Let the Dead Bury the Dead

by David Carlson

  “Stop right there. This isn’t the movies. She didn’t kill the priest to get a scoop, and she isn’t sleeping with my boss. At least, I don’t think she is. Still, the photo explains why he wanted me to let her in on the case.”

  “But what are the chances they’d be sitting in that same area?” Allyson asked, not knowing she was repeating Henderson’s earlier question.

  “Just a coincidence. We know the killer is from the congregation. At least, that’s what the diary suggests.”

  “Quite a coincidence.”

  “Nick said it was in the mystery of God.”

  “Except you don’t believe in that,” Allyson said, gazing out the windshield.

  “Do you?”

  She didn’t look at him. “I don’t know. Sometimes I guess I do. Dad? If you don’t believe in God, do you still feel bad about things, things you wish you’d done differently?”

  He thought he heard a slight tremor in her voice. “Yeah, sure. That doesn’t go away.”

  Allyson sat in silence, ignoring her sandwich, before turning toward him. “I’m not sure I believe there’s a God out there, not some angry big being, anyway. But sometimes I get the feeling there’s someone out there just wishing better things for me. Do you know what I mean?”

  What am I to say, and who am I to say a thing? Worthy asked himself. He felt like the two of them were back at the restaurant up north, just waiting for him to say the wrong thing. “I think I know what you mean. Maybe that’s just our consciences.”

  “Maybe,” Allyson replied, not sounding convinced. She returned to her food for a moment before adding, “And your friend Nick believes, right? I mean, he has to, doesn’t he?”

  “I never think of Nick having to believe in God. He just does.”

  “So does he want you to believe again?”

  Worthy fought down an urge to ask Allyson to change the subject. Two and a half years before, he’d had no idea where Allyson was hiding. His only hope, day after anxious day, was that she was all right and would one day come home. One night she had done just that, coming through the door without explanation. His hope had changed. Perhaps one day she would again want to talk to him, to stop blaming him for everything wrong in her life. Since the trip to the cabin, Allyson was talking to him again. How could he complain that everything she wanted to talk about tore at old scars?

  “I’m sure Nick would like me to believe in all that again, but he doesn’t push. He never does.”

  “But he prays, right?”

  Worthy laughed. “Of course.”

  “I mean about you both solving this case.”

  “I guess,” Worthy replied, hearing again Father Fortis’ last comment about the mystery of God.

  “So he thinks God is up there, out there, or in there somewhere, wanting you to catch the killer.”

  Worthy shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “You don’t sound so sure of that,” Allyson pressed.

  “It’s just that I don’t understand exactly what Nick’s God is like. He confuses me at times.”

  “What do you mean? God is just God, isn’t he?” Her voice sounded insistent.

  “Nick and I don’t talk about things like that, but maybe it’s what I’ve picked up by being around him. I think he sees God as this mysterious being who should be respected. How can I put it? It’s like I could never imagine anybody in his church wearing one of those stupid religious T-shirts. You know, the ones that mimic beer commercials and say ‘this blood’s for you’ beneath some cross.”

  “Some kids wear those things to school. I think they’re disgusting,” Allyson said. “But what’s confusing about that?”

  “Well, sometimes Nick gives me the feeling that the God he believes in is a trickster who makes odd things happen or leaves little clues around.”

  “So he’d say God wants this killer to be caught? I suppose, being a priest, he’d say God wants to punish him.”

  Worthy shook his head. “That’s not Nick, somehow. I think he’d say God wants us to find the killer because that’s what the killer needs—to stop running, to stop getting away with it, and maybe to be prevented from killing someone else.”

  Allyson was silent again for a moment. “Wow,” she said, “like there’s that someone out there wanting something better … even for a killer.”

  Worthy didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

  Father Fortis fumed as he drove toward his apartment. The metropolitan had been a carbon copy of his abbot, pontificating widely on matters ranging from the challenges of parish life to the upcoming presidential election. First of all, he had no intention of considering parish ministry. No, the monastery was his true home, even though his own abbot had questioned him openly on more than one occasion about whether he would be better suited to life “outside.” And secondly, he had never voted Republican in his life, and he wasn’t about to now just because that party’s candidate had made it known he began each day with prayer. Pious statements like that always made him nervous, especially from someone who seemed intent on sending troops all over the world.

  Father Fortis checked his watch. He had just enough time to drop by his apartment for a shower before getting to the church. Then he and Worthy could finally determine what the events of the day meant. Would the code, now solved, point a finger at anyone? Was that asking too much of Mr. Bagios’ photos?

  The metropolitan had, as he’d expected, quizzed him about his faltering in the liturgy. Thank God, he thought, the metropolitan had apparently forgotten that the shock of the morning had eerily replicated Father Spiro’s last Sunday. And thank God, also, that he’d been able to explain his own actions of the morning to the metropolitan with a minimum of lies. Feeling a bit lightheaded from some medication and the stress of the memorial was the excuse that he’d finally come up with.

  Just as he was slowing for the freeway exit, his cellphone rang.

  “Father Fortis?” The voice sounded scratchy.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” he replied crossly. “The connection is bad.”

  “Sorry, Father. My name is Alex Portis. You met my mother. She’s just been taken to Community North. It looks like she’s had a stroke. I was wondering if I could ask you to … to come to the hospital. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Of course, of course,” Father Fortis said with a pang of guilt. “I can be there in about a half hour. I just need to stop by the church for a few things.”

  “For the chrism—the holy oil? Yes, please, Father. I hate to ask, but I think we’re at that point. It would mean so much to Mother and to me, of course. Thank you, thank you.”

  Father Fortis took the exit, drove under the freeway, and reentered it to head back to St. Cosmas. No telling how long this would delay the work on the photos, he thought, as he hunted in his coat for the phone number Worthy had given him. Could the timing be any worse? Worthy had less than a day left on the case, and now his friend would be sitting twiddling his thumbs waiting for him to finish at the hospital. But he had no choice. He said a brief prayer for Athena Portis even as he dialed the number Worthy had given him that morning.

  After three rings, he heard a young woman’s voice. “This is Ally. I’ll get back to you soon. Leave a message.”

  Great, Father Fortis thought. Just great. “Ally, this is a message for your father. Tell him Father Fortis has an emergency at Community North. He can reach me there. I’ll be in Mrs. Portis’ room. She just had a stroke. Thanks.”

  He ended the call and tried to relax as he continued on toward St. Cosmas. The day might still turn out well. Hadn’t he heard that situations involving elderly being brought to hospitals often turned out to be less serious than first thought? By the time he parked by the side door of the darkened church, his mood had brightened. It would only take him a few minutes to retrieve his vestments and the holy oil and be on his way. An hour or two at the hospital with the Portis family would still leave them the rest of the evening to work through the new clues. How quickl
y he’d forgotten his own thoughts of the morning—that the case was unfolding in the mystery of God.

  He put his key in the lock. How funny, he thought. The janitor had left the door open.

  The comedy Allyson had chosen for a movie had no chance of holding Worthy’s attention. Allyson’s choice of conversation over lunch had only managed to raise the old unanswered questions about her running away. What had happened to her? Something, obviously, that left her feeling guilty, but what? He wished he could repeat her words to him—“Vague. I need details.” But he couldn’t ask for that. Over a burger and fries in his car, she’d come closer than ever before to shedding light on her disappearance, but he couldn’t rush her.

  He glanced at the luminous dial on his watch. Three o’clock. Father Fortis should be close to wrapping up his duties with the metropolitan. After the movie was over, he’d drop Allyson off at the house. If traffic was as light as it usually was on Sundays, he could make it back to the church on time. The antics on screen surrendered in Worthy’s mind to Mr. Bagios’ photos from Father Spiro’s funeral. Mrs. Filis had sat with the cardiologist on the parish council. Dr. Pappas, wasn’t it? Could Father Spiro have meant one of them by the code? Maybe, he thought, as he shifted his weight and tried to find a comfortable place for his long legs. But even as he thought it, he knew he was committing the mistake of premature assumption. There had to be ten people he couldn’t identify sitting nearby in the same photo. What if Nick didn’t know them either?

  Allyson poked his leg.

  “Sorry,” he said, shifting them again.

  “No,” she whispered as she handed him her phone. “I just checked my phone. Caller ID. Your friend, the priest, left a message.”

  “What do I do?” he whispered, staring at the tiny lit window.

  Allyson rolled her eyes before explaining what he needed to do to retrieve the message. “But they’ll throw us out of here if you don’t take care of it in the lobby,” she added.

  Out in the lobby, he followed Allyson’s directions and put the phone to his ear, managing only to catch the end of the message. He hit the button again and this time heard Father Fortis explain the emergency with Mrs. Portis, his need to stop by the church, and his regrets that their meeting might be delayed.

  Worthy returned Allyson’s phone and returned to his seat, the hope he’d felt earlier in the day fading. More delays and it wouldn’t even matter that the code had been solved. He settled down in his seat, trying to pick up the thread of the movie. The lead guy was dropping suitcases and bowling balls out of a car and the girl was driving madly, even as a cop car behind them swerved unsuccessfully to avoid the obstacles. Losing control, the cop car went airborne, only to land among the ducks in a pond. The audience in the theater laughed uproariously, as they always did when his profession was made to look foolish.

  The two cops were swimming away from their car, unaware of the angry ducks in pursuit. For the second time that day, a sense of dread gripped him. I’m missing something, he thought. He thought back through the day, to the events during the service, to listening to Father Fortis’ explanation as to why he’d stopped where he did, to the matching of the code with the funeral photos. All of that was good news. Was it simply the fear that all of that would be wasted if they ran out of time, or had something happened in that litany of good news that was bringing up this sense of dread?

  The lead duck on the screen landed full force on the head of the cop, dumping him again into the water. Again the audience erupted in laughter, while Worthy’s eyes went wide with realization. He jumped from the seat, Allyson in tow.

  “What’s going on?” she said, pulling against him.

  “I’ll tell you in the lobby,” he whispered, continuing to pull her harder.

  In the lobby, he turned toward his daughter. “We’ve got to go. No, let me have your phone, Ally.”

  “Why?” she asked, even as she handed it to him.

  “How do I get information on this?”

  Allyson explained, even as she looked at her Dad as if he were crazy.

  “It’s about something I forgot. There were other footsteps.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He dialed information and asked for the number of Community North hospital. “While I was waiting for Nick in his office, there were these other footsteps. Not Henderson’s. Someone else’s.”

  “But it’s a big church,” Allyson said. “There were lots of people.”

  He heard a voice on the other end, giving the hospital’s name. “This is Lieutenant Worthy of the Detroit Police Department. I need some information right away. Has a Mrs. Athena Portis been admitted there in the last two hours?”

  “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out that type of information.”

  “Look, this is an emergency. Give me your supervisor.”

  “She’ll just tell you the same thing. I don’t mean to frustrate you, but you have to understand that people sometimes use false names to try to get confidential information from us. I’d suggest you call the family, Lieutenant.”

  He glared at the phone before handing it to his daughter. “I don’t know what I’m doing with this damn thing. Can you get me the number of Athena Portis quick as you can?”

  “Portis? Sure.”

  It seemed to take forever before Allyson talked to an operator and dialed the number.

  “So why am I doing this?” she asked.

  “You know what it’s like to be a detective, Ally? Ninety-nine percent of the time, you hope you’re right, and then there’s the one percent when you hope to God you’re totally wrong. That one percent is now.”

  She handed the phone to him. “Let’s hope you’re wrong then,” she said as she handed him the phone.

  On the other end, he heard a female voice. “Hello, this is the Portis residence.”

  “Is this Mrs. Siametes?”

  “Yes. Who is speaking?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Worthy. I visited with Father Fortis a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh, yes, Lieutenant. I remember. How are you?”

  “I need to know if Mrs. Portis was taken to the hospital today.”

  “What?”

  “Did she have a stroke or something, and was she taken to the hospital?”

  “No, Lieutenant. Why?”

  “Shit,” Worthy said, handing the phone to Allyson even as he pulled her toward the door.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Back to the church. I forgot that the killer was probably in church this morning and saw the whole thing. I think Father Fortis spooked him.”

  Chapter Twenty

  As soon as Father Fortis stepped into his office, something made him instinctively step backward.

  “Come in, Father,” the voice said. “I was hoping you’d hear my confession.”

  Father Fortis turned on the light but nothing happened.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Father.”

  From the candle burning below the icon of St. George, Father Fortis saw something glistening in the visitor’s lap. The voice sounded familiar, but his brain was lagging behind.

  “I don’t know how you got in here, but I’m needed at the hospital. An emergency.”

  “Mrs. Portis with her stroke,” the person said, waving the gun at him. “Why don’t you sit down, Father?”

  Father Fortis came into the office and walked around his desk. He slumped into his chair, where he could see clearly the person who had tricked him on the phone. Of all the possible suspects in Father Spiro’s murder, this man had never been on Father Fortis’ mental list.

  “Relax, Father,” the man said. “I don’t think I’ll need this,” he said, lifting a gun, “but I wanted to make sure we’d have our little chat.”

  “Dr. Stanos, right?”

  “Call me John. And you, as I remember, are Nick. Right?”

  Father Fortis didn’t say anything, his brain racing. Why would Stanos, a history professor, want
to kill his priest? He thought of the icon exhibit coming up at Allgemein. No, that couldn’t be it. What else was there? Something Father Daniel had told him came back. He’d been assigned by old Father Spiro to work with Stanos in training the altar boys. The altar boys … the altar boys. Suddenly, Father Fortis made the connection. The boy who came to Father Spiro about his sexual identity fears must have been an altar boy.

  “I found your performance this morning spellbinding. At first, I thought you were play-acting, trying to see if I’d bolt for the door. But then, I thought, ‘Our new priest isn’t that good an actor.’ No, I think you figured out something this morning. Something about Father Spiro’s untimely, and may I add unnecessary, death.”

  “You mean his murder, don’t you?”

  “Patience, Nick, patience. Now, what could you have figured out this morning? That’s what I’ve been wondering all day. What does this monk know, or think he knows? Here I am, thoroughly enjoying your chanting when you stop a few rows past me, exactly where Father Spiro stopped. Did I say how much I was enjoying your voice? Your Greek is flawless, so well-cadenced, so effortless. Really, Nick, don’t you think it a sin to hide your gifts in a monastery?”

  Father Fortis didn’t respond.

  “Then I watched you as you took up the chant again. Will you look back at me? No, you’re too interested in your policeman friend, who’s nearly falling out of the balcony.”

  “Perhaps I should warn you that Lieutenant Worthy is due here any moment.”

  “Nick, really. How are we going to have an honest confession if you persist in lying? I believe he thinks you’re at the hospital.”

  “I will hear your confession, Dr. Stanos. If I’m right about Lieutenant Worthy, we don’t have much time for you to unburden your soul of this terrible sin.”

  Stanos laughed uproariously. “Terrible sin? Unburden my soul? Do I sound like someone drowning in guilt?”

  Father Fortis studied the man before him. How proficient would a history professor be with a handgun? Yet the man was clearly calm, his tone playful. Too dangerous in his present state to find out. Maybe he could ruffle his confidence at bit.