Prayers for the Dead. Faye Kellerman

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СКАЧАТЬ remembers, he finished up a meeting with a bunch of doctors around eight. Nobody seems to know what Sparks was doing here. At Tracadero’s, that is. Because he had dinner at the hospital. At least, that’s what his secretary said. Her name is Heather Manley.”

      “Is she still at the hospital?”

      “I don’t know where Scotty talked to her. On the phone or at the hospital.”

      “So the great man was last seen about eight.” Craine snapped up his black bag. “It’s now quarter to eleven. You have an accurate time frame. Better than the one that science could have provided.”

      “Did you know him, Jay?”

      “I knew of him, Lieutenant. Everyone knew about Dr. Sparks.” Craine turned away. “This is very difficult. Seeing such a man as he … butchered like this.”

      “Tell me about the murder.”

      “Shots to the head and neck. Severed his brain stem. Most likely that was the primary cause of death. The other savagery … the chest wounds. I’d say they were postmortem. Someone was very strong and very angry. To crack the sternum and rib cage and expose his heart. A long knife with a big blade. I found some pulverized bone matter. Anything might have been used to smash the chest cavity. A crowbar, a baseball bat. A hammer or a mallet.”

      “Things easily found in any car or toolbox or kitchen,” Decker said.

      “Yes,” Craine agreed. “Whoever did this was a strong person.”

      “Male, then.”

      “I would think. Even a strong woman … to do this much damage …” Craine furrowed his brow in concentration. “If I were you, I’d be looking for someone with a penis.”

      Gaynor held back a smile. “Smashing up the chest and exposing the heart. Sounds like someone was making a statement.”

      “Indubitably.” Craine took off his gloves. “We’ll take him to the morgue now. Autopsy will be done first thing tomorrow.”

      Decker said, “I have one of Dr. Sparks’s sons in the car. He’s come down to make the ID.”

      “It’s Azor,” Craine said. “I’ll state it formally, if you’d like. Save the man some agony.”

      “I think he knows it’s his father. I think he just wants to see it for himself.”

      “Good gracious why?”

      “He’s a priest,” Gaynor said. “Maybe he wants to perform last rites on him.”

      “Can you do last rites on someone who’s deceased?” Decker asked. “Besides Azor Sparks wasn’t Catholic.”

      “He was very religious,” Craine said. “Everyone knew about Azor Sparks, his Fundamentalist beliefs, and his commitment to God.” The ME paused. “Perhaps he did have a hot line to the Supreme Being. He certainly saved a lot of lives.”

      Decker said, “I’ll bring the priest over as soon as your men put him in the bag and on the stretcher. I don’t want him to see the crime scene.”

      “Very considerate of you, Lieutenants,” Craine muttered. “Very considerate. Copious amounts of spatter. The image is haunting even for the most professional of us. Good night.”

      Gaynor watched as Craine got into his car and drove away. “He seemed upset. Well, maybe not upset. More like … affected.”

      “Aren’t we all.” Decker shook his head. “Where’re Webster and Martinez?”

      “On Dumpster patrol.” Gaynor pointed into the darkness. “See those blips of light?”

      “I don’t see anything.”

      “Good thing about getting old,” Gaynor said. “You become very farsighted. I see the flashlights. Maybe they’re about a block and a half, two blocks down. Want me to get them on the walkie-talkie?”

      Decker peered down the empty space, trying to make out light. “No, I’ll talk to them later. Let me get the identification over with.” He turned his eyes back to the scene. They had loaded Sparks onto a stretcher. “Clear the decks for me, Farrell. Give the son some breathing room.”

      Decker walked back to the Volare, opened the passenger door. Bram got out, balancing his weight on the car before he stood up.

      “You need help?”

      “No.”

      “Over here.” Decker led the priest to the stretcher, the body encased in a vinyl bag. He nodded to an attendant who unzipped a portion of the plastic sheath.

      The priest glanced downward, quickly averted his eyes, then stepped backward. “Dear God!”

      Decker peeked. Dead eyes stared upward at the foggy moon. He took the priest’s arm, but Bram shook him off.

      “I’m all right.” He covered his mouth, then let his hands drop. “I’m all right. I want to see him again.”

      Decker stared at him.

      “Please,” Bram said quietly. “Please, I need to see him again. Have them unzip the bag.”

      Decker nodded to the attendants. Again, they opened the vinyl casket. The priest came forward, forced his eyes downward. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and crossed himself. Closed his eyes and clasped his hands. He brought his fists to his forehead and prayed, his mouth incanting a slurry of what sounded like Latin. Decker crooked his finger, beckoning the lab men away from the stretcher.

      Give the man his illusion of privacy.

       5

      The last registered event in Dr. Azor Sparks’s daily calendar was an in-house dinner meeting with three people: Reg, Myron, and Liz. It took only a quick call to Sparks’s secretary—Heather Manley—for Oliver to find out that Reg was Dr. Reginald Decameron, Myron was Dr. Myron Berger, and Liz was Dr. Elizabeth Fulton. This entry was one of many that had appeared in Sparks’s business book—a semiweekly research meeting of some sort, according to the secretary, Heather. And the dinner meetings were always held in Sparks’s conference room, not at Tracadero’s. That was all he could glean before Heather’s hysteria broke through.

      Oliver’s eyes moved off the pages of Sparks’s daily planner and scanned the office. Place was twice as big as his apartment. A hell of a lot nicer, too. Wood-paneled walls, plush hunter green carpeting, surround-sound stereo speakers, wet bar, and fridge—all this plus a canyon view of the nearby mountains. True, there was no booze in the bar, only fruit juices, but that could be remedied. He cast his gaze on the ceiling-mounted television set. To Marge, he said, “Maybe we should turn on the TV.”

      Marge shut Sparks’s top desk drawer. Nothing of substance in it. She tried the file drawers in his walnut desk, then the ones in his credenza. Locked, of course. “Think you’re outta luck, Scotty. He СКАЧАТЬ