26
“Sheriff, there’s a priest here to see you,” came the voice over the intercom of Colcord’s office. “He won’t say what it’s about.”
Colcord sighed. Ever since that damn video of the Castillo body had bounced around the world, the sheriff’s office in Eagle had seen a steady stream of overimaginative witnesses, psychics, amateur detectives, and other cranks—all coming out of the woodwork. The major social media platforms had taken the video down, but it had been too late—like the contents of Pandora’s box, it could never be put back. Incredible to think that forty million people had passed around a video of bloated, dismembered body parts floating in a lake, with a girl screaming in the background. Many had reposted it with music and supposedly funny commentary. What the hell was wrong with the world?
“Priest?” he asked crossly.
“Um, Irish, I think.”
“And he won’t say what it’s about?”
“Only that it has to do with the Castillo case.”
A priest. His first impulse was to send him away, but he already had one priest raising hell and certainly didn’t need another. “Send him in.”
A moment later, he came in. Colcord was surprised—although the man was dressed in the usual clerical garb and collar, he was a big, awkward, genial redhead with freckles.
He stuck out his hand. “Brother Niall Armagh, of the Pallottine Fathers.”
Colcord shook his hand. “Sheriff Colcord. Please, have a seat.”
The father, or brother—Colcord wasn’t sure what the difference was—took a seat. There was something appealing and disarming about the man in his awkwardness and earnest demeanor. His Irish accent was faint and slightly overlaid with what sounded like a Chicago drawl.
“Now, ah, Brother Armagh, what can we do for you?”
“I have information that I believe might be relevant to the Castillo murder.”
“Please go on.”
The priest hesitated. “Before I speak, I need to ask you to keep this strictly confidential.”
At this, Colcord gave an audible sigh. “Brother Armagh, we’ll keep it confidential for now. But if it somehow is relevant to the murder, we can’t promise confidentiality if it goes to trial.”
After a hesitation, Armagh said, “Very well. I’m a brother of the Irish Pallottines in Rome, in the Basilica of San Silvestro. One of our responsibilities is looking after an important Christian relic, the head of Saint John the Baptist.”
Colcord began to feel a little uneasy. “I’m not sure I quite understand. Not being Catholic, you see.”
“Of course. Saint John, the Forerunner of Christ, was beheaded. Our basilica in Rome has a holy relic from his body—the parietal bone of his skull, to be precise. It is mounted on a head modeled in wax and kept in a chapel in a sealed, atmospherically controlled glass box.”
“I see.” Colcord shifted in his seat, thinking this all sounded quite ridiculous.
“Two months ago, that relic was vandalized. An individual broke into the sealed container, interfered with it, and removed a piece of bone. We captured the entire episode on video. Rather than alerting the Italian police, the Vatican looked into the case quietly. They quickly identified the individual—an American.”
He paused. Colcord waited for him to continue.
“I was asked by the Vatican—actually, on direct orders of the Holy Father—to come to America and quietly retrieve the object. The goal here is simply to get it back, not involve the police.”
This was getting crazier by the minute. Colcord wondered if this man really was a priest—or just some nut in a dog collar. “Just a moment,” Colcord said. “You’re saying you were sent here by thepope?”
“That’s correct.” The man laughed disarmingly. “I know, it sounds dubious. Just hear me out, please.”
Colcord suppressed the urge to eject the man outright. “I’m listening.” He made a point of looking at his watch.
“Well, that’s just it. I flew to San Francisco and went to his residence. He wasn’t there, and after asking around, I learned he had traveled to Colorado. As I was about to board my flight, I heard a news report about a rather gruesome video circulating on the internet—and that’s how I learned the man I was seeking had been murdered. His name is—was—Javier Castillo.”
Colcord rose: It was time to terminate this absurdity, this man who claimed the pope had sent him on a secret mission. This case was just one rabbit hole after another. “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. We’ll add it to the case files. Thank you.”
But Armagh didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his cassock and removed an envelope, from which he took a folded piece of paper and laid it on the desk in front of Colcord. “I realize that everything I’ve said probably sounds made-up. This is a copy of a letter signed by His Holiness, authorizing my mission. If you call that number, you can confirm everything I’ve told you.”
