The 7th Canon by Robert Dugoni

her tone struck a nerve. “At present, I am,” he said.
    Ramsey cut in. “In addition to finding the victim in Father Martin’s shelter and his blood on Father Martin’s clothing as well as on a six-inch, hand-carved letter opener in Father Martin’s office, the technicians recovered blood samples from the priest’s office and the recreation room, and positive shoe imprints and fingerprints. We are confident forensics will confirm the blood on the blade and handle belong to the victim.”
    Donley took it all in. “And motive? Do you have a theory about what might have caused a man who devoted his life to helping teenage runaways to suddenly decide to kill one of them?”
    Like a magician’s assistant, St. Claire produced a manila envelope encased in a police evidence bag and handed it to Ramsey. Ramsey opened the package without speaking, removed several photographs, also encased in plastic, and, like a poker player laying down a full house, spread them on the edge of the desk. “These were found in Father Martin’s office.”
    Donley leaned forward. The photographs bore the black-powder residue used to dust for fingerprints and depicted young boys in various stages of undress. One had been blindfolded and manacled about the wrists and ankles. Donley fought to hide his revulsion, knowing Ramsey and St. Claire sat gauging his reaction.
    Ramsey held up the stack. “There are more.”
    Donley cleared his throat. “I get the gist.”
    St. Claire furrowed her brow. “To secure a death penalty, one must shock the conscience of the jurors. A pedophile priest who murders a boy who came to him for help certainly would meet that criteria . . . in my experience.”
    “And are any of these photographs of the victim?”
    “That has not yet been determined,” St. Claire said.
    “And they are not of Father Martin,” he said.
    “No,” she said. “They don’t appear to be.”
    “Do you have reason to believe Father Martin took these photographs?”
    “Again,” she said, becoming agitated, “it’s too early to know, but I don’t really care. The fact they were in his possession is more than enough.”
    “So, you don’t know,” Donley said.
    “We do know they were found in Father Martin’s office,” Ramsey said.
    “Is there evidence the victim was abused in this manner?”
    Ramsey put a finger to his lips as if contemplating his response. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”
    Again, St. Claire turned to Donley, and he was now convinced this had all been rehearsed. “Beaten and tortured would be a more accurate way to describe it,” she said. “The victim had burn marks on his body, likely from a cigarette, as well as several cuts and bruises. Under the circumstances, Mr. Donley, this might be the easiest death penalty I have ever asked a jury to render, given the severe breach of the public’s trust.”
    Donley knew he should just remain quiet and bring the information back to Parnisi, but his mouth opened and before he could stop himself, he said, “What is it you want, Mr. Ramsey?”
    “What do we want?”
    Donley looked to St. Claire but found her face equally blank. “Yes, why did you ask to meet with the archbishop?”
    “As I said, I felt a sense of obligation to let the archbishop know about the evidence,” Ramsey said. “This is not the kind of thing one likes to first read about in the newspaper or hear for the first time on the six o’clock news, especially given all the adverse press the church has received lately.” Ramsey leaned forward. His voice took on a hardened edge. “But make no mistake. My number-one concern is to prevent this from ever happening again. The court of public opinion will demand that we pursue the death penalty. If this goes to trial, that decision will be out of my hands.”
    Whether Ramsey had intended to emphasize the word or not, Donley heard If. “Are you suggesting some type of plea deal?”
    Ramsey smiled. “This office does not