The 24th Letter

NINETEEN

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

They were all too late. One was not.

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

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

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

O’Brien nodded.

“What did you see?” asked the officer.

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

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

“Sean O’Brien?” Detective Henderson asked.

“That’s me.”

“Tell us what you saw.”

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

“Were you meeting Father Callahan?”

“At eight.”

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

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

“Why were you meeting the priest?”

“To pick up a confession.”

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

“No. I came here to get a statement-a written statement. Father Callahan was witness to a dying man’s confession, a near deathbed confession. If it’s true, it’ll prove a man sitting on Florida’s death row with”-O’Brien looked at his watch-“a man with eighty-two hours to live, is innocent.”

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

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

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