Flash Fiction: Murder in the Cathedral

In response to Dan O'Shea's call, 1004 words of homage to the Smartass Detective genre:

A Fine Mess

Mickey Doyle draped his field drab trench over the third pew from the back on his way down the aisle. The carpet cleaners would have bigger problems today than the snow melt dripping from his sleeve.

"You look like one of them cheesy olives in that green coat, Mick," called Peter Morelli from beside the altar.

"Italian fag."

"You know, because of your white ass head poking out. And your hair's like the pimento," said Morelli. "What did you say?"

"Italian flag. It's green, white, and red," said Doyle, but he was no longer fully engaged in the ritual of antagonizing his boss. As he approached the altar he was too busy stepping over sticky looking bits of flesh and clothing, trying not to contaminate evidence.

"Crime scene?" asked Doyle.

"On the way. Hope they bring extra film," said Morelli.

Doyle stopped five feet from the altar, pulled a chopstick from the pocket of his jacket, and crouched. He prodded one of the larger chunks of flesh, lifted it gently, then realized it was half of a hand, with only the proximal phalanx of two fingers still attached. On one of the stumps of finger was a gold ring engraved with a cross, a shield, and the words "SIGNO VINCES."

"They haven't used film for five years," said Doyle.

"Okay, smartass. I hope they bring extra baggies then. This guy is everywhere."

"You said on the phone," said Doyle. Now that he had passed the first row of pews, however, Doyle could appreciate Morelli’s words of twenty minutes earlier. "We got another priest, Doyle," Morelli had said without preamble. "Only this one's all over the place."

Doyle stood and scanned the floor and altar, noting at least a dozen chunks of skin and meat on just a cursory glance. In every case, like with the hand he’d examined more closely, the cuts were clean, almost surgical, but at seemingly arbitrary angles.

“This wasn’t done by a machine,” said Doyle. “Somebody cut this guy up.”

“We know our guy uses a knife, genius,” said Morelli.

“This took time, is the point,” said Doyle. “Where’re the big pieces?”

“Back here,” said Morelli, nodding sideways.

Doyle considered his path for a moment and slowly stepped up the two steps and around the end of the altar opposite Morelli. On the far side of the altar a deep red pool clashed with the maroon carpet. At one end of the pool was a tumbled heap of blood, flesh, and black cloth.

“Where’s the head, Pete?” asked Doyle.

“No idea. I know: off the pattern,” said Morelli. “Still our guy though, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Who found him?”

“Another priest, a Father Snide? Shied?” Morelli looked at the palm of his hand. “Schneide. Father Schneide.”

“You’re kidding,” said Doyle.

“Why would I?” asked Morelli.

“’Schneiden’ means ‘to slice’ in German.”

“How the fuck would I know that?”

“Point taken,” said Doyle. “Where is the good Father?”

“There’s a little office over behind you, by that pulpit. Said he had to throw up.”

“We get up a perimeter quick?” asked Doyle. “Our guy likes to stick around.”

“You do your job, Doyle. I’ll do mine.” Morelli thumped the gold bars on his collar with a thumbnail.

Doyle grunted. “Let’s talk to Father Schneide.”

~~

"Father Schneiden. Mickey Doyle," Doyle said as he entered the clerical office without knocking. Morelli stopped at the door, his bulk occupying most of the frame. "You found the ... crime scene, is that right?"

Schneide stood from his seat in an overstuffed executive chair and stepped around the desk. His cassock was rumpled and his black hair stood up in a prominent cowlick on the left side of his head.

"Schneide."

"What time was that?"

"Uh, seven-thirty or so. Preparing for morning mass," said Schneide.

"Did you know the deceased well?" asked Doyle.

"Not very. Quiet."

"Oh, okay." said Doyle. "The detective you talked to said you seemed distraught. I assumed the deceased was a friend."

"It was a horrible scene. Mind if I sit back down?"

"Oh of course. Of course." Doyle sat in one of the guest chairs and motioned to the other.

"I've never seen anything... it was awful," said Schneide.

"You said 'Father Jacob's been killed' on the phone."

"I honestly don't remember exactly what I said."

"But you knew it was Father Jacob," continued Doyle.

"He hasn't come for mass, he's not in his quarters." Schneide shifted in his seat. "Who else could it be?"

"Father Schneide, what does 'SIGNO VINCES' mean?"

Schneide turned to look at Morelli. "Are you saying it might not be Father Jacob out there?"

"Still waiting on the positive ID, Father," said Morelli. "It could take some time."

"It's there on your ring," continued Doyle. "I know I've seen that phrase somewhere."

"'By this sign you will conquer.' I should try to contact Father Jacob again." Schneide stood, rummaging his pockets as if he'd misplaced something. Doyle remained seated.

"Do you normally wear a full cassock for morning mass?"

"No. The laundry... Why?"

"You have a spot on your collar, Father Schneide," said Doyle. "Is that blood?"

"No."

"No?"

"What I mean is: how could it be?" asked Schneide. "You'll have to excuse me for a moment."
Morelli stepped aside with a mock curtsy as Schneide hustled from the office.

~~

The crime scene photographers were placing numbered cards beside each fragment of Father Jacob when Morelli and Doyle walked back past the altar. The coroner was behind the altar with his arms crossed, looking confused and displeased.

"Have the perimeter boys bring him in," Doyle said as they made their recessional down the center aisle. "He'll try to run."

"I gotta hand it to you, Doyle: you're good. I never noticed the blood," said Morelli.

"Blood? What blood?" Doyle winked.

Doyle lifted his still damp coat from the pew without breaking stride.