The 7th Canon

by Robert Dugoni

  “Show me that map again. Where was the priest before he found the kid?”

  Donley took out the sheet of paper with the crude sketch Father Martin had drawn during their visit. “At seven that evening, he went here, to his office, to pay bills and do paperwork. At about ten minutes after nine, he put the log of residents in his Bible and locked both in his desk. Then he got up to lock the front door to the building.” Donley used his finger to demonstrate Father Martin leaving the office and walking toward the front entrance. “He said he stalled and went to the dormitory. That’s the room here, at the opposite end of the hall. He stayed there for a few minutes, talking with a new kid who had checked in that night, then he left to lock the front door.”

  “I assume the kid is long gone.”

  “I would assume so, but if we can find Danny Simeon, he can vouch for Father Tom’s presence in the dormitory.”

  “Simeon’s the guy Dixon Connor visited in the hospital?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What does your guy say happened after he left the dorm?”

  Donley finished explaining what Father Martin said happened up until the moment he found Andrew Bennet.

  “What’s the estimated time of death?”

  “Medical examiner’s preliminary assessment has it between six and nine thirty p.m. Can’t be any more specific.”

  “What’s the report say about whether the body was moved or not?”

  “Inconclusive. The report indicates a blow to the back of the head but concludes the body was stabbed at the shelter.”

  “Somebody could have knocked Bennet out and carried him in.”

  “That’ll be my argument—if I get to make it.”

  “What about the drops of blood?”

  “Could have come from blood spatter or dripped from the murder weapon.”

  “The letter opener.”

  “Again, the ME can’t say with certainty.”

  “Who wrote up the report?” Ross asked, sounding frustrated.

  Donley had to dig the report out of his briefcase and flip to the last page. “A Dr. Wendle Tong.”

  “Dr. Undetermined,” Ross said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tong has a well-deserved reputation of never wanting to go out on a limb and provide a definitive cause of death. They refer to him as Dr. Undetermined. That could help you.” Ross looked up at the building. “Make me a list of what you want.”

  “You’re going in?”

  “Can’t think of a better way.”

  Donley considered the building. He’d broken into more than a few during his teenage years, but now, he would be putting his career at risk. Then he thought of Father Martin turning down a plea of twenty-five years.

  “If you’re going in, I’m going with you.” Donley folded the diagram and put it back in his pocket.

  Ross shook his head. “There’s not much anyone can do to me if I get caught. You have a career.”

  “Maybe not after Thursday,” Donley said, and pushed out of the car.

  Ross met him on the passenger side of the car and offered Donley a stick of gum. “Chew it good.”

  Donley chewed the gum as he followed Ross between a gap in the chain-link fence to the back of the building. Ross paused to study a ground-floor window protected by iron bars, then continued to an overgrown hedge. He pushed it aside, revealing a sunken stairwell. The door at the bottom had no handle, just a metal plate.

  “That’s got to be the door that leads to the boiler room,” Donley said.

  Ross looked about the playground. “At night, it would have been completely hidden.” Ross walked down the steps, surveying the concrete. Donley knew he was looking for drops of blood. They found none.

  They moved to a fire escape hanging from the second story, a San Francisco building-code requirement. Ross considered the lowest rung, which was out of reach, then stood with his back to the building and cupped his hands. “Give me your foot.”

  Donley stuck the sole of his shoe in the cup, and on the count of three, Ross lifted him up and he grabbed the lowest rung. The fire escape unfolded in a rush, like an accordion, the clang of metal echoing in the quiet canyon of the concrete park. They froze, but the sentry wasn’t interested enough to leave the comfort of the front steps.

  Ross followed Donley up the fire escape stairs, which swayed and shook, to a landing outside a locked door. Ross searched the door frame for an alarm before kneeling and removing a black-leather case from his blazer.

  Donley took the piece of gum from his mouth. “Do you want my gum?”

  Ross looked at it with disgust. “Why would I want your gum?”

  “I assumed you needed it to cut off the alarm or something.”

  Ross shook his head. “You’ve been watching way too much television. You looked nervous. Chewing gum helps relieve anxiety.”

  Donley must have looked unconvinced.

  “Seriously, it’s a medical fact,” Ross said, sliding on a pair of surgical gloves. He handed Donley a second pair, then unzipped the case, revealing a set of stainless-steel tools.

  “Tools of the trade?” Donley asked, putting on his gloves.

  “I confiscated it from a burglar when I was a beat cop. The deputy DA used it to convict the guy, and I expressed admiration for the stuff. I like things like this. Don’t ask me why. Bet he never thought I’d use it to break into a building.”

  “Can you?”

  Ross smiled. “Oh ye of little faith. Time me.” He removed a miniature can of graphite spray and looked at Donley. “I’m serious. Time me. I like to challenge myself.”

  Donley played with the buttons on the side of his watch. “OK, MacGyver. Go.”

  Ross sprayed the lock, explaining the graphite freed the tumblers of dirt and grime. He then explained that he was using an Allen wrench and a tool known as a “rake” to apply force to the lock and worked to free the tumblers. After several attempts, the lock clicked. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. “Time?”

  Donley looked at his watch. “Two minutes twenty-three seconds.”

  Ross smiled and put away the tools.

  Inside, they walked down the hall past a small kitchen and a larger room with a worn-looking pool table. At the end of the hallway, they came to a closed door. Ross turned the knob and pushed it open, revealing metal-framed beds.

  “Dormitory,” Donley whispered.

  “Reminds me of the army,” Ross said.

  Six of the beds had covers thrown to the side. “How many were here that night?” Ross asked.

  “Father Martin said eight checked in, including Bennet.”

  Ross nodded to two beds still made. “Maybe someone else besides Bennet wasn’t planning on staying.”

  They left the dormitory. Donley’s shoes squeaked as they made their way down the linoleum to the other end of the hall, stopping at a door near the stairwell.

  “Should be the office,” Donley said, referring to the diagram.

  The lock had been busted. Ross pushed open the door and stepped in. Donley followed. The space was cramped, with a metal desk and a three-drawer, green file cabinet. Athletic lockers lined a wall. The padlocks had been broken. Donley opened each locker. Inside, he found cash, rings, gold chains, cigarettes, and a Walkman tape player.

  “Good instincts,” Ross said, keeping his voice low. “Someone was looking for something, but it wasn’t money or something they could pawn.”

  As Ross stepped to the window and looked down at the front entrance to ensure the police officer had remained there, Donley turned his attention to the desk. The locks on the drawers had also been punched in. He pulled open the upper right-hand drawer. The Bible with the log of occupants was not there. He checked the other drawers but did not find it.

  “It’s not here,” he said.

  Ross looked in the drawers. “You sure he said the desk?”

  “I thought so. Maybe he meant the file cabinet.” Donley turned his attention to the top drawe
r. “This is where Connor claims to have found the photographs.”

  The manila files inside the cabinet were neatly arranged and individually tabbed.

  “Somebody this anal isn’t likely to leave the murder weapon lying on the desk,” Ross said.

  Donley did not find the Bible.

  He pulled open a door at the back of the office, revealing a room no bigger than a walk-in closet with a metal-framed bed. Hooks screwed into the wooden sill beneath a small window served as a place to hang clothes. A lamp had been mounted to the wall over the head of the bed near a shelf holding half a dozen novels. Father Martin liked thrillers. On the wall above the bed hung a small crucifix. Splinter cracks radiated from the nail in the plaster. If Father Martin was to spend the rest of his life in a cramped jail cell, he was well prepared to do so.

  But there was no sign of the Bible or logbook.

  Donley walked back into the office. “It’s not here.”

  “And it wasn’t on the list of evidence they took that night?”

  “No.”

  “Then somebody had to have taken it,” Ross said. “Come on. We’ve got to keep moving.” He started for the door. “Let’s check out the recreation room.”

  Across the hall, yellow police tape crisscrossed two tall doors. Ross reached under the tape, pushed open the door, and ducked into the room. It reminded Donley of the many gymnasiums found in the upper stories of city buildings in which he’d played as a kid. There was only so much space for concrete parks. Basketball hoops hung on the walls at each end of the room. A knotted climbing rope dangled motionless near a pegboard. At the front of the room, a white cloth covered a folding table set up beneath a wooden crucifix. The image of Christ, head bowed, eyes closed, hung limply from the wood. The Nativity scene was to its left.

  Dried blood, nearly black in color, saturated a small wooden manger stuffed with straw. Donley looked away, moving to the metal door behind the altar. Painted the same color as the wall, the door was almost imperceptible. He pushed it open. Heavy and spring-loaded, it shut automatically. Had he not braced it, it would have shut with a thud. He opened it again and examined the other side. Like the door at the bottom of the stairs in the park, it had no handle, only a metal plate.

  As Donley started into the stairwell, Ross grabbed him by the collar. When he turned, Ross had a finger to his lips. He pointed with the other hand to the waffled sole of a shoe sticking out from under the cloth-draped altar.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “We’ll go through the boiler room.”

  Ross let the metal door slam closed and released the snap of his shoulder holster.

  The cloth covering the altar fluttered, and a boy crawled out backward, feet first. He stood, took one look at Ross and Donley, and started running. Donley caught him halfway across the room, subdued him with an armlock, and walked him back.

  “Just take it easy, and tell us what you’re doing here,” Ross said.

  The kid looked to be in his late teens, his red hair shaved on one side and long and straight on the other. He wore a silver ring in his right nostril, faded blue jeans, and heavy black work boots. A black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones and an unbuttoned, long-sleeve flannel shirt completed the ensemble. He didn’t respond.

  Donley tried a softer approach. “What’s your name?”

  The kid continued to study the linoleum.

  “Look,” Ross said, “if you won’t talk to us here, I have to take you downtown. You know the routine. So, tell me what you’re doing here.”

  The boy lifted his head. “Nothing.”

  “Strange place to be doing nothing,” Ross said. “How long have you been staying here doing nothing?”

  “Just last night.”

  “Never before last night?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you stay last night?”

  The kid shrugged. Ross looked to Donley and arched his eyebrows to indicate he wasn’t buying it.

  “Were you here last Wednesday?” Donley asked.

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to us, would you?” Ross asked, making the question sound rhetorical.

  “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “Do you know what happened that night?” Donley asked.

  The kid shook his head.

  “Really? Didn’t hear a thing?” Ross said.

  “No.” The kid shifted his gaze between Donley and Ross. He said, “Fine, I heard the priest killed that kid. We all heard it.”

  “Did you know Andrew Bennet?” Donley asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Not really, or not at all?” Ross asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Wasn’t well liked, was he?” Ross said. “Did heavy drugs, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know him.”

  “Heroin, crack, crystal meth. He was a junkie, wasn’t he?”

  Another shrug.

  Donley couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid. “How old are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know how old you are?” Ross said.

  “My mom wasn’t big on birthdays,” the kid said, voice dripping sarcasm.

  “Where’s your mom?” Donley asked.

  The kid smirked. “Guess.” He continued to shift from foot to foot.

  “You need to go to the bathroom?” Ross asked. “You look like you got ants in your pants. You know that’s a tell when a person is lying.”

  The kid stopped shifting.

  Donley said, “You know a guy named Danny Simeon? Worked here at the shelter.”

  He shook his head. “I told you, I’ve never been here before.”

  “How did you get in here?” Ross asked.

  “Window in the kitchen,” he said. “There’s a dumpster to stand on.”

  Ross looked to Donley and shrugged. “Would have been easier.” He reached into his pocket and handed the kid a business card. “Put this in your pocket. I want you to ask around, talk to all your buddies. I want the names of anyone who stayed here the night Bennet was killed. You call me at that number tomorrow at noon, and tell me what you’ve found out. You don’t call, and I’ll come looking for you.”

  The kid reached for the card, but Ross did not release it. “I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

  Dixon Connor watched Frank Ross come out the back door from the boiler room, followed by the red-haired kid and the lawyer, Peter Donley. “Frank Ross,” Connor said to himself.

  He raised the newspaper as Ross and the lawyer drove past in the Cadillac. Less than a minute later, the red-haired kid was at the passenger’s-side window.

  Connor pushed the door open. “Get in.” Red slid into the passenger seat. “Did you find it?” Connor asked.

  Red shook his head. “I didn’t see any book with names in it.”

  “What did they want?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Connor whipped the back of his hand across Red’s mouth, splitting his lip. Blood dripped onto the kid’s shirt. “You get blood in my new car, and you are really going to be in a lot of pain. Now, tell me what they wanted.”

  Red held his shirt to his mouth. “They wanted to know if I knew someone named Simeon,” he mumbled. “They wanted to know if I was there that night.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said no.”

  Connor grabbed Red’s hand, forced open the boy’s index finger, and put the first knuckle between the blades of pruning shears. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll start with the first knuckle and take them off one at a time. You understand me?”

  Red’s eyes went wide. “I didn’t say anything. I swear.”

  Connor let go of the hand. “Get the hell out of my car. You’re stinking it up.”

  Chapter 17

  Donley and Ross went in search of Danny Simeon. Ross said he recalled the Grub Steak, which was where Father Tom said Simeon kept a room, but that restaurant had gone
out of business, explaining why Donley had trouble finding it.

  Ross rubbed the cold from his hands and turned on the heater. It brought the distinct smell of hamburgers, which Donley assumed was from the fast-food bags discarded on the floor.

  “I’m hungry,” Ross said. “You hungry?”

  Donley had been staring out the window, recalling his first memory of his father beating him, and how close he’d come to running away and possibly living on the streets, maybe like the kids Father Tom was trying to help. He couldn’t remember the reason for the beating; there didn’t need to be one. His father beat him for any number of digressions, from spilling his cereal over the rim of his bowl to talking back. Mostly, he beat him because he was alive.

  “Hey? You with me?” Ross asked.

  Donley turned from the window. “What do you think makes a kid like that run away from home?”

  Ross shrugged. “First thing you got to understand is that with these kids, you never know what’s the truth and what’s fiction. They’ll bullshit the hell out of you, and they’re adept at it. It’s like some Vietnam vets; they all have a story. They all experienced combat and watched women and children being shot and mutilated. They all had their lives ruined. Listen, I was there, and I know that some did, no doubt about it, but for others, it’s just a sob story to separate you from some of your money. With these kids, sometimes it’s drugs; sometimes it’s broken and abusive homes. Sometimes it’s just the kid. Did you believe him?”

  Donley shook his head. “Something didn’t seem right.”

  “Like why he was there?”

  “Not the first cold night we’ve had,” Donley agreed.

  “And if he’s never stayed at the shelter, it means he has other places to go. These kids usually stick to what they know.”

  “You really think he’ll call?”

  Ross chuckled. “Stranger things have happened. I just wanted to give him the option and let him think I wasn’t done with him.”

  “What if he runs?”