Decker held out the key. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Bram eyed the key. “Thank you.”
As he reached for it, Decker snatched it from his grasp. “Can I come in, Father?”
Bram paused again. “This isn’t a good time. I was on my way to the hospital to visit a parishioner. A very sick boy.”
“Then this comes at a bad time for you.” Decker took out the warrant, handed it to Bram. The priest stared at the paper, but his eyes went through the words. Decker sidestepped around him and walked inside. Gave the place a quick once-over.
Oliver had mentioned in a joke that the apartment was probably Bram’s secret den of iniquity. If that were the case, the priest kept his sins well hidden. First thing Decker noticed was a wall crucifix to the right of the door.
The place was so spare it could have been listed as unfurnished. Pushed against the cheap wall paneling was a worn pea-green couch that sat under the living room’s sole window. The pillows and cushions were clean but sagged like half-empty balloons. The middle of the room was taken up by a folding table piled with papers, and two folding chairs. Bookshelves leaned against the wall. The kitchen was the size of a shed, but the appliances-or at least the oven-worked. The smell of chocolate and sugar permeated the air. Decker took a quick peek at the bedroom. A mattress on the floor, more books on shelves, and another wall crucifix. Luxurious quarters for a monk, but by anyone else’s standards, it was barebones.
Decker came back into the living room. Bram had shut the door, was leaning against it. He pushed hair off his face. “How long will this take?”
“I think it would be a good idea to assign another padre for your pastoral duties.”
Wordlessly, Bram went over to the phone, called another priest to sub for him at the hospital.
Decker started by opening the kitchen cabinets. A few stray dishes, not even enough for the standard set of four. The upper shelves were empty. “What smells so good?”
“I baked cookies. For the boy I was to visit.”
“Nice of you.”
“Would you like one?”
“No, thank you.”
“Something to drink? I have some orange juice.”
“Nothing, thanks.” He went to the lower cabinets. A few pieces of unmatched cookware. “How long have you rented this place?”
“Ten years.”
“You use it for an office?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have enough working space in your office at the church?”
“Sometimes I like privacy.”
“How often do you come here?”
“Depends on my mood.”
“Why are you here today?”
Bram was quiet.
Decker moved into the bedroom, starting with the closet. A few shirts hanging from the bar as well as a couple of pairs of black pants. Resting on the closet shelf were several clerical collars, socks, and underwear, and a pair of sneakers. Decker picked up the mattress and peered underneath.
Nothing.
He went into the bathroom. It was connected to both the bedroom and the living room. A few towels and washcloths stored in the lone cabinet. A single towel hanging beside the sink. On the rim of the bath was a bar of soap, a razor, and a bottle of shampoo. Boringly devoid of anything incriminating. Yet, never once did the priest ask Decker what he was looking for. And that was significant.
So much for the quick overhaul.
Now for the detailed inspection. Decker gave the walls a couple of knocks just to hear what they sounded like. Cheap paneling over thin drywall. If there was a hidden compartment, it wouldn’t be hard to find.
First, he decided to look behind the bookshelves. He started with the texts in the living room, since that was the biggest wall in the apartment. Standing on a chair, he began with the top shelf. Swiftly, he pulled down religious volumes and let them drop to the floor with a thump, did this several times as the books scattered across a worn shag carpet.
Bram hurried to pick them up.
Decker regarded the priest as he collected his tomes, noticed he was wincing. Decker was unnerving him.
And that was good.
Decker purposely moved faster and with greater abandon, carelessly tossing the texts about.
Bram continued to retrieve them, then stopped. “You know, to me these are holy books.”
“Sorry about the mess.” Decker let another volume topple downward. “I don’t have time for the niceties.”
“It’s called respect. Something your wife knows a great deal about.”
Decker ignored the barb and let several more books land on the floor.
“I can’t believe…” Anger had seeped into Bram’s voice. “Can you hand them to me at least?”
“Sorry. It’ll take too long.”
“You’re not going to find anything behind the books, Lieutenant.”
Decker turned and faced him. “And where will I find things, Father?”
Bram maintained eye contact, but didn’t speak.
Decker said, “You know, if you’re hiding something, I’m going to find it. I’m going to toss every book, knock on every piece of paneling, look under every single floorboard, and rip up your mattress if necessary. So why don’t you save both of us some trouble and show me what you have.”
Bram’s face was a study in stoicism. Without speaking, he walked over to the wall crucifix. He genuflected, then said a silent prayer. A minute later, still in the kneeling position, he deftly removed a piece of paneling. The broken seams had blended so smoothly with the wall, Decker hadn’t noticed them on visual inspection. Inside the open space was a floor safe.
Decker climbed off the chair and donned a pair of gloves. “You want to open the safe for me?”
Bram hesitated, then started turning the combination lock. Several minutes passed.
“C’mon,” Decker said. “Stop stalling. I’ll blast the thing open if I have to.”
Red-faced, Bram looked up. Perspiration was pouring off his forehead. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m nervous. My hands are shaking. If you want, I’ll give you the combination and you can open it.”
Decker spoke quietly. “You do it. I’ll be patient.”
“Thank you.”
It must have taken another couple of minutes. Bram continued to maneuver the lock until there was an audible click. The priest pulled down on the handle and the safe door popped open. He stood, went over to the couch and sat, hands folded in his lap, eyes resting on the wall crucifix. As Decker knelt, an acrid odor tickled his nose. With gloved hands, he pulled out a folded pile of clothing. Gave them a sniff. Sweat-soaked with the distinct sweet, metallic scent of blood. He examined the cloth briefly. Splotches of fresh blood on the knee and cuff areas of the pants, on the sleeves of the shirt. Bits of reddish brown scattered throughout the rest of the fabric. Good news for Forensics. Lots of samples from which to work.
Bagging the clothing, Decker continued searching in the darkened safe. Farther back was a pair of sneakers, the soles reddened with blood, sparkling with splinters of glass. Decker distinctly remembered Martinez pointing out bloody shoe prints to Forensics at Decameron’s house. Nice to have shoes, especially sneakers with their distinct rubber-sole swirls and whirls.
Decker pressed on, looking for weapons. No guns or knives. But tucked into the back, previously hidden by the clothes, was a pile of magazines. About a dozen periodicals. He pulled them out, thumbed through the first one.
A case of “seen one, seen ’ em all.” Still, there was something particularly disturbing about the pornography. Not because it was gay, but because it looked like it hurt. The bondage seemed benign enough. It was the body-piercing that caused Decker’s stomach to churn. Needles, pins, and hypodermics cutting through flesh-through noses, through lips, through eyelids and tongues, and through nipples, penises, and scrotums. Decker tried to keep his face blank, but it was hard to remain indifferent.