Sacred Sins

invoice number 52346-A, ordered on June fifteenth from O'Donnely's Religious Suppliers, Boston, Massachusetts. Delivery July thirty-first, Reverend Francis Moore. The address is a post office in Georgetown.”
    “How'd he pay for it?” Harris's voice was calm as he worked through the next steps.

    “Money order.”
    “Track it down. I want a copy of the invoice.”
    “It's on its way.”
    “Lowenstein, get to the post office.” He checked his watch and nearly swore in frustration. “Be there when it opens in the morning. Find out if he still has the box. Get a description.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I want to know if there's a priest in the city whose name is Francis Moore.”
    “There'd be a list of all the priests in the Archdiocese. We should be able to get it from their main office.”
    Harris nodded at Ben. “Check it out. Then check out the rest of the Francis Moores.”
    He couldn't argue with basic police work, but Ben's instincts told him to concentrate on the area of the murders. He was there. Ben was sure of it. And now maybe they had his name.
    Back in the squad room the detectives hit the phones.
    An hour later Ben hung up and looked at Ed over the rubble on top of his desk. “We got one Father Francis Moore in the Archdiocese. Been here two-and-a-half years. He's thirty-seven.”
    “And?”
    “He's black.” Ben reached for his cigarettes and found the pack empty. “We check him out anyway. What have you got?”
    “I've got seven.” Ed looked down at his neatly detailed list. Someone sneezed behind him and he winced. The flu was going through the station like brushfire. “A high school teacher, a lawyer, a clerk at Sears, a currently unemployed, a bartender, a flight attendant, and a maintenance worker. He's an ex-con. Attempted rape.”
    Ben checked his watch. He'd been on duty just over ten hours. “Let's go.”

    T HE rectory made him uncomfortable. The scent of fresh flowers competed with the scent of polished wood. They waited in a parlor with an old, comfortable sofa, two wing chairs, and a statue of a blue-robed Jesus with one hand raised in benediction. There were two copies of Catholic Digest on the coffee table.
    “Makes me feel like I should've polished my shoes,” Ed murmured.
    Both men were conscious of the guns under their jackets, and didn't sit. From somewhere down the hall a door opened long enough to let out a few strains of Strauss. The door closed again and the waltz was replaced by footsteps. The detectives looked over as Reverend Francis Moore walked in.
    He was tall and built like a fullback. His skin was the color of glossy mahogany and his hair was clipped close around a round face. Against the black of his priest's robe was a white sling. His right arm was in a plaster cast riddled with signatures.
    “Good evening.” He smiled, apparently more curious than pleased to have visitors. “I apologize for not shaking hands.”
    “Looks like you've had some trouble.” Ed could almost feel his partner's disappointment. Even if Gil Norton had been off on the description, there was no getting around that cast.
    “Football a couple of weeks ago. I should have known better. Won't you sit down?”
    “We need to ask you a few questions, Father.” Ben drew out his badge. “About the strangulation of four women.”
    “The serial killings.” Moore bowed his head a moment, as if in prayer. “What can I do?”
    “Did you place an order with O'Donnely's Religious Supplies in Boston last summer?”

    “Boston?” Moore's free hand toyed with the rosary at his belt. “No. Father Jessup is in charge of supplies. He orders what we need from a firm here in Washington.”
    “Do you keep a post office box, Father?”
    “Why, no. All our mail is delivered to the rectory. Excuse me, Detective…”
    “Paris.”
    “Detective Paris. What is this all about?”
    Ben hesitated a moment, then decided to push whatever buttons were available. “Your name was used to order the murder weapons.”
    He saw the fingers on the rosary tighten. Moore's mouth opened then closed. He reached out and gripped the left wing of a chair. “I—you suspect me?”
    “There's a possibility you know or have been in contact with the murderer.”
    “I can't believe it.”
    “Why don't you sit down, Father?” Ed touched him gently on the shoulder and eased him into the chair.
    “My name,” Moore murmured. “It's hard to take it in.” Then he laughed shakily. “The name was given to me in a