Bishop as Pawn
Page 31
Someone entered.
A terminal maintenance man, apparently. Clad in coveralls with the distinctive colors, he was trundling a cart of cleaning supplies and equipment.
The priest glanced briefly at the man, who had begun to dust mop the floor. As far as the priest was concerned, nothing in this restroom needed immediate attention. But it was good to know that the Irish cleaned things that were already clean.
He opened his valise and removed shaving equipment and a dry washcloth. The greater part of his adult life, he’d had problems with shaving, especially with a fresh blade. Either he would cut himself or he wouldn’t press hard enough to remove all the stubble.
Until, that is, in Cologne a German barber gave him the secret of prepping his face with moist heat.
He removed his collar, vest, and jacket, turned the hot water on and drenched the washcloth, wrung it out, bent low over the sink and pressed the cloth to his face, holding it there as long as he could bear the heat.
When he straightened up, so intent was he on getting a clean shave that he hardly noticed that the maintenance man was now directly behind him. Nor had the priest more than a split second to comprehend what followed.
In one fluid motion, from the rear, the man cupped the priest’s chin in his right hand while his left hand grasped the priest’s head. With a powerful wrenching motion, he twisted around and down until the priest’s chin was well beyond his right shoulder. The shattering of his spinal cord made no sound. Nor was there any blood. The priest slumped dead to the floor.
The killer nodded once in quiet satisfaction. Everything was going perfectly.
He stripped the victim, gathered the dead man’s garments, emptied the pockets, and stuffed the clothing into a large duffel bag. He then removed his own coveralls and added them to the bag. He was attired in a suit and roman collar identical to the dead priest’s uniform.
He dragged the now-naked corpse into a stall, lowered the legs into the toilet bowl and propped the body on the seat. With a length of rope, he tied the body to the wall pipe. Satisfied that the body would stay put, he locked the stall door from the inside and lifted himself over the partition and out of the stall.
He paused to look about. Perfect so far. He hadn’t even had to resort to a ruse to get the priest off by himself.
After transferring the contents of the victim’s wallet to his own, he added the empty wallet to the duffel bag. He removed a black overcoat and hat from the interior of the cleaning cart.
Finally, he retrieved the black-on-yellow sign—OUT OF ORDER/TEMPORARILY CLOSED—from just outside the men’s room, where he’d placed it before entering. He placed the sign in front of the locked stall.
Now dressed as a priest, he left the men’s room, carrying the valise and the duffel bag. He went directly to an outside bin he knew would be emptied within the hour.
Twenty minutes later his flight was called. The security people had no problem with his carry-on valise, nor with the contents of his pockets. The forged passport passed muster.
He found his seat in the tourist section, loosened his clerical collar, and settled in for the first leg of his twelve-hour trip to Detroit. By the time he had mentally run through his agenda for the next few days, lunch was being served. Later when the movie began, he took a cassette from his pocket, inserted it into a compact player, and connected the earphone. It was a book being read by an actor with Midwest American roots. He shut his eyes and, as he had done so many times before, silently moved his lips as he practiced an accent that was not his.
Sometime later he drifted off to sleep.
He needed the rest. He had business in Detroit.