Father Binney’s eyes filled. “Ah, but why would the man taunt Father Michael Joseph? Why?” Father Binney rose, began pacing. “I’ll never see Father Michael Joseph again. Everyone is immensely saddened, and yes, angry. Bishop Koshlap is distraught. Archbishop Lugano is extremely upset by all of this. I believe he met with Chief Kreider this morning.”
“Yes,” Delion said. “He did.” He turned to Dane. “The janitor, Orin Ratcher, found Father Michael Joseph just before the police came, right?”
“Yes,” Father Binney said. “Orin has trouble sleeping, keeps odd hours. He said he was mopping in the vestry, thought he heard a pop, ignored it, then finally he came in and found Father Michael Joseph in the confessional.”
“He didn’t see anyone?”
“No,” Father Binney said. “He said there was no one, just dark silence and Father Michael Joseph, still sitting in the confessional, his head back against the wall. Just a moment later a patrol officer came, said there’d been a call about a murder. Orin showed him Father Michael Joseph’s body. Orin is in very bad shape, poor man. We have him staying here for the next couple of days. We don’t want him to be alone.”
Delion said, “I already spoke to him, Dane. He didn’t see the woman who phoned in the murder either. Nothing. Zip.”
“Father Binney, do you have that list of Father Michael Joseph’s friends?”
“There are so many.” Father Binney sighed and reached into his pocket. “At least fifty, Inspector Delion.”
Delion pocketed the list. “You never know, Father,” he said.
“Father Binney, could you tell us the dates and times of the two other visits my brother had with this Mr. Charles DeBruler?”
Father Binney, pleased that he could do something, was only gone for five minutes. When he returned to the sitting room he said, “Father Michael Joseph heard confession last Tuesday night until ten p.m. and last Thursday night until nine p.m.”
Dane asked to look through his brother’s room even though Delion had already searched it. At the end of nearly an hour, they had found nothing to give them any sort of clue. There was a pile of Dane’s e-mails to his brother, beginning from the previous January, which he’d printed and kept, just over a year’s worth. That was when Michael had finally gotten himself on-line and went e-mail mad. “Have your guys checked out my brother’s computer?”
“Yes. They haven’t found anything hidden on the hard drive, if that’s where you’re headed. No coded files, no deleted files that look like anything.”
They spoke to two other priests, to the cook, the maid, three clerical assistants. None could add anything relevant. No one had ever spoken to or seen Charles DeBruler.
“He knew his murderer,” Delion said when they were back in the car. “There’s no doubt about that. He knew he was a monster, but he wasn’t afraid of him.”
“No,” Dane said, “not afraid. Michael was repulsed by him, but he wasn’t afraid of him. Charles DeBruler spoke two other times to my brother, last Tuesday and last Thursday, both in the late evening.” Dane took a deep breath. “For Michael to be that upset, for him to be angry about seeing this man, it’s my best guess that the man must have done something horrendous around both those other times. Delion, were there any murders committed here in San Francisco on those days or perhaps a couple of days before?”
Delion hit the steering wheel with his hand and nearly struck a pedestrian who was stoned and walk-dancing across Market Street. He gave them the finger, never breaking stride.
“Yes,” Delion said, turning the Ford sharply to make the guy jump out of the way. “Damn. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”
“You’re exhausted, for a start.”
Delion blew that off, fingered his mustache. “Okay, Dane, let me think. We’ve had three murders, one a couple of weeks old. We’ve got the guy-a husband we believe who just wanted to collect on his wife’s life insurance. That was Donnie Lunerman’s case. He just shook his head when he walked out of the interview with the man. It boggles the mind what some people will do for fifty thousand dollars.
“I’ve got it. Last Monday night-just one night before the first confession-there was an old woman, seventy- two, who lived alone in the Sunset District, on Irving and Thirty-third. She was murdered in her home. No robbery, no forced entry, no broken windows. The guy clubbed her to death in her bed and took off. Thing’s a dead end so far.”
“He didn’t shoot her,” Dane said thoughtfully, bracing one hand against the dashboard as Delion took a sharp turn into the police garage.
“No, he bludgeoned her to death. Then, last Wednesday, and this is the one that everyone is all up in arms about, a gay activist was murdered, outside a bar in the Castro. Lots of witnesses, but no one close and no one can agree on what the guy looked like. He was straight, he was gay, he was fat, thin as a rail, old, young-you get the picture. That’s not my case. The chief formed a special task force, that’s how high profile this guy was.”
“How was he killed?”
“Garroted.”
“Okay. Blunt force, strangulation, bullet. The guy is all over the board.”
“If,” Delion said, “if-and this is a really big if-if the guy killed both those people and taunted your brother about them, then why would he kill him?”
“I don’t know,” Dane said. “I’m really not sure, but I’ll betcha that our profilers would have an idea about that.”
“Oh man,” Delion said, screeching into a parking place in the garage, “the Feds are coming to roost on my head after all.”
“They’re good people, Delion.” Dane paused a moment, then said, “You know, I’m wondering about that woman-the one who called in my brother’s murder-why she was there at midnight on Sunday?”
“Yeah, everyone was wondering about that. No way to find her. Let’s hope she calls us again.”
“I wonder what she really saw.”
“We’ll probably never know. I don’t think we’ll have any luck finding her.”
Dane said, “Maybe she’ll be on Father Binney’s list.”
Delion glanced over at him. “You ever find anything out that easy?”
FIVE
She stood on the bottom step of the ugly Hall of Justice building on Bryant Street.
It was a beautiful Tuesday morning, gloriously sunny, with just a nip in the air, actually a typical winter day in San Francisco, as she’d been told many times. Yes, the air was so clear and sharp you couldn’t breathe in deep enough.
She’d only been here about two weeks, and there had been other days like this. But this morning, this incredibly crisp, clear morning, she felt little pleasure. She walked slowly to the top step, people streaming around her, most of them moving fast, focused on where they were going. No one paid her any attention.
She was scared, really scared. She didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d tried for a solid two minutes to convince herself that Father Michael Joseph’s death had nothing to do with her, but of course that was not going to work.
It was time to step up.
She went through the metal detector, made her way through the crowded lobby, and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
She’d been to the police station once before, when she’d first arrived in San Francisco. She’d had a weak moment, thought she would just waltz in and tell someone what had happened, see if someone would help her. But she realized soon enough that she was dreaming. She’d snuck away. That first time she hadn’t noticed the series of black-and-white photos that lined the walls, many of them taken before the earthquake. She walked through the door to Homicide, into the small reception area. There was no one behind the high counter. She paused a moment,
