by Lisa Jackson
“So what’s your connection to St. Luke’s?” he asked, hazarding a glance from the corner of his eye.
Her heart stopped. Guilt filled that hollow place in her soul. “I already told you that I know the priest. He’s the one who gave me the names of those boys who were christened about the time my brother was born.” She looked out the window where the streets shimmered under the glare of street lamps. St. Luke’s Church with its white-washed walls, spire, and bell tower loomed above the surrounding buildings.
Olivia had always looked to the Church for faith and comfort, a place of solace, but tonight it represented everything dark and evil in the world. Shuddering, she wrapped her arms around her middle as Bentz twisted the wheel into the parking lot, then stood on the brakes.
In the distance another siren wailed plaintively.
Bentz threw open the door, but looked back at her. “You’d better stay here.”
“Like hell.” She was already opening her door and stepping into the pockmarked lot. In three quick steps she’d caught Bentz and was jogging up the steps to the front doors.
Lights flashing, a police car roared into the lot and an ambulance was right on its tail. It screeched to a halt in front of the church. EMTs exploded out of the vehicle, joining officers as they ran inside.
A uniformed cop tried to stop her.
“It’s all right.” Bentz flipped open his badge.
“But—”
“She’s with me!” he insisted and the other cop backed down. From the side of his mouth, he ordered, “Just stay inside the door and don’t touch anything.” His hands clamped over her elbow as he shouldered open the door. Inside every light was on, flooding the nave. Bentz planted her near the rack of brochures. “Don’t move,” he ordered, both his hands gripping her upper arms. His hard expression allowed no argument. He was in charge.
“But—” Her gaze drifted over her shoulder to the altar, where the EMTs were already working over the victim. A boy. In a blood-soaked cassock. Father James, his own shirt smeared with blood, was staring at the victim, his expression dark as the night outside. Her heart twisted. What was this all about?
“Don’t argue.” Bentz’s fingers tightened and she was aware of the metallic scent of fresh blood. “If we’re gonna catch this son of a bitch, you have to help me. Okay? Don’t move. Otherwise you’re outside or in the Jeep.”
“He’s gone,” one of the EMTs said, shaking his bald head as he checked vital signs of the victim. Olivia swallowed back tears while Father James whispered something then made the sign of the cross. When he looked up, his eyes found hers. Shock registered across his handsome features, then there was a hint of an emotion akin to relief. He extricated himself from the altar and started down the aisle past the empty pews.
“What are you doing here?” James’s gaze, which had been focused on Olivia, shifted slightly to take in Bentz. He stopped dead in his tracks. As if he’d come upon an invisible barrier. Bentz’s hands released her. “You know each other?” James asked, bewildered.
Outside, more sirens tore through the night.
“I think that’s the question I should be asking you,” Bentz said.
James’s jaw turned to stone and Olivia sensed that something more, something deeper than priest and parishioner, bound them. “Wait a minute.”
“Jesus Christ, James, you have one helluva time with your vows, don’t you?” Bentz said, pushing his nose into the priest’s face.
Olivia saw it then, the faint resemblance, the same dark hair, strong jaw, and high cheekbones, but it wasn’t just the physical, no it was more. How they interacted. As if they were related … cousins, maybe, not brothers, oh, God, no … She felt sick inside. No way. They had different last names.
“I don’t have time for any of this shit. Who’s the victim?” Bentz asked, then sent Olivia another warning glance to stay put.
“Mickey … Mickey Gains. Please don’t use the Lord’s name in—”
“And you were the one who discovered him?”
“Yes.” James shoved his hair from his eyes and pulled his gaze from Olivia. “I found him here on the altar about ten … maybe fifteen minutes ago. He’s fourteen, lives a few blocks away, his family has been with the parish for years …” Again James’s eyes strayed to her. Olivia looked quickly away, afraid her guilt would be evident. “I came in to do some paperwork and talk with God. I’ve been … I’ve been having some issues I need to deal with. I wanted to seek His counsel,” Father James explained. “And then … then … I walked through the back door and found blood and spilled wine in the sacristy. I followed the trail and found Mickey … just as he is.”
“Let’s have a look,” Bentz said, but held a hand, palm outward, toward Olivia. “If you want, Officer Clarke would be glad to see that you get home.” He motioned to a red-haired female cop who’d just walked in. Officer Clarke, obviously used to taking orders from Bentz, nodded, her hand on a cell phone.
“I’ll think about it.” Olivia was left standing in the shadows of the upper balcony, watching the two men who had become close to her—the homicide detective and the priest—as they approached the altar, then made way for the crime scene team as policemen and women arrived to seal off the area and start collecting evidence.
This was a nightmare of the highest order. The dead boy. Bentz. Father James. Rather than fight the officers, Olivia walked outside to the night and rubbed her arms as the winter cold seeped through her jacket and sweater. News crews arrived, reporters and curious onlookers collected, kept at bay by the police. Olivia stood near Bentz’s Jeep and looked down the darkened streets. Somewhere out there in the darkness a killer lurked, one who was connected to her and to the two new men in her life, two men she’d let into her heart.
“I thought we could get together tonight,” Brian said and Kristi, lying on the lower bunk, her legs stretched toward the bottom of the upper bunk, grinned. She’d been bothered that he hadn’t called for the few days she’d been back at school, distant in class, and she couldn’t help wondering if she’d done something wrong, if, over the holiday, he’d become disinterested.
Obviously she’d been wrong.
“Sure. What time?” She couldn’t wait to see him again, and all her talk to her dad about reports and papers that were due immediately was quickly forgotten.
“How about ten-thirty?”
She glanced at the clock. Nine-fifteen. “That could work.” It was kinda late and she had an early class in the morning, but so what?
“Why don’t we meet at The Dive?”
“I’ll be there,” she promised and was already wondering what to wear. Something sexy. And just in case, she’d take a shower and put on a black bra and panties … She hung up and started to hum as she rolled off her bed. Wondering vaguely if this was what it was like to fall in love, she rummaged in her closet for her favorite black miniskirt and boots. She had the perfect maroon sweater—turtlenecked and sleeveless—which would look great with a short black jacket.
She planned to knock Brian Thomas’s socks off… well, his socks and maybe a few other articles of clothing as well.
“So that’s it. All you know.” Bentz wanted to twist his brother’s clerical collar until it choked the life out of him. What the devil was wrong with James? A priest who couldn’t keep his hands off women—Bentz’s women.
Not true, Bentz, you cut Olivia loose, his conscience reminded him.
The crime scene team was still collecting evidence while Montoya was outside dealing with the press and interviewing the neighbors, hoping to find someone who had seen something, Anything.
James had repeated his story to half a dozen officers. It hadn’t changed. Bentz almost believed him. Almost. Seated here in the church office, seeing the lines of strain on his brother’s face, the torture in his gaze, the way he nervously rubbed his hands together, James seemed genuinely distraught. Not a killer.
He’s a priest, his hair is dark, his eyes are blue, and he wears a ring with a
dark stone … He knows Olivia, intimately it seems, so he doesn’t keep his vows; he discovered the body and he had blood, most likely the victim’s, all over him.
“So what about your parishioners? Any one of them seem as if they’re not dealing with a full deck?”
“Several. Some, the older ones, are suffering from dementia and we have a few who are mentally challenged, but do we have anyone who I might think is deranged and sadistic, someone who could slaughter someone? No … some are odd, of course and others I don’t really know, but no, I don’t think any of them …” His voice trailed off. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Sure you would. If they were good Catholics, wouldn’t they confess to you?”
James didn’t move for a second. His lips rolled over his teeth and he twisted his ring. Bentz had hit a nerve. He waited. James finally said, “Good Catholics wouldn’t commit murder.”
“What about bad ones?”
James’s throat worked. “All of God’s children are—”
Bentz threw himself across the desk and his fingers curled into his brother’s clean shirt. The bloody one had been already taken for evidence. “Don’t give me any of that premixed, parochial pablum, okay? Not all of God’s children are good people who’ve wandered astray. Some are bad. Sick. Demented. Their wires misfunction and short-circuit. They’re bad, James. Evil. So don’t give me any of this shit! Do you know of anyone who might have killed Mickey Gains or any of the other victims?”
“I—I have no proof of anything.”
“So what about insight? A gut feeling? Anything, James. We’re talking lives here; do you want to see what happened to that kid”—he used his free arm to flail it toward the door, taking in the church and the altar—“happen to someone else? You know what I think? You were the one who explained about the way the saints were martyred. I’m willing to bet my pension that it’s the same guy who was here tonight. So help me out, will ya?”
“I’m trying, but I don’t know who did this,” he said, his eyes tortured, his face suddenly a dozen years older than it had been.
“You know something!” Bentz charged, so angry spit sprayed from his mouth.
James, weighted down by some inner beast, shook his head. “I can tell you nothing.”
“You pious, hypocritical son of a bitch. People are being slaughtered! Hideously. Micky Gains out there is just the tip of the iceberg.” His fingers tightened in the smooth fabric of his brother’s shirt. “If you can, you’ve got to help me stop this!”
“I’ll do anything I can.”
“Like hell!” Bentz dropped his hand, but stayed close enough that his nose was nearly touching James’s. “You said you had some issues with God.”
“Yes.” James licked his lips.
“What issues?”
A muscle worked in James’s jaw.
“What issues?” Bentz repeated, his eyes narrowing.
“Celibacy,” he said in a low whisper.
Bingo. Bentz felt as if he’d taken a sucker punch to the gut. “Anything else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” James’s blue eyes fastened on his.
“You’re involved with Olivia Benchet.” It wasn’t a question. The room was silent for a moment. So still that the sounds of the night seemed to seep in through the closed windows.
“How do you know her?” James finally asked.
“She didn’t tell you?” Bentz’s eyes narrowed.
James shook his head, then leaned back in his chair and rotated so that he could study the window, so that he wouldn’t have to face his half-brother. “No.”
“And you didn’t mention that we were half-brothers?” Bentz had backed off, away from the desk, put some distance between them so he wouldn’t lunge at his brother again and knock him senseless. He was running on raw energy tonight—adrenalin fired by rage.
“Why would I? All she knows is that I have a half-brother who’s estranged.” His lips twisted into a dark, self-deprecating grin. “Why didn’t you tell her?”
“It never came up.”
James made a dismissive noise as the door to the office sprang open and banged against the wall with a thud.
Bentz nearly jumped out of his skin as a stately older priest marched in. “What’s going on?” he asked. His eyes were an imperious blue, his voice low, angry, and laced with derision. Self-righteousness oozed from beneath his alb. “Why are the police and the press crawling all over God’s house? I got a call from Mrs. Flanders down the street saying that there was some trouble here…” His gaze landed on Bentz, who had already opened the wallet holding his badge.
“There’s been a murder, Monsignor. Here in the church,” James explained. “Mickey Gains.”
The monsignor’s legs gave way. His face turned white as death. “No … but I just saw him … he was to lock up …” His voice faded as he leaned against the wall, slammed his eyes shut, and made the sign of the cross over his chest. All of the life seemed to have been squeezed out of him. “I can’t believe it.”
“You left the doors open?” James charged.
“You know how I feel about it… Mickey? Dear God.” Blinking as if to clear his head, he sketched another quick sign of the cross over his heart as he shook his head in disbelief.
“Tell me what you know,” Bentz said and flipped open his notebook again.
“Nothing … he’s just one of the boys who helps with the services …” His voice cracked and he buried his face in his hands. “I can’t believe … not Mickey … not Mickey.” A tap on the door and Montoya poked in his head. His gaze flicked from one priest to the other. “Are you Roy O’Hara?” he asked and the monsignor nodded, then found the strength to pull himself to his full height.
“Yes, why?”
Montoya’s dark eyes met Bentz’s. “There was a case a few years back. A boy in Jackson, Mississippi.”
More blood drained from Father O’Hara’s face and Bentz made the connection. What had Reggie Benchet told him, that there was a pedophile but the charges had been dropped on a Father Harris or Henry or … could he have meant O’Hara?
“That was all a mistake,” the monsignor said but spittle seemed to collect at the corners of his mouth and his hands were shaking. “A solitary case of one boy’s malicious lies. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence. I was reassigned. To St. Luke’s.”
“Were the charges dropped because of lack of evidence or because of a payoff?” Montoya asked.
“No—the family decided the boy was lying. I’d caught him in the closet doing unthinkable things … it was all a mistake.”
“Then you wouldn’t mind coming downtown with me to make a formal statement.” Montoya’s dark gaze slid to Father James. “You, too.”
“Gladly,” James said.
Montoya escorted both of the priests outside. Bentz took in the scene one more time. He felt in his gut that this was the work of the same twisted brain who had slaughtered the women on the saints’ feast days. It had to be. Unless there was a copycat around, unless whoever had killed Mickey Gains had put together enough information from the press releases and the media information to come up with his own kind of sick, brutal crime, one similar enough to confuse the issue.
It had happened before.
Two killers involved with the Catholic Church?
Or one?
His eyes swept the nave, empty now, except for a few remaining police officers.
Bentz wasn’t religious; wasn’t really sure where he stood on God. But he’d been raised by the Church and this was his parish. As irreverent as he was, he’d come to St. Luke’s on Christmas and an Easter or two, had even attended mass once in a while in between, usually with Kristi. He’d seen two fellow officers married at the very altar where Mickey Gains had been slain. Bentz had been here once for a funeral and even been invited to a christening.
Two killers?
Bentz didn’t buy it.
Then who?
Father Roy O’Hara, apparent pedophile.
Father James McClaren, a priest who couldn’t come to terms with his vows and Bentz’s half-brother.
Brian Thomas, the boy interested in Kristi who had once been in the seminary and had a beef with the Church and his parents?
Olivia’s brother, whoever the hell he was? The genetic link that could maybe explain why she saw visions of the killings and through the killer’s eyes.
A student at one of the universities who knew the victims?
A faculty member?
Nancois Franz?
The clue was here at St. Luke’s … The killer had been here for a reason. But what?
If the murderer wasn’t the priest, then why would he be in the church? To pray? To confess? To feel the presence of God in some way? Or to search out his next victim?
Bentz craved a smoke and a drink. He needed time to sit and think, a Camel straight burning in an ashtray, a shot of Jack Daniels cooling over ice in a short glass. Nicotine and alcohol—just enough to relax him and help him concentrate … Now, as he stood in the back of the nave, his eyes narrowed at the altar and the huge sculpture of the Crucifixion rising to the cathedral ceiling. Stained glass glittered under the lights and blood stained the altar.
There had been murder.
In God’s house.
In Bentz’s city.
Why here? Why not St. Louis Cathedral? Why not some other church? There had to be a connection.
He wondered what he’d find if he tapped the priests’ phones. Rubbing his beard shadow, Bentz considered his options. He could go to the DA and a judge, but knew he didn’t have enough evidence. However, he knew how to bug a phone himself and had some equipment stashed in a back closet. It would take only a few hours. And there was his connection down at the phone company’s investigative department. Larry would help him out; had in the past. For a six-pack.
We ‘re going to play this one by the book, Melinda Jaskiel’s words echoed through his brain, but Bentz decided the book wasn’t helping out a whole helluva lot right now. He owed Jaskiel a lot. She’d stretched her neck pretty damned thin all so that he could land this miserable job a few years back. And he was going to pay her back by hooking up an illegal wiretap and surveillance camera, then removing the equipment, and with the information gained, force the killer’s hand. No one, except for Larry Dillis, would be the wiser. Not even Montoya. Bentz figured if he was going down, he was going down alone.
