The Boys in the Church

by Chris Culver

  “Come on, sweetheart,” she whispered. “I know you love Helen, but I have so much more to give you.”

  “I’m sorry, Helen,” he said without turning his head. “I’ve got to go.”

  Glenn took Mary Joe’s hand and followed her to his bedroom. The moment he had seen her, he knew Mary Joe Court was the woman of his dreams. She was the love of his life. He wished he had more time to show her everything she meant to him. They only had the morning, though. This was the right choice. He’d make love to Mary Joe, and then they’d fulfill their final mission.

  Today, God would have mercy on no one.

  35

  Trisha and I spent twenty minutes in the vault. Her key got us through the front door while my pick set made short work of the filing cabinet’s locks. We pulled out six files. Two of them were thin, but the other four ranged from a single inch-thick manila envelope to five two-inch-thick binders. It would take time to read through every interview note, search warrant affidavit, and report, but we didn’t need to read everything. We only needed to find similarities.

  Even that was a tall order.

  After grabbing what we needed, we closed the file cabinets and locked the door. Since both Trisha and I were police officers, we hadn’t broken the law, but we could both kiss our jobs goodbye if Delgado caught us. Given everything I had seen in the past few weeks, that wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

  At my desk, we split the files up and got to work. I took notes, but little stood out until I got to my third file. It only had a dozen pages in it. One was a report from the dispatcher, saying a counselor at a summer camp had found a body. A second page was a log sheet from the crime scene. The file contained no reports, photographs, or anything else to indicate the investigating officers had done anything.

  “You got anything promising?” I asked.

  Trisha blinked and then shook her head.

  “Not really. I’ve got a man who died in a house fire set by his spouse. She wanted to burn the place for the insurance money and didn’t realize her husband had come home from the bar. He had passed out drunk in the garage. The wife got life in prison. There’s no mention of a rape. I’ve also got a file about a little girl who drowned in her backyard swimming pool. The prosecutors declined to charge her parents. That’s sad.”

  I leaned back. “The drowned girl have any siblings?”

  “A younger brother, and I know him,” she said. “He became a priest when he grew up. I didn’t know he had a sister.”

  I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head to the side. “Hard secret to grow up with.”

  She nodded. “The third file involves a young man who hanged himself. There’s no rape. You have anything interesting?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ve got a woman trapped in a car after an accident. The car caught fire, and she died inside. The other driver was drunk, so the prosecutor charged him with vehicular manslaughter. He got fifteen years in prison. I’ve also got a man who got drunk and drowned while fishing. His fishing buddy was also drunk. Detectives on the case thought the fishing buddy might have drowned his friend, but the evidence was inconclusive.”

  Trisha crossed her arms. “What about your third file?”

  I pushed myself back from my desk. “Victim’s name was Helen Saunders, but somebody cleaned out the file. We’ve got a report of the original call to 911 and a log sheet of the original crime scene, but nothing that could help us.”

  “Helen Saunders, Helen Saunders, Helen Saunders…” Trisha said the name over and over under her breath. “She’s familiar, but I don’t know why.”

  I flipped through the notes I had taken from our death certificate search. “She was thirteen when she died. The coroner found water in her lungs. That ring any bells?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “When was it?”

  “1971,” I said, looking at my notes again. “Long time ago.”

  “Almost fifty years,” said Trisha. “If she was thirteen in 1971, she’d be sixty-one years old today.”

  I did the math in my head and then nodded.

  “That sounds right.”

  “Sixty-one isn’t that old,” said Trisha. “You stay here for a moment.”

  I nodded and checked my email while she jogged to the front desk. A few minutes later, Trisha came back with Jason Zuckerburg, our night dispatcher. His uniform was a little tight over his belly, and his wrinkled face had deep furrows in the brow, but he always had a smile on his lips. That was rare among the men and women who had spent their lives in law enforcement.

  “Trisha said you needed help.”

  “How old are you, Jason?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Old enough to know it’s impolite to ask.”

  “It’s for a case.”

  He hesitated and then tilted his head to the side. “Sixty. Why?”

  I leaned forward just a little and raised my eyebrows. “Is the name Helen Saunders familiar?”

  He crossed his arms and took a step back. “Tell me you’re not trying to set me up with some old lady whose husband just died. I’m married.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re looking into a murder that happened in 1971. The victim would have been your age. Her name was Helen Saunders. Did you know her?”

  “In 1971, I lived in Dogtown in St. Louis. I didn’t move here until ’82 after the Army discharged me.”

  I rubbed my eyes and sighed.

  “It was worth a shot,” I said, looking at Trisha. Then, I shifted my gaze to Jason and smiled. “Thanks, Jason. We might need you later, but you should get back to the desk.”

  “If your murder happened in ’71, we should have plenty of information,” said Jason. “Just ask Mark Bozwell when he gets in. He’ll get you the file.”

  “We’ve got the file. It’s incomplete.”

  “Let me look at it, anyway. I know people from back then.”

  I cocked my head to the side and slid the manila folder across my desk toward him.

  “If you want to kill time,” I said, “knock yourself out.”

  He pulled out a chair from a desk beside mine and sat down to read. Trisha went to get coffee while I spun around in my chair and tried to think of what other leads we had. After a few minutes, Jason looked up and slid a paper toward me.

  “Lead detective on your murder was Alexander Carney. He retired in ’93 and died about ten years later.”

  “Think his widow would have kept his old case file?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jason, “but the number two officer on the case was Keith Fox.”

  I didn’t recognize the name, but Trisha smiled and looked at me.

  “Keith is Harry Grainger’s uncle,” she said. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

  “Last I heard,” said Jason. “I think he lives at Sunrise Manor out by the river.”

  It was an assisted living facility a few blocks from our station. We got called there three or four times a year when family members accused the facility’s staff of mistreating their relatives. Three years ago, we arrested a nurse for stealing an elderly man’s Rolex, but we had never seen evidence of physical abuse or neglect. The facility was clean, well-managed, and appropriately staffed. They did a tough job and charged top dollar for it. If Detective Fox lived there, life had turned out okay for him. Hopefully he’d talk to us.

  I thanked Jason for his help, and then Trisha and I piled into my car. The drive didn’t take long, so we parked outside the building at half after eight. Already, several residents sat on rocking chairs on the porch to read, talk, and watch the world go by. A couple at the far end of the building played chess. It looked peaceful.

  People smiled at us and returned to their previous activities as Trisha and I walked inside. A young woman wearing navy blue scrubs smiled at us from the front desk.

  “Hi, we’re here to see Keith Fox if he’s available,” said Trisha.

  “Are you family or friends?” she asked.

&nb
sp; “We’re co-workers,” I said. “We need to see Detective Fox.”

  The nurse looked at my badge and furrowed her brow.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “We need to ask him about a case he worked,” I said. “It was a long time ago.”

  She nodded before picking up a radio from her desk.

  “Mr. Fox exercises in the morning, but I’ll have someone see whether he’s up for visitors.”

  “Thank you,” I said, stepping away from the counter. Trisha and I walked to a seating area near a television. An older woman told us she had reserved every seat and that we should eat shit. An aide must have overheard because she came over to talk to her, but we took the hint and continued standing.

  About ten minutes after we arrived, a young man—also wearing scrubs—came out of a hallway to show us to Detective Fox. Though the detective had his own room, he was sitting on a rocking chair on the back porch, watching a coal barge float down the Mississippi. Age had wrinkled his pale skin, but it had left him with lively blue eyes. A trimmed white beard covered his chin and cheeks, while the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes grew pronounced as he smiled at us.

  “Officers,” he said, standing and gesturing to the teak rocking chairs beside. “Have a seat. Harry’s the only cop who visits me anymore. You ladies are a treat in comparison.”

  I smiled. “We’re here to talk about Harry, actually.”

  “Oh?” he asked, blinking. “Don’t tell me he got hurt yesterday. We heard the gunshots, but the news didn’t name the victims.”

  “Harry’s fine,” said Trisha. “Physically, at least. The FBI has arrested him. They think he’s the Apostate killer.”

  Detective Fox snickered at first, but then the smile left his face.

  “You messing with an old man?”

  “I wish,” I said. “The FBI picked him up. We need to talk about one of your old cases. It might have a connection to the Apostate, but we’re not sure. It was the death of a young woman named Helen Saunders.”

  The light in Detective Fox’s eyes dimmed, and his shoulders became stooped. In an instant, he had aged ten years. Then he blinked and looked toward the river.

  “I wish you hadn’t said that name,” he said. Trisha and I let him gather himself. “I assume you’ve looked at the file.”

  “What’s left,” I said. “Someone took out the interesting parts.”

  “I thought they might do that,” he said, nodding. He sighed. “Get comfortable. If you want to know about Helen, this’ll take a while.”

  36

  Glenn and Mary Joe made love for almost two hours. He didn’t know where Helen was, but he couldn’t find her anywhere in the house afterwards. Somehow, he knew he’d never see her again. She had been his companion for years, always lurking in the shadows. Whenever he had needed encouragement, she had been there with a kind word and a hug. He missed her already, but he had Mary Joe now. She’d be with him until the end. Still, he wished she had said goodbye.

  After searching his house for his sister, he walked back to his bedroom, where Mary Joe still lay in the bed. She had pulled the sheets over her chest, but she bit her lower lip and blinked.

  “Back for more?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  He smiled. “I wish. Have you seen Helen?”

  The good-humored grin left Mary Joe’s face, and she looked down to the sheets.

  “Why do you want to see her?”

  “She’s my sister. I wanted to tell her goodbye.”

  Mary Joe smiled again, but there was a hint of sadness to it.

  “She had to go. She understood that her time with you was over.”

  Glenn swallowed. “I see.”

  Mary Joe held out her arms. “Come here, honey.”

  Glenn let her hold him for a few minutes, but it didn’t comfort him the way Helen had. That was okay. He and Mary Joe had a different relationship. It was better in some ways.

  After a few moments, their intimate, tender embrace shifted as her lips found his. They kissed and made love once more—their final time, Glenn surmised. He would die today. He and Mary Joe both knew it. Spending his last day with Mary Joe, one of the few persons in the world who could understand him, seemed fitting.

  Afterwards, as Mary Joe nestled against his chest, Glenn sighed and thought to the job ahead of them.

  “We should prepare,” he said. “The pool will open soon. We should scout it out.”

  Mary Joe kissed his neck before drawing away.

  “Get your gear together while I shower. We’ll go together.”

  He nodded, and she climbed out of bed and went to the en suite bathroom while he dressed and walked to the gun safe in the basement. His HK MR556 fired 5.56 NATO rounds, which he purchased in bulk online. Glenn’s father had ingrained in him how important it was to maintain a firearm. A dirty firearm was like a dull scalpel. Just as no self-respecting surgeon would expect to do his job with a dull scalpel, no decent soldier should put away a firearm while it was dirty.

  He carried the weapon to the workbench in his garage, where he checked to make sure it functioned properly. As he worked, he looked up and noticed the stool Helen used to sit on. She hadn’t wanted him to shoot at the police from the water tower, but it had worked out fine. He had killed people who deserved it, and he had gotten away.

  He’d get away this time, too. Mary Joe would see him through.

  Once he finished checking the weapon, he loaded his high-capacity drum magazine, a tedious and time-consuming job. When he completed that task, he found Mary Joe in his kitchen. She must have used Helen’s makeup and hair supplies because she once more looked perfect. Her skirt and top were even wrinkle-free—surprising, considering they had been on the floor. She smiled at him from across the room, and his heart felt light just to see her. He couldn’t believe someone that wonderful would look at him with those eyes.

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “My rifle is ready to go. I’ll bring a pair of pistols, too, in case I run out of ammunition before I run out of targets. Are you ready?”

  She nodded, so he grabbed his keys, and they got in his car. Traffic was light, but he passed a dozen police cars—Highway Patrol officers and locals—in the fifteen-minute drive to the community pool. The cops would make things hard. His rifle could belt out hundreds of rounds a minute, so the shooting wouldn’t be a problem. He needed a plan to get away. He wished Helen were in the car with him.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” asked Mary Joe as they approached the park.

  He glanced at her and smiled despite the situation.

  “This’ll be harder than I thought,” he said. “There are so many cops. They’ll be there as soon as I fire.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder.

  “You’ll only need a few seconds.”

  “But how do I get away?”

  Mary Joe said nothing for a moment. Then, she slipped her hand down to his knee, which she squeezed before crossing her arms.

  “Life’s a one-way trip, honey,” she said, her voice soft. “It hasn’t been fair for you or Helen. I know you want to do your job and escape, but I don’t think it’s going to happen today. I’m sorry.”

  He swallowed.

  “Maybe Helen was right,” he said, glancing at her. “If I run now, we can spend more time together before they find me. We’d be like Bonnie and Clyde. We could make our way down south, shooting up convenience stores as we go.”

  Mary Joe shook her head. “We’re not in a movie. If we run, they’ll find us. You only get one shot, Glenn. You’ve got to take it and make it matter.”

  “I don’t want to die,” he said, his voice low.

  “Me, either,” she said. She paused. “Let’s check out the pool. We’ll put together a plan.”

  “Okay,” he said. They drove another few silent moments before pulling into Sycamore Park. St. Augustine County, for all its problems, had wonderful parks. Sycamore Park was the s
mallest in the county’s park system, but it had batting cages, a softball field, a playground built to resemble an old wooden fort, and the public pool. Ancient sycamore, silver maple, and gum trees shaded everything but the pool deck, making it comfortable even on warm summer days.

  The parking lot near the pool was full, so Glenn parked on the street behind a Volkswagen and stepped out. A breeze rustled the tree leaves around him, and he could hear boys and girls shouting from the pool and nearby playground. Mary Joe joined him at the side of his car and hooked her elbow around his. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. Glenn had at least twenty years on Mary Joe, so they probably looked like father and daughter out for a stroll. He didn’t care. People could think what they wanted.

  They walked outside the playground’s chain-link fence. A dozen or more kids climbed on and ran around the wooden structure. Mary Joe smiled and waved at a little boy who ran near the fence, but he must not have seen her because he didn’t react. Glenn breathed in the sweet, clean air.

  “Dad took me here when I was little,” he said. “It was fun.”

  “It’s a nice park,” said Mary Joe. “If I had kids, I’d take them here.”

  “If we had kids,” said Glenn, nudging her. She laughed.

  “Of course,” she whispered. “I’m yours.”

  They walked in silence for another few moments. Though much of St. Augustine County had rolling hills, Sycamore Park had a gentle slope. Glenn preferred to have a perch from which to shoot, but he could shoot from the ground just as easily.

  The pool didn’t look impressive from a distance. Fifty years ago, it might have looked like a resort, but now the mint green concrete buildings and cracked pool deck looked dated and worn, and the overgrown faux-tropical landscaping looked unkempt and wild. A tall chain-link fence surrounded the property, making it almost look like a prison outpost.

  Glenn and Mary Joe followed a well-worn path alongside the fence. Children and a few parents lined up not ten feet away to jump from the diving board. If Glenn had brought a gun, he could have shot them all in a second.