“No, it’s the same one I sent to you word for word.”
“Good.”
“I don’t believe they’re planning on this taking too…”
“Excuse me, gentlemen.”
They were interrupted by Harry Clark, the Deputy Mayor. Next to him were the two detectives assigned to Bishop Ryan’s murder. Everyone was being shuffled towards the building’s rear entrance. The Archbishop maneuvered to the back of the pack. He wanted to be the last one out.
Philip dug out his cell phone.
What are the chances they’re going to start this thing on time? It’s 11:37…so…none.
He had no reason to be anxious; he had no idea what he was going to do. It seemed smart to check his exits.
Exits?
The poorly contained courtyard outside City Hall filled the block. A dozen uniforms, a single checkpoint, and some security tape were all that separated the public event from the riff-raff. There wasn’t much tree cover. A speedy getaway would be tricky.
The area directly in front of the portable stage was sectioned off for the press. Philip and the rest of the onlookers bunched up behind. A hush fell on the crowd as the mayor and her entourage exited City Hall and descended the steps. Philip stood still with his hands in his coat pockets while everyone else fought for a better view. He double-checked the safety on his nine-millimeter. All good.
For Lynch, this was quite familiar territory. The back steps to City Hall emptied out onto a large courtyard that, with the help a few barricades and some yellow tape, was easily contained. Police were placed strategically about the perimeter and on the steps, as was the standard fare.
The speakers were the Mayor, who was introducing everyone else; Father Pascucci, who was issuing a brief statement from the church; and Lynch, who was fielding questions about the investigation. There was one other man from the Archdiocese that Lynch didn’t know.
Clark gave the Mayor the high sign. She approached the microphone
.
Philip looked on.
Here we go…and the first one to the podium is (drum roll) of course, the mayor. She’s more articulate than the last one. I’ll give her that. Blah blah blah tragedy blah blah blah. Dear God, the guy next to me smells! Is he homeless? Maybe I should give him something. I only have two things of value with me. I need my nine, and I left my second donut in the car. There’s no way he’s getting that. He’d have to pry it from my cold, dead hand. Oy! What’s she talking about now? Come on! Get in; get out! Go paint a bridge and let the people who actually know what’s going on talk! Wow, I have to move. This guy reeks!
Leo glanced over at the Archbishop, who gave him a reassuring wink. Fellini’s presence served a single purpose. Any Catholic watching the press conference would know that the Archdiocese was on the job. Anyone else would probably think he was just another priest from St. Al’s, and that would be fine.
The Mayor finished. Father Pascucci was up.
Philip sashayed laterally to his left until he felt it was safe to breathe.
Whew, much better! What’s going on here now? Ahhh, finally! She’s done. Who’s next? Oh, I remember him. He led the Mass…THE Mass…the greatest Mass ever…Bishop Dickhead’s LAST Mass. Seems pleasant enough. What did they say his name was? Palucci? What is he? Italian? Greek? Russian? Now, HE’S got a nice speech…nonsense…but nice. Wow, they’re breaking ground on the church next month. That didn’t take long.
Lynch ran his eyes across the courtyard. Whether specifically assigned or not, everyone with a badge was on crowd control. He whispered to his partner.
“So far, so good.”
“I’m bored.”
“You want a disturbance?”
“I wouldn’t mind a disturbance.”
The front section was filled with reporters from Potterford to Camden, New Jersey and everywhere in between. Behind the press was a medium-sized crowd of regular folks.
“Nothing is going to happen. Put it out of your mind.”
Father Pascucci finished, and the Mayor introduced Lynch. The opening act was over; it was time for the main event.
Aaaaand, here come the cops.
Philip and everyone else within a stone’s throw of the stage had been scanned and frisked. It was a formality. With that kind of police presence, no one would be dumb enough to pack heat. That’s why the evening before (DQ Peanut Buster Parfait in hand) Philip stashed his nine-millimeter in one of the courtyard topiaries. He knew there would be a press conference the day after the killing. He knew it would be open to the public. He knew where it would be held, and he was pretty sure who would be speaking.
These beat cop ding dongs weren’t Homeland Security. They’d feel you up in a heartbeat, but they never swept for bombs.
The cop stepping up to the mic must be the lead detective. This interests me.
“Good afternoon. First of all, on behalf of the Potterford Police Department, I’d like to offer sincere condolences to Bishop Ryan’s family, as well as those close to him. I’ve been asked to give the facts of the case up to this point as we know them.”
I guess the sergeant likes prepositional phrases.
“The shooting took place between 7:00 and 7:15 pm in the parking lot of the Potterford Marriott. Some guests heard the gun shot and contacted the clerk at the hotel’s front desk. Hotel security investigated, found Bishop Ryan’s body, and dialed 911. It was a single, lethal shot with a small caliber bullet. We’re still waiting for specifics from ballistics. We do have one strong lead. For various reasons, I’m not at liberty to discuss any specifics, other than to say that it is being aggressively followed, and we hope to have something positive within the next 24 hours. That’s all we have at this time, but I’ll be glad to take some questions.”
The crowd erupted. Lynch pointed. He knew all the locals on a first name basis.
“Yes, Barbara.”
“Detective Lynch, Barbara Edison Potterford Herald. Do you think this killing is at all related to the
