Eleventh Hour

the first just before four a.m. last night, from an Inspector Vincent Delion of the SFPD, then ten minutes later, a call from my sister, Eloise, who lives down in San Jose. Delion said he was killed in the confessional, really late, nearly midnight. Can you believe that, Savich?” Dane finally looked at him straight on, and in that instant there was such rage in Dane’s eyes that it blurred into madness. He slammed his fist on the chair arm. “Can you actually believe that some asshole killed him in the confessional? At midnight? What was he doing hearing a confession at midnight?”
    Savich thought Dane would break then. His breath was sharp and too fast, his eyes dilated, his hands fisted hard and tight. But he didn’t. His breathing hitched, suspended for a moment, and then he made himself breathe deeply, and held himself together. Savich said, “No, it doesn’t make sense to us, just to the person who killed him, and we’ll find out who and we’ll find out why. No, stay seated for a minute, Dane, and we’ll make some plans. Your brother’s name was Michael, wasn’t it?”
    “Yes, he was Father Michael Joseph Carver. I need to go to San Francisco. I know the reputation of the department out there. They’re good, but they didn’t know my brother. Not even my sister really knew him. Only I really knew him. Oh God, I thought I’d never say this, but it’s probably better that my mom died last year. She’d wanted Michael to become a priest, prayed for it all her life, at least that’s what she always said. This would have destroyed her soul, you know?”
    “Yes, I know, Dane. When did you last speak to him?”
    “Two nights ago. He—he was really pleased because he’d managed to catch a teenager who’d been spraying graffiti on the church walls. He told me he was going to make the boy a Catholic. Once he was a Catholic, he’d never do that again because he wouldn’t be able to bear the guilt.” Dane smiled, just for an instant, then fell silent.
    “So you didn’t sense anything wrong?”
    Dane shook his head, then frowned. “I would have said no, that my brother was always upbeat, even when a local journalist tried to come on to him.”
    “Good grief, what was her name?”
    “Oh no, it wasn’t a woman. It was a man.”
    Savich just smiled.
    “It happened quite a bit, but you’re right, usually it was women. Michael was always kind, it didn’t matter if it was a man or a woman doing the coming on.” Dane frowned, fell silent again.
    “Now that you think back, there is something, isn’t there?”
    “Well, I’m just not sure. He said something recently about feeling helpless, and he hated that. Said he was going to do something about it.”
    “Do you have any idea what he meant by that?”
    “No, he wouldn’t say any more. Maybe a confession that curled his toes, maybe a parishioner he couldn’t help. But there was nothing at all that unusual about that. Michael dealt with lots of problems, lots of nutcases over the years.” Dane curled his fist over the chair arm. “Maybe there was something there, something that frightened him, I don’t know. I could have called him back and talked to him some more about it, pushed him when he clammed up. Why the hell didn’t I?”
    “Shut up, Dane. You’re a cop. Don’t freeze your brain up with guilt.”
    “It’s hard not to. I’m Catholic.”
    A meager bit of humor, but a start. Savich said, “None of this was your fault. You need to find out who killed him, that animal is the only one to blame here, the only one. Now, I’ll have Millie make the reservations for you. Tell me again, who’s the lead inspector on this?”
    “Vincent Delion. Like I said, he called me right before Eloise did last night, said he knew I was FBI, knew I’d want to hear everything they had. It isn’t much as of yet. He died instantly, a shot through the forehead, clean in the front, you know, it looked like an innocent tilak, the red spot Hindus wear on their foreheads?”
    “I know.”
    “But it wasn’t just a red dot on the back of his head. Jesus, not on the back.” His eyes went blank.
    Savich knew he couldn’t let Dane get sucked down into the reality of it, couldn’t let him dwell on the hideous mess a bullet made of the head at the exit wound. It would just bury him in pain. He said very precisely, using his hands while he spoke to force eye contact, “I don’t suppose the killer left the gun there?”
    Dane shook his head. “No. The