Eleventh Hour

It steadied Father Bi

“As I told Inspector Delion, the man phoned late Sunday night, around eight o’clock, I think it was. I was on the desk for that hour, which is why I took the call. He said it was urgent, said he was very ill, that if he didn’t speak to Father Michael Joseph, then he might go to hell if he died. He was very fluent, very believable. You understand, we have set times for confessions, but he pleaded with me, didn’t let up.”

“What was the man’s name, Father?” Dane said.

Father Bi

“What did my brother say, exactly, when you told him of the call?”

Father Bi

“What do you think he meant, Father, by ‘change his life’?” Dane asked.

“I don’t know,” said Father Bi

Dane slowly nodded. “The man asked for my brother three times. Why? If he didn’t come to repent, then why did he want to see my brother, specifically?”

“I have asked myself that over and over,” said Father Bi

“It sounds to me like this man had no intention of repenting his sins,” Delion said. “Maybe it’s possible that the man came to brag to your brother, you know, maybe he wanted to brag to someone about his crimes who was helpless to do anything about it. That’s why your brother was angry, Dane, why he didn’t want to see this man again. He knew the man was playing games with him. What do you think? It explains why Father Michael Joseph didn’t want to see him again. Hey, am I off the wall here?”

“I don’t know,” Dane said. “The man came three different times.” He fell silent. “The third time he killed my brother.”

Father Bi

“Yes,” Delion said. “He did.” He turned to Dane. “The janitor, Orin Ratcher, found Father Michael Joseph just before the police came, right?”

“Yes,” Father Bi

“He didn’t see anyone?”

“No,” Father Bi

Delion said, “I already spoke to him, Dane. He didn’t see the woman who phoned in the murder either. Nothing. Zip.”

“Father Bi

“There are so many.” Father Bi

Delion pocketed the list. “You never know, Father,” he said.

“Father Bi

Father Bi

Dane asked to look through his brother’s room even though Delion had already searched it. At the end of nearly an hour, they had found nothing to give them any sort of clue. There was a pile of Dane’s e-mails to his brother, begi

“Yes. They haven’t found anything hidden on the hard drive, if that’s where you’re headed. No coded files, no deleted files that look like anything.”

They spoke to two other priests, to the cook, the maid, three clerical assistants. None could add anything relevant. No one had ever spoken to or seen Charles DeBruler.

“He knew his murderer,” Delion said when they were back in the car. “There’s no doubt about that. He knew he was a monster, but he wasn’t afraid of him.”

“No,” Dane said, “not afraid. Michael was repulsed by him, but he wasn’t afraid of him. Charles DeBruler spoke two other times to my brother, last Tuesday and last Thursday, both in the late evening.” Dane took a deep breath. “For Michael to be that upset, for him to be angry about seeing this man, it’s my best guess that the man must have done something horrendous around both those other times. Delion, were there any murders committed here in San Francisco on those days or perhaps a couple of days before?”

Delion hit the steering wheel with his hand and nearly struck a pedestrian who was stoned and walk-dancing across Market Street. He gave them the finger, never breaking stride.

“Yes,” Delion said, turning the Ford sharply to make the guy jump out of the way. “Damn. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”

“You’re exhausted, for a start.”

Delion blew that off, fingered his mustache. “Okay, Dane, let me think. We’ve had three murders, one a couple of weeks old. We’ve got the guy-a husband we believe who just wanted to collect on his wife’s life insurance. That was Do

“I’ve got it. Last Monday night-just one night before the first confession-there was an old woman, seventy-two, who lived alone in the Sunset District, on Irving and Thirty-third. She was murdered in her home. No robbery, no forced entry, no broken windows. The guy clubbed her to death in her bed and took off. Thing’s a dead end so far.”

“He didn’t shoot her,” Dane said thoughtfully, bracing one hand against the dashboard as Delion took a sharp turn into the police garage.

“No, he bludgeoned her to death. Then, last Wednesday, and this is the one that everyone is all up in arms about, a gay activist was murdered, outside a bar in the Castro. Lots of witnesses, but no one close and no one can agree on what the guy looked like. He was straight, he was gay, he was fat, thin as a rail, old, young-you get the picture. That’s not my case. The chief formed a special task force, that’s how high profile this guy was.”