Chapter Five

SARAH GRUBER WAS a twenty-six-year-old housewife living in Avon, Ohio, a well-off community populated largely by lawyers and physicians. As they became even more prosperous, many Avon residents ended up moving to more well-to-do Cleveland suburbs like Moreland Hills and Hunting Valley. In essence, Avon was a proving ground. Those truly worthy of one-percent status moved on, while other, younger professionals were always ready to take their place.

In the case of Sarah Gruber, her husband, Ethan, was a legal associate at Traber, Young, and Williams, a prominent Cleveland law firm. As was often true, Mr. Gruber did not come home from work until after 10:00 p.m., the typical weekend and weekday life for any associate in just about any big-city law firm.

In his police interview, Ethan Gruber stated he initially couldn’t locate Sarah when he returned home. After a quick search, he eventually found his wife, fully clothed, lying on top of their bed in a pool of blood. Mr. Gruber immediately called 911, and the police medical examiner determined Sarah’s death had occurred as the result of a knife wound to her throat.

The ME estimated the attack had taken place between five o’clock and six o’clock that same day. That timeframe ruled out Ethan Gruber as a suspect, as several coworkers confirmed he’d been working until nine-thirty. From the blood trail and other evidence, the medical examiner determined the killer attacked Mrs. Gruber in the second-floor hallway outside the bedroom and dragged her to the bed.

The police thought Mrs. Gruber might have known her assailant since there were no signs of forced entry. Upon questioning from reporters, a police spokesman admitted there were several similarities between the Gruber and Tully murders, but police were unwilling to say the two cases were related.

I first heard of the attack on the evening news, and I immediately called Father Lawrence. Father had watched the same news account and reached the same conclusion—we needed to assume both cases were linked to our confessor. Despite his earlier concerns about issues of church doctrine, we also agreed it was time to alert the police. While doing so, we would take care to stick to the strictures regarding confessional privilege.

I asked Father Lawrence if he wanted me to continue my own investigation. Somewhat to my surprise, he said yes. While he agreed police involvement was necessary, he felt their hurry to solve the case might result in panic or suspicion among his parishioners. In short, he was now asking me to investigate the crimes while also acting as his liaison with the Cleveland PD.

I was skeptical about the new arrangement. For understandable reasons, cops are notoriously suspicious of an outsider’s interference in a criminal investigation. That would be true in any case, but doubly so in a high-profile homicide. Father said he would make my role clear to the detective in charge, but I was still dubious.

I drove out to Saint Edmund’s the next morning to meet with Father Lawrence and plot strategy. Since the Tully and Gruber murders had taken place in two different cities, our first challenge was deciding where to go with our information. Given the significant difference in size between the Cleveland and Avon police departments, we assumed Cleveland would take the lead in any joint investigation. With that, we decided to call the Cleveland Twelfth District, the precinct with jurisdiction over the Angela Tully homicide.

After finally reaching a human operator, I was connected to Detective Hannah Page, the lead investigator on the Tully murder. I started by explaining who I was and my relationship with Saint Edmund’s. I then told Detective Page that Father Lawrence and I might possess information linking the Tully and Gruber murders, information we would be reluctant to discuss over the phone. Father Lawrence had told me he had no desire to meet with a police officer, even a plainclothes detective, on church property. Detective Page agreed to meet with us at the Capstone, a diner located just a few blocks away from the parish.

The Capstone Diner was one of the better-known establishments in Greater Cleveland, a region with a diner on virtually every major street corner. The Capstone’s lofty status was due in part to its unique location next to an old, now unused railroad station.

Their dining area, decorated with old railroad memorabilia, showed Capstone ownership clearly felt that décor was more important than mere embellishments such as food and service. I based my observation on the burned grilled cheese sandwich served more than twenty minutes after my order, along with a dark, bitter drink advertised as coffee.

Detective Page arrived just after our food. She entered the Capstone in a rush, a five-foot-four-inch, brown-haired whirlwind. Quickly scanning the room, she had no trouble picking out Father Lawrence’s collar. She proceeded to our table, seemingly without stopping for breath, and sat in the empty chair directly across from me. She was younger than I expected, in her late twenties or early thirties. Interestingly, she wore what appeared to be designer clothing.

“I am assuming,” she said, “that you gentlemen are Father Lawrence Donegan and Mr. Terry Luvello. As I’m sure you both guessed, I am Detective Page. Would one of you please tell me why I’m here?”

Luckily Father Lawrence answered because I was distracted by Detective Page herself. Her reddish-brown hair, while short, seemed to go in several different directions at once. On anyone else, I would have described it as disheveled. On her, it seemed to fit, almost as if it was styled to align with her personality. Not beautiful in a conventional sense, she possessed a small, crooked nose that complimented an equally crooked smile. She wasn’t just pretty; she was fascinating.

I realized I was staring like an idiot. Luckily for me, Father Lawrence spent ten minutes relaying the essentials of the two threats made to Father Samuel in confession, finishing just in time for the arrival of the detective’s order.

In discussing the case, Father Lawrence used the same careful wording from our first conversation at the church. He covered the declarations made to Father Samuel and his obligations under the confessional seal, making sure to emphasize the latter’s place in state law.

Detective Page hesitated after he finished. Whether that was from surprise or a vain attempt to digest the Capstone’s food, I couldn’t be certain. Eventually, she spoke.

“I understand why you’re here,” she said, pointing to Father Lawrence. “Mr. Luvello, why don’t you tell me about your involvement?”

I’d known the question was coming and had prepared an answer. “As I mentioned over the phone, I’m a licensed private investigator. Given the rather sensitive issues in this case, Father Lawrence hired me to explore the possibility our confessor might have some involvement with Saint Edmund’s. He thought a private investigator could work more under the radar than someone operating within an official police investigation. It’s my job to raise as few alarm bells as possible in the hope that parishioners might then open up more easily. Now that the police are involved, he also asked me to be his liaison with your investigation.”

To my surprise, Detective Page had no objections.

“I have a million other leads to run down,” she said, “so I can live with your involvement for now. There are, however, two conditions. First, you need to limit your inquiries to the parish itself and the people within the parish. Second, you need to let me know immediately anything you find that might be even remotely relevant to this case.”

“I’ll be honest with you both,” she continued. “Given you have almost no information, even if this is our killer, I’m not sure you’re going to be able to find anything of note. I’ll pass along what you told me to the Avon police department since they are looking into the Gruber murder. They may wish to contact you as well.”

We exchanged cards, and Detective Page left quickly after cautioning me once again about the need to keep her in the loop. I agreed, and Father Lawrence and I watched as she hurried out the door. Once she was out of earshot, Father Lawrence looked at me with a slight smile.

“She’s very direct. Not bad-looking either.”

I couldn’t resist. “Father, remember your vocation!”

“I meant for you, idiot. Your brother said you lived like a monk. Remember what I said about trust? You need to keep an open mind.”

There were times I forgot he was a Jesuit. After dropping the discussion of my love life, he handed me a sheet of paper with names and contact information.

“There are four names on this list along with addresses and phone numbers. Father Samuel and I put our heads together, and these were the parishioners we thought would most likely have been present on the days in question. I’ve spoken to all four individuals, and all are willing to talk with you. As you suggested, I stretched the truth a bit and said your visit involved some break-ins in the church these last few weeks.”

He hesitated a bit before continuing. “I also need to give you some background on a few of these individuals. The first name on the list, Joyce Taylor, may be your best bet. She’s active, still runs marathons at the age of sixty-two, and strikes me as observant. Miriam Lomax is in her early seventies and not as well connected. Don’t get me wrong. Miriam still drives a car, talks politics, and is well-regarded by most other parishioners. She has, however, started talking to God.”

“I know I’ve been away for a while, Father, but talking to God used to be a good thing.”

Father Lawrence shook his head. “Maybe it’s best you find out what I mean on your own. I’ve been to her apartment a few times, and sometimes it doesn’t even come up.”

“What about the other two names?”

“Mrs. DePaulo should present no issues, although she goes to confession less frequently than the other three. According to Father Samuel, she was definitely in church this past week, and he believes she was there the previous time as well.

“That brings us to Mrs. Olivia Moore. You will need to use some caution with that one—not, let me stress, with Mrs. Moore herself. Olivia is a fine woman, in her midforties and widowed for the last four years.

“The issue with Mrs. Moore is her sons, Theodore and Mark. They are in their late teens and live at home with their mother. If I weren’t a priest, I would also say they are a fine pair of assholes. I met the sons only once, and it was not pleasant. They are both rather large, and they’ve spent time in juvenile detention for beating up some of the younger kids in the neighborhood. The only reason I put Olivia on the list is her sons are, from my understanding, rarely home. From what their poor mother tells me, they usually hang out with a gang down by the mall. Still, I would advise you to call before coming over just to be sure they aren’t there.”

“Don’t worry, Father. I’ve found the right attitude usually gets me through these situations just fine.”