by K. L. Murphy
Cancini opened the file he’d placed on the table. “Do you remember last week’s meeting?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you recall Father Holland’s explanation for funding the stained glass window repairs?”
Her hand moved up to her hair, touching it where it fell over her face. “I think he said something about a donation. Is that a problem?”
Cancini avoided the question. “Why didn’t you tell us about the donation yesterday?”
“I didn’t know it was important.”
“You told us he was worried about money. Were you lying, Mrs. Harding?”
She sucked in her breath. “No. He was always worried about money. At least I thought he still was.”
“Father Holland was also looking to get quotes from landscapers, wasn’t he?”
Her chin tilted higher. “The property grounds hadn’t been cared for in years.”
“Do you remember him asking for an estimate to get the steeple refurbished?”
She twisted her ring faster and licked her lips. “I think he did.”
Cancini pulled out an income statement from the previous month and placed it on the table. “Did you think it was odd that one day the church was in financial straits and the next, it had an anonymous donation?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Did you have any idea who the anonymous donor might be?” Cancini asked.
She shook her head slowly. “Should I?”
He smiled at the woman. “I’d gotten the impression you were sort of his right-hand woman, Mrs. Harding. Several people have told me how much he relied on you.”
“That’s true, I guess.”
“So I thought he might’ve confided in you.”
Her lips turned down. “We did work closely together, Detective, but not on church finances. I helped with the administrative details of running the parish. I helped him stay organized. He struggled with that a bit. I created and maintained the church Web site. I told you this yesterday.”
“But surely you were curious? At least a little?”
Her skin darkened, cheeks flushed. “I—I might’ve been a little curious, but I didn’t ask. I would never do that.”
Cancini considered the woman across the table. Rising, he faced the one-way glass. He’d asked Bronson to observe, see if he could pick up on anything, and it couldn’t hurt for her to know someone was watching. “Mrs. Harding, how much do you know about Father Holland’s past?”
“His past? You mean before he came to St. William?”
“Yes. Anything about his youth, schooling, friends.”
The pinched lines around her mouth eased. “He grew up here in D.C. Never knew his dad.” She recounted his early youth, the shabby apartments, the poverty, his mother’s growing addiction. “I heard him say once that after his mother died, he lived on the streets.” Cancini and Smitty exchanged a glance. This would have been when Father Joe lost touch with him. “Can you imagine how horrible that must have been? I think that’s why he cared so much about helping the people in the community. He was one of them.” Her voice cracked and her body seemed to fold into itself. Clutching a wadded-up tissue in her hands, she rocked gently in the chair. After a few moments, her shoulders stilled. “I’m sorry.”
Cancini cleared his throat. “Take your time. Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind.” She nodded. “One thing we’ve been wondering about is whether or not Father Holland had any friends.”
“Friends? I’ve never thought about it.” Her brows screwed up. “I guess most of the regular members of the parish were friends. He was invited every week to someone’s house for dinner. Priests don’t really earn a lot of money, you know, and they spend their lives serving church and God. They get housing usually and a small salary, but every little bit helps.”
Cancini paced the room. He knew Father Joe relied on the generosity of parishioners, too. He enjoyed the meals, but he also called it outreach. Getting to know his parishioners was one of his favorite aspects of his service. “Did he ever mention any other friends outside of parishioners?”
“Not really. I know he was friendly with another priest. I met him a few times when he came by the church to visit. His name is Father Sweeney.”
“Any of his old friends from his childhood ever stop by? Did he ever mention anyone?”
“No. I don’t think so.” Her eyes widened. “Wait. There was someone who called once—definitely not a parishioner from St. William. He didn’t ask for Father Holland. He asked for Matty. I remember that. I’d never heard anyone call Father Holland Matty before. I asked what it was about and he said, ‘old times.’ His name was Charlie or Carl or something that started with a C. I—I might have overheard Father Holland tell him not to call again.” She blushed and explained, “Normally, I wouldn’t have been listening. I’m not an eavesdropper. It’s just that he’d seemed mad when I told him about the man on the phone. Father Holland never got mad. It was just so odd to me.” She angled her head, recounting the call. “He picked up the extension in his office and I heard him tell the man never to call again. He didn’t even say hello. I think he knew I could hear him then because he got up and shut the door. After that, I didn’t hear anything.” She looked back at the detectives, face sheepish. “I did ask him about it later, who the man was, but all he would say was it was someone he knew a long time ago. That was it.”
Smitty’s pen hovered over his notebook. “Did this person ever call again?”
“Not that I know of. Do you think it means anything?”
Cancini ignored the question, asking his own. “When did this man call? How long ago?”
She sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Two weeks. Three. I’m so sorry. It really didn’t seem important at the time.”
“It’s fine. We can check the phone records. Did Father Holland say or do anything unusual after he hung up?”
Erica frowned. “Now that I think about it, he did go out for coffee as soon as he came out of his office.”
“Did he say where?”
“No.”
“How long was he on the phone?”
“A couple of minutes maybe.”
“Did he seem agitated or upset when he went out?”
“I don’t think so.” She looked at both of them, apologizing again. “I’m sorry. I really don’t remember.”
“It’s okay,” Smitty said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Her lips trembled. “Really? I’m glad.”
Cancini helped her to her feet. “That’s all for today, Mrs. Harding. If we have any more questions, we’ll let you know.”
She hooked her purse over her shoulder. “My husband is waiting for me.”
Heads turned as she walked to the front desk, her hips swaying gently under the knee-length black skirt. She slowed when a large man held out his hand. She took it, bowed her head, and pressed into him. He placed his large hands on the small of her back and buried his head in her hair.
“Big guy,” Cancini commented after they’d gone. “Looks strong enough to hurt someone.”
“Did you notice the bruise on the lady’s face, the one near her temple?” Bronson asked, coming up behind them.
Cancini had and said so. “Yeah. Good observation.”
“Still buy the klutzy excuse?” Smitty asked, voice strained.
Nothing about Erica Harding seemed klutzy. If anything, she moved with the grace of a former dancer. Cancini’s forehead creased. The purple marks on her arm. The fresh bruise at her temple. Cancini frowned. “What do you think?”
He shook his head and walked to the whiteboard, eyeing the line connecting Father Holland to Erica Harding. His head throbbed. He drew a new line to the outer loop, one that extended to Erica’s husband, Sonny Harding.
Chapter Twenty-three
“You sure you don’t want me to come in?” Smitty stood with his long legs spread apart, his hands thrust in his pockets.
Cancini glanced down the hall at
the closed door. A uniformed cop stood just outside the room, his arms folded across his chest. Martin had reluctantly agreed to the guard, but Cancini knew Father Joe would be unprotected outside the hospital. His stomach knotted. “I need a few minutes on my own.”
“Martin won’t like it.”
Cancini’s head jerked around. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
Pink spots appeared on Smitty’s pale cheeks, but his even tone never wavered. “I didn’t say I was. I’m your partner. We’re both on this investigation. You’re the lead, but we have to stick together.”
Cancini looked away. Smitty was right and he was only doing his job, but Cancini had his own line of questions for the old man that had nothing to do with the murder or the shooting. There were still things he didn’t understand, couldn’t get his mind around. He was like a son to me. If Holland was like a son to Father Joe, what was Cancini? His stomach lurched and he faced his partner. “I need to see him alone. Just for a few minutes.”
Smitty held his gaze. If he could read the open need behind Cancini’s insistence, he didn’t let on. “Five minutes, then I’m coming in.”
“Fifteen.”
“Ten. That’s all. I have to be there when you question him. It’s not about Martin. It’s about the investigation.” Smitty’s voice softened. “It’s what you would say to me if the situation were reversed.”
Cancini nodded once, his shoulders loosening. Ten minutes would have to do. Cancini glanced over at the nurses behind the long desk. A young brunette, hands moving slowly across a keyboard, watched them from under her lashes. He jerked a thumb toward the brunette. “You should make good use of the ten minutes. That nurse over there’s been watching you.”
“Maybe she’s been watching you . . .” Smitty said, even as he raised a hand in her direction.
“Sure she has,” he scoffed. “Not unless she has a thing for cranky cops old enough to be her father.” He left Smitty with a smile on his face.
Father Joe lay propped up in bed, his face turned toward the night sky. His round belly rose and fell under the crisp white sheet. The monitor next to the bed glowed in the dimly lit room. Cancini pulled a chair close to the bed. He reached out, took one of the old man’s hands, and covered it with his. Father Joe stirred, his eyelids fluttering. The priest mumbled and licked his lips, the last of the drug-induced sleep falling away.
“Hey,” Father Joe said. “You’re here.”
Cancini squeezed his hand. “Can’t get rid of me that easily.”
The priest attempted to sit up, but grimaced. “Oomph,” he grunted.
“Are you okay?” Cancini asked, leaning in close. “Do you want me to get the nurse?”
“No, no. It’s fine. Just moving is a little difficult.” He touched a hand to his leg. “They tell me I was lucky. Nothing major hit. A flesh wound really.” He smiled. “For once, it’s a good thing I have some extra flesh.”
Cancini sat back and returned the old man’s smile. Typical of the old man to make light of his gunshot wound. Still, it didn’t change the fact that he’d been shot. Recovery might be long and difficult for a man his age. He took Father Joe’s hand again, the smile gone, his face somber. “I was worried when they told me you’d been brought in.”
Father Joe’s eyes fell on him, soft and sad. “So was I, but here I am.”
Cancini searched the old man’s face. “Father Joe, I need to ask you some questions.”
“I can’t tell you much. I didn’t see anything.”
“No. Smitty will come in for that. It’s something else.” His chest and face felt hot and he lowered his gaze. “I don’t really know how to begin.”
“Ah. Maybe I do the.” The priest patted Cancini’s hand. “You want to know why I never told you about Matthew.”
The air went out of Cancini. As a boy, Cancini had turned to the priest for comfort, for guidance, for friendship. It had never occurred to him that another boy could have done the same or that their relationship wasn’t special and unique. The bond, both paternal and familial, had given him strength through the most difficult of times. He was like a son to me. The words bounced around his head. It was as though the old man had deliberately kept his friendship with Father Holland a secret. Why? He sighed and raised his head. “Yes, I do.”
“He asked me not to.” The old man’s head fell back on the pillow. He stared up at the ceiling, deep lines etched into his cheeks and forehead. “He saw you once, when he first came back, before he went away to college. He recognized you were a policeman and he asked me why you were there. I told him you were my very close friend. He asked me not to mention his existence at all. I promised.” He reached out and touched Cancini’s shoulder. “My relationship with Matt was different than with you.” He paused. “When your mother was murdered, I ached for you and your father. Her loss touched us all, but none more than your father.” He held up a hand. “I don’t mean you didn’t feel the loss or hurt any less. I only mean it was almost as though something in him died that day, too.” Cancini blinked hard. “With your father’s, uh, absence in your life, I was grateful to be there for you. I could not have known then that I would come to value our friendship so much, that I would be the one who needed you.” He was quiet a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. “Matthew and I were not friends in the same way. When he was just a boy, I tried to help him stay off the streets. Then I helped him get to college and seminary. I supported him in his quest to help his community. But I must be honest. I didn’t always agree with everything he did or everything he was. He often acted impetuously or without thought for the consequences. There were times when he might have bent the definition of right and wrong.” Cancini raised one eyebrow. “We had arguments, and in fairness, sometimes he listened, sometimes he didn’t. In his heart, though, he was a good man.” His voice caught and he whispered, “I’m going to miss him very much.” A single tear slipped from his eye.
Cancini held the priest’s hand tight and remained silent. What had the old man meant when he said Matt acted without thought for the consequences? How exactly did he bend what was right and wrong? Most parishioners wanted to believe their priest was a saint, close to God. It was a common—although flawed—sentiment. Perhaps Father Holland was turning out to be a more complex person than he’d first realized.
“You still have questions?”
Cancini glanced at the closed door. “Yes.” Holland’s doctor had verified he’d written a prescription for Ativan; however, he’d refused to speak about Holland’s anxiety, saying only that Matt insisted he had someone he could talk to about his problems. Cancini suspected the doctor was right. “He confided in you.”
“He did.”
“It could help me in the investigation into his murder.”
“Possibly, it could. I can’t say either way, but it doesn’t matter. I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you.” A deep sadness tinged his words. “I wish I could change some of my choices—I do.” He let out a long, shaky breath. “I can’t tell you what we talked about because I wasn’t just his mentor. I was also his confessor.”
Chapter Twenty-four
2013
Matt picked at the lint on his pants and leaned his head against the screen of the confessional. “Things had already been going downhill. We weren’t talking much anymore. I never should have gone that night.” He shuddered at the memory. “I just stood there, doing nothing . . .” His chest heaved with each breath. “I’m sorry if that disappoints you, Padre.”
“It’s not about disappointing me, Matthew.”
“Isn’t it?” He heard Father Joe sigh. “I know, I know. You don’t have to say it.” Matt leaned back against the chair and folded his arms in close. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “It’s just that no matter how many times I talk about this with you, I still feel guilty, like maybe I could have done something differently.”
“Matthew, are you sure you want to keep telling me these things?”
It was an old conversat
ion, and Matt knew that Father Joe would never judge, but sometimes he wondered. Even so, there was no mistaking the love and concern in the old man’s voice. It was unfair to continuously put the man in this awkward position, but it couldn’t be helped. And in a way, the older priest had asked for it.
He closed his eyes, the past as close as the present. Barely in his teens, he hadn’t yet understood the power of reconciliation. Father Joe had taken him to religious education classes, but his mind had drifted. It was something about confessing your sins and God was supposed to forgive you just like that. He’d snorted out loud when he’d heard that one. That’s not how the real world worked. If he confessed even a little of what he’d done, he’d be locked up in juvie. The whole thing seemed stupid. And why did Father Joe sit behind that screen, as though they both didn’t know who was on the other side?
His first time, he’d folded his arms across his chest.
“Is someone there?” Father Joe had asked.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
Father Joe had explained again how it worked. Then Father Joe had told him to be honest and everything would be all right. The old man meant well. But could he trust him? He’d decided to test him, see where it went.
“I stole money from the collection plate,” he’d said.
The silence had been brief. “How much did you steal?”
“Ten dollars.”
“Do you want to say why?”
“Do I have to?”
“No.”
“Then I’m done.” Father Joe had given him his penance, blessed him, and he’d left. On the next Sunday, he was asked to assist with the collection. At his next confession, he asked, “Did you tell anyone about me stealing money from the collection plate?”
“No, Matthew. God has forgiven you, and what’s said in the confessional cannot leave here.”
“What if I told you I stole again this Sunday?”
“You would be forgiven, but I don’t think you did.”
“How do you know I didn’t?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t believe you did.”