Let the Dead Bury the Dead

by David Carlson

  Worthy sat back in the booth and considered his new partner. “Not bad for a plodder. And what would I find if I looked into your file?”

  “You mean you haven’t?”

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing flashy like in yours. Until Pescatelli opened his trap, I didn’t have any real problems.” He wiped his face with a napkin. “But now I need something to happen, something good. Otherwise, I’m going to end up a security guard in some mall.”

  “And you think that good thing is solving this case. You still think the killer is from Suffolk?”

  “Hell yes. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that altarpiece is over there right now. And if it is, I’ll be the one to find it. Shit, Sherrod always brags about his goddamn informants, but I got family over there. Yeah, somebody there did it. See for yourself. I sent records on those three guys to you through interdepartmental mail.”

  “What if I told you things are a bit more complicated at the church than Sherrod thought?”

  Henderson sneered. “I don’t give a good goddamn what Sherrod thinks. The business about the church is all in your head.”

  Worthy pulled out the photos from his sports coat pocket. “Look at these.”

  “I already have.”

  Worthy put the telltale photo on top of the pile. “There’s something not right about this one. Maybe you noticed.”

  Henderson’s face sobered. “Noticed what? There were no prints or DNA.”

  Worthy pointed at the vestment. “So how did this part of the vestment, the part that killed the priest, end up so perfectly straight?”

  Henderson studied the photo for a moment. “Well, I’ll be damned. Still, what’s it mean?”

  “You think somebody from Suffolk would take the time to do that after he killed the old man?”

  “Maybe. The guy, Bales, is a real wacko. I’m due to interview him again sometime tomorrow or the day after. But I sat in on Sherrod’s first go-around with him. He’s crazy enough to do anything. So I’m keeping my chips right where I said. You stay on at the church, and I’ll work the Suffolk side. Winner takes all.”

  “No, winner doesn’t take all. We both get the same credit or the same blame,” Worthy corrected.

  “Are you saying the next time I see your picture is in the papers, mine is going to be there, too?”

  “I don’t control the papers. I’m talking about what happens at the precinct.”

  Henderson studied his face. “Okay, then.”

  A cellphone beeped and Henderson pulled it out of his pocket. “Who? Yeah, he’s here.”

  He passed the phone over to Worthy.

  “You don’t have a cellphone?” Henderson whispered.

  “No. It’s a long story,” Worthy replied as he took the phone. “Which button do I push?”

  Henderson laughed. “Just talk into it like a regular phone.”

  “This is Worthy.”

  “Christopher, Nick here. I was just calling your sergeant to find out where I could reach you. Look, I think I’ve found something. One of my parishioners, Mr. Bagios, is in my office. Mr. Bagios is the church photographer, and he’s brought in some photos of Father Spiro taken about a week before he died. I think you should see them.”

  “Oh? What do they look like?”

  “It’s hard to describe over the phone. Can you drop by the church this afternoon?”

  “Absolutely. Maybe I can get Henderson to come by, too.”

  “Who? Oh, right, your partner.”

  “See you in about thirty minutes.”

  Worthy handed back the phone.

  “What was that about?” Henderson asked.

  “Somebody at the church brought in photos of Father Spiro taken just before he died. Father Fortis thinks we should see them. I said you might stop by the church with me.”

  Henderson took a swig of his drink. “I heard.”

  “It’d give you a chance to meet the new priest.”

  Henderson looked down at his watch before pushing his plate away. “Sorry, I got to run.”

  For the first time, Worthy recognized the look Henderson had given him in Captain Betts’ office. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour,” he added.

  Henderson rose. “Like I said, I got to run. Thanks for the lunch.”

  Father Fortis picked up one of the photos and studied Father Spiro’s face. He must have been a striking man in his day, Father Fortis thought. His predecessor’s long white hair and neatly trimmed beard made him look like a cross between an early Church Father and a Greek tycoon. But the eyes betrayed him, the heavy bags beneath pressing down on cheeks dotted with age spots. Something about the gaze suggested more than an old priest contemplating retirement.

  “I hope I haven’t done anything wrong,” Mr. Bagios said, looking up from his chair as Father Fortis pulled on his beard.

  “Wrong? No, not at all, Mr. Bagios. What makes you think that?”

  The elderly photographer pleaded with open hands. “You see, I didn’t develop the film right away because of his death. And I don’t take digital. No, that is not true photography.”

  “No one can blame you for that, Mr. Bagios. And I’m sure you were as shocked as the rest of the parish.”

  “No, no, Father, it was also because of the other. I was the one who took photos at the funeral.”

  A macabre childhood memory flashed through Father Fortis’ mind. It was his fifteenth birthday, that terrible day his grandfather and uncle, partners in the family fishing business, were laid out side by side in their coffins. It was unusual for bodies of drowned fishermen to be recovered, but the two had been dragged overboard in a malfunction of their nets. His birthday cake had sat untouched, candles unlit, in the middle of their dining room table until after the funeral. Every five dollar bill pressed into his hands by tearful aunts and cousins had burned him with guilt.

  There were no birthday photos that year, but Father Fortis remembered as if it were yesterday the old photographer with the Rolleiflex who set up his tripod close to the casket of his grandfather, then that of his uncle. Flashbulb after flashbulb hit the floor of the old New Bedford church.

  “Father Spiro still had relatives back in Greece, then?” Father Fortis asked.

  “Oh, yes. I always take photos for those back home. I did the same for Theone, his wife, presbytera, when she died. May her memory be eternal.”

  Father Fortis appreciated the reference to home. For Mr. Bagios’ generation, America would never replace Greece.

  Father Fortis walked over to the window and looked out toward the parking lot. “How long had Father Spiro been widowed?”

  “Five years, or was it six? Theone was a wonderful asset, as dear to us at St. Cosmas as Father Spiro, God rest their souls.”

  “How did Father Spiro take her death?”

  Mr. Bagios sighed. “Not well. You see, Theone was sick for nearly a year before the end. Cancer of the pancreas.” The photographer paused, seemingly lost in a memory.

  “It’s a wonder Father Spiro didn’t retire then,” Father Fortis mused, looking out the window for Worthy’s car.

  “Some people thought he would. His daughter lives out in California, somewhere sunny, but after Theone’s forty-day memorial, Father announced to the community that he intended to stay on. That’s when we knew we were his closest family.”

  Mrs. Hazelton knocked on the door. “Lieutenant Worthy is here, Father.”

  “Huh? I didn’t see his car. Come in, Christopher. Where’d you park?”

  “I drove in the back way.”

  “I didn’t know there was a back way. Where’s Sergeant Henderson?”

  Worthy took a breath and released it slowly. “He couldn’t make it.”

  Something wrong there, Father Fortis thought. Odd that he hadn’t even met the sergeant yet. He’d heard from Mrs. Hazelton that he was African American and also that there was something about the man’s silence that made her uneasy.

  Introducing the photographer to Worthy, Father
Fortis said, “Mr. Bagios was filling me in on Father Spiro, and he’s been very helpful. I think his photos are as well.”

  Worthy took the first photo handed to him.

  “As you can see, this one took Father Spiro completely by surprise,” Father Fortis explained.

  “More than surprise,” Worthy said. “I’d say he’s pretty angry.”

  Mr. Bagios wiped his mouth with a hand. “This is my fault. I wanted a candid shot of Father for the new church directory, and I asked Mrs. Hazelton to open the door for me.”

  Worthy tapped a finger on the edge of the photo. “So what we have is Father Spiro trying to block the shot with his hand. It also looks like he’s trying to say something. What do you remember about this particular shot, Mr. Bagios?”

  The old photographer cleared his throat, as if giving testimony in court. “I thought it was just, forgive me, a bit of his vanity. Father Spiro was a very good-looking man when he was younger.”

  “Did he say anything afterwards?” Father Fortis asked.

  Mr. Bagios’ face reddened. “Sorry, Father, I can’t remember.”

  “What do you think, Nick?”

  Father Fortis studied the photo more closely. Lines stretched from the old priest’s mouth down toward his jowls, the neck a bundle of tight cords fighting beneath the sagging skin. A far cry from the man portrayed in the photo in the hallway. The old priest was also holding a pen in the hand. On the desk was an open notebook.

  “My guess is he’s saying a loud ‘no,’ ” Father Fortis offered.

  “Wait. Yes, now I remember,” Mr. Bagios interrupted. “He told me I had to take another. That’s why I shot the other two.”

  Worthy turned to the second and third photos, both nearly identical and far less interesting. Father Spiro sat officiously behind the desk, his face transformed by a big smile. The priest’s hands were folded in front of him, the pen to the side.

  “And did he talk to you after you took these others?” Worthy asked.

  Mr. Bagios sat forward. “Yes, he did. He told me to be sure to give him that first one once it was developed.”

  “Did he say why?” Worthy asked.

  “He said something about it being blurred, but I told him he was wrong. A professional photographer knows when a picture will turn out.”

  “It is indeed a good photo,” Father Fortis said, nodding approvingly at his parishioner. Worthy positioned the three photos side by side on the desk. “You see something here, don’t you, Nick? That’s why you called me.”

  Father Fortis blushed. “As I’m sure you see yourself, Christopher, the book is missing from the second and third photos.”

  Worthy nodded.

  “Well, I’ll be,” Mr. Bagios said. “Where’d it go?”

  “And you didn’t leave the room between the two shots?” Worthy asked.

  “No, no. But I wasn’t actually in the room for the first one. I was back in the doorway. It took me only a minute to come in here and set up for the other two.”

  Worthy scratched his head. “So did he drop it into his lap or do something else with it? And what kind of book are we talking about?”

  Father Fortis scurried back to the desk and opened the center drawer. Pulling out a magnifying glass, he handed it to Worthy. “Father Spiro must have used this for the fine print.”

  Worthy bent over the first photo. “I’d say the book is one of those older types with leather at the corners. Ask the secretary to come in, will you, Nick?”

  Mrs. Hazelton entered when buzzed and looked at the photo through the glass. “No, I’m sure I’ve never seen that book.”

  Worthy took the three photos and returned them to the folder. “I’m going to have these blown up back at the precinct. Maybe we’ll find some lettering on the book. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hazelton, maybe you could look around the church. Wherever Father Spiro tended to store things—bookcases, storage cabinets, that sort of thing.”

  “But what’s so important about the book?” Mr. Bagios asked. Mrs. Hazelton looked up as if she had the same thought.

  Worthy pursed his lips. Father Fortis knew his friend was debating how much of his suspicions to disclose.

  “I want to know what was on Father Spiro’s mind in those last few weeks. Your photographs, Mr. Bagios, suggest that this missing book just might—I’m saying might—be important.”

  “Do you think it could have something to do with who killed him?” Mr. Bagios pressed.

  Worthy shook his head. “I’d ask you not to say anything about the book, because I don’t want to give any false hope. I’m just saying the book could help us know Father Spiro better.”

  Mr. Bagios nodded approvingly. Mrs. Hazelton’s face seemed less tortured that it had since Father Fortis had arrived.

  And that, dear people, Father Fortis thought, is the difference between my friend and Lieutenant Sherrod.

  Chapter Four

  Worthy took the elevator from the lab up to his office, feeling pleased with the start to the case. Perhaps obstinacy as much as loyalty to his own methods had made him rebel at Sherrod’s convenient robbery theory, but the clues of the vestment and the missing book seemed to justify his more careful approach.

  The one nagging problem was Henderson. Outright opposition would be easier to work around than the confusing signals he got from his partner. But true to his word, Henderson had left the records of the three suspects from Suffolk in his mail slot. On an attached memo, Henderson had added his plan to conduct second interviews of the three, starting the next day.

  Worthy found it telling that the times of the interviews weren’t listed. So we’re both loners, he thought. That probably isn’t a good sign.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a piece of paper taped to his door. Approaching, he saw it was a newspaper clipping, a piece from the morning Detroit Free Press, with the words “hot shit” scribbled across it in ink. He tore the article off the door and brought it to his desk.

  DETROIT’S TOP COP CHASES PRIEST’S KILLER

  A change in team in the Father Spiro George murder investigation has occurred after only two weeks.

  A police memo obtained by this reporter has confirmed that Lt. Christopher Worthy, noted for his brilliant work on past “cold cases,” has been assigned to lead the case following a teaching stint at the police academy. He replaces Lieutenant Phillip Sherrod, who has been transferred to another case.

  Worthy yanked at his tie. He looked at the byline of the column, “Around Town,” and found the reporter’s name: Kenna McCarty. How the hell had a society writer gotten ahold of an internal departmental memo?

  Worthy thought back to his lunch with Henderson. Was this the reason he’d made that crack about his photo not being next to Worthy’s in the paper? But if Worthy had any question about who’d scribbled across the article, it was answered by Sherrod barging into his office.

  Worthy, not bothering to get up, turned the article over. “Ah, Phil.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Sherrod spat out as he walked toward the desk, his finger pointing like a gun. “You think I’m just going to forget what you did to me yesterday?”

  Worthy leaned back in his chair. “Exactly what is it you think I did?”

  Sherrod’s eyes narrowed as he took another step forward. “You bent me over and did me like a Texas sheep, and you did it in front of my new captain. Where the hell you get off pulling that shit?”

  Worthy rose and looked over the desk at Sherrod. “And I’ll ask you a question. Where do you get off talking to me like you’re my captain?”

  Sherrod looked up at the taller Worthy. “I’m talking about basic, fucking respect.”

  “Oh, really,” Worthy said. “I asked a few questions about your approach, an approach which no one has abandoned.” He lifted the Suffolk folder off his desk. “Henderson is interviewing those guys tomorrow. If you took my comments personally—”

  “Wake the fuck up.” Sherrod’s face was beet red as spit flew out with his words. “Rememb
er Milander and Autrey? Do you think they’ll get their promotions now, after you grabbed their glory? You’re a fucking parasite, Worthy, and everybody around here knows it. Not taking your comments personally, my fucking ass. Read the goddamn paper this morning!”

  “Get out of here,” Worthy ordered, jabbing his index finger at the door.

  “First, you listen,” he said, wagging his own finger in Worthy’s face. “I watched you stand up there like Lindbergh flying fucking solo and take that commendation. You didn’t even have the courtesy to mention Milander and Autrey, as if they’d done nothing on the case before they handed it to you. No, you just stood there with their cojones in your back pocket.” Sherrod grabbed at his own crotch and wagged it toward Worthy.

  Worthy could feel the heat suffusing his face as the anger boiled up. “I’m not going to ask you again. Get out of here,” Worthy said, stepping around his desk.

  A knock on the door was followed by the lab tech. “Here they are. Oh, sorry.”

  “No problem. The lieutenant was just leaving.”

  Sherrod stood in the open doorway and delivered his last shot down the echoing hallway. “Don’t you ever forget whose case you’re finishing. It’s mine! Don’t even try to cut my balls off. I won’t go down like the others.”

  The lab tech’s eyebrows arched upward as he turned back toward Worthy. “Nice guy,” he whispered. “Is he always like that?”

  “That, young man, is Lieutenant Phil Sherrod, one of our colleagues in this fine precinct.”

  “I’ll remember that,” the tech said, wide-eyed, as he dropped a folder on the desk before turning and departing.

  Alone in his office, Worthy stood by his window and watched the cars streaming past on the freeway. Always a question of “balls,” cutting them off, keeping score. Forget the victims and their families. Save face, the first rule of detection. It’s a wonder we catch anyone, he thought.

  Exhausted, Worthy returned to his desk and opened the folder left by the lab tech. Taking an eight-by-ten photo and enlarging it in one inch squares led to a lot of photos. Worthy sorted them into three piles—one of the priest’s face, another of the desktop and book, and a third for the rest of the photo. At the back of the folder, he found a note from the new lab tech. “A speculation on the subject’s mouth,” the note read. “In my judgment, the subject is either forming the ‘w’ or the long ‘o’ sound. Happens to be one of my specialties. Alex. P.S. I was in one of your classes at the academy.”