Eleventh Hour f-7
Page 3
Chief Dexter Kreider’s secretary walked them into the chief’s office. The room wasn’t all that big, but the view was spectacular. The entire side wall was windows, looking out toward the Bay Bridge, a huge Yahoo! sign and a neon-lit diet Coke sign the other landmarks in view. There was a large desk, and two large cabinets filled with kitsch, something that made Dane smile, for a moment. Just about every higher-up’s office he’d been into had had at least one display case. And here, there was also a touch of whimsy-in a corner stood a colorful wooden carousel horse. Utilitarian and whimsical, a nice combination.
Dane knew that Chief Kreider could never sit on that carousel horse. He was a huge man, at least six-foot-four-inches, a good two hundred sixty pounds, not much of it excess, even around his belly. He had military-short hair, steel gray, and lots of it, wore aviator glasses, and looked to be in his mid-fifties.
He wasn’t smiling. “Carver? Dane Carver? Special Agent?”
Dane nodded, shook the chief’s hand.
“It’s good to meet you. Come, sit down. Tina, bring us some coffee.”
Delion and Dane sat at the small circular table in the center of the room. The chief still didn’t sit, he stood towering over them, his arms crossed over his chest. Then he began to pace until Tina, an older woman, with the same military precision as the chief, poured coffee, nodded to the chief, and marched out. Finally he said, “I got an e-mail from Dillon Savich, your boss back at Disneyland East.”
“That’s a good one,” Delion said.
Kreider said, “Yeah, fitting. Savich writes that you’re smarter than you’ve a right to be and you’ve got great gut instincts. He asks that we keep you in the loop. Delion, what do you think? You want to cooperate with the Feds?”
“No,” Delion said. “This is my case. But I’ll accept Carver in on the case with me, as long as I’m the boss and what I say goes.”
“I don’t want to take over the case,” Dane said, “not at all. I just want to help find my brother’s murderer.”
Kreider said, “All right then. Delion’s partner, Marty Loomis, is out with shingles, of all things, laid up for another couple of weeks. Inspector Marino has been in on this since Sunday night with Delion. I’ve given this some thought.” He paused a moment, smiled. “I knew Dillon Savich’s father, Buck Savich. He was a wild man, smart enough to scare a crook off to Latvia. I hear his son isn’t wild-not like his father was-but he’s got his father’s brains, lots of imagination, and is a professional to his toenails. I respected the father and I respect the son. You, Carver, I don’t know a bloody thing about you, but for the moment I’ll take Savich’s word that you’re pretty good.”
“Like I said,” Delion said, “I don’t mind him tagging along, sir. Hey, maybe he’ll even say something bright every now and again.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Kreider said. He paced a couple more times, then pulled up right in front of Dane. “Or would you rather go off on your own?”
Dane looked over at Delion. The man wasn’t giving anything away at all. He just stared back. Dane wasn’t a fool. He slowly shook his head. “No, I’d like to work with Delion.”
“Good.” Chief Kreider raised his coffee cup, took one sip, and set it down. “I’ll have the lieutenant reassign Marino. Delion, I expect twice-daily updates.”
After they were dismissed, Delion said as they walked to the garage, “Lots of the guys wonder how Kreider makes love since the guy is always pacing, back and forth, never stopping. Tough to get much done when you can’t hold still.”
“Didn’t you see that old movie with Jack Nicholson-Five Easy Pieces?”
Delion rolled his eyes and laughed as he pulled the 1998 Ford Crown Victoria, white with dark blue interior, out into traffic on Bryant Street. Delion headed north, crossed Market Street, and weaved his way in and out of traffic to Nob Hill. They found a parking slot on Clay.
Delion said, “Dispatch sent a field patrol officer from the Tenth District. He notified Operations, and they called me and the paramedics. Here, our paramedics are the ones who notify the medical examiner. Because it’s very high profile, Dr. Boyd himself came to the church. I don’t know how well you know San Francisco, but we’re near one of the gay districts. Polk Street is known for lots of action. It’s just a couple of streets over.”
“Yes, I know,” Dane said. “Just in case you’re wondering, my brother wasn’t gay.”
“That’s what your sister told me,” Delion said. He paused a moment, looking up at the church. “Saint Bartholomew’s was built in 1910, just four years after the earthquake. The other church burned down. They made this one of redbrick and concrete. See that bell tower-one of the big civic leaders at the time, Mortimer Grist, paid for it. It’s a good thirty feet above the roof.”
“Everything seems well tended.”
“Let’s go inside the church first,” Delion said. “You need to see where everything is.”
He needed to see where his brother’s life was ended. Dane nodded, but as he walked down the wide central aisle, closer and closer to where Michael had been shot, in the third confessional, Delion had told him, the one that stood nearest to the far wall, each step felt like a major hurdle. His breathing was hard and fast. As difficult as it had been to see his brother lying dead on that gurney, this was harder. He suddenly felt a vivid splash of color hit his face and stopped. He looked up at a brilliant stained-glass window that spewed a spray of intense colors right where Dane was standing. He didn’t move, he just stood, looking up and then beyond the colors, to the scene of Mary and Joseph in the stable, the baby Jesus in the manger in front of them. And angels, so many of them, all singing. He could practically hear the full, brilliant chorus of voices. He drew in a deep breath. The air began to feel warmer, and the crushing pain eased just a bit. He couldn’t see the confessional. Rather than a yellow crime-scene strip, they’d rigged up a tall black curtain that cut off the confessional from prying eyes and curious hands. Delion moved the black curtain aside to reveal the confessional-all old, dark wood, tall and narrow, a bit battered, with two narrow doors, the first for the penitent and the far door for the priest. The dazzling colors from the windows were shining down on it now, making it look incandescent.
Slowly, he opened the door and sat down on the hard bench. He looked through the torn mesh netting. His brother had been just there, speaking, listening intently. He doubted the man had used the kneeler, not with the angle of the bullet. Did Michael know the man would kill him?
Dane rose and walked to the other side. He opened the door and eased down on the cushioned seat where his brother had sat. He didn’t know what he expected to feel sitting there where his brother had died, but the fact was, he didn’t feel any fear, nothing cold or black, just a sort of peace that he let flow deeply into him. He drew a deep breath and bowed his head. “Michael,” he said.
Delion stood back, watching Special Agent Dane Carver walk out of the confessional. He saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, said nothing.
“Let’s go talk to the rectory people,” Dane said, and Delion just nodded.
They walked around to the back of the church to the rectory, which was set off by eucalyptus trees, a high fence, and more well-tended grounds. It was quieter than Dane thought it would be, the sounds of traffic distant. The rectory was a charming two-story building, with ivy trailing over the red brick walls, the tinkling of a small fountain in the background. Everything smelled fresh.
Michael was dead and everything smelled fresh.
FOUR
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.
“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 do
ubt 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.”