The Man Who Murdered God

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  McGuire turned and walked to the door. “Joe,” the captain called out. “I’m sorry about your wife. I mean, even if she’s an ex, I guess it gets to you, huh?”

  There was no pause, no hesitation in McGuire’s motion. He grasped the knob, opened the door and walked out without looking back.

  Anne Murison stepped quietly around the corner. Ahead of her the blond young man with the athletic bag sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the river otters cavort in the water. “Hello?” she said softly.

  The young man turned to see her, then stood up quickly and lowered his head. “Hi,” he said. “Was I doing something wrong?”

  “Of course not,” she answered. “It’s just that we’re closing now.”

  Flustered, he reached for his athletic bag. “I’m sorry,” he said nervously. The bag slipped out of his hand, and he picked it up again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  “It’s okay.” Such blue eyes, Anne thought. Such deep blue eyes and such a sweet face. She began walking with him to the exit. “Don’t you like the fish?” she asked. “Or the penguins? Most people like the penguins.”

  The boy shook his head. “I just come to see the otters,” he said without looking at her. “I like the otters.” He paused at the door. “Are they happy here?” he asked her seriously. “How can they be happy when they’re penned up behind glass like that? Wouldn’t they be happier if they were free?”

  “I think they’re happy,” she answered, touched by his concern. “They certainly look it. Besides,” she added, “they’ll live much longer here than they would in the wild.”

  He seemed satisfied with her answer. When he left, she locked the door behind him and watched him walk across the open area in front of the aquarium to the subway entrance. I wonder if he has any place else to go, she asked herself.

  McGuire sat at the foot of Gloria’s bed, watching her breathe with a steady, mechanical rhythm. “It’s too bad,” the nurse had told him when he arrived. “We waited as long as possible, and then we just had to give her the injection. She’ll be asleep now until about two in the morning, when we’ll check on her.”

  McGuire said he understood, he just couldn’t get away from his work any sooner. The nurse nodded curtly and left him alone with Gloria.

  He listened to the sound of evening traffic outside the hospital. He wanted her to be awake, to hear her talk about a past that didn’t include cancer or loneliness or betrayals. He wanted to talk about walking through dry leaves on the grass and about sunny fall days and about touch-football games with old friends he hadn’t seen in years. He wanted to reminisce about boring in-laws and sitting on a Provincetown pier eating lobster rolls.

  Finally he stood, scribbled a note and left it on her bedside table. He knew a bar that served rich chili and cold beer. It was one of the few things in life he knew and enjoyed anymore.

  Chapter Seven

  Eddie Vance entered the squad room the next morning while McGuire was reading file summaries on known psychotics in the New England area. Lipson, Norm Cooper, Mel Doitch, Ralph Innes and three detective sergeants who had been assigned to the case by Kavander were scattered about the room, sipping coffee, studying reports, telling stories.

  Fat Eddie Vance carried a stack of file folders. The shirt tail hung out of his trousers, and the soft flesh of his neck bulged beyond the edge of the collar. His thin brown hair lay slackly over his rounded head; his carefully cultivated moustache was the size and thickness of toothbrush bristles.

  “Morning, McGuire,” Vance said in a measured, deep and resonant voice. He reached with his free hand and adjusted his glasses. “I’m looking forward to working with you on this case. I want you to know I always admired you and Lieutenant Schantz, and I consider it an honour to be helping out.”

  McGuire grunted without looking up from the reports. Vance stood waiting for half a minute, then moved away. “Morning, Lipson,” McGuire heard Vance repeat. “I’m looking forward to working with you people on this case. I spent last night breaking down some interesting features of both murders.”

  “Joe?” Bernie Lipson, ignoring Vance’s greeting, called McGuire from across the room. “Everybody’s here now. You want to brief ’em on what we know?” Vance remained standing, looking uncomfortable, before sitting quietly on one of the folding chairs.

  McGuire walked to the front of the room, where a large blackboard stood on a metal easel. He began writing key phrases in chalk as he reviewed the murders. When he finished, he tossed the chalk in a wastebasket.

  “Ballistics says the empty shell found at the Surani murder had been in the gun for a couple of days. Which means it was probably the one that killed Lynch. Everything matches. It was a twelve-gauge, plastic wad, ounce and a half of number one buckshot. They’re not a hundred percent sure, but the pin markings seem to fit a Remington 870 pump action. What do you want, Vance?”

  Fat Eddie Vance lowered the yellow pencil he had raised in the air. “Anybody checked the number of Remington 870s registered in the state?”

  “It’s the most popular pump action ever sold, the shotgun,” Lipson answered before McGuire could respond. “They’ve been making them for about twenty years. Hardly changed a thing.”

  “But ballistics says the pin markings look brand new—” Vance continued.

  “So we start checking all the gun shops,” McGuire interrupted. “We’ll put three squads on the street, one detective sergeant and one uniformed officer in each squad.” He looked over at Vance. “Acting Lieutenant Vance will do the geographical break-out and co-ordinate the reports. We get the name of everybody who’s purchased a Remington 870 in the last six months. Then we’ll break out the names later.”

  “It’ll take fuckin’ weeks,” muttered Ralph Innes, one of the sergeants assigned to the task force.

  “We don’t have weeks,” McGuire responded. “He’s killed two priests in three days. But it’s a place to start.”

  Vance’s yellow pencil shot up again. “Actually, I have a computer program we may be able to apply. . . .”

  There was a knock at the squad-room door. A grey-haired man leaned in, scanned the faces looking back at him and smiled when he recognized McGuire. “Hello, Lieutenant,” he said, stepping into the room. He was dressed in an expensive grey suit, patterned shirt and plain silk tie. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “About two years,” McGuire replied. “You gave us a profile of that rapist in the Combat Zone, right? This is Dr. Lucas,” he said to the rest of group. “John Lucas, isn’t it?” The doctor nodded, first in agreement with McGuire, then to the rest of the room. “He’s a shrink,” McGuire explained. He turned back to the nattily dressed doctor. “You had a chance to think about what kind of guy might be blasting priests with a shotgun?”

  “I have.” The psychiatrist walked over to the group, stroking his trimmed white moustache as though deep in thought.

  He’s a performer, McGuire remembered. Should have been an actor. Likes to stand up here and get dramatic. McGuire withdrew to a corner, leaving the stage to Lucas.

  True to form, the psychiatrist stood for a moment, one arm across his chest, the hand supporting the other elbow. He frowned as he looked down, tilted his head up and raised his eyebrows while his eyes scanned the ceiling, and finally began to speak.

  “You must understand there is very little upon which to base any kind of psychological profile,” he began. His accent was slightly British, his manner superior. “But I believe I can offer a hypothesis or two. Your man—and we can make a pretty clear assumption that the killer is male—has a clear hostility to authority with a total focus on the Catholic church.”

  One of the detectives shifted in his seat and looked around with a slight smile. Anybody here who didn’t figure that out already, the smile said.

  “I’m interested in the fact, however, that he chooses to commit his crime with anonymity.�
� Lucas frowned. When he was certain everyone had absorbed his concerned expression, he continued. “Normally such an imbalanced mind seeks recognition for its deeds. His attacks, after all, may be on priests primarily, but he seems to be attacking the entire Church establishment. So I’m surprised you gentlemen have received no notes or telephone calls.”

  Lucas scanned the room, waiting for questions. When he saw there were none, he went on.

  “I find something else fascinating,” he said, stroking his chin and studying the polish on his black wing-tip shoes. “And that’s the fact that your killer attacks only one victim at a time. At the seminary, after all, he had literally dozens of unarmed victims to seek out. I also find it interesting that he did not eject the shell and reload the gun at either scene.”

  “We figure he’s just unfamiliar with the weapon,” McGuire offered.

  Lucas turned to face him and stood silently for a moment as though pondering the idea. “Yes, I know,” he said slowly. “But what if he’s shocked by the horrible consequence of his actions?” The doctor turned to the rest of men. “A shotgun at close range produces a devastating effect. Medical people, police officers like yourselves, we become familiar with the injuries. Others would be astounded at what they had done. It may, in a sense, awake them from the psychotic state they have been in.” He looked around the room. “It’s an interesting hypothesis, isn’t it?”

  “Any ideas where we start looking?” McGuire asked. “I mean, this guy doesn’t walk down Boylston Street too often with his Remington over his shoulder.”

  Lucas stared off in the distance as he spoke, his eyes fixed somewhere above the heads of the men seated in front of him. “I don’t have any idea where you could start,” he said. “But I can assure you someone will reveal his identity and his location and his motive for doing these terrible things.”

  “Who’s gonna tell us that?” McGuire demanded.

  Again Lucas turned his head to study McGuire, as though confirming the source of the question.

  “He will,” he answered finally. “Your murderer will. Mark my words.”

  When Lucas left, Janet Parsons, the first woman elevated to detective status on the force, entered with her files of tips and telephone calls. “So far sixteen people have confessed,” she said in a bored voice from a desk at the back of the room. McGuire stood where he was, arms folded. The other men twisted to watch her. Janet had nice legs. And an unhappy husband at home, McGuire had heard. Somebody said he hung around the bars a lot. “None of them are worth a damn,” she said. “We’ve had seventy-three telephone tips, fifty-eight of them anonymous. We’ve run down about sixty of them. Reports are here in the files. All negative.”

  She looked up, and the men raised their eyes to meet hers. “Anything else?” she asked drily.

  “Do I have copies of all the tips?” Vance asked. McGuire wondered whether Fat Eddie the Toothbrush practised to make his voice sound as though it came from the bottom of his balls.

  “See that he gets a set, Janet,” McGuire said. “And copy him on everything that comes in.” That’ll keep the son of a bitch tied up, McGuire figured. “This should do it,” he said to the rest of the group. “I want everything written down, no verbals. We’re here tomorrow, same time. Let’s get it done.”

  “You must be busy, Joe.”

  She was propped high on her pillows, watching him. McGuire looked at her, then away. There was something different about her. Something in her eyes.

  “I was here last night, I told you. Just got in a little late.”

  “I know.” She smiled, “I found your note. And the nurses told me. They think you’re sweet.” She leaned over to reach a cardboard candy box on the table beside her. “I put some things in here for you,” she said. “I want you to have them.”

  He stood and took the box from her. Opening it, he saw snapshots, a few in fading colour, most in harsh black and white. Familiar faces stared back at him. God, we look like kids, he thought. And we really believed we were grown up. Party photographs, with couples seated on a sofa beneath a bad painting of a lighthouse. More couples, all crowded into an open convertible.

  “That’s Jerry Dodgin’s car,” he said. “Remember that car? No reverse gear?” They smiled together. “Jerry’s in Arizona now, I hear. Good for his asthma or something.”

  He turned to another picture. “Who the hell. . . . Is this you?” He held the photograph for her to see, a picture of a young girl with cheque red blouse tucked into tight jeans, her breasts straining at the buttons, her head tossed back, a broad smile on her face.

  Gloria nodded and smiled. A different smile on a different face, tight and sad.

  “Hell of a figure lady,” he said, meaning it. “Great shape there.”

  “Joe, I want you to take them. And when you’re finished looking at them, I want you to burn them.”

  “Aw, come on, Gloria—” he began.

  She shook her head and swallowed hard. “You don’t have to. But it’s probably better. I want you to do something else, too.”

  McGuire said, “Sure,” slipping the pictures back into the candy box. “What’s that?”

  “I want you to work out my funeral arrangements.”

  “Jesus, Gloria . . .”

  “Come on, Joe. Don’t you see? It’s the only thing I’ve got left to plan. It’s nothing special. The nurses here, they’ve been wonderful, and I’d like a little service in the chapel. I’ve even picked out the music. One of the nurses can play the organ, and she knows some Bach hymns. I’d like her to play one for me, maybe ‘Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.’ And I’d like you to give them each a bottle of champagne and a glass, so they can go home later and have a drink.”

  “Gloria . . .”

  “It’s all I’ve got left to do, Joe!” She swallowed hard again. “And you have to do it for me. Because there’s nobody else anymore.” She dabbed at her eyes with the bed sheet. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. Maybe . . . maybe we can talk about it when you come around tomorrow, okay? Will we do that, Joe?”

  He said he would. They talked for a while about the priest murders. Gloria said she had been following them, they were always on the television and in the newspapers.

  The nurse entered with her evening injection, and Gloria raised her arm automatically. “When are you going to get him, Joe?” The nurse slipping the needle beneath the skin, Gloria not reacting at all.

  McGuire said he didn’t know, it was different somehow without Ollie Schantz around. “You don’t need Ollie,” she answered, sliding deeper under the covers. “You’ll find him, Joe.” Her eyelids were heavy, her facial muscles were growing slack.

  McGuire said sure.

  But she was already in Lahaina.

  Chapter Eight

  “Nothing, right?” Kavander looked up from the stack of reports McGuire dropped on his desk the next morning.

  McGuire nodded. “A whole lot of nothing.”

  “Lucas give you any ideas?”

  “Sure.” McGuire, grinning. “Says whoever it is, he hates priests.”

  Kavander snorted. “You know how much an hour the city pays him to come up with shit like that?” McGuire had no idea. Kavander shook his head in amazement at it all. “What do you figure? We just hope for a break? Or wait for another of the pope’s good guys to get it, this time with witnesses?”

  “Maybe. Maybe that’s all we can do. One question I got.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How’s he getting around? Is he driving a car? Hiding that sawed-off Remington in the trunk? Or the back seat? Maybe you better alert traffic patrol, tell them to watch for the sawed-off, every violator they stop.”

  “Yeah. Good idea.” Kavander scribbled a note to himself on a pad of white paper. “You talked things over with Lipson?”

  “About what?”


  “About cutting the bullshit between you.”

  “There’s nothing to cut.”

  Kavander half raised his head from the desk, arching his eyebrows to look at McGuire. “Work it out, McGuire,” he said. “Get it worked out, or I swear I’ll have the two of you directing traffic at Logan.” He looked down at his note. “And you didn’t call Father Deeley over at St. John’s yesterday like I told you.”

  “Shit, Jack, I got busy.”

  “That’s what I figured. So I told him to come over here about noon. Said he could watch our crack homicide team in action for himself.”

  McGuire swore under his breath. Kavander ignored it.

  “Tell him everything, McGuire. Show him the files, get Janet Parsons to run down the tip list for him, have Vance give him a course on the Goddamn computer program he’s using, then you take him out for lunch. Sandwich and a beer, corned beef and cabbage, steaks at the Copley, I don’t give a damn. I want him telling the bishop we’re the best team Boston’s seen since the ’74 Celtics.”

  “What’s the mayor’s religion again?”

  “Same as the pope’s.”

  “And the commissioner’s?”

  “Same as the mayor’s.” Kavander smiled coldly at McGuire. “You getting the picture?”

  “I was especially impressed with Lieutenant Vance.” Father Kevin Deeley paused between spoonfuls of chowder, gesturing with his spoon. “I had no idea things could be so computerized in law enforcement. Lieutenant Vance showed me how he had assigned colour codes to suspects and tips received by telephone.” Deeley shook his head. “Amazing. Makes you wonder how we ever got along without data processing, doesn’t it?”

  “You been known to have a beer?” McGuire asked.

  Deeley glanced up from his spoonful of chowder. “Oh, a spill of brew has passed my lips now and then,” he answered, grinning.

  McGuire called the waitress over. They were in Channing’s Chowder House on Columbus. A few years before, Channing’s had been a well-kept secret among downtown workers, especially police officers who enjoyed its ice-cold beer and thick chowder. The secret was out when the owner expanded Channing’s into an empty building next door. He added maritime motifs—tables made from old hatch covers, ship’s wheels and painted figureheads hanging on the walls, and special drinks for the tourists. (“Try our Tequila Typhoon—two drinks and you’re over the side!”) But the chowder was still good, and they still stocked Kronenbourg on ice. McGuire could handle mixing with tourists if it meant an ice-cold Kronenbourg, a bowl of good chowder and a thick slice of sourdough bread.