Authors: Christopher Valen
Before he left the room, Santana took the photo of Scanlon and Hidalgo out of the frame on the end table. Slipped it in his pocket and put the frame in a drawer.
“I
t’s not like you killed Hidalgo, John,” Nick Baker said. “He took his own life.”
“Maybe,” Santana said. “But if Hidalgo was standing on the edge of a cliff, I was the one who suggested he jump.”
Santana was sitting in a booth across the table from Baker in the non-smoking section of the St. Clair Broiler on Snelling Avenue near Macalester College, eating a cheeseburger with french-fries and washing it down with a large glass of Coke. Baker was eating a mid-day breakfast of eggs over easy, pancakes, bacon and heavy doses of black coffee.
A low hanging lamp on a chain nearly blocked Santana’s view of Baker. Small, framed glass pictures of St. Paul at the turn of the 20th century dotted the walls. Through the windows that faced Snelling, Santana could see newspaper boxes along the sidewalk that held the
Wall Street Journal
and
New York Times
and hear the wind that hummed like a stiff wire suddenly pulled taut.
“Look,” Baker said. “Hidalgo was a priest. He was also gay. Given what’s happened in the Catholic Church, that scenario doesn’t play real well with the traditional values crowd. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone found out. The internal conflict was probably driving him crazy. He was a tormented man.”
Baker held an unlit cigarette between his fingers like a child unable to let go of a security blanket.
“Aren’t we all tormented in one way or another, Nick? We just choose different paths leading to the same destination.”
“Lots of ways of dealing with our demons,” Baker said. “Sex, drugs … suicide.”
“And religion,” Santana said.
Baker gave a knowing nod and glanced at the cigarette in his hand. “Seems to me if you want to survive, you’ve got to figure out your own opiate. Find something that lessens the pain and gets you through the day. Otherwise, you can drown in your own shit.”
“Hard to be a homicide detective and an optimist.”
“A real oxymoron,” Baker said, chewing on his last strip of bacon.
Outside, clouds dark as body bags floated across the sky. Tiny ice crystals rattled against the windowpane.
“So, Nick, why the phone call to meet?”
“A couple of reasons,” Baker said. “First, Ashford’s not real happy you’re still poking around in the garbage of this case. He’s got Kacie and me looking at cold cases. See if we can close a couple. I’m guessing he’s got the same thing planned for you.”
“I imagine Kehoe’s been giving Ashford an earful. He showed up at Hidalgo’s place just after the Code 3 went out.”
“You’ve got to give Ashford something, John. Tell him what we know about Mendoza. If he decides to bring the Feds in, at least you’ve covered your ass. Kehoe is looking out for himself. It’s time you did the same.”
“What about Córdova and Angelina Torres?”
“Córdova’s dead. Nothing you do is gonna bring him back. And the case against Torres is weak. Vega will get her off if the Grand Jury indicts. Which I doubt they will, given the lack of evidence.”
“I’m not so sure, Nick. And speaking of evidence, did you know Mendoza represented Greatland Industries, a company that makes pesticides?”
Baker shook his head slowly. “I didn’t. Is it important?”
“It was. Some of the families of farm workers who died from pesticide poisoning while working in the grape fields in California brought a lawsuit against the company. Córdova and Angelina Torres were part of the lawsuit. Mendoza helped defend Greatland. Ashford believes that was their motive for murdering Mendoza. You should’ve caught that when you did the background check on Mendoza, Nick.”
“Shit, John, I must be slipping in my old age.”
“It’s too late now. There’s a murderer still out there. And I think I have an idea who it might be.”
“So let’s hear it.”
While they ate, Santana told Baker what he had discovered about Julio Pérez and Rafael Mendoza in Valladolid, Mexico.
Baker gave a slow shake of his head when Santana had finished. “Well that’s damn interesting, John. ‘Cause that’s the second reason I wanted to talk to you.”
Baker wiped his fingers with a napkin, reached into the side pocket of his sport coat and took out a folded sheet of paper. “You asked me to check the hospitals in town for appendectomy operations within the last year.” He opened the paper on the table and smoothed it out with his cigarette stained fingers.
Santana looked at the name Baker was pointing to on the paper and then at the skin wrinkling at the corner of Baker’s bloodshot eyes.
“Makes you wonder what his opiate is, doesn’t it, John?”
T
ony Novak looked up from the microscope he was peering into as Santana entered the crime lab.
Santana said, “I need to look at Córdova’s appointment book again. And any trace evidence you found on Mendoza.”
“Well, I was beginning to wonder if anyone was interested. Kehoe sure as hell isn’t. I heard Ashford put him in charge of the investigation.”
“I’m still working the case.”
Novak gave a knowing smile, as though he had expected Santana’s response. He pushed himself off his stool, retrieved the evidence envelope containing Córdova’s appointment book from a small locker, and Mendoza’s file, containing the crime scene evidence inventory, from a metal cabinet.
Opening the file on the laminate counter next to Santana, Novak said, “We found strands of hair under Mendoza’s fingernails. Microscopic examination of the hair root indicated the presence of sheath cells. Sheath cells are present only when hair is pulled out, not if it falls out naturally.”
“So there was a struggle,” Santana said.
“I’d bet on it. I can also tell the gender by the sheath cells. They came from a male. But we need exemplars from the suspect to make a positive ID.”
“I’ve got a suspect,” Santana said. “But I’ll need a court order unless he gives them up voluntarily.”
“Either way, make sure he pulls them out, John. Don’t cut them. And get at least a dozen or more from the head and body.”
Anything else I should know?”
“I found something else under Mendoza’s fingernails that I couldn’t identify at first, so I ran it through the GC-mass-spec.” Novak pulled a printed readout from the file. “The material was a combination of resin, which is a mixture of boswellic acid and alibanoresin, water-soluble gum, bassorin, some volatile oil and plant residue. In otherwords, your basic olibanum.”
“Olibanum?” Santana said. “Never heard of it.”
“Sure you have. The common name is Frankincense.”
“You mean incense. Like you’d find in a Catholic Church.”
“Exactly. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the primary ingredient the church uses in their incense. Now, Mendoza could’ve been handling incense in his condo.”
“Or it could’ve come from the hair samples or the perp’s clothing,” Santana said.
“More than likely. You find any incense in Mendoza’s place?”
“Not that I recall. But we weren’t really looking for it.”
“Better if there wasn’t any there. A good defense attorney could make a case that the incense didn’t come from the perp.”
“I’ll check it out. Thanks, Tony.”
Santana sat down on a stool, opened the evidence envelope and removed Córdova’s appointment book. His first read of the book in the offices of
El Día
had been cursory. He had been looking for information that would connect Córdova to Mendoza and he had found it. Córdova had planned to meet Mendoza at 7:30 p.m., the same time Mendoza died. But there had been something else in the appointment book that Santana had copied in his own notebook, and he wanted to take another look at it now.
He turned to the last day of Córdova’s life and looked at what the journalist had scribbled below his 7:30 p.m. appointment with Mendoza. His handwriting was nearly illegible, but it appeared that he had written
learn more about scandal.
Santana looked at the last word closely.
scandal.
Maybe it was scandal but maybe not. It was hard to tell.
Santana turned to the previous page and then the one before that, working backward through the last days of Córdova’s life. He went back two weeks and three days and there it was. Córdova had an appointment with
scandal
on December 29th. Only it wasn’t
scandal
. It was
scanlon
. The name had meant nothing to him when he began the investigation. But it meant everything to Santana now.
Chapter 24
S
LEET HAD FALLEN IN THE LAST HOUR
, coating everything with a thin layer of ice. The plastic scraper Santana used to try and clear the windshield was about as helpful as a match in a gale. He left the defrost switch on high for ten minutes before the blowing heat melted the sleet so he could see to drive.
The offices of the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis were located on Summit Avenue next to the St. Paul Cathedral. The archbishop’s secretary stood up behind her desk as Santana walked in the office. She wore a white blouse and dark skirt that hugged her narrow hips. Most people probably thought she was in her thirties, but her gray eyes were older and more experienced.
Santana showed her his badge and asked to see the archbishop.
“He’s not in his office. He may be out walking, or he may have stopped at the Cathedral. If you’ll leave me a number where you can be reached, I’ll have him call you as soon as he returns.”
“I’ll see if I can catch him at the Cathedral. If I can’t, have him call me on my cell. And one other thing.” Santana opened his briefcase; picked up the photo he had taken from Córdova’s house and showed it to her. “Recognize this man?”
In the photo Rubén Córdova was standing in front of the Church of the Guardian Angels with Julio Pérez and his family.
She took her time looking at it. “I believe I do.”
“Can you check the archbishop’s calendar for December twenty-ninth? I believe that’s the day Córdova was here.”
She turned a page of the appointment calendar on her desk. “Why, yes. He had an appointment with the archbishop at two o’clock that afternoon. Is there a problem concerning Mr. Córdova?”
“You read the papers or watch the local news?”
She shook her head forcefully, as if he had asked her if she watched pornography. “No, Detective. There’s way too much crime, too much violence for my tastes. I prefer to read good literature. And the lives of the saints.”
“Pretty much all you need, is it?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s all anyone ever needs.”
E
ntering the cathedral at one of the north side entrances, Santana was struck by the silence and the heavy aroma of incense in the air. Six elderly women knelt between the pews, their rosary beads wrapped around their hands. He walked past a chapel and a statue of St. Matthew where a food shelf had been set up for needy families, spotted the archbishop standing near a confessional.
“Detective John Santana. We met briefly at Julio Pérez’s funeral.” He didn’t offer Scanlon his hand.
“Yes,” Scanlon said with a comfortable smile. “How’s the investigation proceeding?”
“Starting to come together. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions if you aren’t too busy?”
“Questions?”
“About Father Hidalgo.”
Scanlon still had the smile on his face, but it was lopsided now, as if Santana had just asked him to climb in the back of a hearse.
“I have an appointment in thirty minutes,” he said, checking his watch.
“This won’t take long.”
“Yes, of course.”
Scanlon said it without enthusiasm and sat down in a nearby pew, next to his overcoat and flat-top hat.
Santana sat down beside him. “You knew Father Hidalgo well?”
“Quite well, actually. He was my former student when I taught at the Catholic University in Washington. I was truly stunned when I first heard about his death.”
Scanlon might have been stunned, but the way he leaned back and rested one arm along the top of the pew, as though he was commiserating about the weather, said otherwise.
“You have any idea why he would commit suicide?” Santana asked.
“None at all. I saw no indication that Father Hidalgo was depressed. Do you think his death might not be a suicide?”
“Not at this time.”
Scanlon rubbed his gunmetal gray hair and said, “Well, I believe you’re a homicide detective are you not?”
“We want to make certain his death wasn’t something other than a suicide.”
“I understand. So much of what happens today makes little sense. It helps to have a strong faith in times such as these, to know that God created the universe. That He has a plan for everything.”
“You ever think that maybe we have it backward?” Santana said. “That maybe we created God?”
Scanlon looked at Santana like he had said two plus two equals six. “Are you Catholic, Detective?”
The question caught Santana off guard. “I was raised Catholic, yes.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“But that was my answer.”
Santana could feel the weight of Scanlon’s eyes on him, studying him as though he were trying to decipher a recently discovered Dead Sea Scroll.
“I’ve been a priest for many years, Detective Santana. Like you, I have worked with many souls in need of help and guidance. I may not be a trained investigator, but I can recognize someone who has lost his faith. So I hope you’ll pardon me for being so forward, but when exactly did you lose yours?”
Santana had chosen never to disguise his distrust of religion with all its platitudes and false promises, so it came as no surprise that Scanlon had sensed his feelings. But he was surprised that the words still stung.
He said, “Hidalgo’s the one you should be concerned about, not me.”
“I’m concerned about all God’s children.”
Santana recognized the irony in that statement.
“In Colombia,” he said, “there is a city called Tunja. It has more seminaries than any other city in the country. The people are very Catholic and very superstitious. For over a hundred years they have seen strange lights in certain buildings late at night. This haunted part of the city is known as Lighthouse Street. When workers began renovating the buildings, they found the remains of young pregnant girls buried within the walls. The girls were murdered because their families didn’t want to face the condemnation of the Catholic Church.”