White Tombs

by Christopher Valen

  “Pretty much all you need, is it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s all anyone ever needs.”

  Entering the cathedral at one of the north side entrances, Santana was struck by the silence and the heavy aroma of incense in the air. Six elderly women knelt between the pews, their rosary beads wrapped around their hands. He walked past a chapel and a statue of St. Matthew where a food shelf had been set up for needy families, spotted the archbishop standing near a confessional.

  “Detective John Santana. We met briefly at Julio Pérez’s funeral.” He didn’t offer Scanlon his hand.

  “Yes,” Scanlon said with a comfortable smile. “How’s the investigation proceeding?”

  “Starting to come together. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions if you aren’t too busy?”

  “Questions?”

  “About Father Hidalgo.”

  Scanlon still had the smile on his face, but it was lopsided now, as if Santana had just asked him to climb in the back of a hearse.

  “I have an appointment in thirty minutes,” he said, checking his watch.

  “This won’t take long.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Scanlon said it without enthusiasm and sat down in a nearby pew, next to his overcoat and flat-top hat.

  Santana sat down beside him. “You knew Father Hidalgo well?”

  “Quite well, actually. He was my former student when I taught at the Catholic University in Washington. I was truly stunned when I first heard about his death.”

  Scanlon might have been stunned, but the way he leaned back and rested one arm along the top of the pew, as though he was commiserating about the weather, said otherwise.

  “You have any idea why he would commit suicide?” Santana asked.

  “None at all. I saw no indication that Father Hidalgo was depressed. Do you think his death might not be a suicide?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Scanlon rubbed his gunmetal gray hair and said, “Well, I believe you’re a homicide detective are you not?”

  “We want to make certain his death wasn’t something other than a suicide.”

  “I understand. So much of what happens today makes little sense. It helps to have a strong faith in times such as these, to know that God created the universe. That He has a plan for everything.”

  “You ever think that maybe we have it backward?” Santana said. “That maybe we created God?”

  Scanlon looked at Santana like he had said two plus two equals six. “Are you Catholic, Detective?”

  The question caught Santana off guard. “I was raised Catholic, yes.”

  “That wasn’t my question.”

  “But that was my answer.”

  Santana could feel the weight of Scanlon’s eyes on him, studying him as though he were trying to decipher a recently discovered Dead Sea Scroll.

  “I’ve been a priest for many years, Detective Santana. Like you, I have worked with many souls in need of help and guidance. I may not be a trained investigator, but I can recognize someone who has lost his faith. So I hope you’ll pardon me for being so forward, but when exactly did you lose yours?”

  Santana had chosen never to disguise his distrust of religion with all its platitudes and false promises, so it came as no surprise that Scanlon had sensed his feelings. But he was surprised that the words still stung.

  He said, “Hidalgo’s the one you should be concerned about, not me.”

  “I’m concerned about all God’s children.”

  Santana recognized the irony in that statement.

  “In Colombia,” he said, “there is a city called Tunja. It has more seminaries than any other city in the country. The people are very Catholic and very superstitious. For over a hundred years they have seen strange lights in certain buildings late at night. This haunted part of the city is known as Lighthouse Street. When workers began renovating the buildings, they found the remains of young pregnant girls buried within the walls. The girls were murdered because their families didn’t want to face the condemnation of the Catholic Church.”

  “That’s a tragic story, Detective Santana, but I fail to see your point.”

  “My point is that the church should concern itself with its own problems before it starts worrying about mine.”

  Santana opened his briefcase and removed the photo of Córdova standing in front of the Church of the Guardian Angels with Julio Pérez and his family and showed it to Scanlon. “You recognize this man?”

  “He looks familiar.”

  “His name is Rubén Córdova.”

  “Ah, yes. Now I remember the young man. He was a reporter for El Día. He came to see me a few weeks ago. Shortly before his death.”

  “About what?”

  Scanlon smiled as a parent would to a child who had asked for dessert just before dinner. “It was a private matter, Detective.”

  “My partner shot and killed Córdova at the Riverview Lofts.”

  Scanlon nodded solemnly. “I didn’t realize that you and your partner were involved when I read about it in the paper. But I can assure you, Detective Santana, that nothing Mr. Córdova and I discussed is remotely connected to his death.”

  Santana said, “Let’s get back to Hidalgo’s death for a moment. You spend much time with him?”

  “Well, as you may know, I’ve recently returned to the state. I hadn’t seen Father Hidalgo in quite a few years until we met again at Julio Pérez’s funeral.”

  “You know Pérez before?”

  “Before?”

  “Yes. Before you attended his funeral.”

  “No. I don’t believe I ever met him.”

  Santana showed Scanlon the picture again. “Pérez is here in the picture. Standing next to Córdova.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him.”

  “Did you know Rafael Mendoza?”

  “No.”

  The movement of Scanlon’s facial muscles was nearly imperceptible, and had Santana not been watching carefully, he would have certainly missed it.

  Santana reached into his briefcase and took out the photo of Hidalgo and Scanlon he had taken from its frame on an end table at the rectory. “The date on this photo is last fall.”

  He offered the photo to Scanlon who looked at it as though he had been offered steak on a Friday during Lent.

  “I remember now,” Scanlon said. “I did come back for a visit when my name first surfaced as a possible candidate for archbishop. I became quite ill. Turned out to be appendicitis. I had surgery here in town.”

  Had Baker not shown him Scanlon’s name earlier at the St. Clair Broiler, Santana would have been surprised by Scanlon’s disclosure that he had surgery. Still, he had difficulty keeping his excitement in check now that Scanlon had confirmed Baker’s discovery.

  He said, “That your cabin in the background?”

  “Well, my brother actually owns it. He rents it out. Uses the money to make repairs.” Scanlon’s smile was thin as a wafer.

  “Where’s the cabin located?’

  “Near Two Harbors. On Lake Superior.”

  “Who took the picture?”

  Scanlon looked at Santana for a long moment. “A friend.”

  “Does your friend have a name?”

  Scanlon paused before he said, “Father Wells.”

  “Does he live in the area?”

  “I’m afraid Father Wells passed away just before Christmas.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Santana said. And convenient, he thought.

  “Look, Detective Santana,” Scanlon said with a sigh, “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help regarding Father Hidalgo’s death, but I really have to be going.”

  He started to get up.

  Santana put a hand lightly on Scanlon’s forearm, nudged him gently back in his seat. “Just a few more questions, Father.”

  “All right,” Scanlon said impatiently, checking his watch again.

  “You said you’ve been out of the state for a number o
f years. I understand you spent some time in Valladolid, Mexico.”

  “Yes. Shortly after I became a priest.”

  “Still speak some Spanish?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dios no esta exento de pecado. El hizo el mundo.”

  “I’ve heard the saying before, Detective, but I disagree with the idea that God is not without sin because he made the world. It is man who is the sinner, Detective Santana.”

  “True enough.”

  “So what is your point?”

  “There were two young boys in your parish in Valladolid. Julio Pérez and Rafael Mendoza.”

  “My parish was quite large. I couldn’t possibly remember everyone’s name after all these years.”

  “But they remembered you.”

  Scanlon shook his head, as if there was a ringing in his ears. “I don’t know what you’re getting at. But I really have to go.”

  Santana’s grip on Scanlon’s forearm was firmer this time. “Sit down, Father. I want you to look at one more photo.”

  Scanlon’s eyes blazed. He stared at the spot where Santana had grabbed him like it was on fire.

  Santana put Córdova’s photo back in his briefcase and took out the one Gamboni had found in Mendoza’s loft and showed it to Scanlon.

  “That’s a disgusting photo, Detective,” Scanlon said glancing at it.

  But the momentary parting of his lips, the lowering of his brows, and the slight tenseness in his lower eyelids suggested surprise and controlled anger rather than disgust.

  “Oh, it’s more than that,” Santana said. “It’s the reason Hidalgo killed himself.”

  Scanlon looked at the photo again and then at Santana. “Father Hidalgo would never be involved in something so vile.”

  Santana knew he could push Scanlon only so far. But the priest’s indifferent attitude was like a stick poking at the caged demon inside him.

  “It’s not Hidalgo I’m concerned about,” he said.

  Santana met Scanlon’s cold stare with one of his own. “Do you know who you’re talking to, Detective Santana?”

  “Oh, yes. I know exactly whom I’m talking to. The man in this photo with Hidalgo has an appendectomy scar. The date on the photo is not long after your surgery.”

  Scanlon straightened up slowly and glared at Santana. The whites of his eyes were flooded with tiny rivers of broken capillaries.

  “I’m a powerful man, Detective. Are you prepared to risk your job and your career with these unsubstantiated allegations? Because that’s exactly what you’re about to do.”

  Santana leaned forward so that he was close enough to Scanlon to feel his sour breath on his face.

  “We have a saying in Colombia, Father. Sepulcros blanqueados. On the outside, people are white and pure, but inside, they are dark and decaying like a tomb. You’re a pedophile, Scanlon,” Santana said in a tone that was as hard as marble. “You killed Mendoza and probably Pérez to cover it up. And even though you didn’t put the rope around Hidalgo’s neck, if there’s ever a judgment day, I’d say you’re good for that one as well.”

  Scanlon kept his eyes locked on Santana’s for a time. Then he rose slowly. Put on his overoat and hat. “I’m going back to my office now, Detective, and make a couple of well-placed phone calls. I don’t expect we’ll be having any more conversations. I wish you well. Hopefully, you’ll be more successful in your next career than you were in this one.”

  He gave Santana a tight smile. “Oh, and may God forgive you.”

  He turned and made his way slowly out of the cathedral, acknowledging parishioners with a casual nod, as though the previous conversation with Santana had never taken place, as though he was Satan himself.

  Santana viewed a murder investigation as putting together a large jigsaw puzzle, without the benefit of the picture on the box cover to guide him. The whole picture came together as he fit each small piece, each separate clue, in its proper place. His approach was often trial and error. Sometimes a clue fit and helped complete the puzzle and sometimes it didn’t. It took patience and legwork. But as with any puzzle, there was a moment when Santana realized that he finally had the picture clearly in his mind. His instincts told him he was close to that point now. Adrenaline urged him to move quickly. But he had to make certain he had every piece, every shred of evidence, and that it all fit neatly together. One mistake and Scanlon could walk.

  He left the cathedral and drove back to the station. It was nearly six in the evening and the Homicide Unit was quiet. Santana had one voice mail message from Angelina Torres. That she was distraught over the sudden death of Father Hidalgo was obvious by the tone of her voice. She wanted Santana to return her phone call, but he knew that it would be a mistake. Nothing he said would change the fact that Hidalgo was dead, and that he had been at least partially responsible for the priest’s death.

  Santana spent an hour on his computer typing up a report of the investigation since his return from Mexico. All the while, Scanlon’s threats to make some well-placed phone calls lingered like a nightmare in his mind. Instinctively, he knew Scanlon was guilty. But if he were wrong about the archbishop, it would cost him his job. He figured someone besides Father Wells must have taken the picture of Scanlon and Hidalgo at the cabin in Two Harbors. Someone Scanlon preferred not to disclose. But there was no way Santana could prove it. Instincts and his own anger had driven him to confront Scanlon, though in hindsight it was probably a mistake. He needed solid evidence to support his allegations. Tomorrow he would recheck Mendoza’s loft for incense. But it was the hair samples that he was relying on. Without a DNA match, the case against Scanlon was circumstantial at best.

  He called Kacie Hawkins at home, gave her the phone number of the archdiocese, and asked her to check her copies of Julio Pérez’s phone records for a match.

  Four minutes later she said, “Pérez made two calls to the archdiocese, John. Both in December.”

  Any other calls over the last year?”

  He waited while she checked.

  “Nothing I can find.”

  “Thanks, Kacie.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’m sure.”

  Santana hung up and poured a cup of hot chocolate. What had prompted Pérez to make those two phone calls?

  He leaned back in his swivel chair and thought about how Scanlon could have killed both Pérez and Mendoza. Using his notes as a reference, he started with the discovery of Pérez’s body and worked methodically forward. He created a mind map on a yellow legal pad by drawing circles and filling them in with his thoughts and ideas. Then he drew lines between the circles, making connections. Córdova could have told Scanlon he knew about the sexual abuse in Mexico thanks to Mendoza. That would give Scanlon a motive to frame Córdova for Pérez and Mendoza’s murders. But how did Scanlon know Córdova had a gun? Would Córdova have told him? Did Scanlon break into Córdova’s house and steal the gun?

  Santana looked at his notebook. On the current page were the notes he had taken during his interview with Luis Garcia. He closed out the report he had been working with on the computer and logged into the department’s criminal record database using his password. Then he typed in Luis Garcia’s name and waited a moment while the program found Garcia’s criminal history.

  According to the file, Garcia had been busted for assault, burglary and possession of narcotics. Enough of the charges had either been dropped or plea-bargained down, so that Garcia had not done any time. But it was the name of the narcotic’s detective who had busted Garcia, rather than his arrest record, that sent a jolt through Santana.

  He shut down the computer, put his notes in his briefcase and hurried out the door.

  Chapter 25

  * * *

  SANTANA PARKED THE CROWN VIC at the curb on Sherburne Avenue and navigated the slippery sidewalk like a soldier crossing a minefield. The predicted snowstorm had missed the city. The wind had died and tree branches heavy with sleet shone like glass in
the glow of streetlights. He could hear the splash of tires as they rolled through the puddles of melted sleet and thumped over the potholes in the asphalt. He rang the doorbell a couple of times and waited for a good minute before the porch light came on and Rick Anderson opened the front door.

  “John! What brings you out on a night like this?”

  Anderson was wearing a MINNESOTA TWINS sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off at the biceps, blue jeans with paint stains on the thighs, and a pair of worn slippers. He had a two-day beard and smelled like he needed a shower.

  “I want to talk to you, Rick.”

  “Hey. Sure. Come on in.”

  As Anderson held open the screen door, Santana got a whiff of booze on his breath.

  “Sorry the place is a mess, John. I wasn’t expecting company.” He smiled, giving Santana a clear view of the food lodged between his teeth.

  The living room was furnished in early American rental. On the coffee table were an empty Domino’s pizza box, a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, a can of Budweiser, a few napkins and an empty shot glass. The walls in the living room were bare except for a framed photo of a much younger uniformed Rick Anderson receiving a commendation from a former mayor.

  Anderson hung Santana’s coat in the front hall closet and removed a Sports Illustrated magazine from the seat of a La-Z-Boy, revealing a wide strip of gray duct tape. A black electric cord running from underneath the lounger connected to a wall socket.

  “Sit down, John,” he said, and then, noticing some crumbs on the seat, used the magazine to sweep them onto the carpeted floor.

  Santana sat down in the lounger and immediately felt something underneath him.

  While Anderson was bent over, with his back to Santana, lifting up the cushions and newspaper pages scattered on the couch, Santana reached down between the seat and the side of the lounger and retrieved the remote.

  “This what you’re looking for?”

  Anderson straightened up, turned and gave a sheepish smile. “Never can find that damn thing.”