“Father Bryan Carroll,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you for your assistance in this tragic moment, Miss...”
“Special Agent Troutt with the FBI. Alex Troutt,” I said. We shook hands, and then he cupped mine with his opposite hand, his gaze never leaving my eyes. There was a moment of awkward silence as I momentarily lost my train of thought in his syrupy eyes.
“Excuse me,” I said, using the opportunity to shift a half step back. “I, uh...” A cough escaped my lungs. “Just need a quick second.” I turned away and forced out two more hacking coughs to rid my lungs of any liquid.
“Now,” I said, resetting my stance to offer up a more professional appearance. “What is your role with St. Paul’s?”
“I’m the bishop for the Boston archdiocese.” His eyes found the floor for a quick moment, as a single horizontal line came to life just below his well-coifed hair. He took in a fortifying dose of air, then licked his lips. “It has been one of those weeks that would test even the most faithful.”
Just a week earlier, I’d been at the scene of another bombing, at the residence of a priest from a Catholic church in Malden. “I’m very sorry about the loss of life. And I’m sure we’ll have more to discuss later. Right now, I need to speak to the detective in charge and begin my investigation.”
He nodded and gave me a tight-lipped smile. “I only wish to help as best I can. We can’t let the public think that coming to church, going to confession will lead to death.”
“I understand. Is the crime scene in this direction?”
“Yes, just down the hallway, then take a left. Fortunately, all the damage was contained to that one room we think. It’s just that...” He looked away again and then clasped his hands at his waist. “Let’s just say that Father Fahey is in a much better place than the rest of us. God rest his soul.” And then he crossed himself.
Despite his warm demeanor, which bordered on charming, his serious approach to religion literally made my air passages close up. It went back to when I was a young girl and my mom lost herself in her so-called religious beliefs, ignoring my dad and me. She’d sit on the hearth, holding a rosary, rocking back and forth while muttering indecipherable phrases as she stared at a cross on the wall. She died in a car crash when I was eight years old, so my lasting memory of her was quite limited.
I never outwardly blamed anyone in the religious world for my mother’s fanaticism, but for some reason—even after going through my fair share of heartache in the last several months—I knew a seed of resentment was always lurking deep down inside me.
“Thank you, Father—”
“Alex!”
Before I could turn my head, Nick slammed into my shoulder, which sent me into the arms of the priest. Actually more like into his cupped hands. It was as if we’d planned the slapstick move for weeks. He palmed my breasts like he was honking two horns. He quickly removed his hands and held his arms straight up, and with Nick’s unsupported weight dropping onto the back of my legs, I slid down the front of Father Bryan. With my arms flailing to somehow keep from face-planting, my hands grabbed the priest’s pants, which thankfully stayed up.
“What the hell, Nick?” I asked, stumbling quickly to my feet, my eyes averting the Father’s.
“Sorry. I’m wearing new dress shoes, and it just started raining outside, and...I don’t know.”
I offered the priest a pained grin and shrugged, then nodded and scurried away, passing the two cops who couldn’t hide their shit-eating grins, Nick right on my heels.
“I said I was sorry.”
“That’s okay. Just awkward there for a moment,” I said, pulling blue nitrile gloves out of my coat pocket as we walked down a hallway lined with classrooms and framed pictures of crosses.
Nick’s short, choppy steps stole my attention, and I turned to him, my eyes locking with his. “What? I don’t want to create another full-blown incident.”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t call it a full-blown incident.”
“True. I just accidentally ran into you as you were swooning over the man of cloth.”
“I wasn’t swooning,” I said in monotone, now looking straight ahead. I could feel Nick’s smirk. “I wasn’t swooning,” I repeated.
“You were swooning.”
“Focus, Nick.”
Just as we reached an intersecting hallway, a medic and a plainclothes cop zipped around the corner, nearly running us over.
“Out of the way,” someone said from behind them.
Each of the hurried men had rigid expressions as they rushed down the hall.
“They sure looked upset,” Nick asked.
I nodded. “Yep.”
A man walked up, shaking his head, his hands at his waist just inside his tweed sport coat. I assumed he was a detective. “Poor souls. We get past the anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombings just a few weeks ago...now this shit. Those two guys both lost their wives on that day. They just couldn’t deal with this scene back there.”
Even after all this time, their wounds were still fresh. My heart thumped a little quicker, and I took in a breath, my chest growing tighter. I could relate on a personal level, given how my husband had been slaughtered. While I knew my personality wasn’t suited for group therapy sessions, part of me wanted to catch up to the two men, and if not comfort them, at least commiserate. But now wasn’t the right time, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to open up myself for another shot of emotional drama.
“It’s a real shame that they had to see this,” Nick said.
“This isn’t going to be easy on anyone in this city,” I offered.
I noticed the cop was still shaking his head, looking beyond my shoulder, his mind most likely thinking back to the day that launched Boston into turmoil, first with the pair of marathon bombings and then with the ensuing manhunt. While some of my memories were spotty, that period of my life was far too easy to recall. The pressure to figure out who was behind the gutless killings had every law enforcement and government official on edge.
The difficulty factor was increased significantly because of the public’s knowledge of the crime, festered by the tidal wave of media that invaded the city and every surrounding town. I couldn’t walk down the street without a reporter or producer picking me out of a crowd and hounding me with questions. I knew it was their job, but catering to a giant mass of journalists, and some who pretended to be in that profession, was akin to holding a royal wedding, minus all the pomp and circumstance.
The officer’s eyes were moist.
“Did you know anyone who...you know?” Nick asked.
The man didn’t respond, and I motioned for Nick to keep moving.
We turned the corner, and I could see the end of a long hallway where men and women with ATF shirts walked out of a room.
“By the way, what took you so long to meet me here?”
“Traffic. Can you believe they closed the Ted Williams Tunnel in the middle of a business day? Traffic hasn’t been this bad since the Big Dig.”
The biggest road construction project ever attempted in the United States—the Big Dig, as it became known—drew skeptics and complainers like flies to shit. “I think they spent more money on the Big Dig than all of the combined trips to space,” I said, pulling on my nitrile gloves.
“Hell, the damn thing took fifteen, sixteen years. The next time they suggest another road project, I think the citizens of Boston should just say, ‘No, we’d rather go ahead and set up a colony on Mars.” Nick brought a hand to his mouth to cover his laughter as I stuck my elbow in his side.
Pulling up to the room, I glanced around for someone who appeared to be in charge. Lots of worker bees, but no queen...other than the one next to me. I giggled internally. While Nick was indeed gay, it wasn’t really public knowledge inside the Bureau, although I was almost certain our closest colleagues were aware.
A lady with a hard face wearing an extra-tight pantsuit approached, a young male officer speaking within inches of her ear
. Nick and I both held up our badges.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said. “Captain Doris Lockett.”
Nick and I did the quick intro, then I asked, “I know it’s early, but has your team made any connection to the bomb that killed the priest last week?”
“You’re right. It’s too early, but we did get an initial COD from the ME’s office,” she said, while taking a quick glance at a tablet the male officer had put in front of her face.
“Do tell,” I said.
“Nothing you wouldn’t expect from someone who died from an explosion. The priest’s neck was snapped, but it was likely the percussive shock of the blast that ruptured his lungs and heart, killing him almost instantly.” Nick openly winced as she hesitated, her vision drifting for a second.
While not exactly a candidate to appear on AARP brochures, Captain Lockett didn’t wear a permanent scowl like so many others who had her position and seniority. Her white-silver hair would have glowed in the dark. Loose skin sagged in all the expected places, and for a second I wondered if that would be me in fifteen years—if I remained in the same profession.
She began to fidget with her earring. I hadn’t noticed the platinum hoops earlier, probably because they blended in with her silver vibe. Wait...are those diamonds encrusted around the hoop? Surely they’re fake.
She broke my concentration by saying, “It was a disturbing sight, let me tell you. Of course, you’ll have full access to any pictures or other evidence.”
I tried to maintain an even keel, knowing she was attempting professional courtesy. “I’m assuming since you knew the FBI was on the way that you had a strong reason to cart off the body?”
She shrugged. “First, no one wants to do their job while a bloodied cadaver is staring them in the face. And second—”
“I couldn’t complete my analysis of the bomb scene until the body was moved.”
I turned and looked straight up. It was Lurch...or his better-looking twin.
“Special Agent Troutt,” he said with a nod.
The ATF agent, with whom I’d crossed paths a couple of months earlier when a lunatic former state police officer had murdered her boss in his own home, looked nothing like the man from back then. Had he simply shaved and gotten a haircut? The man appeared to have graduated from one of those makeover programs. Maybe there was an advanced degree at Whitetrash University.
“Uh...” I couldn’t recall his name. Even worse, I wasn’t sure I ever knew his name.
“Allen. Allen Small.”
“Of course. Agent Small,” I said, while swatting a hand as if it was on the tip of my tongue. “You were saying something about giving Captain Lockett the go-ahead to move the body.”
“That’s exactly what I said.” Despite his intimidating height, his posture was anything but. Same with his tone of voice. Yet he’d still overstepped his bounds.
I could feel my core warming from the inside out. “It’s too late now, but in the future, that would be the FBI’s call. Anyone who’s ever worked with me understands—”
“It’s not that simple, Alex. I know you may not understand the complexity of how we go about working a bomb scene—”
“Hold on, you two.”
We turned our heads toward the captain. “I’ve seen my fair share of turf battles over the years. I’m sure I’ve even caused a few myself. But one thing that the Boston Marathon bombings finally taught me is that we can get along, and we should get along if we expect to work effectively together.”
“Absolutely,” I declared, shifting my eyes back to Allen.
“Damn straight.” He didn’t blink for ten seconds.
No other words were spoken, and I took the lead and stepped into the room, Nick and Small close behind. Splinters of wood were scattered everywhere. On the opposite wall, I spotted blood splatter just under a cracked framed picture of what looked like Jesus. The picture was dangling at an angle. A more concentrated area of crimson was pooled next to the remnants of a chair.
“Can you verify if the priest was the only casualty?”
“As far as we know, he was the only one,” Small said, edging up next to me. Nick kneeled within listening distance, inspecting shards of wood that looked more like thin daggers that could slice a piece of skin like warm butter.
“As far as you know,” I repeated with a slightly annoyed tone.
“The secretary said Father Fahey had confessional time set aside from ten a.m. to noon. The bomb went off just a few minutes before noon. When the secretary entered the room, she only saw the Father. No one else.”
I nodded, and then Nick chimed in. “There could have been someone in the other side of the confessional box.”
“If there was, that person would likely be dead. Although that person could also have been running out of the room at the time the bomb went off. Might have been injured.”
I scanned the area around our feet and noticed Small’s ski-sized shoes, a buckled leather number.
“But no sign of blood on the path out the door?”
“Your Evidence Response Team can take a look, but no one from Boston PD has found any other blood besides what you see here.”
I surveyed the distance between the blood and the door. I estimated it was about thirty feet away.
“So, you’re thinking there was a timing device?” I asked.
He nodded and pulled out an evidence bag with a tiny piece of metal. “Need to run it through forensics, but I think this tiny piece of metal is part of a standard digital watch.”
“So it would have beeped just before it went off,” Nick said, while trying to lift to a standing position. He stopped about halfway up and clenched his knee.
“You okay, gramps?” I asked.
“Ah,” he replied.
Small gave a passing glance at my partner as he continued with the breakdown of the bomb blast. “It would have basically been instantaneous.”
“When you noted the cause of death, I didn’t hear anything about shrapnel. And I don’t see anything visible like nails or screws lying around.”
“You’re wondering if there’s any connection to the bombing at Father Timothy Brennan’s house last week. Other than the fact that both bombs were made in crude fashion, they are different types of bombs. Last week we had the pipe bomb, and as you know, when Brennan opened his mailbox, he was pummeled by shrapnel. His face, neck, and shoulders looked like they’d been put through a paper shredder.”
A uniformed cop who happened to be passing by us stopped midstride and stared at Small. Suddenly, his torso lurched uncontrollably. “I’m gonna be sick,” he grunted. His cheeks filled up as he gagged, and he hoofed it toward the door.
Small shrugged. “I guess he hadn’t heard the details about Brennan’s death.” I tucked my lips between my teeth and shook my head—it was a bad situation all the way around. Small added, “He’s just lucky he didn’t see the corpse, or any of the pictures. He’d have nightmares for two months straight.”
I paused for a quick moment, realizing how elusive sleep had been for me the last few months. I could feel the distant throb of pain simmering in my frontal lobe, but I pinched the corners of my eyes and tried to fool myself into thinking I just needed another shot of caffeine. I craved a coffee.
“Even if you’ve seen just about everything, it can still leave a mark on you,” I said softly while peering straight up at Small.
He took in a breath and swallowed once, as if recalling a flood of images he would just as soon forget. “Collateral damage. That’s what I call it for those of us who endure this crap every day. That’s why we need some time away every once in a while to decompress, to remind us that not every person who walks this earth is a depraved, sick bastard.”
A wet, gurgling sound behind me.
I looked over my shoulder, and two feet behind us was a nun clearing her throat, the scowl on her face so tormented it appeared she was trying to down brass tacks.
“Sir, can you please refrain from
using such language in a house of worship?” She shook a finger just under the chin of the ATF agent. “Here we are dealing with the loss of Father Fahey, and we have to listen to that filth.”
“My apologies,” Small said with a slow dip of his head.
Her eyes, initially steely and cold, now glistened as tears pooled in the corners. She brought her hands together in front of her face in a prayerful position. “I...” Her voice quivered, and I glanced around, trying to find anyone else from the church who might be able to comfort her.
“He was the most compassionate person I’ve ever known. Special. I dedicated my whole life to God’s work, and because of that, I guess I felt like I should be given the privilege of being immune to tragedy. For those I care about, for those I...love.”
Her eyes wandered over to the bloody wall, as veins bulged from both temples.
Nick and I traded a quick glance. We had this thing sometimes, where we both had the same thought at the same time. This was one of those times.
“We’re very sorry for the loss of the church, and for you, Sister,” I said, touching her elbow.
Flinching slightly, she blinked twice and shifted her sights back to us. “Oh, I’m Sister Tamela. Yes, a tremendous loss for the parishioners of this old church. Paul...uh, Father Fahey had a heart of gold and more energy than five priests half his age. I’ve never seen a man so dedicated to helping people, even if it meant sacrificing his health.”
Nick stepped closer. “Did the Father have health issues?”
“I’m almost certain he had pneumonia. That old stubborn coot wouldn’t even talk about it, let alone go see a doctor. Too many souls to heal, he always said.”
I escorted the Sister out of the room, found another church official, and made the handoff. As I turned back around, Nick was standing there with his arms crossed, scratching a chin with less scruff than a sixteen-year-old kid.
He dipped his head closer. “She and the Father had something going on, don’t you think?”
“She was upset, and who wouldn’t be? But yes, it seemed like there was a little extra emotion in her voice.”
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set) Page 52
