Tom Lowe - The 24th Letter

“I think would have given us the killer’s ID. Enough to get Charlie Williams a stay of execution until the perp was picked up. Father Callahan said Spelling was going to reveal the place the murder weapon’s been hidden for eleven years. If it’s got prints or DNA, it may match the person named in the letter. Then Charlie Williams is a free man.”

Grant said, “The letter you’re talking about is probably what Sam Spelling asked me to drop in a paper grocery sack at his bedside. He had it marked ‘for Father John Callahan, confidential.’”

“You should have opened it,” Henderson said. “You were conducting an investigation into Spelling’s shooting, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, but you should have seen the look in Spelling’s eye when he asked me to drop it in the bag. Like he had an epiphany going on. I planned to go back in his room to read it when he went to sleep. The nurses were giving him something to make him sleep. When I did go back, the letter was gone. I figured the priest returned and got it.”

Valdez turned toward O’Brien. “When you found Father Callahan’s body, guess there was no sign of any letter, huh?”

“No, at least not in the open. Lot’s of spilled stuff on the floor. Briefcase rifled. The perp made it seem like a burglary leading to a murder. I didn’t want to turn the body over to go through Father Callahan’s pockets until forensics worked the scene.”

The detectives nodded approval. Henderson asked, “Why do you think it wasn’t a burglary? Could be some asshole high on drugs, breaking into a church to steal from the collection plate to support his habit?”

“Because of what Father Callahan told me.”

“Sean’s right,” Grant said. “Sam Spelling told me something.”

“Told you what?” Henderson asked.

“Spelling said if anything should happen to him, if he should die, I needed to see Father Callahan as fast as I could. But now Father Callahan’s dead instead of Spelling.”

O’Brien asked, “Is Spelling’s room under guard?”

“Of course,” Grant said.

O’Brien nodded. You night want to double the guard. This guy’s good.”

Grant shook his head. “The general public thinks Spelling’s already dead. Soon as he recovers, he’ll testify. We’ll explain the fake death later.”

O’Brien said, “Dan, call whoever’s posted at the room. Have him check on Spelling.”

Grant sighed, opened his cell, and made the call. “Yeah, I’ll hold,” he said.

Detective Valdez looked at his watch. “While Dan’s checking on the patient, we’ve got a body in there…inside a church for Christ sake. Let’s do it.”

O’Brien glanced toward the atrium leading to the sanctuary. “In there,” he said. “We need to find the letter. Maybe Father Callahan hid it before the killer walked in.”

“And maybe the perp found it on the priest and stole it,” Henderson said.

O’Brien nodded. “Possibility, but Father Callahan left his own note, and he left it in his own blood. We have to figure out what he was trying to say before he died. We don’t have much time to solve this puzzle or another man, Charlie Williams, will die.”

“What!” Grant yelled. “Are you sure?” There was a short pause. Grant lowered his tie a notch. He closed his cell phone, his eyes distant. Then he looked at O’Brien and said, “Sam Spelling’s dead.”

A TV news helicopter flew above the church. O’Brien waited for the chopper to pass. He said, “Dan, seal Spelling’s room! Don’t let them remove the body unto you can get an ME there. The perp-”

“What a minute!” Henderson interpreted.

“Grant held his hand up. “It’s ok, Ed. Sean’s right. Right now Spelling’s hospital room, like this church, is a fucking crime scene. Let’s go inside.”

Anita Johnson opened the door to her mobile home, let the skinny cat out into the night, and turned back toward the television. She lit a cigarette, adjusted a frayed terry cloth belt around her robe, and sat on the edge of a plastic chair to watch the events unfolding on television. She pushed a strand of unwashed blond hair behind one ear and touched the tip of a finger to the bruise under her right eye.

Gotta leave. No more. Take the baby and just get the hell out.

Anita Johnson thoughts were interrupted by scenes on TV. She reached for the remote to turn up the sound. A stoic reporter stood outside the St. Francis Church and said, “What we know at this time is Father John Callahan, a man beloved by his parishioners, has been brutally gunned down in his own church. I was told that paramedics got here within a few minutes of the call, and Father Callahan was found dead on the floor of the sanctuary.”

The picture cut to a news anchor in a studio. His brow creased as he leaned into the camera and asked, “David, do police have a motive for this heinous crime?”

“Police did say it looks like the church was burglarized. Some religious artifacts are reportedly stolen, and the collection plate left on the altar from an earlier mass was rifled and found on the floor next to the body.”

Anita Johnson crushed out her cigarette and lit another one. She mumbled under her breath, “World’s gone straight to hell.”

The reporter continued, “One source, who asked not to be identified, said he saw where the priest had left a note on the floor, apparently scrawled in his own blood. Police aren’t releasing the content of that message, but investigators hope it’ll lead them to the person who murdered one of the best-known and most beloved priests in the southeastern diocese, Father John Callahan. This is David Carter reporting.”

The phone rang. Anita Johnson jumped. She lifted it off the coffee table and held the remote in one hand to turn down the sound.

She looked at the caller ID and asked, “Where’re you?”

Lyle Johnson sat in his car in the parking lot of a closed post office. He sealed an envelope and began writing an address on it. He said, “You sound jumpy.”

“Phone scared me. Lyle, a priest got blown away in a church tonight. Happened at St. Francis, right off Tilton Road. That’s not far from here. Judy takes her kids there.”

“Criminals don’t have boundaries.”

“Where’re you? Dinner’s cold.”

“Gonna be late. Might have to work a few more hours at the hospital. They’ll probably rotate me out tomorrow. County will keep a deputy on Spelling.”

She was silent.

“What’s wrong?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. Got to work.”

“On the TV news they said Sam Spelling died. If your prisoner’s dead, why are you still at the hospital?”

Johnson ran his hand over his scalp. His voice softened, “Anita, look baby, I know I ain’t been much of a husband recently. I want to make it up to you. I’m sorry about the other night. I’m swearin’ off booze. Look, I ran into something. I can’t tell you over the phone, but it’s gonna take care of our money problems.” He paused, sighed and said, “If you really think about it, the lack of money has caused all our problems.”

She bit her lower lip and said nothing.

“Anita, I want to make things up with you. I’m doin’ a deal, all legit, with a guy that will help us get our finances straight.”

“What deal? What guy?”

“Can’t go over it on the phone. I just happen to have some information dropped into my lap that he’s willing to pay for. It’s that simple, baby. He gets what he wants. I get paid. But it’s got to happen tonight. I’ll be back by one-thirty.”

Johnson got out of the car, held the phone to his mouth, and walked to a postal box. He dropped the letter through the slot. “Love you, Anita. Everything is gonna be beautiful, just like you. You wait and see.”