“What the hell’s going on?”
Kavander stood behind his desk, leaning heavily on his hands, a toothpick jerking violently back and forth between his lips.
“We’ve got a guy who gets his kicks out of shooting priests,” McGuire answered. He sat cross-legged on the other side of the desk. Lipson slouched against Kavander’s window.
“Don’t smart-ass me, McGuire,” Kavander barked at him. “I’ve been on the phone with the mayor, the governor, the archbishop and every grease-ball reporter in the state this morning—”
“Jack—” McGuire began.
“—wanting to know if we’re ready to provide twenty-four hour protection to everybody who wears his collar backward.”
“For Christ’s sakes, Jack—”
“Shut up, McGuire!”
Kavander’s shout hung in the air. Typewriter noises in the secretarial area ceased. The buzz of conversations from adjacent offices stopped, then resumed cautiously. McGuire was catching hell from Kavander, the voices were whispering. Better him than me.
The captain sank heavily down in his chair. “And as if that’s not enough, I get reports that two hotshots who are supposed to be protecting the ecclesiastical citizens of greater Boston from getting a face full of lead aren’t even speaking to one another at the Goddamn murder scene.” He looked back and forth between Lipson and McGuire. “So I’ll say it again. What the hell’s going on?”
McGuire shrugged. “We just work better separately.”
“The hell you do, McGuire. When you were with Ollie Schantz, you practically rode around in his back pocket. Now Norm Cooper tells me you guys didn’t say a word to each other last night out at Xavier. Cooper says he came up to you, McGuire, to say Lipson figures the empty shell casing they found might have been the one used on Lynch. And you tell Cooper you don’t care what Lipson thinks, you’ve got your own Goddamn problems.”
Lipson grunted and turned to look out the window.
“Norm Cooper’s job is to lift prints—” McGuire began.
“His job is the same as yours, McGuire. To put scumbags like whoever is blowing apart priests into the hole and keep them there.” Kavander leaned back heavily in the chair and swung his feet on the desk. He withdrew the toothpick from his mouth, scowled at its splintered end, then tossed it into the wastebasket. “Now give me a two-minute summary of what you know for sure.”
McGuire pulled his notebook from a jacket pocket and began reciting short phrases as he flipped the pages. “Victim was Father Nicholas Raymond Surani, born Springfield, Massachusetts, November 10, 1949. Occupation—lecturer in theology, Xavier Seminary. Address—same. Height—six feet, one inch. Weight—one hundred ninety-three pounds. Cause of death—massive trauma to anterior of skull area. Suspected weapon—twelve-gauge shotgun, probably with reduced barrel length. Distance from weapon to victim—approximately ten feet. . . .”
“Jesus,” said Kavander, wiping his forehead with his hand.
“Witnesses—none. Estimated time of death—8:30 p.m. Body found by Fathers Philip Norman Hamel and David Anthony Costa at approximately 8:45 p.m.”
“Are people in this town so used to hearing a shotgun go off, they don’t bother to investigate?” Kavander demanded.
“Lots of people remember hearing it, the shotgun,” Lipson offered from the window. “They looked out their door, saw nothing and decided it was a car backfiring. And hey,” he added, “I’m in my house with my wife and kids watching TV, I don’t want to go looking for a guy with a shotgun. Because I might find him.”
“You want anything on the investigating officers, that kind of stuff?” McGuire asked.
Kavander shook his head. “Just tell me what you’ve got that’s substantial.”
“Two things. First, the shell. We’re checking out the firing pin marks. Dave Reardon in ballistics says it had probably been sitting in the gun for a while. Says he doesn’t think it’s the one that killed Surani, but he’s sure it’s from a Remington pump action. By the looks of the pin marks it’s practically a brand-new gun.”
“It could be the shell used to kill Reverend Lynch,” Lipson offered.
“Which tells you what?” Kavander looked back and forth between the two detectives.
“It tells me the guy isn’t used to it, the gun,” Lipson suggested. “You fire a pump action, you shoot and reload, shoot and reload.” He shrugged. “This guy didn’t reload until he had Surani in his sights and his finger on the trigger.”
Kavander turned back to McGuire. “What else?”
“Cooper thinks he’s got some partials from a marble statue at the scene,” McGuire said. “He’s doing a match today. Looks like the guy hid behind a statue waiting for Surani to come along, then stepped out and blasted him.”
“What’s the connection between the two priests, Lynch and Surani?” Kavander asked.
“None that we can find.” Lipson shrugged. “Far as we can tell, they never even knew each other.”
“So it’s a nut case. Pure and simple.” Kavander began making notes on a yellow pad. “That’s the way we have to play it.” He looked up. “Would you believe it, we’ve got people saying maybe it’s a bunch of terrorists? Maybe there’s a crazy Libyan loose in town, popping off the only people he knows are Christians for sure?” Kavander shook his head and resumed making notes.
“Could be.”
The captain glanced at McGuire. “What the hell do you mean, could be?”
“Maybe that’s an angle we should be thinking about.” McGuire shrugged. “On the one hand, this guy could be kind of a Son of Sam with a grudge against the pope. On the other hand, he may be trying to scare the whole Catholic church.”
“And if he is?”
“Then maybe we better start putting a SWAT team at every church in town.” McGuire smiled sarcastically.
Kavander watched McGuire carefully before responding. “I’m playing it like a psycho deal. It’s all we can do, other than bringing in the Goddamn National Guard.” He tore the sheet from his pad and set it aside. “The commissioner is holding a press conference this afternoon. He’ll be saying we’ve formed a special task force jointly headed by Lieutenants Lipson and McGuire, assisted by Acting Lieutenant Edward Vance.”
“Aw, shit,” Lipson muttered from the window.
“Who?” McGuire asked Kavander.
“Eddie Vance,” Kavander said slowly. “Acting Lieutenant, you will notice.”
McGuire’s face contorted in recognition. “Fat Eddie? That fucking toothbrush? He doesn’t know dogshit from diamonds, Jack.”
“He’s a good detail man,” Kavander said. “The thing about Vance is, he’s totally rational. Deals with the facts. Never plays with hunches.”
“That’s because he’s too busy playing with himself,” Lipson offered from the window. McGuire smiled broadly.
Kavander wasn’t amused. “One reason I’m pulling Vance in is so he can liaison with you two,” he said. “Lipson, you concentrate on the Lynch murder. Pull whoever you need out of homicide. McGuire, you work on the Surani thing. Put all your reports through Vance, and he’ll co-ordinate information back to me.”
McGuire swore softly again. Kavander ignored him.
“I’ve been talking to the archdiocese office, and they agree we can use some help from their area.” He smiled at McGuire and Lipson. “For the duration of this investigation Father Kevin Deeley is available twenty-four hours a day for consultation.” The smile evaporated. “I expect you to talk to him at least once daily. Otherwise the bishop and his boys will think we’re not working our asses off here.”
“What’s a guy with a cross going to do for us?” McGuire asked.
Kavander exploded. “He’s going to keep the whole Goddamn city from thinking we’re nothing but a bunch of bozos, that’s what! So far all you two clowns have got to show is an empty shotgun shell and two dead priests.” He stood up and thrust his hands in his pockets as though he were keeping them from flying at McGuire. “I want a psychological report from a couple of qualified shrinks, giving us some idea of the kind of personality who walks around ambushing church people with a shotgun. I want regular meetings here every morning, eight o’clock sharp, to tell me where we stand and what you’re up to. I’m meeting the commissioner every day at eight-thirty to pass on the news. And I expect both of you to camp out here a few nights for the next week at least. There are three cots in the squad room. Use ’em.”
“Bernie doesn’t have to sleep on a cot here, Jack.” McGuire glanced at his partner, still standing at the window. “He’s just ten minutes from here, except for rush hour. Plus he’s got a wife and three kids. I’ll sleep on the cots, and I’ll get Ralph Innes to back me up nights. Bernie and I will work things out between us. If I have to work with anybody besides Ollie Schantz, I’d rather it was Bernie.”
“Thanks, Joe,” Lipson said, nodding.
“What the fuck is this?” Kavander muttered. “True confessions day?” He sat down heavily again. “Lipson, you can go. Send Vance a complete duplicate set of files for both murders. McGuire, I want to talk to you.”
After Lipson had left, Kavander fished through his desk and withdrew a fresh toothpick. “You and Ollie had the best record of anybody here for the last four years,” he said, studying the unsullied tip. “I’m beginning to think that when Schantz left, maybe he took all the talent with him.” Kavander looked over to see McGuire watching him.
“Think whatever the hell you want,” McGuire said.
“Lipson says your first wife’s dying over at Mass General.” Kavander’s voice had grown warmer.
“Bernie should mind his own business.”
“Aw, what the hell are you giving me?” Kavander demanded. “Your Bogart imitation? You know what your trouble is, McGuire? Your trouble is, you can’t stand the idea of anybody helping you. You think if somebody tries to give you a hand and you take it, it’s a sign of Goddamn weakness!”
“It’s a sign of twenty fucking years as a cop!” McGuire shot back.
“Hey.” Kavander’s voice took on a mocking sweetness. “You don’t like it, McGuire? Nobody’s got a chain around your neck. When you’ve had enough, just let me know.”
McGuire stood up. “Anything else?”
“Just remember what I said about letting people help you,” Kavander replied. “Lipson, he’s a good guy. But he doesn’t have your experience. Neither does Vance, who I agree can be a horse’s ass. But his detail is fantastic. And yours is nothing to brag about. So rely on him.”
McGuire turned and walked to the door. “Joe,” the captain called out. “I’m sorry about your wife. I mean, even if she’s an ex, I guess it gets to you, huh?”
There was no pause, no hesitation in McGuire’s motion. He grasped the knob, opened the door and walked out without looking back.
Anne Murison stepped quietly around the corner. Ahead of her the blond young man with the athletic bag sat cross-legged on the floor, watching the river otters cavort in the water. “Hello?” she said softly.
The young man turned to see her, then stood up quickly and lowered his head. “Hi,” he said. “Was I doing something wrong?”
“Of course not,” she answered. “It’s just that we’re closing now.”
Flustered, he reached for his athletic bag. “I’m sorry,” he said nervously. The bag slipped out of his hand, and he picked it up again. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s okay.” Such blue eyes, Anne thought. Such deep blue eyes and such a sweet face. She began walking with him to the exit. “Don’t you like the fish?” she asked. “Or the penguins? Most people like the penguins.”
The boy shook his head. “I just come to see the otters,” he said without looking at her. “I like the otters.” He paused at the door. “Are they happy here?” he asked her seriously. “How can they be happy when they’re penned up behind glass like that? Wouldn’t they be happier if they were free?”
“I think they’re happy,” she answered, touched by his concern. “They certainly look it. Besides,” she added, “they’ll live much longer here than they would in the wild.”
He seemed satisfied with her answer. When he left, she locked the door behind him and watched him walk across the open area in front of the aquarium to the subway entrance. I wonder if he has any place else to go, she asked herself.
McGuire sat at the foot of Gloria’s bed, watching her breathe with a steady, mechanical rhythm. “It’s too bad,” the nurse had told him when he arrived. “We waited as long as possible, and then we just had to give her the injection. She’ll be asleep now until about two in the morning, when we’ll check on her.”
McGuire said he understood, he just couldn’t get away from his work any sooner. The nurse nodded curtly and left him alone with Gloria.
He listened to the sound of evening traffic outside the hospital. He wanted her to be awake, to hear her talk about a past that didn’t include cancer or loneliness or betrayals. He wanted to talk about walking through dry leaves on the grass and about sunny fall days and about touch-football games with old friends he hadn’t seen in years. He wanted to reminisce about boring in-laws and sitting on a Provincetown pier eating lobster rolls.
Finally he stood, scribbled a note and left it on her bedside table. He knew a bar that served rich chili and cold beer. It was one of the few things in life he knew and enjoyed anymore.