William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"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.

"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.

"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."

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.