Bill Franks - Jesuit

During the small meal, the couple chatted about work and a little about their home lives, not once referring to what it seemed both really had in mind. They enjoyed each other’s company, the alcohol providing just sufficient stimulus to keep things lively.

Within the hour, they were in Sallie’s office adjoining the pathology lab. Still ignoring the lustful plans stored at the back of each’s mind, they studied Sallie’s typewritten report, whilst both sat on the desk rather than the comfortably padded chairs. The report supplied no information that had not already been given but, none-the-less, they went through the motions of reading and discussing the various points.

At the end, Sallie swivelled round, her legs unintentionally parting as she came to face Graham, looking into his face with undisguised desire.

He immediately slipped from the desktop and threw his arms around her, pulling her close to him, his body easing between the spread legs. As he began to kiss her passionately, his hands wandered over her upper body, thrilling him at the feel of her firm and ample breasts. He felt her tongue dart into his mouth as passions rose.

Who took off whose clothes, could not have been decided in the sudden blur of activity, but they were naked and having urgent sex on the desk in seconds. It was as though both had been saving themselves for this very moment, starving of sex in the meantime. There was much puffing, grunting, screaming and shouting during the bout, the rather macabre surroundings seeming to add to their desires.

Finally, it was over and they lay together, still coupled, for some time, holding, caressing and cuddling each other tenderly. Both were fully satisfied by the encounter and they realised it heralded the beginning of a new phase in their lives; a phase that was certain to bring pleasure, pain and deceit.

The conscience crunch came when Graham opened the door to his home at a quarter to nine that evening. On seeing Bethany’s happy-to-see-you face, he suddenly felt like throwing himself to his knees and confessing all. For too many seconds, he simply stared at her, feeling that she could see right through him, knowing his infidelity.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked, uncertainly, wondering at the stare.

Quickly gathering his wits, Graham replied: “Yes, of course, darling. I just had a thought that I’d forgotten something at the office — but I haven’t. That’s all. I’m okay.” He bent to kiss her as was usual, feeling the soft warmth of the lips he had kissed so many countless times, always enjoying the experience. Tonight was no exception. Guilty though he felt, he knew that this was the first of many future deceptions. The pathologist had seeped into his system and he wanted more.

The following morning, Graham was back in his office, again looking through the individual files of the recent victims, together with Clive Miller. He had not seen Sallie and did not expect to. Their paths mainly crossed when a new murder occurred.

“Christ” he suddenly cried, startling Clive. “Clive! You know what? I’ve never asked forensics about the feathers!”

Clive looked at his chief in puzzlement. “What about the feathers?”

“If they picked them up! It never crossed my mind before, but the pretty little bunches may become evidence. They might not even have collected them. I mean, why pick up a tiny bunch of bird feathers from a field? Pretty common things, I would think.”

Already beginning to sweat from the warming day, he picked up the telephone and dialled through to the forensic department. He was soon speaking to Sergeant Brian Flynn who kept the records and bags of evidence from recent cases investigated by the forensics team. After hearing Graham’s reasons for the request, he said he would check his records and get back in a short time. Graham put down the phone and studied the foolscap pad upon which he had made notes from each case. “Clive,” he said slowly. “Apart from the obvious things that link the murders, I can’t spot anything in common that gives a real clue to the killer’s identity.”

“No, nor can I,” came the rather unhelpful reply.

“But there is one thing that crops up in every report,” still speaking slowly as if gathering his thoughts and speaking them out, “and that is the priest. The Jesuit.”

Clive chuckled. “Surely you don’t suspect him , do you?”

“No. Not exactly, but there’s some reference to him in every case.”

“Yes. Well, there will be won’t there? He gives comfort to the bereaved doesn’t he? Therefore, he’s bound to be mentioned.”

“Yes. I can accept all that but, just the same, we are going to have a word with him. Do we know where he is now?”

“No, but I can soon find out.”

At that point the phone rang; it was Sergeant Flynn. “Hello Graham,” he began. “I’ve checked my records and you’re right. There is a small bunch of bird feathers in each case. Nobody paid any real attention to them but they have all been bagged and logged.”

Graham’s excitement was mounting. “So, you’ve got all the feathers — from each murder scene?”

“Oh, yes. Every one. Because they’re so delicate, they’ve all been bagged separately — in their bunches. If you want them you will have to sign.” He warned officiously.

“I’ll sign okay. Give me ten minutes or so and I’ll be there.” With that, he hung up. In fifteen minutes, Graham had rushed down to forensics, signed for the goods and returned with them to his office. On looking at the individual bags, he was pleased to note that each had been logged with the date, time and the name of the victim. He pinned them to the wallboard alongside the pictures of the murdered people. Soon, if there were no further progress, the board would be too small to fit extra evidence.

“I wonder why he does this,” mused Graham, aloud. “What is the significance of the feathers? There has to be a reason; I’m sure he doesn’t go to the trouble of obtaining the specimens and then leave them near to his victims just for the sake of it.” He sat, wondering. Clive was unable to offer any solutions either, so they each went on looking into the files for what seemed the thousandth time, hoping to glean some extra clue.

By teatime, both men were tired and had made no progress. They discussed what they should do next but even that was a puzzle. What could the next step be? They had all the information possible, had read and re-read the reports and witness statements and they were no nearer to a solution. Just then, the phone rang; it was Sergeant Flint in Penn.

“Oh, hello, George!” Sampler was pleased to hear the familiar voice. “How are you?” Then a thought occurred: not another murder! Before giving Flint time to reply to the first question, he spoke. “Not more bad news, is it, George?”

A short laugh cackled down the line. “No. No, not at all. You remember the Jesuit we spoke of?”

“Oh, yes?”

“Well, I’ve provisionally arranged for you to meet him, as you asked.”

Sampler had completely forgotten. “Have you? Well, thanks, George. When and where?”

“I spoke to Father McGiven at St. Mary’s a few days ago and he got in touch with the priest. He’s agreed to meet you tomorrow, if you can make it, at the church. It’s the only spare time he has at present.”

It was short notice but Sampler was interested in the man. Clive could carry on here — unless another dead body turned up! “Yes. That’s okay. At what time?”

“He made the appointment for four in the afternoon. Will that be suitable?”

“Yes. That will do fine. Will Father McGiven be there?”

“Yes, if you have no objections. He’d like to meet you and he says the Jesuit is such a character that he finds himself wanting to be in his company all the time. Says he’s never been so affected by anyone before.”