Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

Andrus’s pale face took on an angry blush. “I- There’s really no sense getting into… extraneous things, Mr. Sturgis. The main thing is there’s nothing I can do for you. Joel’s dead.”

“I know that, Father.”

“Along with any interest you might therefore have in the mission.”

“Any idea who’s responsible for his death?”

“Do you care, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Not one bit. But if it helps me understand why Mrs. Ramp died-”

“Why she- Oh…” Andrus shut his eyes and opened them rapidly. “Oh, my.” Sighing and putting a hand to his forehead. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Milo told him about Morris Dam. A longer but softer version than the one he’d given Lewis.

Andrus shook his head and crossed himself.

“Father,” said Milo, “when Joel was alive did he say anything to you that would indicate he’d resumed contact with Mrs. Ramp or any member of her family?”

“No, not at all. I’m sorry, I can’t take this any further, Mr. Sturgis.” The priest looked over at the coffee line. “Anything Joel may have told me was in confidentiality. It’s a theological issue- the fact that he’s dead doesn’t change that.”

“Of course not, Father. The only reason I came down here to talk to him again is that Mrs. Ramp’s daughter is really struggling to deal with her loss. She’s only a kid, Father. A total orphan now. And she’s coming to grips with being all alone. Nothing you can say or do will change that, I realize, but any light you might be able to shed on what happened to her mom could be helpful to her in terms of getting her life back together. At least that’s what I’ve been told by her therapist.”

“Yes,” said Andrus. “That makes sense… Poor child.” He thought for a moment. “But no, it can’t help her.”

“What can’t, Father?”

“Anything- nothing I know, Mr. Sturgis. What I mean is that I know nothing - Joel never told me anything that would ease the poor girl’s pain. Though even if he had, I couldn’t tell you, so perhaps it’s best that he didn’t. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“Uh-huh,” said Milo.

Andrus shook his head and put the knuckles of a fist against his brow. “That wasn’t very clear, was it? It’s been a long day and I lose coherence after long days.” Another glance at the urn. “I could use some of that poison over there- plenty of chicory in it but we haven’t skimped on the caffeine. It helps the men deal with detox. You’re welcome to some, too.”

“No, thanks, Father. Just one more second of your time. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

“The police seem to think it was just one of those things that happens down on Skid Row.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“There’s no reason not to, I guess. I’ve seen so many things that don’t make sense…”

“Is there something about McCloskey’s death that doesn’t make sense?”

“No, not really.” Another look at the urn.

“Was there any reason for McCloskey to be in the area where he was run down, Father?”

Andrus shook his head. “None that I know of. He wasn’t on an errand for the mission- I told the police that. The men do take walks- surprisingly long distances for their physical condition. It’s as if staying in motion reminds them they’re still alive. The illusion of purpose, even though they have nowhere to go.”

“The first time we were here, I got the impression that Joel rarely left the mission.”

“That’s true.”

“So he wasn’t one of your big walkers.”

“No, not really.”

“Did he take any other walks you’re aware of?”

“No, not really…” Andrus paused; his ears were flaming.

“What is it, Father?”

“This will sound very ugly, very judgmental, but my first impression upon hearing what had happened was that someone in the family- Mrs. Ramp’s family- decided finally to exact revenge. Lured him away somehow, then ambushed him.”

“Why’s that, Father?”

“They’d certainly have a reason. And using a car impressed me as a… nice middle-class way of doing it. No need to get close. To smell him or touch him.”

The priest stared away again. Upward. Toward the crucifix.

“Ugly thoughts, Mr. Sturgis. I’m not proud of them. I was angry- everything I’d put into him and now… Then I realized I was being thoughtless and cruel and thinking of myself. Suspecting innocent people who’d had their own share of suffering. I had no right to do that. Now that you tell me about Mrs. Ramp, I feel even more…”

Shaking his head.

Milo said, “Did you mention your suspicion to the detectives?”

“It wasn’t suspicion, just a momentary… thought. An uncharitable thought in the heat of… the shock of hearing about it. And no, I didn’t. But they brought it up- asked me if any member of Mrs. Ramp’s family had been by. I said only you had.”

“How’d they react when you told them I’d been here?”

“I didn’t get the impression they took it seriously- took any of it seriously. They just seemed to be throwing things out- scattershot. My impression was that they’re not going to spend a lot of time on this particular case.”

“Why’s that?”

“Their attitude. I’m used to it. Death is a frequent visitor around here but he doesn’t give too many interviews on the six o’clock news.” The priest’s face fell. “Here I go again, judging. And there’s so much work to be done. You must excuse me, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Sure, Father. Thanks for your time. But if you do think of something, anything that would help that little girl, please let me know.”

Somehow a business card had made it into Milo’s palm. He handed it to the priest. Before Andrus slipped it into a pocket of his jeans, I got a look at it. White vellum. Milo’s name, in strong black letters, over the word INVESTIGATIONS. Home number and beeper code in the lower right-hand corner.

Milo thanked Andrus again. Andrus looked pained.

“Please don’t count on me, Mr. Sturgis. I’ve told you all I can.”

Walking back to the car, I said, “ “I’ve told you all I can, ’ not “all I know. ’ My bet is that McCloskey bared his soul to him- formal confession or some sort of counseling. Either way, you’ll never get it out of him.”

“Yup,” he said. “I used to talk to my priest, too.”

We walked to the car in silence.

Driving back to San Labrador, I said, “Who’s Gonzales?”

“Huh?”

“What you told Lewis? It seemed to make an impression on him.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “Ancient history. Gonsal ves. Lewis used to work at West L.A. when he was still in uniform. College boy, tendency to think he was smarter than the others. Gonsalves is a case he fucked up. Domestic violence that he didn’t take seriously enough. Wife wanted the husband locked up, but Lewis thought he could handle it with his B.A.- psych B.A., matter of fact. Did some counseling and left feeling good. Hour later, the husband cut up the wife with a straight razor. Lewis was a lot softer then- no attitude. I could have ruined him, chose to go easy on the paperwork, talk him through it. After that he got harder, got more careful, didn’t fuck up again, notably. Made detective a few years later and transferred to Central.”

“Doesn’t seem too grateful.”

“Yeah.” He gripped the wheel. “Well, that’s the way the Oreo deteriorates.”

A mile later: “When I first called him- to scope out McCloskey and the mission- he was frosty but civil. Given the Frisk thing, that’s the best I can hope for. Tonight was amateur theater- putting on an act for that little macho asshole he’s partnered with.”