Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

Oliver sat in Decker’s desk chair, exhausted after four hours of extensive questioning. The minutiae of Berger’s activities the night of Sparks’s murder. Berger had taken them through his activities in the lab step by step, giving them a plausible time frame. In the end, they had no choice but to release him. Not enough evidence to hold him for murder.

“A doctor needs a hobby.” Oliver shook his head. “And here I thought vampires were all made up.”

“Sparks was collecting hearts, not eating them,” Marge said.

“Out of my chair, Scott.” Decker checked the clock. It was almost one A.M. Today was Friday and the evening would bring in the Sabbath, his family’s day of prayer, meditation, and rest. As far as Decker was concerned, time couldn’t pass quickly enough.

Oliver got up and parked himself in a folding chair. “When we arrested Berger, he’d blurted out the same thing to Dr. Fulton. That Sparks was obssessed with getting hearts, used to try to pick them out of dead accident victims.”

Decker remembered New Chris’s intensive-care nurse talking about Sparks and his police band radio. How the doctor had raced to accidents, ostensibly to help out the victims. Had he only been interested in seizing body parts?

“I don’t know if it’s illegal,” Decker said, “but preying on victims like that is major league creepy.” He sat down. “So now we can explain why Sparks became a weekend warrior. The main question is…is Myron Berger telling the truth?”

No one spoke.

Decker said, “Maybe after the Curedon meeting, after Decameron and Sparks parted ways in the doctors’ parking lot, Berger came up to Sparks and invited him to Tracadero’s. Then Berger jumped him in the back alley.”

“I don’t see Berger taking out Sparks by himself,” Marge said. “Too much damage, too much blood.”

Decker said, “He’s a surgeon. He’s used to slicing and dicing.”

“Maybe Berger was the lure,” Oliver said. “Once Sparks reached Tracadero’s, Shockley pulled the plug on him…on all of them. Either Shockley or his boss, this Grammer guy.”

“But if the killings have to do with Fisher/Tyne and Curedon,” Marge asked, “what were Bram’s porno magazines doing at Decameron’s murder scene?”

Oliver said, “Maybe Decameron and Bram were lovers. Shockley found them, then left them around to put the blame on Bram.”

“Then why didn’t Bram defend himself when I arrested him?” Decker said. “Why was he willing to take a murder rap?”

Oliver blurted out, “Maybe they were Luke’s, Deck. Ever think that maybe Luke was having an affair with Decameron? He showed up at Decameron’s house for a little morning nookie. He walked in, found Reggie and Leonard dead.”

“Then what?” Marge asked.

Oliver scrunched his brow. “From that point on, everything happened like Luke said. He panicked, called his brother Bram. The priest, being a good guy, covered for Luke’s homosexuality and took Luke’s magazines. Then, in a double fake-out, Luke came back the next day and covered for Bram. Because, hell, let’s face it. It’s easier in life to be a gay priest than a gay married guy with two kids.”

“You’re using pretzel logic, Scott,” Decker said. “He covered for him, who covered for him-”

“Isn’t that what identical twins do?” Oliver retorted. “They play mind games with people. Take tests for each other, go out with each other’s dates. Decker, look at Luke marrying Bram’s girlfriend. Bram’s protecting his twin brother, keeping him in the closet for convention’s sake.”

“Protecting your married twin’s proclivities is one thing,” Decker said. “But taking a murder rap for him is quite another.”

No one spoke.

Decker said, “Luke told us that Reggie called him early in the morning. Decameron sounded serious, all business. Luke felt that Decameron might have been interested in blackmail.”

Oliver shook his head. “By everyone’s account, Decameron was a straight shooter.” He laughed. “Decameron was a straight gay shooter. Why would Decameron, a brilliant doctor and a man who got his kicks out of flaunting his unconventionality, suddenly turn to a sneaky profession like blackmail? Luke, on the other hand, is lying scum-”

“He passed a polygraph-”

“’Cause he’s lying scum. Lying scum can beat polygraphs.”

Decker said, “Maybe you’re right. But let’s go back to basics…the MO of all three murders.”

“Shooting and stabbing,” Marge said.

“Yes, shooting and stabbing,” Decker said. “More than one person. Sounds like a bunch of bikers. Ideas?”

Marge said, “The bikers were resentful because they found out that Sparks only wanted them for their hearts.” She made a face. “My, that sounds awful!”

“A revenge motive,” Decker said. “That’s biker mentality for sure. These guys have been known to kill over bar stools. Imagine how they’d feel if they knew Sparks was interested in cutting out their internal organs.”

He rubbed his neck.

“That’s one theory. Now, let’s talk about something else. If Sparks wasn’t really interested in his biker buddies except for their hearts, what was William Waterson doing with Emmanuel ‘Grease Pit’ Sanchez up in Canyon Country?”

“Giving money to the bikers to repeal the helmet law,” Marge said.

“While Sparks was alive, I could see him giving money to the cause. But do you think he would have left money for that in his will?”

“Why not?” Marge said. “For the benefit of future heart surgery.”

“You’re both missing the point,” Oliver said. “What do bikers have to do with Leonard and Decameron? And Myron’s whereabouts are now unverifiable. He’s a noted liar-”

“He passed the test twice-”

“Those tests are useless-”

“They’re hard to beat-”

“I think we’re all too tired to think straight,” Decker interrupted. “Maybe something’ll come in our sleep. We all got paperwork to finish up.” He stood and opened the door. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow.”

“Are we being dismissed?” Marge asked.

“Yes, you’re being dismissed. I’d like to make it home before daybreak.”

Marge said, “You’re acting very brass, Pete.”

Decker grinned. “It’s lonely at the top.”

Squinting from the hot glare of morning sunlight, precariously gripping five grocery bags, Rina managed to make it from her car to the front door. She felt the weight of the merchandise in her back and shoulders, her arms aching as she rooted in her purse for her keys. Finally, she gave up, lowered the bags onto the porch, and rummaged around her handbag. She had a crashing headache, the scarf around her head choking her scalp like a vise.

What a morning! Peter and the boys had overslept, so breakfast had been fast and furious. Then Hannah suddenly decided she didn’t want to go to nursery school. Her watch said half-past ten. It felt like midnight.

She unlocked the front door and picked up two grocery bags. As soon as she walked over the threshold, she threw off her head covering, shook out her hair, and headed for the kitchen.

Why did Hannah have to have a temper tantrum this morning? Friday morning. The busiest day of her week with the house to clean and the Shabbos cooking to do.

She laid the bags on the kitchen counter, turned around, and jumped back.

Bram laid the other three bags on the kitchen table. “Hi.”

“You scared me!”

“Sorry.”

She took a deep breath and let it out. Turned her back to him, began unpacking groceries. “You shouldn’t be here. I can’t be alone with you, you know that.”

“But it’s okay to be alone with me in a car?”

“I can’t believe you’re actually equating then to now! Also, a car’s a public place. My house isn’t. Besides, one aveyrah doesn’t make another one permissible.”