by K. L. Murphy
The young man’s lips twitched. “Lucky me.”
Father Joe walked them through his arrival at Father Holland’s apartment and his discovery of the body at the church. “It was clear he was already dead, so I called 911. There was so much blood. It was horrible. I—I . . .” He shuddered and took a deep breath before he spoke again. “I was careful not to touch anything—other than the doors when I came in. I knew that could contaminate the crime scene.”
Smitty sat forward, putting his elbows on the table. “Do you know a lot about crime scenes, Father Sweeney?”
Cancini caught himself before he could interrupt. He didn’t like the implication, but if it weren’t Father Joe, he would have asked the same thing. Smitty was only doing his job. He stared down at his notebook, well aware the old priest knew more than most about murder investigations. How many hours had they spent discussing George Vandenberg and the Coed Killer, to name just a few? The old man loved it and never failed to give his own perspective on guilt and justice.
“I read a lot of books. I watch those crime shows on TV, the ones that show all the evidence, like CSI. Guess we all think we know more than we do about these things.” He half smiled, his lips trembling. “Hopefully, I did the right thing. And please call me Father Joe.”
“You did fine, uh, Father Joe.” Smitty shifted in his seat and stretched his long legs. “Do you normally meet Mr. Holland—I mean Father Holland—for breakfast?”
“Not usually for breakfast. We meet for lunch mostly. Just depends.”
“On what?”
“Our schedules. Although Mass is at the same time, both of us are busy with meetings, church suppers, Bible studies, things like that.”
Cancini made a few notes, watching the exchange. His respect for his young partner grew. Smitty had understood, without discussion, how important it was for Cancini to allow him to take the lead during the interview. Martin, for all his blustering, occasionally made a good decision. While Father Joe might gravitate to Cancini, their relationship could influence or impede the questions Cancini asked and the answers he got.
“When was the last time you’d seen Father Holland? Before this morning, I mean?”
The old man rubbed his chin with thick fingers. “Last week, I guess.”
“Okay. So it’s fair to say you and the deceased saw each other on a fairly regular basis.”
“Yes.”
“How would you characterize your relationship? Were you colleagues? Close friends?”
The priest looked past Smitty and wrapped his hands around the cup. He took a long, slow sip.
Smitty leaned forward. “Well, Father?”
The lines on the old man’s face cracked and broke. Father Joe’s chin sank to his chest, and his shoulders shook with quiet sobs. When he raised his head again, his eyes found Cancini’s. He gave a single shake of his head, a shake of wonder and sorrow. “Like a son. He was like a son to me.”
Chapter Five
2000
The boy slipped around the corner, shoulders slouched, face hidden under an oversized hoodie. He scanned the street. Mr. Jones and Mr. Smalley sat in their green and white lawn chairs—like always—smoking and shooting the shit. His mama said they were like postmen. Nothing stopped ’em. Not rain or snow or anything. He didn’t understand it. What could they have to talk about all day?
The rest of the street was quiet. He stuck his hands in his pockets, lowered his head, and strolled past the rotting row houses and boarded-up storefronts. He crossed to the far side of the street, opposite the old men. He didn’t need his mama knowing he’d skipped school again.
Head hanging, he trudged down the broken sidewalk, careful to keep his pace casual. He passed the empty Popeye’s. He exhaled when he got close to Barry Farm and the squat apartment buildings. Most of the project was close to being condemned, and his unit was no better. Sometimes there was no hot water or the lights didn’t work. The whole place smelled like garbage, the ground littered with greasy food wrappers and used syringes. It was a hellhole, his mama said, but it was the only hellhole they could afford.
He ducked down an alley and climbed the rusty chain-link fence that marked the edge of Barry Farm. A cloud of dirt rose from the ground, and he stifled his cough. He stopped and listened. There was nothing but the usual—some kid crying and the sound of cars on Martin Luther King Boulevard. He stood up a little straighter.
“Where you goin’, Li’l Matty?”
The boy froze. The voice was close. Twenty feet, thirty maybe. It was farther than that to his apartment, and he knew Juan could outrun him.
“Yeah, where ya goin’?” Big Rick stepped out from behind a concrete block. The boy took one step back. The older boys laughed, looking at each other.
“Kid looks scared, don’t he?” Juan asked.
“He should be scared.” Big Rick moved toward his partner. A baseball bat dangled from his fat hand. “Dab knows what you been doin’.”
The boy shuffled his feet, inching closer to the fence. “I haven’t been doing anything.”
“C’mon, man. Dab trusted you.” Juan’s face was grim, his hands already balled into fists.
“I have his money.” The boy reached into his pocket, feeling the large wad of bills. “I can pay you. Honest.”
Big Rick waved the bat in the air. “That’s not the problem, man, and you know it. You been sellin’ on the other side of town, cuttin’ the shit and holdin’ Dab’s profits. You shouldna been stealin’ from Dab, kid.”
The boy shifted his weight, body tensed.
“We gotta teach you a lesson, Li’l Matty. You know how it is. Dab can’t let you be doin’ shit like that.” Juan’s eyes were like marbles, cold and flat. “It looks bad.”
Big Rick licked his lips. “Yeah, bad. But you’re lucky, kid. Dab likes you. Tol’ us not to touch your mama. See how good he is?”
While they talked, the boy kept moving, one foot at a time. He’d gained five feet, maybe six. Watching their faces, he knew he had only a few seconds, no more. When the two older boys looked at each other, he whipped around and sprinted the short distance to the fence, throwing himself over and rolling to the ground. He jumped to his feet and took off, his shoes pounding on the pavement. Behind him, Big Rick struggled to climb the fence, hurling curse words with the effort.
Big Rick had earned his nickname by the time he was twelve. His gut was as big as his shoulders were wide. Word on the street was he’d crushed a guy’s head once between his bare hands. The boy didn’t believe everything he heard, but he’d seen Big Rick pound a kid once, and it had been bad. Big Rick had ball-busting strength, but he was slow.
The boy ran harder, the sounds of Big Rick’s wheezing fading already. Still, he dared not turn around. Juan wasn’t big or strong, but he was fast and had a nasty mean streak. He’d beat him and enjoy every second of it. The boy ran faster, arms pumping, heart racing. He rounded the corner and ran straight toward St. Elizabeth Hospital. His sneakers slapped at the ground, and he hiked up his pants to lengthen his stride.
A handful of people—mostly nurses and orderlies for the crazies inside—stood outside smoking and talking. He ran across the parking lot, weaving in and out of cars. He couldn’t hear Big Rick anymore, but Juan’s steps were close. His breath ragged, he ignored the cramp in his side. He ran straight toward the cluster of smokers outside the hospital doors. Fifty feet. The pounding steps behind him echoed in his ear. Thirty feet. Fingers grabbed his collar, yanking him backward. He stumbled before he landed hard on the pavement.
“Get up,” Juan said, standing over him. His chest heaved and he waved a six-inch blade in front of the boy’s face. It glittered in the late-afternoon sun, casting light across the lot.
A woman screamed. “He’s got a knife.”
“Hey, you there!” A security guard stepped out of the shadows of the hospital entrance.
Juan closed the knife, hiding it in his sleeve. He backed away from the boy, focused instead on the big man i
n the uniform.
The guard lumbered toward them. “Damn kids.” His eyes bulged and his face flamed red. “I’m calling the cops.”
The boy’s skin went cold and he scrambled to his feet, running again. Within seconds, Juan was at his heels, the heavy chains he wore around his neck rattling with each step. The boy darted in front of one car and dodged another to reach the other side of the street. Horns blared, drowning out the pounding in his ears.
Sweat stung his eyes and he ran blindly, pushing through anyone who got in his way. There were angry shouts behind him. His lungs burned with every step. He pushed, but it didn’t matter how fast he ran. Juan was faster. He passed row houses with crumbling steps and dirt yards. There was nowhere to go. Then he saw it. The church on the corner. He ran harder, ignoring the pain in his side and his screaming muscles. He ran up the steps, two at a time, hauling open the heavy wooden doors. He ran down the aisle to the altar, collapsing there, his face bathed in sweat. The door behind him opened again. He heard Juan stop, breathing heavily.
The boy lay still, suwcking in air, unable to move.
“Get up, you little shit. You think you’re safe here?” Juan spat out the words.
“Everyone is safe here.” The boy’s head jerked up. A man in a black robe emerged from the shadows and moved between the boys, his head jutting forward. “Juan, is that you?”
The gold chains stopped jangling. “Uh, yes, Father. I didn’t see you there.”
“No, of course not. I was just coming in to pray.” His voice was even, almost gentle. “Your grandmother was at Mass this morning.”
“Oh.”
“We’ve missed you this last year.”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve been busy.”
“I see. Well, you’re here now.” The boy shifted on the floor even as Juan took two steps back. “Would it be a good time for reconciliation?”
“Uh, no, Father. I’ve gotta go.”
The heavy door slammed behind Juan, the sound echoing up to the rafters. The boy sat up. He blinked and looked around. There was a golden cross hanging from the wall in front of him and half-burned candles lit everywhere. He spotted colored windows and row after row of wooden benches. Sniffing the air, he breathed in a scent he didn’t recognize.
The man in black stood over him, one hand outstretched. “Are you okay?”
The boy ignored the hand, getting to his feet. “Yeah, fine.” He looked around, searching for any other exits.
“Other than the way you came in, the only way out is down the stairs over there. There’s a door that leads to a back alley.”
He hesitated. The stairs appeared shrouded in darkness even during the day. “Uh, thanks.”
The priest placed a hand lightly on his narrow shoulder. “I wouldn’t go just yet if I were you. Young Juan won’t have gone far, and he won’t be alone. Your best bet is to wait him out.”
The boy bit his lip. He needed to pay the landlord before he tried to evict them again. His mom might not come home for days, but she had to have a place to sleep when she did.
He glanced at the dark stairwell again. The man was right. Big Rick would have caught up to Juan by now. They were probably covering the front and back doors. He’d run to the church for safety, but now he was trapped.
“I was planning to have a bowl of soup.” The boy watched the priest glide down the steps, his black robes sweeping across the floor. “Why don’t you have some while you wait?”
The boy’s stomach growled. “Why not?” He followed the priest down a long hall to a tiny kitchen. The counters were crowded with boxes and cans of food, but it was clean. Even better, it didn’t smell of rotting food or sour beer. He sat down at the table. The priest emptied two cans of soup into a pot and turned on the stove.
“It’ll only take a few minutes.” The priest gave the soup a stir, then sat across from the boy. “Everyone calls me Father Joe.” His robes fanned out under him and he folded his hands in his lap. “What’s your name, son?”
The boy stifled a groan. He knew a do-gooder when he saw one, and this guy was one for sure. After the soup, he was outta there. He didn’t need some priest tracking him down. The lie was on the tip of his tongue, but for reasons he didn’t understand then, it was the truth that spilled from his mouth. “Matthew,” he said. “Matthew Holland.”
Chapter Six
Father Joe straightened, hands spread on the table. “When I met him, he didn’t have a father. His mom was . . .” The old man hesitated, shifting in the hard wooden chair. “Well, there’s no easy way to put it. She was a junkie. She tried to hide it from Matthew, but he knew. For a while, she tried to hold down a job, but the heroin took hold. She spent the rent money, sold their food stamps, whatever it took.” His eyes clouded. “As you can imagine, not a great environment for any kid. They lived at Barry Farm then, always under the threat of eviction. He did the best he could to keep them afloat. He loved his mother, in spite of everything. She was all he had.”
Smitty rubbed his chin. “How did he, uh, keep them afloat?”
“I couldn’t say specifically what he did, only that it probably wasn’t legal if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Smitty tapped his pen against the table. “I see.”
“Do you really, Detective? Did you grow up in the projects surrounded by filth and gangs? Do you know what it’s like to beg for food?” Father Joe’s hands gripped the table, and his words came faster. “Did your mother have to prostitute herself to keep buying drugs?” He shook his head, his face flushed pink. “I don’t think you see at all.”
A silence fell over the room. Cancini had seen his share of junkie mothers, too messed up to know whether it was morning or night or when they’d last eaten. Taking care of a kid would be impossible for someone that strung out. The life the priest had described would be difficult for any child, especially one young enough to need her and still love her, but old enough to be aware.
“Sorry,” the priest said, his skin pale again. “I didn’t mean to get upset.” His lower lip quivered. “This has been really hard.”
Smitty nodded once. “Where is his mother now?”
Father Joe blinked hard. “Gone. She overdosed right after Matthew started high school. I wanted to take him in, but legally, it was impossible. He was a minor, and the church is not in the business of adoption.” He picked up the paper napkin next to the untouched sandwich and crumpled it between his thick fingers. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I let him down.” The old priest clutched the napkin in his hands, bowed his head, and wept.
Cancini lowered his gaze. His mind raced and he struggled to ignore a sudden and unexpected resentment. He’d never even heard of Father Holland before today. Father Joe had been a fixture in Cancini’s life for more than two decades. How could Cancini not have known about someone so important to the old priest? The quiet sobs lasted no more than a couple of minutes, but it was long enough. Cancini breathed deep and raised his head.
“I’m sorry.” The old man’s hands trembled.
“Take your time,” Smitty said, keeping his voice even. After the priest had calmed, he asked, “What happened to Father Holland after his mother died?”
Father Joe wiped at his nose. “I tried to help him, to find some family, any family, but there was none. Social services took him. They’d lined up a foster family for him. I never got the name, but it didn’t matter anyway. The day he was scheduled to go to his first foster home, he disappeared.”
Smitty looked up from his notes. “Disappeared?”
“Ran away. Matthew was fifteen then.” The old man’s shoulders sank lower into his chest. “I didn’t see him again for three years.”
Chapter Seven
2005
Matt tucked his hair behind his ears and pulled his hoodie over the battered baseball hat. Hunching his shoulders, he ducked behind the hedges. A man with short, dark hair came down the steps, his stride quick and purposeful. Matt crouched lower and watched the man walk down the pa
th and around the church to the street. He heard the hum of a car engine. Even after the man pulled away, he remained still, his head cocked, listening. He stood slowly, uncoiling his body. The house behind the church was small but well maintained. Black shutters hung neatly against the bright white siding. A pair of bushes with pink flowers flanked the front entrance. He glanced back at the street but saw and heard nothing. He moved closer to the house, his eyes darting from side to side. He wiped his damp palms across low-slung jeans. He knocked once, twice.
Father Joe opened the door halfway, taking in the young man’s dark hoodie and untied basketball shoes. “Yes? Can I help you?” His tone was wary although not unkind.
Matt couldn’t speak, his tongue thick and dry in his mouth. What if coming was a mistake? He wasn’t the boy he used to be, and maybe he’d misjudged the man. He appraised the priest from under the brim of his cap. The old man hadn’t changed much. He wasn’t wearing the robes, but he was still dressed in a button-down black shirt tucked into black pants. Black belt. Black shoes. The soft features of his face showed no fear, only curiosity.
Father Joe opened the door wider. “Can I help you, young man?” Matt let out a breath. He reached up and pulled off the cap. After only a moment, the priest’s eyes grew round. He threw open the door and wrapped Matt in a tight hug. “I can’t believe it,” he said. He repeated the words twice more. Matt’s arms hung at his sides, limp. After a few minutes, the priest let go and stepped back, waving his hand. “Come in. Come in.”
“Thank you.” Matt stepped inside to a small hall. On the left was what looked like an office or library. A computer sat on a desk surrounded by books. More books were stacked next to a chair near the window. Two coffee cups sat on an end table. To the right of the hall was another small room, this one a formal living room.
Father Joe steered him into the living room, offering the sofa. “Sit down. It’s so good to see you.” His smile widened. “After all this time, you’re here. How are you, Matthew?”