Third man out - Stevenson Richard (читать хорошую книгу полностью .TXT) 📗

I followed the two police cars to the diocesan mansion. Bailey matched up the murder-scene mud-flap slice, which he had brought along, with the incomplete flap on the Chrysler. Then we followed him up the steps and pushed a button. Something went ding-dong deep inside.

The priest who came to the door looked downcast at the sight of two police cars, but he ushered us inside, where we gathered in a sparsely decorated lobby with highly polished marble floors but little else in the way of furnishings. He identified himself as Father Andrew Morgan and said he was the bishop's secretary and what was the problem?

When Bailey introduced all of us, the two state troopers said wait a minute, no press, so McClurg was sent outside. I could see him peering through an open window and snapping pictures of us during the exchange that came next.

"Father, we're investigating the murder of a man by the name of John Rutka," Bailey said. "Maybe you've heard about it."

"The homosexual activist?" His rosy cheeks got redder.

"That's right. That's the man. Would you tell me, please, who is the owner of that car in the driveway, the white Chrysler?"

"Why, it's the diocese car. It's owned by the diocese."

"Who drives it normally?"

"The bishop does. He did until his accident. Or I do."

"Who was driving the car last Wednesday night? The bishop was in the hospital, of course."

He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. "Wednesday, Wednesday."

"Wednesday, two nights ago."

"I think I may have been out doing some shopping

Wednesday night. Yes, I believe I visited Bishop McFee in the hospital and then I ran some personal errands."

"Father, I have to tell you that I've got physical evidence connecting your car with the house in Handbag that John Rutka was abducted from Wednesday night and then murdered and his body burned in an arson fire. Could we go somewhere and talk about this? And I'm required to tell you that you may want to have an attorney present if you wish."

One of the troopers said, "That might be a good idea, Father."

This was taking too long. I said, "Fountain of Eden Motel. On June fourteenth you and another priest drove the Chrysler out to the Fountain of Eden Motel on Central Avenue after you'd taped over the license plates, and you rescued Bishop McFee-who'd been clobbered by a falling ceiling mirror while he was fucking the Channel Eight weatherman-and you brought him into Albany Med and told them he'd slipped on the freshly waxed floor. How did you explain the cuts? Did you say he was carrying a vase of holy water when he tripped, or what?"

Father Morgan took one step backward, then another. Then he just sat right down on the shiny floor as if his legs had turned to water, and he looked up at us and began to hyperventilate.

Later, back at the house, Timmy said, "Before you tell me anything, I have some news. Two things happened at the hospital tonight."

"What?" I knew what one was.

"Stu died." Tears rolled down his face. "And Mike said to tell you that he didn't need the stuff. I know what that means, but anyway he said he didn't need it. He wanted you to know. Stu just let go, Mike said-died on his own."

"The poor guy."

"Yeah."

"How's Mike?"

"Fine."

"How's Rhoda?"

"She wasn't there. I don't know."

"Oh."

He said, "Did you hear what else happened?"

"No. Did the bishop die too?"

"Unh-unh. It was the miracle so many had been praying for."

"Oh, no."

"The bishop woke up. He just blinked awake while the mayor and his wife were in the room praying over him, and the old guy looked around and asked what all the flowers were for. Pretty nifty, huh? Now tell me about your evening." end user

24

The story was too late for the Times Union's deadline, but Joel McClurg called in his staff at eleven Friday night and paid his printer a cash bonus out of his own pocket, and on Saturday morning the weekly Cityscape put out the first extra in its history.

Father Morgan was to have been arraigned at nine A.M., but all the Albany judges recused themselves and plans were made for a late-afternoon hearing to be presided over by a Presbyterian judge driving in from Erie County. A diocesan attorney would say only that Father Morgan would plead not guilty to the murder charge. The lawyer refused to comment on "related allegations," meaning the report in Cityscape of "antigay Bishop Mortimer McFee's history of homosexual assignations that were brought to light by Handbag police and by Albany private investigator Donald Strachey in the John Rutka murder investigation."

By nine Saturday morning, the comatose truck driver had been moved across the hall to the bed occupied until the night before by Stu Meserole, and the bishop's room had a police guard and a diocesan PR flack by the door. "The outrageous statements about the bishop that were published in a radical publication may be actionable," the PR man told the fifteen or twenty reporters who showed up, but he said he wasn't going to "dignify the report by getting into specifics."

The funeral mass for John Rutka at St. Michael's in Handbag was now news, too. The local mainstream print reporters and the TV knuckleheads were there in force, racing to catch up with Cityscape. I also recognized in rear pews the Albany bureau chiefs of The New York Times, Newsday, and a free-lancer I knew who had been trying for years to sell something to the National En-quirer. He was beaming.

I arrived with Timmy and referred all questions by reporters to Bub Bailey, who in turn advised the press to attend the arraignment that afternoon for a full reading of the charges and a presentation of evidence.

Bub pulled me aside and said, "Thanks for your help."

"Always glad to lend a hand to a professional."

"I've wanted to nail him for years."

"Father Morgan? He's killed other people too? What do you mean?"

"Nah, the bishop. When he was in Handbag, he always had a boyfriend-usually underage. Three fathers came to me over the years he was in Handbag and said McFee was molesting their sons, but when I'd talk to the boys, they'd refuse to cooperate.

McFee was shrewd. He'd spot the ones who were gay-whether they knew it yet or not-and he'd-what do you call it?"

"Bring them out."

"This one kid absolutely refused to press charges, but he told me the whole thing. McFee convinced him he was rotten and sinful and corrupt, and then McFee took advantage. The kid believed he was rotten and corrupt, because he knew by then where his sexual interests were and McFee knew too and had him in his power. It must have been hell for those boys. He's an evil man, and he's no Christian, and the humiliation being heaped on him now is what he's had coming for a long, long time."

I looked Bailey hard in the eye. "You knew before I did that McFee was mixed up in this?"

"Nope. How could I? I didn't have John Rutka's famous files to help me in my investigation. They're in Utica, remember?"

His expression didn't change at all. "But you knew where to look even without the files, and who to talk to. I guess you're smarter than I am."

I said nothing.

"It's just a shame John Rutka isn't alive to see justice done," Bailey said. "I'm reasonably certain he was one of McFee's adolescent victims and that's what drove young John to expose exploiters and phonies. I wonder why he didn't out McFee sooner?