Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Silver’s jaw tightened again. “Well, it’s not enough. Not this time. Sure, I love to keep those simpering chiefs in line. I love it even more when I hear them bitching that they’re being kept in the dark. But I had the goddamn archdiocese on my ass at seven this morning. I didn’t even get a goddamn cup of coffee before I had the cardinal’s secretary on the line asking me what we’re doing to keep his priests from getting knocked off.” He held his hands out at his side in wonderment. “Can you imagine? What am I doing to keep every goddamn priest in this city from getting killed? Why not all the rabbis? Why not all the ministers? Why not every storefront scam artist with a clerical collar around his goddamn neck?”

  “Did you ask him that?” Devlin fought off a smile.

  Silver sneered at him. “Yeah, I asked him. I want every priest in every pulpit next Sunday telling every Catholic voter that I’m a putz.”

  Devlin crossed one knee. It was time to drop the bomb that would send the mayor into orbit. “Next time he calls, tell him we think only gay priests are being targeted.”

  Silver’s eyes widened. His mouth worked for several seconds before he was able to form the words. “Don’t tell me that. Don’t tell me somebody’s knocking off gay priests.”

  Devlin clasped his hands in front of him. “We’re not positive yet. It could be a coincidence. Or it could be one guy getting back at priests he was sexually involved with.” He paused, then continued. “But my gut tells me it’s more than that.” He paused again. “One other thing. Even worse. Both priests had AIDS.”

  Now Silver did sit in his chair—collapsed would be a better description, Devlin thought. He seemed to be looking at the news from all directions, his mind snapping like a political calculator.

  “So we have to cover it up somehow.” It wasn’t a question, it was a political judgment.

  “That won’t be your choice. Not yours alone, anyway. And I’m not sure it can be pulled off, even if you want it.” Devlin watched Silver’s eyes narrow. “I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about the DA. We clear this case, it all falls into his lap. How much of it he lets come out is up to him.”

  Silver shook his head. “Jesus Christ.” His lips tightened into a straight line. “What’s the matter with these goddamn priests? They’re supposed to keep their goddamn peckers in their pants. I mean, I don’t give a rat’s ass if they’re gay. I got half a dozen fruits working for me, for chrissake. But I expect them to be discreet about it.”

  He was becoming irrational now. Devlin had seen it before and knew he just had to ride it out.

  The political calculator started snapping away again. “Can we keep this AIDS business under wraps?” Silver asked at length.

  “I’ve got the ME’s word. But you know what a sieve that place is. Half the people who work there are media stoolies.”

  Silver thought about it and waved his hand, dismissing that concern. “I’ll tip off the archdiocese,” he said. “They’ll get on the ass of every TV executive and newspaper editor in this city. There’ll be more threats flying around than you can count. They don’t call them the Powerhouse just to be cute.”

  “I think they already know the priests were gay,” Devlin said. “The pastor at one of the churches told me they have to report all illnesses to the archdiocese. He said it’s some kind of personnel thing. I guess they have to know ahead of time if they’re going to have to replace somebody.”

  Silver nodded. “Yeah, but they don’t know that we know. And they sure as hell don’t know that the media may blow it all to hell.” He thought again. “And they’ll be grateful for the tip-off.” He considered his words and seemed to come to a decision. “I’ll tell them at the news conference that it’s a delicate matter, that there are things about the investigation we just can’t discuss. That’ll cover me at that end, too. Maybe I’ll even call a couple of editors. No, they’re all pricks. Maybe a couple of publishers. They always like to know things their editors don’t.” He nodded to himself. “Yeah, and they’ll keep their mouths shut if they think the archdiocese might go to their advertisers.”

  He looked at Devlin and grinned. “They’ve done it before, you know.” His eyes glittered with pleasure. “This one time I know about personally the Daily News was going to run this piece about the foster-care agencies that Catholic Charities runs.” He let out a cackle. “Their foster-care operation was being run on city money, just like all of them are, and the archdiocese had nuns and brothers running these agencies, all of them pulling down nice fat salaries. Except the nuns and brothers had taken vows of poverty, so they had to kick back the salaries. Then the archdiocese used that money to sign up every nun and brother they had in the Social Security system, whether they ever worked for the agencies or not.” He let out another cackle. “It was beautiful. They hustled the city, gave all the loot to the feds, then got it all back, and solved all their retirement problems at the same time. And none of it ever cost them a dime.”

  “So the story never ran?”

  “You bet your ass it never ran. The archdiocese had a little meeting with the editors and let it be known that there might be a boycott of any stores that advertised in their paper.” He gave Devlin a wide grin. “That story disappeared so fast the ink never had a chance to dry.”

  “And the city never got its money back.” Devlin just threw it in for the hell of it.

  Silver gave him a long look. “Hey, my friend. This is the real world we’re talking about here.”

  Devlin let out a long breath. “Just be careful what you tell the press. For my sake. You tell them too much, we might tip off the guy we’re after.”

  Silver stared at him, unmoved. “Like I said, it’s the real world here. You just catch the bastard. The one who killed the nun, too. And what’s happening with that?”

  “The same big stone wall,” Devlin said. “But I’m working my way around it.”

  “How?”

  Devlin shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

  Silver closed his eyes momentarily. “Just do it,” he said. “And do it fast.”

  Devlin met Sharon in a small coffee shop across the street from Opus Christi headquarters. Despite its excessive cost, the building seemed nondescript, its only outward sign a large crucifix hanging above the main entrance—that and the periodic flow of freshly scrubbed men and women who moved through its doors.

  He raised his chin, indicating the entrance. “It’s just like those two kids said, isn’t it? They always go in pairs.” He took a sip of his coffee. “If Boom Boom has somebody hanging on his shoulder every minute it’s going to be hard. How are you going to get around that?”

  Sharon drummed her fingers on the table, clearly worried about the same thing. “He says it won’t be a problem. He says once he figures out their codes and passwords, he can work from anywhere.”

  Devlin shook his head. “We still can’t pull him out. He leaves and they change the passwords, we’re screwed.”

  “I already told him that. I’m more worried he’ll get his ass thrown out of there for propositioning some virgin.”

  Devlin continued to stare at the building. Two young women were just leaving, both as fresh and clean-looking as any he had ever seen. He thought about his daughter, that she too could fall into something like this. Sharon tore the thought away.

  “You should have seen him. His cute little haircut, his polo shirt, his nice crisp baggy khaki pants. He looked about fifteen.” She let out a laugh.

  “Is he armed?”

  Sharon nodded. “I gave him this small automatic I had at home. Fits into a little garter holster.”

  “He’s wearing a garter holster?”

  “Oh, yeah. I told the little prick he ever comes on to me again, I’d let Ollie know about it.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure he gives a shit. I had to help him get it on, and the little bastard asked to move it up a bit—closer to his dick.”

  Devlin laughed. “That’s our Boom Boom. How’d he get on with this nu
merarier, Peter?”

  “He was good. He played it straight, none of his usual macho bullshit.” She gave a small shrug. “He’ll do okay. For all his crap, he’s a good cop.”

  “I’ll tell him you said so.”

  Sharon’s eyes snapped to him. “Don’t you dare. I like him thinking I hate his guts.”

  Devlin ran a hand over his mouth to hide his smile. “You’re a softhearted broad, Sharon Levy.”

  “Bullshit. You wanna try me in a dark alley, I’ll show you.” She glanced at him. “I mean, I’ll show you, sir.”

  “I’ll take a pass,” Devlin said. “But I’m glad you’re showing a little respect for my lofty rank.” Two years ago Sharon had saved his life. As far as Devlin was concerned, there was little she couldn’t get away with. He thought she probably knew that, too.

  “I’m more worried about this Peter guy,” she said. “He was like a cat in a dog pound when they went in there.”

  “You think there’s someone in there he’s afraid of?”

  Sharon shook her head. “I think it’s more of an identity crisis. He’s been with them for five years, a true believer. I told Boom Boom he sees this guy doing a meltdown, he should get his ass out of there.” She toyed with her coffee cup. “That may be the hardest part of the job. Boom Boom keeping the kid straight, I mean.”

  Devlin thought that over. “In a couple of days, after we’re sure they’re comfortable with our guy, I want Cunningham to fit him with a wire. We’ll put Red on it with you, so he can monitor him.”

  Sharon turned to him, surprised by the statement. “You think these Bible thumpers could be dangerous?”

  Devlin inclined his head, indicating his own doubts. “I don’t know. I just want to play it safe. If somebody in there is dealing drugs—and that’s a big if right now—then that somebody’s dangerous in my book. Right now I’ve got two dead priests and a dead nun on my plate. I sure as hell don’t want to add a dead cop. Especially not one of my own.”

  Emilio watched Father Walter Hall as he concluded the Friday evening rosary service. He stood at the foot of the altar, a crisp white surplice covering two thirds of his black cassock. He was young, younger than the others, with unruly blond hair that fell across his forehead. He also seemed more physically fit than the others had been. More so than Emilio would prefer.

  There were about two dozen people at the service, and all but two were older women. Just like at home, he thought. The old women go to pray their way into heaven, the old men too macho to do so, counting on luck to get them there.

  The priest went to the back of the church to shake hands with the people as they left. Emilio remained in the back pew he had chosen, then stood after everyone had gone and the priest had started back to the altar.

  “Father, forgive me, but I was wondering if you could hear my confession?” He spoke the words as the priest moved past him.

  Father Hall stopped and offered a regretful smile. “Confessions are normally on Saturdays,” he said. “Two to four in the afternoon, and seven to nine in the evenings.”

  Emilio nodded, lowering his head contritely. “I know, Father. It’s just …” He let the words fall away, as though he couldn’t bear to finish them.

  “Is it a special need, my son?” the priest asked.

  Emilio nodded. “Yes, Father. Very special. If you only could.” Emilio slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the ice pick he had placed there. He glanced toward the door. If the priest refused, he would do it here quickly and take the body where the man wanted it, so he could follow the instructions he’d been given.

  The priest smiled at him. “Of course,” he said. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the small room we use for confessions.”

  He started to turn away but Emilio reached out, stopping him with a gentle touch of his arm. He inclined his head toward one of the old, now-unused confessionals that lined the rear walls of the church.

  “If we could use one of those, I’d be grateful, Father.”

  Father Hall glanced at the old-fashioned confessionals. “We don’t use those anymore,” he said. “Now we just sit at a table across from each other.”

  “I know. I know.” Emilio looked down as if embarrassed. “I come from South America, Father. From Colombia. And there we still use the old confessionals. I’ve never gotten used to the new way here.” He smiled sheepishly. “The new way makes me nervous. It’s why I haven’t been to confession in a long time.”

  The priest glanced at the confessional, then back. He smiled again. “And I’ve never used one of the old confessionals,” he said. “But we’ll do it, if it makes you more comfortable. My pastor is always telling me how easy it is now; how I don’t have to sit for hours in a dark, cramped little closet, listening to people’s sins.” Again, he smiled. “After tonight I can tell him that I have.”

  The priest led the way to the confessional. It consisted of three doors, each opening onto a small space. The center space was the largest. It held a built-in padded chair for the priest, with enough room to stretch out his legs. The spaces to either side were equipped with solitary kneelers and room enough for one person. A sliding partition provided access to the priest.

  Father Hall extended his hand to one of the side doors, then opened the center one and started inside. Emilio stepped in behind, spun the priest roughly around and pushed him into the chair. The ice pick was in his hand now. He closed the door and placed the point of the pick under the priest’s eye.

  The priest stared up at him, his face a horrified mask. “I have no money,” he said, his voice little more than a croak. “It’s all back at the rectory. If that’s what you want….”

  “I don’t want your money, maricón.” The final word came out as a curse, as Emilio pressed the ice pick forward, pushing it though the eye and into the young priest’s brain.

  Father Hall’s body convulsed wildly for almost five seconds. Emilio fought it, holding tight to the weapon, keeping the priest’s head pressed against the wall until all muscle control fled the body. Then came the part Emilio always hated, the small space suddenly filling with a heavy stench as the priest’s bowels gave way, sending up their final offering to life.

  Emilio grimaced as he fought off the smell. It was worse than usual in the confined area. He worked quickly, afraid the stench might make him ill. He pulled the ice pick free, wiped it clean on the priest’s surplice, and tucked it away in his jacket pocket. Then, still holding his breath, he went about arranging the body as the man had instructed.

  Devlin stood next to Ollie Pitts as they stared down at the priest. Father Walter Hall was still seated inside the old confessional, head thrown back against the wall, a stream of blood and fluid already dried on his cheek, his one remaining eye staring straight ahead, dull and blank and dead.

  But that wasn’t the worst. Devlin stared at the priest’s right hand. It was closed into a fist around his penis—as though the priest were masturbating his way into the afterlife.

  “This is one sick perp we got here,” Ollie said. “I mean, to do this to a priest, right in his own fucking church.”

  “Ease up on the language,” Devlin warned. “We got the pastor sitting behind us in one of the pews.”

  The pastor had found the body. He had gone looking for Father Hall when he failed to return to the rectory after the evening rosary service. The smell coming from the old confessional had led him to his dead curate.

  “You talked to the pastor. Did this one have it too?” Pitts asked.

  “Yeah, he had it too,” Devlin said.

  Pitts let out a long breath. “I guess there ain’t no question about a coincidence now. But, hey, they couldn’t all have been having it off with the same guy, right? That just don’t figure. So how’s our perp finding out about these guys? It ain’t like it’s a club. AIDS Anonymous, or something like that.”

  “Check counseling,” Devlin said. “From what I’ve read about this, there are counseling services that help the
se people prepare for what’s going to happen to them. There are also support groups. Check those out too. If we’re lucky we’ll find all three were going to the same counselor or group.”

  “Hey, I’m ready to try anything,” Pitts said. “I just keep hitting one brick wall after another. It’s starting to piss me off.”

  Devlin thought about Howie Silver and the call he would soon have to make. “You think you’re pissed off,” he whispered.

  Ollie glanced at him. “You mean Hizzoner, huh?”

  “I do.”

  “Have you told him yet?”

  “No. That pleasure awaits me.”

  “Can I listen?”

  “You can like hell.”

  “Jeez. You take all the fun out of this job.”

  Devlin looked down at the priest’s body. “What fun?” he asked.

  Chapter Eight

  Charles Meyerson stood before the wide windows that overlooked Central Park. It was a pleasing view, one he never tired of. Fourteen floors above the street, everything seemed small and inconsequential. It always made him feel elevated—in far more than just his physical proximity. As he looked down, he watched the people who meandered through the park, the ones who scurried along sidewalks, and he felt as though God’s hand had raised him up above all others.

  Meyerson knew he was toying with the sin of pride, but it was difficult, given all he had accomplished, not to feel that way. He atoned in other ways. His lavish Central Park West apartment was necessary for business reasons, but he did the best he could to humble his personal accommodations. His own room, the smallest of the eight he occupied, was a former maid’s quarters off the kitchen. Now it was even more spartan, fitted out like a monk’s cell with a hard narrow bed and a solitary nightstand, the only ornaments the simple crucifix that hung above the door and a bedside photograph of his mother that he had placed before a statue of the Virgin Mary. His business clothing was kept in the master bedroom, which he used only when he had guests. The lone piece of clothing in his cell was a plain black cassock, which he wore when he was there alone or on the rare occasions when special guests visited his home. This Saturday morning he was dressed in a crisply starched white shirt and a regimental necktie in preparation for the visit he would make later that morning.