“What a minute!” Henderson interpreted.
“Grant held his hand up. “It’s ok, Ed. Sean’s right. Right now Spelling’s hospital room, like this church, is a fucking crime scene. Let’s go inside.”
Anita Johnson opened the door to her mobile home, let the skinny cat out into the night, and turned back toward the television. She lit a cigarette, adjusted a frayed terry cloth belt around her robe, and sat on the edge of a plastic chair to watch the events unfolding on television. She pushed a strand of unwashed blond hair behind one ear and touched the tip of a finger to the bruise under her right eye.
Gotta leave. No more. Take the baby and just get the hell out.
Anita Johnson thoughts were interrupted by scenes on TV. She reached for the remote to turn up the sound. A stoic reporter stood outside the St. Francis Church and said, “What we know at this time is Father John Callahan, a man beloved by his parishioners, has been brutally gunned down in his own church. I was told that paramedics got here within a few minutes of the call, and Father Callahan was found dead on the floor of the sanctuary.”
The picture cut to a news anchor in a studio. His brow creased as he leaned into the camera and asked, “David, do police have a motive for this heinous crime?”
“Police did say it looks like the church was burglarized. Some religious artifacts are reportedly stolen, and the collection plate left on the altar from an earlier mass was rifled and found on the floor next to the body.”
Anita Johnson crushed out her cigarette and lit another one. She mumbled under her breath, “World’s gone straight to hell.”
The reporter continued, “One source, who asked not to be identified, said he saw where the priest had left a note on the floor, apparently scrawled in his own blood. Police aren’t releasing the content of that message, but investigators hope it’ll lead them to the person who murdered one of the best-known and most beloved priests in the southeastern diocese, Father John Callahan. This is David Carter reporting.”
The phone rang. Anita Johnson jumped. She lifted it off the coffee table and held the remote in one hand to turn down the sound.
She looked at the caller ID and asked, “Where’re you?”
Lyle Johnson sat in his car in the parking lot of a closed post office. He sealed an envelope and began writing an address on it. He said, “You sound jumpy.”
“Phone scared me. Lyle, a priest got blown away in a church tonight. Happened at St. Francis, right off Tilton Road. That’s not far from here. Judy takes her kids there.”
“Criminals don’t have boundaries.”
“Where’re you? Dinner’s cold.”
“Gonna be late. Might have to work a few more hours at the hospital. They’ll probably rotate me out tomorrow. County will keep a deputy on Spelling.”
She was silent.
“What’s wrong?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. Got to work.”
“On the TV news they said Sam Spelling died. If your prisoner’s dead, why are you still at the hospital?”
Johnson ran his hand over his scalp. His voice softened, “Anita, look baby, I know I ain’t been much of a husband recently. I want to make it up to you. I’m sorry about the other night. I’m swearin’ off booze. Look, I ran into something. I can’t tell you over the phone, but it’s gonna take care of our money problems.” He paused, sighed and said, “If you really think about it, the lack of money has caused all our problems.”
She bit her lower lip and said nothing.
“Anita, I want to make things up with you. I’m doin’ a deal, all legit, with a guy that will help us get our finances straight.”
“What deal? What guy?”
“Can’t go over it on the phone. I just happen to have some information dropped into my lap that he’s willing to pay for. It’s that simple, baby. He gets what he wants. I get paid. But it’s got to happen tonight. I’ll be back by one-thirty.”
Johnson got out of the car, held the phone to his mouth, and walked to a postal box. He dropped the letter through the slot. “Love you, Anita. Everything is gonna be beautiful, just like you. You wait and see.”
“This don’t sound right. I’m taking Ronnie to Mama's for a few days-”
“No! That’s not gonna happen. Nothin’s more important than family.”
Anita touched her trembling fingers to the bruise on her face.
Johnson lowered his voice. “Anita, listen. We’ll go away. Spend some time in Florida. Take Ronnie to Disney. Things are about to change. I don’t want to worry you, but anything worthwhile has risks. If I’m not home tonight…you go on tomorrow and take Ronnie to your mother’s. But make sure you check the mailbox after the weekend.”
“What do you mean? I don’t like the way you-”
“Just do it, okay? Now I gotta go.” Lyle Johnson hung up, got back in his car, turned on a country radio station, and drove off in the night.
Anita moved to the tattered couch. She lay in the fetal position, knees pulled up to her breasts. A single tear rolled down her swollen cheek and was absorbed by worn cloth on the couch, the tiny spot indistinguishable from the others before it.
Detective Roberto Valdez stopped and made the sign of the cross as he approached the body of Father John Callahan. Valdez said, “Holy Mother of Christ…”
The forensics team, the detectives and the coroner all worked in hushed tones, a sign of reverence for the place and what occurred in it. They snapped digital photos and examined the body. Father Callahan’s head was bent at an odd angle, his eyes fixed on the stained glass window. A pool of blood had seeped into white grout.
Detective Dan Grant stood next to O’Brien and looked down at the message scrawled in blood. Grant said, “Six-six-six…I’ve tracked a lot of criminals. Met a lot of degenerates along the way, but I’ve never had to hunt the devil.”
TWENTY-TWO
A dark cloud passed overhead and moonlight beamed through the chuch skylights. O’Brien looked at the body and said, “Father Callahan left us the first clue, the three sixes might be a reference to Satan. What does that drawing mean? The letters P-A-T could be a name or someone’s initials. The symbol Omega is the last letter in the Greek alphabet. If I remember my ancient Greek history right, Omega means the end.”
“Definitely the end for the priest,” said Grant, his voice almost a murmur.
“But it might be the beginning-the clue that points us to the start of this,” O’Brien said. “Father Callahan was a linguistics and art history genius. Let’s put ourselves in his shoes-his frame of mind after he was shot twice. He’s dying and he knows it. Probably going into shock. Doesn’t have much time, a minute or two. He struggles to write this. Probably began with the drawing-could be a cloaked figure against the moon or sun. Then the six-six-six… followed by the Omega sign…ending with P-A-T…after making the T, it looks like he lost consciousnesses. The T is closest to his fingers.”
O’Brien hovered over the bloody message, and then he knelt down and touched the back of Father Callahan’s left hand. “The killer’s identity is in there before us, written in the blood of a priest before the altar of God.”
The medical examiner’s team lifted Father Callahan’s body, sat it down carefully on the gurney, and started to pull a white sheet over the face.
“Wait a second,” said O’Brien. He stepped to the gurney and used two fingers to close Father Callahan’s eyes. “We’ll find him…I promise,” O’Brien said in a low voice.
The forensic crime scene investigators took a few more photographs of the blood smears and patterns as the coroner made notes on a clipboard. One of the forensics investigators said, “There was nothing on the body. Found
