“So the boy—I’m leaning toward NISP being a boy—had something happen. A sexual experience?”
“Or perhaps almost a sexual experience?” Father Fortis suggested.
“But would a teenage boy kill a priest? He might, if he thought the priest was going to expose him. And that might explain why this boy, if he is the killer, straightened the vestment.”
Father Fortis shook his head, which only seemed to unleash a throbbing pain over his left eye. “But that doesn’t make sense. Father Spiro knew about the problem after the third visit, and the boy came back. He trusted his priest. And if the boy killed him, wouldn’t he be a candidate for suicide?”
Worthy shrugged. “Maybe. The boy could have done it, but it’s not likely. Anything more from the last entry?”
“It reads, ‘Won’t give name. I must know him. Blames self. Man said he’s NISP’s biggest fan. Evil not simple here.’ ”
“ ‘Evil not simple here,’ ” Worthy repeated. “Well, that’s right out of the rabbi’s book.”
Father Fortis took another sip of coffee. His eyelids were turning into sandpaper. “What I don’t understand, my friend, is what he means by ‘I must know him.’ Does he mean that he needs to get to know him, to break this relationship up, or does he mean that he already knows him?”
“If he was worried about his memory, maybe the old man means he should be able to figure out who he is,” Worthy offered. “You said those entries are about Person and Problem Number Two. And the third?”
Father Fortis yawned again and signaled for the waitress to refill his cup. “Decaf this time, please.”
“You sure you won’t have something to eat?” Worthy asked.
“I couldn’t keep it down, not with this headache coming on. I’ll be fine after a nap. No, let’s go on to the last one. This is obviously a woman, coded as IOAG. Again, I have no idea what that means, but I think you’ll recognize her. The first entry is dated February of last year. “‘Infidelity? Husband lying? Harassment? Only she is Orthodox.’ ”
“Okay, that’s Mrs. Nichols. Why’d you keep her to the end?”
“For several reasons. But in case my brain was foggy at five this morning when I got to her, I’ll let you decide if she’s the most important or not. Her second visit was in May, just as she told us the other day. It reads, ‘Advised screening their calls. Where is husband? Trap. Evil closing in. He can’t see it.’ ”
“That ‘evil closing in’ line. I’m betting that comes from the Jewish book as well,” Worthy suggested.
“That’s why I’m glad you’re here. I was too exhausted this morning to make that connection. The language is pretty strong, isn’t it? It’s as if Father Spiro were battling forces, not problems.”
“Where do things go after that?”
“Well, as we know, she came back, this time with her husband. ‘Both here,’ he writes. ‘Must contact college. If they won’t, I must. Will pray, but do more? Might pay price.’ ”
Father Fortis looked up from his notes. “Do you hear that, Christopher? He said ‘might pay price.’ You have to admit that sounds ominous.”
“Maybe, although we don’t know if he actually followed through on contacting the college. It’s worth a visit over there, though, to find out. Okay, Nick, don’t keep me guessing. What’s about her last entry?”
“It’s from the day before his death.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Ah, patience, my friend. No, she didn’t see Father Spiro that day, but I’ll think you’ll figure it out. Here goes. ‘Face so sad. Alone, going to cry room. Evil paralyzes good people. Child terrorized. A wish that cannot be.’ ”
Father Fortis studied his friend’s face. “Don’t you see it, Christopher? The cry room is only used on Sundays. He’s talking about seeing her in church the day before.”
Worthy looked up, his brow furrowed. “I have no idea what a cry room is.”
“It’s a room just off to the left of the narthex as you come in from outside. It’s where parents with young children can go and still watch the service. There is usually one-way glass, as I remember.”
Worthy closed his eyes. “You say off the narthex, but they can see things in the sanctuary? Hmm. Okay, I get it.” He opened his eyes and leaned forward on the table, nearly spilling his water. “He’d have passed by it on the procession.” He threw his head back. “That’s it! Yes, maybe that’s what happened.”
Father Fortis laughed, overcome with fatigue. “Help a sleepy man out, my friend. It’s all a bit fuzzy.”
“Mrs. Nichols told us she was there; she said she saw him. I think we know what she meant, and better than that, we may finally know what really happened to Father Spiro during that last service. Now do you see it?”
“Not as clearly as you do, Christopher.”
Worthy walked his first two fingers across the table. “It’s like this, Nick. Father Spiro processed to the end of the left aisle—that’s what people have told us, right?—and just when he turned the corner, wouldn’t he have been standing right in front of—”
“The cry room! Good Lord, How extraordinary!” Father Fortis boomed. Patrons at nearby tables looked over in alarm. “But wait a minute, Christopher,” he added in a quieter voice. “It’s only those in the cry room who can see out.”
Worthy’s eyes were flashing, and a grin covered his face. “Not if it’s like the glass we used to have in the interview room. You can just manage to see through it, if you get close enough.”
His headache forgotten for the moment, Father Fortis strained to understand his friend’s point. “But I still don’t see why he stopped.”
“If he was close enough to the glass, he could have seen her face, Nick! He saw her sad face, just as he wrote in the diary. Here’s what I think happened. When he saw her face, he finally decided what he had to do. He wasn’t going to wait on the college to act for the Nicholses at all. He was going to contact Peggy Hagarty himself.”
Father Fortis shook his head. “So Mrs. Siametes and Rabbi Milkin were right after all. Father Spiro didn’t falter because he was ill but because his mind was suddenly clear.” He paused before adding, “That would mean he must have called the Hagarty woman on Sunday and asked to meet with her.”
“Or Monday, but in any case, she came,” Worthy whispered excitedly, “on Tuesday morning.”
“When she killed him,” Father Fortis finished the thought. He remembered the photos of the dead priest, the blood oozing from eyes and nose. This must be one very powerful woman, he thought.
That afternoon, Worthy paced his office, caught between what he desired and what was possible. He wanted to be to be at the college, putting some hard questions to the dean about Dr. Nichols and Peggy Hagarty. But he hadn’t been able to get an appointment until the following morning. Short of that, he wanted to bring Mrs. Nichols back to St. Cosmas, to have her sit in the sanctuary and confirm what he strongly believed happened that last Sunday morning. But Father Fortis, perhaps wisely, thought the woman had been through enough for one day.
Finally, he desperately wanted to talk with Allyson, to find some way to clear the air between them, but she was working at the mall after school today. So that would have to wait.
With the Bales interview scheduled for the next morning, he was left with what seemed another pointless task, to talk with Lloyd Hartunian’s boss. He was to meet Father Fortis at Blitzen’s Church Supply House in an hour, after his friend had finished the bulletin for next Sunday services. Lloyd Hartunian and Carl Bales, two red herrings who got attention simply by being crazy, he mused. By noon tomorrow, he comforted himself, both men would be off the list.
This was the antsy time on a case, the part that he resented the most. They’d found the center piece of the puzzle, and he could feel his mind clicking at a higher speed, so fast that he forgot about food, sleep, everything but trying to put the last pieces in place.
He thought back on the path that had brought them to th
is point. There was the clue of the vestment, the odd photos of the victim in his office, Rabbi Milkin’s rambling, Mrs. Nichols’ painful story, and finally Henderson’s discovery of the missing diary.
In other words, the trail had been a complicated one, after all. He would love to point that out to Captain Betts. Sherrod had taken the easy path, running like a rabbit after the missing altarpiece. And he’d like to tell Allyson that they wouldn’t be at the closing stages of the case if he’d dropped everything to deal with his partner’s puzzle. Whatever Henderson’s problems were, they had nothing to do with solving the case.
He straightened his tie and headed out to the parking lot. Only one more day, he told himself, and that knowledge should have warmed his heart. So why did he have the odd feeling that he was hurrying to escape something?
Blitzen’s Church Supply Store remained a landmark in downtown Detroit. Nestled between a shoe repair shop and a high-price parking lot, Blitzen served mainly the Catholic parishes of the diocese. Statues fit for sanctuaries jostled for space in the window with those of St. Francis more suitable for gardens. Like most people from Detroit, Worthy had passed the place a thousand times, but this was the first time he’d had a reason to stop in.
To his surprise, Father Fortis had arrived ahead of him. Since when was Father Fortis early for anything? The priest was talking with an older lady, at least in her seventies, who introduced herself as Mary Blitzen.
“Gentlemen, my office is back here,” she said, leading them at a crisp clip toward the back of the store. “And Father, I can’t be calling you ‘Father’ all day. I hope you understand. Priests come through here faster than flies. So what will it be?”
Father Fortis smiled. “Please call me Nick.”
“And I’m Mary, a good Catholic name,” she said. “I suppose we’ll call you,” she said, eyeing Worthy, “Lieutenant.”
Worthy was about to offer his first name, but she kept right on going, “Sit down, gentlemen, and pardon the mess. Inventory time. Nick, shut the door, will you? So tell me, how do you like St. Cosmas?”
“Challenging, under the circumstances,” Father Fortis replied.
“They’re an ornery bunch, if you ask me. People from the Mediterranean like to argue, know what I mean? I always felt sorry for the priests over there, like that young one, Deacon Daniel. Don’t let them run you out too, Nick. I like the looks of you.” She looked at Father Fortis as if she did, and Worthy didn’t miss the color rising in his cheeks.
“Not to worry, Mary. You see, I’m a monk. I’m the equivalent of a loaner car, really. Once the metropolitan, the bishop—”
“Sweet Lord, don’t get me going on bishops, Nick. They wouldn’t know the meaning of time if they were sitting on death row. But enough twiddle-twaddle. Now let’s get back to your phone call. I’ve been racking my brain all morning. You tell me you’re the new priest at St. Cosmas, and then you ask to see me when Lloyd isn’t working. And as if that’s not juicy enough, you bring a detective.”
Taking the cue from Father Fortis’ look, Worthy launched in, “We’re checking through all those who may have had disagreements with Father Spiro before he died.”
Mrs. Blitzen sat back in her chair and hooted. “Oh, now I know what this is about. Why, that crazy fool.”
“Father Spiro came to see you, then,” Father Fortis said.
“Oh, yes. I liked Spiro. Unlike most priests, he knew the difference between a business call and a pastoral one. Within five minutes, he understood my position perfectly on the matter.”
“And what matter was that exactly?” Worthy asked.
“You don’t know? Hartunian wanted to buy me out. Imagine! Just goes to show you what goes through that addled brain of his. You see, everyone knows that I’m thinking of retirement, and my kids are grown and on their own. Hell, some of my grandkids are grown. Anyway, they all grew up working here, which is another way of saying that they hate this place like a prison. Can’t really blame them,” she said, looking around her at the boxes and stacks of bills on the desk.
“And so when Father Spiro came to put in a good word—”
“Can’t put in a good word for someone you’ve carried along out of pity for fifteen years. Lloyd could no more run this store than—wait a minute, you think he could have killed Spiro?” Again, she threw back her head and laughed.
A knock on the door preceded the face of a frightened-looking young woman. “Mrs. Blitzen, someone’s here from St. Barnabas. They want to bring back a box of candles. You know, the kind in the glass jars. They say they won’t stay lit.”
“Well, did you take a look at them?” the owner asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Some look in pretty bad shape.”
“Then tell them to go to hell. And leave us alone, Marge.”
The door closed. “Trying to return used candles. And I wonder why Lloyd, that feeble-brained idiot, is the only one who wants to buy this place. Now, where were we?”
“You were laughing at the idea of Hartunian as a suspect,” Worthy prompted.
She laughed again. “Indeed I was. The poor fool has eccentricities out the wazoo, if they still use that term. Look, if he was going to kill somebody, he’d have killed me ten years ago. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I may keep them on, but I sure as hell let them know what’s what.”
Worthy had already heard what he was hoping for, but he followed through on the rest of the questions. “Has Lloyd Hartunian acted any differently around here in the last three weeks?”
“Well, Lieutenant, unless I haven’t made myself clear, Lloyd always acts a bit different. That’s his saving grace. He’s so pathetic that sometimes—only sometimes, mind you—I almost feel bad about yelling at him. You see, Lloyd wears this goofy smile all the time. You never know what he’s thinking, and let me tell you, I don’t want to know. But I can tell you this: he’d have given that church a full refund for those candles. And what the hell would we do with half-burnt candles?”
“And how about Tuesday morning, January ninth? Did he work that day?” Worthy asked.
Mrs. Blitzen opened a drawer and brought out a strong box. “Lieutenant, you’re like a terrier I had once. You won’t let the bone go. Come to think of it,” she said, glancing up, “I think I recognize your face. You’re in the papers, right?”
“All too recently, ma’am,” he said.
“So you must be a good terrier. Okay, here it is. On January ninth, Lloyd came into work at noon. Is that important?”
Worthy wrote it down even as he dismissed it. Hartunian may have had opportunity, but Mrs. Blitzen’s view made perfect sense to him. Unless Hartunian was totally crazy, his anger should have been aimed at his boss, not Father Spiro. And Hartunian hardly seemed the type to execute a murder this clever, not to mention take an altarpiece for insurance.
Worthy looked over at Father Fortis. “Anything else, Nick?”
Father Fortis pulled on his beard for a moment. “I don’t think so. Well, maybe just a question out of curiosity. Probably none of my business,” he said, rising from his chair. “Who is the Sylvie woman I met at his house? Is it a sister, his wife, perhaps?”
Mrs. Blitzen looked up for a moment, a look of shock on her face. Then she laughed so long and so hard that she ended up coughing.
“Sweet Jesus,” she said, still sputtering. “I thought for a minute you were pulling my leg. You honestly don’t know who she is?”
“No. Should I?”
“Well, hell, they look like two peas in a pod, don’t they? Sylvie is Lloyd’s mother.”
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Worthy arrived at the precinct’s interview room the next morning, a uniformed colleague had already escorted in Carl Bales. Worthy looked at the kid’s heavily bandaged head, a testimony to Henderson’s physical strength. Bales was looking down at the table, his arms folded across his chest as he slumped in the chair. Maybe he’s asleep or still medicated, Worthy thought, as he sat down on the other side of the interview table
. At that moment, Captain Betts entered the room.
Worthy turned on the tape recorder. “It is one p.m., February ninth. Lieutenant Worthy and Captain Betts present to interview Carl Bales.” He paused and looked over at his superior. “Do you want to start?”
“Lead on, Lieutenant.”
“Mr. Bales, how did you hurt your head?”
Bales didn’t respond. In a louder voice, Worthy repeated the question. This time, Bales opened his eyes slightly and looked from Worthy to Betts before closing them again. “A cop asked me the same thing when I was coming in here.”
I bet Sherrod did, Worthy thought, though deciding he didn’t need to look over at his captain.
“So, how did you hurt it?”
“I must’ve fallen down or something,” he said with a yawn. “Probably happened when I was locked up. Yes, that’s it. It’s police neglect.”
He doesn’t even remember, Worthy thought. Not that that would help Henderson. The tape alone could damn his partner.
“Could it have been in a fight, Mr. Bales?” Captain Betts asked.
Bales scratched at a place on the side of his head where the bandage met his scalp. “Was it? You guys throw me in with niggers and let them wail on me?”
“I understand you hang around Suffolk projects a lot. Could it have happened over there?” Worthy asked.
“Fuck, no,” Bales said, as he stared at Worthy. “It was here. I want a white fucking jail.”
“You were in a hospital, not a jail, Mr. Bales,” Captain Betts said. “And you’re here for questioning.”
He smiled broadly, revealing a large gap in his teeth on the left side. “You know what I’d do with ’em?”
“With whom?” Betts asked.
“The niggers. I’d cut off their thumbs and pricks. And I’d start with the thumbs. Know why?”
“Why don’t you tell us?” Worthy asked. This was the guy who Sherrod thought was smart enough to don gloves, strangle the priest, straighten the vestment, and afterwards tell no one.
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 16