The Fourth Motive (4 page)

“I am,” came the hesitant reply.

“And you live in the rectory behind this church? Your roommate is a fluffy white cat?”

“How did you know that?”

“It was your place I burglarized, all right. Don’t worry about the cat; I locked it
in the bathroom so it wouldn’t get out.”

“Who are you?”

“I thought my confession was supposed to be confidential?”

“I’m not going to stand for this,” the priest announced. He tried to exit the confessional
booth but found he couldn’t budge the door.

“I wedged a chair under the doorknob before I entered,” Farrell told him, as he listened
to Father Mulroney rattle the confessional door in a futile attempt to get out. “I’m
afraid you’re not going anywhere.”

“You filthy thief,” Mulroney said. “Let me out.”

“Don’t you want to hear the rest of my confession?”

“I do not. But I’m sure the police will.”

“The San Francisco police are already on their way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I called the cops from your home telephone, as a matter of fact. I phoned in an anonymous
tip that somebody just kicked in the front door to the rectory here at the church.
I even told the police dispatcher I heard screams coming from inside the residence.
When the SFPD rolls up, they’ll find your door smashed in. They’ll have to go inside
to check on your welfare. Probably be here any minute.”

“What do you want?” Father Mulroney challenged. “Why are you doing this?”

“You forgot to ask the most important question, Father,” Farrell said, putting an
unfiltered Camel between his lips and lighting it with a worn Zippo. When he finished
lighting his smoke, Farrell kept the flame burning, illuminating the darkness of the
confessional. “Don’t you want to know what I took?”

“Who are you?” Mulroney asked again, his voice wavering.

“Let me show you what I took from inside your home,” Farrell said, ignoring the priest’s
question. He extracted a Polaroid photograph from his pocket and held it up to the
screened partition separating the priest’s and confessor’s compartments. The flickering
glow of the cigarette lighter brought the photograph into clarity. The image showed
a naked Caucasian man in his late fifties with gray hair and sideburns. The man sported
a distinct eagle tattoo on his shoulder, a goatee, and an erect penis. Lying next
to the man was a nude Hispanic boy who couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven
years old. The boy appeared drugged.

“Excellent likeness of you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Where did you find that?” Father Mulroney asked in a hoarse voice.

“You know exactly where I found it, Father Mulroney. It was with a bunch of similar
Polaroid photographs inside an old shoebox. You know the place: in your bedroom closet,
under the false panel beneath the carpet. It was in there with your camera, and your
stash of homosexual porn magazines, and your dildo, and your bong, and that little
tin throat-lozenge box full of weed. I found your methamphetamine and amyl nitrate,
too.”

“You planted that stuff to disparage me.”

“Oh come now, Father,” Farrell chuckled, exhaling smoke. “Who’s going to believe somebody
planted twenty or thirty naked pictures of you with little boys?”

“Those pictures aren’t mine,” Mulroney declared.

“Whatever you say, Father. Isn’t telling a lie a sin?”

“It’ll never hold up in court,” Mulroney insisted, desperation creeping into his tone.
“Anything you found in my house is inadmissible as evidence in a court of law because
you obtained it illegally.”

“Spoken like somebody who’s been accused before,” Farrell said. “That’s where the
cops come in. Whatever contraband the police find when they enter a residence for
a lawful purpose – say, investigating a reported burglary – is, in fact, admissible
in court. Especially if that evidence constitutes a potential felony. And rest assured
I left all your goodies out in plain sight. If the San Francisco police department
sent Officer Ray Charles with Stevie Wonder as his backup, they’d find it.”

“I can get money,” Father Mulroney pleaded.

“Is that how you beat the rap at your parish in Albuquerque? What about Wichita? And
Duluth? The bishop must have had your back, or you had something over his head, because
you kept avoiding prosecution and got reassigned to new parishes in new states. I
checked. But you’re not very smart, Padre; you keep mementos.”

“Parents don’t want trials,” Mulroney said in a defiant voice. “They don’t like to
go to court. Nobody wants their child to be shamed in public. No one will testify.
And I have a right to face my accusers.”

“That kind of intimidation might have worked in the past, Father, but not anymore.”
Farrell took a deep drag on his smoke and exhaled through his nostrils, snapping his
Zippo shut. The darkness returned. “Anyway,” he went on, “who said anything about
a court of law?”

Outside the church, a series of car doors slammed. Men’s voices barked and there was
the sound of several pairs of running feet.

“That would be the police, I’m guessing. Any minute now, Your Holiness, they’ll enter
your burglarized house with the noble intent of rescuing you. Boy, are they in for
a surprise.”

“You son of a bitch,” Mulroney’s voice hissed.

“Good heavens, Father,” Farrell exclaimed. “Such language. And in God’s house.”

“I won’t let you do this,” the priest said from behind the partition.

“I already did it,” Farrell said. “By the way, you haven’t finished hearing my confession.”

“Fuck you.”

“Is that my penance?” Farrell retorted. “Because if what I’ve seen in your photo collection
is any indication of how you absolve people of their sins, I’ll stay a sinner.”

“Fuck you,” the priest snarled again.

Farrell opened the confessor’s compartment and stepped out. He took a moment to ensure
the folding metal chair he’d taken from the choir was still firmly jamming the priest’s
compartment closed. He rapped on the door with his knuckles.

“Hey, Father Mulroney,” Farrell called out. “Don’t blow a gasket in there. Once I
get down the street, I’ll put in another anonymous call to the San Francisco police
department. I’ll let them know where you are. By then I assume the cops are going
to want to talk to you anyway.”

“You can go straight to hell.”

“Probably. Aren’t you curious why I chose that particular photograph, out of all those
pictures of naked boys in your little souvenir box, to show you?”

“I don’t care,” answered the muffled voice of the priest trapped inside his own confessional.

“You should,” Farrell said. “The kid in that picture was an altar boy from your parish
in Albuquerque. But you already knew that, didn’t you? I say ‘was’ because he’s dead.
He committed suicide the day after his thirteenth birthday. Hung himself in his parent’s
basement. I’ll bet you already knew that, too.”

“Who are you?” Mulroney asked for the third time, his voice quivering. “A cop?”

“Not anymore,” Farrell said, “although you’re going to wish I was. I’m the man who
was hired by the dead boy’s father. It’s a tragic story, really. After his son killed
himself, his health and marriage collapsed. I guess you could say he went a little
crazy with grief.”

Farrell could hear the breathing of the priest locked within the confessional become
heavier.

“This man,” he continued, “operates a very successful sanitation business with his
brother, who happens to be an ex-con in good standing with the Mexican Mafia. The
brothers have understandably become rather obsessed with finding the person they believe
responsible for the boy’s death. That’s where I come in.”

“What are you going to do with that photograph?” Father Mulroney’s voice changed to
a trembling whisper.

“I’m going to give it to the guy who paid for it, of course,” Farrell told him matter-of-factly.
“And paid well. I may be a sinner, Father, but I fulfill my contractual obligations.”

“They’ll kill me,” Mulroney said meekly. He began to cry.

“Not my concern,” Farrell said.

“Do you want my blood on your hands?” the priest wept. “Do you?”

“I’ve had bloody hands before,” Farrell said truthfully to the confessional door.
“I’ve learned it washes off.”

“Not off your soul,” Mulroney cried. “Please don’t give him the picture.” His sobs
increased in intensity. “You’ll be damned to hell.”

“Actually,” Farrell smirked around his cigarette, “after the boy’s father sees this
Polaroid, I bet you’ll end up in hell long before me. If I were you and I wanted to
keep breathing, I’d confess to the cops, plead guilty, and pray for solitary confinement.”

“For the love of God,” Father Mulroney’s muffled voice hysterically entreated.

“I don’t think God has anything to do with it.”

“Please; I beg you.”

“Thanks for hearing me confess, Father Mulroney,” Farrell yelled over his shoulder
as he walked away. “I’ll say a couple of Hail Marys on the way out.” He extinguished
his cigarette in the stoup.

“And you were right about the power of confession,” Farrell’s voice echoed through
the church. “I feel better already.”  

CHAPTER 6

 

 

Paige Callen mounted the steps to the Alameda Municipal Courthouse and tried to blend
in with the herd returning from lunch. She made it through the lobby unscathed but
was accosted immediately upon entering her office.

“Paige, how’s it going, babe?”

Paige let out an exasperated sigh. It was the voice of her officemate, Deputy District
Attorney Tim Potter.

“I’m fine, Chaz,” she said. “And I’m not in the mood for any of your crap.”

“Who’s giving you crap? And I hate it when you call me Chaz.”

“I know.”

C. Timothy Potter, as the nameplate on his desk read, shared the office and a county
secretary named Carmen with Paige. He had been assigned to the Alameda courthouse
from the Berkeley station only a month before. In his late thirties, he was a paunchy
man a couple inches shorter than his co-worker. Potter sported a diamond pinky ring
to accent his expensively cut suits, the expense being the extra material and effort
his tailor exerted to conceal his girth. Tim Potter always reeked too heavily of cologne,
and his forehead was scarred from where his latest hair transplant was struggling
to find purchase.

Since he had more tenure with the district attorney’s office than Paige, Potter never
ceased to affect a superior tone, which was a constant source of irritation to her.
Potter was the last person Paige wished to see today, but since she shared a county
office with him, she knew it was unavoidable. His clumsy, chronic attempts to woo
her were an annoyance on a good day; today, she expected them to be unbearable.

“That’s some shiner,” Potter remarked as he blocked the path into her office. He stepped
up and peered into her face, bringing his own face, and sour breath, uncomfortably
into Paige’s personal space.

“I’m not in the mood,” Paige said, elbowing him aside and entering her office. Potter
remained in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb and crossing one
ankle over the other.

“Paige,” Potter began as she tossed her briefcase on her desk. “I realize almost getting
raped is a traumatic event. That kind of thing can really mess with a chick’s head.”

“Who told you I was almost raped?” Paige said, trying to ignore the sexist remark.

“I heard two cops talking in the hallway say you were attacked,” he answered.

“Overheard, you mean.”

“I wanted to reassure you that all men aren’t bad, you know? Some of us aren’t insensitive
to the needs of the modern woman. Why don’t you let me take you to dinner tonight
and show you what I mean?”

“I wasn’t almost raped,” Paige insisted, wishing she hadn’t said it as soon as she
had. She wasn’t sure it was true and had no desire to be sucked into a conversation
with Potter. “As far as dinner, I would rather be kidnapped by pirates and sold into
slavery than go anywhere with you.”

“Wow,” Potter exclaimed, unfazed, as always, by Paige’s rebuke. “What kind of weirdo
would attack a hot-looking broad like you and not rape her? I mean, what a freak,
right?”

“Christ, Chaz; it’s nineteen eighty-nine; not eighteen eighty-nine. Could you please
at least pretend to not be such a chauvinist asshole?”

“So, if he didn’t try to rape you, what did he do?” Potter asked, ignoring Paige’s
insult. “He must have done something, or else you wouldn’t have that bald patch over
your ear.”

“Listen to the expert on bald patches. Chaz, every time you open that fat mouth of
yours, you sound more like the brain-dead pervert you are. Get out of my office and
away from me this instant before I call Charlie White.”

“I’m not afraid of White,” Potter grunted. “Bring him on.”

“Suit yourself,” a thundering voice boomed. Potter winced and turned around to find
the voice’s owner, Charlie White, standing behind him. Charlie was the court bailiff
and a Bay Area law enforcement legend going back to the days when the law was enforced
exclusively with the baton and gun. Charlie had killed more suspects in shoot-outs
than anyone in Alameda County history, and was as well-known as any judge on the Alameda
County bench. In his late sixties, Charlie packed over three hundred pounds on a six-foot-five-inch
frame and had a well-earned reputation as nobody to tangle with in a fight. More than
one youthful offender inclined to create trouble in the courtroom learned the hard
way that fat old Charlie’s bark was far preferable to his bite. Charlie was fiercely
protective of Paige, whom he’d known since she was a toddler visiting her father’s
courtroom. White scowled over Potter.