“I’m here to, uh… I don’t know just how to put it…”
“Examine the scene of the crime,” she offered.
“Exactly.”
“Top of the stairs,” she said.
“Thanks.”
It struck him that she did not seem overly upset by the demise of the late archbishop. Perhaps she was putting up a good front. He went up the stairs. A uniformed cop was sitting beside the doorway into the bishop’s suite. Vail peered around the corner so he could see the bedroom. The grotesque bloodstains on the wall and carpet had turned brown. My God, he thought, somebody really did butcher Rushman.
“Who’re you?” the cop asked.
“Insurance man,” Vail answered.
“Lieutenant!” the cop yelled.
Stenner entered the hallway from the kitchen. He stopped for just an instant when he saw Vail, then stalked down the hall to the door.
“We’re turning into an item,” Vail said.
“What are you doing here?” Stenner asked absently, as if he really didn’t expect or want an answer.
“Scene of the crime, Lieutenant. I’m here in the interest of my client, which is our privilege. Unless Jack Yancey’s changed the law in the last couple of hours.”
“We’re still working here,” Stenner said brusquely. “You’ll have your chance when we’re out.”
Vail stared at the stained wall. “They really did a job on him, didn’t they?” he said.
“Yes. You’ll see when you get the pictures. The package you ordered will be on the sergeant’s desk, first precinct, first thing in the morning. That includes the autopsy, which just came back.”
“Thanks.”
Vail watched as a technician finished cutting a swatch from the carpet and dropped it into a plastic bag.
“I hope there’s something left to examine when you finish,” Vail said. “We’re going to be missing some tidbits here and there; I assume you’re going to share.”
“Don’t be difficult,” Stenner said, looking back into the room.
“I’ve got a subpoena here, Lieutenant…”
“When we’re through we’ll let you know, Counselor. Now do you mind?” He pointed toward the door.
Vail went back downstairs. Sister Mary Alice was gone. He walked across to the office and looked in.
Standing alone on a small table facing the desk was a small bronze sculpture of Pope Paul VI, his arms extended as if to enfold the world, his head tilted in an expression of compassion. Hanging on the wall behind the desk—like a stem and resolute guardian of the premises—was a photograph of the only man to whom Bishop Rushman had been responsible, Pope John Paul II.
The desk was a large, heavy mahogany piece, as were the three chairs arranged in a semicircle before it. It was a cold, austere room except for an easy chair in one comer, with several books and periodicals piled beside it, and well-stocked, built-in bookcases on the two side walls of the room, which added warmth to the otherwise stark interior.
Vail entered the office, walking down beside the bookshelves. They were jammed with an eclectic mixture: religious periodicals, a leather-bound code of canon law, and religious tracts; foreign-language editions of novels by Dante, Dostoyevski and other great writers; the works of Rousseau, Locke, Hobbes and Darwin; as well as studies of the psyche by Freud, Kant and Schopenhauer.
His desk was tidy. Telephone, Rolodex, two letter trays and an appointment book, still open to the day of the murder. Vail leafed through it. Meetings, writing deadlines, dinners and consultations were entered on every line, sometimes only fifteen minutes apart. For the fateful evening, he had scribbled in “Altar boy critique” and “tape sermon” followed by “Subject-Descartes: I think therefore I am. Ergo, if all problems can be solved by human reason, does God become obsolete? Explain.”
It was an interesting thesis and Vail jotted it down in his notebook, more out of curiosity than because he thought it might be relevant to the case. Then he tried the drawers. The one on the upper left was locked. He took a paper clip from the center drawer, bent it double and slipped it into the keyhole, twisting it, sensing the tumblers, then feeling it catch and twist the lock open. He slid open the drawer. Inside was a small leather journal. The front half was an address book, the back half was marked “Personal Appointments.”
He checked the appointment pages randomly. For March 9, Rushman had penciled in “Linda 555-4527.” There were very few other notations. It would seem the archbishop had little time for personal endeavors. Vail scribbled the information down in his own notebook and closed and relocked the drawer. He got up and looked at the titles of other books on the shelves but was interrupted by a soft Irish accent.
“Excuse me, Detective, may I help you?”
The priest who had entered the room was in his fifties, portly, with pure white hair and a pleasant, almost cherubic face. But his features seemed to sag from the weight of the past few days and his eyes were bloodshot, either from lack of sleep or from crying. He wore a black band on his left sleeve.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m not a policeman, Father, I’m an attorney.” Vail hesitated a moment before adding, “I represent Aaron Stampler.”
“I see,” the priest said, apparently neither shocked nor upset by the admission. “I’m Father Augustus Delaney,” he said, and held out his hand.
“Vail. Martin Vail.”
“Poor Aaron,” he said. “God bless the lad. I pray for his forgiveness.”
“Did you know him?”
“Oh yes. A pleasant lad, y’know. God knows what terrible demons captured his soul that he should commit such an act.”
Vail decided against his usual sermon on the quality of innocence.
“It’s an irony, isn’t it?” Father Delaney said softly. “The bishop is not only the victim, but his privacy is violated even in death. What a shame the dear man can’t rest in peace.”
“I agree,” Vail said. “Look, Father, this is probably a very dumb question, but what exactly does a bishop do?”
The priest smiled and walked around the desk to check the mail. “Why, he runs the show, Mr. Vail,” he said, leafing through the letters. “The Holy See—the archdiocese.” He returned the unread sheaf of paper to the letter tray and turned the pages of the appointment book until it was current.
“There are fifty-three hundred square miles in this See,” he went on, running his finger down the list of appointments as he spoke. “Seven colleges and universities, several hundred elementary and high schools, twelve hospitals, three hundred and twelve parishes and missions, over a thousand priests, over a hundred brothers and approximately three thousand nuns. Also thousands of deacons and lay workers.” He looked up and smiled. “Impressive territory, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very,” Vail answered.
Delaney leaned against the comer of the desk with his hands folded together and said, “Bishops are the bond between parishioners and priests and the Vatican. ‘Teachers of doctrine, priests of sacred worship, and ministers of governance,’ that’s the job description by canon law. An immense job, sir; the stress of it has destroyed more than one good priest.”
“And how did the archbishop handle it?”
“He thrived on it. His schedule was full from morning till night, there were always delegations, meetings, and of course Savior House and the Bishop’s Fund, which finances all his other charity works. In addition to everything else, the archbishop writes … wrote … articles on theology for the Catholic Digest and several national lay publications, answered the mail from parishioners and priests and wrote a weekly column for the Tribune. Then there were sermons, of course, and responses to the nuncio.”
“Nuncio?”
“Papal correspondence. Bishops are accountable only to the pope, Mr. Vail; they have great discretionary power.”
“Oh. How long was he bishop?”
“Appointed by Paul the Sixth. That was in 1975. They were great friends. He was not that close t
o Pope John.”
“Why is that?”
Delaney shrugged. “Perhaps he was too … outspoken.”
“About what?”
“Come along,” Delaney said, “I have to check the altar.” The priest motioned him to follow and, as they continued the conversation, led him down the corridor toward the church. “Understand, Mr. Vail, this is a difficult time for all American bishops. They’re pulled one way, then another. There’s the liberal element—they want the Church to change its attitude about everything from birth control and abortion to celibacy and the ordination of women. Then there are the traditionalists—no change at all is too much for them. A very stressful situation exists throughout the Church. Several bishops have taken extended leaves of absence because of the stress.”
“And Archbishop Rushman took stands on these issues?”
“He tried to … ameliorate … the differences within his See. To make it a matter of the individual’s own conscience. The Vatican takes a more rigid stand.”
“That get him in trouble with Rome?”
“No, not trouble. Suspect, perhaps. The Holy Father is quite conservative.”
“Did the bishop have a fairly set routine?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “He was usually downstairs in the common room by seven-ten, seven-fifteen. We would have morning prayers. Then he would prepare for the first mass. He did everything himself. The mass was his joy—you could almost call it an obsession. He turned on the lights himself, lit the altar candles, got the hosts, refilled the cruets with wine and water. Read morning mass without an altar boy. After mass he ate breakfast and read the newspapers—the Tribune, New York Times and Wall Street Journal. Then he would do his writing and mail. Afternoons were for meetings.”
“Evenings?”
“Dinners, banquets, speeches. Tuesday night was reserved for preparing his sermon. He taped them on a video camera, y’know, studied them, made sure they were perfect. He also taped the altar boys at mass and critiqued them.”
“A perfectionist?” Vail offered as they reached the apse and stopped. Several nuns were draping the altar with black bunting and lilies. Half a dozen people were in the church praying. From somewhere near the rear of the church there came the sound of a man’s soft sobbing.
“In some things. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Vail, he was quite human. I will miss him greatly.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your problem, sir. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.”
“Thanks for your help,” Vail said as the priest walked away, genuflected in front of the altar and went into the sacristy. Vail went back down the corridor to the rectory to the rear door and stepped outside. He was standing below the bishop’s apartment.
What was it the paper said? He ran out the kitchen door and a patrol car in the alley spooked him.
To his left was a heavy wooden staircase leading from the back of the apartment. He walked a few feet into the yard and scanned the ancient L-shaped brick building, walked to the corner and checked it out. The small windows on each side of the corner told him he was probably standing below the bathroom. He went back inside, walked down the long hall to the church and stood for several minutes, staring at the confessionals on both sides of the apse.
That’s the way he came. Out the kitchen door, down the back stairs. Then the patrol car scared him so he ran back inside. Came down this corridor and hid in one of these confessionals.
Why? If he didn’t do it, why did he take the knife and run for it?
And where did the real murderer go?
“He was in the first one, over there on the other side,” a voice behind him said, and he turned to face Sister Mary Alice.
“That one?” he asked, pointing across the church.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Strange place to hide.”
“Not at all. It’s like a closet. Children love to hide in closets.”
“Children? Aaron hardly qualifies as a child.”
“Man-child,” she said. “Have you met him yet?”
“Yes.”
“Beautiful boy, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I’d say that. He’s also nineteen. In this state, you’re considered a man when you’re sixteen.”
“Which means?”
“Which means they can electrocute him.”
“Can you save him from that, Mr. Vail?”
“So you know why I’m here?”
“Of course. We do read the newspapers—and watch TV.”
“I’m representing Aaron.”
“I assumed that.”
“How well do you know him?”
“As well as anyone, I suppose,” she said warmly. “We all know him.”
“What’s he like?”
“A very hard worker. Thoughtful. Sharing. A very sweet boy.”
“Did he have any reason to murder the archbishop?”
“Is there ever any reason for murder, Mr. Vail?”
TEN
Vail burst into the house as if he had been blown through the door by the wind. He was talking as he came in and he stormed into his office without even taking off his coat.
“Call Wall Eye McGinty’s, tell the Judge I need him. If he gives you any static about it being post time out in California someplace, tell him I said tough shit. I want him here now! Then call Checker and send a cab downtown for him. And I need Tommy Goodman’s phone number, I never can remember…”
“It’s 555-4411. Real easy. What the hell’s going on?”
He talked as he dialed. “The Heinrich Himmler of King’s County just blindsided us.”
“Shoat?”
“Who else?”
“What happened?”
“He dropped the pro bono bomb of the decade in our lap.”
“You’ve got a pro bono already. His name is Leroy—”
“Try Aaron Stampler.”
Her mouth dropped open two inches. “Oh my Ga-a-a-hd,” she said.
“That’s putting it mildly. We’ve got sixty days to put a case together and I just met the defendant for the first time. Hello, Tommy … damn it, I know you’re there, pick up the phone, it’s me … Screw that answering machine, this is important.”
“So is my peace of mind,” Goodman said as he picked up the receiver. He had the hard, nasal voice of an ex-fighter.
“What’re you doing?”
“This is the end of the quarter. I got finals in two days. Orals, man.”
“I need you over here right now.”
“Good-bye,” he said, and hung up.
“Damn it,” Vail yelled, and redialed. Naomi stuck her head in the door. “Judge says it’s post time at Santa Anita in ten minutes, then he’ll be over.”
“Christ, I … hello, Tommy, it’s me again. Now listen to me, I got something very, very hot on my hands. I’m going to need you for sixty days. I’ll pay you twenty grand, ten a month.”
Goodman picked up.
“Twenty grand for two months!”
“That’s enough to put you through the rest of law school and set you up in practice—if you don’t come to work for me. But I need you, body and soul, night and day, for the next two months. You’ll have to drop out of school next quarter. If it’s a problem, I can call Dean Markowitz …”
“It won’t be a problem, I just hate to lose a quarter this close to the end. And I got this oral in two days, on fucking torts.”
“Torts, hell,” Vail said. “You’re going to be a litigator, not a goddamn real estate attorney. Anyway, the Judge’ll coach you all day tomorrow. The cab’ll be there in ten minutes.” And this time it was Vail who hung up. He yelled to Naomi, “You got the cab yet?”
“I got Maxie. Nobody else would come. He’s thinking it over.”
Vail punched the button and grabbed up the phone.
“Max?”
“Hey, Mr. Vail. Look, man, have you seen—”
“Max, I don’t want any shit. Get in your fucking cab, go b
y Wall Eye’s place and pick up the Judge, then swing over to Sutton and get Tommy. Go by Ike’s and get enough deli for ten or twelve sandwiches, some drinks, beat it back here, pronto.”
“You can’t even use chains in this shit.”
“A hundred bucks, Max.”
“Who’d you say I pick up first?”
Tommy Goodman was ready to go and waiting for the cab in five minutes. It was always that way when Marty called. Funny how Vail could get Goodman’s adrenaline pumping with a two-minute phone call. Goodman could stare at the answering machine, listen to Vail rave and rant, try to ignore him, but in the end could not resist that hypnotic voice, the grifter’s promise of excitement on the shady side, and so finally he would succumb, knowing that the master con man of the court would lure him away from whatever he was doing with the easy charm of a snake luring a rabbit into its jaws.
It had all started that unfortunate night eight years ago in the old Arena on Twelfth Street. Twelfth Street… Christ, how he missed it. The drab old barn had been replaced by a gigantic domed stadium affectionately known as the Tit, with fake grass, air-conditioning, fast-food pits and a brand-new football team bought and paid for by the bankers, lawyers, hotel keepers and business entrepreneurs to whom it was just another peg in the cribbage board, that image barometer of growth and progress used to lure conventioneers, tourists and big-time spenders into the fold. Out-of-town bucks were the prize, that greedy infusion of green blood pumping into the city’s heart which kept its financial circulation pounding, made the rich richer, the poor poorer and kept the great middle masses marching in place. Boxing, that Neanderthal bloodletting, now was relegated to seedy little rinks in the mill town satellites of the city, out of sight and sound of the grandeur of, say, professional football, which took much longer to separate knees, destroy shoulders, ruin ankles, pulverize the bones and scramble the brains of its six-and-seven-figure steroid gladiators. The stringpullers of course enjoyed an antiseptic view of the game. Sitting far above the masses in their plush club rooms, the kingmakers were spared the real sounds of gridiron battle—the thunder of bodies slamming together, the cries of pain, the snap of bones, all the true epithets of glory. What it was all about was what it’s always about—money in the bank.
Primal Fear Page 9
