket it as he turned to look at Kelly with indignation.
"Have fun, you smug son of a bitch." Acevedo accented each word, almost spitting them at Kelly's face before turning and storming down the steps.
McGarrity followed, the two making their way back toward their car.
Donny said to Kelly, "What was that all about?"
"I pissed in somebody's cornflakes."
"Do you ever have a day where you don't do that?" Donny offered, the softball joke the first indication that he was going to be okay.
"Not lately."
Kelly’s eyes were still tracking the pair of disgruntled detectives when he saw a familiar face working her way through the crowd. Kristen Barnes brushed past Acevedo.
4
Standing outside the church, Kelly and his cohorts made their plan of attack; dividing and conquering the work was required to process a scene as potentially large as this one.
"Why don't we divide into three?” Kelly said. “Kris and I will take the center aisle, work our way down. We'll do the preliminary walk-through without photographs. Take mental notes of potential areas of interest. Then we’ll come back through and do a full evidentiary layout with photos. I’d like to get a feel for what we're up against.”
“I’m good with it,” Barnes said.
Kelly continued, “This goes without saying, but mind you
r movements in there.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Mainelli said with a sardonic overtone.
Kelly dismissed the comment. “Maybe we’ll be able to identify a tighter area for our evidence collection. It’s a big church. Hopefully we can pick apart our doer's path, figure out his probable entry and egress point, get an idea of where we need to start searching for any potential trace evidence."
"Sounds like you've gotten the hang of this thing," Ray Charles said with a rare smile, only big enough to let Kelly know his approval.
Kelly took the compliment in stride and looked over at Mainelli. "Jimmy, why don't you take the right side? Ray, if you don't mind, work your way down the left?"
"As you command, my fearless leader," Mainelli jested, following his comment with a slight head bow.
Kristen Barnes had remained relatively quiet since arriving on scene. Something was obviously bothering her about standing at the threshold of a church where a dead priest was lying. Kelly wished he could read her mind, and not just because of the current circumstances. There was a deep complexity to her, and he wasn’t sure of her feelings about a lot of things…in particular, their relationship.
Working Homicide had its challenges. In Kelly’s opinion, the hardest part of beginning a murder investigation was knowing that every step taken into a scene had the potential of contaminating it, of ruining evidence that might otherwise break the case open. Especially one like this, which would undoubtedly be under the scrutiny of both his supervisors and the media.
It wasn't every day that a priest wound up dead in Boston, though the Church was not without its enemies. The fallout of negative press the Catholic Church of Boston received during The Globe’s 2002 Spotlight investigation into the sexual abuse and coverup of multiple young victims, resulting in the arrest and conviction of five priests, continued to this day. Kelly wondered if this was possibly related. All possibilities for motive had to be considered.
Kelly temporarily suspended the thought. He never entered a crime scene with a preconceived notion of the why. He tried to take on each bit of information as fresh and new, in the hope that as more evidence piled up, the picture would become clear. To enter a crime scene with an idea of what might've happened tainted the direction and flow in which the scene was processed. It might pigeonhole him into making decisions or seeking out evidence in areas he wouldn’t normally have done.
