The 24th Letter ((Mystery/Thriller)) (7 page)

O’Brien ran to Father Callahan.  He could see the wallet tossed on the floor.  A bowl of holy water and a half dozen other bowls on a communion table scattered across the marble.  He remembered a gold cross that adorned the altar.  It was gone.  O’Brien

wanted to scream.  His head pounded.  He felt a wave of nausea travel from his stomach to his throat.  His friend was slaughtered in a church.  

O’Brien knew it wasn’t a robbery.  He knew it because the same man who killed Alexandria Cole eleven years ago had left a deliberate trail to an innocent man.  And now he killed one of the most compassionate men O’Brien had ever known.

As he came to within a few feet of the body, he stopped and placed a finger on Father Callahan’s neck.  Two bullet wounds to the back.  No pulse.  O’Brien fought the urge to scream, to curse.  How could this happen to
this
man?   A man of God?  O’Brien spotted something scrawled near the left hand.  Father Callahan’s thumb and small finger were bent under his hand.  Only his other three fingers were extended.  And next to that was a message Father Callahan had managed to smear in his own blood.  O’Brien felt the message was left for him—a clue and warning.  The image resembled the outline of a faceless woman wearing a shawl, the number 666, the Omega symbol, and the smeared letters  P A T.

O’Brien slowly stood.  A milky shaft of diffused light seemed to float through the skylight in the high ceiling.  The rain stopped and the dark clouds dissolved in front of the moon.  A soft beam fell across a statute of the Virgin Mary near the altar, illuminating the face.  O’Brien looked into the unblinking eyes of Jesus’ mother.  Then he looked down at the body of Father John Callahan.  O’Brien wanted to pray, and he wanted to scream.  But he could do neither.   He felt empty.  Very alone.

His hand shook, eyes now welling with tears, as he slowly reached out to touch the priest’s shoulder.  “I am so sorry, Father…sorry this happened to you…it is unforgivable…and I’m to blame.”  He stood, holding his clinched fists by his side.  His

eyes closed tight, trying to shut out the aberrant, the absolute isolation he felt as the horror of Father Callahan’s murder fell around him with a numbing silence of moving shadows cast by candle flames.   

A cloud parted from the moon when O’Brien looked up at Mary’s face, the light hitting her eyes.  It was a connection that locked into something deep within O’Brien.  It was ethereal and yet caring.  His eyes burned for a moment looking at Mary’s face, and he felt a single drop of sweat inching down the center of his back.  

O’Brien turned and walked out of the church into the cool night air.  He lifted his cell off his belt and sat down on the steps to dial 911.  Where would he begin the explanation of the scene inside the church?  What did the message mean…the circle drawing?  The 666 and the letters p-a-t with the letter Omega from the Greek alphabet?  Were the numbers, 666, supposed to the biblical “sign of the beast?”  Was
Pat
the killer’s name, or his initials?  The crude drawing?  What had Father Callahan meant? 
Think. 

The clouds parted and the three-quarter moon revealed itself.  O’Brien could see it was slightly more rounded.  It would be a full moon this time next week.  And unless O’Brien caught a killer, Charlie Williams would be executed as a full moon rose over the Atlantic.

NINETEEN

The howl of a dog was soon replaced with the wail of sirens.  Sean O’Brien sat on the church steps and listened to the cavalry approach.  They came from all directions, a disjointed parade of blue and white lights—the out of sync blare of police cruisers, fire and rescue trucks, ambulances, and a sheriff’s helicopter.   

They were all too late.  One was not.

O’Brien watched the coroner’s car pull through the maze of emergency vehicles and stop.  He could see a man inside the car with a cell phone to his ear. 

Three uniformed officers raced up the church steps.  They looked at O’Brien, their eyes wide, breathing heavy, adrenaline pumping.  O’Brien said, “Inside.”

One officer stayed on the steps while the others entered the church.  He pulled out a notebook.  “You call it in?”

O’Brien nodded. 

“What did you see?” asked the officer.

As O’Brien started to answer, the sheriff’s helicopter circled the church.  The rotor noise echoed off the concrete steps.  The sound took O’Brien back to a night rescue in the first Gulf War.   He glanced up at the sheriff’s helicopter, the prop blast blowing trapped rainwater out of gutter corners, the smell of rust and decaying leaves raining down on O’Brien and the officer.  From the belly of the chopper, a powerful spotlight moved over roofs, trees, cars, apartments, and houses in the surrounding area.

The CSI people, coroner and one of the three detectives, walked past O’Brien.  Two detectives didn’t.  A white-haired detective with a ruddy, narrow face was flanked by another man who resembled the actor, Andy Garcia.  Both men looked like that had just sat down for dinner when they got the call.  The white-hired man had a fleck of tomato sauce in the corner of his mouth.  He introduced himself as Detective Ed Henderson.  His partner was Detective Mike Valdez.    

“Sean O’Brien?” Detective Henderson asked.

“That’s me.”

“Tell us what you saw.”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t see a lot.  I found it, though.  If I’d been here five minutes earlier, Father Callahan might be alive.”

“Were you meeting Father Callahan?”

“At eight.”     

 Henderson looked at his watch.  “It’s going on eight now.  You’re not late.”

O’Brien cut his eyes toward the detective without turning his head.  He waited a beat. “I said if I’d been here earlier, he might be alive.”

“Why were you meeting the priest?”

“To pick up a confession.”

“A confession?  You mean you were here to confess something?”  Henderson’s mouth stayed slightly open.

“No.  I came here to get a statement—a written statement.  Father Callahan was witness to a dying man’s confession, a near deathbed confession.  If it’s true, it’ll prove a

man sitting on Florida’s death row with”—O’Brien looked at his watch—“a man with eighty-two hours to live, is innocent.”

Henderson glanced at his partner.  Both were at a loss for words.

A man approached.  Someone O’Brien recognized.  Detective Dan Grant climbed the steps.  Grant looked between Henderson and Valdez to the man sitting on the top step.  And now Grant, too, was at a loss for words.

“Hello, Dan,” O’Brien said.  “It’s been awhile.”

TWENTY

The other two detectives turned toward Grant.  Valdez scratched at a spot above his right eyebrow.  He looked across the lot toward the growing mob of media and lowered his voice.  “It’s getting weird.  You know this guy?”

“Yeah,” Grant said.  “I know him.”  Grant extended his hand to O’Brien.  He stood and they shook hands.  “It’s been more than a year since we worked together.”

“Worked together?” asked Henderson.

“Not in an official capacity” Grant said.  “Sean O’Brien, retired Miami PD, homicide.  One of the best.  He offered a little assistance to Leslie Moore and me when that serial killer Miguel Santana was stopped.”

“So you’re the one…” Henderson’s words faded like a distant radio signal.

Valdez said, “They never found Santana’s body, right?

O’Brien said nothing.

Grant nodded.  “Let’s go into the church where it’s less noisy.  Sean, you can take us from the beginning.  How you wound up here tonight, on a night when a priest is murdered in his church.”        

They stood in a corner of the vestibule, ignoring the parade of forensic investigators, medical examiners, assistants, and police officers.  O’Brien explained the circumstance leading up to tonight’s meeting with Father Callahan.  All listened without interruption—Henderson and Valdez, with an incredulous look in their eyes, stopping to

glance at their watches when O’Brien again noted the time remaining until the state executes Charlie Williams.

Detective Grant said, “Sean, you mentioned a letter, a written statement.  The priest was going to hand it off to you?”

“I think would have given us the killer’s ID.  Enough to get Charlie Williams a stay of execution until the perp was picked up.  Father Callahan said Spelling was going to reveal the place the murder weapon’s been hidden for eleven years.  If it’s got prints or DNA, it may match the person named in the letter.  Then Charlie Williams is a free man.”

Grant said, “The letter you’re talking about is probably what Sam Spelling asked me to drop in a paper grocery sack at his bedside.  He had it marked ‘for Father John Callahan, confidential.’”

“You should have opened it,” Henderson said.  “You were conducting an investigation into Spelling’s shooting, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, but you should have seen the look in Spelling’s eye when he asked me to drop it in the bag.  Like he had an epiphany going on.  I planned to go back in his room to read it when he went to sleep.  The nurses were giving him something to make him sleep.  When I did go back, the letter was gone.  I figured the priest returned and got it.”

Valdez turned toward O’Brien.  “When you found Father Callahan’s body, guess there was no sign of any letter, huh?”

“No, at least not in the open.  Lot’s of spilled stuff on the floor.  Briefcase rifled.   The perp made it seem like a burglary leading to a murder.  I didn’t want to turn the body over to go through Father Callahan’s pockets until forensics worked the scene.” 

The detectives nodded approval.  Henderson asked, “Why do you think it wasn’t a burglary?  Could be some asshole high on drugs, breaking into a church to steal from the collection plate to support his habit?”

“Because of what Father Callahan told me.”

 “Sean’s right,” Grant said.  “Sam Spelling told me something.”

“Told you what?”  Henderson asked.

“Spelling said if anything should happen to him, if he should die, I needed to see Father Callahan as fast as I could.  But now Father Callahan’s dead instead of Spelling.”

O’Brien asked, “Is Spelling’s room under guard?”

“Of course,” Grant said.

O’Brien nodded.  You night want to double the guard.  This guy’s good.” 

Grant shook his head.  “The general public thinks Spelling’s already dead.  Soon as he recovers, he’ll testify.  We’ll explain the fake death later.” 

O’Brien said, “Dan, call whoever’s posted at the room.  Have him check on Spelling.”

Grant sighed, opened his cell, and made the call.  “Yeah, I’ll hold,” he said.

Detective Valdez looked at his watch.  “While Dan’s checking on the patient, we’ve got a body in there…inside a church for Christ sake.  Let’s do it.” 

O’Brien glanced toward the atrium leading to the sanctuary.  “In there,” he said.  “We need to find the letter.  Maybe Father Callahan hid it before the killer walked in.”

“And maybe the perp found it on the priest and stole it,” Henderson said.

O’Brien nodded. “Possibility, but Father Callahan left his own note, and he left it in his own blood.  We have to figure out what he was trying to say before he died.  We don’t have much time to solve this puzzle or another man, Charlie Williams, will die.”

“What!”  Grant yelled.  “Are you sure?”  There was a short pause.  Grant lowered his tie a notch.  He closed his cell phone, his eyes distant.  Then he looked at O’Brien and said, “Sam Spelling’s dead.” 

TWENTY-ONE

A TV news helicopter flew above the church.  O’Brien waited for the chopper to pass.  He said, “Dan, seal Spelling’s room!   Don’t let them remove the body unto you can get an ME there.  The perp—”

“What a minute!” Henderson interpreted.

“Grant held his hand up.  “It’s ok, Ed.  Sean’s right.  Right now Spelling’s hospital room, like this church, is a fucking crime scene.  Let’s go inside.”   

#

ANITA JOHNSON OPENED the door to her mobile home, let the skinny cat out into the night, and turned back toward the television.  She lit a cigarette, adjusted a frayed terry cloth belt around her robe, and sat on the edge of a plastic chair to watch the events unfolding on television.  She pushed a strand of unwashed blond hair behind one ear and touched the tip of a finger to the bruise under her right eye.

Gotta leave.  No more.  Take the baby and just get the hell out.

Anita Johnson thoughts were interrupted by scenes on TV.  She reached for the remote to turn up the sound.  A stoic reporter stood outside the St. Francis Church and said, “What we know at this time is Father John Callahan, a man beloved by his parishioners, has been brutally gunned down in his own church.  I was told that paramedics got here within a few minutes of the call, and Father Callahan was found dead on the floor of the sanctuary.”

The picture cut to a news anchor in a studio.  His brow creased as he leaned into the camera and asked, “David, do police have a motive for this heinous crime?”

“Police did say it looks like the church was burglarized.  Some religious artifacts are reportedly stolen, and the collection plate left on the altar from an earlier mass was rifled and found on the floor next to the body.”

Anita Johnson crushed out her cigarette and lit another one.  She mumbled under her breath, “World’s gone straight to hell.”

The reporter continued, “One source, who asked not to be identified, said he saw where the priest had left a note on the floor, apparently scrawled in his own blood.  Police aren’t releasing the content of that message, but investigators hope it’ll lead them to the person who murdered one of the best-known and most beloved priests in the southeastern diocese, Father John Callahan.  This is David Carter reporting.” 

The phone rang.  Anita Johnson jumped.  She lifted it off the coffee table and held the remote in one hand to turn down the sound.