We Were Killers Once Read online

  Only with the possibility of that confession, and this Meadows on the verge of finding it, whether it was in writing or whether that no-name priest would testify to it …

  He brought the cigarette up to his mouth and looked at his palm. Which of the lines etched in it had been left on the faucet? Which lines could indict him? He rubbed his palm on the side of his jeans.

  He wasn’t safe. He had gone into the bar thinking he was following up on the Walker case, and come out knowing that there might be a document that linked him not only to the Walkers, but to the Clutters, too. He couldn’t be sure he was safe unless he got to Hickock’s priest before Meadows did.

  Beaufort knew how to do things at this point. He found the closest library and the computer bank therein. He googled Kansas Historical Society Archives. Over seven hundred separate documents covering everything from Hickock’s plea for clemency to an envelope addressed to the warden from Hickock’s mother. Long, neatly handwritten letters from Hickock asking for a radio. For drawing materials. Reading those letters put Beaufort back into the past and he didn’t want to be there anymore. He was reaching the end of a short fuse and was about to pop when he finally found the letters written seven days before Hickcock’s execution:

  April 7, 1965

  Dear Warden Crouse:

  As you know, I am to be executed on April 14, 1965. Before that event I wish to make my confession. As the chaplain in the prison is a protestant minister, and because the protestant religion does not hold confession in the same regard as the Catholics, I request that a Catholic priest be called in to hear my final confession. In addition, I request that no recordings are made and that no one else be allowed to hear what I tell the priest. Our long relationship is nearly at an end and I hope you will grant me this last request.

  Respectfully,

  Richard Eugene Hickock

  Prisoner number 14746

  And the very next document after that was the response from the warden.

  April 8, 1965

  Dear Mr. Hickock:

  I am going to grant your request. We have located a priest at a local church who will be here at two o’clock pm tomorrow. He has agreed to hear your final confession and grant absolution. A guard will be posted outside the door, but other than that your time with the father will be private and unlimited.

  Warden Sherman Crouse

  Is it asking too much that somewhere here there should be a goddamn mention of the goddamn priest’s goddamn name?

  The library had a second floor. He ran up the stairs and down the aisles of shelved books until he got to an area that was empty. He drove his fist into a collection of large hard-bound copies of National Geographic. They resisted and gave with just the right balance so as not to damage his fist. The magazines bounced back and hit whatever was on the shelf on the other side, those books spilling onto the floor. He breathed in and out the way they had taught him in prison, and that calmed him. In case anyone might be coming around to check on the noise he moved casually back to the stairs, down, and to the computers.

  He needed to approach this from a different angle. Getting control of himself again, he searched Dominican abbeys in Florida. There was only one, about an hour’s drive north of Tampa. And in that abbey he hoped there would be only one very sick, very old priest.

  Nine

  The night was so cold I brought a heavy wool blanket out to the backyard where Carlo was on one of the chaise lounges studying winter constellations. I lay down on top of him so we were both staring at the sky together, and pulled up the blanket. I was feeling a recent neediness that made my body want to touch his more often. He didn’t object.

  There was a little while of silence, just the two of us except for the pugs, their small shadows moving about the yard like beige moons, before I said, “Tell me a story.” I was being cagey, with something specific in mind that I couldn’t let go of after Gemma-Kate’s interview. That question about Jane he hadn’t answered.

  “Well.” He thought. “Okay, I’ve never told you this one. I was teaching this course on the history of witchcraft and this one kid—” The sentence was interrupted by his laughter, laughing so hard I could feel his gut jumping beneath my back.

  I interrupted him. I heard myself interrupting him with a coyly innocent voice while the self-possessed, secure Quinn inside of me yelled leave it alone, you idiot. “Not that. Tell me something about your first marriage. About Jane.”

  His gut stopped jumping. “Why?”

  “You’ve never talked much about Jane.”

  “You never asked me.”

  That was evasive. Was his breathing harder beneath my back than it had been a moment before? Could it be that my sweet honest hubs had a secret as big as any of my own? Lying on top of him could be the next best thing to a polygraph. I tried to keep my own breathing in check as I said, “Come on, tell me something good.”

  “What would you like to know?” he said, sounding a little cagey himself.

  Is this how we always had been, or was it new?

  “She sounds like such a good person.”

  I must have managed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, because he said, “Oh, she was that.”

  “So tell me … tell me how you met,” I said, and then focused on keeping my breathing light and regular.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Why not? Are you okay with talking about her?”

  “Of course.”

  I think we both lied, but he began anyway.

  In those days, Carlo said, the earliest of the feminist movement, and way before denominations other than the Roman Catholics routinely ordained women as ministers, there was no such thing as a female chaplain. When Carlo DiForenza, during his pastoral training, went to work at Lansing, the office was in the women’s prison.

  There he met Jane, who was a volunteer doing literacy training.

  “She and I worked together over the course of the three months I was at the prison. We shared an office, compared notes on different inmates, which ones had potential for change and which were the unredeemable bad apples. She was grateful for my advice.”

  I’ll just bet she was.

  “During your pastoral training. That happens before you become a priest, right? Not after?” I recalled those times I’d been responsible for an interrogation, keeping my tone mild and my questions nonconfrontational. Giving the suspect the opportunity to say the things I knew he wanted to say. This felt like that. The sane Quinn inside me hated me for my deception.

  “That’s right,” he said, without offering more. “She was a passionate woman, totally dedicated to her work and to the church. I even remember in our talks, at some point she shared with me that she had always wanted to be a priest. Of course that’s impossible in the Catholic Church.”

  Good Lord, not that, too. So is this what it was like when saints mated? No wonder off and on I’d felt haunted by her presence in the house. I looked at Al and Peg, who had wandered back to the porch and were patiently waiting to be let inside. The pugs that Jane had given him just before she died.

  Jane was suddenly not feeling like a ghost anymore. She was taking on more and more flesh by the second.

  I didn’t say any of this. Instead, “There. I knew we could do it,” and felt all smug and grown up. It would only be later, after I’d a chance to think about stories about Jane and stories about me, that I’d start the comparisons. Like the fact that she had a rock-solid faith and I’m a mushy atheist. Like the fact that I put people in prison and she taught them to read. These things started eating at me. Was she good in bed? I wondered. What if she wasn’t a prig after all? But even I wasn’t dumb enough to ask that.

  Ten

  Beaufort went to the Quik Mart and asked the clerk at the checkout, “Do you sell throwaways here?” He measured his voice carefully to sound like he knew what he was talking about. The kid pointed to a rack, and Beaufort chose a phone and was relieved to see it came with instructions.

 
He called Yanchak.

  “You hurt my man,” Yanchak asked. “Why should I talk to you?”

  “You sent an imbecile to get me. Business must be bad.”

  “Not so bad.”

  He met Yanchak in another bar, in another part of town. You’d expect it would be a sleazy joint given Yanchak’s dealings, but it was an upscale place on the water. You’d expect them to meet in a dark corner, but they sat outside on the patio. You always expected these guys to look like malnourished scumbags, but not so Yanchak. He showed up in a navy blazer, white shirt. Loafers, no socks. Good haircut, more silver than Beaufort remembered. In short, what actual Florida drug dealers looked like.

  “You look old, but otherwise not so bad,” Yanchak had said. “With a little doddering, a little shaky hand, a lot of cops wouldn’t bother to look in your trunk.”

  “So do we have a deal?” Beaufort asked.

  Yanchak had balked at the fact that the target was in law enforcement.

  “You realize this isn’t even a firm thing,” Beaufort had said. “I drive the cash no matter what. Then if the fix becomes necessary, I call you. Otherwise, we’re square.”

  Yanchak ultimately agreed to have it done, and said he could make it accidental, but it came with a higher price. Yanchak knew he could trust Beaufort to transport some funds to El Paso for him. Someone you could trust was worth a hit. Beaufort balked in turn at the destination.

  “I don’t want to drive to El Paso. That’s, what, a thousand miles?”

  “More like fifteen hundred. Hey, I’m sure you can find someone else to do the fix.”

  “Okay, okay.” With just a little thought Beaufort decided the deal wasn’t bad at all. It was as if the hit was a bonus. He’d have the cash Yanchak offered him for the drive, a fake license and vehicle registration. And he got to keep the car. There must be a lot of cash in that car, he thought. Good deal for all concerned, except Meadows. And even Meadows might survive this if Beaufort could get to the priest first. If at some point another piece of evidence started to implicate Beaufort, all it would take was a phone call. Then all the cold case files on Walker would be put away because who else cared? No one, according to Meadows.

  He just had to make sure that he got to the priest before Meadows did.

  He’d got the beige Hyundai in Tampa and a license made out in the name of Jerry Nolan as he requested. Yanchak even threw a gun into the deal. Sweet, as the younger ones in the joint would say.

  It had taken him a while to figure out all the modern gadgetry, the automatic windows and such. The sound and sudden movement when he accidentally found the right button made him jump. This whole new world business made him jumpy. Then he’d got on I-75 and headed north about an hour to where St. Dominic’s Abbey was tucked just outside the small town of Tarpon Springs.

  He’d found the monastery and announced himself in the reception area, said that he was interested in becoming a monk. He hadn’t been sure how to say it, but they seemed to buy it. Someone named Abbot Franklin greeted him, said that Brother Eric was the usual guest master, but would Beaufort enjoy a brief tour? Of course he didn’t actually say “Beaufort,” as Beaufort had given him the name of Jerry Nolan.

  Abbot Franklin had pointed out different areas as they strolled through the abbey: the refectory, the pilgrims’ quarters, the monks’ quarters, the infirmary.

  Infirmary. That sounded right.

  Beaufort asked how big the infirmary was, how many monks it could hold.

  They had paused outside the closed door, and Abbot Franklin lowered his voice. “It only has a couple of beds. If one of us is really sick we’re taken to a hospital. Except Father Santangelo, he’s in hospice here.”

  “What’s wrong with Father Santangelo?” Beaufort had asked.

  “Pancreatic cancer,” Abbot Franklin had whispered. “Lot of pain. When he first came here after retirement he was the sort of saint who could raise a glass while whipping you at the pool table. He’s not expected to live much longer. He’ll leave a hole in our community that no one could expect to fill.”

  “Is he a young man?” Beaufort had asked.

  “Oh, no. And that’s the blessing of it. He turned ninety-six on his last birthday.”

  “Poor old guy. Does he have family?”

  “Apparently he was the youngest. No one is left.”

  Beaufort put on his best sympathy face. “What about friends? What about people visiting him?”

  Abbot Franklin glanced at Beaufort, but if he thought anything was odd about the questions he was too polite to not respond. Oh, how helpful, these monks. So lacking in suspicion. So eager for members that you could go there and say you wanted to be a monk and they believed you. Bending over backward to show the world how good Catholic clergy could be, that they weren’t all money-grubbing pedophiles.

  “Someone has called from time to time,” Abbot Franklin said, answering his question, and when Beaufort didn’t say anything, added, “A Father Carlos … something, I don’t quite remember a last name. But I don’t think he’s called in a long while.”

  “Well, I’m gonna pray for him,” Beaufort said as he made the sign of the cross before the door of the infirmary. “I’m gonna pray that God won’t make him suffer much longer.”

  Abbot Franklin smiled his appreciation. “Would you like to see the grounds? We have a lovely grotto dedicated to Mary.”

  * * *

  That was Monday and this was Thursday night. He had told himself it was wiser to wait at least a few days before returning, less chance of someone connecting his visit. It had been sixty years, for God’s sake, and Meadows didn’t seem to be in a hurry to interview the priest.

  Now Beaufort waited in that same grotto until he saw the last of the lights go out in the abbey, signaling that the monks were dreaming their little monk dreams. He put on the monk’s robe he had bought at a costume shop. He put the hood up over his head. He hadn’t seen anyone with a hood up, it was too hot, but he couldn’t take a chance of being recognized.

  He moved around the outside of the building and broke into the door leading to the pilgrims’ quarters. The door was a flimsy little thing, and no match for anyone who had lived outside the law. Despite the robe that made sure no pilgrim would question him, he discovered himself to be lucky so far. All the doors to the rooms were open, and not a pilgrim in sight. Probably because of this, the door between the pilgrims’ quarters and the monks’ quarters was unlocked. By the dim hall light he followed the linoleum squares to the door that they had kindly marked for him—INFIRMARY.

  He opened the door, this one also unlocked, stepped inside, and lowered his hood. There was a bright night-light attached to the wall that illuminated the room enough for Beaufort to detect a hospital room with two beds and a moderate amount of equipment. An enormous clock was on the wall, next to an empty cross of equal size.

  “Hello,” said a voice from the hospital bed, a stronger voice than belonged in this darkened sickroom.

  Beaufort jerked with the shock of hearing it, but recovered and played his part the way he imagined it would be played. He saw the figure now, with the back of the bed raised up so the figure could see him as well. “Hello, Brother,” he said, remembering what Brother Eric had been called. “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

  “I don’t want to miss anything,” the man said. His left hand fluttered over his sheet, as if it searched for something, and then found it and was still.

  Beaufort came closer to the bed, and saw that the thing the priest was handling was a device with a button, probably for dispensing morphine. “Are you Father Santangelo?” he asked.

  “The very same,” said the man.

  “Do you know who I am?” Beaufort asked.

  “If you’re who I think you are,” Santangelo said, “I’ve been waiting for you a long time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If someone checks on me at night he’s usually in his shorts. No brother would enter this room in the dar
k of night dressed in his robe. And especially with the hood up. It’s too hot. Also, you rented the wrong color robe. It should be brown instead of black. It makes you look like the Grim Reaper. Also, you called me ‘Brother.’ I’m a priest, not a monk. The others know to call me ‘Father,’ if not just ‘Victor.’” Santangelo’s voice ground down to a whisper on the last words.

  “Well, you got me there,” Beaufort said, noting the first name.

  Santangelo’s hand fluttered over the morphine button again and then must have realized it was too soon for another dose and reluctantly rested on the priest’s chest. “That’s right. You might be evil, but I’ll bet no one ever accused you of being a genius.”

  Nothing bothered Beaufort more than being thought evil. Unless it was being thought stupid. His urge to punch the priest’s face was at odds with his need for information. “What did he accuse me of?”

  “He?” Santangelo asked, and then apparently decided not to be coy. “As you know, I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”

  Beaufort wanted again to clock him then, but that wasn’t his sole purpose. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  Strength came back to the voice even though he spoke through clenched teeth. “Do I look like a chump to you?”

  “No. And you don’t sound like a priest either,” Beaufort said, thinking of the gullible Abbot Franklin.

  “How many have you known?”

  When Beaufort stayed silent at that, Santangelo said, “I’m in great pain. Not feeling particularly pastoral. So get on with your business.”

  “I just want to ask you a few things, and then I’ll go,” Beaufort said, not taking the time to confirm or deny knowing priests.

  “Go ahead. As long as it doesn’t violate the seal of confession or threaten harm to anyone, I’ll give you the answers.” The priest’s tongue darted out of his mouth and whisked from side to side. “I’m not used to talking this much. Could I have a drink of water?”