Eleventh Hour
Page 43
Savich checked the guy’s pulse again, rose, and dusted off his suit pants. “You must be Inspector Delion. Have you called this in?”
“Yeah, it’s done,” Delion said.
A group of black-garbed priests were pressing in, Archbishop Lugano at their head. He said in a voice that carried nearly to California Street, “I have a cousin who’s in the DEA. She’s not a pantywaist either. Well done, sir, thank you.”
Savich merely nodded. “Dane, get the blood out of Nick’s eyes and see if she can identify this bozo.”
Dane stared at the narrow furrow the bullet had made at her hairline just above her temple. It was still bleeding sluggishly. He pulled away Sherlock’s handkerchief and took out his own, folded it up, and said, “Nick, press this hard against the wound. We’ll get you to a doctor in a minute.”
“Let me take another look at the guy, Dane.” She was still breathing hard, and there was rage in her eyes as she looked down at the unconscious man who was Father Michael Joseph’s murderer. She said, “I was sitting there, listening to you, and then the light came through that stained-glass window and I knew I was going to cry. I bowed my head; then in the very next instant I felt this shock of heat on my face. I looked up and saw the light from that window was shining directly down on that man. I saw him looking at me, and then I knew, just knew.”
Delion was searching his pockets. “No gun. Well, it’s got to be around here somewhere.” He called over two uniformed officers who had just arrived and told them to start the search.
The man groaned, tried to pull himself up onto his knees. One of the officers grabbed his left arm, another grabbed his right. They cuffed him and hauled him toward a police car at the curb.
Dane said, “Look at this crowd. How are we ever going to find that gun?”
“I think perhaps I can help,” Bishop Koshlap said. He flung back his head and yelled, “Everyone please listen to me. There is a gun somewhere to be found. Please help our priests form search groups. If any of you saw this man shoot this woman, please step forward.”
Dane watched all those people, at least four hundred of them, grow silent and calm because the bishop himself had given them a task, a task that really mattered. He saw Archbishop Lugano speak to the priests, saw them divvy up the crowd and set to work. Dane looked down at Nick, frowned, and took back his folded handkerchief to press it himself against Nick’s face. “You weren’t pressing directly on the gash. You’re still bleeding. But no matter, it’s nearly stopped. I can see it’s not bad, thank God.
“You know what, Nick? My brother would have been very pleased about this.”
Savich said to Delion, “I’m not so sure there’s a gun to find. If I were the shooter, I’d have another guy here so I could hand the gun off to him.”
Delion knew he was right, but they had to look, just in case. “Yeah, I know.” He heard sirens, and quickly went to Nick. “The paramedics are nearly here. You can bet the media will be right behind them. I want you to go with the paramedics back to Bryant Street. The last thing we need is photos of you in the Chronicle. We’ll meet you there.”
“But Dane, I’ve got to go with him to the cemetery.”
Dane said, “It’s okay, Nick. Delion’s right. If the media see you, it will be a nightmare. I’ll see you back at the police station.” He paused just a brief moment, lightly touched his fingertips to the wound on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
FIFTEEN
When Delion called a halt to the search, all the mourners formed a car processional that wound a mile to the west, to the Golden Gate Cemetery. The sun was shining, although the day remained cold, and there was the heavy scent of the ocean in the air. Dane looked down at the rich earth that now covered his brother’s grave and said, “We just might have gotten him, Michael. I pray that you know that.” He stood there a moment longer, staring down at the mound of earth that covered his brother’s body. Michael was gone and he would never hear him laugh again, hear him tell about the drunk guy who tried to steal the bishop’s miter and ended up hiding in a confessional.
He didn’t approach his sister, couldn’t look at the pain in her eyes and say something comforting. Eloise, her husband, and her kids were clutched together, and that was good.
When at last Dane turned away from his brother’s grave, he saw Sherlock and Savich. He hadn’t noticed that they’d flanked him, not saying anything, just there, solid and real.
Dane drove his rental car to the police station on Bryant Street, Savich and Sherlock following. Delion had wanted Savich to go downtown with them immediately, but Savich had just smiled, shaken his head. “Important things first,” he’d said, nothing more, and taken his wife’s hand in his and followed Dane to the cemetery.
“Yeah, it’s done,” Delion said.
A group of black-garbed priests were pressing in, Archbishop Lugano at their head. He said in a voice that carried nearly to California Street, “I have a cousin who’s in the DEA. She’s not a pantywaist either. Well done, sir, thank you.”
Savich merely nodded. “Dane, get the blood out of Nick’s eyes and see if she can identify this bozo.”
Dane stared at the narrow furrow the bullet had made at her hairline just above her temple. It was still bleeding sluggishly. He pulled away Sherlock’s handkerchief and took out his own, folded it up, and said, “Nick, press this hard against the wound. We’ll get you to a doctor in a minute.”
“Let me take another look at the guy, Dane.” She was still breathing hard, and there was rage in her eyes as she looked down at the unconscious man who was Father Michael Joseph’s murderer. She said, “I was sitting there, listening to you, and then the light came through that stained-glass window and I knew I was going to cry. I bowed my head; then in the very next instant I felt this shock of heat on my face. I looked up and saw the light from that window was shining directly down on that man. I saw him looking at me, and then I knew, just knew.”
Delion was searching his pockets. “No gun. Well, it’s got to be around here somewhere.” He called over two uniformed officers who had just arrived and told them to start the search.
The man groaned, tried to pull himself up onto his knees. One of the officers grabbed his left arm, another grabbed his right. They cuffed him and hauled him toward a police car at the curb.
Dane said, “Look at this crowd. How are we ever going to find that gun?”
“I think perhaps I can help,” Bishop Koshlap said. He flung back his head and yelled, “Everyone please listen to me. There is a gun somewhere to be found. Please help our priests form search groups. If any of you saw this man shoot this woman, please step forward.”
Dane watched all those people, at least four hundred of them, grow silent and calm because the bishop himself had given them a task, a task that really mattered. He saw Archbishop Lugano speak to the priests, saw them divvy up the crowd and set to work. Dane looked down at Nick, frowned, and took back his folded handkerchief to press it himself against Nick’s face. “You weren’t pressing directly on the gash. You’re still bleeding. But no matter, it’s nearly stopped. I can see it’s not bad, thank God.
“You know what, Nick? My brother would have been very pleased about this.”
Savich said to Delion, “I’m not so sure there’s a gun to find. If I were the shooter, I’d have another guy here so I could hand the gun off to him.”
Delion knew he was right, but they had to look, just in case. “Yeah, I know.” He heard sirens, and quickly went to Nick. “The paramedics are nearly here. You can bet the media will be right behind them. I want you to go with the paramedics back to Bryant Street. The last thing we need is photos of you in the Chronicle. We’ll meet you there.”
“But Dane, I’ve got to go with him to the cemetery.”
Dane said, “It’s okay, Nick. Delion’s right. If the media see you, it will be a nightmare. I’ll see you back at the police station.” He paused just a brief moment, lightly touched his fingertips to the wound on her forehead. “I’m sorry.”
FIFTEEN
When Delion called a halt to the search, all the mourners formed a car processional that wound a mile to the west, to the Golden Gate Cemetery. The sun was shining, although the day remained cold, and there was the heavy scent of the ocean in the air. Dane looked down at the rich earth that now covered his brother’s grave and said, “We just might have gotten him, Michael. I pray that you know that.” He stood there a moment longer, staring down at the mound of earth that covered his brother’s body. Michael was gone and he would never hear him laugh again, hear him tell about the drunk guy who tried to steal the bishop’s miter and ended up hiding in a confessional.
He didn’t approach his sister, couldn’t look at the pain in her eyes and say something comforting. Eloise, her husband, and her kids were clutched together, and that was good.
When at last Dane turned away from his brother’s grave, he saw Sherlock and Savich. He hadn’t noticed that they’d flanked him, not saying anything, just there, solid and real.
Dane drove his rental car to the police station on Bryant Street, Savich and Sherlock following. Delion had wanted Savich to go downtown with them immediately, but Savich had just smiled, shaken his head. “Important things first,” he’d said, nothing more, and taken his wife’s hand in his and followed Dane to the cemetery.
