Omaha Police Department

Detective Tommy Pakula took another gulp of cold coffee. Raised a Catholic, he had never doubted the existence of God, but too often he found himself not appreciating the divine creator’s sense of humor. This was one of those moments. As he sat in the hardback chair listening to Special Agent Bob Weston drone on and on, Pakula decided this was God’s way of punishing him. In fact, after a solid twenty minutes of the little man’s lecturing and yammering, Pakula was convinced that Bob Weston was probably God’s punishment for quite a few things.

“Stop for a minute or two,” Pakula finally said, throwing up his hands in surrender. Weston appeared so shocked anyone would dare to interrupt him that he immediately went silent. “You’ve been at it for almost a half hour and I still don’t see what fucking connection this Ellison guy getting knifed at an art festival in Minneapolis has with the monsignor getting stuck in a toilet at the airport?”

“Do you want me to start from the beginning?”

“No!” Pakula and Carmichael answered in unison. “Maybe you should just tell us the punch line.” Pakula almost said please. It had to be the exhaustion. “Come on, what’s the connection?”

Now Weston grinned like a guy who knew he was the only one with the secret answer to the puzzle. “Ordinarily, most people wouldn’t see any connection. At least not on the surface. But I happen to be from Minneapolis, so I tend to pay attention. I still have a brother up there. He has a family.”

Pakula groaned and rubbed his eyes. Weston noticed. The grin was replaced with a lifted eyebrow. Pakula wondered if an irritated Weston was any worse than a cocky Weston. He decided he didn’t care. He sat back in his chair and stared him down.

“Come on, Weston,” Carmichael finally gave up and broke in. “We know you’re brilliant. Just tell us the fucking connection.”

“I’m trying to tell you. My brother and his family used to attend Saint Pat’s where Daniel Ellison used to be an associate pastor for a very short time. He left the church, got married and became an advertising executive.” Finished and looking pleased with himself, Weston sat down on the edge of the desk, his designer-clad butt crushing a stack of reports. He didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for his accolades.

“That’s it?” Carmichael asked. “That’s your secret connection? That he happened to be a priest?”

“And that he was stabbed in the chest and that it was done in a very public place. This was in the middle of the afternoon, a crowded festival.” Weston was back on his feet. “Nobody saw it happen. Ellison’s wife sort of remembered him bumping into someone and then suddenly slumping over and falling to the ground.” He handed Pakula the folder he had brought with him. “After you get your autopsy report, just take a look at the two cases.”

“What should I be looking for?”

“I don’t know, but I bet there’ll be some similarities.”

“And if there are similarities, you think we have a priest killer on the loose?” Pakula shook his head. He wasn’t convinced. “One dead monsignor and a guy who used to be a priest—sounds more like a coincidence to me.”

“Hey, you called me.” It was Weston’s turn to put up his hands as if in surrender. “You asked me what possible reason Archbishop Armstrong would have for not wanting the FBI involved.”

Pakula saw Kasab in the doorway, waving him over. Normally, he would have yelled for him to just get his butt in here, instead, he saw an opportunity for escape.

“Be right back,” he told Carmichael and nodded at Weston. Before he got to the door, he couldn’t help thinking Kasab looked like a guy with his own secret. He wanted to tell him he should never play poker, but after wrangling Bob Weston, Detective Pakula was too tired for more games.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Okay,” Pakula said. It took a few beats before he realized Kasab was waiting for him to say which he wanted first. “Okay, good news first.” It was easier to play.

“I was able to get the monsignor’s cell-phone record. The only calls he made were one to Our Lady of Sorrow rectory that lasted about a minute and another to Father Tony Gallagher’s cell phone. He’s the assistant pastor at the church. That one lasted just over seven minutes. It was made about an hour before his flight.”

“So he was probably the last person to talk to the monsignor.”

“Most likely, yes. Outside of anyone at the airport.”

“Sounds like we need to talk to Father Gallagher. Can you arrange that?”

“Oh, sure.”

“So what’s the bad news?”

“I went back to the airport to pick up Monsignor O’Sullivan’s luggage. Remember they told us they’d intercept it in New York and have it back in Omaha this morning?”

“Let me guess,” Pakula interrupted him, “it’s in Rome.”

“No, it made it back to Omaha, but someone picked it up before I got there.”

“You gotta be kidding. What numb nut gave it to someone without any authority?”

“Actually the desk clerk was told it had been authorized.”

“Who the hell told him that?”

Kasab flipped his notebook pages, checking, wanting to be accurate. “It was a Brother Sebastian. Said he was with the Omaha Archdiocese office. And like the guy told me, who’s not going to believe someone sent by the archbishop?”