Blind Spot (28 page)

Bernadette: “Terminated?”

“Left the priesthood before he could be given the boot.” Father Pete bent the tab of the pop can up and down.

“Hard to be both a parish priest
and
a legislative lobbyist for the death penalty,” said Bernadette.

“And a prison chaplain,” said the priest, ripping off the tab and dropping it in his can.

Garcia leaned back in his seat. “Why would he want to do
that
while he’s up at the Capitol making a case for the electric chair?”

“Keep your friends close and your sociopaths closer,” said Bernadette.

The priest eyed the pizza with only a few pieces missing. “Aren’t you two going to help me out on this?”

Bernadette picked up a slice, nibbled off the point, and asked: “Know anybody who knows Quaid? Knows where he hangs out? How he makes a living these days? A friend? Relative? A guy who roomed with him in seminary school?”

Father Pete shook his head. “Sorry.”

Garcia: “Where can we get our hands on some decent photos of the guy?”

“Archdiocese may have something from his seminary days or his ordination, but those would be years old.” The priest took off his glasses, wiped them with a napkin, and put the specs back on his face. “For heaven’s sake, Anthony. You’re the FBI! Don’t you people have fingerprints and DNA samples and mug shots of everybody and his uncle?”

“No recent mugs,” Garcia said with a small smile. “Federal budget cuts and all that.”

“One more thing,” said Bernadette, setting her wedge of pizza on a rectangle of napkin. “You know if Quaid sails or rock-climbs or camps or does anything outdoorsy like that?”

“He’s a large, muscular person, but I have no idea…”

“I was looking for some sort of knot-tying hobby,” she said.

“Does macramé qualify?” asked the priest.

Garcia: “Come again?”

“He was known for his wall hangings and plant hangers and other such objets d’art. Woven crosses and whatnot. Some of the stuff even decorates the walls of the chancery.” The priest paused and added, “I myself thought they were hideous monstrosities.”

Bernadette: “Hideous monstrosities fit the bill.”

“My understanding is, his father had been in the Navy and devoted a lot of time to fiddling with rope.” The priest folded his arms in front of him. “Don’t suppose you can tell me…”

Garcia shook his head. “Can’t talk about it.”

“Really must have stepped in it if he’s got two federal agents on his tail,” said the priest.

The waitress came up to the table with a cardboard box. “Wanna take the leftovers back to the rectory, Fadder?”

“I suppose we shouldn’t waste food. Thank you, Elizabeth.” The priest looked at the two agents while the young woman reached between them and started loading the carton with congealed wedges. “How about some raffle tickets? Five dollars a chance. You could win a large-screen television.”

Twenty-nine

The two agents stood on the sidewalk in front of the gymnasium/bowling alley, shoving raffle tickets into their pants pockets.

“Tell me again where you
saw
Quaid,” said Garcia, pulling his car keys out of his coat pocket.

“Downtown hospital,” said Bernadette. “The one down the street from the old dining car.”

“And he was visiting this woman who later died?”

“Yup.”

“I’d like some…” He searched for the right phrase. “Independent confirmation that he was there.”

She gritted her teeth and worked to steady her voice. “Hospital personnel,” she offered.

“If we can check informally. Quietly.” He jiggled his keys. “Of all the folks who work at a hospital, who would notice a controversial, disgraced priest?”

“Ex-priest,” she corrected him.

“Ex-priest. Who would recognize him bumping around the hallways? Who would know Quaid right off the bat?”

“How about another priest? The hospital chaplain—I’ll call on the chaplain.”

“You do that.” Garcia buttoned up his trench coat. “I’m heading back to Minneapolis. Gonna see if Marta Younges has shown up for work by some miracle. If not, gonna put in a call to the Milwaukee FO and tell them what’s going on. What
might
be going on.”

“Super Lawyer’s dead,” said Bernadette.

“Too early to sound an alarm.” He started for the Vicky, saying over his shoulder, “Check in periodically.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Bernadette mumbled as she went to her truck.

Bernadette parked on the street a block down from the hospital. She went through the front doors, cut across the lobby, and found the information desk situated in the center of the main floor. She didn’t bother flashing her ID or her name, and the blue-haired hospital volunteer in the blue smock didn’t ask for either. The blue lady pointed Bernadette back outside with the news that the hospital’s clergyman was a clergywoman named Tabitha O’Rourke who spent some afternoons volunteering a block away, at a downtown charity clothes closet.

“Whatever
that
is,” said the blue lady, using the eraser end of her pencil to push her eyeglasses up against the bridge of her nose. “Probably some kind of hippie thing.”

The blue lady was more or less correct. The charity clothes closet was located in a storefront that had once housed a head shop. A dozen psychedelic stickers advertising various brands of rolling papers, bongs, and pipes were plastered along the top and bottom of the plate-glass window. The storefront’s current tenant had obviously attempted to remove the paraphernalia ads—most of the stickers had their corners peeled off—but in each case, the meat of the message had stubbornly stayed in place.
Juicy Jays Flavored Papers. Hempire: Winner of High Times Cannabis Cup 2000 for “Best Hemp Product.” The Original Sixshooter Pipe.
Bernadette stepped up to the shop’s glass door and paused to take in the neon-green sticker plastered at exactly her eye level.
Badassbuds—Seeds for the Connoisseur.
She pulled open the door, and a set of brass bells hanging from the top of the door announced her entrance. She walked inside, the badass door closing behind her with another jingle.

The square space reeked of unwashed bodies and mothballs, and resembled a large walk-in closet. To her right and left were clothing racks on wheels lined up parallel to the walls. Each rack had a theme. One was filled with jeans, another with jackets and coats. One was loaded with tops—shirts and blouses and sweatshirts and sweaters. Another had a meager collection of office attire—outdated dresses and a few men’s suits—hanging from wire clothes hangers. Last stop was the ladies’ lingerie department, a rack crammed with robes and nightgowns and slips and bras. Plastic laundry baskets, sitting on the linoleum floor in front of the racks, continued the themes: Sock basket. Baby-clothes basket. Shoe basket. Handbag basket. Sitting against the center of the back wall was a card table piled with recycled paper grocery bags. Also against the back wall, on either side of the table, were swinging half-doors like those found in department-store changing areas. The one on the left had a handmade cardboard placard taped to the top of it.
Men/Hombres.
The right one was
Women/Mujeres.
Each fitting room was occupied. Behind the
Hombres
door, two hairy, pale legs were stepping into a pair of trousers.
Mujeres
had a forest of limbs pulling on jeans; the sound of a child’s giggles emanated from behind the half-door.

“Anyone home?” Bernadette yelled.

“Yes,” said a female voice, sounding muffled. The lingerie rack shivered, and a tall, curvaceous woman stepped out from between two chenille bathrobes. “Can I help you?”

Bernadette hesitated, not knowing what to call a female chaplain with the unlikely name of Tabitha. “Reverend Tabby”? The woman’s appearance threw her off, too. She’d expected someone who looked like a middle-aged nun, but Tabitha O’Rourke could have passed for an old Farrah Fawcett. She sported long yellow feathery hair parted slightly off center and salted with streaks of gray. Her face was too tan, especially for a Minnesotan coming off a long winter, and her teeth were the sort of bleached white that came from a box. She wore a white peasant blouse tucked into tight jeans, Birkenstock sandals, and ragg-wool socks.

Deciding to drop her own name and title before tackling the lady minister’s, Bernadette pulled out her ID wallet and walked up to the woman. “I’m Agent Bernadette Saint Clare, with the FBI. You are…”

The woman studied the badge while she answered. “Pastor Tabitha O’Rourke.”

Bernadette snapped her wallet shut and stuffed it back in her pocket. “I’ve got a few questions related to a case I’m working on.”

The pastor crossed her arms in front of her. “What’s the problem? If this is about all those pothead signs out front, that operation was shut down a long time ago, and I in no way endorse—”

“This has to do with the hospital.”

“Is someone at the hospital in trouble? I should be sending you to Administration.”

Bernadette whipped out her pal Nurse Big Arms as a reference. “I’ve already spoken with Marcia, the supervisor up on four.”

“This going to take long?” She walked across the closet floor and glanced outside through the storefront glass. “I’ve got a truck coming in soon, and I’m here by myself.”

“Are you the only minister working at the hospital?”

O’Rourke turned around. “The only one on staff, but patients have their own clergy visit.”

“Would they check in with you before making their rounds?” asked Bernadette.

“Not necessarily. Some pop their heads into my office to say hello. I know many of the other religious around town…What’s this about?”

Bernadette unzipped her jacket. The closet was an oven. “Were you at the hospital Saturday night?”

Pastor Tabitha buried her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “Yeah.”

“See any other clergy hanging around?”

“Damian Quaid,” she said quickly. “During one of my evening services in the hospital chapel.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not much.
Hi.
That’s about it.”

“You don’t know why he was there? Where he’d been and where he was headed after the service?”

“No.”