Eleventh Hour

Binney’s eyes filled. “Ah, but why would the man taunt Father Michael Joseph? Why?” Father Binney rose, began pacing. “I’ll never see Father Michael Joseph again. Everyone is immensely saddened, and yes, angry. Bishop Koshlap is distraught. Archbishop Lugano is extremely upset by all of this. I believe he met with Chief Kreider this morning.”
    “Yes,” Delion said. “He did.” He turned to Dane. “The janitor, Orin Ratcher, found Father Michael Joseph just before the police came, right?”
    “Yes,” Father Binney said. “Orin has trouble sleeping, keeps odd hours. He said he was mopping in the vestry, thought he heard a pop, ignored it, then finally he came in and found Father Michael Joseph in the confessional.”
    “He didn’t see anyone?”
    “No,” Father Binney said. “He said there was no one, just dark silence and Father Michael Joseph, still sitting in the confessional, his head back against the wall. Just a moment later a patrol officer came, said there’d been a call about a murder. Orin showed him Father Michael Joseph’s body. Orin is in very bad shape, poor man. We have him staying here for the next couple of days. We don’t want him to be alone.”
    Delion said, “I already spoke to him, Dane. He didn’t see the woman who phoned in the murder either. Nothing. Zip.”
    “Father Binney, do you have that list of Father Michael Joseph’s friends?”
    “There are so many.” Father Binney sighed and reached into his pocket. “At least fifty, Inspector Delion.”
    Delion pocketed the list. “You never know, Father,” he said.
    “Father Binney, could you tell us the dates and times of the two other visits my brother had with this Mr. Charles DeBruler?”
    Father Binney, pleased that he could do something, was only gone for five minutes. When he returned to the sitting room he said, “Father Michael Joseph heard confession last Tuesday night until ten p.m. and last Thursday night until nine p.m.”
    Dane asked to look through his brother’s room even though Delion had already searched it. At the end of nearly an hour, they had found nothing to give them any sort of clue. There was a pile of Dane’s e-mails to his brother, beginning from the previous January, which he’d printed and kept, just over a year’s worth. That was when Michael had finally gotten himself on-line and went e-mail mad. “Have your guys checked out my brother’s computer?”
    “Yes. They haven’t found anything hidden on the hard drive, if that’s where you’re headed. No coded files, no deleted files that look like anything.”
    They spoke to two other priests, to the cook, the maid, three clerical assistants. None could add anything relevant. No one had ever spoken to or seen Charles DeBruler.
    “He knew his murderer,” Delion said when they were back in the car. “There’s no doubt about that. He knew he was a monster, but he wasn’t afraid of him.”
    “No,” Dane said, “not afraid. Michael was repulsed by him, but he wasn’t afraid of him. Charles DeBruler spoke two other times to my brother, last Tuesday and last Thursday, both in the late evening.” Dane took a deep breath. “For Michael to be that upset, for him to be angry about seeing this man, it’s my best guess that the man must have done something horrendous around both those other times. Delion, were there any murders committed here in San Francisco on those days or perhaps a couple of days before?”
    Delion hit the steering wheel with his hand and nearly struck a pedestrian who was stoned and walk-dancing across Market Street. He gave them the finger, never breaking stride.
    “Yes,” Delion said, turning the Ford sharply to make the guy jump out of the way. “Damn. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”
    “You’re exhausted, for a start.”
    Delion blew that off, fingered his mustache. “Okay, Dane, let me think. We’ve had three murders, one a couple of weeks old. We’ve got the guy—a husband we believe who just wanted to collect on his wife’s life insurance. That was Donnie Lunerman’s case. He just shook his head when he walked out of the interview with the man. It boggles the mind what some people will do for fifty thousand dollars.
    “I’ve got it. Last Monday night—just one night before the first confession—there was an old woman, seventy-two, who lived alone in the Sunset District, on Irving and Thirty-third. She was murdered in her home. No robbery, no