Murder at the National Cathedral (9 page)

“Any speculation on motive?” April asked.

“No, but there soon will be. That will all be part of the criminal profile that develops once more information has been gathered by the authorities.” Smith knew that as scornful as Terry Finnerty (like most local law-enforcement officers) was of the FBI, he would need the help of the bureau’s Behavioral Science Unit—now part of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime (NCAVC)—in developing a description of the type of person who might have committed the murder, using both psychological and investigative input. He told them so.

“Maybe it was somebody who hates the church and clergy, somebody who flunked out of a seminary, or who was brought up in a repressive religious household,” Petrella
offered. Joe Petrella seemed to especially enjoy the drama of law.

“Maybe.”

“Was Father Singletary married?”

“No.”

“Was he … gay?”

“Why would you ask that?” Smith asked.

“Well, you know clergy, they have—”

“Paul Singletary was an Episcopal priest, not a Roman Catholic. Episcopal priests are free to marry and to have children. Why would the fact that he was a priest raise a question of his sexual orientation?”

“Homosexuals are free to be homosexual, or to be heterosexuals, or to be bi-, to marry, and to have children,” said April.

She was right, of course, and Smith ignored that line of conversation. He said, “The basic supposition at this moment is that Father Singletary was murdered by someone whom he confronted in the chapel, most likely an outsider. This unknown person would fall under the category of an unorganized murderer. All signs point to a lack of premeditation since no knife, gun, or other formal weapon was used. It is also safe to assume at this juncture that Father Singletary did not know his assailant, and was taken by surprise.”

“But if he was murdered elsewhere, as you suggested was a possibility, Professor Smith, and brought to the chapel, that would certainly indicate a more organized murderer,” Joyce Clemow said. “If that happened, the murderer didn’t just swing something at Father Singletary and run. He thought about it, and spent time with his victim.”

“You are correct,” said Smith. He looked at his watch. “Our fifteen minutes of diversion are up. I would now like you to turn to the cases assigned on writs of habeas corpus.”

Chief of Homicide Terrence Finnerty sat in his office with six other detectives assigned to a task force to investigate
Paul Singletary’s murder. Smith waited outside until the detectives left, and Finnerty invited him to come in.

“Sorry to screw up your day, Mac,” Finnerty said as he poured himself a cup of black coffee from a battered Thermos. “Want some?”

“No, thank you. The British knew what they were doing when they named cop coffee ‘tonsil varnish.’ ”

“Hey, this ain’t bad coffee, Mac. My wife makes it fresh every morning.”

“That’s different. Thank you anyway.”

Seemingly pleased that he’d set
that
record straight, Finnerty leaned back in his chair, put his scuffed black shoes on the edge of his desk, and squinted at some papers in a file folder.

“Any word yet on the autopsy?” Smith asked.

“No,” Finnerty answered without looking up. “I’ll get a prelim from the M.E. this afternoon. It’ll take a while for the blood and urine samples to be run. We’re busy in the chop shop.” He glanced up at Smith. “Any ideas?”

Smith laughed. “Is that why you had me brought down here, to ask if I have any ideas? Why would I have ideas? Once you and your people took over, I was out of the picture, still am.”

“Not in the papers.”

“I just know what I read in the newspapers.”

“Bull! After the funeral for Vickery you hung around the cathedral a long time, holed up with the bishop for at least a couple hours.”

“Who told you that?” Smith asked, knowing the answer. Obviously, Finnerty had had one of his people keep an eye on his movements.

“What did you talk to the bishop about?”

“About having lost a friend,” Smith replied.

“Two hours to talk about that? Must have been a hell of an interesting guy.”

“He was. You know his reputation. Paul Singletary was
probably the most involved and visible clergyman in Washington.”

“Yeah, I know, but that’s just the public side. Tell me about Singletary, his private side. You knew him pretty good, right?”

Smith thought of Annabel’s comments. “Probably not as well as you’re assuming. I wouldn’t call him a
close
friend.”

“You asked him to marry you.”

“No, I asked him to officiate at our wedding, which doesn’t necessarily indicate closeness. We wanted to be married in the cathedral. Bishop St. James was out of town. We knew Paul, and asked him to conduct the service.”

“How come you were the one the bishop called the minute the body was discovered?”

“I keep asking myself the same question. Annabel has been active in church affairs for a number of years, and I’ve been involved in a few aspects of the cathedral’s activities, been called upon to give some legal advice on occasion. I guess the combination of knowing the bishop fairly well and being an attorney was good enough for him to think of me first. I wish he hadn’t.”

“He like girls?”

“Father Singletary?”

“Yeah.”

“One of my students assumed Paul might have been gay because he was a single clergyman. Are you making the same assumption?”

“No, Mac, not at all, but I have a feeling we’re going to have to get to know the
real
Father Singletary if we’re going to have any chance of solving this case.”

Finnerty was right, of course, especially if Singletary’s killer turned out not to be a total stranger. In order for an effective profile to be drawn of the murderer, the police and the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit would need knowledge of how Singletary lived, his friends, his hobbies, his haunts,
everything about how he lived his intimate life on a daily basis.

“Paul was an attractive and engaging man,” Smith said. “He was dedicated to helping the disenfranchised of our society, and worked hard on their behalf, sometimes to the consternation of his peers and colleagues. I know he also found time for some semblance of a social life. Yes, he did like girls. I recall two occasions when he was accompanied at social gatherings by a woman.”

“Same woman?”

Smith shook his head. “No, two different women, both very attractive, I might add.”

“He was in London just before it happened, right?”

“So I understand.” Smith remembered George St. James’s mentioning that Singletary had returned from London a day earlier than scheduled. Why? That was one of the things he told the bishop he’d try to find out when he went to London on his honeymoon. Should he bring it up with Finnerty? He decided not to. Probably had no significance, but let Finnerty earn his money.

It dawned on Smith that he was rapidly shifting into the defense-attorney mode—maybe not officially, but certainly psychically. This both interested and dismayed him.

“We got a description from the bishop’s wife. Not a very good one, but it was the best she seemed to be able to do. Here.” Finnerty handed Smith a typed transcript of what Eileen St. James had given the interviewing officer.

Smith looked up from the page into the small black pupils of Finnerty’s eyes. “I think it’s surprisingly detailed, considering the circumstances. The bishop’s wife is observant,” he said.

“Or the cop asking questions was good.”

“Are you asking whether I know this woman?”

Finnerty shrugged. “She doesn’t sound like either of the women I saw Paul Singletary with on those social occasions, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Not his type, huh?”

“No, not his type.”

“You ever get involved with any of his knee-jerk work?”

Smith found the term offensive, but didn’t respond to that. He said, “Just once. Father Singletary was having a legal problem running a soup kitchen. Some of the neighbors hired an attorney and brought suit to have the place closed down. Singletary didn’t ask me to help. He brought it up at one of those social occasions I mentioned earlier, and I went to bat for him, talked to the neighborhood attorney and got him to understand that he didn’t have any legal basis upon which to demand the closing of the kitchen. I don’t think I’ve been involved in any other aspect of Paul’s … ‘knee-jerk’ … projects.”

Finnerty grinned, obviously pleased that he had annoyed Smith, which only annoyed Smith more. “Any truth that you’re going to defend whoever murdered Singletary if it turns out he’s from the cathedral?”

“No truth whatsoever,” Smith said. “Is that it, Terry? If it is, I really would like to get back home. I still have a busy day ahead of me.”

“Including spending a little time at the cathedral again?”

“Maybe.”

“Careful, Mac, don’t get too religious.”

“No need to worry about that, Terry. Call me any time. I’m as anxious as everyone else to see you resolve this. Good luck.”

“It’s sickening what’s happened to this city,” the woman standing outside the Georgetown townhouse said to the uniformed policeman guarding the front door. “Animals, nothing but animals,” she said. “He was such a good man, and they killed him. They should rot in hell, whoever killed Father Singletary.” The officer responded with a series of “Uh-huh”s.

Inside, two of the six detectives assigned to the Singletary case took photographs of the apartment and made notes. Its furnishings and decoration were eclectic, unconcerned Early Bachelor. The sofa and chairs were threadbare. The walls needed painting, and two cheap area rugs were stained and curled at the corners where double-faced tape had dried out and let loose.

“Nice VCR,” Joe Johnson, a black detective, said. It was a new model with many advanced features, and was hooked up to a large NEC video monitor. A wall of videotapes framed the equipment.

“No books,” Vinnie Basilio said.

“These Bibles,” his partner said.

“Whattaya expect a priest to have, porn?”

Johnson laughed. “Could be.” He started to tell of a case he’d worked on just after he’d been promoted to detective, a story his partner had heard too many times. He cut him off. “What I don’t figure is the security system.”

“Say what?”

“The security system on this place.
Everything
is wired, and this kind of system costs big bucks. What the hell would a priest have that’s so important he’d put in such a system?”

Johnson laughed again, a pleasant rumble from deep inside. “A good VCR and TV.”

The Italian American shook his head and grimaced. “Nah, this security system had to cost ten times what he was protecting. I don’t figure it, a priest doing this.”

“Hey, man, he was no ordinary priest, right? I mean, this guy was in the papers every other day, walking the mean streets with the crackheads, feeding bums, stealing teeny-bopper hookers from their pimps. Maybe
that’s
why he’s got this system in here, to protect his neck.”

“A lot of good it did him.”

Detective Johnson responded to a knock. Finnerty stepped into the living room and closed the door behind him. “Anything?” he asked.

They recounted what they’d been discussing. Finnerty did not seem as impressed with the security system as Basilio had been. “Files, letters, anything like that?”

“We didn’t look yet,” replied Johnson.

“Well, get to it quick,” Finnerty said. “We’re about to lose the place.”

The two detectives looked at him.

“The feds are coming in,” Finnerty said, his disgust obvious.

“How come?” Basilio asked.

“Beats me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s strictly a D.C. murder, but I got the word that when the feds get here, they run the ball club, so you remember that, too.”

“Sure. No skin off my nose. They’ll just screw it up like they usually do,” Basilio said.

Johnson laughed.

Finnerty and the two detectives quickly started going through a small desk in the bedroom. There was very little in it—a drawer for paid bills, a drawer for unpaid bills, some
blank stationery and envelopes, pens and pencils, no personal address or phone book, no photographs except a few of Singletary with dignitaries that hung above the bed.

“You wouldn’t figure he’d live here in Georgetown,” said Detective Basilio.

“Why?” Finnerty asked.

“Because he’s big in the ghetto. How come he doesn’t live in the ghetto? What was he, one of those liberals who beats it back at night to where the decent folk live?”

Neither Finnerty nor Johnson had a chance to comment because there was another knock at the door. Finnerty opened it to two young men with short, neat haircuts who wore inexpensive but nicely fitted and neatly pressed suits. One of them, who had a round face with red cheeks, said to Finnerty, “Can I talk to you?”

They went out into the hallway, where the agent showed Finnerty his identification. “We’re going to be spending time in the apartment, and we need to be left alone. I’d like you to move your uniformed man up to this floor and have him take a position outside the door. We’d appreciate somebody on that duty twenty-four hours a day.”

Finnerty was tempted to tell them to provide their own personnel now that they were coming into it, but he didn’t. He’d learned long ago that shooting off his mouth in these situations accomplished nothing. Worse, it often got him in trouble, the kind of trouble he didn’t need with two years to the pension. Instead, he returned to the apartment and told his detectives it was time to leave.