Marge said, “Why did Leonard think Berger and Shockley were in cahoots?”
“Because he recently saw Berger and Shockley talking to each other. Here. At Fisher/Tyne. In Shockley’s private office. Dr. Berger no longer had business here. What was he doing here?”
“That’s hardly indictable evidence, Belinda,” Oliver said.
“That’s what I told Kenny,” she answered. “I told him that for all he knew Sparks could have sent Berger to talk to Shockley.”
“Exactly.”
“There was more, sir. Kenny traced the break-in to a terminal in Sparks’s lab. By some process of elimination, Kenny had it figured out that it had to be Berger. He became frantic, very scared.”
“Obviously with good reason,” Marge said. “Why didn’t he report this to the police?”
“He said he didn’t have enough concrete evidence. And if he got the police involved without enough concrete evidence, he’d lose his job. That’s why he wanted to figure it out on his own.”
Belinda went quiet.
“Go on,” Marge said.
“That was it. Yesterday, he told me he wasn’t coming in tomorrow…that’s today. So I didn’t think twice when he didn’t show up for work.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But as soon as I saw your car pull up…”
She broke into sobs.
“I’m so scared! Am I being paranoid?”
Marge said, “Maybe you and your family should take a few days off until we have a better idea of what’s going on.”
“A few days off?” Belinda hugged herself. “And just what do I tell my husband? That my ex-lover was murdered because he discovered some medical fraud, and his discovery put my family in danger?”
Oliver said, “I don’t think you have to tell him that Kenny was an ex-lover.”
“Then how could I explain the reason why Kenny confided in me?”
Marge said, “Mrs. Sands, I don’t know how you should phrase your words to your husband. But I do know that taking a couple of days off makes sense if you care about your family’s safety.”
“Oh God!” She covered her face again. “Jesus is paying me back.”
“Nah, I don’t think it’s that personal,” Oliver stated.
Belinda looked up, dried her tears. “Oh well…” Her voice had taken on a resolved tone. “I’ll figure something out. I’ve lied before, I can lie again.”
22
Sorting through piles of broken glass. Like picking brambles from a briar patch, Webster thought. Sun rays hitting the shards, shooting rainbows of light that bounced off the furniture and walls, ceiling and floors. Might have been pretty except for the ravaged bodies and the blood spatter. He clicked off his cassette player and pulled a tiny sliver out of his arm. He said, “Think I can file for disability?”
Martinez was squatting, retrieving shards and putting them in a bag. “Are you bleeding bad?”
“If I squeeze hard enough, I reckon I could fill up a capillary tube.”
“Go for an artery, Tom.”
Webster sighed, turned the tape back on. Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique. Because this was a murder scene extraordinaire. Trying to clear the area of debris—to find more compelling evidence and to allow Deputy Coroner Jay Craine access to the bodies. The pathologist was waiting outside, eating his lunch. Crime lab had sent two techs for blood sampling, dusting, and collection. The two white-coated workers were amassing pieces by the bagfuls.
Webster said, “There is so much glass, blood, and guts here, it’s like wading in a deadly offal soup. I don’t know how the lab’s gonna blood-type on all these bitty bits.”
Martinez said, “Guarantee you, mixed in with all this shit is blood from the perp…or perps. You can’t do this much damage without getting scratched.”
“Wonder why someone did this much damage?” Webster shrugged. “It serves no purpose.”
“It serves a purpose,” Martinez said. “It makes our job a hell of a lot harder.”
Webster said, “Someone did this to confuse us?”
Martinez said, “Or maybe someone just likes destruction.” He looked up from his kneeling position. Decker had come back. “Hey, Loo. How’s it going?”
“Find anything?”
“Lots of glass and blood.”
“Grab a pair of gloves, Rabbi,” Martinez said. “Get your hands dirty for old times’ sake.”
Decker slipped latex over his hands. “Anyone check the other rooms?”
“Neat and orderly if you please,” Webster said. “Decameron was a compulsive type.”
“Where’s his office?” Decker asked.
“In the back. Why?”
“Go through his papers?”
Webster said, “Just a quick glance. But nothing appears rifled through. What are you looking for?”
“Decameron was supposed to show Oliver and Dunn the Curedon/FDA trial data. Just wondering if he had the data somewhere in the house.”
“Like I said, his office is in the back. Help yourself.”
Decker walked through a skylit hallway off which three rooms sat—a bedroom, a guest room, and Decameron’s office. Webster was right—all of them appeared untouched. Decker started with the office.
Light poured into quarters—from above and from the windows. A bay oriel framed a view of Decameron’s patio garden—dozens of lush potted plants along with a three-tiered tiled fountain spilling gentle sheets of water. Decameron had done his work on an eight-foot granite drawerless desk. Atop the stone were a phone, a fax, a desktop copy machine, and a blotter and pencil holder.
The walls held no artwork—just shelves and banks upon banks of file cabinets. Decker pulled out a few drawers. All of them unlocked, seemingly undisturbed.
Some were reserved for patient files, but the majority had been dedicated to research data, most of the folders having to do with Curedon. Decker scanned the topics.
Curedon—Renal complications in rhesus monkeys.
Curedon—Iatrogenic blood dyscrasia caused by phagocytic T-cell response.
Curedon—Postmortem intractable acute renal rejection during application of Cyclosporin-A versus OKT3 versus Curedon.
Decameron had laid Curedon out into neat, assessable packages. Anyone interested in pilfering scientific information would have had an easy time. Decameron, for all his sardonic wit and cynicism, had been a trusting soul.
He thought a moment. If someone had been after the data, why make a mess out there and leave the office pristine? To throw him off track?
Decker sighed, slipped on his glasses, and began sorting through the Curedon folders, this time looking specifically for the Fisher/Tyne-FDA trial data. Reading sentence upon sentence, paragraph after paragraph of scientific mumbo jumbo until after an hour, his eyes bugged and blurred. Medical jargon was worse than legalese.
“Loo?”
Decker spun around. Martinez looked grave. His hand held something small and shiny.
“Maybe you should take a look at this.”
Decker walked over, his head awhirl with columns of highly statistically significant numbers and the horrible medical sequelae of host-graft rejection. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his bicep. He took Martinez’s offering.
Small and shiny and gold.
A chain with a cross.
Decker said, “Not Decameron’s type of jewelry.”
Martinez said, “You know, anyone could have been wearing this. A cross is pretty neutral.”
Decker studied the ornament, flipped it over from side to side, noticed some scratch marks only because he was wearing his reading glasses. As he brought it closer to his eyes, the etching took shape. “It’s engraved. I see a word. You tell me if I’m right.”
“Can I borrow your glasses?”
Decker gave Martinez his glasses and the cross. Bert studied the writing for a moment. “It says Sparks.”
“Yes, it does. See any first initial?”
“Nope.”
“Neither do I.
” Decker chose his words carefully. “There are six Sparks children. But only one’s a priest.”
Webster walked into the room. He held up a lone key with an ID tag, both dangling from a ring. “I found this in Decameron’s pocket. Just an address, no name. I ran it through our backward directory. It matches an apartment rented out to Abram Sparks.”
And all Decker could think about was how this would affect Rina. He didn’t want her hurt, yet he knew it would be impossible to hide it from her.
It stank of a setup. But an investigation wasn’t run by its smell. He said, “Okay, we’ll do it this way. Tom, you stay here with the lab people and continue to direct the search. I’ll call up and get two warrants—one for the church, one for Bram’s apartment. I’ll do the apartment. Bert, you do St. Thomas’s. You being Catholic, it’ll play better if you search the church.”
“What are you putting on the search warrant?”
“The weapons, of course. Splinters and pieces of glass with brown stains on them. And clothing. We’re looking for bloody clothing…lots of bloody clothing.”
Key in hand, Decker didn’t expect anyone to be in. But he knocked on the door as a courtesy. To his surprise, the priest asked who it was. After Decker identified himself, there was a long pause. The door opened a crack, the priest came into view. His appearance was neat, but his face was pale.
“Lieutenant.” Bram stepped outside, closed the door behind him. His voice was controlled but not calm. He was garbed in black with a clerical collar. No cross. “Can I help you?”
Decker held out the key. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Bram eyed the key. “Thank you.”
As he reached for it, Decker snatched it from his grasp. “Can I come in, Father?”
Bram paused again. “This isn’t a good time. I was on my way to the hospital to visit a parishioner. A very sick boy.”
“Then this comes at a bad time for you.” Decker took out the warrant, handed it to Bram. The priest stared at the paper, but his eyes went through the words. Decker sidestepped around him and walked inside. Gave the place a quick once-over.
Oliver had mentioned in a joke that the apartment was probably Bram’s secret den of iniquity. If that were the case, the priest kept his sins well hidden. First thing Decker noticed was a wall crucifix to the right of the door.
The place was so spare it could have been listed as unfurnished. Pushed against the cheap wall paneling was a worn pea-green couch that sat under the living room’s sole window. The pillows and cushions were clean but sagged like half-empty balloons. The middle of the room was taken up by a folding table piled with papers, and two folding chairs. Bookshelves leaned against the wall. The kitchen was the size of a shed, but the appliances—or at least the oven—worked. The smell of chocolate and sugar permeated the air. Decker took a quick peek at the bedroom. A mattress on the floor, more books on shelves, and another wall crucifix. Luxurious quarters for a monk, but by anyone else’s standards, it was barebones.
Decker came back into the living room. Bram had shut the door, was leaning against it. He pushed hair off his face. “How long will this take?”
“I think it would be a good idea to assign another padre for your pastoral duties.”
Wordlessly, Bram went over to the phone, called another priest to sub for him at the hospital.
Decker started by opening the kitchen cabinets. A few stray dishes, not even enough for the standard set of four. The upper shelves were empty. “What smells so good?”
“I baked cookies. For the boy I was to visit.”
“Nice of you.”
“Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
“Something to drink? I have some orange juice.”
“Nothing, thanks.” He went to the lower cabinets. A few pieces of unmatched cookware. “How long have you rented this place?”
“Ten years.”
“You use it for an office?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have enough working space in your office at the church?”
“Sometimes I like privacy.”
“How often do you come here?”
“Depends on my mood.”
“Why are you here today?”
Bram was quiet.
Decker moved into the bedroom, starting with the closet. A few shirts hanging from the bar as well as a couple of pairs of black pants. Resting on the closet shelf were several clerical collars, socks, and underwear, and a pair of sneakers. Decker picked up the mattress and peered underneath.
Nothing.
He went into the bathroom. It was connected to both the bedroom and the living room. A few towels and washcloths stored in the lone cabinet. A single towel hanging beside the sink. On the rim of the bath was a bar of soap, a razor, and a bottle of shampoo. Boringly devoid of anything incriminating. Yet, never once did the priest ask Decker what he was looking for. And that was significant.
So much for the quick overhaul.
Now for the detailed inspection. Decker gave the walls a couple of knocks just to hear what they sounded like. Cheap paneling over thin drywall. If there was a hidden compartment, it wouldn’t be hard to find.
First, he decided to look behind the bookshelves. He started with the texts in the living room, since that was the biggest wall in the apartment. Standing on a chair, he began with the top shelf. Swiftly, he pulled down religious volumes and let them drop to the floor with a thump, did this several times as the books scattered across a worn shag carpet.
Bram hurried to pick them up.
Decker regarded the priest as he collected his tomes, noticed he was wincing. Decker was unnerving him.
And that was good.
Decker purposely moved faster and with greater abandon, carelessly tossing the texts about.
Bram continued to retrieve them, then stopped. “You know, to me these are holy books.”
“Sorry about the mess.” Decker let another volume topple downward. “I don’t have time for the niceties.”
“It’s called respect. Something your wife knows a great deal about.”
Decker ignored the barb and let several more books land on the floor.
“I can’t believe…” Anger had seeped into Bram’s voice. “Can you hand them to me at least?”
“Sorry. It’ll take too long.”
“You’re not going to find anything behind the books, Lieutenant.”
Decker turned and faced him. “And where will I find things, Father?”
Bram maintained eye contact, but didn’t speak.
Decker said, “You know, if you’re hiding something, I’m going to find it. I’m going to toss every book, knock on every piece of paneling, look under every single floorboard, and rip up your mattress if necessary. So why don’t you save both of us some trouble and show me what you have.”
Bram’s face was a study in stoicism. Without speaking, he walked over to the wall crucifix. He genuflected, then said a silent prayer. A minute later, still in the kneeling position, he deftly removed a piece of paneling. The broken seams had blended so smoothly with the wall, Decker hadn’t noticed them on visual inspection. Inside the open space was a floor safe.
Decker climbed off the chair and donned a pair of gloves. “You want to open the safe for me?”
Bram hesitated, then started turning the combination lock. Several minutes passed.
“C’mon,” Decker said. “Stop stalling. I’ll blast the thing open if I have to.”
Red-faced, Bram looked up. Perspiration was pouring off his forehead. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m nervous. My hands are shaking. If you want, I’ll give you the combination and you can open it.”
Decker spoke quietly. “You do it. I’ll be patient.”
“Thank you.”
It must have taken another couple of minutes. Bram continued to maneuver the lock until there was an audible click. The priest pulled down on the handle and the safe door popped open. He
stood, went over to the couch and sat, hands folded in his lap, eyes resting on the wall crucifix. As Decker knelt, an acrid odor tickled his nose. With gloved hands, he pulled out a folded pile of clothing. Gave them a sniff. Sweat-soaked with the distinct sweet, metallic scent of blood. He examined the cloth briefly. Splotches of fresh blood on the knee and cuff areas of the pants, on the sleeves of the shirt. Bits of reddish brown scattered throughout the rest of the fabric. Good news for Forensics. Lots of samples from which to work.
Bagging the clothing, Decker continued searching in the darkened safe. Farther back was a pair of sneakers, the soles reddened with blood, sparkling with splinters of glass. Decker distinctly remembered Martinez pointing out bloody shoe prints to Forensics at Decameron’s house. Nice to have shoes, especially sneakers with their distinct rubber-sole swirls and whirls.
Decker pressed on, looking for weapons. No guns or knives. But tucked into the back, previously hidden by the clothes, was a pile of magazines. About a dozen periodicals. He pulled them out, thumbed through the first one.
A case of “seen one, seen ’em all.” Still, there was something particularly disturbing about the pornography. Not because it was gay, but because it looked like it hurt. The bondage seemed benign enough. It was the body-piercing that caused Decker’s stomach to churn. Needles, pins, and hypodermics cutting through flesh—through noses, through lips, through eyelids and tongues, and through nipples, penises, and scrotums. Decker tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard to remain indifferent.
He got up, a magazine in hand, and walked over to Bram. He opened it to a pinup—a blond proudly displaying a variety of needles and restraints around his torso, neck, and groin. He showed the picture to the priest. Bram averted his eyes.
Decker said, “I can see why you kept your own apartment.”
Bram was silent.
Decker sat down. “I’m really not interested in your proclivities except if they’re germane to my homicide cases. The bloody clothes and shoes in your safe are a different matter altogether. I’m going to have to arrest you.”
Bram nodded, eyes still on the crucifix.
“The clothes and shoes are going to be gathered as evidence.” Again, Decker held out the magazine. “These are going to be taken up as well.”
Faye Kellerman_Decker & Lazarus 09 Page 28
