Adam's Witness Read online

  This was, though, the first murder. Saskatoon did not normally have more than six or eight murders a year, so it was unlikely another violent death had marred the city’s peace that day. And here she was babysitting the corpse. She was reasonably sure it was the priest, judging by his clerical garments, but she had never seen him before and knew little about Catholic garb. If she was right, this was going to be one hell of a mess. High-profile murders were extremely rare in the city.

  “Police!” said a booming voice. “Do not move!”

  Grace froze. She doubted that the directive was intended for her, but the authority in that voice was visceral.

  “Grace Rampling! Where are you? Police!” The 911 operator had done her job thoroughly. The officer knew she was there, and by name. His huge voice clanged and echoed around the acoustically-lively sanctuary; anyone hiding inside couldn’t possibly miss its reach.

  “Here,” croaked Grace, her voice thick from fear and vomit. She tried to clear her throat.

  “Grace?” asked a more familiar and less terrifying voice. “Grace, it’s John. Come out. It’s safe. Come on out, now.”

  Into the bright beam of a flashlight, she gingerly stood up, emerging from between the pews with her tangle of loose curls showing first, followed by her pale face and chocolate eyes, and finally the rest of her. She stood slowly, testing the strength in her cramping legs as she clung to the back of the pew.

  “Hi,” she said a bit weakly, thinking some stronger greeting would have been more impressive.

  Grace squared her shoulders, an unconscious action she often used to raise her confidence. Get it together, she scolded herself. “I’m Grace Rampling,” she announced to the police, with a little more self-assurance. “As you can see, there is a body here.”

  Four police officers approached her, three in uniform. It was quite the sight, like a scene from a movie.

  “Are you all right?” asked the tall plainclothes officer with the booming voice, looking down at her with concern on his face.

  “Yes. Apart from . . . well, the obvious.”

  “You smell wonderful,” said John, who had come up behind the officers, sniffing.

  “Thank you so much,” said Grace, finding her sarcasm. “You try finding a dead body covered in blood.”

  John gave her a quick hug, just around the shoulders, and handed her his water bottle. Grace, determined not to cry, accepted the water gratefully, impressed by John’s presence of mind in grabbing it on his way to the church.

  “Thanks,” she said, after taking several large gulps. “I’m fine.”

  Sergeant Boom then took over.

  “Ms. Rampling. I’m Detective Sergeant Adam Davis. What brought you to the church at this hour? What were you doing here?”

  Grace started to explain, as the other three officers strode to the body. Other officers appeared and began to scour the church.

  “I’ve taken some notes. Would you like me to email them to you?”

  “That would be great, thank you. However, I need you to tell me the whole story, now.”

  Grace quickly described the phone call from Bruce Stephens, and explained the issue faced by the Pride Chorus.

  “I couldn’t reach anyone by phone at the church office, but St. Eligius is so close to the newspaper, I decided to run over and try to find a spokesperson. No one was at the office, so I came over to the church,” she told the sergeant. “I wasn’t exactly expecting . . . him,” she said, pointing toward the body.

  “What happened when you got to the cathedral?”

  “I knocked, and then noticed the door was open, just a crack. I came inside calling ‘hello.’ There was no answer, but I kept walking down the centre aisle and almost stepped on the . . . the man. It was pretty dark; I could barely see.”

  By now, police officers had found the switches to turn on more lights in the sanctuary, and were looking into the confessionals, along the pews, and around the altar.

  “Did you see anyone, or hear anything else?”

  “No. In fact, it was incredibly quiet.”

  Grace turned in reaction to a sound behind her, and now saw the dead man in full light.

  “Who is he?” she asked unsteadily. “Was he killed, do you think?”

  “We don’t know yet,” said the sergeant. “We just got here. What happened next?” he asked, which helped Grace keep her focus.

  “I was a little scared. I didn’t know if he was dead, for sure, or if someone had done this to him. I crawled into that pew, and called 911. Then I called John. I pulled it together and checked for his pulse. There wasn’t one.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Rampling. Hang around for a few minutes, will you?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” said Grace, by now wanting to get back to the familiarity of the newsroom. There was also the issue of writing and filing the story.

  She walked a bit further back toward the door, John in tow, and sat down. What the hell, time is wasting, thought Grace; she pulled out her notebook again and starting to write.

  “What are you doing?” asked John.

  “We still have a paper to put out, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m writing this story.”

  “You’re going to have to change the lede later, you know,” John said.

  “No kidding. Now shut up. Let me write.”

  They would likely have to wait — perhaps until late — for the dead man’s identity, and for a confirmation of whether he had been murdered or not. That would indeed be the lede, the term newspeople use for the first paragraph in the story; but meanwhile Grace could start on the other details.

  Photographs were taken of the body where it lay, while other officers looked around for evidence. Then one of the police officers made a strange noise — a combination between indrawn breath, whoop and strangled yell.

  He had turned the body over.

  “Sarge,” he called. “Adam! Damn, it’s the bishop.”

  Chapter 3

  A dead bishop. Soaked in his own blood.

  Well, there’s the lede, thought Grace.

  The victim’s identity had an electrifying effect on the police officers, for whom this would likely be the highest-profile killing they had ever worked on. The sergeant strode over to the body, and from his considerable height bent and peered into the man’s face.

  “James, how do you know this is the bishop?” he asked the younger officer. “His face is pretty bashed up and covered in blood.”

  “I recognize him,” the officer said simply. “I’ve met him a couple of times. It’s definitely him.”

  “Hell,” Adam said, under his breath. “Okay, everyone, we have a murdered bishop here. Jeff, call communications and tell them what’s going on. I’ll call the chief. Is the crime scene unit here yet? And someone find the priest and the church administrator, or secretary, or whoever the hell.”

  From her spot at the back of the church, Grace had to admit she was impressed by the efficiency of the police officers, under the direction of the tall sergeant. They were rapidly covering every angle of this homicide, from investigation to public relations. She was madly writing everything down. It was going to be great colour for future long pieces about the murder, the community and hopefully, the perpetrator, too.

  Adam Davis walked back to the pew she and John were occupying.

  “I guess you know who the victim is.”

  “Does that mean he has been murdered, for sure?” asked Grace.

  The sergeant looked like he could kick himself. Grace knew it was because he had used the word victim, instead of a less obvious term like dead man or corpse. She tried not to smile at him, but failed. A crooked grin also passed over the sergeant’s face, and a small nod of the head said he accepted his mistake gracefully.

  “Yes. There’s no possibility he could have fallen and done that kind of extensive damage to his face and head. The bishop has been murdered, no doubt.”

  “Any idea as to the murder weapon, or how he was killed?”

  “Not
yet. And if I did know, I wouldn’t tell you this early on in the investigation.”

  “If I may butt in,” said John, “we have a newspaper that has to get out tomorrow morning. Is there any chance we could go back to the office, and get at it? We’re at least two, maybe three hours behind. And we have to find a picture of the bishop. Fast,” he added, to Grace.

  Adam thought for a minute. “Go ahead. Make sure your phones are on, and write your numbers on this notepad,” he said, handing it over. “And don’t leave town.”

  “Very funny,” said John, scribbling down his office and cell numbers, as well as Grace’s.

  Grace was not as amused. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re our star witness, Ms. Rampling. Please do not leave town without letting us know. I mean it.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” she said, rather more meekly than she would have liked. There was something exceptionally authoritative about this policeman. There was no doubt that this was his show, and even she was going to have to play her part in it. It wasn’t up for debate.

  “I also have to ask you not to reveal the time of death — or, more specifically, the time of discovery,” said Adam. “The fewer details we provide to the public right now, the better; but particularly not the time. We would really appreciate it,” he added.

  “Okay, Sergeant,” agreed John, who made the calls on what details made it into news coverage. “It won’t make that much difference to the story. We’ll avoid that nugget.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Powers. Ms. Rampling. Good night.”

  John and Grace put their coats back on, collected their cellphones, cameras and notebooks, and headed back down the alley toward the welcoming warmth of the office. It was even colder than before.

  “You know how I always suggest, on Sundays, that someone find me a story? Make it up, if necessary? Create one, if desperate?” asked John.

  “I do,” Grace said. “And I always think it’s funny, too,” she added kindly, in deference to the old news editor’s joke.

  “You’ve gone too far this time.”

  They entered the newsroom, where the staff had little knowledge of the events of the last hour, and John quickly pulled them together around the night desk.

  “I know this is going to be a little hard to digest, but Grace has just literally stumbled on the deceased body of the bishop of Saskatoon,” he said, maybe a bit grandly, to a general round of gasps and exclamations of “you are kidding” and “shut up” and “holy shit.”

  “We have some eye witness information from her — how he was found, how he looked, and so on. Now we have to cobble this story together. It won’t be a scoop, obviously, by tomorrow — the cops will have to get this out right away — but we sure have details no one else will have.

  “Lacey, I need you to help Grace write the main story, and get a few paras up online. It’s getting really late. Call the mayor and try to find the priest. Grace, just start cranking out what you know, and figure out how you’re going to get that gay choir into the piece. And get in touch with the chief of police.

  “We’re going to be late. Jim, call the pressroom. Tonight, we really are going to stop the big white spools. And Kathy, start looking for a photo of the bishop. What the hell is his name? Does anybody know?”

  Grace felt overwhelmed; her brain wasn’t clicking. What the hell was his name? She couldn’t remember. She was shaking with hunger, thirst, and the uncontrollable physical reaction that comes after a shock. Lacey McPhail, who luckily was in the newsroom writing a theatre review that might not see newsprint tomorrow, looked appraisingly at Grace and solicitously dragged her over to her desk.

  “What do you need?” asked Lacey, soft green eyes peering into Grace’s black-rimmed brown ones. “Honey, you look done in. And,” she sniffed, “you smell awful.”

  “I barfed,” said Grace piteously, letting down her guard now that she was with a friend.

  “I knew that,” said Lacey. “Can you eat something? I have some hummus and veg, a granola bar, maybe a banana? Might be over-ripe. Anyway, I think some ginger ale might help.”

  Grace was incredibly hungry; the desire to vomit had left her. Besides, there was absolutely nothing in her stomach. Even Lacey’s Mother Earth food would work for her. Mostly, she just wanted to write the story, and maybe get some sleep soon. But first, food. She was collapsing from a lack of blood sugar in her system; she was pretty sure she couldn’t stand up, on her own.

  “Thanks, Lace. I’d really appreciate that.”

  “Okay. Let me set you up with sustenance, and we’ll rock and roll.”

  Grace wolfed down Lacey’s food, and started to hammer out the story on her computer. Lacey picked up the phone and started making calls. The desk was remaking the front section of the paper. Even for the StarPhoenix, it was a wild Sunday night.

  Chapter 4

  Saskatoon StarPhoenix, Monday, March __

  BISHOP MURDERED

  Howard Halkitt found dead in St. Eligius sanctuary

  By Grace Rampling

  and Lacey McPhail

  of The StarPhoenix

  Saskatoon’s Catholic bishop, Howard Halkitt, was found murdered on Sunday, lying in a pool of his own blood before the altar of St. Eligius Cathedral.

  Saskatoon police confirmed his death after responding to the scene after a call from this newspaper.

  “We are devastated. How could this happen to our bishop?” said St. Eligius’s priest, Father Paul Campbell, on Sunday night. “It is beyond understanding.”

  The bishop was a devout and understanding spiritual leader, said Campbell.

  “It is impossible to overstate his importance to the Saskatoon Catholic community — indeed, the entire community,” said Campbell. “It is a terrible loss.”

  Police said they had no suspects in the early hours of the investigation, and would not say how the bishop was killed. However, from eye witness observation, he appeared to have been attacked at the head, and lost a lot of blood.

  Born in Ontario, Bishop Halkitt came to Saskatoon ten years ago as a priest, and was named bishop two years later. He began his spiritual career in the town of Westmoreland, as a teacher at the boys’ school and priest for the congregations at the Catholic churches in Westmoreland and nearby Pierce.

  He then was transferred briefly to Brandon, Man., and later to Thunder Bay, Ont., before coming to Saskatoon.

  Halkitt has two brothers and a sister, all of whom live in Canada, and several nieces and nephews. None of them could be reached for comment Sunday.

  Saskatoon Mayor David Wolfe expressed horror and sympathy upon learning of the bishop’s death.

  “It’s unbelievable,” said Wolfe. “I extend my profound sympathy and support to the bishop’s family and the Catholic community.”

  Police chief Dan McIvor said the police service would work around the clock to solve the crime. McIvor also expressed his sympathy and concern, but said no further details would be available until after an autopsy could be performed.

  Earlier on Sunday, St. Eligius Cathedral revoked a contract with the Pride Chorus for the use of the sanctuary, which forced the men’s choir to cancel its performance at the church for tonight.

  The performance, under the circumstances of the bishop’s death, would not have gone ahead anyway, since the cathedral has been closed as police investigate.

  However, Bruce Stephens, a member of the choir, said he was shocked and hurt that St. Eligius would take away their venue due to the group’s gay membership. He said the cathedral’s secretary had contacted the choir’s director, and told him the Pride Chorus performance was not appropriate for the cathedral.

  Reached after learning of the bishop’s death, Stephens said he was horrified.

  The church secretary, Ellice Fairbrother, could not be reached for comment.

  Police said there is no obvious connection between the bishop’s murder and the cancellation of the concert.

  The Pride Chorus was to perform Broadwa
y tunes and operetta favourites at their annual spring concert, which was booked at St. Eligius when their usual venue, Third Avenue United Church, proved unavailable. The chorus has about 50 male members.

  Choir director Alan Haight said he was “devastated” to hear of the bishop’s death.

  Chapter 5

  Grace poked her key into the lock after three stabs, stumbled across the threshold, dropped her purse and work bag, and collapsed into the nearest corner of her faded couch.

  She was quite sure she had never been this exhausted, not even when she had serious jet lag after flying back to the middle of the Canadian Prairies from Australia two years ago.

  “Take tomorrow morning off,” suggested John, just before she left the newsroom.

  “I already have the day off, mister; I’ve worked all weekend.”

  “Well, I hate to mention this, but you might want to show up. After you get some sleep. Steve is going to want to debrief and figure out how we’re going to handle this as the story develops. If you want to keep covering it, you’d better be there.”

  “I know,” said Grace. “I’d thought of that. At the moment, I think I could sleep for a week straight.”

  “It’s been quite the night. Go home, Grace. Call me when you get up.”

  “Okay. John, thanks for everything.”

  “No, Grace. Thank you.” He looked exhausted.

  She gave him a shaky smile, and headed out the south door.

  In the parking lot, she had a moment’s discomfort. It was late, and there was a murderer out there, somewhere. He had killed the person he was looking for, but just the same, she walked rather quickly to her car, hoping it would start in the cold. Start it did — bless the little beast, she thought — and after waiting a moment for it to warm up, she left for home.

  But she couldn’t resist driving past the cathedral. As long a day as it had been, the police were pulling even tougher hours. There were still four squad cars there, and uniformed officers were swarming the area. Well, there was little point in stopping; they wouldn’t let her back in, and the paper had finally gone to press, hours after deadline.