Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “Sure. No skin off my nose. They’ll just screw it up like they usually do,” Basilio said.

  Johnson laughed.

  Finnerty and the two detectives quickly started going through a small desk in the bedroom. There was very little in it—a drawer for paid bills, a drawer for unpaid bills, some blank stationery and envelopes, pens and pencils, no personal address or phone book, no photographs except a few of Singletary with dignitaries that hung above the bed.

  “You wouldn’t figure he’d live here in Georgetown,” said Detective Basilio.

  “Why?” Finnerty asked.

  “Because he’s big in the ghetto. How come he doesn’t live in the ghetto? What was he, one of those liberals who beats it back at night to where the decent folk live?”

  Neither Finnerty nor Johnson had a chance to comment because there was another knock at the door. Finnerty opened it to two young men with short, neat haircuts who wore inexpensive but nicely fitted and neatly pressed suits. One of them, who had a round face with red cheeks, said to Finnerty, “Can I talk to you?”

  They went out into the hallway, where the agent showed Finnerty his identification. “We’re going to be spending time in the apartment, and we need to be left alone. I’d like you to move your uniformed man up to this floor and have him take a position outside the door. We’d appreciate somebody on that duty twenty-four hours a day.”

  Finnerty was tempted to tell them to provide their own personnel now that they were coming into it, but he didn’t. He’d learned long ago that shooting off his mouth in these situations accomplished nothing. Worse, it often got him in trouble, the kind of trouble he didn’t need with two years to the pension. Instead, he returned to the apartment and told his detectives it was time to leave.

  The two agents stood in the center of what had been Father Paul Singletary’s living room. The one with the round face, who was in charge, removed his suit jacket and carefully draped it over the back of a chair that was beside a small, cheap Formica table. “Might as well get to work,” he said to his partner, who had blond hair and a large mouth defined by thick lips. He, too, had removed his suit jacket, exposing beneath his white shirt a body that had pumped a lot of iron. “What’s first?” he asked his superior.

  “The tapes. Looks like we’re in for a long night at the movies.”

  At three o’clock that afternoon, Bishop George St. James received a visitor to his office in the cathedral’s administration building. His name was Jin Tse, and he was a heavyset Korean who wore a suit that said Savile Row.

  “Good of you to see me on such short notice,” said Tse, settling himself in a comfortable chair facing the desk.

  “Frankly, I would have preferred to see no one today,” St. James said, “but I do respect your reasons for wanting to meet as quickly as possible, Mr. Tse. If my mind seems to wander at times, please forgive me. The full impact of what has happened here, and to Father Singletary, is just beginning to sink in. It’s like being run over by a sixteen-wheeler, if you understand.”

  “Yes, of course, and I offer you my deepest sympathy. His death has been a terrible shock and loss to us at Word of Peace, too.”

  “As I can well imagine,” said St. James. “Actually, we’ve been dealt a double blow here. Not only is Father Singletary gone, but Adam Vickery, who performed wonders for us in managing our building assets, also died.”

  Tse nodded.

  “Ironic, isn’t it, that two men who supported the cathedral should die so close together? Of course, Adam Vickery’s death was natural, part of the order of things. As for Father Singletary … well, being murdered is never natural.”

  Tse cleared his throat before saying, “Bishop St. James, the reason it was necessary to meet with you as quickly as possible was to alleviate the fears many of the leaders of Word of Peace have been feeling since Father Singletary’s murder. Our goals depend a great deal upon the continued support of such institutions as this cathedral, and the church it represents. Paul … do you mind if I call him Paul?” The bishop shook his head. “Paul was always so proud that his bishop had committed himself and the church with such vigor and determination to Word of Peace.” Tse spoke perfect English; to hear him on a telephone would lead a listener to believe that a native-born American who’d studied elocution was speaking. “As you might be aware, our movement has its detractors. With the unfortunate death of such a leader, it gives them what they might perceive as a golden opportunity to increase their attacks upon this crusade. What I need to be able to do is immediately inform my people that Paul’s death has not weakened our cause but, in the tragic but time-honored tradition of martyrdom, has actually enhanced our efforts to bring peace to this world.”

  What St. James had apologized for at the beginning of the meeting was now happening. He was having trouble concentrating on the well-formed words of this Korean gentleman sitting across from him.

  St. James had heard of Jin Tse from Paul Singletary, although as he reflected upon the priest’s comments, he realized Singletary had offered little information about the man. Paul had told him that Tse was one of the prime organizers of Word of Peace, particularly in the Washington area, where the Korean was engaged in intense lobbying of politicians who might throw their weight behind the movement. The bishop was sorry that he had agreed to meet with him, not because of the crush of cathedral business or out of his deep sense of loss, but because he really didn’t like Tse. He couldn’t pinpoint why. Tse was pleasant enough, courteous to a fault, and had been respected by Singletary. Yet something bothered St. James about him, and he decided to end the meeting.

  “Mr. Tse, it is difficult for me to devote much thought at this moment to Word of Peace, although I do believe in it.” (Did he? He’d never been sure. He did believe in its goals, however.) “It’s a matter of priorities at this point. We have Father Singletary’s funeral coming up as soon as his body is released by the authorities, and there is the continuing need to cooperate with those authorities in bringing to justice the individual who committed this deplorable act of violence. I can tell you, however, that whatever support I offered Father Singletary in his work with your movement has not changed. If that puts your mind and the minds of your people at rest, then I am pleased to be able to express it to you.”

  Tse realized that the bishop was ending their meeting. He stood, smiled, and extended a hand laden with heavy rings. St. James took it. “Your generosity, Bishop St. James, is exemplary. I could ask for nothing more than to have heard the words you have just said. The spiritual and financial commitment made to Word of Peace by this shrine of national worship will be instrumental in bringing about a just and lasting peace for people all over this globe. You are truly a man of God.”

  St. James was now even more uncomfortable. He withdrew his hand from the Korean’s metal-wrapped fingers and escorted him to the door. “You’ll be at Paul’s funeral?”

  “Of course,” said Tse. “Indeed, hundreds of supporters of Word of Peace will be there to pay a final tribute to one of the most gentle and committed men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

  “Yes, well, thank you for coming here today. Good-bye.”

  Tse was driven away from the cathedral in a large gray Mercedes sedan that had been parked at the doors of the south transept. The driver turned left onto Wisconsin Avenue, which took them in the direction of Georgetown. A nondescript green Ford Fairlane that had been parked across the street fell in behind them. Two young men with close, neat haircuts were in the second car. The man on the passenger side dialed a number on the vehicle’s car phone. A female voice answered, “NIS.”

  “Samuels.”

  “One second.”

  A male voice came on the line.

  “Samuels. We’re continuing contact with Buddha by vehicle.”

  The man on the other end, who managed the surveillance unit, said, “Report again when mode of contact changes.”

  “Right,” the young man named Samuels said. He hung up the phone
and said to the driver, “Are Marsch and Williamson picking up from us later?”

  The driver said, “No, they’re over at the priest’s apartment. I don’t know who’s spelling us, and I don’t care, as long as I get to go home by eight. If I don’t, someone will kill me and you’ll have another investigation. Look for my wife. It’s our anniversary.”

  The Mercedes pulled up to the entrance of the Watergate Hotel, and Tse emerged. His driver pulled away. “I’ll pick up Buddha,” Samuels said, jumping out of the car. As the driver was about to follow the Mercedes, Samuels said through the open window, “If you don’t make it home for your anniversary, my couch opens up. See ya.”

  9

  Monday Morning—Overcast and Chilly; Funeral Weather

  The Right Reverend George St. James, bishop of Washington, looked out at the thousands of faces of those who’d gathered in the cathedral’s nave to mourn the loss of Canon Paul Singletary. His mind wandered for a moment. He peered down the more-than-five-hundred-foot aisle leading from the altar to the west entrance and, distracting himself from the unpleasant task at hand, observed once more with interest that the aisle wasn’t straight, that it did a little jig at approximately the halfway point, a deliberate act by the architect to avoid the “narrowing railroad track” visual phenomenon.

  He cleared his voice and said from the pulpit, “They do rest from their labors and their works do follow them.” His words rang out through the cavernous cathedral.

  Joining Bishop St. James at the high altar were other members of the cathedral’s and St. Albans’s clergy, including Jonathon Merle and a young priest from St. Albans, Carolyn Armstrong. Annabel, who’d come to know Reverend Armstrong while planning the forthcoming show in Annabel’s gallery, had remarked to Mac after first meeting her that the young woman was striking, and all the more so because of what she represented. She was one of those fortunate women who need no makeup, and the fact that she could present a bare and unadorned face to the world worked perfectly with her calling. An aura of sweet divinity surrounded her. At the same time, she was a woman who could hardly be missed. She was tall and had thick black hair that she rarely wore loose; when attending to her priestly duties she caught it up into a casual chignon. Her skin was flawless, and the contours of an amply endowed body were only partially obscured beneath her vocational garb.

  Mac and Annabel held hands as they sat in one of the forward pews. Their thoughts sometimes coincided, other times were far afield. Naturally, visions of their wedding day in the Bethlehem Chapel kept returning, Paul’s handsome, smiling face bestowing God’s grace upon their union, the implied playfulness in his voice and the twinkle in his eye, his easy banter with them outside the cathedral. As those pleasant thoughts ebbed and flowed, there was also a natural anger. How senseless, how wrong, for this dynamic man to have his life end in such a brutal and wanton fashion.

  Smith looked around. Two distant cousins of Singletary’s sat together at the far end of a pew. Chief of Homicide Terrence Finnerty was in the crowd along with what Smith assumed were other representatives from the MPD. The Word of Peace contingent numbered in the hundreds. Whole inner-city classes of schoolchildren, mostly black and Hispanic, had been brought to the service by their teachers. The vice president of the United States had made a last-minute decision to attend, which had thrown the security people into turmoil. He sat quietly with his wife and two Cabinet members, a dozen Secret Service agents surrounding their entourage.

  Most of the other mourners, Smith decided, were people who probably had had no direct contact with Paul Singletary, people who were saddened and outraged by his murder and who’d come to pay their simple respects to a man they didn’t know but whose reputation for good works had touched each of them in some unspoken, intangible way.

  The choir was a combination of the cathedral’s boys’ and men’s choirs. They lined both sides of the aisle of the chancel and sanctuary that led to the high altar. From outside came the constant whir of a helicopter hovering above. Barked orders through a bullhorn on occasion added yet another alien sound.

  Reverend Armstrong read a section from the Scriptures, its words acclaiming all who carry out the Lord’s good work on earth by comforting the sick and ministering to the poor. The message was so fitting that as she reached the end of the verse, her voice broke and it was apparent that she had to fight for control to complete the reading. Her near-breakdown brought sobs from people throughout the congregation.

  Jonathon Merle was next. In contrast to Canon Armstrong, he was more patrician and steely than ever. He read from the Gospel in a flat, businesslike tone, his eyes never leaving the printed page, his cadence that of a man getting through a ritual as coolly and perhaps even as quickly as possible.

  Bishop St. James sat in the great carved stone Glastonbury Cathedra, “the bishop’s chair.” When Merle had completed his duties at the pulpit, St. James slowly stood and walked to take his place. Mac Smith noticed the fatigue in his friend’s gait. It was confirmed when he started to speak, his voice heavy and weary, a sense of profound sadness clinging to every word.

  “Reverend Canon Paul Singletary loved many things in this life, but mostly he loved the God he served so admirably. He was a man whose spirit could be lifted by music, and there were always favorite hymns that he would listen to when in need of personal renewal. One of them speaks eloquently of the blessed rest in our Saviour’s hands that he has undoubtedly found. I know he is with us today and will take delight in once again hearing this hymn that meant so much to him.”

  St. James returned to his stone chair as choirmaster Wilfred Nickelson conducted the combined choirs. The magnificent ringing sound of the accompanying organ seemed to lift the voices up a hundred feet to the gray shadows of the nave’s ceiling.

  “Now the laborer’s task is o’er;

  Now the battle day is past;

  Now upon the farther shore

  Lands the voyager at last.

  Father, in thy gracious keeping

  Leave we now thy servant sleeping.”

  Joey Kelsch, who stood at the front of the boys’ choir, delivered the final two lines of each verse as a solo. Early in the hymn, the words soared from his lips and throat. Then, as he began the later lines of the last verse, he faltered. People leaned forward. Choirmaster Nickelson looked sternly in his direction. Would he complete the two lines? the congregation silently wondered. Joey looked up from the hymnal he held in both hands. His gaze went from the men’s choir across the chancel to the congregation, to Bishop St. James, Father Merle, and Reverend Armstrong, then back to the congregation. His blue eyes were alight with fear. He managed to sing the final words, quickly turned away, and crouched as the suppressed sounds of his vomiting nonetheless reached them and faded with the final notes of the organ.

  St. James returned to the pulpit. Should he mention the unfortunate and untimely illness of the choirboy, who was slinking away in shame?

  He drew a deep breath and said, “Father Paul Singletary devoted much of his life to serving his fellow man. He did this in the ghettos of this city, in the drug-rehabilitation centers, and in the kitchens where the homeless are nourished. Of course, he also served his country admirably. He was particularly fond of this prayer, often used on ship-board during storms or in times of war.” St. James adjusted his glasses and began to read: “O most powerful and glorious Lord God, at whose command the winds blow and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stillest the rage thereof; we, thy creatures, but miserable sinners, do in this our great distress cry unto thee for help.…”

  When St. James had finished the prayer, and preparations had begun for the closing portions of the service, Annabel whispered to Mac, “That poor boy.”

  “I know. There’s lots of flu going around. Kid must be terribly embarrassed. Say, did you know that Paul was in the military?”

  “No.”

  “I gather from what George said that he might have served in the navy, maybe on board a ship. That’s a
slice of his life I knew nothing about.”

  Their attention returned to the altar. “Let us pray” was the call. Mac and Annabel sank to their knees. Their fingers found each other’s once again as they prayed along with the bishop for the salvation of Singletary’s soul.

  Outside, Mac introduced Annabel to Terry Finnerty. He asked the detective, “Anything new?”

  Finnerty shook his head.

  “Nothing further in the autopsy findings?”

  “Nah. Nothing under his nails, no fight.”

  “Meaning he knew the person who killed him?” Annabel said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he didn’t know the person, but it happened so fast he didn’t have a chance to put up a fight.”

  “The word is getting around, Terry, that the body might have been moved from another place.” Smith couldn’t be critical of such rumors. He’d helped to spread the word in his own law class. “Are you still leaning in that direction?”

  Another shrug from Finnerty. “Yeah, I think it’s a good possibility. What I need now is that woman who found the body. We put out a composite on her based on the bishop’s wife’s description. Maybe we’ll get lucky. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Smith. You must be a saint to put up with this guy.” He laughed to indicate he was kidding.

  “I felt so sorry for Carolyn Armstrong,” Annabel said as she and Mac walked toward their car. “I didn’t think she’d make it.”

  “Neither did I,” Smith said. “Did she know Paul pretty well?”

  “I suppose so. They worked together. Everyone at the cathedral is broken up, except Father Merle, who is so controlled. She had trouble keeping from crying two days ago when we met about the art show. I still can’t believe it.”

  Smith opened the door for Annabel. “As you said, she certainly is beautiful.”

  As they waited in a line of traffic to turn onto Wisconsin Avenue, Mac said, “I can’t get that poor choirboy out of my mind. How embarrassing to throw up in the middle of your solo at the National Cathedral.”