Criminal Intent

Chapter 37

The Gospel According to Daniel

Be careful what you wish for, says the old axiom, which I believe is actually derived from St. Augustine. You may get it. Wise words indeed.

I had wanted to take the stand in my own defense all along. Although I was intellectually cognizant of my attorney’s reasons for advising against it, I still wished for the opportunity. It held an irresistible attraction for me. I fantasized about telling my story with such persuasion and eloquence that the prosecution’s case simply melted away. In my mind, a jury might well suspect me when all they heard were the words of my enemies, but once they heard me testify, once they heard my story told from my own lips, they would be unable to see me in any light but positive.

And it was not my plan to dissemble or fabricate. I would tell the story and tell it straight, to adapt the words of Dickinson. I would tell them the good and the bad, but I would tell it with clarity and sincerity. Confession is good for the soul, after all. While we may not be as driven to confession as our Catholic brethren, even an Episcopalian could see the merits, both therapeutic and judicial, in telling the story as it happened, warts and all. I would impress them with my forthrightness. I would dazzle them with my purity.

In retrospect, of course, I recognize this for the hubris that it was. If this were a Greek tragedy with me as the star-and indeed, many of the key elements are present-then my fatal flaw, my downfall, came from the sin of pride. I was in love with myself, my ideas and philosophies, my theological daring and innovation-when I should have been in love with God. I should have trusted Him in all respects instead of trying to do an end run around Him, trying to act as if He weren’t really necessary because I was so astonishingly brilliant on my own. I never lost faith, but too much of my faith was tainted, was a bad faith, because it was invested in the spirit of man rather than the Holy Spirit of God.

All of which is easy to say now. At the time, I couldn’t see it. I still perceived the opportunity to testify as a positive development. I still thought I could save myself.

How powerfully, unimaginably, stunningly wrong I was would become apparent with the speed and immediacy of a lightning bolt. A bolt, one might say, cast down from the heavens.

“How long have you served as a priest?” Christina asked him, sticking faithfully to her notes. Every word, every placement of a question, had been carefully worked out the night before. Served, not worked. Priest, not rector. Establish the length to make the point that he has had successful parishes in the past.

“Thirty-four years,” Father Beale replied.

“And how long have you been at St. Benedict’s?”

“More than three years. The bishop recommended my transfer, and the vestry accepted the recommendation. The parish had many problems finding a rector after the retirement of a longtime founding priest, and the bishop felt I might be able to get the church back on track.”

“Is that what happened?”

“No. Not even close.” Father Beale was doing well, Ben thought, watching from counsel table. Good thing. If he couldn’t handle himself on these softball questions, there was no hope for what would come later. His witness stand demeanor was good; he seemed cool, poised, and smart, without coming off as pompous. He still had a tendency to overintellectualize-Ben and Christina had coached him to use simple, direct words-but it wasn’t so extreme that it seemed arrogant. “From the outset, there was opposition to me and almost everything I did. It got worse, as time progressed, but it was there all along.”

“Why do you think that was?”

Beale stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I think there were many reasons. St. Benedict’s had benefited from an extended relationship with its previous priest, Father Raymond Ostler. It’s not unusual, after a situation such as that, for parishioners to have a difficult time making adjustments, accepting a new leader with his own way of doing things. In my field, the first priest after a long-termer is often referred to as the ‘sacrifice priest,’ because everyone knows that it probably won’t work, but that some buffer is needed, some interim rector who, despite his apparent failure, in fact helps the parish make the sometimes difficult adjustment to a new leader.”

“So you were St. Benedict’s ‘sacrifice priest’?”

“You could see it that way, and in fact, I know that the bishop did. I still had hopes that I could make it work. And at first, it was working. Although there were difficulties.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve always been openly political; I feel that religion and politics are inextricably intertwined. You can’t call yourself a Christian, in my view, and stand idly by while people are mistreated and discriminated against, whether it’s people of other races, or women, or people of different sexual preferences.”

“Did this create disharmony in the church?”

“Of course it did. The people of St. Benedict’s may be Episcopalians, but we still live in the Bible Belt, and it shows. Still, I felt I could make people come to see my viewpoint and, if not agree, at least respect my need and right to do what I was called to do.”

“Were there other problems?”

“Yes. When I first arrived, the church was deeply in debt. Pledges had fallen off, but the budget had not been adjusted accordingly. In order to stabilize the budget and put us on a firmer financial footing, I pressed for the elimination of some of our member-oriented programs. I didn’t like doing it, but I thought it better to eliminate that than to do away with the outreach programs I considered the most important part of our ministry. Nonetheless, as I’m sure you can imagine, anytime you eliminate someone’s pet program, you create an adversary.”

“What other problems did you have?”

Beale proceeded, in the same open, candid manner. “There was an initial conflict with the music minister, Paul Masterson, who had been at St. Benedict’s several years longer than I had. I think he was threatened by my arrival, and he soon began marshaling his adherents to his support, and against me. He seemed to think I was encroaching on his turf.”

“Were you?”

Beale tilted his head. “To some extent, I suppose I was. But you must understand, our church’s worship is governed by the Book of Common Prayer, and our policy by the Episcopal Constitution and Canons. They say the rector runs the show, plain and simple. I tried to give Paul as much autonomy as possible, but when there were liturgical issues of importance involved, such as when choosing the proper hymn to accompany and amplify the readings, I had to intervene. That was, bottom line, my job.”

Christina nodded. “Was there anything else, Father Beale, that contributed to your problems at the church?”

“Yes.” His head lowered, and for the first time, there was a sense of regret, a perforation of his resilient, intellectual stance. “I… have a temper. A bad one. I’m aware of it, and I have sought counseling for it.” He shook his head. “But these are excuses. Far too often I allowed my ardor to be expressed in anger. Yelling, shouting, even threatening. Unforgivable in any human being, but especially in a parish priest.”

“How many times did these temper outbursts occur?”

“Too many to count. Toward the end, barely a vestry meeting went by without some expression of hostility by me, often returned by others. It was a bad situation all around.” His hands, resting on the railing, tightened into fists. “And yet, I can’t express to you how intensely… frustrating this was for me. I felt I was doing what was right for the church and for God. I was answering a call, a bishopric appointment. I had thought and considered and weighed every decision. And despite all that, to be met with opposition at almost every point, no matter how trivial, for no better reason than that you’ve had the audacity to do things differently than the last priest did-” His hands began to tremble. “My frustration and disappointment was uncommonly… palpable. I simply can’t describe it in a way that gives any indication how strongly and passionately I felt.”

And Ben didn’t particularly want to hear about how passionately he felt, either. Looking at his hands and face, Ben worried that they might witness a temper tantrum right on the stand, which would sink their case once and for all. Fortunately, Christina changed the subject.

“Father Beale,” Christina said, slowly and deliberately, “much has been said by the prosecution witnesses about the Liberated Christians group. Including your somewhat unusual theories regarding sexual activity by consenting adults. I know this may be somewhat uncomfortable for you, but would you please explain this to the jury?”

“Of course,” he said. “I don’t mind at all.” And indeed, to look at him, he didn’t seem to. His body loosened, his hands fell, his face relaxed. “Liberated Christians is, quite simply, a group of adult couples who are trying to move beyond-to liberate themselves from-the oppressive and negative images of human sexuality that are promulgated by our society, and especially by religious groups, even though, for the most part, they have no basis in the Bible whatsoever.”

And they were off. Ben knew Christina wasn’t looking forward to this frank discussion of aberrant sexual practices before a jury of middle- and lower-class Oklahomans, many of them members of one Bible-thumping church or another. But in preparation, she and Ben had both eventually realized that it would be better if she handled this all-important direct examination. Coming from Ben, there was a chance it might come off too good-ol’-boy sounding, like locker-room talk. Two guys swapping stories about all the hot chicks they bagged down at the Episcopal Church.

With Christina in charge, there was no chance of that happening. With Christina asking the questions, Father Beale would be forced to be delicate. There was also a chance her presence might soften the juror response to the subject, sort of on the theory that if she’s not repulsed…

“Is this a philosophy you invented yourself, Father?”

“Oh, heavens no. There are many such groups, all across the country. The world, in fact. Lifestyle couples-that’s the preferred term at present. Wife-swapping, obviously, is a sexist phrase, and implies some unspoken impropriety. Swingers suggests a casual decadence that ignores the strong philosophical underpinnings. In fact, there are over three hundred formally affiliated clubs for lifestyle couples in at least twenty different countries. Millions of couples are active participants. They have their own travel industry, arranging vacations and seminars catering to their special interests. There are hundreds of magazines published on the subject, and I couldn’t even guess how many Web sites. I know of eleven major conventions held for lifestyle couples every year in major U.S. cities, including the largest, the three-day Lifestyles convention in San Diego that draws over thirty-five hundred people a year. Oh, no-this clearly did not start with me.”

“What kind of people are these… lifestyle couples?”

“In the main, they are no different from you or me. They do tend to be well-educated-over two-thirds have college degrees. They tend to be somewhat affluent. But beyond that, they cover all walks of life. There are even some Republicans.”

Nice try, but there was nary a titter in the jury box. As Ben had muttered on more than one previous occasion-God save me from witnesses who want to be comedians.

“Is this a relatively recent phenomenon?”

“Not remotely. After all, the Bible tells us that erotic rites were common in Canaan when God made His covenant with Abraham-the great Hebrew leader chosen by God, who would later prostitute his wife Sarah and have an adulterous fling with Hagar. The fertility goddess Asherah welcomed orgies in her temples; it was not until she was destroyed by the Hebrews that a new morality was established. For the early Hebrews, you must understand, reproduction was survival; hence, they disfavored or outlawed any form of nonreproductive sexual activity-masturbation, homosexuality, abortion, sex during menstruation. Sex outside marriage was similarly outlawed. This restrictive morality, formulated by primitives over four thousand years ago, would come to dominate the lives of the world’s more than 2.3 billion Christians, Muslims, and Jews.

“Still and all, that isn’t the whole world. According to a recent anthropological survey, even well into the twentieth century, ‘extramateship liaison’ was an approved custom in thirty-nine percent of all world cultures. Think of that-thirty-nine percent! And though it’s kept a low profile, it’s becoming increasingly common in this country, too. Through these lifestyle organizations, millions of married Americans are able to express their erotic fantasies, and in the process, strengthen their marriages.”

Erotic fantasies. Somehow, Ben was willing to wager, the entire time she sweated through law school, Christina never envisioned that she would be standing in a courtroom talking about erotic fantasies. “I’m sure many people would imagine that these unusual practices would have just the opposite effect on a marriage. Would you please explain that last statement, Father?”

“Certainly. Lifestyle couples are firm believers in family values.” He’d been coached not to look at the judge as he said it; that would just be too obvious. “We believe we live in a manner that melds responsible family values-like matrimony, children, and emotional monogamy-with the erotic cultivation of marriage through the practice of rites we find fun and natural. After all, the most important thing for a family is the marriage; how can anything that strengthens the marriage be bad?”

“I would imagine there are some people who would disagree with what you’ve said. Who would find these practices disturbing-or even sinful.”

“And you would be right.” Beale straightened, adopting an almost professorial pose. “Let’s face it-the world is still plagued with morality squads, people who spend their lives running around passing judgment on the activities of others. But every psychological study on the subject has shown that lifestyle couples are quite normal, not at all deviant. Indeed, some have suggested that sexual monogamy may be the more deviant, more unnatural lifestyle.”

Enough already. He’d either made his point or he never would. Time to move on to the nitty-gritty. “Father Beale, whether we agree or not, I think we understand your viewpoint now. What people may not yet understand yet, though, is-What does this have to do with a church?”

Beale nodded thoughtfully. “First and foremost, strengthening and preserving marriages is very much the business of a church. The problem is-people have twisted around what Christianity was about in the first place. The teachings of Christ are about love, about kindness to those around you. Not about sex. We have no reason to believe Jesus was a starched shirt. According to the gospels, Jesus lived with and was even supported by prostitutes. He publicly defended an adulteress. He even dined with tax collectors, for Pete’s sake.”

This time, to Ben’s surprise, there actually was some laughter in the jury box. But did that mean they were with him, that they were buying any of this? Ben couldn’t tell.

“Whatever else Jesus may have been, he was not a prude. He didn’t pass judgment on other people, not based upon their sexual practices or anything else. And yet, to listen to some preachers today, you’d think that the word ‘morals’ refers to nothing but sex. It has come to absolutely dominate so-called morality. Why? Why is sexual denial always perceived as superior to sexual indulgence? Why is organized religion so determined to control our sex lives? Why do we feel the need to disenfranchise homosexuals and masturbaters and… and swingers? Jesus didn’t prioritize these items. Why do they obsess us so?”

He was well spoken-Ben had to give him that. Whether the jury was buying it, whether in the long run it would even matter, he couldn’t know.

“Still and all, Father,” Christina said, “we know that some people in your church did not accept your arguments. They were… disturbed by all this.”

“Yes. To my disappointment, that was true. Especially toward the end.” His head bowed; he seemed sincerely regretful. “Of course, any time you introduce a radically different idea, you must expect objections. But there was more to it than that. Some people, whether due to their upbringing, lack of education, bad religious instruction, whatever, believe that if we are freed from society’s oppressive sexual constraints and moral censure and are allowed to indulge ourselves naturally, we will become animals, slaves to our basest desires, incapable of ethical behavior. Others, I suspect, believe that if women were freed from the sexual stereotypes that restrict them, it would liberate them from the oppression by men that is still all too real an element of our society.”

“Susan Marino was one of those people, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.” Tiny lines crept across his forehead. “I knew she was disturbed, that she was experiencing the guilt that male-dominated society told her she should… but I didn’t realize how profoundly she felt it, how much it traumatized her. And I hold myself responsible for that. I feel the same way about Carol Mason. It’s clear to me now that she simply can’t live with what she has done, can’t reconcile herself to it and, at least subconsciously, sees eliminating me as the only means of eradicating her guilt.” He paused. “I can only wonder how many others at the church feel the same way.”

“And Kate McGuire?”

“Much the same, I think. I didn’t know it until the day of the wedding. The day she died. As others have reported, she met me in the corridor and told me how she felt. How upset she was. ‘It’s evil,’ that’s what she said. What we were doing was evil.”

“Was that all she said?”

“No. She threatened to report what we were doing to the bishop.”

“Would that be bad?”

Beale almost smiled. “Bishop Goodwin is a progressive man, and the Episcopal Convention is a progressive church. But not that progressive.”

“So what did you do?”

“I’m afraid I lost my temper. I shouted and yelled and… threatened.”

“What did you say?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember. That often happens during these extreme flashes of temper. After they’ve subsided, I can’t even recall what occurred. But I have no reason to think that the accounts we’ve heard of what I said are inaccurate.”

“Did you plan to see her again?”

“I did. I remember that clearly. I knew we couldn’t resolve this in the few minutes remaining before the wedding began, so I asked her to meet me afterward in my office.”

“And did she?”

“I assume so. All I know is when I got there-she was dead.”

“Who else knew she was meeting you in your office?”

“A lot of people, apparently. I didn’t realize it at the time, but a good many overheard our disagreement.”

“What did you do when you discovered the body?”

“At first-nothing. I was stunned. Immobile. I mean, there she was, sprawled across my desk, blood covering the side of her head. I didn’t know what to do. And then, all of a sudden, it was as if an emotional dam inside me burst. I raced forward and ran to her side. I lifted her up and pressed her close to me. That’s when I got her blood all over myself. It’s probably when the hair got in the wound, too. I wanted her to know that she was loved, that I loved her. But of course, it was too late.”

Christina nodded, pausing for a moment to allow him to collect himself. “Then what did you do?”

“I put her down gently, administered the last rites, and started to leave the office. Then I noticed that my hands and clothes were soaked with blood. I walked to the bathroom to wash myself.”

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“Well, I should’ve, of course, but I just wasn’t thinking clearly. The shock of seeing her like that, in my office-” He shook his head, rubbed his hand over his beard. “Unless you’ve had something like that happen to you, you can’t conceive of what it does to your brain. Eventually I realized I should phone the authorities, but by that time, her body had been discovered by others. Still, I tried to make up for it. I cooperated with the police in every possible way. I made no attempt to flee, even though I knew perfectly well I would be a suspect.”

He stopped for a long moment. “You have to understand-I’m a priest. A horrible tragedy befell our church. I naturally wanted to help in any way possible. I did not believe I had done anything improper, and I wanted to do the right thing. For Kate, if for no other reason.”

“Is that why you remained with the church-even after you were arrested?”

“Jesus was arrested, too, but he didn’t give up his ministry. Not that I’m Jesus, by any means. But in our denomination, we believe that when you’re called to a church, you’re not just called by the parishioners, or the bishop-you’re called by God. And if I’ve been called by God, if God wants me to be there-how can I quit? Whatever the circumstances.”

Christina turned a page in her outline. “I have only a few more questions, Father, and then we’ll be finished. They’re not pleasant questions. But they have to be asked. Have you had sexual relations with Susan Marino?”

His lips pursed slightly. “Yes.”

“And Kate McGuire?”

“On many occasions. We were favorite partners. We always enjoyed one another’s company. Or so I thought.”

“Were those the only two parishioners with whom you’ve… been?”

“No. Not even close. But I do resent the suggestion that this was all some depraved scheme employed by a dirty old man. I believed in the Liberated Christians group. What I was saying, what we were doing. And it worked. I saw the benefits right before my eyes. I saw people freed from sexual chains that had bound them all their lives. Experiencing sexual pleasure for the first time. I saw marriages healed and strengthened. It wasn’t ugly or dirty. While it worked, it was beautiful.”

“And what did your wife think of all this?” Not that it was relevant. But if the jury believed he’d been playing around behind her back, they’d be much more likely to hang him. And if they thought she was behind him… well, that was something, anyway.

“My wife, Andrea, has always been supportive of my ministry, and this was no exception. Admittedly, she was hesitant at first, and even now often prefers to watch rather than to participate. But she’s behind me one hundred percent.”

Both figuratively and literally, because she was back in her seat on the first row of the gallery. She was, in reality, not at all happy about it. Regardless of what she believed, being present while her husband publicly discussed his relationships with other women couldn’t be fun. But Ben thought her presence was critical. She lent credibility to everything Father Beale said. If she didn’t object to what he was doing, what right had anyone else?

“Do you have any regrets?”

Father Beale paused, thinking. “I still believe what I advocate. I think what we did was right, and I think most people would be better off if they followed our lead. But I wonder if… I wonder if maybe I pushed too hard. Particularly some of the women. Perhaps it was too much too fast. Of course, no one was forced against their will. But I may have underestimated the power and influence of a priest. I may have induced some of them to proceed… before they were ready.”

He turned, craning his head toward the heavens. “I don’t know. I just don’t know. But if anyone was hurt-and it seems they were-I regret that most sincerely.”

“Father Beale,” Christina said finally, “did you kill Kate McGuire?”

“No.” He turned, peering straight at the jury as he spoke. “I did not. Not her, and not anyone else. I cared deeply for Kate.” He hesitated, then added, just under his breath. “I still do.”

“Thank you, Father. No more questions.”

Chapter 38

Canelli had been strangely quiet throughout the direct of Father Beale; Ben almost wondered if he was beginning to believe him. But that whim soon passed. Once cross started, it was no holds barred. Undoubtedly, Canelli thought the verdict would hinge on what happened during this cross-because Ben thought so, too.

“First of all, Mr. Beale,” Canelli said as he strode across the courtroom, “I’d like to thank you for that fascinating excursion into the wonderful world of situational ethics.”

Father Beale sat like a rock, staring back at Canelli, not saying a word.

Good boy, Ben thought. Just keep it up. As many times as Ben had prepped witnesses for trial, he was all too aware that most of them forgot everything he had told them when they actually took the stand. Including the most important rule of all: Don’t take the bait. If he doesn’t ask a question, keep your mouth closed.

“I mean, I’m being genuine,” Canelli said. “How many times in your life do you get to hear someone express a complex, philosophical excuse for screwing around?”

“Your honor,” Ben said wearily.

Judge Pitcock looked at Canelli harshly. “Mr. Prosecutor, I don’t like that kind of talk in my courtroom.”

“Sorry, sir.” He wasn’t.

“If this is any indication of how you intend to conduct this cross-examination, I’ll shut it down right here and now.”

“That won’t be necessary, sir.” Canelli returned his attention to the witness. “So, Father Beale… do you consider yourself a holy man?”

Ben rose to his feet, but he wasn’t fast enough to prevent Beale from answering. “Of course I do.”

Canelli shifted his gaze back to the bench. “Your honor, I ask leave of court at this time to introduce past acts evidence.”

“No way,” Ben cried. “Bench conference.”

Ben raced Canelli to the judge, while Father Beale and the jury watched in silence.

“Your honor, he cannot introduce evidence of past acts to imply or suggest conformity during the incidents at issue. The case law on this is a mile long. It’s absolutely not permitted.”

“Unless,” Canelli added, “the witness opens the door.”

“He hasn’t opened any doors. He’s barely spoken.”

“He said he was a holy man.”

“He is!”

“Your honor,” Canelli said, “this is no different from the many cases in which a witness testifies that he is honest or truthful. It opens the door to evidence of past incidents in which he was not honest or truthful. Here, we have a witness who claims that his behavior is holy. I’m now entitled to show otherwise.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ben said. “You set a trap for him.”

Canelli shrugged. “The man said what he said.”

“He’s a priest, for God’s sake. Saying he’s holy isn’t bragging. It’s more like… a job description.”

“Nonetheless,” Judge Pitcock said gravely, “the man did say it.”

“Only when he was directly questioned by opposing counsel,” Ben said.

“It’s in the record.” Pitcock spread his hands. “My hands are tied.”

Ben knew the judge was right, but he still hated the result, not only because it couldn’t possibly help Father Beale’s case, but because he knew the whole mess was his own damn fault. “Your honor, in this case, where matters of faith and religion are so intricately intertwined with criminal issues, this kind of questioning could have a prejudicial effect that far outweighs its limited probative value. I must ask the court to reconsider.”

“Sorry, Mr. Kincaid. I hear what you’re saying. But the law is clear.” He addressed Canelli. “You may continue.”

“Thank you, your honor.” Canelli went into full attack-dog mode. “Tell me, Father Beale, since you got this great gig at St. Benedict’s, exactly how many Liberated Christian women have you had?”

“Objection!” Ben bellowed.

“Overruled.”

“I’m… not sure what you mean,” Beale said stonily.

“Well, let me rephrase,” Canelli continued. “How often did the Liberated Christians group meet?”

“Once a week. But they weren’t all-”

“And I assume you had a different woman every week.”

“Most of those meetings were discussional in nature.”

“Well, how many weren’t, sir? How many went past talking and involved coupling?”

Beale’s face was tight as a drum. “Usually we had interactive sessions once a month.”

“Interactive sessions. I like that. Sounds a lot better than ‘we all piled into a room and had sex with one another.’ ”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Really. What was it like? We all want to know.”

“You’re making it sound so… nasty.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t!” Beale’s voice rose sharply. He was starting to lose his temper, which, Ben knew, was exactly what Canelli wanted. “Sex is a beautiful thing. It’s a gift from God. It’s these narrow-minded puritans who have transformed this gift into something base and ugly.”

“Uh-huh. Right.” Canelli paced back and forth in front of the witness box, his tall frame hunched forward. He looked like a tiger preparing to pounce. “So, you had sex once a month, and this went on for at least three years. My goodness, Father Beale-you’ve had sex with, what? Thirty-six different parishioners?”

“It wasn’t always someone different.”

“Oh? Did you have favorites?”

“Some people will inevitably turn out to be more compatible than others.”

“So you would have a return bout with the same woman.”

“Sometimes.”

“You know, Father, this is starting to sound less like recreational sex and more like having an affair.”

“It wasn’t an affair.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“Then you’re not trying. The difference is huge. My wife knew all about it.”

“Did she know about your favorites?”

Inevitably, every eye in the courtroom clocked back to the gallery to check Andrea’s expression. Ben thought she was holding up well, given the circumstances. But she wasn’t enjoying it; that was obvious enough.

“I don’t think she kept track of who I was with or when. It wasn’t important to her.”

“Says you. Tell me this-was Susan Marino one of your favorites?”

Beale’s breathing became deep and heavy. “We partnered together on more than one occasion.”

“You were a busy man, Father. The Don Juan of the Episcopal Church.”

“Don’t you see what you’re doing?” Beale’s voice boomed across the courtroom. “You’re condemning me because my sexual practices are different from yours. This is blatant prejudice. It’s no different than condemning someone because they aren’t chaste, or because they’re homosexual, or they… they… don’t use the missionary position!”

“This is different, sir,” Canelli said firmly. “There’s a big difference. Because here, someone got murdered.”

“That had nothing to do with the Liberated Christian activities.”

“I think it did. I think that’s, in part, why Kate McGuire was murdered. Tell me, was she another of your favorites?”

Beale hesitated. “I have already said that we had been together on several occasions. I’d probably been with her more often than anyone else.”

“You enjoyed being with her.”

“Yes.”

“But she didn’t enjoy being with you, did she?”

“At the time, I thought-”

“When she talked to you the day of the wedding, didn’t she express regret and remorse about what she had done with you?”

“Yes. I’ve already said-”

“She told you she wanted out, right? In fact, she wanted the whole program shut down.”

“That was what she said.”

“She called it evil. Wasn’t that her word? Evil?”

“Yes,” Beale said quietly.

The tiger whirled on him. “Looks like liberation didn’t turn out so well for her, huh? And that’s why you killed her, isn’t it?”

Beale spoke through clenched teeth. “I did not kill her!”

Canelli didn’t let up. “What would’ve happened if she had reported what was going on to the bishop?”

“I… can’t be entirely sure…”

“But it wouldn’t have been good, huh?”

“There would have been an ecclesiastical review.”

“Oh, come clean, Father. You would’ve lost your job.”

“Very likely.”

“In fact, you’d probably never work as a priest again.”

“It’s possible that some other penance might be arranged…”

“With your record?”

“Record? I’ve been arrested twice. Once during a rally in support of the Equal Rights Amendment at the state capital. Once when I was marching in opposition to the Black Fox nuclear power plant.”

Ben knew Beale was trying to soften the blow by being forthcoming with details that weren’t harmful anyway. But that wasn’t what Canelli was after. “I’m not talking about your criminal record, sir. I’m talking about your record of sexual impropriety.”

Beale’s lips pressed together, his face the picture of barely suppressed rage. “I don’t have any such record.”

Canelli’s head sprang up like a cobra’s. “Your honor? Past acts?”

Pitcock nodded. “You may proceed.”

Ben was on his feet, once again just a beat too late. “Your honor, I object. He didn’t-”

“Don’t bother, Mr. Kincaid. The witness made the statement. The prosecutor is allowed to inquire.”

“But your honor-”

“Sit down, Mr. Kincaid. Mr. Canelli, please proceed.”

Canelli didn’t need urging. “This isn’t the first time your libido has gotten you into trouble with a church, is it, Father?”

Ben tumbled back into his chair, feeling like his stomach had just dropped to his knees.

“I’m not sure to what you’re referring.”

“Your previous church, in Oklahoma City. St. Gregory’s. You had to leave because you were messing around.”

Beale’s voice cracked. “There was no lifestyle group in Oklahoma City.”

“No, this was just a flat-out affair, wasn’t it? With a married woman. Marilee Eddings. A member of your flock.”

Beale spoke in a slow and controlled voice. “It was a counseling situation. Our feelings got out of hand.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

“It was a mistake. I’ve acknowledged that. I confessed what happened to the bishop-”

“And that’s why you lost your job.”

“The bishop thought it would be best if I relocated to another parish.”

“Where you wouldn’t be hitting on the women?”

Beale’s jaw locked up tight. Veins were visible in his neck. “If the bishop thought I was not trustworthy, he wouldn’t have given me a new church.”

“Your bishop seems to be very understanding about your shortcomings.”

“He believes in forgiveness and redemption, as should all Christians.”

“He gave you another church after you’d engaged in sexual impropriety at the last one.”

Beale’s voice was growing louder. “It was an isolated incident with a woman who-”

“Of course, at the church before that, it was a little girl.”

One of the female jurors gasped, so loudly it could be heard throughout the courtroom. Two of the others covered their faces with their hands. Several were shaking their heads.

“I don’t know what you can possibly-”

“St. John’s. In Choctaw. You were brought up on charges for molesting a nine-year-old girl.”

Ben felt his blood run cold. Beale’s defense was disintegrating and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, no doubt.”

“It was!” Beale shouted. His face was hard and red. He gripped the banister, trying to retain control. “I was at a summer camp, as a counselor. A group of girls were playing a game. Soccer, I think it was. One of the girls scored a point, and everyone was shouting and hugging and congratulating her. I swatted her on the backside with the back of my hand.”

“You touched her buttocks?”

“It’s a common thing to do.”

“To a nine-year-old girl?”

“In the sports world!” Beale shouted. “I know I shouldn’t have done it. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“You seem to have a problem in that department.”

“It was a mistake! The girl barely noticed. But some old busybody saw it and reported it to the girl’s mother, and she brought the charges. Which were soon dropped.”

“Was that because your partner-in-crime, the bishop, intervened for you again?”

“It’s because there was nothing to it!” Beale teetered forward, almost rising out of his seat. “I made a mistake and learned from it. It never happened again!”

“Well, not with a nine-year-old.” Canelli brought his full height to bear, hovering over the witness stand. “But you’ve got a history of sexual impropriety that spans your entire career.”

“There are only three incidents-”

“That I was able to uncover. But before you claimed there were none at all. And three is a lot for a… holy man, wouldn’t you say?”

Father Beale fell silent.

“Here’s how I see it, Father. When Kate McGuire confronted you, you saw the whole thing blowing up in your face. Again. If she squealed to the bishop, and word got out about what you were doing, no one could save you. You’d be finished as a priest. You’d be publicly exposed as a sex pervert. And that’s why you killed her.”

“I did not kill her!” Beale roared. He jumped to his feet. “I did not kill her!”

Ben and Christina exchanged a pained look. He’d lost it. Canelli had gotten what he wanted-and the jury was watching.

“You did,” Canelli said. “You killed her in cold blood. To save yourself!”

“I did not!” Beale’s face flushed crimson. His entire body trembled with rage. “I did not!”

“Then who did? The invisible man? The only person whose fingerprints were on that weapon was you! How do you explain that?”

“I… can’t.”

“Because you killed her, didn’t you? You had sex with her, time and time again, and when she didn’t like it anymore, you killed her!”

“No!” Beale’s face was contorted by vivid, almost tangible anger. He leaned against the railing, virtually snarling. He looked like a monster.

Judge Pitcock pounded his gavel. “The witness will sit down and control himself!”

“I did not kill her!” Beale continued, oblivious to the judge, the jury, everything. “I couldn’t kill anyone!”

Which he could shout all day, Ben realized, and it wouldn’t matter. Because in the courtroom, actions speak louder than words. And at the moment, he looked like a man who could kill. Could and would. And did.

Canelli gave the jury one more long look, shook his head sadly, then closed his notebook. “No more questions, your honor.”

Chapter 39

After a much needed recess, Christina spent the better part of an hour redirecting, trying to salvage some semblance of Father Beale’s credibility. She took him back through all the incidents Canelli had raised on cross, eliciting his side of the story. Most important, she took him back to the scene of the crime itself, step by step, establishing where he was and why he wasn’t in the office at the time of the murder. It went well-better than Ben expected. But how much difference would it make with the jury? What they had witnessed would weigh heavily on each and every one of them. What they had seen in the courtroom today they couldn’t possibly forget.

“Is she dead?”

“Oh, yes,” Manly said. “She’s dead. Well and truly.”

“You’re certain.”

“Absolutely. Not a doubt about it.” He was feeling a mix of emotions so complex he had difficulty expressing them even to himself. He knew that he had struck a great blow for the cause. But at the same time… something else was buzzing through his brain. Or perhaps it was his heart. Something… less certain.

But that was nonsense. He’d done what he’d meant to do, and he was proud of it. He wasn’t going to let any weak-kneed sentiment bring him down. He was a Crusader, after all. He’d done the right thing. He knew he had.

“I said, are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Dead as a doornail. Limp as a mackerel. Pick your cliché. She’s gone.”

“Good.”

“You seem happy about it.”

“I’m happy to see… to see our plan brought to fruition.”

Something about his friend’s answer didn’t strike Manly right. “There wasn’t something more, was there? You were somewhat adamant that she be the one.”

“She was the perfect choice. We discussed it over and over.”

“I know. I just wondered if maybe there was something more.”

“Well, there wasn’t. So stop being stupid. We have to remain focused. And we have to do something with the body.”

What was it about that answer that didn’t seem quite convincing? Manly wondered. He shouldn’t be suspicious. It was just guilt creeping up on him. It was stupid. He wouldn’t descend to that level.

And yet…

“So, are you going to help or not?”

Manly snapped out of it. “Yeah, yeah. I’m helping.” He hesitated. “Look… don’t call me stupid. I don’t like it.”

“Sorry. It just slipped out. It won’t happen again. You know I have nothing but the highest regard for you. You’re a hero in my book.”

Yeah, I think I probably am, Manly thought, as he positioned himself around the corpse. But maybe not for the reason I thought.

He gazed one last time at the old woman’s remains. She did look tranquil now; more than she ever had when she was living. Maybe there was a peace in the afterlife, even for babykillers and those who support them. Who knew? He took the top half, and his friend took the bottom, and together, they lifted the lifeless body of Ernestine Rupert, founder of Tulsa’s top pro-choice group, late of the vestry of St. Benedict’s church, into the truck.

“Mr. Prosecutor,” Judge Pitcock asked, “would you like to make a closing statement?”

Canelli nodded and approached the jury. “I’ve been in the DA’s office for fourteen years now. Most of them good ones. I’ve won a lot of cases, and I’ve lost some, too. But I can tell you this, and I mean it sincerely-this has been the hardest case I’ve had to try in my entire career. I don’t imagine there will ever be a tougher one.”

Ben’s eyebrows rose. This was an unusual opening, especially coming from Canelli. Unusually soft, and unusually honest.

“It isn’t because I have the slightest doubt about Daniel Beale’s guilt. I don’t. The evidence against him is overwhelming, irrefutable. But that hasn’t made my job easier. Because at heart, I’m still a good Catholic boy from the Sunday school classes of St. Thomas More’s of Broken Arrow, and prosecuting a man of the cloth has not been a pleasure. And I’ve had to do more than that. I’ve had to expose him as a man who could not control his temper, and worse, could not control his sexual appetites. I’ve had to reveal that a man who acted as a counselor to many was in fact a sexual deviant, engaging in numerous liaisons with the women who trusted him. I’ve had to reveal that he had inappropriate relationships with married women and even small children. And that, you can take my word for it, has been no pleasure.”

A snazzy way of reminding the jury of all the most salacious moments of the trial without seeming salacious as he did it, Ben thought. And yet, he had to admit, there was something undeniably genuine, something truly regretful, about Canelli’s tone and manner.

“I kept telling myself, perhaps I was simply being inflexible. Perhaps I was too resistant to new ideas, to anything that deviated from what I grew up believing. Perhaps I had become so locked into the role of the prosecutor that I saw evil everywhere-even where it didn’t exist.”

Christina shot Ben a pointed look. What was this, closing argument or Canelli’s private soul search? And yet, as he looked into the eyes of the jurors, he saw that they were hanging on every word. Some of them were even nodding in agreement. Whatever it was Canelli was doing, it seemed to be effective.

“I don’t know,” Canelli continued. “I don’t know all the answers. I don’t pretend to. Let’s face it-the courtroom is no place for questions of faith. We are simply ill-equipped to handle such profound and mysterious matters. But here’s the one thing I do know-Father Daniel Beale killed Kate McGuire. You don’t need faith to recognize that truth. You don’t need to approve or disapprove of his politics or his sexual practices. All you need to do is look at the unequivocal evidence.

“Daniel Beale had a long history of violent, uncontrolled temper, something you unfortunately witnessed right here in this courtroom. He was seen by numerous witnesses in a protracted argument with the victim minutes before she was killed. He threatened her. He arranged a rendezvous with her. She kept the meeting, and an eyewitness saw him keep it-placing him at the scene of the murder at the time of the murder. He was seen shortly thereafter with blood on his hands and clothes-worse, he was seen trying to wash it off, trying to remove the evidence of his crime before the police arrived. And his fingerprints were on the weapon found in his office-his and no one else’s.

“In prosecution circles, this is what’s called a perfect case-we’ve established motive and opportunity, and there is both physical and eyewitness testimony pointing unequivocally to the defendant. There is simply no doubt about this one-he’s guilty. Of murder in the first degree.”

The handsome DA moved slowly from one end of the jury box to the other. He paused, peering reflectively at the jurors. “When this case is over, I suspect you will not soon forget it. I suspect that you, like me, will have many questions that you will ponder for days, perhaps even longer. Questions about politics, sex, the proper role of a minister. Even questions of faith. But you mustn’t let those blind you to the core truth of this trial. This is a murder trial, and the only question you are being asked to resolve is: Who killed Kate McGuire? You may have reservations about everything else, but about that there is no doubt. Daniel Beale committed the murder. No one else could have. He committed a crime against Kate McGuire, her family, the state-and against God. And as unpleasant as the duty may be, you have an obligation to punish him for that crime, in the manner prescribed by the laws of this state. It is the job you accepted when you took your seat in that box. And now I call upon you to do it.”

That was, Ben mused as he walked to the jury box, perhaps the most thoughtful, introspective, low-key closing argument he had heard in his life-and probably three times as effective as a fiery impassioned diatribe would’ve been. Canelli, for whatever reason, had chosen to play it smart-which made Ben’s job all the more difficult.

“Let’s make one thing clear up front. I don’t care for this business of recreational spouse swapping any better than you do. Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned, maybe I’m just too scared, I don’t know. But it doesn’t seem right to me and I don’t like it. You probably don’t, either.”

He leaned across the rail separating him from the jurors. “Does that make Father Beale a murderer? No. Does this have anything to do with the murder? No.”

He paused, letting the words steep and percolate in the jurors’ brains. “Oh, I know what the prosecution is saying. They’re trying to twist it into a motive, trying to say it created disharmony with the vestry, that Kate McGuire was upset about it. But the fact is, we already knew there was disharmony in the vestry, and we already knew that Father Beale had a big fight with Kate McGuire in the corridor at the wedding. He told you that himself, up front. What did the protracted testimony about the Liberated Christians group add to our knowledge? Nothing. Not a thing.

“So why did the prosecutor spend so much time on it? Because it’s evidence of criminal intent? Hardly. He wants you to be appalled. He wants you to find Father Beale guilty because he’s a bad man who did an ugly thing. Because the actual evidence of murder is thin and entirely circumstantial. So what the prosecutor can’t accomplish by direct evidence he’s trying to accomplish indirectly by turning you against the defendant. By trotting out every mistake he’s ever made in his entire life so you will want to punish him.

“But that’s not how it works, ladies and gentlemen. If you bring a verdict against my client, it can be for one reason and one reason only-because the prosecution has proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he is guilty of the crime of first-degree murder. And they haven’t done it. They haven’t even come close.”

Ben paused, collecting his thoughts. He knew this trial had gone on long enough; he wasn’t going to add several more hours of him gabbing. He had to make his point, make it well-and sit down.

“So let’s clear away the debris and character assassination and look at the actual evidence that relates to the murder. What is there? Not much, truth be told. Yes, Father Beale was at the church at the time. So were about two hundred other people. Yes, he had a fight with Kate McGuire before the wedding in front of witnesses-but that should be proof that he wasn’t the murderer. Unless you think Father Beale is a total idiot, and I think it’s clear that he isn’t, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill someone-in his own office-minutes after numerous people saw him having a big argument with her.”

Ben continued, rattling through the prosecution evidence. “Only two witnesses attempted to put Father Beale in his office at the time of the murder-a severely nearsighted elderly woman, and a pathetic liar who first offered his testimony to the defense and then, when I wouldn’t use him-because he was obviously lying-offered his services to the prosecution. The kid got his fifteen minutes of fame, but did that make what he said true? Far from it. There’s not even any proof that punk was at the wedding, much less that he saw anything important. His word is worse than worthless.”

Ben thought he was making his points and expressing himself well, but he’d be happier if he got some indication of that from the jury. Instead, all he saw were stony, unresponsive faces. They were listening. But he saw no evidence that they were agreeing.

“I think we can all agree to disregard the testimony of the so-called hair expert. That testimony was so weak I notice the prosecutor didn’t even mention it in his summation. The single piece of physical evidence upon which the prosecutor now hangs his hat is the fingerprints on the St. Crispin’s Award. He thinks it’s very incriminating that Father Beale’s fingerprints were on that thing. But let’s think about that for a moment. It was Father Beale’s award, after all. It was on his desk. He’d had it for over ten years.” Ben’s voice swelled. “Of course his fingerprints were on it!

“I don’t know why the killer’s fingerprints weren’t on it. Frankly, I just haven’t figured out how that was done. But I know that somehow, some way, the killer held that thing in his hands without leaving a mark. I wish I could explain it to you, but the truth is, I don’t have to, because the burden of proof is on the prosecution, not the defense. I don’t have to prove anything. The question before you now is whether the presence of Father Beale’s fingerprints on his own desk ornament proves he’s a murderer. And the answer is-no. Not remotely. And certainly not beyond a reasonable doubt.”

Ben stepped back from the rail and clasped his hands. “I know all of you probably have many unanswered questions, many conundrums to contemplate. But I must remind you, as you go into that deliberation room, that it is not your job, and it would be inappropriate for you to attempt, to debate issues of sexual propriety. This is not a referendum on monogamy, on matters of faith, on whether Father Beale was a good priest, or on whether his personal philosophies are sound. This is only about murder, about whether the prosecution has proved to you that Father Beale is a murderer. He isn’t. But you know what? Even if you disagree with that, even if you kind of sort of suspect he might be-that isn’t good enough. Because you aren’t being asked whether you think the man is guilty. You’re being asked whether the prosecution has proved that he is guilty-beyond a reasonable doubt. That’s the only question before you.”

He stopped and slowly looked at each of the jurors in turn. “And the only possible answer to that question is no.”

Chapter 40

The Gospel According to Daniel

We are told, by those who read the Book of Revelations as a series of apocalyptic prophesies, that at the end of days we will each of us face judgment.

Mine came early.

It is an extraordinary experience. Of course, we all know that we are judged on a daily basis. The opinions of others-friends, family, and acquaintances-are constantly shaped and reshaped. We find ourselves on a sliding scale of public opinion, one that too often fluctuates based upon what we did last, what we said, what we wrote. It is a reality of life that any of us who works in the public eye must face. We are quite simply judged all the time.

But not like this. And not with such grave consequences. How many times in one’s life does one realize with cold and stark immediacy that the next few moments will determine the rest of your life-or even curtail that life? Not often. And thank God for that, because the stress of the moment, the grave weight on the human heart, cannot be borne for long. It is not possible to describe accurately what it’s like, waiting for the jury to return and seal your fate. The incipient panic that results from the realization that your life could be significantly foreshortened.

It was, to be certain, not pleasant, seeing all my secrets exposed, reading about them in the newspaper, hearing about them on television, knowing that the opinions of others regarding me would be forever altered. Even with secrets that should not have been secrets, even with bits of shame that should not have been shameful, with positions and decisions I could ably defend, I found this to be a demeaning and ultimately terrifying process. It caused me to reexamine everything, to rethink, to reconsider. To face up to the stark reality that in some respects-I may well have been wrong.

And when all is said and done, that is the most painful experience of all-to be judged according to the coarse scrutiny of your own soul. And found wanting.

Ben and Christina and Father Beale sat at a table in the small waiting area near the courtroom as they had done more or less continuously since the judge instructed the jury and sent them away to deliberate. They’d had some Vietnamese takeout from Ri Le’s and some strongly flavored dessert coffee. But no one’s spirits were lifted. They sat in silence only occasionally broken by abortive attempts at small talk that never went anywhere.

“I’m going to get some regular coffee,” Ben said, excusing himself. He thought he would have to go downstairs and see Charlie at the snack bar. To his surprise, he found something waiting for him right outside the door.

“Regular or decaf?” Judy said, holding a thermos in each hand.

“Judy? What in the world-?”

“We also have one filled with chocolate milk. Show him, Maura.” Behind her, Maura held up a silver thermos, giggling. “I know it’s your secret favorite.”

“Not at times like this.” He took the regular and grunted his thanks. “What are you two girls doing here?”

“You didn’t think we were going to leave before we knew the verdict, did you?”

“It could be days before the jury returns.”

“I don’t think so.”

Ben raised his eyebrows. “Is that based on your years of trial experience?”

“No. It’s based on my years of watching Court TV. Long deliberations occur when the jury is confused, when the lawyers haven’t done a good job of identifying the key issues. You, of course, did a brilliant job. Your closing gave me chill bumps.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Mind you, I’m not saying you’re going to win. But I do think the jury understands the issues. They’ll resolve it one way or the other. Soon.”

Words of wisdom from the fifteen-year-old jury consultant. But young as she was, she was probably right.

“Thanks for the coffee. Now go home. I’ll have someone call you if the jury returns.” He reentered the conference room and poured the coffee. No one took much.

“How long has it been?” Christina asked.

Ben checked his watch. “Too long.”

“How much longer will it take?” Father Beale asked.

“The judge will make them deliberate until ten, at least,” Ben explained. “If he can possibly get it resolved today, he’ll try to do it. If not, he’ll dismiss them and they’ll start up again tomorrow morning.”

“And if they don’t finish today, how long could it go?”

“There’s no set limit. But given how many days the trial took, Judge Pitcock will not accept a hung jury readily. It could go on for weeks. Even months.”

“Months?” Beale squeezed his temples. “Months.”

“But that probably won’t happen,” Christina added hastily. “Most juries finish up the first day.”

“And what does that mean? If they finish quickly.”

“Some trial lawyers say it means a guilty verdict, but I’ve heard others argue exactly the opposite. The truth is-no one knows. Juries are, ultimately, unknowable and unpredictable.”

“Days. Weeks. Months.” Beale shook his head with despair. “I can’t handle this. At least not alone.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “If you two will excuse me, I’d like to find a quiet place where I can pray.”

Ben’s eyes narrowed. “You’re going to… pray?”

“You think that’s an unusual thing for a priest to do?”

“Well, no, but-”

“But now that you know I have a sex life, you’ve decided that I’m not really religious.”

“I didn’t mean that-”

“Uh-huh.” Beale walked to the door, then stopped. “I’m a servant of God, Ben. I always have been. That’s not self-aggrandizement-that’s just a statement of fact. My faith is what sustains me. And right now-I need all the sustenance I can get.”

Thoroughly ashamed of himself, Ben watched Father Beale leave the room. He knew what kind of person Father Beale was as well as anyone, better than most. He had known since he was twelve years old. How could he possibly forget?

When Ben saw what he had done to the stained glass window, all those years ago, he knew he was doomed. Conner and Landon and the others had predictably vanished. But his father hadn’t. He could see Edward Kincaid making his way to the scene of the crime, not running, but walking with determination and alacrity, as he always did when he had something on his mind. His father had never needed much of an excuse to disapprove of Ben, or to express his disapproval in stringent and immediate terms. The fact that this was an accident would cut no weight with him. You must learn to act responsibly, he would say. And if you can’t learn it on your own, then I will teach it to you. It had happened before. And the memories were all too sharp, too recent, and too painful.

But Ben had never done anything like this before. He’d never done anything so horrible. He knew his father would view this as a public humiliation. And his father did not like to be publicly humiliated.

Ben’s father was a big man, a sharp contrast to Ben’s slight physique. He had always been able to intimidate Ben, but today he seemed to tower over him.

“Did you do this?” his father asked, in short, clipped tones.

In a split second, Ben considered all his options. He couldn’t blame anyone else, and he certainly couldn’t deny that it had happened. Trying to explain about Valerie Beth and Conner and the robing room would only make it worse.

To Ben’s embarrassment, his voice squeaked as he spoke. “Yes, sir.”

“You irresponsible little-” His father’s fists balled up. “Haven’t I told you to act more maturely? Haven’t I told you to be wise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your mother coddles you, of course. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she never listens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve always had every little thing you wanted. Always.”

Baloney-but this was not the time to disagree. “Yes, sir.”

“She lets you live in a dream world, with your books and reading all the time. You have no idea what it’s like to be out in the real world, how hard it is to get by. And then you turn around and do something like this-destroying a treasure others have worked so hard for.”

“I know, Father, and I’m really sorry-”

“Sorry is for losers, Ben.” He grabbed his son roughly by the collar. “We’re leaving.” His dark expression left Ben no doubt about what would happen when they arrived home.

His father spun around so fast he almost collided with Father Beale, who was standing just behind them.

Father Beale smiled. “Is there a problem, Edward?”

“I’m afraid so, Father. My nitwit son has broken your stained glass window.”

“Yes, I know. I asked him to do it.”

Ben’s lips parted. What-?

Edward Kincaid’s eyes widened. “You asked him to do it?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, there was a flaw in the bottom half of the glass. Has to be replaced. We had to knock out that whole section so it could be repaired.”

A line creased Ben’s father’s forehead. “Couldn’t workmen do that?”

“Of course they could. But they would charge for it, wouldn’t they? And I think this little indulgence of mine has cost the church quite enough already.”

“But why Ben-?”

“Because I couldn’t bear to do it myself. Weak, I know. But there you have it. I couldn’t, so I asked Ben to help. Which he did. He’s a fine boy, you know, Edward. You should be very proud of him.”

Ben stared at the priest wordlessly. He didn’t know what to say-and thought it best he not try to say anything at all.

His father cleared his throat. “Yes. Well… I didn’t know… I didn’t realize…” His fists slowly unclenched. He released Ben’s collar. The blood began to drain out of his face. “That’s different, of course.”

“How is the work on the parish profile coming, Edward?”

“Oh, slow. Like all committees. It takes about three meetings to write one sentence.”

“I appreciate your hard work. If we’re going to hire a top-notch curate, we need a strong and appealing profile. Just remember-the most important thing to emphasize is not the physical plant, or the rites practiced, or the plethora of programming. Christianity isn’t about a new roof, or pledges, or Wednesday-night supper. It’s about helping other people in need. That’s the most important thing.” He turned his head slightly. “Did you know that, Ben?”

“I do now,” Ben said quietly.

“Well, I don’t mean to lecture. You know how we priests are once we get wound up. I should probably arrange for the new glass, now that we’ve got the demolition completed. I just wanted to say hello, Edward, and to thank you again, Ben, for helping me.”

“My pleasure,” Ben mumbled.

“Oh, and-I’ll see you Saturday at nine?”

“Saturday morning?”

Father Beale smiled. “For acolyte class. We should get started right away, I think.”

Even though it was wildly inappropriate, given all that had happened, Ben couldn’t help returning his smile. “I’ll be there.”

Even after all these years, Ben remembered that day as if it were yesterday. Father Beale took a lot of grief from the vestry for destroying the window, but he never once told anyone what had really happened. When Ben heard that Beale was at odds with the vestry at St. Benedict’s, his first thought was-Who is he saving this time?

That was a day everything changed for Ben. His goals and priorities. His sense of what was important. How he should live his life. Father Beale had been an intercessor for him, and many years later, Ben had chosen a career as an intercessor for others. Father Beale had given him a great gift, but the implicit understanding was that Ben would use that gift-would use his life-in a way that mattered.

“Ben?”

He looked up abruptly. “What? Yes?”

Christina stared at him strangely. “You looked as if you were sleeping.”

“Oh, no. Just… daydreaming. What is it?”

“What do you think?” She glanced at Father Beale, then took his hand and clasped it firmly between hers. “The jury’s back.”

In the courtroom, Ben thought, no one can hear you scream. He wanted to rear back his head and cut loose with a big one. But Judge Pitcock would not be amused, and it would only make a hideously bad situation all the worse.

He watched as the twelve jurors (the alternates having been dismissed) filed solemnly into the courtroom. They did not look at Father Beale, did not even glance at counsel table. But that was not uncommon, Ben thought, trying to calm himself. Whether it was the influence of television, or just that they’d been working so long they wanted their big moment not to be spoiled, Ben had observed that most jurors tried not to give away the result. At least not this soon. Later, when the verdict was being read out, they would look at Father Beale. If they had acquitted him.

“The defendant will rise.”

Ben and Christina and Father Beale all stood. Ben noticed that Beale’s knees were shaking, so profoundly that it had to be apparent to everyone.

“Madame Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”

The middle-aged, somewhat heavy-set woman at the left end of the first row spoke. “We have, your honor.”

She passed the all-important piece of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the judge. Pitcock glanced at it expressionlessly, then returned it to the bailiff. “Proceed.”

Madame Foreperson cleared her throat. She’s not looking at us, Ben thought, not me, or Christina or Father Beale. She’s not looking at us, damn it!

“In the matter of the State of Oklahoma versus Daniel Samuel Beale, on the count of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant…”

Why did they always pause there? Haven’t we waited long enough?

“… we find the defendant guilty as charged.”

There was a gasp somewhere in the gallery, and a moment later, Father Beale crumbled. Ben wrapped an arm around him, trying to prop him up.

The gallery went crazy. Reporters leaped out of their seats, rushing out of the courtroom so they could switch on their cell phones and report the news. Everyone seemed to be speaking at once. Andrea had her arms stretched out toward her husband. She was sobbing and wailing and looked just as stunned as he did.

“My God, my God…” Beale murmured. Tears appeared in the corners of his eyes.

The sentencing phase was a blur. Both sides called witnesses, but everything Ben did was drowned in the despair that came from too much knowledge. He’d been around long enough to know that if the jury had been inclined to mitigate, they would not have gone for Murder One.

All too soon, they heard once again from Madame Foreperson. “Pursuant to the guidelines set forth in the court’s instructions to the jury, we recommend that the defendant, having been found guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree by a jury of his peers, should be sentenced to execution by lethal injection.”

“No,” Father Beale cried. “My God, no.”

“The jury’s recommendation will be accepted by the court,” Judge Pitcock answered.

Another tumult ensued. “No!” Andrea screamed. She collapsed into her seat.

Amidst the clamor and confusion, the sheriff’s marshals appeared. “We’ll take custody of the prisoner.”

“My God,” Beale continued, his eyes wide and unbelieving. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

The judge was thanking and dismissing the jury, but Ben didn’t hear any of it. Never before had he felt a grown man absolutely crumble into his arms. Beale was like a baby; he couldn’t walk, couldn’t support his own weight.

One of the marshals inched closer. “I’m sorry. We have to take him back to the jail now.”

Christina looked angry enough to tear his eyes out. “Couldn’t you give us one minute alone with him?”

“I’m sorry,” the marshal said, unblinking. “No.”

“Daniel!” Andrea rushed forward, trying to embrace her husband, but one of the marshals held her back while they cuffed their prisoner. It took both of them to hold him upright, but they eventually managed to carry Father Beale away.

“This isn’t over,” Ben said as they departed. “We’ll do everything we can. You can count on it.”

But even as he said it, Ben knew it was balderdash. All they could do-what could they possibly do? Threaten to appeal? Ben knew how futile that would be. The case was over, and they had lost.

Father Beale had given Ben so much, had in a very real sense given him his mission, his life. And now, all these years later, Ben had held Father Beale’s life in his hands… and had let it slip through his fingers.

Chapter 41

“Bad news?” Manly asked as his friend hung up the phone.

“You could say that. Father Beale has been convicted.”

“Convicted?”

“Murder one. He’s getting the needle.”

Manly nodded solemnly. “And vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

“Evidently.”

“What are we going to do with this corpse? We have to think of the right place to put it. So people will know we’ve punished the babykillers.”

“Yeah, right. That’s it,” his friend said, but of course that wasn’t it at all. He couldn’t care less about the goddamn abortion cause; that was just a blind he’d used to persuade this simpleminded zealot to do his dirty work for him, to accomplish his end-the death of one Ernestine Rupert. Manly targeted her because she founded and chaired the pro-choice PCSC. But he had far more personal reasons for wanting her dead.

They could just hide the corpse. Bury it. Keep it out of sight. That would be safest-but it didn’t help him any. The whole thing wasn’t worth a damn thing if no one knew she was dead. Because as long as no one knew she was dead-

He couldn’t inherit her money.

The problem was, with Beale convicted and behind bars, they couldn’t pin this murder on him. They would have to contrive some other explanation.

“Do you think people will be suspicious? About another murder victim from the same church?”

“After what people have heard was going on in that church, I don’t think anything will surprise them.” What a fool Manly was. A twisted simpleton with a taste for violence. The most useful devils were the ones who thought they were angels.

“We’ll wait a while,” he said finally. “Then we’ll plant the body.”

“But… that’s a long time to have a stiff lying around, isn’t it?”

“What’s the matter, Manly? Getting creeped out by your own work?”

“No-I just-you know. She might start to smell or something.”

“We’ll get her out in plenty of time. You can Lysol the house afterward. I’ll help.”

But he wouldn’t, of course. After the body was moved and the work was completed, Grady Gilliland would disappear. No more wig, no more fake glasses and mustache, no more silly accent. There would be no need for him anymore. After all this planning and effort, the work would be done. And all that would remain was Bruce Ashour, devoted nephew of the late Ernestine Rupert, the poor sap she treated and mistreated like a miserable servant.

A miserable servant now in line for roughly 10.6 million dollars.

Chapter 42

“Ben, open the door. Do you hear me? Open up!”

Ben heard him, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“Come on, Ben, snap out of it. This is Mike. Let me in!”

The pounding on the door grew louder and more insistent, but Ben didn’t budge. Rude, he knew. Self-indulgent, self-pitying. But he still didn’t move.

“Christina says you’ve been sitting around your apartment moping for… way too long. She’s worried about you.”

He pounded the door some more, but it didn’t get him anywhere.

“I’m worried about you, too. And unlike Christina, I’m not inclined to let you sit around stewing in your own juices.”

What exactly did that mean? Ben wondered as he sat on the sofa, not moving. What juices? And how exactly did one stew them?

“Fine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” A few seconds passed, then there was a thundering crash at the front door. Mike spilled through the entry, shoulder first.

This time, Ben responded. “You broke the door down! You splintered the jamb!”

“Sorry. Complain to the landlord.”

“I’m the landlord!”

“Well, next time, answer the damn door.” Without waiting for an invitation he knew wouldn’t come, Mike threw himself into the chair facing the sofa.

“Don’t you have any… like, real police work to be doing?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m swamped. I’ve got two fresh homicides, plus some nutcase who’s running around beating up people connected to pro-choice organizations and abortion clinics. And despite that, please notice, I’m here with you.”

“If I’m supposed to be grateful, I’m not.”

“What’s shaking, Ben? You’re not planning to off yourself or anything, are you?”

“No. Is that all you wanted to know?”

“No, but it seemed like a good starting place. Look-I’m sorry the jury turned on you in the Beale case.”

“It wasn’t the jury’s fault.” Ben’s eyes were like tiny dots of black. “The jury only did what any jury would do, given what they saw. I blew it. I lost the case.”

“Ben, come on…”

“I did. I threw Father Beale’s life away.”

“You tried everything possible-”

“It wasn’t enough. And now he’s going to spend years of misery in jail. Then he’s going to be executed. And he’s innocent.”

“I’m not convinced of that. I think our case against Beale was pretty damn tight.”

“He’s innocent. I know he is.”

“But what about-”

“They’re talking about sending him to McAlester, did you know that? Can you imagine? Father Beale, one of the most educated, sensitive men I’ve ever known, rotting away in that penitentiary? How long will he last in there?”

“Ben, I don’t know why you’re taking this so hard. You’ve lost cases before.”

“Not like this. Not-not-” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I guess there’s nothing I could say that would persuade you to give yourself a break?”

“Father Beale was my friend,” Ben said quietly. “And inspiration. He was there when I needed a friend. But when he needed a friend-I failed him. It’s as simple as that.”

The phone rang. Ben stared at it a while, seriously considering not answering it. And indeed, if Mike hadn’t been there, he probably would’ve let it alone.

“Yes?”

“Ben? This is Ruth O’Connell.”

Ruth was calling him? After she’d done everything possible to convict Father Beale?

“I’m worried about Ernestine. She’s gone missing.”

“And you’re calling me?”

“I didn’t know who else to call.” The tremor in her voice told Ben she was genuinely concerned. “The police said she had to be missing longer before they could do anything. You’ve always helped when we have problems at the church.”

“I’m sure she just got sick or fell asleep or something.”

“I’m telling you, it’s serious. She and I have gotten together for lunch every Friday for the last twenty-two years. She’s never missed once. Not once. And even if she were going to miss, she’d call. It’s not as if she could just forget, not after all these years.”

Ben frowned. That did sound unusual. But what could he do?

“I’m just afraid, when we’ve had all those murders, and then she disappears…”

The full impact of what she was saying struck Ben like a hammer. Could there have been another killing? While Father Beale was behind bars? Because if there was, that would mean…

“I’ll look into it, Ruth.”

“I’d be so grateful.”

“I’ll get the police on the case. They’ll start checking it out immediately.”

“But I’ve called the police.”

Ben looked across the room at his friend and smiled. “I may have a few connections you don’t.”

Chapter 43

Ben had wanted to come, but Mike wouldn’t allow it. Mike didn’t believe for a minute that there was still a killer out there; the killer had been locked up good and tight. Still, if there was any chance of danger, Ben didn’t need to be in the thick of it. Ben was like a danger magnet; it always seemed to gravitate toward him, and he was pathetically ill equipped to deal with it.

After issuing the APB, he drove to Ernestine’s house. There was no sign of her and no sign of any struggle or violence. But Ben had told Mike she had a nephew who was with her frequently, one she treated more like a handmaiden than a relative. So that seemed like the logical next stop.

After he knocked on the door, Mike could hear hushed muttering inside. Two voices talking in subdued tones.

Mike pressed his ear against the door. He heard a shushing noise. Then the voices stopped.

Could be nothing, of course. But something about this was making the short hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. And when you’d been a cop as long as Mike had, you learned to listen to those little short hairs.

The door swung open, but the man standing on the other side was not Bruce, the nephew. He didn’t match the description Ben had given him. He was sandy-haired and muscular and… well, not very well-to-do or bright-looking.

“Yeah?”

Mike pulled out his badge. “I’m Major Mike Morelli. Tulsa PD.”

The man looked at the badge, looked at Mike, then sort of levitated, as if unable to decide what to do next. Mike had seen the look before-but only from people who had something to hide.

“I’d just like a few words.”

“Yeah.” The man’s eyes darted all around. “Can you just… give me a moment?”

“Sure,” Mike said, since he had no choice, and the man closed the door.

Mike pressed his ear against the door again. More talking, footsteps, some kind of commotion. A metallic swinging noise. Something was being opened-a window, or maybe a screen door.

“Open up!” Mike shouted. “Now!”

All he heard in response were footsteps, and they were growing fainter.

Soon they would be gone, whoever they were. The question was whether Mike had the legal right to do anything about it. And it was a question he pondered for, oh, half a second, because there just wasn’t time.

“Freeze!” Mike shouted, kicking the door. The flimsy lock gave and the door swung open. At the back end of the house, he saw two men scurrying through a patio door. One of them was almost instantly out of sight. The other, the man who had opened the door, would be soon. “Freeze! Police!”

Did he have the right to enter the house in pursuit? Oh, hell. Leave it for the lawyers. He raced inside-

And that’s when he saw her, sprawled across a blanket lying on the floor. It didn’t take him two seconds to realize Ernestine Rupert was dead-and had been for some while.

“Stop where you are!” he repeated as he raced toward the back. He unholstered his weapon. “You’re under arrest! Stop or I will shoot!”

He blazed through the back patio door. The sandy-haired man was rapidly descending a series of steps that led to a sunken garage. And from there? Mike could only imagine. He’d be long gone, that much was sure.

Mike leaped off the top of the stairs. He landed on the lawn a split second later, so hard it drove his knees into his chin. It hurt, and his lip was bleeding, but he blocked the pain out of his mind. He scrambled to his feet, raced to the garage, and dived toward the fleeing suspect.

He flew just far enough to tackle the man around the knees. A little lower than he wanted, but it would do. The man tumbled down onto the pavement just outside the garage, banging his head against the back wall.

Ouch. That had to sting.

“You’re under arrest,” Mike said, gasping. He whipped out his handcuffs and grabbed the man’s right arm. Inside the garage, he heard a car engine starting. “Damn. Where is that-?”

The man’s boot came out of nowhere. It blindsided Mike, knocking him sideways and loosening a tooth. The cuffs went jangling to the ground. The suspect crawled out from under him and fled.

Evidently the blow to the head hadn’t been as incapacitating as it looked, Mike realized. Damn, damn, damn. Why had he been so sloppy? He should’ve seen that coming. He scrabbled to his feet, trying to get his bearings, which was no small accomplishment. He loped toward the garage door just in time to see the sandy-haired man dive into the passenger seat. The driver-who matched the description Ben had given of the nephew-peeled out, making it from garage to street in less than a second.

Mike slapped himself on the side of the face twice, hard. If it was going to be a freaking car chase, he was going to need his wits about him. He raced to his car, watching to see which way they were headed. They had a lead of several seconds, he realized as he thrust his key into the ignition. But he also noticed that poor Brucie was driving some crappy boxy foreign car, a Yugo or something. Mike, of course, was driving his trusty silver TransAm.

The odds were evening.

Half a minute later, Mike had them. They were cruising down Memorial, which unfortunately was the busiest street in the city. They were trying to make it to the highway, no doubt. If they could get to I-44, they could get anywhere. Mike didn’t have a license plate number or even a competent description of the car. So he had to make sure that didn’t happen.

He got on his cell phone and requested backup, notifying them that a high-speed chase was in progress. He hated car chases; they were inherently dangerous and ended up harming civilians more often than they captured bad guys. But he wasn’t going to let these two get away. Not with a corpse lying in their living room.

“Get as many black-and-whites out as possible,” he barked. “Kill the stoplights. Try to block off the street before these clowns hurt someone!”

The getaway car’s speed continued to increase. Mike knew it was only a matter of time before they hurt or killed an innocent motorist or pedestrian. He had to bring this to a conclusion. Fast.

He floored it, speeding by two other drivers (one of whom shot him the finger) and rammed Bruce from behind. The little foreign car lurched forward like a billiard ball. But it didn’t stop.

Brucie had to be sweating it now, Mike reasoned. He was probably flooring his accelerator, too, but in his crappy car, the floor came a lot sooner than in Mike’s TransAm. And to think Ben gave him grief about driving a teenager car. What did Ben know? Eternal youth had its advantages.

They made it through the traffic light at Forty-first by a whisker. Mike reached through the driver’s side window and attached his portable siren, turned it on, and rammed Bruce’s car again, this time all the harder. Probably crumpled his bumper a bit in the process, a thought that nearly brought tears to Mike’s eyes. He’d have to petition Chief Blackwell to make good for the repairs. Which meant he’d better bring these two killers in.

He swerved into the right-hand lane, pulled up beside them, and activated the car’s built-in bullhorn. “Police!” he announced, as if they didn’t know that already. “You are under arrest. Pull your vehicle over immediately.”

They did pull over, but not in the manner that Mike intended. Bruce suddenly swerved to the right, broadsiding Mike’s TransAm. Mike cringed as he heard the painful scraping of metal that told him his beloved car had been seriously damaged. He was knocked into the next lane, barely avoiding an elderly woman in a pink Cadillac.

His teeth clenched together. Now you’ve done it, you aunt-murdering little bastard. Now you’ve made me mad. Mike pulled back into the lane beside them, cutting off an oncoming pickup truck. Fortunately the driver didn’t have a rifle in the back, because he looked mad enough to fire it if he had. Mike pulled beside Bruce and slammed him sideways, giving as good as he got and then some. For a moment, Bruce totally lost control of his car. The back end rocked back and forth, threatening to spin out at any moment. Bruce worked the wheel frantically, barely preventing the car from colliding with the neighboring traffic.

“Pull over immediately,” Mike repeated into the bullhorn. “You are under arrest.”

Bruce did not pull over. Instead, he did something Mike wouldn’t have thought possible. He drove faster.

Mike saw they were fast approaching the traffic light at Thirty-first. It was a four-way stop, the light was already yellow, and they were still a good hundred feet away from it.

Don’t do it, you stupid fool, Mike thought as he applied his own brakes.

Bruce chose the other pedal. He poured it on, trying to rocket through the intersection. The light turned red several seconds before he got there, but he kept on blazing through…

He never saw the electric blue pickup until it was on top of him. It plowed over the Yugo like it was a Matchbox toy, smashing the hood, shattering the glass.

My God, Mike thought, looking away. My God, my God.

He punched his cell phone and called headquarters. “We’re going to need an ambulance out here,” he said. “Fast.” But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn’t help. There wasn’t enough left of that car to put on a microscope slide.

Mike banged his fist against the steering wheel, furious. He’d told them to stop, damn it. Why didn’t anyone ever listen to him?

“So Bruce and this Manly Trussell creep were behind the murders?” Ben asked.

“Absolutely.” Mike was hunched over his desk, assiduously engaged in a complex endeavor involving paper, glue, staples, and file folders. “We found more than enough evidence in Bruce’s home to prove he and his pal offed his aunt.”

“That doesn’t prove they did the others.”

“Exactly how many killers do you think there are in your church, Ben? Jeez, small wonder I’m an agnostic.” He fumbled around with the office supplies, accidentally stapling his hand. “Give me another day or two. We’ll turn up some evidence to connect them to the previous murders.”

“It’s a shame we can’t interrogate them.”

“Shame isn’t the word for it. That car was obliterated.” He lifted the brush out of the paste pot, stringing a trail of glue across his desk blotter. “They tell me the guy in the pickup is going to be all right. Of course, he was in a pickup. Pays to be a redneck, I guess.”

“I just-” Ben paused, searching for the right words. “I can’t quite make it all fit in my brain. What did Bruce have against Helen Conrad? Or Kate McGuire? Or Susan Marino?”

“Nothing. That’s my theory, anyway. All he wanted was the demise of his dear aunt Ernestine. But he was smart enough to realize that if she turned up murdered, no matter how good his alibi, the sole heir to her millions would be Suspect Numero Uno. He had to create another motive. Presumably he didn’t know she was a blackmailer. So he enlisted this wacko Manly to start knocking off members of the vestry, leading everyone to believe that Father Beale was doing it.”

“So that when he got around to Ernestine-”

“Everyone would just think it was another one of the same. It’s the only way his aunt could be killed without immediately throwing suspicion on him.”

“And this Manly character-?”

“Rabid pro-life activist. Of the shoot-the-docs-at-the-clinic variety. Mind you, I tend to be pro-life myself-I think anyone who cares about the sanctity of human life must be. But I’ve got no sympathy for these creeps who think it gives them an excuse to commit crimes, much less murder. Bruce played on Manly’s pro-life leanings, ostensibly targeting Ernestine because she founded the city’s most successful pro-choice outfit. Manly had a history of violence and had been institutionalized at least twice. In other words, he was just what Bruce needed.”

Ben shook his head. “What a twisted scheme. Killing four people, including his aunt, and framing an innocent person for murder, just to get some money.”

“Yeah. Unbelievable. And it was only ten million bucks.” He winked. “Barely five, after taxes.”

“I wish they’d survived, though. I need written statements to take to the judge. Show him what a hideous mistake the jury made convicting Father Beale.”

“You seem to be assuming that if those two scumbags were alive they would confess, just to help you out-something I very seriously doubt. Your only hope lies with the physical evidence, which I have two crack teams working 24/7 to collect. We’ll get what you need.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it. This is really above and beyond-”

“Hey, I don’t like being wrong, but when I am, at least I can admit it. I thought your priest was guilty as sin. So to speak.” Mike tried to close the file, but everything had been inserted so clumsily it wouldn’t close. “And I was wrong. So I need to make amends.”

“You won’t hear me complaining.” Ben stared at the mess-a file that looked as if it had been compiled by a kindergartner, glue covering Mike’s hands and desk, shreds of paper and staples everywhere. “This is just a guess, but-is Penelope on vacation?”

“Yes, damn it, and I’m helpless without her. I can’t handle all this paperwork.”

“It does look trying.”

“It’s awful. Who uses these paste pots anymore?”

“Penelope, apparently.”

“And everything has to be attached just so and in the right order, and if you do it wrong the snobs in Records just send it back.”

“Well, I’ve always heard police work is a high-stress occupation.”

“Paperwork sucks.”

“Not to mention car chases, stakeouts, gunplay…”

Mike tried to wipe the glue off his hands with a wet towel. “Yeah. But that’s the fun part.”