Fortis folded his arms across his wide chest and nodded sagely. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Hazelton told me about the asterisks. That was something Father Spiro had added recently, and she has no idea what they meant. Mr. Margolis, the head of the parish council, put it this way: being with Father Spiro was like driving an old classic car. The ride was smooth, very polished, and you could be lulled into thinking everything was fine. But suddenly the transmission would slip. The motor would keep right on humming, smooth as ever, but the car wasn’t going anywhere.”
Worthy rose from his knees. “Why is the church thinking about land acquisition?”
“Ah, that I do know about. The parish council president said that some in the parish are discussing quite seriously the possibility of moving. One reason is that this facility was built back in the 1960s, when the Greeks wanted to fit into America. So what you see here, this rectangle of a room, isn’t traditional Orthodox architecture. That would be a more Byzantine design, with a dome, for example. As someone at the monastery who’d been here before told me, St. Cosmas looks more like a Methodist Church with icons. Of course, the ultimate decision about moving will be made by the metropolitan.”
“And what is a metropolitan?” Worthy asked.
“Sorry. A metropolitan is the same as a bishop. He visits each parish in the diocese when it suits him, but he receives regular updates from each of his churches. I’m sure he’s heard the arguments on both sides about St. Cosmas moving.”
Father Fortis looked over his shoulder and pointed to the street outside. “Those in favor of moving have raised another argument, one that will now gain strength. That faction says this neighborhood is too dangerous. They’re particularly worried about one of the projects nearby.”
“I bet that’s Suffolk,” Worthy said. “Sherrod thinks the killer is from over there.”
“That theory would have a lot of support around here.”
“Hmm, yeah, maybe,” Worthy said vaguely as he rose to his feet. “Do you have a few minutes to look over some photos of the body?”
“I do, but you know me and crime photos. I remember nearly fainting when you showed me the photos of Sister Anna in New Mexico.”
“Let’s take this front pew,” Worthy said as he opened the folder he had been carrying. “I’ll warn you; they’re pretty gruesome, but you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need some help figuring out Father Spiro.”
“You always speak as if the victims are still living, Christopher.”
“Yeah, I’ve been told that before. In some ways, they are alive for a lot of people. I know that’s true for those who loved them.”
“I would say that’s true for the people of this parish,” Father Fortis added.
Worthy held the photos in his hand. “When someone we love dies suddenly, and especially if they are killed, the most natural thing in the world is to believe that death cheated them. Everyone thinks about the future that won’t be lived. Now, in Father Spiro’s case, people might be thinking about him not being here on Sunday or not being in his office when they need him. Or, they might think about him being cheated out of his retirement years. To most people, unexpected death is this great thief.”
“But isn’t that true?”
“Only partially, Nick. The problem with seeing things that way is that it doesn’t help one bit in solving the murder. In fact, it gets in the way of solving it.”
Father Fortis sighed. “When my younger brother died in Vietnam, I felt the same way. Every year on his birthday, I realize I still do. I think about how old he would be and about how many nephews and nieces I’d have if he and his fiancée had married.”
“But in a murder investigation, it’s different,” Worthy countered, “at least I hope it is. Yes, death interrupted an old priest’s life. But for me, cruel as this sounds, that’s simply a given. What I want to find out is what Father Spiro was worried about that day and what he was hoping would happen if he were still alive.”
“Give me an example.”
“Sure,” Worthy said. “Was he looking forward to retirement or dreading it? Did he want St. Cosmas to move from this neighborhood or stay?”
“Ha, well, that may be a bit difficult. Father Spiro tended to contradict himself on almost every point.”
“Then I need to understand why he contradicted himself so much. At bottom, I have to know why the victim gave death some sort of opening.”
Father Fortis exhaled deeply. “I wouldn’t share that thought with the victim’s family and friends. It makes murder seem invited.”
“If I do my job right, they won’t even know I’m asking that question. Look, I’m not saying people want to be murdered. But most of the time, the victim did something to make it more likely.”
“And you think Father Spiro can somehow still help you?”
A frown crossed Worthy’s face. “Maybe, if I ask the right questions of those who knew him. It’s this way, Nick. I need to know why Father Spiro came into the sanctuary early that morning, a half hour before his mysterious appointment. And if I don’t know why he put an asterisk in his calendar, maybe I can determine if this priest was sleeping well in the days and weeks before or if he was seeing his doctor for some problem. And I especially want to know what caused that spell on Sunday.”
“What if Father Spiro didn’t tell anyone about any of that?”
“Then I hope something in his patterns will speak anyway,” Worthy said. “Which is why I need you to take a look at these photos.”
Father Fortis sighed. “Yes, of course.”
He accepted the first one, a gruesome shot of an old man stretched out on the floor before them, blood oozing from his eyes and nose. “I will never understand how you live with this, Christopher,” Father Fortis whispered.
Worthy didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he pointed to one feature in the photo. “Tell me why he was wearing a robe that morning.”
Father Fortis studied the photo. “He’s vested in a rasa and what we call the epitrachelion.”
“Which is which?”
“The rasa is the robe, and the epitrachelion is the vestment piece that goes over the shoulders and down the front of the robe.”
“Epitrachelion,” Worthy repeated. “That’s what strangled him. Is it usual for a priest to wear a get-up like this on a weekday?”
“Father Spiro was old school, or so I’ve been told. For them, the rasa is quite normal. You can see I have mine on. But the other, the epitrachelion, is perhaps suggestive.”
“Suggestive of what, Nick?”
“It’s usual for hearing confessions. But that doesn’t quite fit. Yesterday, Mrs. Hazelton told me the pattern at St. Cosmas is to hear confessions on Thursdays.”
“So either Father Spiro was a bit confused that Tuesday morning or—”
“Or he’d scheduled a special confession, off the radar screen,” Father Fortis mused.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we could trust the old guy, Nick? Now, take a look at this next photo. Anything strike you about it?”
Father Fortis looked at a view of the body photographed from the feet upward. The legs dominated, the right one unnaturally bent beneath the other. “I don’t know what to make of this, Christopher.”
Worthy glanced up at the stain. “Nick, do you have one of those epitrachelions here?”
“Of course. I’ve stored several of mine behind the icon screen.”
“Do you think there are some of Father Spiro’s still back there?”
“Yes, I’m sure I saw quite a few when I hung mine up. Why?”
“Something’s not right about this photo. Not the legs, but something else.”
Father Fortis walked through the doors of the icon screen and bowed toward the altar before going toward a side room with a wardrobe closet. On the far left he found several epitrachelions, most well worn.
He returned to the sanctuary and laid five of them on the edge of the platform.
Worthy approached slowly. “Am I allowed to ha
ndle them?”
“Of course, my friend. But what are you looking for?”
“Watch.” Worthy picked up each of the five and felt the fabric. Taking one, he lifted it to eye level before letting it fall to the carpet. He did the same with the others before returning to the pew, a smile on his lips.
“You look pleased,” Father Fortis said.
Worthy picked up the photo. “The legs are what draw our attention, but the way the legs are crossed only tells us what we’d expect—that Father Spiro was already unconscious when he fell. He may have already been dead, in fact.”
“So there’s something else you see,” Father Fortis said, studying the photo.
Worthy pointed next to the epitrachelion in the photo. “Look how it lies on his body. Straight as a die. Compare that with those I just dropped on the carpet. See, they’re full of folds, just as we’d expect.”
“Well, I’ll be. Straight as a die, indeed,” Father Fortis observed.
“From his shoulder right down the side of his body to his feet. It’s almost rigid.”
Father Fortis pulled on his beard. “That’s not very likely, is it?”
“Nope.”
Father Fortis looked at the first photo. It was the same. “So unless Father Spiro was wearing a particularly stiff epitrachelion that morning, the only other explanation is that someone straightened it.”
“And after he fell. Probably after he died,” Worthy offered.
“And who found him first?”
“The file says it was a Mrs. Filis who’d come to water the plants.”
“Ah, yes, I know her.”
“And she testified that she didn’t touch the body,” Worthy said.
Father Fortis scratched his head. “So that would mean it had to be the killer.”
Worthy nodded. “Now ask yourself this, Nick. Why would somebody from the projects who’d come here to rob the place do something like that?”
Father Fortis studied the photo again. “I’m not sure why anyone would do that.”
“Think about it, Nick. Don’t assume the killer did it consciously.”
Father Fortis sucked in a breath. “Good Lord. The killer did it because he knew Father Spiro.”
“It was at least someone with an ingrained respect for the priesthood.” Worthy walked up on the platform and bent down over the carpet square. “Whoever strangled Father Spiro that morning bent down right here, trying to figure out what to do next.” Worthy looked up at the altar. “Maybe that’s when he saw the altarpiece and took that to throw us off track.”
Father Fortis leaned forward in the front pew. “And that’s when he unknowingly straightened the vestment.”
Worthy nodded, eying his friend. “I think you know what that probably means.”
Father Fortis groaned, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. “If you’re right,” he muttered, “then the killer could be one of my parishioners.”
Chapter Three
Every time Worthy uncovered a clue, he doubted it within the next forty-eight hours. The clue of the epitrachelion was no different. Just because Sherrod hadn’t noticed it, Worthy reminded himself, didn’t make the clue important.
The major flaw in his logic wasn’t hard to find. The vestment’s abnormal position on the body didn’t necessarily mean the killer was a parishioner of St. Cosmas. Perhaps the killer was simply the neat type. Even worse, the straightening of the vestment might be like the missing altarpiece, a ploy by the killer to throw them off.
But after repeatedly sifting through the angles over the next two days, Worthy ended up believing in the discovery’s importance. The old priest was dressed for a confession, though none was listed in his calendar. That anomaly suggested a parishioner and fit nicely with the clue of the rearranged vestment. If nothing else, the clue gave him an edge, something in his pocket when he met with his new partner at lunch.
Carnell Henderson’s muteness in the captain’s office troubled Worthy. Maybe Henderson’s silence expressed his anger at being overlooked after Sherrod was pulled from the case. If so, Worthy could forget Betts’ dream that he could mentor the man. Establishing a civil relationship would be hard enough.
He was surprised to find Henderson already seated at the Blue Bayou, a Cajun mom-and-pop eatery across town from the precinct. The place had been Worthy’s choice. When they were first married, Worthy and Susan met there after she got off her shift at the hospital. In all those years, he’d never once seen another cop.
“Afternoon,” Worthy said as he slid into the other side of the booth. He noticed a folder sitting on the table next to Henderson’s glass.
Henderson looked up. “Hello.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Thanks for the offer. What do you want me to call you, by the way? Are you the Lieutenant this, Lieutenant that type, or are you first names, last names, what?”
“Call me Chris, or Worthy. Not ‘Lieutenant,’ though. And you? Carnell, Henderson, or Hoops?”
“Definitely not Carnell. No one’s called me that since grade school except my wife. Hoops would be fine.”
“Basketball, then?” Worthy asked, looking at hands on his partner large enough to palm two basketballs. They also looked like they could do major damage in a fight.
Before Henderson could answer, the waitress approached the booth to pour Worthy a glass of water. “Haven’t seen you in a ton of years,” she said, smiling at him.
Worthy nodded. “Been busy, I guess.”
“You gentlemen ready to order?” She rattled off the luncheon specials and warned them which dishes were extra spicy.
Both ordered the gumbo. The two sat in silence for a moment before Worthy repeated his question.
“Yeah, I used to play ball, a little bit in college. How about you? You’re pretty tall.”
“Just in high school. Baseball was more my sport.”
Henderson nodded. “What position?”
“I’m a lefty, so I pitched.”
“A southpaw, huh? I played outfield.”
There was another silence, and Henderson swished his water glass.
Worthy studied the man across from him. Henderson had already been much more talkative than in Captain Betts’ office, but his words had come out in staccato bursts.
Henderson cleared his throat. “How’d you find this place? You from the South?”
“I grew up partly in Kentucky, but I had a college summer job in a halfway house in Louisiana. A corrections job. If the guys behaved during the week, we took them into town on Saturday night for a movie and supper. Millersburg, Louisiana, had just the one restaurant. Anyway, the first time I tried the gumbo there, it burned a patch off my tongue big as a quarter.”
Henderson laughed, a bit too loud, Worthy thought. “Some of my people are Caribbean, so there’s no such thing as too hot. But I didn’t know this place existed.”
“Do me a favor and keep it that way,” Worthy said.
“No problem.”
The waitress brought their cokes as well as a basket of bread. Once they were alone again, Worthy said, “I thought I might start by asking if there’s anything you’d like to tell me or ask me.”
Henderson hurriedly buttered a piece of bread. “Like what?”
“Like if you’re pissed that you’re not in charge on this case. If so, I’d like to know up front. Not that I can change things, of course.”
“Me, in charge? You the only one who hasn’t heard about what happened?”
“About decking Pescatelli? That I heard.”
“Here’s what I learned from that mistake. If you lay out a fellow cop in locker room—in front of an entire shift, by the way—know that it’s going to follow you to the grave. Hell, I’ll never make promotion now.”
“I’ll be honest with you. If Spicer were still in charge, I’d say you’re right.”
Henderson munched on the bread, his jaw muscles flexing. “Spicer was one unforgiving prick. If he were still here, I’d be out of a jo
b.”
“So you timed your bout with Pescatelli just right. Maybe that means you’re just lucky or maybe it means you’re smart. That’s how our new captain seems to see you. She thinks you have potential.”
“She said that?”
“In so many words. By the way, I never heard why you hit Pescatelli.”
“He only got about half of it out, but I’m pretty sure he was calling me a lazy, fucking nigger.”
“So why’d he say that?”
“Because I’m not nine to five.”
Worthy waited until the waitress had set down their plates and left. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“It means I’m the kind of guy who does my job, follows my leads, and tries to put it all together. I’m a plodder, but I plod on my own schedule.” He paused before adding, “It’s better for my family that way.”
“How so? Your wife work?”
Henderson looked toward the bar. “That and we got a kid, so I’m helping out for a while. Pescatelli made a big deal of it on a day I wasn’t in the mood. That’s all.”
“Knowing Sherrod, I’m surprised he didn’t go at you for the same reason.”
“Are you kidding? The way he rushes around, he barely noticed me.”
“Which is not my style, by the way,” Worthy said. “You called yourself a plodder. You’ve maybe heard that some of our colleagues find me too damn slow.”
“But not in your career,” Henderson said, lifting the folder.
“Oh? Is that what that is? Here I thought it might be case material.”
“Thought I’d check you out before we got too lovey-dovey.”
“And you found out what?”
“That until about seven years ago you were a real Barney Fife. Then you solve two—what’s the word?—enigmas, that’s it; two impossible cases. But you solve both of them within three months, and all of a sudden your picture is all over the papers. Hell, you get a few more gray hairs and they’ll make you Captain.”
“You must not be a very thorough reader.”
“Oh, I read it all. Yeah, I found the setbacks, if that’s what you’re getting at. But from what I heard, all that was from around the time of your divorce. Am I right?”
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 4