Prayers for the Dead (35 page)

“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.”

Gently, Bram pushed the magazine out of his line of vision. “Do as you will.”

Decker Mirandized the priest, reading him his legal rights. Then he asked Bram all the necessary questions, including if the priest wanted to waive his rights to an attorney.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Decker paused. “At this point, I’m supposed to ask you to sign my card.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Decker gave him a pen. “You sign here to indicate that you understand your rights as I read them to you.”

Bram signed the card, gave it and the pen back to Decker.

“This line here says that you waive your rights to an attorney.”

“Fine—”

“Which means that anything you say after you sign that line can be used against you in a court of law.”

“I understand. Give me the pen.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? You lose protection, Father.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have anything to say with or without an attorney.”

“Eventually, you’re going to have to talk to someone.”

“I talk to God.”

“I meant someone who can physically help you.”

Bram looked at him. “If God won’t help me, then so be it. If you want me to sign the card, I’ll sign it.”

Decker said, “Can I use your phone?”

“It’s on the kitchen counter. Help yourself.”

Slowly, Decker got up, eyes on the priest, and called in for a transport vehicle. After he hung up, he asked, “Anyone you want me to call for you?”

“No one.”

“No one in your family?”

“Least of all, anyone in my family.”

“I’m having a car take you to the station house where you’ll be fingerprinted and booked. I’ll instruct the cruiser to take you around the back. But there may be some newspeople hanging around.”

“I understand.” Bram looked at Decker. “You’re being kind to me. I know it’s for Rina’s sake, but thank you anyway.”

“You should get yourself a lawyer.”

“If I had something to say, I would.”

“Talk to me, Father. Because right now, your silence is more damning than words.”

Bram didn’t respond.

Decker said, “I’m taking myself off this case. Because of your prior involvement with my wife. You’ll be questioned of course, but by someone other than I. If
you
want to talk to a detective, there are five people assigned to this case.”

Bram nodded, walked over to the kitchen, looked out the small window.

Decker tried again. “Jail’s no place for you, Padre.”

“I’m used to cells.”

“Who are you protecting?”

Bram continued to stare out the window. Decker gave up. The priest said, “Car’s here. Are you going to handcuff me?”

“Yes.”

Bram put his hands behind his back.

Decker said, “I’ll cuff you in front.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Nothing matters to you, does it?”

Bram spoke to the wall. “Not true. There are a few people in this world who
significantly
matter to me.”

Starting with my wife
, Decker thought. Again, the priest put his arms around his back. This time, Decker cuffed him that way.

Along with the
other Dees, Oliver made himself comfortable in Decker’s small office. Really comfortable. He put his feet on the desk and said, “Just when I had Shockley nailed, you arrest the
priest
… which screams
setup
.”

Decker pushed Oliver’s feet off, sat back in his chair, paged through his notes. “So give me another scenario.”

Martinez loosened his tie. “We just ignore forensic evidence—”

“I’m not ignoring anything,” Oliver said. “I’m just saying that Shockley was involved—”

“Is that clock right?” Gaynor asked out loud.

Decker looked at his wall clock, then his watch. Ten minutes to seven. Another late night. “Yeah, it’s right.”

Gaynor shook his wrist, then laid his arms across his stretched stomach. “My watch must have stopped. I’ve got five-thirty.”

Oliver said, “Anyone want to hear my take?”

“Shoot,” Decker said.

Oliver ran his hand through limp black hair. “First off, the clothes weren’t drenched with enough blood to account for the priest doing the popping. You shoot and stab two victims like that, you’re gonna hit an artery. You hit an artery, you’re gonna get a bath.”

Webster scratched his head, the ubiquitous headphones dangling around the nape of his neck. “So Bram wasn’t the hit man. But he was there.”

Oliver said, “For all we know, he could have come to the scene afterward—”

Webster asked, “Then why would he keep silent if he didn’t do anything?”

Marge took off her gray suit jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. “He’s protecting someone.”

Decker said, “Who?”

“One of his family members, most likely.”

“No, no, no!” Oliver protested. “You’re moving away from Shockley!”

“Maybe the putz didn’t do it,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “Can I play this out for you?”

“Go,” Decker said.

“Okay. Somebody’s been fudging the Curedon data, right?”

Webster said, “Computer boys really have a clever way of phrasing things, calling the break-in a cuckoo’s egg. I’d just say someone was messing with my shit.”

Marge smiled. “Scott, all our information is based on Leonard’s ex-mistress. Hardly an objective source.”

“Not true,” Oliver said. “Decameron knew something was going on with the data. Because all of a sudden Curedon’s success rate dropped and the death rate rose. Only now we know why. Shockley was fudging the numbers—”

“Why would he do that?” Webster asked.

“To make the data look better or worse or something. Because he’s doing hanky-panky with Berger. The cuckoo’s egg had been traced to somebody at New Chris. It ain’t Decameron or Sparks. Who else is there?”

“How about Elizabeth Fulton?” Martinez said.

“But she wasn’t seen hanging around Fisher/Tyne, talking to Shockley.” Oliver clenched his fists. “Look, we know Berger was once a cheat. Say Shockley and Berger are doing some kind of research fraud. Azor Sparks found out. Shockley had him popped. Then Decameron and Leonard found out. Now they’re gone. See a trend here, folks?”

“On a superficial level, yes, there is a connection,” Decker said. “I do feel certain that Sparks’s homicide is related to this new one. Because all the homicides involve shooting
and
stabbing… weird MO to have both.”

“Absolutely, they’re all connected,” Oliver announced.

“Okay, so Berger was a cheat,” Webster said. “Why would Shockley mess his job up to do hanky-panky with Berger?”

“Fisher/Tyne was in on it,” Oliver said.

“Where’s your evidence?” Martinez asked.

“I don’t
have
evidence,” Oliver snapped. “If I had evidence, Shockley would be behind bars.

Decker said, “I don’t know if this is worth anything, but it’s interesting to note that Berger admitted his past errors right away. Maybe he wanted to keep us rooted in his past instead of concentrating on his present.”

“Exactly!” Oliver clapped his hands in triumph.

Marge said, “Fisher/Tyne cut the deal with Sparks for a lot of money. With Sparks gone, maybe Shockley figured he could redo Sparks’s contract and continue Curedon research with Berger at a reduced price.”

Martinez said, “Wouldn’t Sparks’s contract with Fisher/Tyne still be in effect with his widow?”

Marge said, “That’s the point. It was bad enough paying Sparks, but he at least developed the drug. Who wants to give all that money to his widow, especially when she can’t help the drug through its laboratory bumps? Scott’s suggesting that maybe Shockley was fudging the trial numbers, making them look bad to get Sparks’s Curedon contract stopped. Then maybe he and Fisher/Tyne would rewrite a new contract with Berger at a much lower fee.”

“But it’s
Sparks’s
drug,” Martinez countered. “You can’t steal his drug. There has to be some kind of patent law.”

Oliver’s eyes lit up. “That’s why Shockley’s doing funny business behind backs. He’s hoping nobody’ll catch on.”