Next time.
He turned and weaved his way into the exodus. The flow took him right past where the Bishop was appeasing his adoring fans. That’s when he heard it. The (presumed) grandmother he noted earlier had engaged the Bishop in conversation. She was trying to be nice and suck up to God at the same time. The result was quite the opposite on both counts, but it wasn’t her fault.
“Your Grace, why don’t you come by for dinner while you’re in town? We’d love to have you.”
“Thank you very much, Constance, but Father Pascucci and I have some talking to do, so we’ll just be grabbing dinner at Sullivan’s, and then I’ll be heading back to the hotel.”
“Oh, well that’s good. I hope they at least put you up somewhere nice.”
“The Marriott actually. Not bad at all.”
Of all the things for Bishop Whatzitz to bring up in conversation…his dinner plans and his hotel arrangements…while Philip was five feet away.
Bingo
Some would have called it fate; others would have called it coincidence; still others, like Philip…divine intervention.
He smiled to himself and looked to the heavens by way of the Gymacafetorium ceiling.
Thank you, man. You rock!
Sullivan’s made a steak you could cut with a fork. They also had the best selection of single malt scotches west of the Delaware River. Fine dining. Sloooow dining. This meant Philip had time to eat. He had been looking forward to a steak all day but went off the idea when he found out Bishop Blah-blah was probably getting one too. He ordered a turkey burger off of the new Applebee’s menu, and it was delicious. Afterward, he stopped at his girlfriend’s place, just like he knew he would (he wasn’t getting any that night, and he didn’t much care). Once his business was done there, he headed for the Marriott.
It took 10 minutes to get to the 4th Street Exit. Philip tittered intermittently and uncontrollably the entire drive as if he was on his way to get ice cream.
Not a bad idea. Later perhaps.
The sun was down, but not far down. The hotel sign threw a dull glow over one of Potterford’s more irritating intersections. Philip looked up and sighed indifferently at the red light that normally would have sent him into a psychological tailspin.
Not tonight. Not even you can ruin my mood tonight.
His thoughts shifted to parking. The spot had to be somewhere close, dark, and away from any kind of surveillance camera. He was going to be seen at the Marriott. He knew that. It didn’t matter.
45 seconds passed, and he stepped on the gas.
Soooooo, where-oh-where to park. Yesss! There we go!
A slight squeal of the tires, a little bounce of the shock-absorbers, and the car was nestled in the perfect place, just as happily as Philip. Whistling “Onward Christian Soldiers,” he retrieved the gun from his glove compartment, shoved it into his pocket, and walked.
It was early autumn of 2015. That time of year, the days were still warm, but it got chilly in a hurry when the sun went down.
The Marriott was close. The hotel itself was quite nice; the area around it, not so much. At evening, however, covered in shallow moonlight, Philip found the whole scene downright soothing. He reached for his smokes.
“Dammit.”
He’d left them in the car. Wanting not to take his eyes off the hotel, he considered getting a pack at a nearby BP.
“No … trying to avoid security cameras. Remember, ya moron?”
There was a bench across the street from the Marriott that gave a clear view of all the vehicles going into and out of the lot. He sat with a jolly bounce, causing his ill-fitted trench coat to spread and drape over the edge. He slung his right foot onto his left knee and started to contemplate what make/model of car he should be looking for.
It’s a shame the Pope doesn’t loan his out. That would be easy to spot.
No kids, so no minivan. No wife, so no SUV. No point in having a sports car if you weren’t looking to get laid. He figured he was looking for a 4-door sedan. It would be a modest color…maybe 3 years old. An hour hadn’t gone by before a forest green Chevy Malibu pulled in with vestments hanging in the window. Philip was either on a serious roll or had missed his calling.
He pulled his hood over his head and walked leisurely toward the Malibu. He saw the Bishop get out of the car and start up the sidewalk to the hotel’s side entrance. No snazzy greeting; no theatrics. Philip came up behind the Bishop. The Bishop turned around simply to acknowledge the sound of footsteps on the pavement. The shot rang out; the body hit the ground before the echo died down. Philip never broke his stride. He took his planned route back to his car, got in, backed out of his parking space, drove down 4th street for 6 blocks, and got into the drive-thru line at the Dairy Queen.
2. Headed West on 4th Street
Potterford, Pennsylvania straddled the Schuylkill River roughly 35 miles northwest of Philadelphia. The town was just big enough, populated enough, and laced with just enough crime for the local police department to have its own detective squad. The crew stayed busy with only four badges, and no specialized divisions, but still, it was Potterford. Most of their cases involved burglary, armed robbery, fraud, assault (mostly domestic), or drugs. Murder was rare. High-profile murder was unheard-of.
“I’m telling you Jaime, it’s weird.”
Sergeants Lynch and Gomez had just pulled their jackets on and were on their way to clock out when the call came in.
James Alan Lynch and Ernesto Juan Mateo Gomez worked well together. They compensated each other’s lack of brain function in their respective right and left hemispheres.
With a Bachelor’s degree in Software Engineering under his belt, Lynch had an overactive, sometimes oppressive, talent for deductive reasoning and problem solving. He
