Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

Decker pressed on, looking for weapons. No guns or knives. But tucked into the back, previously hidden by the clothes, was a pile of magazines. About a dozen periodicals. He pulled them out, thumbed through the first one.

A case of “seen one, seen ’ em all.” Still, there was something particularly disturbing about the pornography. Not because it was gay, but because it looked like it hurt. The bondage seemed benign enough. It was the body-piercing that caused Decker’s stomach to churn. Needles, pins, and hypodermics cutting through flesh-through noses, through lips, through eyelids and tongues, and through nipples, penises, and scrotums. Decker tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard to remain indifferent.

He got up, a magazine in hand, and walked over to Bram. He opened it to a pinup-a blond proudly displaying a variety of needles and restraints around his torso, neck, and groin. He showed the picture to the priest. Bram averted his eyes.

Decker said, “I can see why you kept your own apartment.”

Bram was silent.

Decker sat down. “I’m really not interested in your proclivities except if they’re germane to my homicide cases. The bloody clothes and shoes in your safe are a different matter altogether. I’m going to have to arrest you.”

Bram nodded, eyes still on the crucifix.

“The clothes and shoes are going to be gathered as evidence.” Again, Decker held out the magazine. “These are going to be taken up as well.”

Gently, Bram pushed the magazine out of his line of vision. “Do as you will.”

Decker Mirandized the priest, reading him his legal rights. Then he asked Bram all the necessary questions, including if the priest wanted to waive his rights to an attorney.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Decker paused. “At this point, I’m supposed to ask you to sign my card.”

“Where?”

“Here.” Decker gave him a pen. “You sign here to indicate that you understand your rights as I read them to you.”

Bram signed the card, gave it and the pen back to Decker.

“This line here says that you waive your rights to an attorney.”

“Fine-”

“Which means that anything you say after you sign that line can be used against you in a court of law.”

“I understand. Give me the pen.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? You lose protection, Father.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t have anything to say with or without an attorney.”

“Eventually, you’re going to have to talk to someone.”

“I talk to God.”

“I meant someone who can physically help you.”

Bram looked at him. “If God won’t help me, then so be it. If you want me to sign the card, I’ll sign it.”

Decker said, “Can I use your phone?”

“It’s on the kitchen counter. Help yourself.”

Slowly, Decker got up, eyes on the priest, and called in for a transport vehicle. After he hung up, he asked, “Anyone you want me to call for you?”

“No one.”

“No one in your family?”

“Least of all, anyone in my family.”

“I’m having a car take you to the station house where you’ll be fingerprinted and booked. I’ll instruct the cruiser to take you around the back. But there may be some newspeople hanging around.”

“I understand.” Bram looked at Decker. “You’re being kind to me. I know it’s for Rina’s sake, but thank you anyway.”

“You should get yourself a lawyer.”

“If I had something to say, I would.”

“Talk to me, Father. Because right now, your silence is more damning than words.”

Bram didn’t respond.

Decker said, “I’m taking myself off this case. Because of your prior involvement with my wife. You’ll be questioned of course, but by someone other than I. If you want to talk to a detective, there are five people assigned to this case.”

Bram nodded, walked over to the kitchen, looked out the small window.

Decker tried again. “Jail’s no place for you, Padre.”

“I’m used to cells.”

“Who are you protecting?”

Bram continued to stare out the window. Decker gave up. The priest said, “Car’s here. Are you going to handcuff me?”

“Yes.”

Bram put his hands behind his back.

Decker said, “I’ll cuff you in front.”

“It doesn’t matter to me.”

“Nothing matters to you, does it?”

Bram spoke to the wall. “Not true. There are a few people in this world who significantly matter to me.”

Starting with my wife, Decker thought. Again, the priest put his arms around his back. This time, Decker cuffed him that way.

Along with the other Dees, Oliver made himself comfortable in Decker’s small office. Really comfortable. He put his feet on the desk and said, “Just when I had Shockley nailed, you arrest the priest…which screams setup.”

Decker pushed Oliver’s feet off, sat back in his chair, paged through his notes. “So give me another scenario.”

Martinez loosened his tie. “We just ignore forensic evidence-”

“I’m not ignoring anything,” Oliver said. “I’m just saying that Shockley was involved-”

“Is that clock right?” Gaynor asked out loud.

Decker looked at his wall clock, then his watch. Ten minutes to seven. Another late night. “Yeah, it’s right.”

Gaynor shook his wrist, then laid his arms across his stretched stomach. “My watch must have stopped. I’ve got five-thirty.”

Oliver said, “Anyone want to hear my take?”

“Shoot,” Decker said.

Oliver ran his hand through limp black hair. “First off, the clothes weren’t drenched with enough blood to account for the priest doing the popping. You shoot and stab two victims like that, you’re gonna hit an artery. You hit an artery, you’re gonna get a bath.”

Webster scratched his head, the ubiquitous headphones dangling around the nape of his neck. “So Bram wasn’t the hit man. But he was there.”

Oliver said, “For all we know, he could have come to the scene afterward-”

Webster asked, “Then why would he keep silent if he didn’t do anything?”

Marge took off her gray suit jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. “He’s protecting someone.”

Decker said, “Who?”

“One of his family members, most likely.”

“No, no, no!” Oliver protested. “You’re moving away from Shockley!”

“Maybe the putz didn’t do it,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “Can I play this out for you?”

“Go,” Decker said.

“Okay. Somebody’s been fudging the Curedon data, right?”

Webster said, “Computer boys really have a clever way of phrasing things, calling the break-in a cuckoo’s egg. I’d just say someone was messing with my shit.”

Marge smiled. “Scott, all our information is based on Leonard’s ex-mistress. Hardly an objective source.”

“Not true,” Oliver said. “Decameron knew something was going on with the data. Because all of a sudden Curedon’s success rate dropped and the death rate rose. Only now we know why. Shockley was fudging the numbers-”

“Why would he do that?” Webster asked.

“To make the data look better or worse or something. Because he’s doing hanky-panky with Berger. The cuckoo’s egg had been traced to somebody at New Chris. It ain’t Decameron or Sparks. Who else is there?”

“How about Elizabeth Fulton?” Martinez said.

“But she wasn’t seen hanging around Fisher/Tyne, talking to Shockley.” Oliver clenched his fists. “Look, we know Berger was once a cheat. Say Shockley and Berger are doing some kind of research fraud. Azor Sparks found out. Shockley had him popped. Then Decameron and Leonard found out. Now they’re gone. See a trend here, folks?”