William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

Bruce did not pull over. Instead, he did something Mike wouldn't have thought possible. He drove faster.

Mike saw they were fast approaching the traffic light at Thirty-first. It was a four-way stop, the light was already yellow, and they were still a good hundred feet away from it.

Don't do it, you stupid fool, Mike thought as he applied his own brakes.

Bruce chose the other pedal. He poured it on, trying to rocket through the intersection. The light turned red several seconds before he got there, but he kept on blazing through…

He never saw the electric blue pickup until it was on top of him. It plowed over the Yugo like it was a Matchbox toy, smashing the hood, shattering the glass.

My God, Mike thought, looking away. My God, my God.

He punched his cell phone and called headquarters. "We're going to need an ambulance out here," he said. "Fast." But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't help. There wasn't enough left of that car to put on a microscope slide.

Mike banged his fist against the steering wheel, furious. He'd told them to stop, damn it. Why didn't anyone ever listen to him? "So Bruce and this Manly Trussell creep were behind the murders?" Ben asked.

"Absolutely." Mike was hunched over his desk, assiduously engaged in a complex endeavor involving paper, glue, staples, and file folders. "We found more than enough evidence in Bruce's home to prove he and his pal offed his aunt."

"That doesn't prove they did the others."

"Exactly how many killers do you think there are in your church, Ben? Jeez, small wonder I'm an agnostic." He fumbled around with the office supplies, accidentally stapling his hand. "Give me another day or two. We'll turn up some evidence to connect them to the previous murders."

"It's a shame we can't interrogate them."

"Shame isn't the word for it. That car was obliterated." He lifted the brush out of the paste pot, stringing a trail of glue across his desk blotter. "They tell me the guy in the pickup is going to be all right. Of course, he was in a pickup. Pays to be a redneck, I guess."

"I just-" Ben paused, searching for the right words. "I can't quite make it all fit in my brain. What did Bruce have against Helen Conrad? Or Kate McGuire? Or Susan Marino?"

"Nothing. That's my theory, anyway. All he wanted was the demise of his dear aunt Ernestine. But he was smart enough to realize that if she turned up murdered, no matter how good his alibi, the sole heir to her millions would be Suspect Numero Uno. He had to create another motive. Presumably he didn't know she was a blackmailer. So he enlisted this wacko Manly to start knocking off members of the vestry, leading everyone to believe that Father Beale was doing it."

"So that when he got around to Ernestine-"

"Everyone would just think it was another one of the same. It's the only way his aunt could be killed without immediately throwing suspicion on him."

"And this Manly character-?"

"Rabid pro-life activist. Of the shoot-the-docs-at-the-clinic variety. Mind you, I tend to be pro-life myself-I think anyone who cares about the sanctity of human life must be. But I've got no sympathy for these creeps who think it gives them an excuse to commit crimes, much less murder. Bruce played on Manly's pro-life leanings, ostensibly targeting Ernestine because she founded the city's most successful pro-choice outfit. Manly had a history of violence and had been institutionalized at least twice. In other words, he was just what Bruce needed."

Ben shook his head. "What a twisted scheme. Killing four people, including his aunt, and framing an innocent person for murder, just to get some money."

"Yeah. Unbelievable. And it was only ten million bucks." He winked. "Barely five, after taxes."

"I wish they'd survived, though. I need written statements to take to the judge. Show him what a hideous mistake the jury made convicting Father Beale."

"You seem to be assuming that if those two scumbags were alive they would confess, just to help you out-something I very seriously doubt. Your only hope lies with the physical evidence, which I have two crack teams working 24/7 to collect. We'll get what you need."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. This is really above and beyond-"

"Hey, I don't like being wrong, but when I am, at least I can admit it. I thought your priest was guilty as sin. So to speak." Mike tried to close the file, but everything had been inserted so clumsily it wouldn't close. "And I was wrong. So I need to make amends."

"You won't hear me complaining." Ben stared at the mess-a file that looked as if it had been compiled by a kindergartner, glue covering Mike's hands and desk, shreds of paper and staples everywhere. "This is just a guess, but-is Penelope on vacation?"

"Yes, damn it, and I'm helpless without her. I can't handle all this paperwork."

"It does look trying."

"It's awful. Who uses these paste pots anymore?"

"Penelope, apparently."

"And everything has to be attached just so and in the right order, and if you do it wrong the snobs in Records just send it back."

"Well, I've always heard police work is a high-stress occupation."

"Paperwork sucks."

"Not to mention car chases, stakeouts, gunplay…"

Mike tried to wipe the glue off his hands with a wet towel. "Yeah. But that's the fun part." Four The World Is Not Conclusion

The Gospel According to Daniel There are simply no words to describe the utter degradation and despair I experienced during my first days of posttrial incarceration. True, I had been in jail before, but now, with the trial completed, with all realistic hope of reprieve removed, the full horror of my situation penetrated my consciousness with an almost incapacitating impact. The filth, the loss of freedom, the intellectual stagnation-all of it assaulted my heart and my soul with an intensity that increased with every passing moment. My attorney praised me for holding on to my faith under such dire circumstances, but the truth is, I had no choice. I was like a shipwrecked castaway clinging to the only scrap of timber that hadn't submerged. Holding on to the only thing you have left is not an act of courage; it's an act of desperation.

Of course, my attorney visited regularly, being the good-hearted soul he is, and tried to lighten my spirits. We're doing everything we can, he would say. We're mounting a major appeal. But I am not a child. I can separate reality from fantasy. I knew when the forewoman read the verdict that my fate was sealed, now and for the remainder of my time on earth.

I have always believed that God has a plan for our lives. But I must confess that I have been utterly unable to discern the plan in the events that have befallen me now. I pray at night for guidance, but it does not come. What am I to do? I ask. What is my mission? I rarely have an opportunity to talk to other people, and when I do, they don't listen. The prison has denied me writing materials, except those provided by my attorney for my defense. My phone calls are restricted. I would like to think I am meant to have some impact somewhere-but how? How can I be a force for good when I have been deprived of all means of contact with the world? Is this not the true definition of hell-separation from God, from everything that matters?

And if I have already been cast into hell, here on earth, on death row-what awaits me on the other side? How can you communicate effectively with someone who isn't even in the same room? Ben wondered, not for the first time. How can you comfort someone you can't touch? How can you discuss private personal matters when you're surrounded by unfriendly faces?

You can't. But when you're visiting someone on death row, those are the only choices you get.

Ben sat on the opposite side of an acrylic panel, staring at the gaunt, drawn face of Father Beale. He had shaved his beard, or it had been shaved for him. His hair was cut shorter, and he was wearing orange coveralls in place of his white collar. They talked to one another through telephones even though they were only a few feet apart.