The Man Who Murdered God

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  “I go somewhere when I get these injections,” she said, her voice already growing thick as the nurse was leaving.

  “Yeah, you go to sleep.” McGuire smiled at her.

  “No, no. I mean in my head, I go somewhere. I imagine that I’m someplace, not here. Because when you’re sick like I am, it’s different when you go to sleep. See, Joe, it’s not a relief like real sleep is. It’s just an interruption of what you’re going through. . . .”

  “Gloria—”

  “Let me finish, Joe. Please.” She slid further under the covers, folded her hands on her chest, moved her head until it was comfortable. “And you know that you’re getting closer to the time when you’ll go to sleep and never wake up. So you know where I go?” Her eyes were closed, and she continued speaking without waiting for McGuire’s response. “Remember when I finally dragged you to Hawaii for a holiday?”

  McGuire grunted. “We’d been married what? Five years?”

  “Something like that. I remember it cost us so much we had to live on hamburger for a month when we got back. Anyway . . . God, I loved it there. It was the best vacation we ever took. Didn’t you think so? Didn’t you think it was the best vacation of all?”

  McGuire nodded and smiled. “It was good, Gloria,” he agreed.

  “There used to be a little restaurant in Lahaina . . . right on the shore. . . . And we’d sit there and have drinks and seafood and watch . . . watch the sun go down. And I’d try to get you to dance with me. It was so pretty. I think about it a lot. When I’m drifting off. . . .” She forced her eyelids open to look at him. “Come back tomorrow, Joe? Please?”

  McGuire smiled and squeezed her hand. Then he sat in the chair and watched her sleep while the light through the windows dimmed to grey.

  In the same gathering greyness Father Nick Surani locked the door of the Xavier Seminary Library behind him and set off down the path to St. Steven’s Hall. The paved trail led from the modern library complex into a small creek bed, which paralleled the roadway across the shallow valley and back up the hill to the stern Victorian architecture of the main faculty building and dormitory.

  With over sixty acres of grounds Xavier Seminary was the largest and most prestigious in New England. Visitors were stunned to see the expanse of land, which remained rustic and unspoiled, land surrounded on three sides by manicured middle-class houses and on the fourth by Boston College, all of it within a few miles of Boston Common itself. Succeeding bishops over the years had insisted on maintaining the rugged grandeur of the property. Granite outcroppings remained as they were when the land had been prime hunting grounds for pre-Puritan Indians. Hardwood stands of oak, maple and ash still remained healthy and uncut, separating and isolating the various seminary buildings.

  Together they made Xavier an appealing site for exploring or contemplating vexing theological questions. Throughout the daylight hours students, faculty members and visiting church administrators could be found strolling through the grounds, trading gossip or grumbling about a new diocese policy.

  “In the midst of Xavier we are in the midst of the glory of nature and of God himself,” one cardinal had written about the seminary.

  In the shallow valley of the creek that flowed through the seminary property the glory of nature had been embellished somewhat for the greater glory of God. A granite shelf, exposed by slow erosion from the creek’s waters, had formed a shallow vertical cove in the face of the valley. Years before, a bishop had seen a vision of the Virgin Mary standing sheltered within the cove, her hand raised in blessing upon all the seminary students and faculty and administrative personnel who passed by. On the bishop’s instructions a marble statue was commissioned, a life-size replica of a shrouded woman with downcast eyes, upraised hand and beatific smile. The bishop saw it and declared it perfect.

  But if the statue had been created in perfection by the artist, the setting had been flawed by nature. The granite cove was simply not deep enough to frame the Virgin in a manner reflecting the bishop’s vision, and so contractors were hired to extend the cove outwards to make it deeper, using smoothly finished structural concrete.

  It was clearly a compromise solution. The rough red granite, which might have formed an attractive contrast with the white marble of the statue, was now capped with cold grey concrete extended in a parabolic arch above the Virgin’s slightly bowed head.

  “She looks like a jack-in-the-pulpit now,” whispered some unimpressed faculty members when the bishop unveiled the shrine to their critical eyes. The description stuck. To faculty and students alike over the years the statue had been referred to cynically as The Virgin Jill.

  Father Nick Surani was among those who considered the hillside shrine a minor folly. A few of the older members paused to genuflect and cross themselves whenever they passed the site. Most, like Surani, simply gave it a quick glance and a quiet smile, if they acknowledged its presence at all.

  In the dusk of this grey spring evening Father Surani was too concerned about restructuring one of his theology classes for the next semester, “The Ecclesiology of Latin Christianity,” to give any thought to the shrine. He was unhappy about a newly issued text on Augustine and was framing in his mind a rationale for retaining the old edition, when a disturbing metallic sound interrupted his thoughts.

  He stopped to look to his left and behind him, back to the small footbridge he had just crossed. Nothing seemed amiss. He turned to his right, towards the shrine, narrowed his eyes, then straightened up and barked an order.

  “You there,” he said with the command of someone familiar with the discipline of younger people. “What are you doing in there? Come out. Now.”

  The figure, slight and dressed in dark clothing, had been crouched in the small space between the statue and the plastered granite wall. Now it stood, something long and dark hanging stiffly at its side.

  “Are you a student here?” Surani demanded. He walked to the edge of the path, determined to either discipline the wayward seminary student or send the trespasser on his way. “Speak up, young man.”

  The figure moved slowly out from behind the stone Virgin, stepped gingerly to the ground and walked toward the priest.

  Surani narrowed his eyes further to study the details on the young man’s face. Blond hair, slight build, barely into his twenties, he determined. Certainly not a Xavier student. He would raise the question of grounds security at the next management meeting.

  “Look, young man,” Surani began, indicating a junction in the pathway leading back to Commonwealth Avenue, “just be on your way out of here and don’t return. This is not a public park. . . .”

  The priest turned back to see the figure raise the long, dark object to its shoulder. Calmly he recognized the noise he had heard just moments before: the sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked. Quietly he lifted his hand up, his palm facing the figure, a benediction and a futile barrier to the charge that exploded before him, filling his eyes first with glowing fire and next with silent, eternal blackness.

  Chapter Six

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  Kavander stood behind his desk, leaning heavily on his hands, a toothpick jerking violently back and forth between his lips.

  “We’ve got a guy who gets his kicks out of shooting priests,” McGuire answered. He sat cross-legged on the other side of the desk. Lipson slouched against Kavander’s window.

  “Don’t smart-ass me, McGuire,” Kavander barked at him. “I’ve been on the phone with the mayor, the governor, the archbishop and every grease-ball reporter in the state this morning—”

  “Jack—” McGuire began.

  “—wanting to know if we’re ready to provide twenty-four hour protection to everybody who wears his collar backward.”

  “For Christ’s sakes, Jack—”

  “Shut up, McGuire!”

  Kavander’s shout hung in the air. Typewriter
noises in the secretarial area ceased. The buzz of conversations from adjacent offices stopped, then resumed cautiously. McGuire was catching hell from Kavander, the voices were whispering. Better him than me.

  The captain sank heavily down in his chair. “And as if that’s not enough, I get reports that two hotshots who are supposed to be protecting the ecclesiastical citizens of greater Boston from getting a face full of lead aren’t even speaking to one another at the Goddamn murder scene.” He looked back and forth between Lipson and McGuire. “So I’ll say it again. What the hell’s going on?”

  McGuire shrugged. “We just work better separately.”

  “The hell you do, McGuire. When you were with Ollie Schantz, you practically rode around in his back pocket. Now Norm Cooper tells me you guys didn’t say a word to each other last night out at Xavier. Cooper says he came up to you, McGuire, to say Lipson figures the empty shell casing they found might have been the one used on Lynch. And you tell Cooper you don’t care what Lipson thinks, you’ve got your own Goddamn problems.”

  Lipson grunted and turned to look out the window.

  “Norm Cooper’s job is to lift prints—” McGuire began.

  “His job is the same as yours, McGuire. To put scumbags like whoever is blowing apart priests into the hole and keep them there.” Kavander leaned back heavily in the chair and swung his feet on the desk. He withdrew the toothpick from his mouth, scowled at its splintered end, then tossed it into the wastebasket. “Now give me a two-minute summary of what you know for sure.”

  McGuire pulled his notebook from a jacket pocket and began reciting short phrases as he flipped the pages. “Victim was Father Nicholas Raymond Surani, born Springfield, Massachusetts, November 10, 1949. Occupation—lecturer in theology, Xavier Seminary. Address—same. Height—six feet, one inch. Weight—one hundred ninety-three pounds. Cause of death—massive trauma to anterior of skull area. Suspected weapon—twelve-gauge shotgun, probably with reduced barrel length. Distance from weapon to victim—approximately ten feet. . . .”

  “Jesus,” said Kavander, wiping his forehead with his hand.

  “Witnesses—none. Estimated time of death—8:30 p.m. Body found by Fathers Philip Norman Hamel and David Anthony Costa at approximately 8:45 p.m.”

  “Are people in this town so used to hearing a shotgun go off, they don’t bother to investigate?” Kavander demanded.

  “Lots of people remember hearing it, the shotgun,” Lipson offered from the window. “They looked out their door, saw nothing and decided it was a car backfiring. And hey,” he added, “I’m in my house with my wife and kids watching TV, I don’t want to go looking for a guy with a shotgun. Because I might find him.”

  “You want anything on the investigating officers, that kind of stuff?” McGuire asked.

  Kavander shook his head. “Just tell me what you’ve got that’s substantial.”

  “Two things. First, the shell. We’re checking out the firing pin marks. Dave Reardon in ballistics says it had probably been sitting in the gun for a while. Says he doesn’t think it’s the one that killed Surani, but he’s sure it’s from a Remington pump action. By the looks of the pin marks it’s practically a brand-new gun.”

  “It could be the shell used to kill Reverend Lynch,” Lipson offered.

  “Which tells you what?” Kavander looked back and forth between the two detectives.

  “It tells me the guy isn’t used to it, the gun,” Lipson suggested. “You fire a pump action, you shoot and reload, shoot and reload.” He shrugged. “This guy didn’t reload until he had Surani in his sights and his finger on the trigger.”

  Kavander turned back to McGuire. “What else?”

  “Cooper thinks he’s got some partials from a marble statue at the scene,” McGuire said. “He’s doing a match today. Looks like the guy hid behind a statue waiting for Surani to come along, then stepped out and blasted him.”

  “What’s the connection between the two priests, Lynch and Surani?” Kavander asked.

  “None that we can find.” Lipson shrugged. “Far as we can tell, they never even knew each other.”

  “So it’s a nut case. Pure and simple.” Kavander began making notes on a yellow pad. “That’s the way we have to play it.” He looked up. “Would you believe it, we’ve got people saying maybe it’s a bunch of terrorists? Maybe there’s a crazy Libyan loose in town, popping off the only people he knows are Christians for sure?” Kavander shook his head and resumed making notes.

  “Could be.”

  The captain glanced at McGuire. “What the hell do you mean, could be?”

  “Maybe that’s an angle we should be thinking about.” McGuire shrugged. “On the one hand, this guy could be kind of a Son of Sam with a grudge against the pope. On the other hand, he may be trying to scare the whole Catholic church.”

  “And if he is?”

  “Then maybe we better start putting a SWAT team at every church in town.” McGuire smiled sarcastically.

  Kavander watched McGuire carefully before responding. “I’m playing it like a psycho deal. It’s all we can do, other than bringing in the Goddamn National Guard.” He tore the sheet from his pad and set it aside. “The commissioner is holding a press conference this afternoon. He’ll be saying we’ve formed a special task force jointly headed by Lieutenants Lipson and McGuire, assisted by Acting Lieutenant Edward Vance.”

  “Aw, shit,” Lipson muttered from the window.

  “Who?” McGuire asked Kavander.

  “Eddie Vance,” Kavander said slowly. “Acting Lieutenant, you will notice.”

  McGuire’s face contorted in recognition. “Fat Eddie? That fucking toothbrush? He doesn’t know dogshit from diamonds, Jack.”

  “He’s a good detail man,” Kavander said. “The thing about Vance is, he’s totally rational. Deals with the facts. Never plays with hunches.”

  “That’s because he’s too busy playing with himself,” Lipson offered from the window. McGuire smiled broadly.

  Kavander wasn’t amused. “One reason I’m pulling Vance in is so he can liaison with you two,” he said. “Lipson, you concentrate on the Lynch murder. Pull whoever you need out of homicide. McGuire, you work on the Surani thing. Put all your reports through Vance, and he’ll co-ordinate information back to me.”

  McGuire swore softly again. Kavander ignored him.

  “I’ve been talking to the archdiocese office, and they agree we can use some help from their area.” He smiled at McGuire and Lipson. “For the duration of this investigation Father Kevin Deeley is available twenty-four hours a day for consultation.” The smile evaporated. “I expect you to talk to him at least once daily. Otherwise the bishop and his boys will think we’re not working our asses off here.”

  “What’s a guy with a cross going to do for us?” McGuire asked.

  Kavander exploded. “He’s going to keep the whole Goddamn city from thinking we’re nothing but a bunch of bozos, that’s what! So far all you two clowns have got to show is an empty shotgun shell and two dead priests.” He stood up and thrust his hands in his pockets as though he were keeping them from flying at McGuire. “I want a psychological report from a couple of qualified shrinks, giving us some idea of the kind of personality who walks around ambushing church people with a shotgun. I want regular meetings here every morning, eight o’clock sharp, to tell me where we stand and what you’re up to. I’m meeting the commissioner every day at eight-thirty to pass on the news. And I expect both of you to camp out here a few nights for the next week at least. There are three cots in the squad room. Use ’em.”

  “Bernie doesn’t have to sleep on a cot here, Jack.” McGuire glanced at his partner, still standing at the window. “He’s just ten minutes from here, except for rush hour. Plus he’s got a wife and three kids. I’ll sleep on the cots, and I’ll get Ralph Innes to back me up nights. Bernie and I will work things out betw
een us. If I have to work with anybody besides Ollie Schantz, I’d rather it was Bernie.”

  “Thanks, Joe,” Lipson said, nodding.

  “What the fuck is this?” Kavander muttered. “True confessions day?” He sat down heavily again. “Lipson, you can go. Send Vance a complete duplicate set of files for both murders. McGuire, I want to talk to you.”

  After Lipson had left, Kavander fished through his desk and withdrew a fresh toothpick. “You and Ollie had the best record of anybody here for the last four years,” he said, studying the unsullied tip. “I’m beginning to think that when Schantz left, maybe he took all the talent with him.” Kavander looked over to see McGuire watching him.

  “Think whatever the hell you want,” McGuire said.

  “Lipson says your first wife’s dying over at Mass General.” Kavander’s voice had grown warmer.

  “Bernie should mind his own business.”

  “Aw, what the hell are you giving me?” Kavander demanded. “Your Bogart imitation? You know what your trouble is, McGuire? Your trouble is, you can’t stand the idea of anybody helping you. You think if somebody tries to give you a hand and you take it, it’s a sign of Goddamn weakness!”

  “It’s a sign of twenty fucking years as a cop!” McGuire shot back.

  “Hey.” Kavander’s voice took on a mocking sweetness. “You don’t like it, McGuire? Nobody’s got a chain around your neck. When you’ve had enough, just let me know.”

  McGuire stood up. “Anything else?”

  “Just remember what I said about letting people help you,” Kavander replied. “Lipson, he’s a good guy. But he doesn’t have your experience. Neither does Vance, who I agree can be a horse’s ass. But his detail is fantastic. And yours is nothing to brag about. So rely on him.”