Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Peter glanced at his watch. “You’re supposed to be in the computer room in a few minutes. I scheduled you for five. I thought you still needed time on the machines.”

  “That’s cool. We’ll go through the motions.”

  “I think Thomas will be there to watch you.”

  Boom Boom shrugged. “That’s cool, too, Peter.” He ran his fingers over an imaginary keyboard. “He can watch all he wants. He’s not gonna see nothin’ I don’t want him to see.” He gave Peter a smile he hoped would calm him. “We’re safe here, my man. I promise you. Just trust me on this. There is nothing to worry about.”

  Charles sat in the living room of his Central Park West apartment. He was staring at his statue of the Virgin Mary. He had taken it from his bedroom and placed it on the glass cocktail table, a small votive candle flickering before it. His mind raced with prayers, each coming so fast that the phrases of one began to mix with those of another, until his mind was filled with an incoherent jumble of devotional thought. He forced himself to stop, his eyes still fixed on the statue of the Virgin, his mind trying to absorb the calm, soothing warmth that seemed to emanate from the painted plaster. His hands were balled into fists.

  He had created the makeshift shrine as soon as he got home. He had left his office earlier than planned. The telephone call he had received from Ricardo Estaves had been too disturbing. It had forced him away from his office … forced him to seek out some sanctuary … some solace … some peace of mind.

  The Virgin had always done that for him. She had always provided the food for meditation that soothed his soul. But not today. When Estaves had telephoned to ask where Sister Margaret could be found, Charles had known his intentions and had refused to tell him. But the matter would not die there. Eventually, if pressed, he would be forced to do as they wished. There would be no other choice. Estaves and that bastard Chavarría could destroy him anytime they chose.

  And that policewoman—that filthy homosexual creature. Estaves had said nothing more would be done to her. She would simply escape punishment. His jaw tightened. No, she would not. Not even if he had to punish her himself.

  Charles didn’t hear the doorbell when it first rang. Only when it was followed by a loud knock did he rise and cross the room. His movements were slow and uncertain, like those of a somnambulist.

  Suddenly Ginger stood before him, although he could not remember opening the door. She was smiling, one hand against the doorframe, her large shoulder bag against one hip, which was provocatively cocked.

  “Hi, sailor,” she said.

  Charles didn’t respond but merely stepped back to allow her to enter. Ginger walked slowly into the living room, hips swaying, her tight skirt revealing every subtle movement of her slender body.

  She stopped next to the coffee table and stared down at the statue of the Virgin and the flickering votive candle. Then she turned and smiled again.

  “Charles, this is just too kinky,” she said.

  Charles moved across the room and picked up the statue and the candle. “I’ll put them away,” he said.

  “Honey, don’t do it on my account.” There was laughter in Ginger’s voice. “If it makes you happy to have them here, it makes me happy.”

  Charles’s eyes hardened. “I said I’ll put them away.”

  Ginger took an involuntary step back. She had seen this mood before, and she didn’t like it. But she knew she could control him. And five hundred bucks was five hundred bucks. Whatever you want, creep, she told herself.

  She smiled again. “Well, why don’t you do that. Just make sure you hurry back. I have some very special ideas about making you happy, and they’re getting me really, really hot.” She patted her large bag to let him know what he wanted was inside, then placed it on the table and began unbuttoning her blouse. “Don’t keep me waiting tooo long, honey. You don’t want me to cool off now, do you?”

  Devlin sat in a back pew, his eyes lowered in what he hoped an observer would interpret as prayer or meditation. Actually he was watching Father James Janis as the priest instructed a group of would-be altar boys. They were practicing the Mass for the Dead, something Devlin hoped would not prove prophetic. The bier that would normally hold the coffin had been placed at the foot of the altar. Father Janis was demonstrating how a priest would circle the coffin, first sprinkling it with holy water and then anointing it with incense. Two altar boys would have to follow close behind, assisting with the various implements, without bumping into each other or the priest—or, God forbid, the coffin itself. Janis told the boys a story about a mass in another church in some unnamed city, where a coffin had actually been knocked over by two altar boys. The resulting crash, he explained, had sprung the locks on the casket and sent the body rolling to the floor. Devlin smiled at the story. He doubted its veracity. Priests and nuns, he knew from childhood, were very good at fabricating horrific tales to achieve desired behavior.

  Movement on the other side of the church caught Devlin’s eye. When he looked he saw Ollie Pitts pushing a broom down a side aisle. Pitts was dressed in a brown work shirt and trousers, his weapon secured in an ankle holster. Ollie’s appearance in the church was Devlin’s signal to leave. He would go out the front door, then go directly to the rectory, where he would reenter the church through the sacristy behind the altar. When Ollie left the church proper, a third detective would enter the front door and assume Devlin’s previous position. The plan was designed to rotate personnel: to keep one person in visual contact with Father Janis at all times and not tip off the fact that surveillance was under way.

  Fifteen minutes later, Father Janis finished his rehearsal and entered the sacristy.

  “What’s on your schedule now?” Devlin asked.

  The priest glanced at his watch. “I’ll be having my dinner. Then I have a novena at seven-thirty.”

  “Then you’re in for the night?”

  “Yes.”

  Devlin nodded. “We’ll have one man inside the rectory and two outside. How’s your pastor taking all this? I know it’s a bit intrusive.”

  The priest gave him a weak smile. “He’s not pleased. But it’s not really you and your men who are displeasing him.”

  “You, huh?”

  Father Janis nodded. “Me, my lifestyle—which of course he was not aware of before—everything that produced the need for all this. He has some very strong ideas about how a priest should behave. And rightly so, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you like me to talk to him?”

  Janis shook his head. “I don’t think it would do any good. After all, as I said, he’s right. My actions brought this on everyone.”

  Devlin took the priest’s arm and began walking him to the door that led to the rectory. “Not for a minute, Father,” he said. “One thing you learn, being a cop, is that people make choices that get them into trouble. Sometimes it’s as simple as walking down the wrong street at the wrong time. But they don’t cause the trouble. The person waiting on that street causes it. Right now we’ve got someone who’s playing God because he disapproves of the way you live your life. He’s the one who’s causing this, not you.”

  Janis stopped walking and offered up his weak smile again. “But he’s right. I chose my sins.”

  Devlin shrugged the statement away. “You’re in a better position to judge that than I am, Father, but I suspect we all choose our sins. I do know our perpetrator doesn’t have the right to play God—or, from my standpoint, to anoint himself judge and jury and executioner. I also know you can’t be blamed for our killer’s madness any more than I can.”

  The priest nodded, the smile becoming a bit stronger. “Thank you,” he said. “I do appreciate everything you and your men are doing.”

  “It’s what we’re supposed to do, Father,” Devlin said. “We’re supposed to keep the bastards from winning.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The church was dark except for the light that came from the altar, and it cast only a faint glow out into the pe
ws where the parishioners knelt. There weren’t many, and again it was mostly older women. Emilio liked that. It gave him a sense of security.

  He watched the priest move about the altar, preparing to offer his final benediction. The thought brought a faint smile to his lips. It was amusing, this final benediction. It would be final in more ways than the priest understood.

  Emilio was seated near the front of the church, close to a side door that led into a small garden that sat between the rectory and the church proper. When the service ended, and the priest and altar boys went into the sacristy to disrobe, he would enter the garden and wait. He had watched once before, and he knew it was the route the priest would take when he left the church. It was a good place, a quiet place.

  Emilio sat back in the pew and immediately took comfort from the pressure at the small of his back. A 32-caliber Beretta was tucked into the rear of his waistband, replacing the one he had left behind in the woman detective’s apartment. He touched his side pocket, assuring himself that the three-inch-long suppressor was there. Once it was fitted to the Beretta, the sound of each shot would be no louder than a small book falling against a table. This would be his weapon of choice from now on. There would be no more special instructions from Charles, no more variations that made the job harder. There were only a few priests left, and he intended to put them away as quickly and quietly and safely as he could. Then he would leave the country.

  He had not yet decided if he would return to Colombia or, if he did, if he would continue to work for the Chavarría cartel. He had not liked the look in Estaves’s eyes. The man had stared at him as though he were already in his grave. But he could stop that from happening. There were others he could work for whose own power would forestall any punishment Chavarría might have planned. His failings had not been so great that Chavarría would risk warfare with a rival group.

  A stirring in the congregation brought him back from his reverie, and when he looked toward the altar he saw the priest and the altar boys moving toward the door that led to the sacristy. He slipped from his pew and quietly walked to the side door, glancing back once, then again, to be sure no one was watching him.

  Outside, the air was sultry, trapped as it was between the church and the three-story rectory. There was also a smell of roses. He followed the scent to a large bush, momentarily thought about using it for concealment, and then noticed a small stone bench slightly to its left. It was situated in a dark comer, perfect for his purposes. He could sit and wait. It would all be so easy.

  He had barely seated himself, the thought of how simple it would be still in his mind, when the door of the rectory opened and another priest started down the path to the church. This one was older than the one he had targeted. He had a full head of gray hair and a slight stoop to his walk.

  Emilio muttered an oath under his breath as various scenarios rushed through his mind. He could kill this old priest, pull his body off the path, and wait for the other. Or he could let the priest pass, hope he did not notice someone resting in his garden, and then hope again that he would not return with the priest he was waiting to kill.

  Emilio rejected the first two ideas. He had no interest in killing anyone he had not been paid to kill. It was a waste of effort, and it also brought additional danger. Every killing, he knew too well, offered the possibility that clues to his identity would be left behind. The fewer the killings, the fewer chances that would happen.

  But allowing the priest to enter the church also presented dangers. The church would be his route of escape when he left the garden, and having this priest inside raised the possibility of a confrontation. If that happened, and if any old women were left inside, it would be even more dangerous. Then, if the old priest confronted him about his presence in the garden, he would have to kill everyone present.

  As the priest tottered toward him, Emilio made up his mind. He eased back into the darkness of the rosebush and allowed the priest to move past. Then he came up quickly behind him. A solitary blow from the butt of his pistol dropped the old priest like a stone.

  Just as quickly Emilio returned to the shadow of the rosebush. Now the old priest was not only out of the way but provided a service as well. Now he was a decoy. With any luck he would distract the targeted priest and make Emilio’s job that much easier.

  Five minutes later the priest he was waiting for left the church through the side door and started across the garden. Halfway down the path he came to an abrupt halt, uttered a quick, “Oh, my God,” and rushed to the fallen body.

  Emilio stepped from behind the bush and moved forward, the noise of his steps hidden by the sound of the priest’s voice as he tried to rouse his fallen comrade.

  Emilio stopped behind him and raised the pistol until the end of the suppressor was only inches from the priest’s head. Then something happened that he had not anticipated. Somehow the priest sensed his movement and spun around, one hand striking the side of the pistol. The silenced shot made hardly a sound, but the bullet went harmlessly past the priest’s shoulder and plowed into the garden.

  The priest was on him immediately, his eyes filled with rage.

  “What did you do to him?” he hissed. “What did you do?”

  The priest’s hand had clamped onto Emilio’s wrist, and twisted the automatic away. It was a fierce grip, stronger than Emilio ever would have expected. Desperately, he brought his knee up into the priest’s groin, but the man only grunted and held fast to his wrist.

  Emilio drove the crown of his head forward, striking the man squarely in the face: once, twice, then a third time. Finally the grip loosened, but almost instinctively the priest’s hand shot out, his fist connecting with the side of Emilio’s jaw.

  The next thing Emilio knew, he was on his back, staring up at the man. The pistol was still in his hand, and he raised it and fired two quick shots. Each struck the priest in the chest, and he staggered back and finally dropped to his knees.

  Emilio was up immediately. He raised the pistol until it was again only inches from the priest’s forehead.

  Blood and bone and tissue flew from the back of the priest’s head. His entire body jerked and then he slumped forward like a rag doll, all muscle control gone as every nerve in his shattered brain shut down.

  Emilio didn’t wait. He bent and fired an insurance round into the back of the priest’s neck. A chill went through his body, and his arms and legs began to tremble. He was unable to move for several moments. Finally, he turned and walked haltingly back toward the church. The man had almost had him—this man, this maricón. The realization frightened and then disgusted him, and it sent another involuntary shiver through his body. He glanced back, almost fearfully, almost as though he expected the dead priest to rise and come at him again. The man was still lying there, put away for good. Normally Emilio would take pleasure in that—pleasure in another job done well. This time he was just grateful to have escaped. This time he had no reason to admire his work, no reason at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Devlin did not admire the assassin’s work. The other hits had been clean and neat with no witnesses left behind. This one had been sloppy from start to finish. The crime scene showed the dead priest had fought, which raised the possibility that forensic evidence had been left behind. All of which was good. It was what every detective wanted from a murder scene. But it wasn’t enough to improve Devlin’s black mood. There was one damned problem. The victim had been the wrong priest.

  Father Arpie’s words came back to him. You’re assuming that every parish in the archdiocese follows our instructions and reports serious illnesses. Devlin stood in the small garden looking down at the body. His theory about alphabetized murders still fit. Father William Halloran’s name was correctly situated in the alphabet. It just didn’t appear on the list Arpie had given him. Devlin shook his head in frustration. Father Halloran’s decision not to report his illness to the archdiocese, or his delay in doing so, had been as good as signing his own death warrant.


  And that was the problem, the immediate question he now had to answer. How many more names between the letter H, for Halloran, and the letter J, for Janis, were on the killer’s list and not on Arpie’s? That, and where the hell were the names coming from? His interview with the older priest—the one the killer had knocked unconscious (and the pastor of the church, as it turned out)—confirmed that Halloran had indeed contracted the AIDS virus. It also confirmed that like the other murdered priests he had not been involved in any therapy or counseling. He had been diagnosed by his personal physician three months earlier and began treatment under his care. Nothing more, no other contacts. It was another dead end.

  Devlin had already determined that there had been no common doctor for the four slain priests and no common insurance carrier. Nor had their prescriptions been filled by the same pharmacy. Even the laboratories that had done the individual blood work were different. Efforts to find out if the information was coming through a central insurance information center were meeting resistance and would probably require a subpoena. So far the only common factor had been the archdiocese, and Father William Halloran’s murder had just blown that all to hell.

  This last murder had taken place in the Hushing section of Queens, as he and Ollie Pitts had meticulously guarded Father James Janis in Manhattan. Devlin didn’t even want to think about how foolish he looked. While he and Ollie played cat and mouse, Queens precinct detectives had caught the latest case and had initiated the preliminary investigation. As he had with the other murders, Devlin had arrived at the scene and immediately reassigned those detectives to work with his unit until the murders were solved. Soon their precinct commander would complain to his superiors at One Police Plaza, who would promptly pass his objections on to the mayor’s office. Complaints were fast becoming a chorus. Devlin had now treaded on the turf of four precinct commanders in three of the city’s boroughs, and—with a little urging from the brass at the Puzzle Palace—they all had bitched about their diminished personnel. It was something Devlin lived with on each case. The “mayor’s squad,” as the unit was derisively known, was not a favorite with the NYPD brass. Devlin’s ability to supersede senior commanders under a mayoral directive—including those who outranked him—challenged the department’s closely guarded power structure. Lower-ranking commanders, especially those who wished to curry favor with the top brass, were quick to add their voices to a long list of complaints. Soon, if the investigation didn’t take a dramatic turn, the press would join in, eagerly fed by the senior commanders Devlin had bypassed.