The Last Sin Read online

  Dedication

  For the saints and sinners among us

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Chapter Fifty-two

  Chapter Fifty-three

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Chapter Fifty-six

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Chapter Sixty-two

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Chapter Sixty-four

  Chapter Sixty-five

  Chapter Sixty-six

  Chapter Sixty-seven

  Chapter Sixty-eight

  Chapter Sixty-nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-one

  Chapter Seventy-two

  Chapter Seventy-three

  Chapter Seventy-four

  Chapter Seventy-five

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Chapter Seventy-seven

  Chapter Seventy-eight

  Chapter Seventy-nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-one

  Chapter Eighty-two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Stay of Execution

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  About the Author

  Also by K.L. Murphy

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Sunday, February 21: The Day of

  The smell of incense lingered in the air, temporarily masking the odor of rotting wood. Father Matthew Holland inhaled. The bitter scent stung his nose. Three years had passed since he’d taken over the church, and nothing had changed. Even with the increased attendance and community outreach, the church offerings remained meager. Without offerings—without money—the parish church would die.

  The priest sat down on the front pew, his robes gathered around his feet. His gaze shifted to the empty pulpit. Two large and colorful plants graced the altar, but they weren’t enough to hide the worn carpet or faded paintings, nor could the soft candlelight make him forget the plywood that covered the cracked stained glass. There was so much to do, so much need. He sighed and looked to the cross over the altar. Not for the first time, he asked for forgiveness, for understanding. There would be money now—he’d made sure of that—but at what cost? He’d done it for the church. His pulse quickened and his stomach clenched. Bending forward, he forced himself to take one deep breath after another until the moment passed.

  He loosened his clerical collar and yawned. The evening’s Mass had been long and difficult. The drunks in the back of the church had refused to leave, in spite of the old deacon’s best efforts.

  “Gotta right to be here,” the man with the long, stringy hair had slurred. He’d fallen forward as though he might topple straight into the next pew. “Worshippin’ God,” he’d said, although it had sounded like something else judging by the gasps from the congregation. The drunk had pointed a dirty hand toward the altar. “Here to see Father Holland. Tol’ us to come anytime.”

  The drunk had swayed again, and his companion had reached out with a strong arm to catch him. Father Holland’s mouth had gone dry at the sight of the tattoo on the man’s forearm—a black dagger plunged into a white skull. Three drops of blood extended in a single line from the tip of the dagger to the man’s wrist. He knew that tattoo, knew what it meant.

  The awkward moment had passed, although not before Father Holland caught the disdain on the faces of the ladies in the choir. Still, none of the parishioners had said a word, all looking to him instead. He’d hidden his trembling hands in the folds of the heavy cassock and swallowed. “St. William is open to everyone, our members and our guests. However, since we are about to have communion, I would ask that everyone who is not singing remain quiet. Guests may come forward for a blessing, of course.” He’d been careful to keep his voice steady. Thank the Lord it had been enough. The man with the oily hair had quieted down and then stumbled out during the Eucharist. His friend with the tattoo had stayed a moment longer, then followed.

  Silence filled the sanctuary now. Father Holland rubbed his hands together and shivered. He could still feel the cold eyes of the tattooed man and the curious glances from the congregation. The man’s presence at the evening Mass had been no accident and no drunken whim. The message had been clear.

  After the church had emptied, Father Holland had walked to the corner market and made the call. He’d done the best he could. Money changed everything. It always did. He opened his hand and stared at the crumpled paper with the phone number. He was not a stupid man. Nothing came without a price. He murmured a prayer until his shoulders relaxed and the drumbeat of his heart slowed.

  His stomach growled, the gurgling loud and rumbly, and he realized it had been hours since he’d eaten. Breaking the quiet, a sound came from the back of the church, a click and a swish as the heavy outer door swung open. He stood and smoothed his cassock. Dinner would have to wait. He strained to see, but the vestibule was dark. “Who’s there?” he asked.

  The door clanged shut and heavy steps sounded on the dingy marble floor. Father Holland replaced his collar and ran his fingers through his hair. There was only silence. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. “Is somebody there?” he asked again.

  A figure shrouded in black stepped out of the dark.

  Father Holland stiffened. “Why are you here?”

  From the shadows, the eyes of the visitor glittered in the candlelight. “I’m a sinner, Father.”

  Father Holland’s shoulders slumped. “We are all sinners in God’s eyes.”

  “Some of us more so than others. Isn’t that right, Father?”

  His breath caught in his throat. “What do you mean?”

  The visitor came forward, raising one arm, a shiny gun in hand. “I think you know what I mean.”

  Father Holland blinked. He took two steps backward and sh
ook his head, his eyes shifting from the gun to the face in front of him. “You don’t want to do this,” he said. “It’s not too late.”

  “You had your chance.” The gun moved upward until the priest was looking directly into the blackness of the barrel. The visitor’s face hardened. “People say you’re a handsome man, Father. Did you know that?”

  The priest staggered backward. Blood pounded through his veins and his breath was heavy in his chest.

  “That’s what they’ll say. He was handsome once.” Pale lips turned up in a sneer. “Before he wasn’t.”

  Father Holland found his voice. “Please don’t do this.”

  “Don’t do what? Don’t shoot you or don’t shoot you in the face?” The visitor matched him step for step until the priest fell against the steps of the altar, his cassock under his feet. The crinkled slip of paper fell from his hand, landing at the bottom of the steps. “Well? Which is it, Father?”

  “Both. Neither. Let’s talk about this. We can pray together until we find a solution. This isn’t the answer.” He struggled to sit up. Under the robes, cold sweat dripped down his back.

  The visitor snorted. “Why would God listen to you?”

  “Please.” The finger tightened on the trigger. Father Holland’s heart slammed against his chest. “Not like this. You can’t.”

  “I can. I’m a sinner. Just like you, Father.”

  Father Holland’s body shook, knees knocking together. He knew it was over then. He would never refurbish the old church or rebuild the faith among the community. He would die like his mother, his own sins coming back to haunt him. He would meet his Maker. The priest brought his hands to the cross around his neck. His lips moved silently until his body became still and his breathing slowed.

  When the shot sounded, it echoed through the turrets and the steeple, melding with high-pitched laughter. Blood leaked from the hole in Father Holland’s head and spread across the carpet. Bits of bone and skull dotted the steps. The priest’s hands remained clasped around the cross even in death. The visitor pocketed the paper at the bottom of the steps, crouched next to the dead man, and dipped one gloved finger in the blood. Rising, the visitor crossed to the altar and traced the figure of a cross on the snow-white cloth.

  Sinking to the floor, the visitor whispered, “Let us pray.”

  Chapter Two

  Detective Michael Cancini slowed the car and stuck his arm out the window, badge in hand. A uniformed officer waved him forward, directing him toward a small gravel lot.

  “Guess this is it,” Smitty said. He reached behind the seat for an umbrella.

  Cancini glanced up at the dark sky. Rain-swollen clouds hung over the nation’s capital, and thunder boomed somewhere in the distance. A cold wind blew open his jacket and rattled the limbs of the trees.

  Smitty pulled up the collar of his camel-colored jacket. “It’s gonna be a soaker.”

  “At least it’s not snow,” Cancini said, burying both hands in his pockets. He hunched his shoulders against the chill. “We’d better get started.” A handful of gawkers hung back behind the police cars. Mostly elderly women, they clung to each other in the wind. He’d have someone get their statements before the day was over. “Who called it in?” he asked.

  “Another priest. Found him this morning.”

  “Did someone take his statement?”

  “Basics. Waiting to let you do the full.” Smitty slowed, his eyes taking in the crumbling church. “Hard to believe people go here. It’s kind of a dump, isn’t it? For a church, I mean.”

  Cancini studied the building and grounds. St. William looked like so many other buildings and houses in this part of town; new and majestic once, ultimately falling into disrepair when large segments of the population migrated to the suburbs. Peeling paint hung in sheets from the white columns. A spiderweb of cracked and broken bricks served as a sidewalk. Still, the gravel parking lot and front lawn were devoid of trash, and cheerful wreaths decorated the heavy doors. Someone had made some effort.

  Cancini ducked his head as the wind whipped up again. At the doors, he hesitated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inside a Catholic church, or any church for that matter. Raised Catholic, he’d fallen away from the church—from God—when his mother had been murdered in a convenience store robbery. His withdrawal from religion was just another way he’d managed to disappoint his father, but no more or less than any other. A homicide detective, Cancini preferred to put his faith in evidence and justice, things he understood. He drew in his breath and swung open the heavy door. Smitty followed. A pair of uniformed officers stood just past the vestibule and nodded when the detectives flashed their badges. Cancini slowed his steps, breathing through his nose. The odor of spilled blood permeated the chilly air.

  A second cluster of uniformed officers loitered in a side aisle, their quiet conversation drifting over the pews. A precinct photographer snapped pictures and a forensic officer moved near the altar, dusting for prints. A pair of lights had been brought in to cut the darkness of the church.

  Cancini’s dark brows drew together. “There are too many people in here.” He waved a hand. “Get everyone out but forensics and the photographer. We don’t need some idiot contaminating something.”

  Smitty pointed a long finger at a man sitting in the middle of the church, head bowed. “What about him? Must be the priest that found the vic and called 911.”

  The man sat in the center of a pew, head bent, hands clasped in front of him. Freckles dotted his pink, balding scalp. Curly wisps of white-cotton hair ran from ear to ear. His thick neck bulged out over his clerical collar. Cancini looked away. He knew that head.

  “He can stay.”

  Cancini waited as a half-dozen officers filed past him. The photographer finished, waved a hand, and followed. A tall woman from forensics dusted the pews, the candlesticks, and the altar. He watched as she covered every inch. When she appeared to be done, he walked down the center aisle until he drew parallel with the old priest. The man had dropped to his knees, his bulk squeezed between the pews, mouth moving in silent prayer. Cancini shook his head and looked up to the rafters. Damn.

  “Cancini?” Smitty’s voice was low and somber. “They’re ready for you.”

  The forensic specialist locked her equipment case, nodded at him once, then left through the vestibule. He knew the rest of her work would be done in the lab. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he moved closer to the lifeless body sprawled across the steps. The old priest in the pews would have to wait.

  The body lay supine, legs outstretched, face turned upward. Cancini circled the dead man twice, careful to avoid the blood spatter on the carpet. He stopped near the man’s feet, at the base of the steps. The priest’s scuffed black shoes pointed to the sky, and the hem of his vestments had risen to his knees. “These are short steps.”

  “I noticed that,” Smitty said. “Doesn’t seem like a place he would be sitting, just waiting to be shot.”

  “Agreed. Most likely, he fell or stumbled backwards.”

  “Trying to back away from the shooter.”

  Cancini came down the steps again. He raised his right arm and pointed his finger at the dead priest. He glanced over at Smitty. “About like this.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Cancini dropped his hand and approached the body again. A kidney-shaped stain fanned out from one side of the dead priest’s head as though his lifeblood had oozed from his right ear. The worn carpet around his head was dark and crusty. Cancini stepped around the sticky stain and crouched at the man’s waist. The dead man’s hands were clasped just below his neck. Cancini gently pried his fingers apart to find a golden cross. He closed the hands again and rocked back on his heels.

  From a distance of only a foot or two, he studied the priest’s face—or, more accurately, the part of his face not ripped apart by gunshot. The bullet had entered through the priest’s right eye, obliterating the socket. Where his nose had been, there was a mash of broken bo
ne. His forehead and skull had been split open. Splattered brain matter dotted the carpet and steps to the right of the body. The left eye, untouched, was closed as though in sleep. Cancini tipped his head up to his partner. “It was quick at least.”

  White-blond locks fell across Smitty’s forehead. He looked at the dead man for no more than a few seconds, his face paler than usual. “Pretty brutal, shooting a priest that way.”

  Cancini said nothing. All murder was brutal. He rose and stepped back. “How long would you say he’s been dead?”

  Smitty’s gaze skimmed over the body. “Several hours, maybe more.”

  Cancini nodded. The body was cold and stiff.

  Smitty waved a hand in the direction of the uniformed officers at the back of the church. “I’ve been told there was a service here at five-thirty last night. So it had to be sometime after that.”

  “Mass is typically an hour. That gives us six-thirty as a starting point.” Cancini climbed the steps again, drawn to the altar. The cross decorating the white cloth had not been stitched with red thread or stenciled from paint but had been drawn in blood. Measuring a foot in length, the dark and crusty image was narrow, the width of one finger—two at the most. He glanced back at the body and then again at the altar. Cancini sighed and stripped the rubber gloves from his hands. The press would have a field day, and they wouldn’t be the only ones. He joined Smitty at the bottom of the steps. “Is the M.E. here?”

  “Yeah. Waiting in the back.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Will.”

  “Good. The sooner he and Kate can get the autopsy done, the sooner we might get some answers.”

  Smitty waved to Will, then shifted his attention to the man in the center pew. “What about him?” The man still knelt, as though in prayer. His shoulders sagged and his bald head glowed under the old yellow lights.

  “His name is Father Joe Sweeney.”

  Smitty’s eyes flicked over his partner. “Care to explain how you know that?”

  Cancini shrugged. “He was our priest when I was a kid.” He hesitated only a second before adding, “We still keep in touch.”

  Smitty looked back at the priest. “That going to be a problem?”