Читать книгу Prayers for the Dead - Faye Kellerman - Страница 11

Impressive in size and Gothic in style, the Church of the Holy Order of St. Thomas would have felt at home on the banks of the Thames. It was especially noticeable because West Valley architecture was typically confined to blocklong barrack shopping malls, and anywhere USA strip malls. True, there were a few magnificent million-dollar-plus housing developments. But the vast majority of the homes located within Devonshire Substation area were one-story ranch houses—three bedroom, two bath—serviceable and modest. The church’s spire loomed above its residential neighbors, overlooking its domain like a prison turret.

As Decker pulled the Volare curbside to the front steps, a thin man dressed in jeans, a black corduroy blazer over a black shirt, and running shoes bounded down the stairs. As he got closer, Decker saw the clerical collar. The man peered into the window.

“Lieutenant?”

Decker nodded, opened the passenger door.

The priest slid inside, shutting the door with excess force. Threw Decker a glance, then put on his seat belt. Decker studied the clergyman for a moment. Streaks of gray at the temple, wavy creases in his forehead. He was fine-featured, almost pretty. Dressed in satin and lace, he could have walked out of a Gainsborough. Except for the eyes—alert, too intelligent for peerage foppery.

Decker said, “I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Father.”

The priest nodded. “How’s my mother doing?”

“Pretty well, considering.” Decker pulled away from the church. “Michael’s anxious for you to be there.”

“I should be there. But I need to be here. I need a clone.”

Decker nodded. The priest had said clone, not twin. Ergo, the twin was obviously not a clone. Not the right time to press him on that.

Bram pushed locks off his forehead. His hair wasn’t quite as long as it had been in the pictures. But it still brushed his shoulders. Didn’t look like the padres Decker had seen growing up in southern Florida. Modern times. Modern priests.

“I managed to reach all my siblings except for my brother Paul. My brother-in-law is trying to reach him. Is there a way I can call out?”

Decker picked up the mike, asked for the number. The priest gave him the digits. A moment later, an angry male voice came through the static of dispatch.

Calmly, Bram said, “Hi, it’s me again. Did you reach Paul yet?”

“About two seconds ago. Are you at the house?”

“No, I’m—”

“You’ve got to get over there. Eva’s distraught. I don’t trust her to be alone.”

“Michael’s there—”

“Michael!” The voice turned sarcastic. “Oh, that’s a great comfort—”

“David—”

“I’m nervous … letting Eva drive by herself. You know how hysterical she can get. But she insisted. Our live-in’s vacationing in El Salvador and I can’t get a baby-sitter at this hour.” His voice grew louder. “It’s almost eleven. Where the hell are you, Bram?”

“With the po—”

“Paul’s asking me all these questions. Like I have the inside dope. How the hell do I know what’s going on? What is going on?”

“David, I hate to cut you off, but I’m talking on an open mike and the lieutenant can hear everything we’re saying. Let’s wait until we can talk in private.”

“Well, when are you going to the house?”

“As soon as I identify the body as my father’s.”

Silence. Then the voice said, “I’m sorry, Bram, I’m …”

“It’s all right, David. I’ve got to hang up now. We’ll talk later.” Bram handed the line to Decker who hung up the mike. The priest slumped in his seat.

Decker waited a beat. “They depend on you, don’t they?”

Looking out the window, Bram said, “How far are we from the spot?”

“About ten minutes away.”

“Where was he found?”

“In his car. It was parked in a back alley behind Tracadero’s.”

Bram faced Decker. “Tracadero’s?”

“Any idea why he would be there?”

“No.” He shook his head. “None.”

“Have you ever been there with him?”

Bram exhaled aloud. “Dad rented out the back room a couple of years ago for Mom’s birthday. There are about thirty of us with all the kids and in-laws. But there was nothing going on with the family tonight.”

“He never goes there without the family?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Dad rarely goes out because he’s always on-call.”

“Your brother said he practically lives at the hospital.”

Again, Bram brushed hair from his eyes. “Only thing I can think of is maybe Dad was meeting someone from the drug company for dinner.”

“Drug company?”

“My dad had developed an important surgery drug in his lab in conjunction with Fisher/Tyne Pharmaceuticals. It’s currently being tested by the FDA.”

Decker took in his words. “Your father developed a drug for Fisher/Tyne?”

“Yes. Curedon. Some kind of postsurgical, antirejection drug. A medical breakthrough according to my dad’s colleagues. My father’s a heart transplant surgeon. I guess you know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Decker paused. “I hate to ask you this, Father. This drug, Curedon, that your father developed. I take it there’s money involved?”

Bram thought a moment. “No doubt. Why?”

“We’re at the beginning stages of this investigation. I don’t have a smoking gun. I’m looking for suspects. I’m scratching for motives. Money’s always a good one. How much money are we talking about? Big amounts?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. You might ask Michael about it. He’d know more than I would.”

“So he often has dinner with someone from Fisher/Tyne at Tracadero’s.”

“Actually, I don’t know anything, Lieutenant. I’m just guessing.”

Decker smoothed his pumpkin mustache. “So your father is a chemist on top of his many other talents.”

“By default. About fifteen years ago, he decided he didn’t like what was commercially available. So he went back to UCLA and got a Ph.D. in biochemistry. The hospital—New Christian Hospital—built him a lab.” Bram clasped his hands tightly. “Could be he went out to dinner with one of his colleagues. But that doesn’t sound like my father, either.”

“Who are your father’s colleagues?”

“You mean names?”

“If you don’t mind.”

Bram nodded. “Dr. Reginald Decameron, Dr. Myron Berger and … goodness, I’m blanking … the woman … not Heather. That’s his secretary.”

“Who’s his secretary?”

“Heather … Heather …” Bram looked up. “At thirty-five, I’m going senile. Heather Something. The other doctor is also a woman.”

“They all work in your dad’s lab?”

“Yes.”

“So they’re your father’s employees?”

“I think there’s a bit more parity than a typical boss-underling relationship. They’re all doctors. But yes, my father did hire them.” He paused, his eyes darting behind his spectacles. “Fulton. Elizabeth Fulton. Doctor Liz, he called her. That’s the other doctor.”

“And you think your father might have gone out for dinner with one of them?”

“Maybe it was one of their birthdays. I don’t know.” Bram adjusted his glasses. “From the questions you’re asking, you don’t think it was a random murder, do you?”

“At this point, I’m still assessing information, Father. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful to you.”

Bram looked out the window, rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “What a nightmare!”

“I appreciate you coming down to make a positive identification. Better you than your mother.”

“That’s for certain.”

“Is she a well woman?”

“Why? What happened at the house?”

“Nothing at all. It’s just that … well, she takes sedatives.”

“And …”

“Uh, no. Nothing else. I was just curious why she took medication to help her sleep.”

“Lots of people do. It means nothing.”

“True.”

Bram said, “You’re sure it’s him? The body, I mean.”

“Certain enough to call you.”

The priest looked upward. “Are you going to perform an autopsy?”

“With a homicide, it’s the law.”

“So burial will be delayed.”

“Hopefully it shouldn’t take too long. Several days. Maybe a week.”

“Perhaps that’s better,” Bram said. “Maybe we’ll do some kind of … memorial service … for the public tomorrow. For Dad’s friends and colleagues. Get the circus over with. Then, when you release the body, we can have a private burial service for just the family.” He sighed. “I’m thinking like a priest. Step one, do this. Step two, do that.”

“Someone has to make arrangements. Your family seems to depend on you.”

Bram fell quiet.

Decker said, “Michael told me you’re not only an identical twin, but actually a triplet. Three boys.”

“Yes.”

“Is your twin a priest?”

“No.”

“What does your brother do? Your twin.”

Bram looked away, pretending not to hear. The priest was forthcoming when talking about Dad and his professional life. As soon as Decker brought up the family, Bram reverted to one-word answers.

“Does your brother work?” Decker pressed.

“What?” Bram’s eyes stared at nothing. “Pardon?”

“What does your twin brother do?”

“Luke’s a drug and alcohol rehabilitation counselor.”

“Another one in the helping profession,” Decker said.

Bram was quiet.

“Where does he work?” Decker paused. “Are my questions getting on your nerves, Father? I don’t want to upset you.”

“You can call me Bram. Everyone else does.” The priest rubbed his eyes. “I know you have to ask basic questions. I don’t resent them or you. Luke works at the Bomb Shelter.”

Decker paused. The Bomb Shelter was a halfway house with a reputation for hiring former addicts and rehabilitated ex-cons as counselors. “Does he live there?”

“No.”

“He’s married? Single? Divorced?”

“Luke’s married. Has a couple of kids.”

“Is your brother an ex-user?” Decker asked.

“Lieutenant, if you want personal information about Luke, ask Luke.”

“Fair enough. How about your brother Paul? What kind of work does he do?”

“He’s a stockbroker. Married. Four kids. My sister Eva’s married as well. She and her husband own a chain of clothing stores. They have four children under the age of seven. A fertile bunch. Making up for me. You’ve met Mike. He’s in his second year of medical school, lives at home, going with a very nice girl from the church. Dad’s church, not mine. I’m the only Catholic in the bunch. Magdeleine’s the baby of the family. She’s in her second year of college at UCLA. Psych major. She wants to be a social worker. That’s the family in a nutshell.”

“I appreciate you talking to me.”

Bram sank into silence.

Decker glanced at the priest, but said nothing. Usually, people under these circumstances … all they needed was a prompt or two and they became fountains of verbal diarrhea. They spoke from raw-edged nerves, from gut-stinging anxiety, spitting out whatever came to mind. This one was quiet. Not uncooperative, but he spoke with measured words.

And then it dawned on Decker. Bram was a priest. Secrecy was his stock-in-trade.

They drove without speaking the rest of the way, Decker slowing as they neared the spot. “Over to the right.”

Bram glared out the window. “There are television cameras! How did they find out before I did?”

“Networks have people listening to local police scanners. A famous name like your father’s pops up—”

“Oh for goodness …” Bram was taut and angry. “Is there no privacy even in grief?”

Decker was quiet.

“What a crazy town,” the priest said. “Bare your soul to the world for your ten minutes of fame.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you through. You might want to duck just in case someone gets pushy.”

Bram slid down into his seat. Quickly, Decker drove up to the barricades, flashed ID to the uniforms who kept watch over the scene. Before Decker could roll up the window, a microphone was jammed into his face. Holding it was a woman crowned with an oversprayed hive of blond hair. Decker pressed the accelerator to the floor, almost taking the mike with him as the Volare thrust forward. In the distance, he could hear the blonde swearing.

Bram sat back up, his complexion wan. “It’s not that I haven’t seen bodies … or haven’t seen people die as a matter of fact.”

“It’s different when it’s your own.”

The priest said nothing. As they closed in on the Buick, a gasp escaped from his lips. In stark view was the meat wagon. Bold letters holding nothing back—LOS ANGELES COUNTY MORGUE.

Bram looked at his lap. Decker felt for him. Welcome to hell, buddy. How long will you be staying?

Two white-coated lab assistants gleamed like headlights under the back alley illumination. They were hunched over, peering inside the Buick, one of them holding the body bag. Next to them was the police photographer who was making lightning with her Nikon. Jay Craine’s car was parked a few stores down. Decker couldn’t see the Medical Examiner. Probably kneeling, examining the body.

Decker shut the motor. Bram started to open the door, but Decker held his arm. “Wait here.”

The priest had turned gray.

Decker said, “Do you feel sick?”

“Just the stench,” Bram said. “It’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”

“Give me a moment, Father, to clear things. You’re sure you’re not sick?”

“I’ll survive.”

Decker got out of the car. Farrell Gaynor met him in front of the Buick’s grille.

“Sparks is still in the car?” Decker asked.

“Yep. Craine’s just about done. Ready to load him on the wagon.” Gaynor scratched his nose. “Who you got in the car?”

“Sparks’s son. One of his sons. He’s a priest.”

“So the son is actually the father.”

Despite the grimness, Decker smiled. “I don’t want him to see his father sprawled out like that. We’ll bag him first, put him on a stretcher. Then I’ll bring the son over to make the ID.”

“Will do.”

Decker went over to the car. Craine stood up from his knees, took a step back when he saw Decker, and brought a hand to his chest. “Do you always sneak up on people, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, Jay. What do you have?”

Craine appeared pensive. “Body’s still warm, no rigor evident. The homicide’s quite recent. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Gaynor said, “Yeah, Loo, I meant to tell you. Scott Oliver called while you were gone. Sparks was at the hospital today. Last anyone remembers, he finished up a meeting with a bunch of doctors around eight. Nobody seems to know what Sparks was doing here. At Tracadero’s, that is. Because he had dinner at the hospital. At least, that’s what his secretary said. Her name is Heather Manley.”

“Is she still at the hospital?”

“I don’t know where Scotty talked to her. On the phone or at the hospital.”

“So the great man was last seen about eight.” Craine snapped up his black bag. “It’s now quarter to eleven. You have an accurate time frame. Better than the one that science could have provided.”

“Did you know him, Jay?”

“I knew of him, Lieutenant. Everyone knew about Dr. Sparks.” Craine turned away. “This is very difficult. Seeing such a man as he … butchered like this.”

“Tell me about the murder.”

“Shots to the head and neck. Severed his brain stem. Most likely that was the primary cause of death. The other savagery … the chest wounds. I’d say they were postmortem. Someone was very strong and very angry. To crack the sternum and rib cage and expose his heart. A long knife with a big blade. I found some pulverized bone matter. Anything might have been used to smash the chest cavity. A crowbar, a baseball bat. A hammer or a mallet.”

“Things easily found in any car or toolbox or kitchen,” Decker said.

“Yes,” Craine agreed. “Whoever did this was a strong person.”

“Male, then.”

“I would think. Even a strong woman … to do this much damage …” Craine furrowed his brow in concentration. “If I were you, I’d be looking for someone with a penis.”

Gaynor held back a smile. “Smashing up the chest and exposing the heart. Sounds like someone was making a statement.”

“Indubitably.” Craine took off his gloves. “We’ll take him to the morgue now. Autopsy will be done first thing tomorrow.”

Decker said, “I have one of Dr. Sparks’s sons in the car. He’s come down to make the ID.”

“It’s Azor,” Craine said. “I’ll state it formally, if you’d like. Save the man some agony.”

“I think he knows it’s his father. I think he just wants to see it for himself.”

“Good gracious why?”

“He’s a priest,” Gaynor said. “Maybe he wants to perform last rites on him.”

“Can you do last rites on someone who’s deceased?” Decker asked. “Besides Azor Sparks wasn’t Catholic.”

“He was very religious,” Craine said. “Everyone knew about Azor Sparks, his Fundamentalist beliefs, and his commitment to God.” The ME paused. “Perhaps he did have a hot line to the Supreme Being. He certainly saved a lot of lives.”

Decker said, “I’ll bring the priest over as soon as your men put him in the bag and on the stretcher. I don’t want him to see the crime scene.”

“Very considerate of you, Lieutenants,” Craine muttered. “Very considerate. Copious amounts of spatter. The image is haunting even for the most professional of us. Good night.”

Gaynor watched as Craine got into his car and drove away. “He seemed upset. Well, maybe not upset. More like … affected.”

“Aren’t we all.” Decker shook his head. “Where’re Webster and Martinez?”

“On Dumpster patrol.” Gaynor pointed into the darkness. “See those blips of light?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Good thing about getting old,” Gaynor said. “You become very farsighted. I see the flashlights. Maybe they’re about a block and a half, two blocks down. Want me to get them on the walkie-talkie?”

Decker peered down the empty space, trying to make out light. “No, I’ll talk to them later. Let me get the identification over with.” He turned his eyes back to the scene. They had loaded Sparks onto a stretcher. “Clear the decks for me, Farrell. Give the son some breathing room.”

Decker walked back to the Volare, opened the passenger door. Bram got out, balancing his weight on the car before he stood up.

“You need help?”

“No.”

“Over here.” Decker led the priest to the stretcher, the body encased in a vinyl bag. He nodded to an attendant who unzipped a portion of the plastic sheath.

The priest glanced downward, quickly averted his eyes, then stepped backward. “Dear God!”

Decker peeked. Dead eyes stared upward at the foggy moon. He took the priest’s arm, but Bram shook him off.

“I’m all right.” He covered his mouth, then let his hands drop. “I’m all right. I want to see him again.”

Decker stared at him.

“Please,” Bram said quietly. “Please, I need to see him again. Have them unzip the bag.”

Decker nodded to the attendants. Again, they opened the vinyl casket. The priest came forward, forced his eyes downward. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and crossed himself. Closed his eyes and clasped his hands. He brought his fists to his forehead and prayed, his mouth incanting a slurry of what sounded like Latin. Decker crooked his finger, beckoning the lab men away from the stretcher.

Give the man his illusion of privacy.