FATAL CONFESSION
A Billy Fontaine Mystery
by D. N. Cull
Copyright 2012 D. N. Cull
Cover Design Copyright 2012 Christopher Moyce
Smashwords Edition
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FATAL CONFESSION
A Billy Fontaine Mystery
CHAPTER ONE
When Lucille Montville opened the confessional door of St. Andrew’s Catholic Church, a body slowly toppled out into the aisle. Lucille let out a shriek and jerked back, tripping over her feet and falling heavily onto her broad back end. The can of Lemon Pledge she held flew through the air, landing with a loud clang between the nearby pews.
Lucille's shriek and the ensuing commotion drew the attention of the other three women cleaning the church that Saturday morning. Clara Fontaine turned curiously, a broom in her hand, expecting that Lucille had been frightened by nothing more than a field mouse, but when her eyes hit the corpse, she let out a small screech herself.
For several breathless seconds, the can of Pledge banged and clattered and rolled across the tile floor, and when it finally spun to a stop, Clara came to her senses and felt her years of training kick in as she automatically took control of the situation.
She hustled down the aisle and reached her friend. She hauled Lucille to her feet and squeezed her onto a newly polished oak pew, ordered the other two ladies to find a place to sit and stay there, then she slowly approached the corpse. It had to be a corpse, she reasoned. Unless it was a really bad practical joke, but she couldn't imagine who would do such a thing.
Her heart was tripping in her chest, and she took a few deep breaths to steady herself. The man had landed on his side, and Clara leaned over, pressed two fingers against his neck to make sure he was really, truly dead, then she looked at her friends, who were supporting each other in silent trepidation.
“Who is it?” Lucille whispered.
“It's Gaspar Truffeault,” Clara answered, her voice calm and steady. It was her work voice. She hadn't used it intentionally for a few months, but she easily reverted to the no-nonsense nurse she had been for years. In times of stress--like people dying during medical emergencies--she spoke lower and slower, and she was doing it now.
Lucille moaned and swayed, clasping her hands over her chest.
“Is he--” she was unable to finish the sentence.
“I’m afraid so,” Clara said, taking in the stiffness of the body, the cold flesh, the small, neat bullet wound behind his left ear. Recently retired, she had been a nurse for forty years, most of them spent at the Community hospital, then later as Director of Nursing at the Morning Glory Nursing Home in nearby Redland. She had seen more than her share of corpses, but none of them had ever come falling out of a confessional.
There was something unnerving about finding a body that hadn't died in a hospital bed or on a stretcher in the Emergency Room. She drew in a deep breath to steady herself. It was too late for CPR, too late for anything, at least for the deceased. She looked away from the body, her mind turning at full speed, and said, “One of you run over to the rectory and get Father Mike.”
She was immediately obeyed, and while one of the women hustled down the aisle and through the sacristy to the back door, Lucille stared at Gaspar and said in a trembling voice, “What do we do now?”
“We call for help.” Clara was just as upset as the others, but she knew if she didn't assume a show of calm and command, her friends would bumble around and probably ruin whatever evidence was still there. She may have been a nurse most of her life, but she recognized a crime scene when she saw one.
She found her purse propped against the altar railing and pulled out her cell phone. She hardly ever used it, but her boys insisted she have one for emergencies. She figured this qualified.
First she called 911, speaking to the dispatcher, Lucy, who also happened to be her favorite niece. “Now Lucy, make sure the ambulance doesn’t come barreling in here with lights and sirens. It’s too late to make a fuss, and you know Adele will jump up to look out her window if she hears the noise. She just had that hip replacement three weeks ago and she's liable to break the other one if she moves too fast."
Next she scrolled through the numbers on her phone, pressed the call button, and in a moment, said calmly into the receiver, “Billy, you better come over to the church. Gaspar Truffeault is dead. No, not a heart attack. Looks like someone killed him.”
Clara listened for a minute, then glanced back toward the body and sighed. “How do I know that? Well, he’s cold, he's stiff, and he’s got a bullet hole in his head. Don’t worry, I won’t touch anything. You just get your butt over here quick.”
At that moment, Sheriff Billy Fontaine was twenty miles away in the parking lot of the Twin Rivers airport, the motor of his Expedition idling, waiting for Delta Flight 8995 to land on the small airstrip. He used his cell phone to call two of the deputies on his force, abruptly giving them specific instructions and orders to meet him at the church.
Billy paced impatiently around the small parking lot, absently nodding at acquaintances and wondering who could have killed Gaspar Truffeault. Lots of people, he thought cynically. He knew better than to make any assumptions, but he had a gut feeling it wouldn't be easy finding the killer. Too many people had dealt with the older man over the years, and he knew from personal experience that Gaspar could get under someone's skin in a matter of minutes.
Billy slid behind the wheel as the small hopper flight from Minneapolis came into view, circled twice, and landed. He pulled his vehicle to the front entrance and casually waved to the airport security guard at the door.
Within minutes, about ten passengers were descending the stairs from the plane onto the asphalt near the back door of the small terminal. They grabbed their carry-on bags from the man who was unloading them from the compartment under the plane. The passengers walked inside the terminal through the back door, around a row of seats, then through the one gate leading to the small lobby in the front of the terminal. The whole procedure took about five minutes.
Billy waved when he saw his new homicide detective heading toward him. Jordan St. Claire held out his hand to shake Billy’s. “Nice to see you, Sheriff Fontaine.”
“Good to have you here. I have a possible murder victim waiting for us at the church in Pine Creek. Want to join me?”
Jordan glanced down at his Birkenstock sandals, khaki Dockers and black polo shirt. He shifted his leather carry-on bag to his left shoulder, his right hand automatically reaching to his hip for a gun that wasn’t there. “Yes, Sir.”
The village of Pine Creek wasn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. The small community consisted of St. Andrew’s Catholic Church, the general store, a collection of aging houses, and the River Rock, a tavern that sold beer and frozen pizza. About sixty souls lived there, most of them retired, along with a few younger couples who opted to drive ten miles into work everyday to the small town of Redland.
Billy figured about one in ten of the residents had the wits or the physical strength to kill somebody. But maybe more, if it had to do with Gaspar Truffeault. He wasn’t exactly the nicest guy in the world, and Billy had a hard time working up much sympathy for his sudden death.
He glanced at Jordan. The young man sat gazing out the window, his face expressionless, his lean body stiff with tension. Billy spoke to break the silence, trying to get a feel for his new deputy. “I guess it's been a while since you've been to Pine Creek?”
“It was years ago. I was just a kid, but I remember fishing at a lake with my grandfather.”
“I bet he took you to Union Lake. Good fishing there. I hauled in a fourteen inch walleye the other day.” Billy hit the gas pedal and the siren at the same time. What traffic there was on the highway that Saturday morning dutifully slowed and pulled to the right lane.
Jordan offered nothing further, and Billy waited another mile or two before he said, “The boxes you shipped got here on Thursday. Me and Jack Proulx, that’s one of the deputies in the department, hauled them to your house and put them inside.” Billy glanced at Jordan. “I have your spare set of house keys. Your grandpa gave them to me before he died. Hope you don’t mind, but my wife and some of the ladies went inside and cleaned up a bit.”
“No Sir, not at all. I appreciate it,” Jordan said, his voice a soft drawl, not the flagrant Southern accent Billy had expected, but subtler, lyrical rather than obvious.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it Christian kindness,” Billy said wryly. “They wanted to see if your Grandpa Pete had let the place go to hell after your Grandma Gloria died. Let’s just say they weren’t disappointed.”
“I’d be happy to pay them for their time,” Jordan began, but Billy interrupted him.
“Don’t you dare. They had more help than they needed.” The Expedition flew past a convoy of trucks hauling fertilizer. “I checked to make sure the electricity and gas at your house were turned on. Oh, by the way, I locked up your guns at the station. That’s some firepower you have.”
Billy had opened the special delivery package, curious about what kind of gun a Miami cop would carry. He hadn’t been disappointed. The cases were locked, of course, but the insignias told him that Jordan owned a Glock 22 40 caliber and a Sig Sauer, along with several other smaller pistols. Nestled next to the boxes of bullets had been several switchblades and huge curved knives, like Rambo had used in his movies, he thought. He had locked the box away in his desk, unable to foresee a time when such an armory might be needed in the line of duty in Johnson County. At least, he hoped it wouldn’t.
“Must be quite a change from Miami,” Billy offered, wondering when the tense young man sitting next to him would say more than a few words at a time.
“Yes Sir, it is,” Jordan answered, his dark brown eyes never leaving the window. Tractors were busy in the fields this time of year, cultivating the land, readying it for seeding. The sky was a broad expanse of blue, the clouds mere wisps in the sky. A farmhouse appeared at the end of a gravel road every half mile or so, and in their yards, trucks waited to haul seed and fertilizer to the rich black top soil.
After Billy turned off the highway, they had a long gravel road to themselves. Dust rose in a cloud behind them. Five miles later, a left turn took them onto an asphalt road that marked the beginning of Pine Creek. Another quarter mile, and they turned right onto St. Andrew’s Street and drove the length of the small village in less than ten seconds.
Billy turned into the circular driveway in front of the red brick church, parking behind the ambulance that sat near a new bed of flowers. Purple petunias and bright yellow and orange marigolds encircled a towering statue of Jesus with His arms held wide in welcome. He looked at Jordan. “Ready?”
“Yes Sir,” Jordan replied, and they got out of the Expedition and climbed the broad cement steps into the church. Once inside the double doorway, Billy paused a minute to take in the scene, and was glad to see that Jordan did the same. He automatically dipped his hand in the holy water font and crossed himself before entering the church, belatedly realizing what that must look like to his new deputy.
Jordan didn’t bat an eye, and Billy began to feel a little better about the man he had hired from a resume, a picture, and one solid reference from Jordan’s former Chief of Police.
“Jordan is a good guy to have behind you,” the police chief had said during a brief phone interview. “He’s smart, he’s cautious, and he’s loyal. Started here as a rookie twelve years ago and climbed the ranks like a rocket. He’s one hell of a homicide detective. He took care of his mother before she passed away, and I reckon he’s ready for a change. We’ll be sorry to lose him.”
Billy made his way down the side aisle toward the confessional. Clara Fontaine rose from a pew near the confessional. She had obviously been making sure no one came close to the crime scene. He smiled as she reached out to straighten the collar of his khaki uniform shirt. “Finally. I thought I’d have to call out the Marines.”
“You okay, Mom?” he asked, pausing to give her a brief hug.
“I’m fine. Gaspar isn’t, though. And Lucille is getting oxygen as we speak,” Clara said, a tinge of humor in her voice. They both looked toward the pew at the front of the church where the paramedics huddled around a prostrate Lucille, who was grasping their arms and milking every bit of sympathy she could get from the crew.
“She’ll be fine,” Clara said dryly. She held out her hand to Jordan. “I’m Billy’s mother, Clara. You probably don’t remember me, but I met you when you visited many years ago.” She studied Jordan’s face a minute, then said to Billy, “Looks just like Rosalynn, doesn’t he?”
Jordan politely shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ma’am.”
“We were all so sorry when we heard your mom had passed away. Rosalynn was always such a good person, so kind and generous. I could see she was ill when she came home for your grandpa's funeral last year, but I didn't know her kidney disease was so advanced." Clara's face showed only sadness at his loss, and Jordan nodded awkwardly.
"Thank you. She did go quickly at the end," he said quietly.
"Why don't you come over for supper tonight with Billy and the family," Clara offered simply. "My husband was fishing buddies with Pete, and Gloria was in my church group for years before she passed away.”
"I appreciate the offer."
“Mom, you mind if we get to work here?” Billy patted her shoulder affectionately, then walked toward the corpse. The only one near the dead man was his younger brother, Father Michael Fontaine, who was praying over the body. The sheriff could feel Jordan shifting impatiently behind him. When the priest reached out with his thumb to draw the Sign of the Cross on Gaspar’s forehead, Jordan said automatically, “Don’t touch him.”
Michael raised his eyes to meet Jordan’s, then continued when Billy nodded for him to go on. The priest knelt a moment in prayer, then stood. He held out his hand, his fingers glistening with Holy Chrism and motor oil. “I’m Mike Fontaine, Billy's brother.”
“Jordan St. Claire. You shouldn’t have touched him. This is a crime scene.” Then Jordan stopped, as if realizing he had no real authority to tell anyone what to do. Not yet, anyway. His new job didn't start until Monday.
The priest smiled gently, looking at the stained glass windows that gave the scene a heavenly glow, then up to the ceiling over the altar, where the sanctuary candle burned in perpetuity. “It may be a crime scene, but Gaspar has been a parishioner all his life, and he deserves a final prayer.”
“What have you been doing?” Billy asked curiously. His brother was dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt, and scruffy grass-stained Reeboks. His hands still bore the signs of motor oil, and his t-shirt was smeared with dirt. The only sign of his calling was the purple scapular he had hung around his neck while ministering to the deceased. He looked more like a mechanic than a priest.
“Trying to fix the lawn mower. The grass is eight inches high in the cemetery. I thought Mom told you to do it.”
“I was busy. Are you done here? I have a murder to investigate.” Billy nudged his brother out of the way and knelt beside the body, taking in the state of rigor and the neat, small hole that entered the side of Gaspar’s head just behind his left ear.
“When did you last hear confession?” Billy asked, his voice low, meant only for Father Mike and Jordan.
“Wednesday morning at 8:00 before Mass,” Mike said quietly. “We have confession twice a week, as you would know if you ever came. About five people showed up, and don't ask me who they were, because I can't tell you. I get more on Sunday morning. Why are you asking? You know the times of the sacraments as well as I do.”
“Just checking facts. Do the ladies always clean on Saturday mornings?”
Father Mike rolled his eyes. “You know they do. Unless there’s a wedding or funeral. Then that month's group will come in the day before and do the flowers, set out the hymnals, get the meal for the reception started, that sort of thing. And before you ask, there were no weddings or funerals this week.”
“I doubt he was killed on Wednesday,” Billy said. “He doesn’t look like he’s been dead that long, and his wife would have had everyone in the county searching for him if he was missing for three days.” He sat back on his heels, running a hand through his dark hair.
The priest looked at the body sadly. “I hate to think someone would murder a man in a church.”
“I hate to think someone would murder a man at all,” Billy added. They all looked at the blood spattered across the walls of the small enclosure.
Jordan nodded, then turned to the priest. “If you don’t mind answering an obvious question, what are these groups you’re talking about?”
Father Mike answered easily. “The Ladies of St. Anne’s Sodality. The women of the parish are assigned a group, and they take turns cleaning the church, making the meals for funerals and weddings, that sort of thing. They switch groups on the first Saturday of the month.”
“Have you been inside the confessional at any other time since Wednesday morning?”
“No. I don’t usually go into the confessional unless the sacrament is scheduled.”
“Who else has a key?” Jordan asked.
“A key to what?”
“A key to the church.”
Father Mike turned to Billy and looked at him quizzically. “I have one on my key chain, and I know there’s a spare in the rectory.”
“Dad has one, and so do I,” Billy said shortly. “So do about a dozen people in the village.” He smiled as Jordan's eyes widened at that bit of news.
“But the church is never locked. Anyone could have come in at any time.” The priest's handsome face sobered, and he asked, “Billy, has anyone called Mary Lou?”
“I haven't, and I can't imagine anyone else wanting to give her the news. Check with Mom, and if no one has, will you do it?" Billy asked. "And tell her to call Dad and get him over here. We’ll need his help.”
Jordan’s mouth hung open about an inch as he watched the priest walk to Clara Fontaine and engage in a private discussion. “Sir, shouldn’t we take care of that?”
“It’ll be okay. Thank God it wasn’t Mary Lou’s turn to clean. Can you imagine if she had found her husband like this?” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through the listings, then hit send. A moment later, he said, "Mark, it's Billy. I need you to come to the church in Pine Creek, fast as you can get here. Bring your kit. Okay. See you in a minute, then."
He returned his phone to his pocket and explained to Jordan, "Mark Swenson is the medical examiner. He lives about a mile away." Billy asked the paramedics for a pair of latex gloves, pulled them on, then carefully slipped his hands into Gaspar’s pockets and found a wallet, eighty-three cents in change, and a coupon for half off motor oil at the parts store in Redland. He had received the same coupon in the weekly shopper himself, in Thursday morning’s mail.
He stood and ran a hand through his hair, then studied the immediate area. It looked as if the women had finished polishing the pews and had just started sweeping the floors, starting at the front of the church and working their way back. They hadn't gotten to the area near the confessional, which was a stroke of good luck. Maybe there would be something they could use in the sweepings, but he doubted it. Too many people came to the church during the week, and they would track in dirt from ten miles around.
He glanced at Jordan. The young man stood at strict attention, his eyes narrowed in concentration as he scanned the church. "See anything?"
"No Sir," Jordan said. "But since I've never seen this church, I wouldn't know if anything was out of place."
"It's not," Billy assured him. "No sign of a struggle, at least. You'd think if someone was being led in here to be shot, they might put up a fuss."
A disturbance near the door caught his attention, and he saw his rookie deputy, Jack Proulx, enter the church at the same time as Mark Swenson, local physician and coroner. They both made their way through the pews to the crime scene. Dr. Swenson waved to the ladies before turning his attention to the sheriff. Like the priest, Mark was casually dressed in jeans and t-shirt. “Everything okay? I was afraid you were calling for Lizzie.”
“Not this time, thank God. There he is,” Billy said, pointing behind him to the body, which was lying almost as an afterthought in the aisle.
“Man, is that Gaspar Truffeault?" At Billy's nod, Mark asked, "Anyone tell Mary Lou yet?”
“Mom and Mike are taking care of that. She’s gonna race over here, so you got less than twenty minutes to do a preliminary. Jordan, there’s a pile of evidence kits in the back of the truck. Go get a few and we’ll start processing whatever evidence there is here.”
Billy stepped back as Dr. Swenson knelt beside the body and opened his battered leather case, donning a pair of sterile gloves before pulling out a long metal thermometer and neatly inserting it into Gaspar’s body to determine his temperature. Billy casually looked away. He had seen his share of examinations and autopsies, but if he didn’t have to watch, he’d rather not. His young deputy, Jack, turned a peculiar shade of gray and turned around completely.
“Jack, why don’t you take a look around the parking lot,” Billy said quietly, not wanting to embarrass him, but deciding that Jack might fare better out in the fresh air and away from the corpse. He sure didn't want Jack falling over in the church, and the kid looked as if he was about to lose his breakfast. “See if there are any cars here that shouldn’t be. Look for obvious tire tracks. And call Ron, find out why he hasn't shown up yet.”
“Sure enough, Sheriff,” Jack said. He took a direct route to the door and was gone in seconds. Jordan had come back with the evidence kits and looked after Jack with a carefully blank expression.
Billy turned back to the proceedings and discreetly watched his new deputy. So far, Jordan had not been afraid to ask questions, he had followed orders, and now watched with an impassive face as Mark conducted his initial investigation. He had the look of someone who had done this many times, but there was no disrespect, no casualness or, God forbid, boredom, in his manner.
Dr. Swenson was quick, but thorough. After ten minutes, he shook his head and said, “Except for the gunshot wound, there’s not much to see. He has a couple bruises on his arms, and the skin on the knuckles of his right hand is split, the joints showing some minor swelling, as if he hit something hard. Could be defensive, but I can’t really tell right now." He held up the victim's right hand and showed it to them.
"It’s 68 degrees in here, and these brick walls maintain a fairly stable ambient temperature. Judging from the state of rigor and liver temp, I’d put the time of death at roughly twelve hours ago. I see an entrance wound, but no exit, which tells me it's a small caliber bullet. I’ll do the autopsy as soon as I can get the body off to the morgue. I’ll also send off samples for toxicology and anything else I can think of.”
“I appreciate it, Mark. Oh oh,” Billy said quietly. “Mary Lou is here.”
“Where is he? Where’s Gaspar?” Mary Lou Truffeault burst through the church doors and made a bee line for Billy. Her hair was in curlers, and Billy felt his stomach drop as he realized she had been at home, like any normal Saturday, probably cleaning her house or working in the garden, and suddenly, one phone call changed her world, her life, just like that. He knew the feeling too well.
“Billy? What...” She stopped suddenly when she saw her husband lying on the floor, then fell to her knees in the aisle. “Oh my God. What happened? What?”
Billy was at her side in seconds, Father Mike and Clara right beside him. “Mary Lou, I’m sorry.” He knelt on the floor beside her and held her as she stared in disbelief at her husband. When the shock had fully registered, he pulled back and let his mother and brother take over the task of comforting her.
He got to his feet and looked at Jordan. Motioning discreetly, he led his new deputy and the doctor away from the others and said quietly, “Jordan, the techs should be here from town any minute, and for now I want you to supervise. Bag his hands right now, and make sure they don’t miss anything. I’ll ask the ladies to wait in the church basement so I can question them. Mark, don’t let Mary Lou touch him. It might be hard to keep her away, but do your best.”
"I can give Mary Lou something to calm her down a little," Mark offered. "I sent some Xanax home with Adele after her hip surgery because--well, I was hoping I could settle her down. You know how she can get. I doubt she took them.”
“Send one of the paramedics for a couple, will you? Mary Lou might need them. And have them tell Adele I’ll be coming over as soon as I can."
CHAPTER TWO
While Jordan stayed in the church and intently supervised as the crime scene unit scoured the area for evidence, Billy questioned the ladies individually in the church basement. As he suspected, their stories were retold almost verbatim. They were cleaning the church, Lucille opened the confessional door, and Gaspar fell out and onto the floor. No one knew anything more, as expected. End of story.
Except it wasn’t the end of the story. Someone had murdered the man in the church. His body was meant to be found in the confessional. That implied a personal relationship between the deceased and his killer. The reasons for that were both obvious and hidden. Confessionals were places where people confessed their sins: lying, cheating, adultery, and even murder. Had Gaspar committed such a horrible sin against someone that they would kill him for it? And who would he have sinned against?
Billy knew everyone in the village and most of the families in small Johnson County. Not one of them seemed capable of something like this. But someone obviously was capable of the murder and disposal of a human being, so while Billy watched as his mother left the basement, he began to form a plan of action.
When he entered the church from the sacristy door, Jack came in through the front and hurried toward Billy. “Gaspar’s Thunderbird is parked behind the hedge of lilac trees at the edge of the parking lot. The motor’s cool, so it’s been here a while. Also found this,” he said, holding out a cell phone wrapped carefully in a folded piece of paper. “The phone was on the dashboard, and I found a receipt for dinner for two at the Lodge in Redland in the glove box. Dated last night, 7:00.”
“Good work. Did you get hold of Ron?”
“He’ll be here any minute now. Connor broke out again, so Ron was looking for him.”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything. Billy nodded and dropped the phone into the plastic bag that Jordan held out for him. He shoved the bag in his pocket, watching as the crime scene unit began the tedious task of sweeping residue from the floor in and around the confessional. “I’ll ask Mary Lou if they had dinner in town last night. Jack, you make sure the car is impounded as evidence. Grab one of these guys and dust the car for prints.” At Jack’s eager nod, he said, “Call the garage in town and get a tow truck out here.”
He turned toward the church door as it opened again. He waved to an older man and when he joined them, Billy said to Jordan, “This is my dad, William Fontaine.”
“Nice to meet you,” William said, thrusting a hand out to shake Jordan’s. He asked Billy, “What do you need me to do?”
“Supervise the crime scene unit. Make sure they don’t miss anything.”
“Got it.”
At that moment, Mary Lou was at the rectory, laid out on Father Mike’s couch. Billy checked his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since Mark had talked her into taking a Xanax. Time to go over there, question the bereaved widow, and find out just where Gaspar was supposed to be last night. “Jordan, you’re with me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Jordan said automatically. As they walked out of the church and into the bright spring day, Jordan offered hesitantly, “Maybe I should have stayed with the unit.”
“Don’t worry. Dad can handle it.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said.
Billy saw Jordan's hand reach for the gun that should have been riding on his right hip, then fall empty at his side. They both looked across the church parking lot. The asphalt road through the village ended just past the church, becoming gravel immediately beyond the iron gates of the cemetery, then leading east, winding between newly sown fields. Behind the church was a softball diamond complete with a few wooden benches for spectators. Beyond that, the cemetery stretched peacefully across a grassy expanse, coming to a stop at the edge of a windbreak of twenty foot cottonwood trees.
“I didn’t know that confessionals needed to be cleaned,” Jordan remarked. “There’s really nothing in them, is there?”
“Sure they do,” Billy said, smiling at the thought. “People lean against the sliding window. They throw tissues on the floor, knock their muddy shoes against the wall.” He stopped sharply. “Did they fingerprint the glass?”
“They did, but the prints they lifted appeared to be layered smudges.” Jordan paused. “Instead of me going with you to question the wife, maybe I should attend the autopsy.” Billy glanced at him, his eyes amused. “I don’t mean any disrespect to Dr. Swenson,” Jordan added quickly, “but living around here, he probably hasn’t done many autopsies on murder victims. I could make sure procedure is followed and the proper samples taken.”
“I bet you could.” Billy led the way to the rectory. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Mark is older than me by about six years, but we're good friends with his family. Mark was something like a child prodigy. Graduated high school when he was sixteen and went to college at the U. in Minneapolis. Hard to believe, isn't it? He got all sorts of waivers, aced every test they gave him, and when he was 19 he started medical school at Stanford and graduated first in his class. Then he went to Northwestern to specialize in trauma surgery."
Billy grinned at Jordan. "After ten years of saving lives, he went back to school again and got into forensic pathology. He worked with the Hennepin County Medical Examiner’s Office, then a couple years ago he came back home and took the job as Chief of Medical Staff at the community hospital in Redland."
"Seems to me he'd take a big cut in pay," Jordan commented.
"Isn't that what you did?" Billy waited for an answer, but Jordan remained silent. "Everyone has their reasons. My guess is that he took the job because his kids were growing up and he wanted to spend more time with them. His wife, Lynn, is a local girl, and they're both good people. We're lucky to have him here. Anyway, he’s seen enough dead bodies to fill the cemetery behind the church a hundred times. He's the best doc I know. He’s got more degrees than a thermometer.”
Jordan smiled briefly. “Yes, Sir.”
Billy opened the door to the rectory and walked down a short hallway into the living room as if he was at home. It was a comfortable room with shiny wood floors, worn furniture, bookcases crammed with religious tomes and the latest best sellers, a red brick fireplace with family pictures on the mantle, and off to the side, a small picture of the Pope.
Mary Lou sat hunched on the sofa, gripping a large white handkerchief. Father Mike and Clara hovered in attendance. The priest rose from her side and motioned for Billy to follow him into the kitchen.
Billy opened the fridge and scanned the contents, then slammed the door shut, turning to face his brother. “Well?”
“She’s in shock, hasn't done anything but cry and rock back and forth on the couch. I don’t know how you’re going to get any information out of her right now, Billy. Maybe you should wait a while.”
“Gotta try,” Billy said. “Did you call her kids yet?”
“Gaspar and Mary Lou have two children, Gary and Brenda,” Father Mike said to Jordan. “Gary’s out in the fields right now, but his wife, Sally, said she’d pick him up on the way over here. I called Brenda and she should be here in a couple hours. We're lucky it was a weekend and she was at home.”
"When Gary gets here, have him wait for me. Jordan and I will be interviewing folks in the village."
Father Mike nodded then looked out the window and frowned in thought. “What should we do about five thirty Mass? Do you think it would be all right if I held a short service?”
“No, I don’t. It’s one o’clock now,” Billy said, glancing at the clock over the stove. “They're still processing for evidence, and there’s fingerprint powder all over.”
“Billy, you can’t just cancel Holy Mass,” Mike objected, his voice still gentle, but with an unexpected hint of steel.
“I have to. It’s a crime scene.”
“It’s a house of God first. Seems to me that’s the priority.”
“It might be, if it wasn’t murder.” Billy stared at his brother. “No Mass tonight, but I’ll send a clean up crew from town so it’s ready by tomorrow morning. Start the prayer line going. That will reach most of the parishioners. You can meet those who do show up and let them know. They can go to Mass at the Cathedral in town.”
“The whole county will know what happened if you do it that way,” Jordan said quietly.
Mike looked at his grass-stained shoes, then shrugged, giving in gracefully. “Everyone will know in a couple hours anyway, once the ladies get home. I’ll make a few calls to get things going.”
“Okay. Well then, let’s see if Mary Lou can tell us anything.”
When they entered the living room, Mary Lou was sitting up on the sofa, quietly wiping the tears from her face. Billy pulled an overstuffed ottoman to the sofa and sat in front of her.
“Mary Lou,” Billy said, “I know it’s hard to think or talk right now, but it’s important. Can you try to answer a couple questions?” She stared at him out of blank, swollen eyes, and Billy took her hand in his and held it tightly. “Listen to me, Mary Lou. I want to find out what happened to Gaspar, and I need you to help me. I have to know when you last saw him.”
She mopped her face with the handkerchief and blew her nose. Her voice was a tiny whisper, but she managed to say, “Yesterday. Around three.” She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Billy could see that the medication was having some effect on her. She shut her eyes and drifted, and he waited patiently, but she didn’t say anything else.
“Mary Lou, did you have dinner in town last night?”
She shook her head no.
Again, an endless silence.
Billy showed remarkable patience and waited with her. Finally, she whispered, “We had a fight.” Her curlers were coming loose, and tears rolled down her round cheeks again. “I told him to go to hell and he slammed the kitchen door and left in his car. I thought he’d spent the night with Gary. That’s what he usually does when we fight.” She was obviously trying to control herself. “I’m sorry. I don't even know how I feel right now. I want to answer your questions, but it’s such a shock, you know?"
Billy held her hands and said softly, “I know, and I'm so sorry you have to go through this. Mary Lou, would you tell me what the fight was about?”
She shivered suddenly, and Clara placed an afghan gently around her shoulders. “He had gotten a phone call and said he had to meet someone in town. I asked him who it was, and he told me to mind my own business.”
She twisted the kerchief in her hands. “I told him that after 44 years of marriage I deserved a better answer than that, but he left. Just like that.” She straightened her shoulders and raised her head, the motion a small act of bravery. “He always had a temper.”
“What did you do after he left? Were you home all night?”
“Yes. I mean, no,” she said, wiping her eyes and looking confused. “I went to the Spring concert at the school. The kids--my grandchildren, I mean, were in the choir.”
“What time did you leave to go to the concert?”
“It must have been around 7:00. The concert started at 7:30.”
“Did you get any phone calls for Gaspar after he left?” Her shoulders shuddered, and she shook her head.
"And what time did you get home? I'm sorry, Mary Lou, but I have to ask."
"I think it was around 9:30. Sally stopped by for a minute after the concert. After she left I watched the news and went to bed."
“Thank you. Now,” Billy said firmly, “Gary will be here soon. Mom, will you take care of Mary Lou until he gets here?” He motioned discreetly toward the staircase.
"Come with me, Mary Lou. You'll want to wash your face, and we can comb out your hair." The new widow stood obediently and let Clara take her arm and lead her upstairs to the bathroom. Billy sighed and rubbed his hands along the side of his pants, then stood abruptly. He strode outside without another word, and his new deputy followed after nodding good-bye to the priest.
“Jack!” Billy yelled across the lawn. “Come here a minute.”
His young deputy left the Thunderbird and immediately ran across the parking lot. He was lean and lanky, his young face set in an expression of serious intent and excitement.
“Gaspar got a phone call at home yesterday afternoon. Get hold of Judge Thomas. He’s probably at his lake cabin, and we’ll need a court order to pull phone records. I want that done today. You know how to do that?"
"Yes, Sir. I mean, I think I do," Jack said, his young, clean cut face showing uncertainty.
"Ask Lucy to help you if you have questions. She knows all the proper forms. Lucy is our secretary and dispatcher," Billy explained to Jordan. "You'll meet her tonight at the house."
Billy grabbed Jack's arm before he could run off. “After you do the paperwork and contact the judge, stop by the Lodge and find out who Gaspar had dinner with last night. Ron can take care of impounding the car.” Jack nodded seriously, fumbling for his keys as he ran across the parking lot to his vehicle.
Billy watched thoughtfully as his deputy started his car and sped out of the lot, lights flashing and sirens blaring. “It’s his first murder,” he said calmly to Jordan, “he’s a little excited.” As he spoke, a white Ford 250 pulled into the driveway and parked behind the Expedition. A stout man in his late fifties got out of the truck and joined them on the sidewalk.
“Ron, meet Jordan St. Claire. Jordan, this is Ron Montville. He’s been with the department for thirty years. Getting ready to retire soon.”
“Sir, good to meet you,” Jordan said.
“So it's true, huh,” Ron said gruffly. “Gaspar was in the confessional when he was found?”
“He was until he fell out. Your wife was the one who opened the door, you know.”
“That's all I needed,” Ron said, rubbing a hand across his gray whiskers. “I’ll be hearing about this for years. Lucille's blood pressure must be sky high.”
“She’s okay,” Billy reassured him. “Just shaken up a little. Go check on her first, then I want you to impound Gaspar’s Thunderbird. Jack already called the garage so they're on the way. After that’s done, I want you to check Gaspar's activities, see if he was involved with anyone or anything he shouldn’t have been. We’re gonna need copies of all his public records from the court house.”
For Jordan’s benefit, he added, “Gaspar used to farm, but after his son Gary took over, he went into real estate for himself. He bought up foreclosures and vacant lots in town. God knows what he thought he'd do with the property in this economy."
Ron sighed heavily. “He had to get himself killed on a weekend. Couldn’t have waited till Monday morning when everything’s open.” He settled his belt more comfortably around his paunch and said thoughtfully, “Have to get someone to open the court house for me, but I’ll just call my niece. She works in records.”
"We're going to look at his car, then start questioning everyone in the village," Billy said. "Call if you find out anything."
Ron nodded, and as he turned to go toward the church, Jordan asked respectfully, “Sir, did you apprehend this Connor character?”
“Apprehend?” He frowned and hitched his belt up again. “Not yet. That son of a gun is probably in the next county by now.” Ron glanced at Billy and said, “I’ll let you know if I find anything, but it’s gonna take a while,” then he headed into the church.
“Let’s take a look at Gaspar’s car,” Billy said, and they walked across the parking lot and along the asphalt road toward the cemetery. The Thunderbird had been parked behind a thick hedge of lilacs, and the technician from the crime scene unit had already finished with the body of the car and was dusting the dashboard. Billy stood looking at it for a minute. "Well, would you look at that.”
“Got that right,” Jordan said. Their eyes met and they both shook their heads.
Gaspar’s fully loaded Thunderbird was parked so close to the lilac bushes there was scarcely any room to get out the driver’s side door once it was opened. In fact, on closer inspection, several long scratches were clearly visible in the door panel.
“No way he parked like that,” Billy said. “Not unless he was drunk as a skunk. I’ve seen him park this thing so far out in the parking lot on Sunday mornings you’d think his car was made of gold.”
“And look at the seat,” Jordan added, leaning in close to look through the window. “It’s pulled up almost as far as it’ll go. The deceased appeared to be a fairly heavy man.”
“I’ll say, and it was all around the middle. He was about 5’9, easily over 200 pounds. He couldn’t have fit behind the steering wheel like that.”
“Did you print the lever that adjusts the seat?" Jordan asked the technician. "The killer usually wipes off everything else and forgets that.”
"Already done, and I'm almost finished here. We'll vacuum at the shop," the young man answered.
"How about car keys? Were they in the ignition?"
"Nope, and it wasn't locked."
“And the keys weren't in his pockets. But why not leave them?" Billy wondered. "If I was going to kill someone, I'd just wipe the keys off and leave them here or put them in his pocket, make it seem like Gaspar had driven the car himself. Seems an odd thing to do, doesn't it?"
"It's one more thing to cover up," Jordan agreed, "and then you have to find a place to dump them."
Billy scanned the surrounding fields beyond the cemetery. He had been thinking the same thing. The acreage was newly cultivated, and deep grooves curved along the black soil. He could see a tractor pulling a seeder in the distance, making a rectangular pattern around the field.
"That wouldn't be hard around here," Jordan said, echoing his thoughts, "but it seems like something the killer maybe did out of habit. People just don't leave keys in the ignition these days, and he maybe took them and didn't realize until later that he'd have to get rid of them."
"That's true. And we'll never find them. Keys are easy to hide. Bury them in a field, throw them in a dumpster, or just put them on your own key ring or in your pocket until you get rid of them. They could be anywhere."
"This whole murder seems strange," Jordan said quietly, and to Billy, his new detective did sound like he was perplexed. "It's like the killer was unfamiliar with how to get away with a crime. They knew enough to get rid of their prints, which everyone knows about from the crime shows on TV, but they didn't know enough to cover all their tracks. Whoever killed Mr. Truffeault must have planned it out, but everything about this seems like an amateur kill."
"What else?" Billy asked intently, wanting to see if he and Jordan were on the same page.
"They knew where he would be, they had a gun, and somehow, they got him into the church. Sheriff, I don't think this killing was done for money. It seems personal, somehow."
"I sure hope so." He shrugged when Jordan turned toward him, obviously questioning what he had just said. "Otherwise, we'll never find him. I'd hate to think we have someone used to murdering people living in the community."
"I don't think you do," Jordan replied with certainty.
Billy nodded in agreement. "Oh, I almost forgot about Gaspar's cell phone," he said, taking the plastic bag out of his pocket and handing it to the tech. He turned to Jordan. "Let’s take a walk.” They left the car and headed for the road that wound in front of the cemetery, then into the village.
“Adele lives right across the road, halfway between the church and the cemetery,” Billy said. They walked a short distance to a neat, freshly painted white house sporting dark green trim. Tubs of pansies stood along the porch steps, crab apple trees in full bloom lined the short drive, and a white Toyota Camry sat in front of the garage. Billy knocked briefly on the door and walked in.
“You shut that door, now. Don’t let in the flies.” The speaker turned out to be a bone-thin woman in her seventies with jet black hair and sharp brown eyes that looked as if they didn’t miss a thing. She sat at the kitchen table wearing red sweatpants, a white cardigan, a simple gold cross around her scrawny neck, and jogging shoes. She had been playing a game of solitaire, and as they walked into the small kitchen, she gathered up the cards, straightened them in a neat stack, then set them aside. “This must be Rosalynn’s boy.”
“Yes ma’am. I’m Jordan St. Claire,” he said politely.
“Adele Fontaine,” she said, gripping his hand in a firm shake. "We've met before, but I doubt you'd remember an old lady."
“Gaspar’s dead,” Billy said bluntly.
“I figured that out when I saw Mary Lou come roaring up to the church,” Adele answered. “Someone finally kill him?”
“Yup."
"There's a plate of sandwiches in the fridge, and a pitcher of lemonade," Adele said briskly. "It'll probably be your only chance to eat until tonight, so get it out and let's talk."
While Jordan watched with a look of disbelief, Billy opened the fridge, grabbed the platter and set it in the middle of the table. He moved around the kitchen as if he'd been there a million times, taking glasses and plates out of the cupboard to the right of the sink, then setting a napkin holder on the table. "Got any chips?"
"In the pantry," Adele said, and in minutes, they had served themselves and were eating egg salad sandwiches on homemade bread. Billy ate quickly, talking as he chewed.
“Did you see or hear anything last night? Strange cars, odd noises, that sort of thing. Probably happened between 10 and 2."
“No, darn it anyway. I went to bed early. My hip was acting up, so I took one of those awful pain pills Mark gave me. Put me out like a light.” She shifted in her chair impatiently. “Wouldn’t you know, the one night something happens around here and I miss it.”
“Any idea who would want him dead?”
Jordan’s eyes followed the conversation, and Billy knew he was wondering why Adele was the first one he asked that particular question.
“Out of commission, yes. Dead, well, that’s another story.”
Billy nodded in commiseration. “It’s okay. Maybe you can help us figure this out. Heard any gossip about him? Or other news he might have wanted to keep quiet?”
“You mean like another woman on the side? Huh,” Adele snorted through her nose. “To hear tell from Mary Lou, Gaspar wasn’t much interested in sex. He had high blood pressure and diabetes, and she hinted a few times that her husband wasn't exactly up to par in that area. But you hear the odd rumor now and then, and I know for a fact he was a tom cat when he was younger.”
Jordan’s eyebrows raised at that and Adele merely nodded. “To tell the truth, I don't think it bothered Mary Lou too much.”
“Anything besides his sex life?” Billy asked casually.
“I’ll have to think on it.”
“Did they have a good marriage otherwise?” Jordan asked. "I'm guessing you've known them a long time."
"You'd be right about that." Adele met Billy’s eyes and a silent understanding passed between them. “Did they have a good marriage? Depends on what you'd call good. They maybe loved each other deep down, but they fought just about every day." Adele took a drink of her lemonade and wiped her mouth with a napkin before she continued.
"Now,” she said wisely, “some people just like to fight, and Mary Lou could hold her own. She was always feisty that way. Gaspar could be a real jerk, and he tried to control everything, but most of the time she just did what she wanted. I think that after the shock wears off and his life insurance kicks in, Mary Lou will be just fine.”
“Doesn’t sound very happy to me," Jordan said. It was warm in the kitchen, but cozy. Some type of stew simmered in a crock pot, and a pan of homemade buns cooled on the counter.
“A person can turn a blind eye to almost anything, if they want.” She stopped then, her eyes narrowing in thought.
Jordan looked first at Adele, then Billy, and asked, “Am I missing something?”
“I'm not sure,” Adele finally said. They finished their sandwiches in silence.
“You don’t think Mary Lou killed him, do you?” Billy asked.
“I wouldn't think so, but you never know,” Adele said, “If she had, I wouldn't think she'd leave him in the church. Hit him over the head with a frying pan, maybe. I've wanted to do that myself more than once.”
“You’re probably right.”
"What about his kids?" Jordan asked, after swallowing a bite of what was probably the best egg salad sandwich he had ever had. "Could one of them have killed their father?"
"I wouldn't blame either one of them if they did it. He was always after those kids about something when they were young," Adele said thoughtfully. "Gary was a great hockey player in high school, the best center the team had had in years. He took them to the State Championship game three years in a row. Youngest center they'd ever had."
"Did they win?" Jordan asked curiously.
"Two out of three years," Adele said with a hint of pride in her voice, "but he was never good enough for Gaspar. Gary doesn't play anymore, not even in the senior league with all his friends, and he never went to college. If he had, he might have played with the North Stars."
"Wouldn't that have been something," Billy said, and they looked at each other with regret.
"Brenda almost didn't go to college because Gaspar insisted she go to the University in Minneapolis," Adele continued. "She wanted to go to St. Cloud. It's a great college for teachers, and she always knew she wanted to teach Math. Mary Lou finally got Gaspar to agree on that one."
"So not a very happy household all around," Jordan stated. "What about now? Did the kids get along with their dad after they left home?"
"Not really. There's always been a lot of distance between them."
Billy pushed back from the table and finished his lemonade. Adele stayed in her chair as they carried the dirty glasses and plates to the sink. “You’ll find a notebook and a pen in the desk over there. Give them to me, and I’ll see what I can remember.”
“Might be quite a job,” Billy warned.
“I’ve always had a good memory,” Adele snapped. “I should have been a gol-darn detective.”
“Okay,” Billy said.
“Have you stopped at the store yet?" When Billy shook his head, Adele said, "Tell Grace to bring me a carton of Marlboro Reds. And a case of Budweiser. Regular Bud, not that light crap.”
“I'll try to remember.”
“And Billy, you said you’d trim back the trees by the yard light.”
“I’ve been busy,” Billy said impatiently.
“Well, I want it done by the end of next week or I’ll tell your wife you’ve been cheating on her. With me.”
"Fine. I'll send Will over to get it done." Billy opened the screen door and waited while Jordan shook Adele's hand politely, thanking her for lunch. Jordan began to follow his boss out the door, but then he hesitated and turned back. “Ma’am, could I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you own the vehicle in your driveway?”
Adele’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Of course I do. Why, you want to buy it?”
“No ma’am. Your tags are expired. You could be cited for driving a vehicle without current tags and registration.”
Adele merely stared at him, and he met her eyes and held her gaze. Finally, she said, “Well, thank you very much, Jordan. Billy, I'm gonna call Maria and tell her to swing by the DMV on Monday and get my tags for me. I’d hate to have to whap your deputy with my cane if he gives me a ticket.”
CHAPTER THREE
Jordan felt as if he had entered a time warp. People seemed to speak a different language, one he had no clue how to interpret. Just that morning he had been in Miami, listening to the news as he got ready for his flight. Within twenty minutes, he had learned of two overnight shootings in Dade County, a string of connected rapes, one arson, a fatal accident on I-95, and then he sat in the back of a taxi on the way to the airport where the sound of blaring horns filled his ears and traffic jams were a fact of life.