Free The Only Good Priest by Mark Richard Zubro Page B

his chair was a herringbone-gray coat that sort of matched his outfit. He wore his shoulder holster and gun. He removed files from two chairs and placed them carefully in order on the floor. I guessed that after we vacated these seats, he would replace the materials exactly as he had found them.
    Turner had thick black wiry hair, a quarter inch longer than a brush cut, and at two-thirty in the afternoon he had a five
o’clock shadow. He rested his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands, and let his brown eyes gaze at us. If he used that innocent look on me and I was guilty, I’d confess immediately.
    I explained our problem from the beginning, leaving out innuendo, sticking to the facts as much as possible. I talked for ten minutes. His attention never wavered.
    When I finished he said, “If I hadn’t talked to Frank Murphy, I’d toss you both out of here on your asses. I assume you only got this far because nobody in this town would dare question Scott Carpenter or anybody with him. Shitty police procedure, but not hard to understand.” At times I had to lean forward to catch his words, spoken in a soft baritone.
    â€œI prefer rules and regulations. You get a dead body. The blues arrive, secure the crime scene. Lab folks show up, take pictures, file reports; detectives ask questions, interview people. Nice, neat, orderly. You two guys are not in the regular order. I think you’ve found some interesting stuff, but I’m off the case. I’m not supposed to care.”
    I described Frank’s comments on those in charge.
    â€œHe shouldn’t have told you, no matter how much he trusts you. I like Frank. Maybe it’s easier to trust people in the suburbs.”
    â€œYou don’t believe us?” Scott asked.
    He smiled briefly at Scott. “Belief isn’t my problem at this point. Power and the lack of it are. I’m off the case. I ask why? I’m told to go to work on my other cases. I press the commander. He presses back harder. So I shut up and wonder who’s got the clout to push him. Frank tells me documents have disappeared. My sources confirm this. I tried to get official access to the files. No dice. I tried people I know. Nothing. Nobody connected with this case will say word one, not my best contacts. I’ve been a detective five years. I don’t need a road map to see where this is going.” He shrugged. “Now you guys show up, outside of regulations and orders. Normally I’d be real interested. But now I’ve got no questions to ask. It’s not
my job or my problem. What you’ve told me adds up to official zip. I could pull in these people, some of whom could squawk real loud. Then I’m in deep shit. For what? A famous baseball player, a concerned schoolteacher, and a dead priest. You guys are out of your league. I’m out of my league. My best advice is, Forget it, boys. If the case has this kind of pull behind it, my guess is people could get very nasty about you poking around.”
    He twined his hands together, placed them behind his head, and slouched back. No dampness under his armpits.
    â€œDo I agree with you? Doesn’t matter. Can I do anything for you? Nope, sorry. Would what you say hold up in court? No. Is somebody covering up? Obviously. Should you keep your noses out of it? You bet.”
    He put his arms down and placed his hands on the table, palms up. “What else can I do for you?”
    â€œWhat kind of cop are you?” Scott demanded. “Don’t you know we’re telling the truth?”
    The cop smiled. “I think everything you told me was the truth.”
    â€œThen what the fuck?” Scott vented his frustration.
    The cop never took his eyes away from Scott’s face, listening as if he heard your deepest secrets in everything you said. When Scott ran down the cop said, “I’m more frustrated about this than you are.”
    I believed him.
    â€œI