Life Sentence

by Andrew Neiderman

  ‘Bless me, Father,’ Bradley said as he looked down at him, ‘for I have sinned.’

  He paused, took another long gulp of lemonade, wiped the glass clean of his prints with a napkin and then stepped out of the rectory.

  The sunlight was stronger, the warmth greater. He smiled and, rejoicing in the bounce in his steps, hurried away to join the parade of people walking briskly down the sidewalk in the upscale East side neighborhood where the windows of shops were filled with the world’s most expensive designer clothing, jewelry, shoes and cosmetics. It was a world of promise ready to deliver itself to the rich and famous.

  He was neither, but he was none the less as pleased to be there as any of them were.

  ‘What is all this?’ Tucker asked Palmer. He was sifting through documents. Tucker looked at one. ‘Bradley Preston Morris’ death certificate? Why did you get all this stuff?’

  ‘I didn’t see any harm in checking into her story before we talked further with the mother. Something still bothers me. There has to be some connection, Tucker. Why would this guy go to rob Ceil Morris? Why her of all people?’

  ‘Oh no. You’re not still going to pull that intuition stuff on me with this, are you?’

  Palmer didn’t answer. He continued to carefully go through the documentation from the state prison system and the criminal records. He stared at the photographs of Bradley Morris for a few moments and then sat back in his chair.

  ‘Maybe what we should do is get a computerized projection as to what this guy would look like in his nineties and bring it over to his mother to confirm the disguise used. That might help us locate this killer.’

  ‘Really? You sure you don’t think we should start with some of the people who signed these documents, especially this Dr Crowley who signed the death certificate?’ Tucker asked, half-kidding. ‘You know, demand to know why he said someone was dead when he wasn’t?’

  Palmer considered the document again. ‘Woodbourne. That’s about a two-hour drive,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should do just that.’

  ‘I was just kidding, Palmer. We can’t justify such a trip, especially with the story Mrs Morris gave us.’

  Palmer was silent. Tucker raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Palmer, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know. All right. Let me give this picture to Wizner to show her when he goes to see her about the robbery. Maybe he can bring Mrs Morris down to work with an artist and help us get up a reasonable current likeness.’

  ‘My guess is he’s gotten rid of the disguise by now,’ Tucker said. ‘He was smart enough to wipe the taxicab handles; he’s smart enough to change his appearance.’

  ‘Still, it won’t hurt to have both the actual likeness and his creative changes. Maybe we’ll release them side by side. We’ve done that before with perps who tried to change their appearances.’

  ‘Um. Yeah, maybe, but I don’t trust you,’ Tucker added. ‘Next thing I know, you’ll find out when this Morris character was born and bring out one of those astrological charts or something.’

  Palmer laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Be right back,’ he said rising.

  Tucker sat down to read some of the documentation while Palmer went off to take care of the artistic rendition using Mrs Morris’ information. He didn’t look up when Palmer returned.

  ‘Intriguing stuff, huh?’

  Tucker smirked.

  ‘C’mon, admit it. Didn’t you see that the convict who attacked and supposedly killed Bradley Morris was killed himself in prison soon after?’

  ‘So? All it means to me is we’re apparently doing a very bad job of protecting rapists and killers in prisons.’

  ‘You need a little dose of paranoia,’ Palmer said. He started to put the documents in a large envelope just as the phone rang. Tucker took the call.

  ‘Tucker, homicide,’ he said and listened. As he did so, he lifted his gaze to Palmer. ‘We’re on our way,’ he said and cradled the receiver slowly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our senior citizen just killed a priest uptown, Father Martin.’

  ‘So, he didn’t discard that disguise,’ Palmer immediately said.

  ‘Well OK, maybe it isn’t a disguise,’ Tucker relented.

  ‘Was it a robbery?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll see. There was no mention of a robbery, but why else would he kill a priest?’

  ‘Something tells me we have a ways to go before any of this makes any sense, Tucker,’ Palmer said. He nodded at the documents and then he and Tucker headed out.

  There were four black and whites parked outside the rectory and two uniforms guarding the front entrance when they pulled up. Newspaper reporters were just arriving.

  ‘Who’s been inside at the scene?’ Tucker asked immediately. The taller policeman confessed to entering.

  ‘I had to look. Father Martin’s clerk was quite hysterical,’ he said, ‘but I was really careful.’

  ‘Where’s this clerk?’

  ‘He’s inside, in the kitchen with Sergeant Lewis.’

  Palmer and Tucker put on their gloves and shoe covers and entered the living room. Father Martin lay in a fetal position, the pool of blood spreading a stain on the rug beneath his neck. They heard crying coming from the kitchen and went in. Gerald was seated with his hands over his eyes, his body shaking with his sobs. Sergeant Lewis stood beside him, his right hand on Gerald’s shoulder. He looked quite shaken himself.

  ‘I knew Father Martin pretty well,’ he immediately explained.

  Gerald looked up slowly, wiping his cheeks with his handkerchief and taking a deep breath.

  ‘This is Gerald Spenser, Father Martin’s clerk,’ Sergeant Lewis said.

  ‘Did you witness this?’ Tucker asked Gerald.

  He slowly lowered his hands, sucked in his breath and shook his head. ‘No, I brought them lemonade and then I left. I heard the man leave and looked in.’ His face began to crumble again. ‘Father Martin’s body was still quivering. I never felt as helpless as when I saw the … ghastly slash in his throat and all that blood.’

  ‘Did you ever see the man before?’ Palmer asked.

  Gerald shook his head.

  ‘Anything missing?’ Tucker asked.

  ‘No,’ Gerald said and then bitterly added, ‘just Father Martin’s precious and holy life.’

  They heard the CSI team arriving. Tucker looked in on them, but Palmer remained with Gerald and Sergeant Lewis to continue gathering information.

  ‘Was he dressed in coveralls?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Quite elderly?’

  ‘Yes and … no.’

  ‘Yes and no?’

  ‘Well, he looked like my grandfather, but he had …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘More energy,’ Gerald said and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I know I’m not making any sense, but …’

  ‘Had you ever seen him here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could he have been in a disguise, make-up?’

  ‘Maybe, but if so, it was a damn good job,’ Gerald said.

  ‘What else do you know about him?’

  ‘What else? All I know about him is his name,’ Gerald said.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘He gave me his name when I greeted him at the door. He seemed to want to be sure Father Martin knew it was him.’

  ‘What name did he give you, exactly?’

  ‘At first, he said Bradley Preston Morris. He was somewhat sarcastic. I should have realized he wasn’t right. I should have known. I …’

  ‘So Father Martin knew him, knew Bradley Preston Morris?’

  Gerald looked up quickly. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Why would the killer make a point of giving you his name if Father Martin didn’t know him?’ Palmer asked softly.

  Sergeant Lewis looked at him and then at Gerald.

  ‘I don’t know everyone Father Martin knows,’ Gerald said. ‘He meets so many people. I me
an, met,’ he added sadly.

  ‘What about this guy? Do you know something about him?’ Sergeant Lewis asked Palmer.

  ‘If it’s the same guy, he apparently killed a taxi driver right near Lincoln Center last night. Same MO.’

  ‘He gets around. Mr Spenser here told me the guy looked pretty old, “too old to be dangerous to anyone except himself” were your exact words, were they not, Mr Spenser?’

  Gerald looked at Palmer and nodded. ‘Well, I mean … there was no way for me to know what he would do. I thought he was just some homeless person Father Martin had taken some interest in helping. He was quite … disheveled. He smelled, too,’ he added and wiped his cheeks with a handkerchief, dabbing them gently. ‘But I should have paid more attention to my instincts. As I said, I felt he had this … underlying energy. Something didn’t jive.’

  ‘After you let him in …’ Palmer thought a moment.

  ‘After you let him in, did you hear any of their conversation?’

  The way Gerald’s eyes twitched convinced Palmer that the man had eavesdropped, but wouldn’t admit it.

  ‘Accidentally, of course,’ Palmer added hopefully. ‘I mean, anything you heard could help us find this guy before he hurts someone else.’

  Gerald shook his head emphatically. ‘I don’t know any more about him. I don’t know anything else,’ he said firmly beginning to sound petulant.

  Tucker stepped back into the room. ‘He wiped the glass of lemonade,’ he announced in disappointment. He glanced at Gerald and then said, ‘It looks like he took Father Martin from behind, the angle of the slice,’ he added.

  Gerald looked down quickly. Palmer sensed something. It was like a tiny buzzer going off inside him.

  ‘You saw the murder, didn’t you?’ he asked Gerald.

  ‘I …’

  ‘You saw him kill Father Martin,’ Palmer insisted.

  ‘I didn’t see him actually kill him. I …’

  ‘What did you see, Mr Spenser? Your failure to be forthcoming could hamper us and leave this guy out there to do something else just as terrible.’

  ‘I glanced through the door and saw him standing by the crucifixion sculpture, the one in brass. He stroked it and mumbled something. Then I thought when he turned, he might see me watching so I quickly walked away.’

  ‘He touched the sculpture?’ Tucker followed. ‘You saw him do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe he left a print on it,’ Tucker told Palmer and turned to talk to the CSI unit in the living room.

  ‘What else did you forget to tell us, Mr Spenser?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Nothing. Honest. That’s it.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You can’t blame me for being … confused. Just a few hours ago, he was vibrant and alive and we were talking about an idea for a sermon,’ he muttered, now looking like someone alone, thinking aloud.

  Tucker returned. ‘They’re working on it,’ he said. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  Palmer nodded. ‘Mr Spenser, this is important to us,’ Palmer continued. ‘Do you know of any business, any contact Father Martin might have had with inmates in prison or any of the prison authorities?’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘Why are you asking him that?’ Tucker wanted to know. He had missed the beginning of the interrogation.

  ‘He said the man identified himself as Bradley Preston Morris and told him to so inform Father Martin.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Tucker asked, his eyebrows rising.

  ‘Mr Spenser … had Father Martin any contact with prison inmates?’ Palmer asked again.

  ‘Well, he was responsible for a program whereby members of the clergy from all faiths regularly visited with troubled souls.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Gerald said. ‘What other sort of contact?’

  ‘No special interest in anyone in particular, possibly this man?’

  ‘Everyone he comforted he gave special interest,’ Gerald replied. ‘I can’t believe this has happened,’ he suddenly added, looking at them all as if they were partly to blame. ‘To kill a man like Father Martin and so gruesomely, too. He must be Satan himself. I need a drink of water. I’m feeling nauseous, dizzy. Maybe I can lay down a while?’

  ‘OK. If you think of anything else, anything at all that might help us find this guy, please call me,’ Palmer said handing him his card.

  Gerald took it and nodded.

  Tucker’s cell rang. He stepped aside to take the call and then he nodded at Palmer, indicating they should go outside.

  ‘We can’t be more than a few hours behind this guy,’ Palmer started to say and stopped. ‘What now?’

  ‘Mrs Morris.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wizner went to look for Mrs Morris at Folio’s, but she didn’t report to work and didn’t call in so he went to her apartment …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Found her keeled over at the front door of her apartment.’

  ‘Not stabbed, too?’

  ‘No. Looks like a heart attack.’

  ‘And a convenient one at that,’ Palmer said.

  ‘Convenient for who?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ Palmer said. ‘I get the feeling Gerald Spenser knows more about all this than he’s telling us.’

  ‘Why hold back?’

  ‘Fear,’ Palmer said.

  ‘Fear?’

  ‘You weren’t in there with him when he was answering my questions. It was palpable,’ Palmer said.

  Tucker smirked. ‘He also thought Bradley Morris might be Satan.’

  ‘Maybe he is,’ Palmer said. ‘Maybe that’s how he’s come back from the dead.’

  ‘You’re kidding. I hope,’ Tucker added.

  ‘Yeah, I’m kidding, but,’ he said looking back at the death scene in the rectory, ‘you can’t help but think it. Why else would he choose a priest as his next victim?’

  ‘I agree. What happened to the good old-fashioned murders of passion and rage?’ Tucker asked as they returned to their car.

  ‘Maybe that’s what this exactly is,’ Palmer said.

  ‘From your lips to God’s ears,’ Tucker replied.

  They returned to the precinct. Later that day, Tucker reported the forensics on the statue.

  ‘They lifted two great prints. They’ve been running them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. No hits. Even the computer is exhausted looking. It appears we have some senior citizen who just happened to start a criminal career late in life, someone without any previous record.’

  ‘I don’t think we can be so quick to assume so, Tucker.’

  Palmer had that look on his face that Tucker knew all too well.

  ‘Why not? What?’ he asked. ‘I know you’re going to say something far out, Palmer.’

  ‘I requested Bradley Morris’ records. Guess what’s missing.’

  ‘Don’t tell me this, Palmer. I’m warning you,’ Tucker said and held his breath. Palmer nodded.

  ‘His prints.’

  ‘But he was in prison. He was convicted. You have his death certificate on the desk there. I read it. I read the report the warden submitted. There have to be fingerprints on file.’

  Palmer stared at him.

  ‘How do they lose his prints?’

  ‘You tell me,’ Palmer said rising. ‘Or maybe you can wait until afterward.’

  ‘Afterward? After what?’

  ‘I think we need to take a ride, Tucker.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If we leave right now …’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To Woodbourne.’

  ‘Woodbourne? You mean to speak to that doctor on the death certificate? What’s his name?’ He looked at the document. ‘Crowley?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s start with him and go over to the prison and see if we can talk to the warden. If not there, at his home,’ Palmer said.

  Tucker shook his head, gazed at the documents and then looked toward the chief’s office. ‘You tell him an
y of this yet?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s just time and gas for now,’ Palmer said.

  ‘You’re sure there aren’t any prints on file?’ Tucker asked again.

  ‘If it wasn’t for this death certificate and the report, I’d wonder if he even existed,’ Palmer said. ‘Not even a social security trail.’

  Tucker nodded slowly. ‘Man. You’re lucky you’re still unmarried, Palmer. You don’t have to explain all this overtime to a woman who is too smart to be fooled by anything but the truth.’

  ‘The truth’s fooling us, too,’ Palmer said.

  Tucker didn’t reply. He followed him out quietly instead. He had run out of arguments, and despite his reluctance to admit it, he was full of curiosity. Or what Palmer liked to call ‘Good paranoia’.

  Five

  Louis Williams saw the ambulance simply labeled EMERGENCY VEHICLE pull into his driveway. Against his doctor’s orders, he was having a cigarette. Despite the scientific evidence, the medical data and the people he had known who had died of either emphysema, lung cancer or heart failure, he could never accept that these coffin nails, as his grandfather referred to them, did all that much damage. They were valuable in prison and he held with others who rationalized away the danger by saying, ‘Everything kills you. Don’t eat this. Don’t do that. Don’t even breathe.’

  He wasn’t exactly brought up with, or associated with, people who were that intelligent anyway, he thought, as if that excused him from becoming an enforcer for a drug lord after a life of petty crime, a career move that sent him up the river for a ridiculous number of years. They might as well have given him life. He had been thirty-eight and sentenced to forty years with no hope of parole, and that was only for the crimes they could pin on him.

  Until the warden called him into his office that day and introduced him to Dr Oakland, Father Martin, Mr Temple and some other guy who just sat there staring at him, he had little hope of doing anything but rotting away in prison. Even though he was quite capable of protecting himself and had the respect of most other inmates, he knew that the day would come when he would be a victim, whether he’d be raped or just beaten to an inch of his life. Every single day involved another battle or maneuver for survival.

  And here were these distinguished looking, obviously powerful men offering him an opportunity to get out. They made it clear there were no guarantees, just very good possibilities and they justified their offer to him by telling him he would be doing something of great social value. As if that mattered to him. He could see, however, it apparently mattered to them. The priest in particular was very convincing, appealing to his fear of the unknown hell that awaited him. Father Martin had done his research, too, and knew Louis’s paternal grandfather was an Anglican minister. Not that he ever had liked the son of a bitch. He was the one most apt to pull off his belt and give him a good strapping from time to time, all in the name of the Lord.