Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

“He said he didn’t have enough concrete evidence. And if he got the police involved without enough concrete evidence, he’d lose his job. That’s why he wanted to figure it out on his own.”

Belinda went quiet.

“Go on,” Marge said.

“That was it. Yesterday, he told me he wasn’t coming in tomorrow…that’s today. So I didn’t think twice when he didn’t show up for work.” Her eyes filled with tears. “But as soon as I saw your car pull up…”

She broke into sobs.

“I’m so scared! Am I being paranoid?”

Marge said, “Maybe you and your family should take a few days off until we have a better idea of what’s going on.”

“A few days off?” Belinda hugged herself. “And just what do I tell my husband? That my ex-lover was murdered because he discovered some medical fraud, and his discovery put my family in danger?”

Oliver said, “I don’t think you have to tell him that Kenny was an ex-lover.”

“Then how could I explain the reason why Kenny confided in me?”

Marge said, “Mrs. Sands, I don’t know how you should phrase your words to your husband. But I do know that taking a couple of days off makes sense if you care about your family’s safety.”

“Oh God!” She covered her face again. “Jesus is paying me back.”

“Nah, I don’t think it’s that personal,” Oliver stated.

Belinda looked up, dried her tears. “Oh well…” Her voice had taken on a resolved tone. “I’ll figure something out. I’ve lied before, I can lie again.”

Sorting through piles of broken glass. Like picking brambles from a briar patch, Webster thought. Sun rays hitting the shards, shooting rainbows of light that bounced off the furniture and walls, ceiling and floors. Might have been pretty except for the ravaged bodies and the blood spatter. He clicked off his cassette player and pulled a tiny sliver out of his arm. He said, “Think I can file for disability?”

Martinez was squatting, retrieving shards and putting them in a bag. “Are you bleeding bad?”

“If I squeeze hard enough, I reckon I could fill up a capillary tube.”

“Go for an artery, Tom.”

Webster sighed, turned the tape back on. Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique. Because this was a murder scene extraordinaire. Trying to clear the area of debris-to find more compelling evidence and to allow Deputy Coroner Jay Craine access to the bodies. The pathologist was waiting outside, eating his lunch. Crime lab had sent two techs for blood sampling, dusting, and collection. The two white-coated workers were amassing pieces by the bagfuls.

Webster said, “There is so much glass, blood, and guts here, it’s like wading in a deadly offal soup. I don’t know how the lab’s gonna blood-type on all these bitty bits.”

Martinez said, “Guarantee you, mixed in with all this shit is blood from the perp…or perps. You can’t do this much damage without getting scratched.”

“Wonder why someone did this much damage?” Webster shrugged. “It serves no purpose.”

“It serves a purpose,” Martinez said. “It makes our job a hell of a lot harder.”

Webster said, “Someone did this to confuse us?”

Martinez said, “Or maybe someone just likes destruction.” He looked up from his kneeling position. Decker had come back. “Hey, Loo. How’s it going?”

“Find anything?”

“Lots of glass and blood.”

“Grab a pair of gloves, Rabbi,” Martinez said. “Get your hands dirty for old times’ sake.”

Decker slipped latex over his hands. “Anyone check the other rooms?”

“Neat and orderly if you please,” Webster said. “Decameron was a compulsive type.”

“Where’s his office?” Decker asked.

“In the back. Why?”

“Go through his papers?”

Webster said, “Just a quick glance. But nothing appears rifled through. What are you looking for?”

“Decameron was supposed to show Oliver and Dunn the Curedon/FDA trial data. Just wondering if he had the data somewhere in the house.”

“Like I said, his office is in the back. Help yourself.”

Decker walked through a skylit hallway off which three rooms sat-a bedroom, a guest room, and Decameron’s office. Webster was right-all of them appeared untouched. Decker started with the office.

Light poured into quarters-from above and from the windows. A bay oriel framed a view of Decameron’s patio garden-dozens of lush potted plants along with a three-tiered tiled fountain spilling gentle sheets of water. Decameron had done his work on an eight-foot granite drawerless desk. Atop the stone were a phone, a fax, a desktop copy machine, and a blotter and pencil holder.

The walls held no artwork-just shelves and banks upon banks of file cabinets. Decker pulled out a few drawers. All of them unlocked, seemingly undisturbed.

Some were reserved for patient files, but the majority had been dedicated to research data, most of the folders having to do with Curedon. Decker scanned the topics.

Curedon-Renal complications in rhesus monkeys.

Curedon-Iatrogenic blood dyscrasia caused by phagocytic T-cell response.

Curedon-Postmortem intractable acute renal rejection during application of Cyclosporin-A versus OKT3 versus Curedon.

Decameron had laid Curedon out into neat, assessable packages. Anyone interested in pilfering scientific information would have had an easy time. Decameron, for all his sardonic wit and cynicism, had been a trusting soul.

He thought a moment. If someone had been after the data, why make a mess out there and leave the office pristine? To throw him off track?

Decker sighed, slipped on his glasses, and began sorting through the Curedon folders, this time looking specifically for the Fisher/Tyne-FDA trial data. Reading sentence upon sentence, paragraph after paragraph of scientific mumbo jumbo until after an hour, his eyes bugged and blurred. Medical jargon was worse than legalese.

“Loo?”

Decker spun around. Martinez looked grave. His hand held something small and shiny.

“Maybe you should take a look at this.”

Decker walked over, his head awhirl with columns of highly statistically significant numbers and the horrible medical sequelae of host-graft rejection. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his bicep. He took Martinez’s offering.

Small and shiny and gold.

A chain with a cross.

Decker said, “Not Decameron’s type of jewelry.”

Martinez said, “You know, anyone could have been wearing this. A cross is pretty neutral.”

Decker studied the ornament, flipped it over from side to side, noticed some scratch marks only because he was wearing his reading glasses. As he brought it closer to his eyes, the etching took shape. “It’s engraved. I see a word. You tell me if I’m right.”

“Can I borrow your glasses?”

Decker gave Martinez his glasses and the cross. Bert studied the writing for a moment. “It says Sparks.”

“Yes, it does. See any first initial?”

“Nope.”

“Neither do I.” Decker chose his words carefully. “There are six Sparks children. But only one’s a priest.”

Webster walked into the room. He held up a lone key with an ID tag, both dangling from a ring. “I found this in Decameron’s pocket. Just an address, no name. I ran it through our backward directory. It matches an apartment rented out to Abram Sparks.”

And all Decker could think about was how this would affect Rina. He didn’t want her hurt, yet he knew it would be impossible to hide it from her.

It stank of a setup. But an investigation wasn’t run by its smell. He said, “Okay, we’ll do it this way. Tom, you stay here with the lab people and continue to direct the search. I’ll call up and get two warrants-one for the church, one for Bram’s apartment. I’ll do the apartment. Bert, you do St. Thomas’s. You being Catholic, it’ll play better if you search the church.”