Primal Fear (8 page)

She was young, late twenties, and had a rather mischievous
look in her eyes. There was that sense of innocence and compassion one sees in the faces of most nuns, but something else, a spin on the look, something a little devilish.

“I’m here to, uh… I don’t know just how to put it…”

“Examine the scene of the crime,” she offered.

“Exactly.”

“Top of the stairs,” she said.

“Thanks.”

It struck him that she did not seem overly upset by the demise of the late archbishop. Perhaps she was putting up a good front. He went up the stairs. A uniformed cop was sitting beside the doorway into the bishop’s suite. Vail peered around the corner so he could see the bedroom. The grotesque bloodstains on the wall and carpet had turned brown.
My God,
he thought,
somebody really did butcher Rushman.

“Who’re you?” the cop asked.

“Insurance man,” Vail answered.

“Lieutenant!” the cop yelled.

Stenner entered the hallway from the kitchen. He stopped for just an instant when he saw Vail, then stalked down the hall to the door.

“We’re turning into an item,” Vail said.

“What are you doing here?” Stenner asked absently, as if he really didn’t expect or want an answer.

“Scene of the crime, Lieutenant. I’m here in the interest of my client, which is our privilege. Unless Jack Yancey’s changed the law in the last couple of hours.”

“We’re still working here,” Stenner said brusquely. “You’ll have your chance when we’re out.”

Vail stared at the stained wall. “They really did a job on him, didn’t they?” he said.

“Yes. You’ll see when you get the pictures. The package you ordered will be on the sergeant’s desk, first precinct, first thing in the morning. That includes the autopsy, which just came back.”

“Thanks.”

Vail watched as a technician finished cutting a swatch from the carpet and dropped it into a plastic bag.

“I hope there’s something left to examine when you finish,” Vail said. “We’re going to be missing some tidbits here and there; I assume you’re going to share.”

“Don’t be difficult,” Stenner said, looking back into the room.

“I’ve got a subpoena here, Lieutenant…”

“When we’re through we’ll let you know, Counselor. Now do you mind?” He pointed toward the door.

Vail went back downstairs. Sister Mary Alice was gone. He walked across to the office and looked in.

Standing alone on a small table facing the desk was a small bronze sculpture of Pope Paul VI, his arms extended as if to enfold the world, his head tilted in an expression of compassion. Hanging on the wall behind the desk—like a stem and resolute guardian of the premises—was a photograph of the only man to whom Bishop Rushman had been responsible, Pope John Paul II.

The desk was a large, heavy mahogany piece, as were the three chairs arranged in a semicircle before it. It was a cold, austere room except for an easy chair in one comer, with several books and periodicals piled beside it, and well-stocked, built-in bookcases on the two side walls of the room, which added warmth to the otherwise stark interior.

Vail entered the office, walking down beside the bookshelves. They were jammed with an eclectic mixture: religious periodicals, a leather-bound code of canon law, and religious tracts; foreign-language editions of novels by Dante, Dostoyevski and other great writers; the works of Rousseau, Locke, Hobbes and Darwin; as well as studies of the psyche by Freud, Kant and Schopenhauer.

His desk was tidy. Telephone, Rolodex, two letter trays and an appointment book, still open to the day of the murder. Vail leafed through it. Meetings, writing deadlines, dinners and consultations were entered on every line, sometimes only fifteen minutes apart. For the fateful evening, he had scribbled in “Altar boy critique” and “tape sermon” followed by “Subject-Descartes: I think therefore I am. Ergo, if all problems can be solved by human reason, does God become obsolete? Explain.”

It was an interesting thesis and Vail jotted it down in his notebook, more out of curiosity than because he thought it might be relevant to the case. Then he tried the drawers. The one on the upper left was locked. He took a paper clip from the center drawer, bent it double and slipped it into the keyhole, twisting it, sensing the tumblers, then feeling it catch and twist the lock open. He slid open the drawer. Inside was a small leather journal.
The front half was an address book, the back half was marked “Personal Appointments.”

He checked the appointment pages randomly. For March 9, Rushman had penciled in “Linda 555-4527.” There were very few other notations. It would seem the archbishop had little time for personal endeavors. Vail scribbled the information down in his own notebook and closed and relocked the drawer. He got up and looked at the titles of other books on the shelves but was interrupted by a soft Irish accent.

“Excuse me, Detective, may I help you?”

The priest who had entered the room was in his fifties, portly, with pure white hair and a pleasant, almost cherubic face. But his features seemed to sag from the weight of the past few days and his eyes were bloodshot, either from lack of sleep or from crying. He wore a black band on his left sleeve.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude. I’m not a policeman, Father, I’m an attorney.” Vail hesitated a moment before adding, “I represent Aaron Stampler.”

“I see,” the priest said, apparently neither shocked nor upset by the admission. “I’m Father Augustus Delaney,” he said, and held out his hand.

“Vail. Martin Vail.”

“Poor Aaron,” he said. “God bless the lad. I pray for his forgiveness.”

“Did you know him?”

“Oh yes. A pleasant lad, y’know. God knows what terrible demons captured his soul that he should commit such an act.”

Vail decided against his usual sermon on the quality of innocence.

“It’s an irony, isn’t it?” Father Delaney said softly. “The bishop is not only the victim, but his privacy is violated even in death. What a shame the dear man can’t rest in peace.”

“I agree,” Vail said. “Look, Father, this is probably a very dumb question, but what exactly does a bishop do?”

The priest smiled and walked around the desk to check the mail. “Why, he runs the show, Mr. Vail,” he said, leafing through the letters. “The Holy See—the archdiocese.” He returned the unread sheaf of paper to the letter tray and turned the pages of the appointment book until it was current.

“There are fifty-three hundred square miles in this See,” he went on, running his finger down the list of appointments as he spoke. “Seven colleges and universities, several hundred elementary
and high schools, twelve hospitals, three hundred and twelve parishes and missions, over a thousand priests, over a hundred brothers and approximately three thousand nuns. Also thousands of deacons and lay workers.” He looked up and smiled. “Impressive territory, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very,” Vail answered.

Delaney leaned against the comer of the desk with his hands folded together and said, “Bishops are the bond between parishioners and priests and the Vatican. ‘Teachers of doctrine, priests of sacred worship, and ministers of governance,’ that’s the job description by canon law. An immense job, sir; the stress of it has destroyed more than one good priest.”

“And how did the archbishop handle it?”

“He thrived on it. His schedule was full from morning till night, there were always delegations, meetings, and of course Savior House and the Bishop’s Fund, which finances all his other charity works. In addition to everything else, the archbishop writes … wrote … articles on theology for the
Catholic Digest
and several national lay publications, answered the mail from parishioners and priests and wrote a weekly column for the
Tribune.
Then there were sermons, of course, and responses to the nuncio.”

“Nuncio?”

“Papal correspondence. Bishops are accountable only to the pope, Mr. Vail; they have great discretionary power.”

“Oh. How long was he bishop?”

“Appointed by Paul the Sixth. That was in 1975. They were great friends. He was not that close to Pope John.”

“Why is that?”

Delaney shrugged. “Perhaps he was too … outspoken.”

“About what?”

“Come along,” Delaney said, “I have to check the altar.” The priest motioned him to follow and, as they continued the conversation, led him down the corridor toward the church. “Understand, Mr. Vail, this is a difficult time for all American bishops. They’re pulled one way, then another. There’s the liberal element—they want the Church to change its attitude about everything from birth control and abortion to celibacy and the ordination of women. Then there are the traditionalists—no change at all is too much for them. A very stressful situation exists throughout the Church. Several bishops have taken extended leaves of absence because of the stress.”

“And Archbishop Rushman took stands on these issues?”

“He tried to … ameliorate … the differences within his See. To make it a matter of the individual’s own conscience. The Vatican takes a more rigid stand.”

“That get him in trouble with Rome?”

“No, not trouble. Suspect, perhaps. The Holy Father is quite conservative.”

“Did the bishop have a fairly set routine?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “He was usually downstairs in the common room by seven-ten, seven-fifteen. We would have morning prayers. Then he would prepare for the first mass. He did everything himself. The mass was his joy—you could almost call it an obsession. He turned on the lights himself, lit the altar candles, got the hosts, refilled the cruets with wine and water. Read morning mass without an altar boy. After mass he ate breakfast and read the newspapers—the
Tribune, New York Times
and
Wall Street Journal.
Then he would do his writing and mail. Afternoons were for meetings.”

“Evenings?”

“Dinners, banquets, speeches. Tuesday night was reserved for preparing his sermon. He taped them on a video camera, y’know, studied them, made sure they were perfect. He also taped the altar boys at mass and critiqued them.”

“A perfectionist?” Vail offered as they reached the apse and stopped. Several nuns were draping the altar with black bunting and lilies. Half a dozen people were in the church praying. From somewhere near the rear of the church there came the sound of a man’s soft sobbing.

“In some things. Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Vail, he was quite human. I will miss him greatly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your problem, sir. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.”

“Thanks for your help,” Vail said as the priest walked away, genuflected in front of the altar and went into the sacristy. Vail went back down the corridor to the rectory to the rear door and stepped outside. He was standing below the bishop’s apartment.

What was it the paper said? He ran out the kitchen door and a patrol car in the alley spooked him.

To his left was a heavy wooden staircase leading from the back of the apartment. He walked a few feet into the yard and scanned the ancient L-shaped brick building, walked to the corner
and checked it out. The small windows on each side of the corner told him he was probably standing below the bathroom. He went back inside, walked down the long hall to the church and stood for several minutes, staring at the confessionals on both sides of the apse.

That’s the way he came. Out the kitchen door, down the back stairs. Then the patrol car scared him so he ran back inside. Came down this corridor and hid in one of these confessionals.

Why? If he didn’t do it, why did he take the knife and run for it?

And where did the real murderer go?

“He was in the first one, over there on the other side,” a voice behind him said, and he turned to face Sister Mary Alice.

“That one?” he asked, pointing across the church.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Strange place to hide.”

“Not at all. It’s like a closet. Children love to hide in closets.”

“Children? Aaron hardly qualifies as a child.”

“Man-child,” she said. “Have you met him yet?”

“Yes.”

“Beautiful boy, isn’t he?”

“Yes, I’d say that. He’s also nineteen. In this state, you’re considered a man when you’re sixteen.”

“Which means?”

“Which means they can electrocute him.”

“Can you save him from that, Mr. Vail?”

“So you know why I’m here?”

“Of course. We do read the newspapers—and watch TV.”

“I’m representing Aaron.”

“I assumed that.”

“How well do you know him?”

“As well as anyone, I suppose,” she said warmly. “We all know him.”

“What’s he like?”

“A very hard worker. Thoughtful. Sharing. A very sweet boy.”

“Did he have any reason to murder the archbishop?”

“Is there ever any reason for murder, Mr. Vail?”

TEN

Vail burst into the house as if he had been blown through the door by the wind. He was talking as he came in and he stormed into his office without even taking off his coat.

“Call Wall Eye McGinty’s, tell the Judge I need him. If he gives you any static about it being post time out in California someplace, tell him I said tough shit. I want him here
now
! Then call Checker and send a cab downtown for him. And I need Tommy Goodman’s phone number, I never can remember…”

“It’s 555-4411. Real easy. What the hell’s going on?”

He talked as he dialed. “The Heinrich Himmler of King’s County just blindsided us.”

“Shoat?”

“Who else?”

“What happened?”

“He dropped the pro bono bomb of the decade in our lap.”

“You’ve got a pro bono already. His name is Leroy—”

“Try Aaron Stampler.”

Her mouth dropped open two inches. “Oh my Ga-a-a-hd,” she said.

“That’s putting it mildly. We’ve got sixty days to put a case together and I just met the defendant for the first time. Hello, Tommy … damn it, I know you’re there, pick up the phone, it’s me … Screw that answering machine, this is important.”

“So is my peace of mind,” Goodman said as he picked up the receiver. He had the hard, nasal voice of an ex-fighter.

“What’re you doing?”

“This is the end of the quarter. I got finals in two days. Orals, man.”

“I need you over here right now.”

“Good-bye,” he said, and hung up.

“Damn it,” Vail yelled, and redialed. Naomi stuck her head in the door. “Judge says it’s post time at Santa Anita in ten minutes, then he’ll be over.”

“Christ, I … hello, Tommy, it’s me again. Now listen to me, I got something very, very hot on my hands. I’m going to need you for sixty days. I’ll pay you twenty grand, ten a month.”

Goodman picked up.

“Twenty grand for two months!”

“That’s enough to put you through the rest of law school and set you up in practice—if you don’t come to work for me. But I need you, body and soul, night and day, for the next two months. You’ll have to drop out of school next quarter. If it’s a problem, I can call Dean Markowitz …”

“It won’t be a problem, I just hate to lose a quarter this close to the end. And I got this oral in two days, on fucking torts.”

“Torts, hell,” Vail said. “You’re going to be a litigator, not a goddamn real estate attorney. Anyway, the Judge’ll coach you all day tomorrow. The cab’ll be there in ten minutes.” And this time it was Vail who hung up. He yelled to Naomi, “You got the cab yet?”

“I got Maxie. Nobody else would come. He’s thinking it over.”

Vail punched the button and grabbed up the phone.

“Max?”

“Hey, Mr. Vail. Look, man, have you seen—”

“Max, I don’t want any shit. Get in your fucking cab, go by Wall Eye’s place and pick up the Judge, then swing over to Sutton and get Tommy. Go by Ike’s and get enough deli for ten or twelve sandwiches, some drinks, beat it back here, pronto.”

“You can’t even use chains in this shit.”

“A hundred bucks, Max.”

“Who’d you say I pick up first?”

Tommy Goodman was ready to go and waiting for the cab in five minutes. It was always that way when Marty called. Funny how Vail could get Goodman’s adrenaline pumping with a two-minute phone call. Goodman could stare at the answering machine, listen to Vail rave and rant, try to ignore him, but in the end could not resist that hypnotic voice, the grifter’s promise of excitement on the shady side, and so finally he would succumb, knowing that the master con man of the court would lure him away from whatever he was doing with the easy charm of a snake luring a rabbit into its jaws.

It had all started that unfortunate night eight years ago in the old Arena on Twelfth Street. Twelfth Street… Christ, how he missed it. The drab old barn had been replaced by a gigantic domed stadium affectionately known as the Tit, with fake grass, air-conditioning, fast-food pits and a brand-new football team
bought and paid for by the bankers, lawyers, hotel keepers and business entrepreneurs to whom it was just another peg in the cribbage board, that image barometer of growth and progress used to lure conventioneers, tourists and big-time spenders into the fold. Out-of-town bucks were the prize, that greedy infusion of green blood pumping into the city’s heart which kept its financial circulation pounding, made the rich richer, the poor poorer and kept the great middle masses marching in place. Boxing, that Neanderthal bloodletting, now was relegated to seedy little rinks in the mill town satellites of the city, out of sight and sound of the grandeur of, say, professional football, which took much longer to separate knees, destroy shoulders, ruin ankles, pulverize the bones and scramble the brains of its six-and-seven-figure steroid gladiators. The stringpullers of course enjoyed an antiseptic view of the game. Sitting far above the masses in their plush club rooms, the kingmakers were spared the real sounds of gridiron battle—the thunder of bodies slamming together, the cries of pain, the snap of bones, all the true epithets of glory. What it was all about was what it’s always about—money in the bank.

But eight years ago, on Friday nights, one could still travel down to the Twelfth Street Gym, smell the real smells—sweat, bay rum, resin, alcohol, beer, alum, cigar smoke—and watch from ringside as pros went one-on-one, practicing an art that even the effete and artsy Greeks recognized as a true test of skill, beauty and power.

Goodman was a dark-haired and handsome man despite the scars of battle he so proudly wore: a slightly flattened nose, scar tissue eyebrows, a bent ear, a right hand so weakened by broken bones that he could barely pet a cat without wincing, and the permanently septum-deviated nasal passages indigenous to prizefighters. He spoke like a man with a perpetual cold, yet when the occasion demanded, he could call up his 132 IQ points and orate as eloquently as any aspiring young barrister. He was two years younger than Martin Vail and three terms of law school and the bar exam away from realizing his dream. It might never have happened had it not been for Marty Vail.

Goodman had grown up fueled by two passions, boxing and the law, professions not that disassociated. He was as entranced by the eloquence of the courtroom as he was by the vulgarity of the ring; his heroes were legends: Clarence Darrow, William O. Douglas, Muhammad Ali and Sugar Ray
Leonard. A meager and bored college student, he depended on the sport—which had provided him hero status in high school and a scholarship to the state university—to get by. Once graduated, he turned pro in the belief that he could box his way through law school. His idol became Martin Vail, who had already carved himself a little niche in local posterity with a half dozen spectacular court wins. When he could, Goodman sat in the front row, watching Vail perform legal magic, and Vail, a boxing fan, spotted the young fighter in the courtroom. They became friends and Vail became mentor to the pugilistic law student.

February 3, 1975. He was matched against a slow, slough-footed, lumbering, muscle-bound ox named George Trujillo, who called himself the Tampa Nugget and who had the grace of an ostrich. The true joys of punch and feint, footwork, speed and agility, all had passed Trujillo by; he had moved up the card on brute force alone. He could hit like a hammer and he had an iron jaw.

Goodman withstood both for ten rounds and by a miracle was still standing when the final bell rang. For six rounds he had battered Trujillo with his powerful right hand, sneaking inside the roundhouse punches, slashing at the Mexican’s nose and jaw. It was like hitting a steam engine. In the seventh, Goodman came out fast, determined to get inside and send the Nugget back to Tampa on a stretcher. The first punch drove one of his knuckles back almost to the wrist. Pain became an infection for the rest of the fight. He kept hitting, each powerful blow shattering another bone in the ruined hand, until finally he had only his left to counter and hit with. Raw pride kept him on his feet. When the last bell rang, he reeled back to his comer and collapsed on his stool.

“What the fuck happened?” his trainer, Elie Pincus, asked around a mouthful of Q-tips as he shrank Goodman’s gaping cuts with the fire of alum.

“I think I broke my right,” Goodman gasped.

Indeed.

Later, sitting on the edge of the table in the dismal dressing room, he and Vail watched as Pincus cut away the glove to reveal a mauled and bloody mass. Two splintered bones protruded from swollen flesh. Blood seeped from jagged tears in the once mighty right. Vail turned away at the sight.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said, to be joined a few minutes later by Sawbones Watson, the arena’s resident G.P.

“He’s gotta go to the Pavilion, Marty. Two of his knucks are shoved all the way back to his fuckin’ elbow. But he says he won’t go. I think he’s afraid they’ll cut his hand off or somethin’.”

“Just call the ambulance. Tell them to lay off the siren. They can sneak up on him.”

“He’s through, y’know,” Sawbones said. “Won’t be able to hit a loaf of bread with that paw without he’ll bust a couple bones. Damn shame, too. Very promising middleweight, Tommy was. Fast, smart—always nice to see a college kid in the game, gives us some class. But it’s all over for him, Tommy’s gotta know that.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“Yeah, well, stand back when you do, he can still hit with his left.”

Vail had returned to the dressing room, where Sawbones had bound the fist, now the size of a honeydew, in bandages and given Goodman some painkillers.

“So it’s a wake, huh?” Goodman said, slurring his words slightly as the Demerol started to set in.

“Sawbones says your right’s in the growler.”

“Wha’s he know? He was any kinda doc, wouldn’t be makin’ a living here.”

Goodman ran his fingers lightly over the bandaged hand and winced. “Shit, s’long law school,” he groaned.

“Maybe not,” said Vail. “Maybe I could use you.”

“Doing what?”

“Investigating. Most of these local bohunks can’t find their hat unless they’re wearing it.”

“Wan’ me t’
snoop
?”

“I want you to head my investigating team.”

“Sure. How many y’got on the … Marty Vail Bureau of Invest’gation?”

“You’ll be the first.”

“Lawyers.” Goodman said, shaking his head.

“You can pick up two, two-fifty a day and expenses—when you’re working.”

“Two-fifty a day?”

“Two, two-fifty.”

“Which is ’t? Two … two-fifty?”

“You start at two. If you’re as good as I think you’ll be, we’ll push it to two-fifty.”

“Lawyers.”

“What’ve you got to lose, Tommy? Give it a shot. You can always quit.”

The Demerol had kicked in and Goodman laid back on the table staring at the ceiling and mumbling incoherently until the ambulance arrived. “Don’t wanna be sleazy P.I. f’rest my life, takin’ pictures some sleazy slob shacked up in a sleazy motel…”

“I don’t do divorces,” Vail said. “Most of my clients are people with big trouble and lots of money.”

“S’I heard.”

“Examine the contents, not the bottle, okay?” Vail said. “In Cicero’s words, ‘Justice renders to everyone his due.’”

“B’shit. Marty Vail’s ona case, ain’ no justice …” He laughed as the Demerol evaporated the pain. “ ’S Clarence Darrow once said, ‘No such thing as justice—in or outta court.”

“Who’s Clarence Darrow?” Vail answered.

It had taken four hours to rearrange the shattered bones in Goodman’s hand and plaster it up. When it was over, Vail paid the bill. Two months later, Tommy Goodman became head of the Marty Vail Bureau of Investigation—and its only member. He was better than good, he was a natural. His first year he made $35,000, pretty good money. By 1982 he was clearing fifty and was well on his way through law school. Only it took a little longer than he expected. There were always those phone calls, always the seduction in the master’s voice, always another mountain to kick over. What the hell, he probably learned more law spending fifteen minutes with Vail and the Judge than he would ever learn in school.

The Judge sat in one of the thick chairs at the back of Wall Eye McGinty’s horse parlor, legs crossed, legendary black book in his lap, twirling his Mont Blanc pen in his fingers. He watched the electronic tote board as he considered his next move.

“Look at the old bastard,” said McGinty, who had lost his esophagus to cancer three years earlier and now talked through a voice box that made him sound like he was gargling. “Him and that fuckin’ book. He could make us all rich in a week.”

“That or put us outa business,” answered Larry the Limp,
who was reckless with guns and had blown his foot off while hunting deer in Pennsylvania.

“Anybody ever grabs that book and makes a run for it, kill him on the spot,” Wall Eyes said.

The book!

Judge Jack Spalding had, as his twilight years approached, been devastated by two tragedies. His beloved Jenny, a soft-spoken and demure lady of the South who adored his crusty nature and to whom he had been married for thirty-seven years, had been cruelly injured in a car wreck and had lingered comatose for almost a month before dying. The second tragedy was of his own making. Never much of a drinker, the Judge had succumbed to a lifelong but until then controlled addiction to playing the ponies. In a wild spree after Jenny died, he had lost thirty thousand dollars to bookmakers in a single month. His reputation and his place on the bench were threatened and a distinguished career dangled from the fingers of the bookies.

Spalding had been saved by the devotion of defense counsels, prosecutors, cops, newspaper reporters, law clerks, librarians and politicians, all of whom respected his fairness and his wisdom on the bench and who understood his madness. At a closed benefit dinner, they handed the judge an envelope with the necessary payoff in cash—and then, after he had settled his debts, his friends in the vice squad had busted all the bookies who had taken advantage of the revered jurist in his dark hours.

The Judge had quit cold turkey and, since that night, had never placed another dime on the steeds. Instead, he placed imaginary bets each day, keeping elaborate records of every race, track, jockey and horse in the circuit. Without the pressure of the wager, he became a seer of the tracks, a man who combined wisdom, insight and a staggering knowledge of statistics into a ten-year winning streak. He dutifully recorded all the information in a thick leather journal, a book so feared by the bookmakers that they had once banded together and offered him six figures if he would burn it. He, of course, refused, but assured them he would neither give tips nor impart his vast knowledge of the game to anyone else. In ten years, the judge had gathered an imaginary fortune of over a million dollars, all of it on paper.