Criminal intent bk-11, page 31
part #11 of Ben Kincaid Series
"I do now," Ben said quietly.
"Well, I don't mean to lecture. You know how we priests are once we get wound up. I should probably arrange for the new glass, now that we've got the demolition completed. I just wanted to say hello, Edward, and to thank you again, Ben, for helping me."
"My pleasure," Ben mumbled.
"Oh, and-I'll see you Saturday at nine?"
"Saturday morning?"
Father Beale smiled. "For acolyte class. We should get started right away, I think."
Even though it was wildly inappropriate, given all that had happened, Ben couldn't help returning his smile. "I'll be there." Even after all these years, Ben remembered that day as if it were yesterday. Father Beale took a lot of grief from the vestry for destroying the window, but he never once told anyone what had really happened. When Ben heard that Beale was at odds with the vestry at St. Benedict's, his first thought was-Who is he saving this time?
That was a day everything changed for Ben. His goals and priorities. His sense of what was important. How he should live his life. Father Beale had been an intercessor for him, and many years later, Ben had chosen a career as an intercessor for others. Father Beale had given him a great gift, but the implicit understanding was that Ben would use that gift-would use his life-in a way that mattered.
"Ben?"
He looked up abruptly. "What? Yes?"
Christina stared at him strangely. "You looked as if you were sleeping."
"Oh, no. Just… daydreaming. What is it?"
"What do you think?" She glanced at Father Beale, then took his hand and clasped it firmly between hers. "The jury's back." In the courtroom, Ben thought, no one can hear you scream. He wanted to rear back his head and cut loose with a big one. But Judge Pitcock would not be amused, and it would only make a hideously bad situation all the worse.
He watched as the twelve jurors (the alternates having been dismissed) filed solemnly into the courtroom. They did not look at Father Beale, did not even glance at counsel table. But that was not uncommon, Ben thought, trying to calm himself. Whether it was the influence of television, or just that they'd been working so long they wanted their big moment not to be spoiled, Ben had observed that most jurors tried not to give away the result. At least not this soon. Later, when the verdict was being read out, they would look at Father Beale. If they had acquitted him.
"The defendant will rise."
Ben and Christina and Father Beale all stood. Ben noticed that Beale's knees were shaking, so profoundly that it had to be apparent to everyone.
"Madame Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?"
The middle-aged, somewhat heavy-set woman at the left end of the first row spoke. "We have, your honor."
She passed the all-important piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge. Pitcock glanced at it expressionlessly, then returned it to the bailiff. "Proceed."
Madame Foreperson cleared her throat. She's not looking at us, Ben thought, not me, or Christina or Father Beale. She's not looking at us, damn it!
"In the matter of the State of Oklahoma versus Daniel Samuel Beale, on the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant…"
Why did they always pause there? Haven't we waited long enough?
"… we find the defendant guilty as charged."
There was a gasp somewhere in the gallery, and a moment later, Father Beale crumbled. Ben wrapped an arm around him, trying to prop him up.
The gallery went crazy. Reporters leaped out of their seats, rushing out of the courtroom so they could switch on their cell phones and report the news. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once. Andrea had her arms stretched out toward her husband. She was sobbing and wailing and looked just as stunned as he did.
"My God, my God…" Beale murmured. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes.
The sentencing phase was a blur. Both sides called witnesses, but everything Ben did was drowned in the despair that came from too much knowledge. He'd been around long enough to know that if the jury had been inclined to mitigate, they would not have gone for Murder One.
All too soon, they heard once again from Madame Foreperson. "Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the court's instructions to the jury, we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree by a jury of his peers, should be sentenced to execution by lethal injection."
"No," Father Beale cried. "My God, no."
"The jury's recommendation will be accepted by the court," Judge Pitcock answered.
Another tumult ensued. "No!" Andrea screamed. She collapsed into her seat.
Amidst the clamor and confusion, the sheriff's marshals appeared. "We'll take custody of the prisoner."
"My God," Beale continued, his eyes wide and unbelieving. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
The judge was thanking and dismissing the jury, but Ben didn't hear any of it. Never before had he felt a grown man absolutely crumble into his arms. Beale was like a baby; he couldn't walk, couldn't support his own weight.
One of the marshals inched closer. "I'm sorry. We have to take him back to the jail now."
Christina looked angry enough to tear his eyes out. "Couldn't you give us one minute alone with him?"
"I'm sorry," the marshal said, unblinking. "No."
"Daniel!" Andrea rushed forward, trying to embrace her husband, but one of the marshals held her back while they cuffed their prisoner. It took both of them to hold him upright, but they eventually managed to carry Father Beale away.
"This isn't over," Ben said as they departed. "We'll do everything we can. You can count on it."
But even as he said it, Ben knew it was balderdash. All they could do-what could they possibly do? Threaten to appeal? Ben knew how futile that would be. The case was over, and they had lost.
Father Beale had given Ben so much, had in a very real sense given him his mission, his life. And now, all these years later, Ben had held Father Beale's life in his hands… and had let it slip through his fingers.
Chapter
41
"Bad news?" Manly asked as his friend hung up the phone.
"You could say that. Father Beale has been convicted."
"Convicted?"
"Murder one. He's getting the needle."
Manly nodded solemnly. "And vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."
"Evidently."
"What are we going to do with this corpse? We have to think of the right place to put it. So people will know we've punished the babykillers."
"Yeah, right. That's it," his friend said, but of course that wasn't it at all. He couldn't care less about the goddamn abortion cause; that was just a blind he'd used to persuade this simpleminded zealot to do his dirty work for him, to accomplish his end-the death of one Ernestine Rupert. Manly targeted her because she founded and chaired the pro-choice PCSC. But he had far more personal reasons for wanting her dead.
They could just hide the corpse. Bury it. Keep it out of sight. That would be safest-but it didn't help him any. The whole thing wasn't worth a damn thing if no one knew she was dead. Because as long as no one knew she was dead-
He couldn't inherit her money.
The problem was, with Beale convicted and behind bars, they couldn't pin this murder on him. They would have to contrive some other explanation.
"Do you think people will be suspicious? About another murder victim from the same church?"
"After what people have heard was going on in that church, I don't think anything will surprise them." What a fool Manly was. A twisted simpleton with a taste for violence. The most useful devils were the ones who thought they were angels.
"We'll wait a while," he said finally. "Then we'll plant the body."
"But… that's a long time to have a stiff lying around, isn't it?"
"What's the matter, Manly? Getting creeped out by your own work?"
"No-I just-you know. She might start to smell or something."
"We'll get her out in plenty of time. You can Lysol the house afterward. I'll help."
But he wouldn't, of course. After the body was moved and the work was completed, Grady Gilliland would disappear. No more wig, no more fake glasses and mustache, no more silly accent. There would be no need for him anymore. After all this planning and effort, the work would be done. And all that would remain was Bruce Ashour, devoted nephew of the late Ernestine Rupert, the poor sap she treated and mistreated like a miserable servant.
A miserable servant now in line for roughly 10.6 million dollars.
Chapter
42
"Ben, open the door. Do you hear me? Open up!"
Ben heard him, but he didn't say anything. Didn't answer. Didn't move.
"Come on, Ben, snap out of it. This is Mike. Let me in!"
The pounding on the door grew louder and more insistent, but Ben didn't budge. Rude, he knew. Self-indulgent, self-pitying. But he still didn't move.
"Christina says you've been sitting around your apartment moping for… way too long. She's worried about you."
He pounded the door some more, but it didn't get him anywhere.
"I'm worried about you, too. And unlike Christina, I'm not inclined to let you sit around stewing in your own juices."
What exactly did that mean? Ben wondered as he sat on the sofa, not moving. What juices? And how exactly did one stew them?
"Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you." A few seconds passed, then there was a thundering crash at the front door. Mike spilled through the entry, shoulder first.
This time, Ben responded. "You broke the door down! You splintered the jamb!"
"Sorry. Complain to the landlord."
"I'm the landlord!"
"Well, next time, answer the damn door." Without waiting for an invitation he knew wouldn't come, Mike threw himself into the chair facing the sofa.
"Don't you have any… like, real police work to be doing?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm swamped. I've got two fresh homicides, plus some nutcase who's running around beating up people connected to pro-choice organizations and abortion clinics. And despite that, please notice, I'm here with you."
"If I'm supposed to be grateful, I'm not."
"What's shaking, Ben? You're not planning to off yourself or anything, are you?"
"No. Is that all you wanted to know?"
"No, but it seemed like a good starting place. Look-I'm sorry the jury turned on you in the Beale case."
"It wasn't the jury's fault." Ben's eyes were like tiny dots of black. "The jury only did what any jury would do, given what they saw. I blew it. I lost the case."
"Ben, come on…"
"I did. I threw Father Beale's life away."
"You tried everything possible-"
"It wasn't enough. And now he's going to spend years of misery in jail. Then he's going to be executed. And he's innocent."
"I'm not convinced of that. I think our case against Beale was pretty damn tight."
"He's innocent. I know he is."
"But what about-"
"They're talking about sending him to McAlester, did you know that? Can you imagine? Father Beale, one of the most educated, sensitive men I've ever known, rotting away in that penitentiary? How long will he last in there?"
"Ben, I don't know why you're taking this so hard. You've lost cases before."
"Not like this. Not-not-" He couldn't finish the sentence.
"I guess there's nothing I could say that would persuade you to give yourself a break?"
"Father Beale was my friend," Ben said quietly. "And inspiration. He was there when I needed a friend. But when he needed a friend-I failed him. It's as simple as that."
The phone rang. Ben stared at it a while, seriously considering not answering it. And indeed, if Mike hadn't been there, he probably would've let it alone.
"Yes?"
"Ben? This is Ruth O'Connell."
Ruth was calling him? After she'd done everything possible to convict Father Beale?
"I'm worried about Ernestine. She's gone missing."
"And you're calling me?"
"I didn't know who else to call." The tremor in her voice told Ben she was genuinely concerned. "The police said she had to be missing longer before they could do anything. You've always helped when we have problems at the church."
"I'm sure she just got sick or fell asleep or something."
"I'm telling you, it's serious. She and I have gotten together for lunch every Friday for the last twenty-two years. She's never missed once. Not once. And even if she were going to miss, she'd call. It's not as if she could just forget, not after all these years."
Ben frowned. That did sound unusual. But what could he do?
"I'm just afraid, when we've had all those murders, and then she disappears…"
The full impact of what she was saying struck Ben like a hammer. Could there have been another killing? While Father Beale was behind bars? Because if there was, that would mean…
"I'll look into it, Ruth."
"I'd be so grateful."
"I'll get the police on the case. They'll start checking it out immediately."
"But I've called the police."
Ben looked across the room at his friend and smiled. "I may have a few connections you don't."
Chapter
43
Ben had wanted to come, but Mike wouldn't allow it. Mike didn't believe for a minute that there was still a killer out there; the killer had been locked up good and tight. Still, if there was any chance of danger, Ben didn't need to be in the thick of it. Ben was like a danger magnet; it always seemed to gravitate toward him, and he was pathetically ill equipped to deal with it.
After issuing the APB, he drove to Ernestine's house. There was no sign of her and no sign of any struggle or violence. But Ben had told Mike she had a nephew who was with her frequently, one she treated more like a handmaiden than a relative. So that seemed like the logical next stop.
After he knocked on the door, Mike could hear hushed muttering inside. Two voices talking in subdued tones.
Mike pressed his ear against the door. He heard a shushing noise. Then the voices stopped.
Could be nothing, of course. But something about this was making the short hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. And when you'd been a cop as long as Mike had, you learned to listen to those little short hairs.
The door swung open, but the man standing on the other side was not Bruce, the nephew. He didn't match the description Ben had given him. He was sandy-haired and muscular and… well, not very well-to-do or bright-looking.
"Yeah?"
Mike pulled out his badge. "I'm Major Mike Morelli. Tulsa PD."
The man looked at the badge, looked at Mike, then sort of levitated, as if unable to decide what to do next. Mike had seen the look before-but only from people who had something to hide.
"I'd just like a few words."
"Yeah." The man's eyes darted all around. "Can you just… give me a moment?"
"Sure," Mike said, since he had no choice, and the man closed the door.
Mike pressed his ear against the door again. More talking, footsteps, some kind of commotion. A metallic swinging noise. Something was being opened-a window, or maybe a screen door.
"Open up!" Mike shouted. "Now!"
All he heard in response were footsteps, and they were growing fainter.
Soon they would be gone, whoever they were. The question was whether Mike had the legal right to do anything about it. And it was a question he pondered for, oh, half a second, because there just wasn't time.
"Freeze!" Mike shouted, kicking the door. The flimsy lock gave and the door swung open. At the back end of the house, he saw two men scurrying through a patio door. One of them was almost instantly out of sight. The other, the man who had opened the door, would be soon. "Freeze! Police!"
Did he have the right to enter the house in pursuit? Oh, hell. Leave it for the lawyers. He raced inside-
And that's when he saw her, sprawled across a blanket lying on the floor. It didn't take him two seconds to realize Ernestine Rupert was dead-and had been for some while.
"Stop where you are!" he repeated as he raced toward the back. He unholstered his weapon. "You're under arrest! Stop or I will shoot!"
He blazed through the back patio door. The sandy-haired man was rapidly descending a series of steps that led to a sunken garage. And from there? Mike could only imagine. He'd be long gone, that much was sure.
Mike leaped off the top of the stairs. He landed on the lawn a split second later, so hard it drove his knees into his chin. It hurt, and his lip was bleeding, but he blocked the pain out of his mind. He scrambled to his feet, raced to the garage, and dived toward the fleeing suspect.
He flew just far enough to tackle the man around the knees. A little lower than he wanted, but it would do. The man tumbled down onto the pavement just outside the garage, banging his head against the back wall.
Ouch. That had to sting.
"You're under arrest," Mike said, gasping. He whipped out his handcuffs and grabbed the man's right arm. Inside the garage, he heard a car engine starting. "Damn. Where is that-?"
The man's boot came out of nowhere. It blindsided Mike, knocking him sideways and loosening a tooth. The cuffs went jangling to the ground. The suspect crawled out from under him and fled.
Evidently the blow to the head hadn't been as incapacitating as it looked, Mike realized. Damn, damn, damn. Why had he been so sloppy? He should've seen that coming. He scrabbled to his feet, trying to get his bearings, which was no small accomplishment. He loped toward the garage door just in time to see the sandy-haired man dive into the passenger seat. The driver-who matched the description Ben had given of the nephew-peeled out, making it from garage to street in less than a second.
