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  For twenty-five minutes, they read without speaking. Each took a few notes and scribbled a few doodles. Then, without raising his eyes from his papers, Garcia said: “This might be a leap. The Olson case—not his murder, but the one where he’s on trial for murder—has got a priest. Future priest.”

  Her head jerked up. “What?”

  “That family. The one Olson and his buddies slaughtered.” He looked up from the file. “The only survivor was the son. He was away at college. Ended up in seminary school.”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Victim-impact statement. Son’s name is…” Garcia flipped to the second page, third page, fourth page. He continued turning until he found the signature at the bottom of the last page of the lengthy handwritten letter. “Damian Quaid.”

  Bernadette dropped her pen, stood up, and leaned across the table. She grabbed the victim’s statement, pulled it toward her, and spun it around so it was right-side-up for her eyes. Her heart started racing. She could taste the adrenaline flooding her mouth, metallic and exciting. Forcing herself to sit down again, she ran her eyes over the page and found neat, almost elegant script—more feminine than masculine. Her sight locked on the signature. Damian Quaid. She reached out to touch the name and froze. The papers were photocopies of the letter, she told herself, not the original. She’d get nothing from the writing. She went back to the first page of the statement and saw the date. “I vaguely remember reading about the case. Where would I have been back then? College? Just out of college?”

  “Quaid was the first of the three kids to go off to college. He was in school in the Twin Cities when it happened. You’re probably about the same age.”

  “Give me the CliffsNotes version,” she said, nodding toward the pile in front of Garcia. “Where’d it happen? What happened? Who were the Quaids anyway?”

  Garcia turned some pages, read some more, and announced: “Nobody important. Mother ran an electrolysis business and beauty parlor out of the house. Dad repaired small engines and removed stumps.”

  Bernadette: “Sounds like the family of every kid I grew up with. If you didn’t farm and you couldn’t land a job in town, you did a mish-mash of things to make ends meet. Sometimes you farmed and worked in town and repaired small engines on the side. Where’d they live?”

  Garcia rifled through the file until he found a narrative of sorts buried in a criminal complaint. “Quaid’s childhood home was some sixty miles west of Minneapolis, between Dassel and Darwin.” He looked up and added: “Those are dinky rural communities sharing a couple of thousand souls between them, if that.”

  “I’m familiar with dinky rural communities.”

  Garcia: “Family’s two-story house was tucked into the woods on the north side of U.S. 12. Across the street were railroad tracks that ran parallel to the highway.”

  Bernadette: “Something tells me those railroad tracks are players in all this.”

  “Fall night. Three drifters hopped off the boxcar they’d been riding, darted across the road, and headed for the first house they saw. The Quaids’ place. The front door was unlocked.” Garcia paused in his recitation to offer an editorial comment. “Stupid. Why do people leave their doors unlocked?”

  She smiled sadly. “In the country, even careful people leave their doors unlocked. We’re naïve fools, I guess. Trust people not to walk in and butcher us.”

  He continued: “Using rope they’d found in the shed, they strapped husband and wife into chairs facing each other. When the robbers couldn’t find the money they wanted, they dragged the daughters upstairs, raped them on their parents’ bed, and sliced their throats with a kitchen knife while the girls lay next to each other. They went downstairs and finished Mom and Dad with the same knife they’d used on the daughters.”

  She shuddered. “Horrible.”

  “Then the trio went on to the next home down the road.” Garcia ran his eyes down the text and turned to the next page. Grinning grimly, he said: “This is where our three friends messed up big-time. Behind door number two was a family of hunters, with their own arsenal. Two of the robbers were shot dead.”

  “Lovely,” she said.

  “The third went on trial for the rapes and murders.”

  “Olson. What’d he do then? Claim insanity?”

  Garcia: “The more reliable and frequently used SODDI defense.”

  Bernadette: “Some other dude did it.”

  Garcia lifted a copy of a newspaper clipping and read a reporter’s account: “‘Olson blamed his dead colleagues for the murders and testified that he’d unwittingly stood outside while his buddies ran amok inside. His testimony on the stand was punctuated by his own tears; he repeatedly took off his bifocals and wiped his eyes. His defense attorney also pointed to the defendant’s age—at nearly fifty, he was twice the age of his late partners.’”

  Bernadette: “Let me guess how this story ends. Since there were no witnesses to the slaughter, and because the defendant had no prior violence on his record, the jury gave the guy the benefit of the doubt. He was found guilty of lesser charges.”

  “Juries,” he said flatly.

  “If the defendant’s a good actor and he’s got a slick attorney…”

  Garcia pointed to the file. “In this case, Olson really lucked out. I recognize the name. Didn’t realize it’d been her case.”

  “She’s that good?”

  “Cut her teeth on a bunch of tough cases in the boondocks. Ditched the public pretender’s office for a real job. Became a prosecutor for Hennepin County. That’s how I know her.”

  “She’s in town, then?” Bernadette returned her attention to the victim-impact statement.

  “Got recruited by a law firm in Milwaukee. See her around once in a while. She’s got ties here.”

  A dark thought crossing her mind, Bernadette took her eyes off her reading. “She a big gal by any chance? Has a thing for jewelry and nail polish?”

  “How’d you know? What difference does it make if she…” Garcia stopped in mid-sentence as it came to him.

  “Why don’t I call her law firm with some excuse this afternoon? Something related to a case. That way we don’t raise any alarms prematurely. All we need to do is confirm she showed up for work this week, with her right hand intact.”

  “St. Paul PD and our folks are already checking missing persons,” he said.

  “Could be no one knows she’s missing yet. The hand turned up over the weekend. If she’s supposed to be on vacation…”

  “We should run it through the Milwaukee FO,” he said.

  “Nah. Let me deal with it. What’s her name? Name of her firm?”

  “We don’t need to scare the crap out of anyone. The case is ancient history. It’s hard to believe that after all these years, the son would—”

  Bernadette cut him off. “His entire family was wasted.”

  Garcia tore a clean sheet off a legal pad and started writing. “Be discreet.”

  “My middle name.”

  He slid the paper across the table. She retrieved it and read it. “Marta Younges. Jansen, Milinkovich and Younges. Her name’s on the door, huh?”

  He snatched the paper back. “I’ll make the call. I know her. I think I’ve got her firm’s number in my cell’s database.”

  Bernadette’s mouth hardened. His mistrust of her was getting tough to swallow. “Whatever you want, sir.”

  “I’ll take care of it right now.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Excuse me.”

  He pulled his cell out of his pants pocket and walked to the living room, punching in a number as he went. He turned his back to her as he spoke into the phone. She fumed for thirty seconds before returning to her reading.

  After a polite opening, the tone of the victim-impact statement took a dramatic turn. The words were beyond angry. They were furious. Vindictive. Righteous. Peppered throughout were Bible verses. Her eyes darted back and forth as she raced to take in each line. No turn-the-other-cheek stuff f
or this guy.

  Garcia turned around and walked back into the kitchen, the cell glued to his ear. “I’m on hold,” he told her.

  “Listen to what he told the judge. ‘I can’t taste the food I eat—and I eat only to stay alive. I can’t focus enough to drive a car or watch television or listen to music, let alone do my classwork. I can’t sleep for more than a few hours each night. I am constantly awakened by a recurring noise. I imagine the screams of my mother and my father and my sisters as they beg for their lives.’”

  She skipped a few paragraphs and went to the bottom of the page. “Look here. He sees two reasons to live—and he ties them together in the same sentence. Plus, here’s the mention of our lady lawyer. ‘One night of wanton rape and bloodletting by Mr. Olson—and believe me, he was one of the killers, despite what his lying attorney says—has left me less than an orphan. I am a man alone in the world. I have no reason to live except for this religious vocation. It calls to me and pulls me out of the depths of misery. The priesthood—along with my quest for justice—gives me purpose and a mission.’”

  She flipped to the last page of the statement. “‘This man—this devil—may be able to walk out of prison one day, but he will never be able to walk away from his guilt and his sin. The Lord will see that justice is served, be it in this life or the next. I only hope it is in this one so I am around to see it and revel in it. I would like to watch him suffer the way he made my family suffer. I pray he shall be compelled to give eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe. Most important, life for life.’”

  Garcia held up his hand to quiet her. While he spoke into the phone, she glanced across the room at the square of paper she’d slapped into the middle of the white cross. Life for life. How had she known to write those three words? What did the phrase mean? Did it mean anything? She quickly looked away from the wall and back at her boss. He was closing his phone.

  “What did her office say?”

  “She was in the Twin Cities all last week. Shuttled around between friends’ houses. She was supposed to drive back to Milwaukee middle of this week, in time for a deposition today.” He dropped the cell back in his pocket. “She didn’t show up at the office this morning. They’re figuring she’s still on the road, on her way in. Problem is, they can’t ring her up on her cell.”

  Bernadette fixed her eyes on him: “Problem is, she’s dead.”

  Twenty-eight

  “Gotta take a look at this Father Quaid,” said Garcia.

  “Know another priest who can give us some inside info on the guy?” asked Bernadette. “Someone who’s been in the business a while? Knows everybody?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He fished his cell out of his pocket and flipped it open.

  “How about you introduce me and then let me take it from there?” she asked.

  “This is my parish priest I’m thinking of tapping. How about I ask him the questions and you keep slogging through the files?”

  Garcia was afraid she was going to insult his pastor, step on some sacred toes. He was probably right. She’d let him make the call. Besides, the pastor was his resource, not hers. She went over to the table and sat down. “Sure.”

  “You keep an ear tuned,” he said. “I’ll try the rectory.”

  Bernadette watched as he sat down across from her and started punching in a number. She noticed he didn’t have to look it up in his database; he knew it by heart.

  He put the phone to his ear. “Scribble any additional questions and shove them under my snout.”

  She picked up her pen and clicked nervously while Garcia waited for someone to answer.

  “Father Pete? Anthony Garcia.”

  Bernadette grinned. When it came to the priest, her boss was Anthony, not Tony. She dropped the pen and drummed her fingers on the table while listening to Garcia’s precursory pleasantries:

  “How’re you doing?…I’m good, thanks…How’s the planning for the fall festival?…Really?…What do you need? Maybe I can scare up some toy badges or balloons…Yeah. Yeah. They say FBI on ’em…No. No pens. Sorry.”

  Garcia lost patience with the notes Bernadette repeatedly passed under his nose. He said into the phone: “Father Pete. I’ve got an agent working the case. Bernadette Saint Clare. She’s sitting right here. Got some questions of her own she’d like to run by you. Mind if I put her on?” Bernadette reached across the table for the phone, and Garcia held up his free hand to stop her. “Sure. We can do that. Where you want us to meet you?” Garcia listened to the priest’s answer and laughed. “Maybe we can squeeze in a few frames.”

  Bernadette followed Garcia in her truck. He’d wanted her to ride with him in the fleet car he’d driven over from Minneapolis, but she despised the Crown Vic. With its no-frills government interior and dark “pretend we’re not really here” exterior, the Vicky looked like a G-man with tires. Might as well slap lights on the hood and get it over with, she thought.

  She had no trouble keeping up as Garcia inched through downtown St. Paul’s stop-and-go traffic. They turned onto Rice Street and took it north for less than two miles, ending up in a working-class neighborhood called the North End.

  She was a little surprised when they pulled up in front of a Catholic-school gymnasium, but she didn’t say anything while she followed Garcia into the blocky building. As they jogged down the stairs to the basement, she heard the distinctive clatter of balls knocking down pins. Garcia pushed the stairwell door open, and the two of them stepped into a tiny bowling alley.

  She unzipped her jacket and ran her eyes around the place, a dimly lit rectangle with a low ceiling and wood-paneled walls. She counted eight lanes, half of them being used by gray-haired league bowlers. A snack bar with an abbreviated menu—pizza, hot dogs, nachos, candy bars, beer, and pop—was tucked into one back corner. Parked on stools in front of the bar were two old men, each nursing a cup of coffee. In the other back corner—the one closest to the door—was an unmanned counter with an old-fashioned cash register on top of it and shelves filled with bowling shoes behind it. The wood floors and countertops were spotless, but the place nevertheless smelled like burned cheese and the insides of old shoes.

  Bernadette felt a hand on her shoulder and pivoted around to face a man dressed in black slacks, a black short-sleeved shirt with a white Roman collar, and bowling shoes. Garcia’s contact.

  “Agent Saint Clare?” The priest was a skinny sixty-something guy who stood even shorter than Bernadette. A halo of white hair hovered around his pink, damp face. Behind his wire-rimmed bifocals were milky eyes that looked overdue for cataract surgery.

  He extended his bony hand, and she took it in her gloved one. “Thank you for taking the time, Father.”

  The priest released her hand and went over to her boss. The smaller man threw his arms around Garcia’s shoulders. Father Pete looked like a kid hugging his dad and sounded like a grandfather chastising his neglectful grandson. “How are you, Anthony? Why haven’t you come by to see me? I haven’t seen you in church for a month.”

  “Sorry,” said Garcia, his face flushing. “Busy.”

  Father Pete released Garcia and pointed to a lone dining table planted between the snack bar and the lanes. “I ordered a pizza and some pops for us.”

  Bernadette and Garcia stepped next to the table, a square of Formica surrounded by four metal folding chairs. They waited until Father Pete sat down. Garcia took a seat to the priest’s right, and Bernadette sat to the clergyman’s left. A few yards away, the sounds of the alley continued: Balls hitting the lanes and rolling. Pins tumbling. Bowlers hollering. The racket of pins being reset.

  “How’s your game?” asked Bernadette, peeling off her gloves and stuffing them in her jacket pockets.

  “Not bad,” said Father Pete, a grin turning up his thin lips. “I’ve been consistently scoring two hundred plus.”

  “I could use some lessons,” said Garcia, unbuttoning his trench coa
t.

  “How did you happen to end up with a bowling alley under your school gym?” asked Bernadette.

  “Fifty years ago, we had a priest who liked to bowl,” said the priest. “The schoolchildren love it. We’ve got a phys-ed unit on bowling for the junior high.”

  A busty, freckled waitress materialized next to the table with a greasy circle of cheese in her hands. She set the pizza down in the middle of the square. “Sprite okay, Fadder?”

  “Wonderful, Elizabeth,” said the priest. The young woman turned and went back to the bar. “And napkins and plates, please,” he said after her.

  Elizabeth returned with three cans of pop and a stack of napkins, but forgot the plates.

  Bernadette and Garcia reached for pizza, but sheepishly pulled their hands away when the priest said: “Let us offer thanks.”

  All three made the sign of the cross and bowed their heads, but the two agents let the priest say the prayer. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed both agents, again crossing themselves.

  “Let’s eat,” said Father Pete. He picked up a wedge of pizza, folded it in half, and tucked it into his mouth.

  Bernadette eyed the snack-bar clock—an oversized one that probably came from the school gym. She had to move this along. She took a sip of Sprite, set down the can, and charged ahead. “From listening to Tony’s end—Anthony’s end—of the phone conversation, sounds like you only know this Father Quaid from reputation. You never sat down and had a conversation with him.”

  Father Pete chewed and swallowed. “We never talked, but I did catch his show twice. First time, as a visitor to his church. I remember it vividly. I happened to be in street clothes, so I doubt he knew another priest was in attendance. Had he known, he might have toned it down.”

  Garcia: “Toned it down?”

  The priest nodded and reached for another slice of pizza. “The homily. I have to give him credit for brevity. Short and to the point. No gray in his message. The Ten Commandments are not a suggestion. Break the rules and the punishment should fit the crime. The Bible is the last word. ‘If any harm follows, then you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, stripe for stripe…I will punish you according to the fruit of your doings.’ And so forth.”