Last Breath Page 16

  “That's a lot of faith.” Faith that he wasn't exactly feeling himself right now. What if he'd had some kind of psychotic break? What if that really was him, and he hadn't been safely in his bed as he believed. What if — ?

  “Father,” Lucy said sternly, “it's not faith. I know you. Besides … people can fool around with photos on computers these days. Nearly anyone can do it. What's more, are you going to try to convince me that someone was out there taking pictures of you committing a murder? Oh, please!” Then she rattled off a string of Spanish words so rapidly that he couldn't follow it. Nor did she particularly seem to want him to. He was fairly certain she used a few words that he had never before heard pass Lucy's lips, in either Spanish or English.

  She reached for the phone, making her own decision, and punched in numbers. Moments later she was telling Chloe to come to the rectory immediately.

  When she hung up, she turned back to Brendan. “She'll be here in a few minutes.”

  “I need a drink.” His weakness. And he was about to give in to it because he couldn't make that obscene picture go away, not from his mind, not from that computer. Because he was suddenly filled with a self-doubt that wanted to push him to the edge of madness.

  “No, you don't, Father,” Lucy said firmly. “You know you never drink, and it will only make you feel worse.”

  Right. At the moment, getting thoroughly sloshed actually sounded attractive. Then he despised himself for the weakness. “You're right,” he said.

  “Whoever made up that picture is sick,” Lucy said, anger overcoming her initial shock. “Very sick. I hope they can find him.”

  Brendan managed a nod, even though he feared the only person they might find was him. But why, at this stage of his life, would he go crazy like that? Maybe he'd had a mild stroke or something?

  How could that be him? He'd felt so much affection for Steve, so blessed to know a young man with such a pure, generous heart. A saintly young man. Yet not perfect. A young man with plenty of demons to wrestle, yet one who wrestled them well, from the strength of his faith.

  It was cruel, so cruel that his life had been cut so short, before his soul and heart had fully blossomed, before he had been able to bless the lives of the many who would now never know him.

  That obscenity of a picture. A shudder passed through him, but he forced himself to sit upright. Whatever was coming, he had to face it. And whoever this evil person was, even if it should prove to be himself, he needed to be brought to justice.

  Just then, Chloe hurried into the office, dressed in a polo shirt and khaki chinos. She paused on the threshold, looking at the two of them. “My God,” she said, “don't tell me there's been another murder.”

  Matt made good time to the diocesan offices. His cell phone rang insistently a couple of times, but he ignored it, leaving voice mail to take it. When he asked for Father Abernathy, he was taken immediately to an office on the second floor, where he found not one priest, but two awaiting him.

  “Detective Diel?” said the younger of the two, coming around his desk. “I’m Father Abernathy. And this is Monsignor Crowell.”

  Matt shook the hands of both men. “I believe we spoke on the phone once, Monsignor.”

  “Yes, I believe so.” Crowell didn't look pleased. “I would appreciate it if you would keep this meeting private. I’d much prefer if we didn't have to show you this.”

  “It might be evidence,” Father Abernathy said. “We can't withhold evidence.”

  “I don't know why not,” Matt said, looking at Crowell. Something wasn't adding up here. As he understood it, Crowell outranked Abernathy. Therefore, if Crowell wanted to conceal whatever this was behind the silent stone facade of the Catholic Church, then it would be hidden, the way so many things involving priests had been hidden in the past. “You guys will even hold a murder confession in confidence.”

  “Only under seal of confessional.” Crowell sighed, then waved his hand. “This is no confession.”

  “No? What is it?”

  “An … accusation, I suppose.”

  “What is it?”

  “In a moment.” Crowell waved Matt to a seat. “I want to tell you something first.”

  Matt sat and waited attentively, wondering what kind of bullshit was about to be shoveled. Something about Crowell was seriously bugging him.

  “It is with the greatest trepidation,” Crowell said, “that I’m sharing this with you. However, in light of the questions I have about things at St. Simeon's, I suppose I must. Sometimes the line between the Church's province and the province of secular authorities is quite clear. This is one of those occasions. This falls clearly into both our domains, and we will have to deal with it each in his own way.”

  “I understand.” Not that he did. Matt wondered why he suddenly thought of Pilate washing his hands.

  Crowell sighed. “I can't bear this. Father, you take care of this matter. I need to go pray on this.”

  “Yes, Monsignor.”

  Matt watched Crowell take his leave, and was absolutely convinced that the man wasn't nearly as distressed as he was pretending. Why? What the hell was going on? Chloe had said something about the diocese riding Brendan's ass, and he himself remembered the call he'd gotten about how something of this nature had happened in the priest's past. That call had been anonymous, but he had a strong feeling it had been generated by Crowell.

  Now the gloves were off. Crowell was showing his hand. No more anonymous calls.

  “I suppose,” said Abernathy, when Crowell had closed the door behind him, “that I might as well just show you. You'll make of it what you will. But I will tell you privately that I’m sure this is some kind of hoax.”

  “Monsignor Crowell doesn't seem as certain.”

  “No. I noticed.” Abernathy made a face. “Well, that's Monsignor, and I am I, and we have differing opinions on some things. The point is, we received an e-mail this morning, and it's some kind of evidence, I’m sure, although I do not feel it's the kind of evidence Monsignor thinks it is.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Please do.”

  Matt was getting impatient. “What did you get?”

  Abernathy turned the monitor on his desk toward Matt. “This arrived a short while ago.”

  Matt looked at the picture, and one thought, one thought only, came into his head: Fuck.

  “Okay,” Chloe said, once she had absorbed what she was seeing. “It's a fake.”

  Brendan's eyes looked haunted. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because nobody, but nobody, was out there taking a picture of you committing a murder.”

  “Well, I’d like to think I had more sense than that at least,” Brendan said in a poor attempt at humor.

  “You not only have more sense, you're not a murderer. Okay. Somebody really wants to screw you.”

  Brendan cleared his throat. “I thought they wanted to kill me.”

  “They seem to. But first they want to take you down. Lucy, can I sit at your desk?”

  “Sure.”

  Chloe took the secretary's seat and looked at the e-mail header. “This was copied to the diocese.”

  “Wonderful,” said Brendan.

  “The sender address is meaningless. But we've got a computer nerd or two around here. Maybe they can trace it back to an origin.”

  “I hope so,” said Lucy. “You know Father didn't do that.”

  “Of course I know Father didn't do that.” Chloe sat back a little in the chair and stared at the photo. “Look at that. It could be anyone lying on the ground. No face. Just a white shirt, jeans, and blond hair.”

  “That's what Steve was wearing,” Brendan pointed out.

  “Sure. But a lot of people would have known that. Then there's you. That picture of you could be from anywhere.”

  “But it is me.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” She leaned forward and looked closer. “I don't know. It's so easy to fudge these things nowadays. Heck, I even
do it with my photos at home. Software right off the shelf at most office and computer stores lets you erase things from pictures, combine pictures …. We need an expert to look at this.”

  Brendan rubbed his eyes and gave a heavy sigh. “Lucy, do we have any aspirin down here?”

  Lucy leaned over, around Chloe's legs, and pulled out her purse. “I have ibuprofen. Two?”

  “Please.”

  He swallowed them dry, hoping they would ease the pounding in his head. “No Matt?”

  “I’ll try him again.” Chloe reached for the phone and dialed Matt's cell. Still no answer. “Not yet. It won't be long though.”

  “I don't understand,” Lucy said, “why we have to bring it to the police. It's a fake.”

  Chloe swiveled the chair to look at her. “That's exactly why we have to bring it to the police. This might be from the murderer.”

  Matt left the chancery with a hard copy of the e-mail and a list of those who had seen it. The list was short. Monsignor Abernathy vetted the e-mail that came into that particular office, and Monsignor Crowell was the only other person he had shown it to.

  Matt would have liked nothing better than to tell Abernathy to delete the damn thing, but he couldn't do that. He was no computer wizard, but he realized that a trained person might be able to glean a great deal of information from the original e-mail that couldn't be found in a mere printout.

  Back at his car, he decided to pick up his voice mail on his cell. There were three messages, all from Chloe, and all saying the same thing.

  He punched in the rectory number. Chloe answered.

  “I’m on my way,” he said. “And I’ve already seen it.”

  “The chancery?”

  “The chancery.”

  “Yes, I see from the header it went there, too. What do they think?”

  “Let's just say that there is a division of opinion.”

  “Anybody can see it's a fake.”

  “Well, of course.” Matt sighed. “How's Father Brendan holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. Just get here, soon. Please.”

  Matt didn't like the sound of that. Brendan struck him as a strong man, strong of heart as well as of body. But he had suffered a severe blow, and was enduring great stress thanks to the threats against him. Matt supposed it would hardly be surprising if the man was near breaking.

  But near breaking was not what he found when he arrived at the rectory. The Father looked fatigued and worn, but he didn't look anywhere near breaking. He and Chloe were sitting in the parlor. Lucy had gone back to her job, for now holding the world at bay.

  Matt closed the parlor door behind him and nodded to Brendan. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine. It's a bit shocking, however, to realize that someone hates me so much.”

  “Anyone would be shocked by that. Tell me the e-mail is still on the computer it was opened on.”

  “Yes,” Chloe said. “I had Lucy save it to a locked file.”

  “Good. I want to get an expert to look at it.” Matt laid the hard copy of the photo on the end table between Brendan and Chloe. “What's wrong with this picture?”

  Chloe gave him a faint, wry smile. “Other than that it's a fake?”

  “No, I’m not talking about that. Take a good look at it. It tells us something about the person who sent it.”

  She and Brendan both looked down at it.

  “Father,” Matt said to Brendan, “do you know where King was killed?”

  Brendan paused thoughtfully. “I assumed … I guess I assumed he was killed in the church until I saw this photo.”

  “That's it,” Chloe said. “That's it. Whoever sent this photo knows that Steve died facedown on grass.”

  “Exactly.” Matt reached for a chair and pulled it close, sitting with them. “Nothing's been out in the press except that King was found nailed to the cross after being shot in the back of the head. Absolutely nothing has been said about where he was murdered. So whoever sent this knew the real story. This is from our murderer.”

  Brendan bowed his head a moment, and it seemed to Matt he was saying a silent prayer.

  “That's the first thing that leapt out at me when I saw it,” Matt said. “I’m going to get one of our computer experts on this immediately and see if we can find out the source of this e-mail. I didn't figure the diocese was going to let my guys paw around in their computers, so I’m glad you saved the e-mail. I’m going to have one of my men come over here and work on it, okay?”

  Brendan nodded slowly. “As long as that's all he looks at. A great deal of the information on our computers is private.”

  “That's all he'll be looking at. What else do you notice about this picture?”

  Chloe spoke. “You mean aside from the fact that it's highly unlikely anyone was out there taking pictures when this happened?”

  “Apart from that, yes.”

  “Well, there's no real discernible background. It's a dark picture, so you don't notice that at first, but there's really nothing there.”

  “It's been smudged so it's not recognizable. That means wherever the base picture was taken, the sender tried to conceal it.”

  Brendan's eyes widened a bit. “It's so dark I didn't notice that.”

  “Well, you and the body come out clearly enough. Which is another thing. Whoever did this picture took clear photos and combined them, then darkened them so they looked to be taken at night. Because there's absolutely no evidence of a flash, and it's not taken through a night-vision lens. That's obvious.”

  “I’m feeling better by the minute,” Brendan said.

  “Good. The other thing is, you can't see the face of the supposed victim. It could be anyone. Anyone at all. I wouldn't be surprised if our killer posed for that part of it.”

  “And the picture of Father Brendan,” Chloe said. “Do you see? The first thing you notice is that he's holding something in both hands. It could be a gun. But that's smeared out, too, and his hands are too far apart.”

  “Bingo,” Matt said. “It's an obvious fake. Painfully obvious.”

  “I could do better myself,” Chloe admitted.

  Matt sat back in his chair, nearly grinning. “This is our break. We find this guy, and that's it.”

  Brendan seemed to sag a little in the chair, as if releasing a great tension. “You're sure I didn't do it?”

  “I’m more convinced than ever that you didn't do it.”

  Brendan nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Now.” Matt leaned toward him. “I want you to think about any link you can come up with between this murder and the death of that young man when you were in the navy.”

  “Other than that they were close in age?”

  “Other than that.”

  “I don't know. I mean …” Brendan looked away thoughtfully. “They were nothing alike, these two young men, other than that both were wrestling with their homosexuality. Steve was thoroughly dedicated to the Church; Tom was just finding his way into it. There really aren't very many parallels.”

  Just then Matt's cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and flipped it open, punching the talk button. “Diel,” he said.

  It was Phelan. “We got a rat,” Phelan said. “He says he saw the guy who came out of the motel on the slashing case. We've got good ID.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Some addict. I’m having him picked up now.”

  “Great.”

  “Well, I’d agree, except for one thing.”

  “What's that?” Matt asked.

  “Our vie doesn't exist.”

  Chapter 17

  Matt and Chloe left the rectory together. Behind them Brendan sat thoughtfully slumped in a chair, and Lucy answered the incessantly ringing phones.

  “You know that ‘c’ word we didn't want to use?” Matt asked, as they stood beside their cars. A hundred yards away, children were starting to spill out of the church's school, toward buses and waiting cars.

  “Yeah?” Chloe
faced him. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. That was Phelan on the phone. They think they've got the killer of that guy I told you about.”

  “The one with the blood in his trunk?”

  “The same. Problem is, he doesn't exist.”

  “Who? The killer?”

  “Sorry. The victim. I’m heading back to the station to find out what the scoop is.”

  “Let me know, will you?” Chloe's eyes suddenly looked pinched. “I’m getting a horrible feeling about this, Matt. A horrible feeling.”

  “Me too. I don't like shadowboxing.”

  In the Burglary-Homicide squad room, except for a couple of secretaries, no one was present but Phelan. And Phelan was looking like a man with major indigestion.

  Not that that was an unusual expression in this room. Antacids populated every drawer, it sometimes seemed. Between stress and diet, every person who worked in the squad room was a candidate for an ulcer or a coronary.

  “Okay,” said Phelan, when Matt had pulled up a seat, “it's like I told you. I’ve got two uniforms hunting for the perp, an addict known as Jerry ‘Squeaky’ Schurtz.”

  “I know him. I never thought he'd go that far. His usual is burglary of an unoccupied dwelling.”

  “Yeah, and a string of car break-ins. Well, this time the judge isn't going to send him to rehab.”

  “Not likely. What about the victim?”

  “That's where life gets interesting. No such social security number, no such address. No such name. I have NCIC running his prints, but that'll take days. In the meantime, the guy doesn't exist.”

  “What about his credit cards?” Matt drummed his fingers on the desktop.

  “Both accounts were opened in the last couple of months. No credit history.”

  “Now wait. How do you get a credit card with no credit history?”

  Phelan gave him a significant look. “I checked with the car rental company. They rattled around a bit, then somebody remembered that he'd shown them travel orders with the proper discount code on them. So he got a government discount. But nobody remembers who issued his travel orders. So we have no idea if he was military or civil service, or what agency he was claiming to be with.”

  “Well, if he doesn't exist, I seriously doubt he was with the EPA.”