Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “The problem is that because this work, this calling, draws people who are bound up in some degree of mysticism, it often appeals to certain individuals who are not especially rational or grounded in a sense of reality.” He raised his eyes and shook his head. “I wish I weren’t saying this, because it is blatantly unfair to Jonathon. He’s a good man and a fine priest. He believes fervently in his calling and his faith … but perhaps, on occasion, he believes a little too strongly and is intolerant of any deviation from it. He can be zealous about that to the same extent that Paul was about his work with social programs. And he has his own problems, which keep him from the perfection he seeks in himself. And others.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Smith said. “I have to go. Thanks for your time, George. I’ll be in touch.”

  After Smith left his meeting with the bishop and Merle, he went home to wait for Tony Buffolino to arrive. Buffolino had called the night before, saying he had some interesting information. He arrived, showing signs of his old excitement.

  “First of all, Mac, you told me to check into the backgrounds of the two reverends Merle and Armstrong. What I came up with ain’t exactly a moon landing, but I think it’s worth passing on.”

  “I’m all ears,” Smith said.

  They sat at Smith’s kitchen table. Smith had made coffee and placed a plate of jelly doughnuts between them. In a moment or so, Buffolino was on his second. “First of all, this Merle is a pretty dull character.”

  Smith laughed. “I suppose you could call him that. Uptight, upright, but not a barrel of laughs. Is that all you’ve found out about him?”

  “Yeah, except for one interesting period in his life that wasn’t so dull.”

  “What period was that?”

  “The two years he spent in a loony bin.”

  Tony’s tendency to use the cruel vernacular often riled Smith, but he knew that if he raised an objection he would only prompt a debate over calling a spade a spade, as Buffolino called it, or telling it like it is.

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  Now Buffolino referred to notes, and gave Smith the dates of Merle’s confinement to a mental institution in Ohio. It had taken place fourteen years ago, and the official reason for his confinement was “schizothymic personality.” He fumbled the first word.

  “Technical term for schizoid,” Smith said. “Any information on how his treatment went, and the prognosis?”

  Buffolino shook his head and helped himself to another doughnut. “These are pretty good, but I’m not too hungry. No prognosis, but he put in a good two years, that’s for sure.”

  “Okay, Tony, next.”

  “Next, this beautiful Reverend Carolyn Armstrong. A nice lady, it seems to me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, she came out of a tough life. She looks like class, but she’s been over some bumps. I mean, she was born illegitimate and dumped by her mother. Grew up in a series of foster homes down in Newport News, and even spent time in orphanages. I didn’t think they had them anymore.”

  “I suppose they do. Hmmm. Not an easy beginning for a young woman. But she certainly seems to have pulled her life together.”

  “Yeah, she sure has. She started pretty young trying to get it together.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She was in a beauty contest when she was sixteen.”

  “Beauty contest? Did she win?”

  “Sure did, Miss Newport News.”

  “Did she go on in the beauty-contest business? Did she win other titles? Was she Miss America?”

  Buffolino shook his head. “Nah. She’s good-lookin’, but no Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Anything else about her?”

  “A lot of boilerplate, nothing that matters where this case is concerned. I do have one thing on another front, though.”

  “Please.”

  “The police have what they consider a pretty good suspect.”

  Smith’s eyes widened.

  “You know that woman who found the body, that Mrs. Waters?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, she’s got a son named Brian.”

  “So I gather.”

  “It seems this Brian Waters used to live in Newport News, too.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Which means I have no idea whether he ever knew Reverend Armstrong, but I do know he was arrested twice for assault. No convictions.”

  “MPD likes him as a suspect?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then why would he have come in with his mother—walked right into the police’s hands?”

  “Because,” Tony said, “—maybe I’ll just finish this last one—he knew they’d find his mother somehow. She was hysterical and would have eventually turned herself in or gone back to Mrs. Bishop, and the guy figured better the heat should be on his mother, with him the good guy, than on him. Besides, one of those assault charges in Newport News had to do with him knocking around a priest down there.”

  Smith poured himself more coffee and drew a deep breath. “How hard are they working him, Tony?”

  “Hard enough to have brought him in twice for questioning. My friend told me they consider this guy a head case. But he comes off like a very nice and normal human being.”

  “So why did they turn to him? Oh, I guess I know.”

  “Why?” Tony said, surprised.

  “Because he’s a car salesman. They check on anybody in certain occupations.”

  “Just like on Italians or guys with beards. Car salesman—so he knows how to make nice to people. But my friend tells me that the elevator doesn’t always reach the top floor with Brian Waters. Want to know something else about him?”

  “I want to know anything you know.”

  “This guy is right of John Birch. He belonged to one of those neo-Nazi groups in Newport News, one of those hate organizations.”

  “Does he have any affiliation like that here in Washington?”

  Buffolino shrugged. “Beats me. Haven’t finished checking yet. But this is a guy who ain’t destined to love a guy like Singletary who’s talkin’ all the time about the rights of the blacks and Hispanics and the poor, not a character who has already punched out one priest. You get my drift?”

  “Yes. What’s your friend’s line on Brian Waters? Do they think they have enough to arrest him?”

  “Not yet, but they’re digging. I mean, the guy lives with his mother a couple of blocks from the cathedral. She’s a religious fanatic, he’s a fanatic in another way. Hey, I could come up with worse scenarios.”

  “Yes, Tony,” Smith said, “you could.”

  Later that afternoon, he attended a faculty meeting at the university. Smith considered such meetings to be necessary evils or, at best, ritualistic necessities that had to be indulged. Everyone, sociologists said, needed a hangout at which to spend time in friendly surroundings and with people who shared a common purpose and background. Meetings were like that, Smith had decided years ago: they represented a need to gather together and affirm that everyone was involved in the same pursuit, more or less, and actually could get along, at least within the conference room.

  The meeting lasted a lot longer than he’d anticipated or needed; this nothing new, it never seemed to fail. He left just in time to make a date he’d arranged earlier in the day with an old friend, Cameron Bowes, who’d been Voice of America’s CIA liaison for the past ten years, and with whom Smith kept in touch. Smith had few close friends in government agencies, but Bowes certainly headed the short list.

  They met in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where a pianist in a tuxedo played show tunes as background for Washington’s movers and shakers in their comfortable little corners, large ferns providing “cover” as they talked about big things. Cameron Bowes was a slender, almost diminutive man, with silver hair, a face filled with lines, and interesting angles, and who wore expensive clothing like a model. He was also an unfailingly interesting companion over a drink, eru
dite and well-read, a man whose interests transcended the day-to-day demands of his VOA position.

  After they’d been served drinks by a young woman in a floor-length green-and-yellow jungle-pattern gown, Bowes said, “A toast to the end of summer in Washington and to the Redskins. Your evaluation, Mr. Smith, of our favorite team.”

  “I haven’t given much thought to it, Cam. I suppose I’ll get into the season when it’s almost over, provided they make the play-offs.”

  “Spoken like a true sports fan, although I think you’re going to be very disappointed if you’re waiting for that. Tell me, Mackensie, what’s new on your plate aside from having committed your considerable legal talents to an entire institution of higher religion?”

  Smith laughed and sipped his bourbon. “What do you hear about murder most foul in the National Cathedral?”

  “Spooky places, cathedrals. I’ve toured all the biggies around the world. Not that I consider myself an aficionado of temples of worship, but my wife seems to think that a trip anywhere is wasted without spending at least some time in them. This Singletary was a controversial guy.”

  “Yes, he was, although a lot of the controversy may have been unjustified. Hell, wanting to improve the lot of his fellow man and wanting world peace shouldn’t spur controversy. Agree?”

  “Sure, but there are lots of people who don’t. They prefer to see the situation remain exactly as it is, a growing number of rich people worrying about their capital gains, and a growing number of poor people trying to find money to feed their kids breakfast before they go to school so that they can learn what a capital gain is. Or capital. Anything new in the investigation?”

  Smith shook his head and looked around the room. There were a number of familiar faces, faces that ended up in the newspaper now and then. He suffered one of those assaults of ambivalent feelings that sitting in such a place sometimes triggered. On the one hand, he liked being there, was at home in places of power. On the other hand, he knew so much of it was a sham, more a play than a reflection of real life. We’re all players, the bard had said. Sometimes Smith enjoyed his role of the moment; it was after he’d got offstage and was home with time to reflect that he knew he really didn’t like playacting very much. Not for himself.

  Bowes seemed to have drifted into his own private thoughts, too. He said absently, “How deeply involved have you gotten in Word of Peace?”

  Smith heard him but didn’t react immediately. He was still analyzing his feelings about being there. He turned and raised his eyebrows, shrugged. “Not involved at all, although it keeps looming as a consideration where Singletary’s murder is concerned. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Mac, Word of Peace has not gone without the Company’s attention. Interesting assembly of characters in Word of Peace, lots of fine people with unassailable motives, a few others whose motives don’t stand up to scrutiny.”

  “Is that so?” Smith said.

  “How close are you to the bishop, Mac?”

  “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Then you have his ear.”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Why don’t you give your friend the bishop some good advice. Why don’t you tell your friend that he should disassociate himself as quickly as possible from anything having to do with Word of Peace.”

  Smith smiled. Among many things he liked about Cameron Bowes was that after an opening of amiable indirection, directness became part of the package. “Tell me more, Cameron. Tell me why I should advise him to do that.”

  “To avoid scandal, to avoid more controversy, to avoid further involvement in a mixed bag of good news–bad news people.” Bowes looked around the large, lavishly furnished lobby before leaning close to Smith and murmuring, “Word of Peace has been infiltrated by damn near every intelligence organization in the world. When the movement started, it was pure, if you can call any movement pure. But it immediately attracted all sorts of global hustlers who use movements like this the way Wall Street rainmakers smell a takeover and jump in with junk bonds, et cetera. It’s a classic case of cause and effect—or, start a cause and get several effects. The good guys come first, then the bad guys, then the good guys working undercover.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you.”

  “What’s so difficult to believe?”

  “That you would assign black hats and white hats so easily. Intelligence organizations aren’t always, to use your simple phraseology, ‘good guys.’ Anyhow, who are our major players?”

  “The CIA, among others. The navy’s in. The British have an even greater presence.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “The Church of England.” Bowes finished his drink. “They got suckered in like the National Cathedral did because of the passion and commitment of people like Paul Singletary.”

  Smith asked, “Should I be looking at Word of Peace as the place to find a murderer?”

  “They’re as good a place to look as any. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about that.”

  “Of course I have. Any aspect of Paul Singletary’s life has to be looked at, and I’m sure everyone with some official connection to this case is doing just that. But I’ve been looking into narrower possibilities. Somehow, Cam, even though Paul was deeply involved in the movement, I can’t conceive of his being killed because of it.”

  As another round was served, Bowes stopped talking. When the waitress had gone, he said, “Ever hear of a Korean named Jin Tse?”

  “Yes. Bishop St. James mentioned him to me. Jin Tse seems to be the point man for Word of Peace here in Washington. Singletary told the bishop about him, and after the murder, Jin Tse sought out the bishop to be sure of the cathedral’s continuing support.”

  “Mac.”

  “What?”

  “Jin Tse is not good news. Jin Tse works directly for Korean intelligence. He’s also a known assassin.” Bowes mentioned two political assassinations that had taken place over the years.

  “Jin Tse did those?”

  “That’s our best information.”

  “Maybe he ‘assassinated’ Paul Singletary,” Smith said.

  “Maybe. Rest assured that possibility is being given very careful consideration.”

  “This has all been very illuminating, Cameron.”

  “What are friends for, if they can’t illuminate their favorite people? Want to know what I think?”

  “Only if you’ll be honest with me about your source of thinking.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that I would like you to differentiate between what you’ve read in the papers like any other citizen, from what you’re telling me man-to-man, as a friend, and what you’re telling me because of the Company’s interest in this case. By the way, I assume the CIA’s file on this has gotten pretty thick.”

  “Yes, and it includes material on Reverend Singletary’s murder. I happen to know that by now a portion of it also has to do with Mackensie Smith.”

  Smith started to say something, but Bowes continued, “Every move you’ve made since you became involved is known to those charged with following this case. Quite an interesting honeymoon you had in London.”

  “That, too, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. I don’t want to belabor this, Mac, but we’re talking big stakes here. If Word of Peace was involved in any way in Reverend Singletary’s murder, it shouldn’t take a genius to figure out that they will stop at nothing to achieve their goals, whatever they are, and that includes demonstrating an absolute lack of reverence for a law professor at George Washington University and his pretty wife. Be careful, Mac. There’s a war going on. Singletary was only a skirmish.”

  22

  The Next Morning, Thursday—Still Pleasantly Warm

  If the FBI had not decided to arrest overnight a number of people in Washington involved with Word of Peace, the small story in the morning paper about the cathedral case would have been given a more prominent position on page 1, p
erhaps at the top, run in 24-point Helvetica bold. Instead, it was relegated to the bottom, its headline in 14-point Geneva, and in italics.

  The lead story was the FBI’s sweep of Word of Peace leaders, including Jin Tse and some of his associates. Others caught in the net included a breakaway Catholic priest, the black leader of one of D.C.’s urban coalitions for the poor, a West German businessman, a South American embassy official, and a faith healer from Oklahoma who had somehow established a mission in Washington under the auspices of Word of Peace. Charges ranged from fraud to extortion, spying to conspiracy.

  “Read this,” Mac said, handing the paper to Annabel. She sat on the edge of the bed, and the widening of her eyes mirrored her reaction to what she was reading. “Wow!” she said, tossing the paper on the bed.

  Smith had given Annabel a reasonable account of his conversation with Cameron Bowes at the Four Seasons, but had deliberately skipped the warning Bowes had issued. As he reflected upon it after parting from Bowes, he became increasingly concerned. Bowes was a straight shooter, not a bigmouth; he played it as close to the vest as any employee of a sensitive agency was expected to do. That he’d brought the subject up at all gave it, at least in Smith’s eyes, considerable weight. He hadn’t mentioned it to Annabel because he didn’t want to concern her, although he would continue to be concerned about her, but he knew she wouldn’t buy that decision. She’d want to know about any danger to him. She wanted to be a “partner,” but only a limited partner, she’d told him. That didn’t mean unduly upsetting your partner. Did it?

  “How do you think this relates to Paul’s murder?” Annabel asked. The story had ended with a note that Paul Singletary, the murdered Episcopal priest, had been actively involved with Word of Peace. The final line of the article directed readers to a parallel story about new developments in the Singletary case at the bottom of the page.

  The headline on the smaller story read MURDER WEAPON FOUND? According to Chief of Homicide Terrence Finnerty, an anonymous caller to the police late the night before had directed them to the National Cathedral’s Children’s Chapel, where, according to the caller, the instrument used to kill Reverend Paul Singletary would be found. The police responded to the tip, removed two candlesticks from the altar, and, according to Finnerty, discovered that the base of one was dented in a pattern consistent with Singletary’s head wound. Laboratory analysis revealed that a fragment of hair matching the deceased’s was found, and that a miniscule residue of human blood of the same type as Reverend Singletary’s was on the holder. There were no fingerprints. Examination of the holder involved the use of a mass spectrometer and other sophisticated forensic devices. The police had no knowledge at the time of the identity of the anonymous caller, except that it was a male.