The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

"You're right," she said, "or killers. I guess we won't know until we really get down into this thing, huh?"

"We never do."

They continued plodding down the aisle until they reached the altar.

Kelly felt strange getting a backdoor view into the church. His Irish-Catholic guilt kicked in, making him feel like somewhat of a heathen for not attending Mass in several years, especially after serving as an altar boy in his youth. This sacred place within the church carried an invisible barrier to all those parishioners who approached to receive communion, and Kelly felt it press against him now. It didn’t block him from continuing forward, though; he walked up the three short steps to the altar with Barnes beside him. She went left and he right as they circled the altar. They saw nothing leading to the back door, which Kelly knew led to the private area where the priest and his altar boys prepared for the day's sermon.

Kelly's childhood memories returned full blast as he remembered sitting next to the priest. He remembered the sermons. He remembered his job there, the removal of the communion, the bringing of the wine, the servitude. As much as he hated dressing up and performing the task, he loved the routine of it, the same comfort he found at Pops' gym. The ritual and routine, the warmup. The structure was steadying. And maybe that was what so unnerved Kelly about murder. It broke every norm. It divided and shattered the idea of conformity. Murder was the biggest act of nonconformity a person could do to another. The taking of another human life was uniquely outside the bounds of society’s norms. That was what drew Kelly to this line of work in the first place.

Satisfied they hadn't missed anything of value or seen anything worth noting on the initial pass, he turned to Kris. "Time to see the body."

"Ray, Jimmy, anything on your end?"

"Looks clean so far," Charles said.

"Let's bring it tight. Over by the confessional."

The confessional was another part of the church’s impressive design. Albeit smaller in scope, it was nonetheless as intricately detailed as its surroundings and set along the marble wall left of center when facing the altar. It extended upward approximately ten feet into three arches, the center one rising a foot above the others, each adorned with a cross. The lacquered mahogany was a blend of dark and light brown, a testament to its antiquity and the years of upkeep required for maintaining its pristine condition.

Two doors with black steel handles led to the area where priest and parishioner could meet in anonymity, a closet designed to cleanse the soul for those who sought absolution. The door on the right was closed. The left was slightly ajar, the shadowed image of the priest’s curled body barely visible within the dark confines.

The group was uncharacteristically silent. A murder cop’s dark humor usually reared its ugly head during moments like this, but this time, the levity that served to ease the horror was uncharacteristically absent.

The four investigators stepped closer but kept their distance, stopping just outside the confessional. Kelly saw a footprint, the burnt umber of dried blood. It moved out from the partially open door and trailed off in the direction of the center aisle, fading away near the toe of Kelly’s right shoe.

"Looks like one of the guys dragged a little evidence with them on their way out," Charles said.

"They always do," Mainelli added. “At least the medics or FD didn’t come through. Those guys can destroy a scene.”

Kelly laughed. It was true. Cops commonly referred to their medical counterparts as the Evidence Eradication Team. All done with good intentions, but sometimes the most detrimental things were caused by them. Kelly knew well enough, from having been on patrol as a first responder on scene, as everyone in the group had been at one point in their police career, that the collection and preservation of evidence always had to be weighed with the preservation of human life. And if there was any chance the priest had still been alive, they had to render aid. To do so meant they’d have to enter the invisible barrier of the crime scene and make contact. This life-saving effort would result in an exchange. The obvious one was the priest’s blood being transferred to one or more of the responding officers' shoes. The patrolmen would have to note that in their initial report.

Charles would have to photograph the boot, do a tread comparison. As tedious as the work was, and with little evidentiary value for the case itself, it ensured that if a suspect developed later, a defense attorney couldn't cast doubt on a potential case's veracity.

A bloody shoe print at a crime scene was a great way for the defense attorney to cast doubt, therefore it was imperative they take the extra step in identifying who it belonged to. No punishment would befall the officers. They were just doing their job.

In those initial moments when first responding to any crime, life trumped evidence every time.

The confessional door was ajar, either opened by the responding officers or by the killer himself, which was doubtful. A quick conversation with the responding officers would clear that up.

Peering through the gap in the door, Kelly found it plainly obvious that the priest could not have survived the gunshot wound to his left temple. The exit wound had been devastating, leaving its scattered remains on the interior wall. Kelly stepped to the left and looked at the outside wall of the confessional, where a section of the dark wood bulged. “Looks like the round didn’t penetrate the outer wall. That’s good for us.”

“I’ve already made a mental note of it,” Charles said.

Both sides of the lacquered box—where the priest dispensed penance and the congregant confessed their sins—contained potentially vital evidence that could lead to the killer, based on what was left behind. Locard’s exchange, a principle of forensic science, stated every criminal brought something of themselves