Criminal Intent Read online

  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 also 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?”

  “Tempers were high, sir. Words were flying—”

  “Did you say it?”

  “I did, sir. I did.”

  “And did she respond by telling you she was going to report you to the bishop? That she would have you removed from the church?”

  “She did.”

  “And how did you respond?”

  Father Beale did not immediately reply.

  “I have the words right before me, Father,” Fleming continued. “But I would like to hear it from you.”

  When Father Beale’s voice finally returned, it was but an echo of what it had been before. “I told her I would not allow her to destroy thirty-four years of ministry. That I would stop her.”

  “No matter what it took?”

  Beale closed his eyes. “No matter what it took.”

  The silence that filled the parish hall spoke more clearly than all the testimony that had gone before. It was as if a collective chill shuddered down the spines of those present. Ben thought that by now he should be immune to such things, but he felt it, just the same.

  Without being obvious, Ben checked the expressions on the faces of the church members who had turned out to witness this event. Ben had hoped for more of a grand jury approach—no spectators allowed—but Payne had decided that since this action directly concerned the parish, and since the action was in fact being brought by the parish, he could not exclude them.

  Ben could see at a glance which of the spectators still supported Father Beale—not many—and which were of the clique that wanted him ousted. But even those who backed Beale seemed shaken by this horrible threat.

  “It was an inexcusable flash of temper, sir,” Beale said. “I know that.”

  “It was a breach of faith, Father Beale. With your own parish.”

  “I know. And I have apologized and asked their forgiveness.”

  Fleming frowned. “After you shouted these threats, you left the meeting?”

  “Yes. I was—quite agitated.”

  “And the next time you saw Helen Conrad—”

  “She was dead. Asphyxiated.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “A young woman from outside the parish. She apparently came to the prayer garden early in the morning to visit the remains of her grandmother. She found the body and, since the doors to the church were still locked, she called the police from her car phone.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “When I arrived at the church, perhaps five minutes later.”

  “What was your reaction?”

  Beale lifted his head, staring at Fleming as if his question had exceeded all bounds of propriety. “I was grief-stricken, of course. I was shocked and horrified. A member of my flock had been slain, in a cruel and heartless manner. And on holy ground.”

  “And yet, the woman had been a thorn in your side. A thorn that was now very conveniently removed.”

  Beale’s lips trembled. His teeth clenched tightly and the lines of his angular face deepened. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, sir, but if you imagine that I had anything to do with what happened, or even that it secretly pleased me, then you know nothing about me. I was her priest! Yes, we had disagreements. Yes, I felt she should be removed from the vestry, she and all the others who are so mired in the past they can’t see the future. But I never wanted this—” His voice broke on the last word. He jerked his head around abruptly, trying to maintain control. “I would never cause or wish violence on any person. It’s contrary to everything I believe.”

  Fleming was unmoved. “Were you questioned by the police?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were a suspect.”

  “Most of the members of this parish were questioned. No charges were ever brought. Against me or anyone else.”

  And Ben knew why. By picking the brain of his good friend, Major Mike Morelli of the Homicide division, he had learned that Father Beale was indeed the police department’s top suspect. His collar didn’t grant him any immunity from their inquiry. An unveiled threat followed by a violent death was simply too incriminating to be overlooked. The reason no charges had been brought was that there was simply no evidence. Motive, yes, but proof, no. No fingerprints, no footprints, no evidence of any kind. The woman had apparently been clubbed on the head then strangled shortly after nightfall, but it had rained in the early morning. Since the prayer garden was exposed to the elements, whatever trace evidence may have once existed had washed away.

  “Not by the police,” Fleming continued. “But what about the vestry?”

  “On the Sunday following Helen’s murder, the vestry formally requested that I resign.”

  “They believed you had committed the murder.”

  “They didn’t specify their reasons.”

  “But it was understood—”

  “Most of them had been wanting me out for a good long while. This development gave them the perfect excuse.”

  “Was that what they said?”

  Beale pursed his lips. “They s
aid I had engaged in conduct unbecoming a priest.”

  “But you declined to resign.”

  “Of course I did.”

  Which is why we’re all here now, Ben thought. He had counseled Father Beale that the simplest thing would be to simply resign and start fresh somewhere else. But Father Beale wouldn’t hear of it. He had been sent here by the bishop, and he wouldn’t give up—especially not now, when his resignation would be seen as a tacit admission of his complicity in a murder. When he refused to submit to the wishes of the vestry, however, they convened an ecclesiastical trial to resolve the conflict.

  “That’s all,” Fleming said. Ben waived cross. “You may step down.”

  Father Beale did as he was bid, his legs considerably more wobbly than they had been before.

  Father Holbrook addressed the gallery. “I think we’ve heard everything we need. I want to thank everyone who took time to present evidence to this tribunal.” He glanced across the room. “Mr. Kincaid, do you have anything you would like to say before we recess?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Ben had no idea whether he could do any good here, but he certainly hadn’t been much use so far, so he felt honor-bound to try. The evidence connecting Father Beale to the murder was tenuous and circumstantial, but as had been made clear to him repeatedly, the criminal court rules—including the standard of reasonable doubt—did not apply here. All they had to do was find him guilty of conduct unbecoming a priest, and if they suspected he had anything to do with the murder, they surely would.

  Throughout this trial, Ben reasoned as he approached the judge’s station, he’d come up second-best—because this was a court of God, not a court of law. But maybe now he could use that to his advantage.

  “Perhaps it’s just because I’m used to being in the criminal courts,” Ben began, “but I can’t help but believe that all these theological and doctrinal issues are a blind. The only reason this proceeding exists is that a tragic murder occurred. And some people believe—or want to believe—that Father Beale did it.”

  “The charge against him,” Payne said, interrupting, “is conduct unbecoming a priest.”

  “I know. But I still think this court would never have been convened and none of us would be here but for the murder. True, Father Beale has some unorthodox beliefs. Is that news to anyone? He’s an independent thinker, and has been his entire career. People who don’t like it go somewhere else. Similarly, his temper flare-ups at the vestry meetings are regrettable, but who among us has never lost his temper? Would we even consider removing a priest from his parish for that? No, the reason we’re here today is that a murder happened, and there is some superficial, circumstantial evidence that suggests Father Beale could be a suspect.”

  Ben paused, turning slightly toward the gallery. “And that scares people. People want to love their priest—it’s only natural. They want to place their faith in him. But how can they do that when a little voice in the back of their heads is whispering that he might be a murderer?”

  “Are you speaking on Father Beale’s behalf, Mr. Kincaid?” Holbrook asked. “Because it certainly doesn’t sound like it.”

  “I am, sir, and here’s my point. If you remove this man from his office now, for whatever reason, everyone will assume it was because you believe he is guilty of the most heinous of crimes. No one will remember the theological debates, the temper spats. You will have convicted him more surely than a jury of twelve could have done—and on considerably less evidence.”

  Holbrook’s hands parted. “We must do what’s best for the parish.”

  “That’s right, sir. And that includes the leader of the parish. Father Beale. Remember, there is a reason he was not charged by the police. There was no evidence against him. Rumor, yes. Gossip, certainly. But they won’t condemn a man based on gossip alone. Will you?” He looked sharply at each member of the adjudicative panel. “Will you remove a man from his parish based upon that? Will you taint the rest of his life, his entire career, past and present, based on . . . innuendo? Is this a proper fate for a man of God?”

  Ben held their attention a few more moments, forcing them to consider his words. “His future now rests in your hands, ladies and gentlemen. Will you be the one to cast the first stone?”

  While the panel deliberated, Ben situated himself in the narthex, the connecting foyer between the church sanctuary and the parish hall. It was a crowded area; no one wanted to go home until they’d heard what the panel was going to do.

  Ben kept mostly to himself, avoiding eye contact. He knew this was as stressful for the other parishioners as it was for him. They undoubtedly felt some obligation to be cordial to a fellow church member. At the same time, he was defending the priest many of them were trying to oust, a priest who had become extremely unpopular.

  How had he gotten into this mess? It was Christina’s fault, of course. Wasn’t it always? She was the one who kept urging him to get out, to be more social, to join civic organizations. When he learned that his childhood priest had transferred to St. Benedict’s in Tulsa, only a few miles from the boarding house where he lived, it seemed only natural to check it out. In no time at all, Father Beale had Ben singing tenor in the adult choir, and Ben was actually enjoying it—until a corpse turned up in the prayer garden.

  On the other side of the narthex, Ben spotted a group of women huddled together chatting. They were all in their thirties or forties. One of them he recognized as Kate McGuire—the woman who had been mentioned during the trial as one of Father Beale’s opponents. If he wasn’t mistaken, the blond woman beside Kate was Susan Marino. They were both on the vestry; Kate was senior warden. He couldn’t tell what they were discussing, but given their extreme agitation, he could guess. Father Beale.

  “Excuse me. You’re Ben Kincaid, aren’t you?”

  Ben looked down and saw two teenage girls—about fourteen or fifteen, he judged—standing before him. The one speaking was tall and thin with short black hair. Her companion, who stood a half-step behind her, was somewhat shorter and heavier and had long curly brown hair.

  “I mean, I know you are. I should know, shouldn’t I? I used to see you all the time. I just wanted to introduce myself. I mean, I’m sorry if I seem brash, but I think if you want to meet someone, you should just walk up and meet them. Why stand around until someone introduces you? I mean, it’s not like we’re in the eighteenth century or anything, you know what I mean?” She thrust her hand forward. “My name is Judy. Judy Jacobson.” Ben took her hand and shook. “My friend here’s name is Maura. Maura Hubbard. She doesn’t talk much. That’s why we’re such a good pair. She’s shy. I’m not.”

  Ben smiled. “Nice to meet you, Judy. And Maura.”

  “Am I turning you off? Because if I am, you can tell me. I know some men don’t like women who are too aggressive.”

  “Not at all. You remind me of a very good friend of mine.”

  “Really? Cool.” She jabbed her friend Maura. “Did you hear that? I remind him of a very good friend of his!”

  Maura giggled.

  “Have we met before?” Ben asked. “Because you said you used to see me all the time.”

  Judy laughed. “Oh, I meant on television. When you were trying the Wallace Barrett case.”

  Ben restrained himself from rolling his eyes. That again.

  “I was home that summer, and I thought your trial was a lot more interesting than soap operas.”

  “Quite a compliment.” Ben’s defense of Wallace Barrett, then Tulsa’s mayor, who was accused of murdering his wife and two daughters, was his highest-profile case to date. The media coverage had been extensive.

  “I used to watch you every day on Court TV. Man, you were so good. I couldn’t believe everything you got people to admit on cross-examination. And your closing statement—it sent chills down my spine. Watching you made me want to be a lawyer.”

  “My apologies.”

  “After the trial, I went on the Internet and read everything I could about you. I e
ven bought that book you wrote, on the Kindergarten Killer.”

  “Ah. You were the one.”

  “I’ve followed all your big cases. I even cut out articles about you in the newspaper and put them in a scrapbook.”

  Maura’s voice was a whisper’s whisper. “You’re her hero.”

  Judy jabbed her again, rather more roughly than before. “Anyway, I know you’re busy. I just wanted to say I think it’s a great thing you’re doing in there for Father Beale. I mean, other lawyers talk about taking unpopular cases, especially when they’re getting paid a lot of money, but you really do it, and half the time you don’t get paid anything at all. I think that’s really wonderful.”

  “Yes, so does my staff.”

  “I mean, I know you’re going to lose this one—the panel almost has to remove Father Beale, don’t they? When half the church is up in arms against him, and the man maybe even committed a murder?” She giggled excitedly at the prospect. “But I think you did everything you could for him in there.”

  “Girls, girls, girls. I hope you’re not bothering Mr. Kincaid.” An elderly woman wedged herself between them, pushing the girls back. Her face was familiar. Ben knew he had seen her around; she was one of the women in charge of ECW—the Episcopal Church Women’s group. But what was her name? Ruth something. Carter? Conner?

  Bingo. “Not at all, Mrs. O’Connell. We’re just having a nice chat.”

  “Well, it’s very good of you to spend your time with two silly girls.” Judy shot her a look that could have leveled a city. “Shouldn’t you two be folding robes or something? Remember, an acolyte’s work is never done.”

  Judy somehow managed to flash a smile that lacked even the slightest trace of warmth. “Yes, Mrs. O’Connell.” The two girls skittered away.

  “Oh, hello, Ernestine.” Ruth was greeting a woman of similar age who was decked out with enough jewelry to stock a Tiffany’s. Ben couldn’t help but notice the honking big diamond ring on her finger and the diamond-studded bracelet rattling around her wrist. Ben didn’t know anything about gems, but he knew those baubles had to be seriously valuable. He’d heard rumors that Ernestine Rupert, a widow, was extremely wealthy, and that her tithe alone made up half the budget for St. Benedict’s. With those doodads dangling in his face, he couldn’t doubt it.