Detective Rosebud returned to the precinct just as Father Matthew’s church-assigned legal representation arrived, a man who appeared to be in his seventies. His gray hair matched his suit. He walked into the interview room where the father sat.
“Give me some good news,” Murphy said as Rosebud joined her just outside the interview room.
“I’m afraid his home was a dud,” Rosebud said. “Austerity has officially been redefined for me. Absolutely nothing in there. A bed, a few canned goods, a crucifix, and a wobbly kitchen set for two. No signs of drugs. No handmade rosaries.”
“Could be stashing those elsewhere. We still have a handful of rosaries and a small container of oil from his pants pockets when we picked him up,” Murphy said, holding photos of the evidence they’d collected, bagged, and already dropped off at the lab.
Rosebud lifted his glasses up on his nose. “Did you make any progress?”
“Wang’s following another tip. Amanda may have been targeted. Her neighbor found her passed out with a ‘man from church,’” Murphy said with air quotes. “She’s trying to track that neighbor down. If we can get his statement. If we can show him photos and get him to point to Father Matthews being at her house—”
“Security camera? Was that before we had surveillance on her?”
“The evening before. Wang should have already tracked down the landlord by now. She’ll also look for security footage around the area.”
Through the small window in the interview room door, they watched the defense attorney approach the door. “We’re up,” Murphy said.
Fuller arrived just as they were about to enter the interview room.
“I’ll be listening in with the prosecutor,” Fuller said, holding open the door to the overseeing room. “He’s going to be here any minute. Any leads they give, I’ll dispatch to follow up on. You guys nail him now.”
“Can you tell us where you were between one thirty and two o’clock this afternoon?” Murphy asked.
The attorney and the father exchanged a nod before the father spoke. “I went to see a parishioner in the privacy of his apartment.”
“Which parishioner. What’s the address of the apartment?”
The father once again looked at his lawyer who nodded.
“Mr. Patterson. I don’t know the exact address, but the apartment was in the tall building right next to where the fundraiser was held this afternoon.”
“What’s the apartment number?”
“I believe it was 6A, or maybe it was 6B. His name is probably on a lease somewhere.”
“Why did you go see him? How did you get to his apartment if you aren’t certain which it was?” Murphy prompted.
“I accompanied his wife. She wanted me to anoint him. Not that it’s any of your business, but he hasn’t been able to attend mass for several weeks now. And his wife feared for the worst. He’d been told he had three weeks to live. That was six months ago.”
Rosebud stayed silent, admiring the father’s demeanor. He seemed poised. Perhaps too poised. Was he just overly cocky?
“It’s easy enough for us to send officers to check on that.”
“Please do. I have nothing to hide.”
“Well, you wanted to hide and not speak until your legal representation got here—”
“Detectives,” the gray-haired lawyer said. “My client was well within his rights to remain silent. He told me you Mirandized him already.”
“Can you explain why you had these items on your person this afternoon?” Murphy asked, putting two photos on the table between them: the rosaries and the small vial of oil.
The lawyer once again exchanged a nod with his client.
“I bought those at the fundraiser this afternoon. I wanted to hand them to a few homeless people I see in our neighborhood sometimes.”
“We’ll see if the DNA on them tells a different story. What about the oil?”
“Don’t you people recall any of the conversations you have with innocent people who help you? This is the holy oil of the sick.”
“Why did you have that oil with you?”
The father clenched his fist. His nostrils widened. “I’m a priest! This oil is used to anoint the sick! Exactly what I did this afternoon with Mr. Patterson! Don’t you listen to what people say?”
“Didn’t you yourself state to us that the holy oils are kept in some recess near the baptismal font?” Murphy asked, snark oozing out of her like pus from an infected wound.
“You illiterate, agnostic idio—”
“Father!” The lawyer slammed his hand on the table. “Don’t say a word more!” Turning to the detectives, in a soft voice, he overarticulated every syllable as he answered for his client. “I believe that Father Matthews meant to say that, he, as an ordained priest, is allowed to carry a small sample of the holy oil with him, so he can provide the Last Rites, if needed.”
Murphy turned to Rosebud, and he nodded. He should have thought about it. Sure, Murphy had no idea, but he knew that. He’d just forgotten. Sleep deprivation probably had something to do with that.
But they still had the rosaries.
“I’ll go and follow up with the lab,” Rosebud said as he got up.
Rosebud poked his head into the room where Fuller and the prosecutor stood. A light creaking made them both turn toward him.
“Not looking so good,” Fuller said, shaking his head. “Better hope the lab finds the victim’s DNA on those rosaries. Because the probable cause we had is quickly evaporating.”
“The Patterson story?” Rosebud asked.
“I dispatched officers and they can’t get anyone to answer the door at either 6A or 6B. We’re following up with the landlord and 911 dispatch. If the father’s not lying, then Patterson could have been taken out by ambulance.”
“Murphy said something about Wang trying to track down a man who may be able to prove Matthews was at Amanda McCutcheon’s house earlier this week.”
“Well, she’d better act quickly on that,” said the prosecutor. “We’re running out of time.”