Murder at the National Cathedral (26 page)

“It must. Did he give any reason for such a hasty departure?”

“Something to do with a sick family member in San Francisco. But that’s not the reason. He’s taken a job out there as musical director for St. Paul’s.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Aside from the situation with Paul, how did Nickelson get along with others here at the cathedral?”

St. James sighed. “He wasn’t particularly liked. Strange when you think about it. Here’s a man who is able to draw the finest musical performances from everyone, yet is unable to draw friendship or affection from those same people. No,
he did not make many friends while here.” He laughed. “Our students refer to him as Willy Nickel. They occasionally complain to me about him, but children often do that when having to deal with someone like Nickelson who demands the best of them.”

Smith stood and stretched. “Give me a bit more of your evaluation of Jonathon Merle. I know you don’t particularly like him, but is he what you would term a balanced, rational person?”

St. James’s face clearly said he wished that question had not been asked. He answered it this way: “We all enter into this calling, this vocation, because we have been touched by something that cannot be explained by scientific methodology. We become priests and nuns because we believe deeply in something that no one can prove even exists. There is, of course, the Ayn Rand theory of self, which says that a nun becomes a nun because she is uncomfortable with the secular life, and satisfies her selfish needs while, at the same time, doing good. She’s happier, and the lepers are treated. It’s a nice theory, but with all due respect, Ms. Rand’s view does not satisfy me. Maybe it holds water in some cases, but not all.

“The problem is that because this work, this calling, draws people who are bound up in some degree of mysticism, it often appeals to certain individuals who are not especially rational or grounded in a sense of reality.” He raised his eyes and shook his head. “I wish I weren’t saying this, because it is blatantly unfair to Jonathon. He’s a good man and a fine priest. He believes fervently in his calling and his faith … but perhaps, on occasion, he believes a little too strongly and is intolerant of any deviation from it. He can be zealous about that to the same extent that Paul was about his work with social programs. And he has his own problems, which keep him from the perfection he seeks in himself. And others.”

“Yes, I understand,” Smith said. “I have to go. Thanks for your time, George. I’ll be in touch.”

After Smith left his meeting with the bishop and Merle, he went home to wait for Tony Buffolino to arrive. Buffolino had called the night before, saying he had some interesting information. He arrived, showing signs of his old excitement.

“First of all, Mac, you told me to check into the backgrounds of the two reverends Merle and Armstrong. What I came up with ain’t exactly a moon landing, but I think it’s worth passing on.”

“I’m all ears,” Smith said.

They sat at Smith’s kitchen table. Smith had made coffee and placed a plate of jelly doughnuts between them. In a moment or so, Buffolino was on his second. “First of all, this Merle is a pretty dull character.”

Smith laughed. “I suppose you could call him that. Uptight, upright, but not a barrel of laughs. Is that all you’ve found out about him?”

“Yeah, except for one interesting period in his life that wasn’t so dull.”

“What period was that?”

“The two years he spent in a loony bin.”

Tony’s tendency to use the cruel vernacular often riled Smith, but he knew that if he raised an objection he would only prompt a debate over calling a spade a spade, as Buffolino called it, or telling it like it is.

“Go on,” Smith said.

Now Buffolino referred to notes, and gave Smith the dates of Merle’s confinement to a mental institution in Ohio. It had taken place fourteen years ago, and the official reason for his confinement was “schizothymic personality.” He fumbled the first word.

“Technical term for schizoid,” Smith said. “Any information on how his treatment went, and the prognosis?”

Buffolino shook his head and helped himself to another doughnut. “These are pretty good, but I’m not too hungry. No prognosis, but he put in a good two years, that’s for sure.”

“Okay, Tony, next.”

“Next, this beautiful Reverend Carolyn Armstrong. A nice lady, it seems to me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, she came out of a tough life. She looks like class, but she’s been over some bumps. I mean, she was born illegitimate and dumped by her mother. Grew up in a series of foster homes down in Newport News, and even spent time in orphanages. I didn’t think they had them anymore.”

“I suppose they do. Hmmm. Not an easy beginning for a young woman. But she certainly seems to have pulled her life together.”

“Yeah, she sure has. She started pretty young trying to get it together.”

“What do you mean?”

“She was in a beauty contest when she was sixteen.”

“Beauty contest? Did she win?”

“Sure did, Miss Newport News.”

“Did she go on in the beauty-contest business? Did she win other titles? Was she Miss America?”

Buffolino shook his head. “Nah. She’s good-lookin’, but no Elizabeth Taylor.”

“Anything else about her?”

“A lot of boilerplate, nothing that matters where this case is concerned. I do have one thing on another front, though.”

“Please.”

“The police have what they consider a pretty good suspect.”

Smith’s eyes widened.

“You know that woman who found the body, that Mrs. Waters?”

“Sure.”

“Well, she’s got a son named Brian.”

“So I gather.”

“It seems this Brian Waters used to live in Newport News, too.”

“Which means what?”

“Which means I have no idea whether he ever knew Reverend Armstrong, but I do know he was arrested twice for assault. No convictions.”

“MPD likes him as a suspect?”

“Yep.”

“Then why would he have come in with his mother—walked right into the police’s hands?”

“Because,” Tony said, “—maybe I’ll just finish this last one—he knew they’d find his mother somehow. She was hysterical and would have eventually turned herself in or gone back to Mrs. Bishop, and the guy figured better the heat should be on his mother, with him the good guy, than on him. Besides, one of those assault charges in Newport News had to do with him knocking around a priest down there.”

Smith poured himself more coffee and drew a deep breath. “How hard are they working him, Tony?”

“Hard enough to have brought him in twice for questioning. My friend told me they consider this guy a head case. But he comes off like a very nice and normal human being.”

“So why did they turn to him? Oh, I guess I know.”

“Why?” Tony said, surprised.

“Because he’s a car salesman. They check on anybody in certain occupations.”

“Just like on Italians or guys with beards. Car salesman—so he knows how to make nice to people. But my friend tells me that the elevator doesn’t always reach the top floor with Brian Waters. Want to know something else about him?”

“I want to know anything you know.”

“This guy is right of John Birch. He belonged to one of
those neo-Nazi groups in Newport News, one of those hate organizations.”

“Does he have any affiliation like that here in Washington?”

Buffolino shrugged. “Beats me. Haven’t finished checking yet. But this is a guy who ain’t destined to love a guy like Singletary who’s talkin’ all the time about the rights of the blacks and Hispanics and the poor, not a character who has already punched out one priest. You get my drift?”

“Yes. What’s your friend’s line on Brian Waters? Do they think they have enough to arrest him?”

“Not yet, but they’re digging. I mean, the guy lives with his mother a couple of blocks from the cathedral. She’s a religious fanatic, he’s a fanatic in another way. Hey, I could come up with worse scenarios.”

“Yes, Tony,” Smith said, “you could.”

Later that afternoon, he attended a faculty meeting at the university. Smith considered such meetings to be necessary evils or, at best, ritualistic necessities that had to be indulged. Everyone, sociologists said, needed a hangout at which to spend time in friendly surroundings and with people who shared a common purpose and background. Meetings were like that, Smith had decided years ago: they represented a need to gather together and affirm that everyone was involved in the same pursuit, more or less, and actually could get along, at least within the conference room.

The meeting lasted a lot longer than he’d anticipated or needed; this nothing new, it never seemed to fail. He left just in time to make a date he’d arranged earlier in the day with an old friend, Cameron Bowes, who’d been Voice of America’s CIA liaison for the past ten years, and with whom Smith kept in touch. Smith had few close friends in government agencies, but Bowes certainly headed the short list.

They met in the lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where a pianist in a tuxedo played show tunes
as background for Washington’s movers and shakers in their comfortable little corners, large ferns providing “cover” as they talked about big things. Cameron Bowes was a slender, almost diminutive man, with silver hair, a face filled with lines, and interesting angles, and who wore expensive clothing like a model. He was also an unfailingly interesting companion over a drink, erudite and well-read, a man whose interests transcended the day-to-day demands of his VOA position.

After they’d been served drinks by a young woman in a floor-length green-and-yellow jungle-pattern gown, Bowes said, “A toast to the end of summer in Washington and to the Redskins. Your evaluation, Mr. Smith, of our favorite team.”

“I haven’t given much thought to it, Cam. I suppose I’ll get into the season when it’s almost over, provided they make the play-offs.”

“Spoken like a true sports fan, although I think you’re going to be very disappointed if you’re waiting for that. Tell me, Mackensie, what’s new on your plate aside from having committed your considerable legal talents to an entire institution of higher religion?”

Smith laughed and sipped his bourbon. “What do
you
hear about murder most foul in the National Cathedral?”

“Spooky places, cathedrals. I’ve toured all the biggies around the world. Not that I consider myself an aficionado of temples of worship, but my wife seems to think that a trip
anywhere
is wasted without spending at least some time in them. This Singletary was a controversial guy.”

“Yes, he was, although a lot of the controversy may have been unjustified. Hell, wanting to improve the lot of his fellow man and wanting world peace shouldn’t spur controversy. Agree?”

“Sure, but there are lots of people who don’t. They prefer to see the situation remain exactly as it is, a growing number of rich people worrying about their capital gains, and a
growing number of poor people trying to find money to feed their kids breakfast before they go to school so that they can learn what a capital gain is. Or capital. Anything new in the investigation?”

Smith shook his head and looked around the room. There were a number of familiar faces, faces that ended up in the newspaper now and then. He suffered one of those assaults of ambivalent feelings that sitting in such a place sometimes triggered. On the one hand, he liked being there, was at home in places of power. On the other hand, he knew so much of it was a sham, more a play than a reflection of real life. We’re all players, the bard had said. Sometimes Smith enjoyed his role of the moment; it was after he’d got offstage and was home with time to reflect that he knew he really didn’t like playacting very much. Not for himself.

Bowes seemed to have drifted into his own private thoughts, too. He said absently, “How deeply involved have you gotten in Word of Peace?”

Smith heard him but didn’t react immediately. He was still analyzing his feelings about being there. He turned and raised his eyebrows, shrugged. “Not involved at all, although it keeps looming as a consideration where Singletary’s murder is concerned. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Mac, Word of Peace has not gone without the Company’s attention. Interesting assembly of characters in Word of Peace, lots of fine people with unassailable motives, a few others whose motives don’t stand up to scrutiny.”

“Is that so?” Smith said.

“How close are you to the bishop, Mac?”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.”

“Then you have his ear.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Why don’t you give your friend the bishop some good advice. Why don’t you tell your friend that he should disassociate himself as quickly as possible from anything having to do with Word of Peace.”

Smith smiled. Among many things he liked about Cameron Bowes was that after an opening of amiable indirection, directness became part of the package. “Tell me more, Cameron. Tell me why I should advise him to do that.”

“To avoid scandal, to avoid more controversy, to avoid further involvement in a mixed bag of good news–bad news people.” Bowes looked around the large, lavishly furnished lobby before leaning close to Smith and murmuring, “Word of Peace has been infiltrated by damn near every intelligence organization in the world. When the movement started, it was pure, if you can call any movement pure. But it immediately attracted all sorts of global hustlers who use movements like this the way Wall Street rainmakers smell a takeover and jump in with junk bonds, et cetera. It’s a classic case of cause and effect—or, start a cause and get several effects. The good guys come first, then the bad guys, then the good guys working undercover.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from you.”

“What’s so difficult to believe?”

“That you would assign black hats and white hats so easily. Intelligence organizations aren’t always, to use your simple phraseology, ‘good guys.’ Anyhow, who are our major players?”

“The CIA, among others. The navy’s in. The British have an even greater presence.”

“Any special reason?”

“The Church of England.” Bowes finished his drink. “They got suckered in like the National Cathedral did because of the passion and commitment of people like Paul Singletary.”