The Corporal Works of Murder (19 page)

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Authors: Carol Anne O'Marie

BOOK: The Corporal Works of Murder
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“What exactly was his beef?” Dineen asked.
Wong was glad for the question. It wasn't quite clear to him either.
Tim Moran shifted nervously in his seat, still checking out
the side window as they drove along. Wong could smell the tension.
“You know Donaldson,” Tim said with a hollow laugh. “If he's got an undercover deal going he wants it to look good in front of the brass.”
“That's our Pits,” Dineen agreed.
“Yeah,” Moran grumbled. “I was a plant in that tattoo parlor. Chosen for obvious reasons.” He pointed to the tattoo on his hand.
“What were you looking for?” Dineen asked.
Tim shrugged. “No big deal. Just a neighborhood prostitute ring. What I didn't know was that Sarah was working on the same case, only from another angle. At least, I think she was.”
“Don't you know?” Dineen sounded surprised.
“I don't.” It was obvious from his tone of voice that Moran was hedging.
“And that's what got her killed?” Dineen clung to the subject like a bulldog to a bone.
“Geez, Dineen, how the hell do I know?”
Moran sounded angry, but Wong was sure it was more fear than anger. Who could blame him? What was stopping whoever shot Sarah Spencer from shooting him?
“What kind of prostitute ring kills a cop?” Wong knew from the tone of voice that his partner was thinking out loud. “Wouldn't it be safer just to move the action to another location?”
“Yeah, you'd think so,” Moran said, calming down a little. He moved up to the edge of the backseat. “Thanks for the ride, fellas,” he said. “You can let me out anywhere along here.”
“We were thinking about taking a coffee break,” Dineen said. “Want to join us?”
“Coffee!” Moran laughed. “I ain't got enough trouble sleeping? Anywhere along here,” Moran repeated. “I can catch the Muni.”
“What do you make of that?” Dineen asked when they had dropped Moran on Market Street and pulled away from the curb.
“Obviously the guy knows more than he's telling us,” Wong said.
“Did he seem awful jumpy to you?” Dineen drummed his finger on the dashboard.
“Yeah, but you can't blame him.” Wong turned down Jones again. By now it was nearly deserted. “A fellow undercover cop gets shot right in front of the shop he's hanging out in—maybe he thinks the bullet was intended for him. And it could have been.”
“Right,” Dineen conceded. “Or maybe, he saw something that's got him worried.”
“That too, but if he did see something wouldn't he tell Donaldson or the guys from Homicide about it?”
“I guess.” Dineen sounded as unsure as Wong felt.
“Unless, of course, it was something he didn't want them to know.”
“And what the hell would that be?” Dineen asked.
“I only wish I knew,” Wong said, feeling suddenly tired. “Were you serious about a coffee break?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” Dineen answered.
“I take that to mean yes,” Wong said, glad that they'd be off the streets in just a couple of hours. He had a real funny feeling about Moran and he sure didn't want it to be played out on his shift.
Something woke Sister Mary Helen in the middle of the night and she could not fall back to sleep. Was it a dream? A loud bang? A siren? She wasn't sure. The only thing she was sure of was that when her eyes popped open, her mind clicked on.
The events of the day flooded in on her like muddy water
from a broken main. It was difficult to believe that so much had happened in just one day. What was it some English poet had said? At least, Mary Helen thought she was English.
It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above,
To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years,
That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love,
And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears.
Odd, she could remember the lines and not the poet's name. It would come, like everything else, when she least expected.
Mary Helen sighed. Was it only this morning—not yet twenty-four hours ago—that Father Adams had spoken about Saint Boniface whose life had been cut short by pagan warriors in retaliation for chopping down their tree god? Retaliation hadn't stopped with the end of tree worship. It seemed to be alive and well in twenty-first century San Francisco.
In one sense, the SFPD was retaliating for the murder of one of their fellow officers by sweeping the neighborhood, rousting everybody they thought might be vaguely connected. Someone was retaliating for—Mary Helen knew not what, by savagely shooting Junior Johnson. Although not a sterling character by any stretch of the imagination, even he deserved better than that.
Mary Helen rose up on one elbow and punched her pillow, trying to make it more comfortable. In the distance she heard water running through the pipes. Someone else was up, too.
Misery loves company,
she thought, wondering who it was. No, she nipped the urge to get up and find out before it went any further. She was too exhausted.
Settling back on her pillow, she closed her eyes and tried to think of peaceful meadows and calming sunsets. Unfortunately at this moment all she seemed able to think about was poor Geraldine. Surely Geraldine was having a sleepless night. Imagine
finding her nephew like that. Mary Helen shuddered at the very idea.
And what about Tim Moran? There was something about that man and his tattoo shop that caused the hair on the back of her neck to prickle. If she mentioned that to Inspector Gallagher surely he would say that there probably was a draft somewhere in the shop and that she ought to stay out of it.
The Inspector had always been a force to deal with when it came to her involvement in murder cases. Not that he hadn't been grateful in the past when she'd helped him solve a few. She smiled to herself in the dark. He'd be horrified to know that he was often more of a spur than a deterrent when it came to her involvement in these cases.
She pulled the covers up under her chin, shut her eyes, and breathed deeply. “Come, sleep. Come, sleep,” she repeated over and over like a mantra. Unfortunately the only thing that came to her was the image of Tim Moran's face twisted in anger, the dragon around his neck undulating, as he stood amid the wreckage of the tattoo parlor. Although he was obviously the victim of the vandalism, there was something about him that just didn't sit right with her. For the life of her, she couldn't put her finger on it. Chances were that she'd be better able to identify the problem tomorrow if she had a good night's sleep.
At the moment her whole world seemed topsy-turvy. Oops! With everything that was going on today, she had forgotten to ask old Donata to look up the etymology of that expression. She'd do that first chance she had tomorrow.
Funny the things that pop into your mind in the middle of the night, she thought. Her body felt heavy all over, her limbs too weighed down to lift. But her mind still refused to surrender, pulling up pictures of Junior and the matted bush.
Lord,
she prayed, fighting down an unexpected swell of nausea,
have pity on your people
. Mary Helen drew in another deep breath and let it out slowly. “Pity” was the last word Sarah Spencer
had uttered. And Junior? What about Junior?
Only you, Lord, know his dying words, his dying words, his thoughts, his last agony. What else would a compassionate God feel toward his suffering creature, she wondered, but pity and love!
But tonight in the stillness of her darkened bedroom even the Lord seemed oddly silent, as if He were teasing her, goading her, pushing her to figure out something just beyond her reach.
What is it?
she wondered.
What is it that I'm missing
? But again there was no answer.
Feast of Saint Norbert, Bishop
S
ister Mary Helen slept in. Last night, when Sister Patricia suggested it, she had brushed the idea off as unnecessary. “I'll probably be awake anyhow,” she had said. When the alarm rang this morning, she couldn't push the off button fast enough.
Sister Anne and she were to meet at 9:15 at the side door of the convent. That should give them plenty of time to get to St. Mary's Cathedral for Sarah Spencer's funeral. Because parking might be a problem, they had decided to walk down from the college to Geary Boulevard, and hop the 38 Muni bus which ran right in front of the place. It was only a little over a mile away. From the college they could see the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Assumption, as it was officially known. The innovative and controversial design, in which the four corners of the structure met, then curved gracefully upward, soaring to 190 feet and crowned with a 55-foot golden cross, caused some critics to refer to it as Saint Mary Maytag.
Surely we'll have time enough to find a seat, Mary Helen thought, walking slowly toward the shower. After all, the Cathedral's seating capacity was 2500. Just to be safe, she decided to wear comfortable shoes.
“Don't cut it too short,” old Donata warned when Mary Helen suggested that they had time for a second cup of coffee. “Every policeman for miles around will be there,” she said. “Corporal work of mercy, you know. To bury the dead.”
Mary Helen noticed a blank expression on Anne's face. “Seven corporal works of mercy,” she hinted. When Anne's expression did not change, she began to recite the old catechism answer counting them off on her fingers: “To feed the hungry; to give drink to the thirsty; to clothe the naked; to visit the imprisoned; to shelter the homeless; to visit the sick; and to bury the dead.”
Anne still looked bewildered and Mary Helen remembered that Anne was too young to be a catechism-answer kid.
As the two nuns stepped off the bus, Mary Helen realized that Donata was right. The entire front of the massive cathedral was thick with blue uniforms. Literally hundreds of police officers wearing white gloves stood in silent respect. Nearby the mounted honor guard rose above them, holding their dark quarter horses in check. An imposing bay sidestepped beside a group of motorcycle policemen waiting on their shiny bikes.
In the crowd Mary Helen recognized the Chief of Police. Surrounding him were a group of older officers whom she supposed were ranking police brass. She spotted Inspector Gallagher and Kate Murphy and was surprised to see that they were both wearing their blue uniforms. She waved at them as she wove her way through the thickening crowd. Kate responded with a nod of her head. She recognized Officers Mark Wong and Brian Dineen. She had become acquainted with the two Vice Squad officers last year when Melanie, one of the refugees, had been found dead outside the Refuge. She noticed that Wong was talking
to a young, good-looking Asian woman. Even at this distance the body language was unmistakable. She was smitten.
Moving along, Mary Helen scanned the crowd wondering if Tim Moran was there. Frankly, she was curious to know if he still had the blue dragon on under his blue uniform jacket. But she didn't find him. There were just too many blue jackets.
“Gold in peace. Iron in war,” the insignias on each arm read in Latin. And very solemn in the face of death, Mary Helen reflected, mounting the Cathedral steps. These men and women couldn't help but take the death of a fallen colleague very personally, she thought. Although they probably didn't even admit it to one another, they couldn't help but think,
There but for the grace of God go I
. It must be on every mind.
A sharp wind rolled across the large granite entryway, turning small bits of paper and dirt into miniature tornados. Mary Helen shivered and closed her eyes against the grit. She had never thought about wearing something warm, although anywhere close to 2500 bodies in the Cathedral should provide plenty of warmth.
As always, once she slipped inside, the breathtaking beauty of the interior made her forget everything else. She stood on the red brick floor reminiscent of the early Missions while above it the rounded ceiling rose nineteen stories. At each corner of the Cathedral, vast windows looked out upon spectacular views of San Francisco. Over the altar a kinetic sculpture of aluminum suspended on gold wires was alive with reflected light. Its fourteen triangular tiers symbolized the channels of loving grace from God to His people and their prayers and praise rising to Him.
The Cathedral buzzed with hushed conversation as the last of the mourners gathered to offer the final Mass of Burial for Sarah Spencer. Mary Helen and Anne had just settled in a pew when the magnificent Ruffati organ came to life filling the Cathedral with a haunting melody from Taize,
“Jesus, remember me
when you come into your kingdom.”
Over and over the last words of the Good Thief as he hung next to Jesus dying on the cross washed over the assembly. Mary Helen felt her eyes sting.
Rising, the congregation watched the casket, draped with a gleaming white pall, being rolled down the aisle. Behind it in solemn procession were a middle-aged couple that Mary Helen supposed were Sarah's parents, weeping silently, behind them a young man who seemed to be in shock.
“Eternal rest grant unto her,” Father McKay, the chaplain for the police and fire department, intoned. “And let perpetual light shine upon her.”
The Cathedral rang with a wholehearted, “Amen.”
At the conclusion of the Requiem Mass, with the strains of
In Paradisum—May the Angels Lead You into Paradise
still coming from inside the Cathedral, the congregation filled the courtyard in sad silence. The honor guard of police officers readied a cortege to escort Sarah's body to its final resting place at Holy Cross Cemetery.
As she stood there, Mary Helen couldn't help but ponder what kind of funeral Junior Johnson would have. Would any of his companions take his death so personally? Would they pray for angels to lead him into Paradise? Were his last words, by any chance, the last words of the Good Thief on the cross? Mary Helen didn't know. The only thing that she did know for sure was that both of them, the young policewoman and the young career criminal, had met a merciful and loving God who would indeed judge them with pity.
“Sister Mary Helen,” Anne's voice startled her. Mary Helen turned. “We better get to the Refuge,” Anne said, her voice choked. “Our ladies will be waiting for us.”
Obediently Mary Helen followed.
Both Inspector Gallagher and Kate Murphy were quiet for most of the short ride from St. Mary's Cathedral to Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma. There was something very sobering about the death of a fellow police officer that Kate knew they all felt.
Quietly the long line of cars entered the ornate gates of the cemetery, and then snaked up the paved roads, following the hearse. Finally, near the enormous stucco mausoleum, it pulled to the curb and parked. Cars followed suit, forming a long line bordering the manicured green lawn. The slamming of car doors echoed in the silence. A crisp wind tousled the mourners' hair and sent one hat flying. It blew flower petals from the wreaths, which skipped over the grass like small chips of white and red and bright yellow paint.
The high, mournful notes of the bagpipers sent chills through Kate as they led Sarah's body to her final resting place. Although she had not really known the policewoman, Kate felt the tears sting her eyes. No one should die so young and so violently. Why did God allow these kinds of tragedies to happen? No one seemed to be able to explain it to her satisfaction. She'd have a lot of questions to ask when she finally got up there.
The prayers at the gravesite were brief. Although from where she stood, Kate could not hear Father McKay very well, it was a familiar ceremony. Too familiar, she thought ruefully as she said the final “Amen.”
Slowly, almost as if they were waking from a dream, the crowd began to break up. Kate smelled cigarette smoke coming from those who could wait no longer. Here and there, a laugh rose above the hushed conversation. An engine revved. “Be right back,” Gallagher said and move toward a tall man who Kate recognized as an old friend of Denny's—now retired.
“Hi, hon.” Jack's voice startled her. She had spotted her husband at the opposite end of the gathering standing with some other officers from Vice. She hadn't expected that he'd be able
to struggle through to her this quickly. Behind him were Mark Wong and Brian Dineen.
“Hi, pal,” Kate said, scrutinizing the three men. The grave expressions on their faces told her that this wasn't just a social call. Something important was on their minds. “What's up?” she asked, almost afraid to find out.
Jack shrugged. “It may be nothing, but Mark and Brian were just telling me about meeting Tim Moran last night.” He turned toward the two men. “Why am I doing the talking? You tell her.”
In hushed tones, Wong related their brief meeting with Moran on the streets. “You didn't have to be Sigmund Freud to figure out that something was really bothering him,” he said. “When we went off duty this morning, the detail was pretty deserted.” He lowered his voice still further. “So we took the opportunity to look at the log for Sarah Spencer—to check if she was on surveillance.”
“And?” Kate's heart quickened. Sarah's activities should be recorded. Could this be the breakthrough that Gallagher and she were looking for?
“And, nothing.” Dineen's low voice was gruff. “Nada. Zip.”
Kate's stomach dropped and her gaze jumped from Dineen to Wong and back again. “Are you sure?” she asked.
The annoyance on Dineen's face made her wish that she could take the question back. “Sorry,” she muttered. “Sure you're sure.” She stood there awkwardly and was very glad when she felt Gallagher move in beside her.
“What's up?” he asked.
Quickly Wong filled him in on the surveillance log.
“Nothing there? Jeez!” Gallagher took off his cap and ran the palm of his hand over his bald crown. “What the hell happened to it?”
Wong shrugged. “That's exactly what we want to know.”
“Could that be why Moran was so upset?” Gallagher asked.
“There's one way to find out,” Kate offered. “Let's ask him.” Frowning, she scanned the crowd, which was beginning to disperse, but she didn't catch sight of him. “Not here,” she said wondering suddenly if he'd been to the funeral at all. “Did any of you see him this morning?” she asked.
They looked at one another but no one spoke. “As a matter of fact,” Jack said finally, “I was looking for him at the Cathedral but I never did find him.”
“Odd,” Dineen said. “He was so broken up when we met him on our shift I would have bet money that he'd be here.”
“It was a pretty big crowd,” Wong said, reasonably “and with us all in uniform, it would be easy to miss him.” He yawned and Kate realized that both he and Dineen hadn't yet been to sleep.
“Thanks, guys,” she said. “You two must be exhausted. Why don't you go home and let Gallagher and me get on this.”
“One more thing.” Wong yawned again. “I was talking to someone from the Chief's office and this person mentioned hearing rumors of an alleged brothel in the neighborhood.”
“The neighborhood Sarah was staking out?” Kate smiled. “Why doesn't that surprise me?”
“What will surprise you,” Wong said with a knowing grin, “is that rumor has it that the alleged brothel is frequented by a number of affluent and influential San Franciscans.”
Kate's stomach lurched.
He's got to be kidding,
she thought, scarcely aware that her husband was talking to her. “What?” she said.
“See you tonight at home,” Jack repeated.
“Yeah, thanks,” she muttered, watching him follow Wong and Dineen to their parked cars.
“Don't forget it's your turn to cook,” she called after him. She wasn't really sure whose turn it was, nor at this moment did she really care, but it was worth a try.
Beside her, she heard Gallagher snort. “Did you hear that Wong? Talking to somebody at the Chief's office! Who does he
think he's kidding? He's talking to Susie Chang. Jeez! It's common knowledge that they're a number! Did you see them talking in front of the Cathedral? Even a blind man would have noticed them flirting.”
Shaking her head, Kate stared at him dumbfounded. How had she missed it? She was busy wondering what else had slipped by her when she felt Gallagher touch her shoulder. “Don't look now, Katie-girl, but the Chief just called Lieutenant Donaldson aside.”
Pretending to study the cumulus clouds piling up against the brilliant blue sky over the San Bruno Mountains, Kate took in the Chief and Donaldson. The Chief's face was the color of raw beefsteak—a sure sign that he was angry. Lieutenant Don Donaldson hunched his shoulders defensively as if to ward off the mounting wind.

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