white-haired detective with a ruddy, narrow face was flanked by another man who resembled the actor, Andy Garcia. Both men looked like that had just sat down for dinner when they got the call. The white-hired man had a fleck of tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth. He introduced himself as Detective Ed Henderson. His partner was Detective Mike Valdez.
“Sean O’Brien?” Detective Henderson asked.
“That’s me.”
“Tell us what you saw.”
“Unfortunately, I didn’t see a lot. I found it, though. If I’d been here five minutes earlier, Father Callahan might be alive.”
“Were you meeting Father Callahan?”
“At eight.”
Henderson looked at his watch. “It’s going on eight now. You’re not late.”
O’Brien cut his eyes toward the detective without turning his head. He waited a beat. “I said if I’d been here earlier, he might be alive.”
“Why were you meeting the priest?”
“To pick up a confession.”
“A confession? You mean you were here to confess something?” Henderson’s mouth stayed slightly open.
“No. I came here to get a statement-a written statement. Father Callahan was witness to a dying man’s confession, a near deathbed confession. If it’s true, it’ll prove a man sitting on Florida’s death row with”-O’Brien looked at his watch-“a man with eighty-two hours to live, is innocent.”
Henderson glanced at his partner. Both were at a loss for words.
A man approached. Someone O’Brien recognized. Detective Dan Grant climbed the steps. Grant looked between Henderson and Valdez to the man sitting on the top step. And now Grant, too, was at a loss for words.
“Hello, Dan,” O’Brien said. “It’s been awhile.”
TWENTY
The other two detectives turned toward Grant. Valdez scratched at a spot above his right eyebrow. He looked across the lot toward the growing mob of media and lowered his voice. “It’s getting weird. You know this guy?”
“Yeah,” Grant said. “I know him.” Grant extended his hand to O’Brien. He stood and they shook hands. “It’s been more than a year since we worked together.”
“Worked together?” asked Henderson.
“Not in an official capacity” Grant said. “Sean O’Brien, retired Miami PD, homicide. One of the best. He offered a little assistance to Leslie Moore and me when that serial killer Miguel Santana was stopped.”
“So you’re the one…” Henderson’s words faded like a distant radio signal.
Valdez said, “They never found Santana’s body, right?
O’Brien said nothing.
Grant nodded. “Let’s go into the church where it’s less noisy. Sean, you can take us from the beginning. How you wound up here tonight, on a night when a priest is murdered in his church.”
They stood in a corner of the vestibule, ignoring the parade of forensic investigators, medical examiners, assistants, and police officers. O’Brien explained the circumstance leading up to tonight’s meeting with Father Callahan. All listened without interruption-Henderson and Valdez, with an incredulous look in their eyes, stopping to glance at their watches when O’Brien again noted the time remaining until the state executes Charlie Williams.
Detective Grant said, “Sean, you mentioned a letter, a written statement. The priest was going to hand it off to you?”
“I think would have given us the killer’s ID. Enough to get Charlie Williams a stay of execution until the perp was picked up. Father Callahan said Spelling was going to reveal the place the murder weapon’s been hidden for eleven years. If it’s got prints or DNA, it may match the person named in the letter. Then Charlie Williams is a free man.”
Grant said, “The letter you’re talking about is probably what Sam Spelling asked me to drop in a paper grocery sack at his bedside. He had it marked ‘for Father John Callahan, confidential.’”
“You should have opened it,” Henderson said. “You were conducting an investigation into Spelling’s shooting, for Christ’s sake.”
“Yeah, but you should have seen the look in Spelling’s eye when he asked me to drop it in the bag. Like he had an epiphany going on. I planned to go back in his room to read it when he went to sleep. The nurses were giving him something to make him sleep. When I did go back, the letter was gone. I figured the priest returned and got it.”
Valdez turned toward O’Brien. “When you found Father Callahan’s body, guess there was no sign of any letter, huh?”
“No, at least not in the open. Lot’s of spilled stuff on the floor. Briefcase rifled. The perp made it seem like a burglary leading to a murder. I didn’t want to turn the body over to go through Father Callahan’s pockets until forensics worked the scene.”
The detectives nodded approval. Henderson asked, “Why do you think it wasn’t a burglary? Could be some asshole high on drugs, breaking into a church to steal from the collection plate to support his habit?”
“Because of what Father Callahan told me.”
“Sean’s right,” Grant said. “Sam Spelling told me something.”
“Told you what?” Henderson asked.
“Spelling said if anything should happen to him, if he should die, I needed to see Father Callahan as fast as I could. But now Father Callahan’s dead instead of Spelling.”
O’Brien asked, “Is Spelling’s room under guard?”
“Of course,” Grant said.
O’Brien nodded. You night want to double the guard. This guy’s good.”
Grant shook his head. “The general public thinks Spelling’s already dead. Soon as he recovers, he’ll testify. We’ll explain the fake death later.”
O’Brien said, “Dan, call whoever’s posted at the room. Have him check on Spelling.”
Grant sighed, opened his cell, and made the call. “Yeah, I’ll hold,” he said.
Detective Valdez looked at his watch. “While Dan’s checking on the patient, we’ve got a body in there…inside a church for Christ sake. Let’s do it.”
O’Brien glanced toward the atrium leading to the sanctuary. “In there,” he said. “We need to find the letter. Maybe Father Callahan hid it before the killer walked in.”
“And maybe the perp found it on the priest and stole it,” Henderson said.
O’Brien nodded. “Possibility, but Father Callahan left his own note, and he left it in his own blood. We have to figure out what he was trying to say before he died. We don’t have much time to solve this puzzle or another man, Charlie Williams, will die.”
“What!” Grant yelled. “Are you sure?” There was a short pause. Grant lowered his tie a notch. He closed his cell phone, his eyes distant. Then he looked at O’Brien and said, “Sam Spelling’s dead.”
TWENTY-ONE
A TV news helicopter flew above the church. O’Brien waited for the chopper to pass. He said, “Dan, seal Spelling’s room! Don’t let them remove the body unto you can get an ME there. The perp-”
