by Blake Banner
Dehan stood a while with her hands in her pockets, looking at the dense undergrowth. She started talking without looking at me.
“This is the answer to your question. He is not a criminal mind. He is not imaginative or very intelligent. He is a very simple man and he works at a place—there must be a dozen like this—that has access to he river, where workers come on their lunch and coffee breaks, to relax and crack a surreptitious beer.
“When it dawned on him that he had killed his sister, he must have panicked, dumped her in the truck and the first thing that came to his mind was to bring her here, weigh her down with rocks and rubble, and dump her in the river. It couldn’t have been easy. He would have had to clear a path through all that…” She jerked her head at the undergrowth. “…to make sure she didn’t get caught in the brambles and branches. But having done that, all he had to do was let her slide and sink.”
I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. After a moment, she started talking again.
“She must have lain down there, in the cold water, for almost a week. He couldn’t face coming here, so he left his job. And eventually, the combination of the current, the gases in her decomposing body and the improvised nature of the weights he must have used all eventually released her and allowed her to float down river.”
She turned to look at me at last, with the rain trickling down her face. I wiped the rain from mine with my hand. She said, “This is what you foresaw when we went to look at the place where she was found.”
I shrugged. “Part of it.”
“What do we do now?”
“We go and we tell the inspector what we’ve found. If he still insists on closing the case, we tell him we’ll go to the press and the TV networks.”
“OK. And then we bring Sam in for questioning.”
I nodded. “Let’s go talk to the inspector.”
SEVENTEEN
When we got there, he was on the phone. We could hear him through the door. I rapped with my knuckles, but didn’t wait for a reply. I opened the door and pushed in. Dehan closed it behind us. Deputy Inspector John Newman’s face was an adrenaline-fueled slideshow of emotions, from anxiety and distress at what he was hearing on the phone to outrage at our entering unbidden and concern at not wanting to upset us. His eyebrows went up and down, his mouth opened and closed, his eyes widened and narrowed. He drew breath. He held it. He sighed.
Then, he dropped into his chair, closed his eyes and said, “Yes, sir. I will be sure to do that. Yes, sir… Yes, sir… Indeed. I’ll do that.”
He hung up, raised his eyes and stared up at me. I stared down at him and said, “Sir, I don’t think I made myself clear on the phone. Lenny did not kill Celeste Reynolds.”
He took a deep breath, held it, closed his eyes and flopped back in his chair. Without opening them, he said: “Based on what, John?”
It was Dehan who answered, “Based on the fact that a smart cop with Lenny’s experience of homicides in the Bronx would not in a million years have gone to the unnecessary trouble—and risk—of dumping a body up river. Sir, there is nowhere to dump a body up river without running a huge risk of getting caught. Plus in November, up there, with the rain, the cold and the dark, access to the river is very difficult. Carrying a hundred pound dead weight, it would be virtually impossible. Lenny, just like any other homicide cop in the Bronx, would know instinctively to dispose of the body south, in one of the parks, where access is easy and the currents feed directly into the East River. Stone saw this from the start and I ignored him.”
He sighed again. “That is sound theory, but only theory, and we have the very real, practical, fact that Lenny ran and tried to kill you—and a number of other cops as well. It is as good as a confession.”
I drew breath, but Dehan was off again. “It’s not just a theory, sir, we have facts to back it up. We started canvassing the businesses along the banks of the Bronx, south of Starlight Park, north of where she was found. Stone’s theory was that the killer must have had a connection with one of those businesses, otherwise it made no sense to dispose of the body there. This morning, just after Stone talked to you, he got an email from Blackstone’s Builders, on Bronx River Avenue, with a list of personnel, full time and part time, from 2016.”
“…and…?”
She said, “Samuel Reynolds was employed there on a part time basis in November. Not only that, sir, but the employees have an improvised gate to the riverbank, where they take their lunch, coffee and cigarette breaks. Sunday night, November 6th, 2016, there was a break in. Nothing was taken, nothing was disturbed.”
“Dear God…”
“And that’s not all…”
“More?”
I spoke before she could continue. “We interviewed Chad again, sir. I felt sure we were missing something about that night. His behavior didn’t make sense. And it turned out that he did go out to meet Celeste after he phoned her, contrary to what he had told us before. He said he saw her being embraced by a big, tall man, who then picked her up and carried her to a white pickup truck. At that point, he turned away and returned home, believing she had hooked up with Rod, her lover. So he didn’t see what this man did with Celeste. He was sure the man was well over six foot because, as he embraced Celeste, he could see the height difference. Lenny and Celeste are about the same height, and his truck is not a pickup.”
Dehan finished for me. “Samuel is over six foot, he is tall and very strong, and he has a white pickup.”
He spread his hands. “It is very, very compelling…”
Dehan shook her head. “Sir, it is just about conclusive. All we need is his confession, and I am pretty sure we can get that.”
“But how in hell do you explain Lenny’s behavior?”
I sighed. “Sir, it is pretty simple. Chad did the same thing. And they were both right, to some extent. If Lenny had followed the evidence, he would have become the prime suspect in his own investigation. Logically, he must have known better than anyone that finding the real killer, once his colleagues had zeroed in on him and discovered his relationship with Celeste, was going to be almost impossible. He knew, as he told Frank, that the chances of there being any forensic evidence from the body, after a week in the water, were close to nil, but the circumstantial evidence against him was very strong. What he needed to do was kill the investigation as quickly and effectively as possible. That’s why he told Frank not to bother with the glue chamber, that’s why he didn’t call the CS team to her room, or bother chasing up witnesses or going to see Chad.
“After we found the computer and took the sheets in for DNA testing, he assumed we’d go after him—and he panicked. But even so, he was shooting to scare, sir, not to kill, and he swerved to avoid me at the last minute. He just lost control.”
The inspector and Dehan spent a moment nodding quietly. Finally, he said, “Yes, put like that. Very well, John, what do you want to do?”
“We need to talk to the Reynolds. We need to bring them in and interview them in depth.”
They both frowned at me, like weird reflections of each other. The inspector echoed me: “The Reynolds? The whole family?”
“Yes.”
Dehan said, “Even Helen? She’s crazy!”
The inspector looked momentarily scandalized. “She is suffering a mental illness, surely, Detective Dehan!”
I said, “It would be useful to have an interview with her, sir, with her psychiatrist present to evaluate her answers. While medicated, I think she is quite coherent.”
“What exactly do you hope to get from this poor woman?”
I sighed. “From what I have been able to observe, she is aware of what happens in the house, she overhears conversations, and she is aware of how Celeste was perceived by her family. As I understand it, her slide into psychosis may have started when her mother died. She made a comment to me about her sister killing her mother. She may well know what happened the night Celeste died.”
Dehan had been frowning throughout our
exchange. Now her frown deepened. “Are you thinking of Helen as a suspect?”
I returned the frown, then shrugged. “Do you know who killed Celeste?”
Her eyes went wide. “I’m pretty sure it was Samuel!”
I smiled, a little exasperated. “I know you’re sure of that, but do you know who killed Celeste?”
“… No, of course not.”
“Neither do I.” I turned to the inspector. “We don’t want to make the Lenny mistake again, sir. I’d like to be thorough and meticulous. I would like to bring all three of them in and question them in depth in light of the new evidence, and then compare their testimony.”
He sat for a moment with his lips in a tight line and his eyebrows high on his forehead. After a moment, he shifted his eyes to look at Dehan. “I think we have just been schooled, Carmen. What about the father? I understand he is bedridden.”
“We can talk to his physician and have him or some other medical practitioner present to make sure he’s OK.”
“Very well, John. Go ahead and bring them in.”
On the way back down the stairs, Dehan gave me a frown that had more than a touch of reproach in it. “Way to slap me down, Sensei! Was that necessary?”
I didn’t answer straight away. We pushed through the doors and stood on the porch for a moment, watching the rain fall. She said, “Will November never end?”
“I’m sorry, Dehan. I didn’t intend to slap you down. I’m sorry it came across that way. Lenny almost killed several people through jumping to assumptions. In the end, he was killed, and had he not been killed, he would have been wrongly prosecuted, and possibly sentenced to life in prison, through cops jumping to conclusions that seemed obvious, but were wrong. I agree with you that the evidence against Sam is almost overwhelming. But when I ask myself if I know that he did it, I have to answer that I don’t. Do I know that Helen didn’t do it? No, I don’t.”
She crossed her arms and looked down at the spray bouncing off the blacktop. “How tall is she?”
“Five ten, maybe five eleven.”
“Is she strong enough? How would she know about Samuel’s workplace…?”
I burst out laughing. “I don’t know, Dehan! That’s why we need to talk to her!”
“OK! OK! I get it!”
“Come on, this is in for the duration, we have to make a dash for it.”
As I said it, the door behind me opened and Maria, the desk sergeant, leaned out. “Detective Stone, there’s a call for you.”
“Who?”
“Father Arundel.”
“Who?”
“Father Arundel, of the Blessed Sacrament Church.”
Dehan screwed up her brow. “Isn’t that the church opposite the Reynolds’ house.”
“Yeah.” I turned back to Maria. “I’ll take it at my desk, Sergeant.”
Dehan followed me to the detectives’ room. We both sat and I put the phone on speaker.
“Father Arundel, Detective Stone here. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, I am very glad to hear from you, Detective. Your desk sergeant feared you might have left already.”
“We were on our way to the Reynolds’ house, just opposite you.”
“Oh, indeed? Well, it was about that that I was calling, Detective.”
“You have some information that might help our investigation?”
“Not exactly, but uh… Samuel is here, in the church, right now, with his sister…”
I waited. I could hear his breathing. “Father? Are you all right?”
“It’s, uh… He’s here with his sister, Helen…” His voice was unsteady. “And he is up at the altar, holding a kitchen knife to her throat, and he says he will kill her if you do not come immediately and do God’s will.”
Dehan and I were staring at each other across the phone. Mo had stopped what he was doing at his desk and was staring over at us both. I said, “He wants me to go to the church and do God’s will?”
“That is correct, Detective.”
“And what is God’s will? What is it I have to do?”
“Well, what is God’s will and what Samuel believes is God’s will may not necessarily be the same thing. However, I have no doubt he will tell you just as soon as you get here, which I hope will be sooner rather than later, Detective Stone.”
“We’re on our way, Father. Keep talking to him, and try to sound calm, like everything is OK.”
“Very well.”
Dehan raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Have faith, Father. Everything is God’s will.”
I hung up and we stood. Mo’s mouth was slightly open as he watched us. I studied him for a moment with a slight frown. “Have you much experience with hostage situations on church altars, Mo, where you are required by the hostage-taker to do God’s will? Any advice for me?”
He shook his head and his bottom lip wobbled slightly.
“Damn!” I said. “I was sure you were my guy. Catch you later, dude.”
As we were reaching the door, he said, “Yeah, later...”
We ran down the steps and through the rain to the Jag. I backed out of the lot and skidded left onto Storey Avenue, then accelerated through the downpour toward Rosedale. Dehan said, “You want backup?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t want to spook him. But hold that thought. Things could change pretty fast.”
“How do you want to handle this?”
“Try to help him relax and come down. He’s having a crisis. Let’s help him through it. We’ll talk and find out what’s going on in his mind.”
“He wants to talk to you. What do you want me to do?”
“Stay close. If things get out of hand, call for back up. Don’t draw your piece unless you’re absolutely sure he’s going to hurt Helen—or somebody else.”
She nodded, then glanced at me sidelong. “You might be able to draw a confession out of him.”
“You never know.”
I skidded onto Rosedale and then sped north with hazards flashing and leaning on the horn. Dehan asked, “Haven’t you got a siren?”
“Yeah, I’m using it.”
“Jesus, Stone! Get a damned siren!”
The tires complained turning right into Watson, but the Jag clung to the road like freaked cat on a tiled floor. Then I jumped the lights onto Beach Avenue, took my hand off the horn and cruised to a stop outside the church. The iron gate was open, as were the big, wooden doors set in the stone, Tudor arch.
We ran through the rain and up the stone steps into the vast, domed interior. It was more like a small cathedral than a church, with great, towering arches reaching high into the vault above, and a domed copula over the altar. Behind the altar, the wall gleamed with gold leaf, and a vast crucifix suspended from the wall, with that symbol of Man’s eternal suffering, the tragic figure of Jesus, nailed, weeping and bleeding to the wood. All around him, rich, elaborate statues and paintings adorned the walls and recesses, and candles flickered, illuminating his eternal punishment for that which he had never done.
I couldn’t see Samuel or Helen, or the priest. I called out, “Father Arundel?” and my voice echoed and seemed to roll around the vast nave. Among the echoes, another added itself to the din. It was like a scrape, or a footfall, and the priest’s figure appeared beyond the altar, rising from a crouching position.
He stood, backlit by the candles and the lamps, and the reflections from the gold. He called, “Detective Stone?”
I said, “Detectives Stone and Dehan!”
And the two questions and the statement ricocheted against each other, climbing high into the cold vault.
He stepped a little closer. I still couldn’t see his face. Behind me I could hear only the cold spatter of water, and I could feel the touch of cold air on my ankles and on the back of my neck.
“Will you approach? Samuel is here.”
My footsteps reverberated, tapping like a clock, and Dehan’s made a strange counterpoint, almost like a train leaving a station in the dark.
Now his face came into view, partly illuminated by the candles. He was a man of about fifty, with thin, sandy hair. He looked drawn, worried, with hollow eyes. It was the face of a man called upon to solve a human problem, when all his life he had relied on God to solve them for him.
I stopped at the base of the altar and looked up. “Where is he?”
“He is prostrate.”
“Where is Helen?”
“She is also prostrate.”
“Does he know I am here?”
He nodded. “He is just finishing his prayers.”
I sighed and raised my voice: “Samuel! You said you wanted to talk to me. I’m here! Let Helen go and tell me what you want!”
The padre peered behind him, then backed away. There was movement. Samuel emerged from behind the altar. He towered over us, looking down. In his left hand, he held Helen by the hair and forced her to kneel. In his right hand, he held a huge kitchen knife that gleamed and glimmered in the reflected light of the candle flames.
“She is a whore like her sister. God will exact his judgment. And you…!” He pointed at me with the long blade. “You will be the instrument of His justice!”
EIGHTEEN
“If I am the instrument of God’s justice, Samuel, then hear my words and lay down your knife, and let Helen come here to me.”
His voice was shrill: “Satan speaks in you! You will betray the Lord! You will not punish her!”
Helen was rigid on her knees, staring at nothing. I held up my right hand. “Slow down, Samuel.” I looked at the padre. “Get out of here, Father.” He scampered gratefully away. I looked back at Samuel. “Did you just say that I am the instrument of the Lord’s justice?” He didn’t answer. He stared with bulging eyes and swallowed repeatedly, with his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat. “If I am the instrument of the Lord’s justice, then you must have faith, Samuel, that I will do God’s will. Let Helen come to me…”
He shook his head. “No! I can hear it in your voice. The Lord has made me wise. Satan’s evil has been visited on our family and He has made me wise to it, to see the evil and excise it! You are lying to me. I can hear it in your voice.”
