Criminal intent bk-11 Read online

  Criminal intent

  ( Ben Kincaid - 11 )

  William Bernhardt

  William Bernhardt

  Criminal intent

  Chapter

  1

  "Father forgive me for I have sinned.

  "Father forgive me for I have sinned.

  "Father forgive me for I have-"

  Helen's voice broke off. She was breathless. She had murmured the words a hundred times, a thousand perhaps. But it didn't seem to help. Nothing seemed to help.

  She was on her knees in the church prayer garden, surrounded by birch trees and flowering plants and multicolored azaleas, a Garden of Eden recreated. Was she Adam, the one who submits to temptation and therefore must be cast out? Or was she Eve, the temptress who leads others to sin and degradation?

  "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…"

  Her hands were folded and her head was bowed. She was saying the words, chanting them like some arcane ritual. But who was listening? Who would hear the prayers of a woman who had done what she had done?

  Had done and been doing for years, she thought, and the sickness took hold of her, sending waves of nausea throughout her body. She doubled over in agony.

  At first, what they did had not bothered her. Or perhaps it had, but somehow she managed to suppress the guilt, to bury her true feelings in a morass of rationalization and intellectual posturing. And then one morning, not long ago, she awoke and realized-she was a sinner. A pawn of Satan. What she had done-what they all had done-was worse than mere sin. It was complete and utter corruption. Moral bankruptcy.

  It was evil.

  "Father forgive me for I have sinned.

  "Father forgive me for I have sinned.

  "Father forgive me for I have sinned."

  She recited the words over and over again, but she obtained no comfort from them. She glared up at the ebony sky, but she found no answer, no release. What was she going to do now? She had gathered some of the others, had talked to them about it. Some had even admitted they shared her feelings. But it wasn't enough. Talking would never be enough. Action was required. She had to do something.

  She heard a noise behind her, from somewhere deeper in the prayer garden. The door at the base of the bell tower was closing. But who would be in there at this time of night? Was it the priest? One of the church regulars? An irrational fear gripped her. She didn't want to be seen, not in here, not now, not like this.

  "What are you doing?"

  She let out a small sigh of relief when she saw who it was. Nothing to worry about there. "I'm just… having a quiet moment. Spending some time alone. If you wouldn't mind…"

  "Could you please help me?"

  Helen tried not to frown. This was one of the inescapable realities of being in a church-there was always someone who needed help. An old woman wanting someone to run after her groceries. An Altar Guild guy recruiting help with the cleanup. And it always seemed to come at the least convenient time. "I don't know…"

  "Please. I really really really need your help."

  "What is it?"

  "I saw something in the garden, near the base of the tower. Something strange and… frightening."

  Helen pushed herself to her feet. "Show me."

  She followed down the cobbled sidewalk toward the bell tower, in one of the most isolated and secluded parts of the labyrinthine prayer garden. There were two marble benches flanking a small recess planted with honeysuckle and flowered hedges. Many of the parishioners had buried the ashes of loved ones here; a tall marble obelisk behind one of the benches stood as a memorial.

  "So?…"

  "Over there. By the bench."

  Helen looked in the direction indicated. Someone had been digging. Signs of excavation were evident; an azalea bush had been all but uprooted.

  "My God," Helen whispered. Had someone been digging up… one of the graves? She had been at the funeral last week, and she knew this was where Ruth's sister's ashes had been buried. "Why would anyone-?" Helen's eyes widened with repugnance and amazement. "You?"

  She turned just in time to see the shovel right before it struck. It hit her on the side of the head, knocking her sideways. The pain was excruciating. She felt as if her brain had been dislodged, her jaw shattered. Her legs crumbled, and she fell down onto one of the benches.

  She remained conscious, but just barely. She watched as the shovel came closer, then closer, then closer still.

  "But… why?" Helen managed to gasp.

  "Why not?"

  Her assailant's hands clutched her throat with a strong, unbreakable grip. Helen felt her consciousness fading, and she knew that in a few short moments she would be dead. Was this the penance she had been seeking? Was this what it took to make her feel clean again? Her brain was too muddled to make any sense of it. As she felt her life slowly trickling away, her thoughts were not focused on these questions of theology and personal redemption. As she stared into the face of her killer, all she could think was:

  I can't believe it's you! I can't believe it could possibly be you!

  Chapter

  2

  "Mr. Kincaid, please direct your witness to take the stand."

  "Sir, my client is on trial. He can't be compelled to testify. The Fifth Amendment-"

  "Has absolutely no force or effect here. Please call your client to the stand."

  "But sir, it's a fundamental principle of the United States Constitution-"

  "The Constitution is not relevant."

  "Sir, the Constitution is always relevant. It's the fundamental guarantee-"

  "Not today it isn't. Now call your witness."

  "Sir, the protection against self-incrimination-"

  "Does not exist in this court. Mr. Kincaid, as I think you already know, this tribunal is governed by canonical law, not the United States Constitution. Now please send your client to the stand without any further delay."

  Ben Kincaid closed his eyes, trying to mentally regroup. How did he get himself into these situations? After years of practicing law, he had finally managed to achieve some degree of competence in Tulsa's criminal courts. So what on earth was he doing at an ecclesiastical trial conducted under the auspices of the Episcopal Church of the Diocese of Oklahoma?

  Losing, that's what he was doing.

  Father Holbrook leaned forward, crinkling the flaps of his black robe. "Again, Mr. Kincaid, I must ask you to call your client to the stand."

  Holbrook was an Oklahoma City priest who had been appointed to preside over the trial as judge. Fortunately, he had some legal experience; even though the Constitution was not the controlling law, the Federal Rules of Evidence were followed. The jurors were clergy and lay people elected at the annual diocesan convention.

  "And again, sir-" Ben couldn't bring himself to call the man your honor, even though he was, technically speaking, a judge. "-I must insist-"

  Ben felt a tugging at his arm. "It's all right. I'll go."

  Ben peered down at the gray-bearded face of his client-and priest-Father Daniel Beale. "I don't think that's wise. Do you know what could happen to you up there?"

  "Of course I do." There was a small but discernible tremble in his voice. Though he was in his mid-fifties, at the moment, he looked much older. "But the judge carries the weight of canonical authority, and he has called me to speak. I must comply."

  "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "The whole reason I submitted to this process was to clear my name. I can't very well do that by refusing to take the stand."

  "But you don't know what will happen. I don't know what will happen."

  "Then I'll just have to have faith."

  Ben held him b
ack. "Father, if you go up there, I can't promise you a good result."

  A slight smile crossed the priest's lips. "Ben, you're a fine lawyer, but when I spoke about having faith, I wasn't talking about you."

  Ben started to protest, but Beale was already on his feet and heading toward the folding chair at the right hand of the dais of adjudicators.

  While Beale was sworn in, Ben's partner, Christina McCall, leaned across the defense table. "Isn't there anything we can do about this?" she whispered.

  "You're the legal scholar. You tell me. Haven't you been reading up on the Episcopal Constitution and Canons?"

  Christina brushed her flowing mane of strawberry blond hair behind her shoulders. "Yes, but for all its two hundred and eighteen pages, it doesn't say all that much. Compared to the rules and regulations governing federal courts, it's nothing. I think it's intended to leave the presiding judge great discretion. Here in the ecclesiastical courts, the judge can do pretty much whatever he wants. And usually does. Folie de grandeur."

  "Which means Beale is going on the stand, whether we like it or not."

  "Think he'll hold up?"

  Ben shrugged. "Keep your fingers crossed."

  Christina arched an eyebrow. "Wouldn't it be more appropriate to say a prayer?"

  Beale lowered himself into a chair that was obviously too small for him, adding to his already evident discomfort. Father Holbrook was just to his left; flanking him on the other side were the stenographer, the jurors, and the Canon of the Ordinary, otherwise known as the bishop's assistant, Harold Payne.

  Father Beale seemed worried, and with good reason. A man of God since he was twenty-two, it must have been an unprecedented shock to Beale's system to find himself sitting before a bishopric tribunal on the charge of Conduct Unbecoming a Priest. The evidence that had been adduced already by previous witnesses was substantial and, at times, shocking: Malice toward parishioners. Public denial of the virgin birth. Questioning whether Jesus rose from the dead. Allowing radical political groups to meet at the church.

  And there was another memorable allegation of Beale's conduct unbecoming a priest. Murder.

  "When did you last see Helen Conrad?" Father Fleming asked. Fleming was a stout, basso profundo lawyer-priest from Kansas City who had been brought in to represent the complainants; in effect, he was the district attorney.

  "In the prayer garden," Father Beale answered. "Sprawled across a stone bench, the right side of her face covered with blood. A dirty dishrag wedged in her mouth. Her skin a ghastly gray. Flies buzzing around her corpse."

  Father Fleming ran his fingers across the top of his head, as if brushing back the hair that had not graced his scalp for many years. "I mean, when did you last see her alive?"

  "At the vestry meeting. The night before."

  As Ben had learned, the vestry was the governing body of St. Benedict's Episcopal Church, where Beale was currently priest and Ben was a member of the choir. The vestry, led by the senior warden, oversaw all the administrative aspects of the church. The murder victim, Helen Conrad, had been on the vestry for years and was expected to run for senior warden the following year.

  Ben glanced over his shoulder. Most of the surviving members of the vestry were seated in the folding chairs that made for a makeshift gallery in the parish hall of the church. Some of the rank and file parishioners were in attendance as well-many faces he recognized, as well as some he hadn't seen in the entire seven months he'd been attending this church. Apparently a priest on trial was more exciting than your average Sunday service.

  "And is it true, as we heard earlier, that you engaged in a heated dispute with Ms. Conrad during the vestry meeting?"

  "Yes. I'm afraid it is. Of course, I engaged in a heated dispute with almost everyone who was there."

  "What was the nature of the dispute?"

  "The vestry had just learned that I have been allowing a gay and lesbian group to hold meetings at the church. In the parish hall. Without the approval of the vestry."

  "And for how many months has this been going on?"

  Beale drew in a deep breath before answering. "Over three years. Since I transferred to the church."

  Although he worked hard to maintain his serene unflappability, this had apparently caught Father Fleming by surprise. "You are aware, I suppose, that the Diocese of Oklahoma does not recognize homosexual marriages or permit practicing homosexuals to act as priests. Opinions regarding the validity of the homosexual lifestyle are sharply divided."

  "I am aware of that."

  Ben felt he had to intervene, if only to give his client a momentary respite. He rose to address the judge. "Sir, the purpose of this tribunal as I understand it is not to debate theological issues but to determine whether Father Beale should be removed from his position as rector of this church."

  Payne, the bishop's assistant, answered on the judge's behalf. "The charge of which Father Beale has been accused is conduct unbecoming a priest." Payne was a short, slight man in a dark suit and white shirt-probably as close as he could come to looking like a priest without being one. In many ways, however, he was Father Holbrook's opposite-not only physically, but in the down-to-earth attitude that sharply contrasted Holbrook's more cerebral approach. "If Father Beale was acting in opposition to canonical law, then he engaged in conduct unbecoming a priest."

  Father Fleming resumed his examination of the witness. "Was that the only topic discussed?"

  "No," Beale replied. "There were many others. Helen criticized my Christmas homily-"

  "Would that be the sermon in which you suggested that the virgin birth of our Savior was a myth?"

  Ben could see Beale steeling himself, preparing to do theological battle once more. "We are told that God was made man in the person of Jesus. That he was one of us. But if he was not conceived as human beings are conceived, if he was conjured up through some… some mystical magic trick, then he was not one of us, was he? How could he be called human if he was not born of man and woman?"

  Fleming made no comment, but his disdain for Beale's argument was obvious. "Was this also the homily in which you challenged the resurrection of Jesus Christ?"

  Beale cleared his throat. "No. That was for Easter."

  "How appropriate."

  "And I didn't challenge the resurrection. I said it didn't matter."

  Fleming's small green eyes were fairly bulging. The reaction from the adjudicative panel was no less dramatic. "You said that the return from the dead of Our Lord-didn't matter?"

  "I said that what is important is Jesus' teaching, his words, his guidance. That's what gives his life validity. That's why we follow him. We don't need a grandiose bit of abracadabra. We don't need the bribe of life after death. We should follow his teaching because it's the right thing to do, not because we expect to get something out of it in the end."

  "And what, may I ask, happens to the blessed sacrament of communion if the priest disavows the resurrection of Christ?"

  "Communion is a symbol, a public and spiritual avowal that we are at one with the teachings of Christ. That we draw strength from His presence in our hearts and minds. That we want to do right. That we want to believe."

  Back at the judge's bench, Ben observed an infinitesimal pursing of Father Holbrook's lips-a sure sign of his disapproval of the views espoused by the priest on the witness stand.

  "We have also been told that the issue of abortion rights was discussed at the vestry meeting, in rather loud and angry words."

  "That is true. Helen Conrad was a member of a local organization founded by another vestry member, Ernestine Rupert. It's a pro-choice group. They wanted to meet in the parish hall on Thursday evenings. I gave them my permission. But some of the vestry members-the ones who are pro-life-objected."

  "Interesting. Interesting," Fleming said, tapping his lower lip with his pen. "But none of this explains why you were shouting at Helen Conrad."

  "She was not the only member of the vestry with whom I had… problems. I a
lso had protracted discussions with Kate McGuire. Susan Marino."

  "Did you shout at them, too?"

  "I used forceful words, but I hope I did not shout at-"

  "I have four affidavits from eyewitnesses," Fleming said, shuffling the papers before him. "All four describe your conduct as shouting or bellowing. One witness was able to hear you clearly even though she was in the nursery at the opposite end of the church."

  "It was an intense discussion, sir."

  "And a violent display of temper, according to these affidavits."

  Ben rose to his feet. "Father Holbrook, I must object to the use of affidavits rather than live witnesses. I can't cross-examine an affidavit."

  "Mr. Kincaid, this is not federal court."

  "No, but this tribunal is supposedly governed by the Federal Rules of Evidence. And there's no way you could do this in federal court, not when the testifying witnesses are available."

  Holbrook lowered his chin. "Mr. Kincaid, our goal here is not a flamboyant display of legal skills. Our goal is to arrive at the truth so that we can best serve the needs of the parish."

  "I understand that. But I still must insist-"

  "Your objection is overruled, Mr. Kincaid."

  "Sir, with all due respect-you know that in the eyes of the law, I'm right."

  "Perhaps," he answered. "But in the eyes of God, you're wrong. Please sit down."

  Thank you, sir. May I have another one, sir? Ben sat down.

  Fleming resumed his questioning. "Father Beale, is it true that you said-or rather shouted-that Helen Conrad, the woman who was later murdered, did not deserve to be a member of the vestry?"

  "My point was simply that if she could not open her mind to new-"

  Fleming's voice rose for the first time in the entire proceeding. "Did-you-say-those-words?"

  Beale's head bowed slightly. "I'm afraid I did."

  "Did you also say that you would not allow her to-quote-bring the whole church down to her small-minded level-end quote?"