Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower: Keeper of the Bride / Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen
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Second, Brogan’s car was the black Ford that forced Miss Cormier’s Honda off the road. Paint chips match, both ways. Third, the items in the trunk are the same elements used in the church bombing. Two-inchwide green electrical tape. Identical detonator cord.”
“That’s Vincent Spectre’s signature,” said Gillis. “Green electrical tape.”
“Which means we’re probably dealing with an apprentice of Spectre’s. Now here’s something else you’re not going to like. We just got back the preliminary report from the coroner. The corpse had no traces of gunpowder on his hand. Now, that’s not necessarily conclusive, since powder can rub off, but it does argue against a self-inflicted wound. What clinches it, though, is the skull fracture.”
“What?” Sam and Gillis said it simultaneously.
“A depressed skull fracture, right parietal bone. Because of all the tissue damage from the bullet wound, it wasn’t immediately obvious. But it did show up on X ray. Jimmy Brogan was hit on the head. Before he was shot.”
The silence in the room stretched for a good ten seconds. Then Gillis said, “And I almost bought it. Lock, stock and barrel.”
“He’s good,” said Sam. “But not good enough.” He looked at Cooley. “I want more on Brogan. I want you and your team to get the names of every friend, every acquaintance Brogan had. Talk to them all. It looks like our janitor got mixed up with the wrong guy. Maybe someone knows something, saw something.”
“Won’t the boys in Homicide be beating those bushes?”
“We’ll beat ’em as well. They may miss something. And don’t get into any turf battles, okay? We’re not trying to steal their glory. We just want the bomber.”
Cooley sighed and rose to his feet. “Guess it’s back to the ol’ widow Brogan.”
“Gillis,” said Sam, “I need you to talk to the best man and the matron of honor again. See if they have any links to Brogan. Or recognize his photo. I’ll go back to the hospital and talk to Reverend Sullivan. And I’ll talk to Dr. Bledsoe as well.”
“What about the bride?” asked Gillis.
“I’ve pressed the questions a couple times already. She denies knowing anything about him.”
“She seems to be the center of it all.”
“I know. And she hasn’t the foggiest idea why. But maybe her ex-bridegroom does.”
The meeting broke up and everyone headed off to their respective tasks. It would take teamwork to find this bomber, and although he had good people working with him, Sam knew they were stretched thin. Since that rookie cop’s death in the warehouse blast a week ago, Homicide had stepped into the investigation, and they were sucking up men and resources like crazy. As far as Homicide was concerned, the Bomb Task Force was little more than a squad of “techies”—the guys you called in when you didn’t want your own head blown off.
The boys in Homicide were smart enough.
But the boys in Bombs were smarter.
That’s why Sam himself drove out to Maine Medical Center to reinterview Reverend Sullivan. This latest information on Jimmy Brogan’s death had opened up a whole new range of possibilities. Perhaps Brogan had been a completely innocent patsy. Perhaps he’d witnessed something—and had mentioned it to the minister.
At the hospital, Sam learned that Reverend Sullivan had been transferred out of Intensive Care that morning. A heart attack had been ruled out, and Sullivan was now on a regular ward.
When Sam walked in the man’s room, he found the minister sitting up in bed, looking glum. There was a visitor there already—Dick Yeats of Homicide. Not one of Sam’s favorite people.
“Hey, Navarro,” said Yeats in that cocky tone of his. “No need to spin your wheels here. We’re on the Brogan case.”
“I’d like to talk to Reverend Sullivan myself.”
“He doesn’t know anything helpful.”
“Nevertheless,” said Sam, “I’d like to ask my own questions.”
“Suit yourself,” Yeats said as he headed out the door. “Seems to me, though, that you boys in Bombs could make better use of your time if you’d let Homicide do its job.”
Sam turned to the elderly minister, who was looking very unhappy about talking to yet another cop.
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” said Sam. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some more questions.”
Reverend Sullivan sighed, the weariness evident in his lined face. “I can’t tell you more than I already have.”
“You’ve been told about Brogan’s death?”
“Yes. That policeman—that Homicide person—”
“Detective Yeats.”
“He was far more graphic than necessary. I didn’t need all the…details.”
Sam sat down in a chair. The minister’s color was better today, but he still looked frail. The events of the last twenty-four hours must be devastating for him. First the destruction of his church building, and then the violent death of his handyman. Sam hated to flog the old man with yet more questions, but he had no choice.
Unfortunately, he could elicit no new answers. Reverend Sullivan knew nothing about Jimmy Brogan’s private life. Nor could he think of a single reason why Brogan, or anyone else for that matter, would attack the Good Shepherd Church. There had been minor incidents, of course. A few acts of vandalism and petty theft. That’s why he had started locking the church doors at night, a move that grieved him deeply as he felt churches should be open to those in need, day or night. But the insurance company had insisted, and so Reverend Sullivan had instructed his staff to lock up every evening at 6:00 p.m., and reopen every morning at 7:00 a.m.
“And there’ve been no acts of vandalism since?” asked Sam.
“None whatsoever,” affirmed the minister. “That is, until the bomb.”
This was a dead end, thought Sam. Yeats was right. He was just spinning his wheels.
As he rose to leave, there was a knock on the door. A heavyset woman poked her head in the room.
“Reverend Sullivan?” she said. “Is this a good time to visit?”
The gloom on the minister’s face instantly transformed to a look of relief. Thankfulness. “Helen! I’m so glad you’re back! Did you hear what happened?”
“On the television, this morning. As soon as I saw it, I packed my things and started straight back for home.” The woman, carrying a bundle of carnations, crossed to the bed and gave Reverend Sullivan a tearful hug. “I just saw the church. I drove right past it. Oh, what a mess.”
“You don’t know the worst of it,” said Reverend Sullivan. He swallowed. “Jimmy’s dead.”
“Dear God.” Helen pulled back in horror. “Was it…in the explosion?”
“No. They’re saying he shot himself. I didn’t even know he had a gun.”
Helen took an unsteady step backward. At once Sam grasped her ample arm and guided her into the chair from which he’d just risen. She sat quivering, her face white with shock.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Sam gently. “I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police. May I ask your full name?”
She swallowed. “Helen Whipple.”
“You’re the church secretary?”
She looked up at him with dazed eyes. “Yes. Yes.”
“We’ve been trying to contact you, Miss Whipple.”
“I was—I