Playing Saint

by Zachary Bartels

  “At least it’s easy to hide down there,” the doctor continued. “My daughter Anne got a sea turtle tattooed on her neck, can you believe that? I said, what about job interviews? She tells me she can cover it up with a turtleneck, which I guess is ironic or something.” He looked at Parker expectantly. “You know, because she already has a turtle neck.”

  “Why are there plastic bags on her hands?” Parker asked.

  Ketcham cleared his throat. “This might go faster if Dr. Potter doesn’t have to explain every step of the process.”

  “No, that’s fine. I appreciate the interest. Most people don’t want to know. The bags are put there by crime scene technicians. It allows us to get samples from the palms, fingertips, under the fingernails. In this case, it’s also holding in some blood from the defensive wounds to her hands, but there’s not really a way around that.”

  Potter walked over to the long table full of saws and snips. Parker’s vision dimmed around the edges until the doctor settled on a small ruler.

  “We can often find very important evidence under the fingernails in homicide cases,” he continued. “Even if an attacker is wearing gloves, it’s almost impossible to cover up all of your skin, and some of it can end up under the victim’s nails. It’s a great source of DNA if you have a suspect to check against, which I understand we do in this case.”

  Dr. Potter measured two tears in the blouse and a long black scuff on the skirt, dictating the information to Terri, who recorded it on the clipboard and took digital photos. He then tipped the body onto its side and examined the back of the clothing, making several more observations.

  “I’m going to take the bags off now,” he told Parker. “You’ll see how carefully we analyze the hands and how many samples we can get from such a small space.”

  Parker was becoming a little more comfortable with the idea of an autopsy, to the point of being rather fascinated as he watched the hand examination stretch on for nearly twenty minutes. He mentally added “autopsy” to his list of search terms for the evening.

  His comfort evaporated when Dr. Potter began unbuttoning the blouse. Parker averted his eyes slightly at the sight of a white lace brassiere.

  “What’s that tray for?” he asked, knowing he was stalling, trying to temporarily derail the progress.

  Ketcham answered, “The rib cage will be placed there during the internal examination. That will give Dr. Potter easy access to her organs.”

  Parker’s stomach began quivering and complaining. What was left of the volcano fries was in danger of erupting.

  “And that bucket closer to you is called the brain bucket,” he continued. “I’ll give you two guesses what that’s for.”

  Dr. Potter snatched a pair of small wire cutters from the table. “You find a girl yet, Ketcham?”

  “That’s a negative, Doc. No time. But speaking of, how’s Katie?”

  Potter paused before snipping the underwire. “How do you know my wife?”

  “I bumped into you two at that new restaurant on Market a few weeks back, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah—Tangy Bones. Amazing ribs, that place. Terri, come here and help me lift up her hips.” He returned the wire cutters to the exact spot where he’d gotten them. “All-you-can-eat ribs will be my death. I must have gone through about fifty of those wet naps that night. Those ribs are good but they sure are messy.”

  Parker felt the contents of his stomach backing up into his throat. He wanted to turn and run out the door, up the hall to the restroom they’d passed, but he knew the very act of turning would just increase the projectile nature of what was about to happen. So, instead, he lurched forward two steps and emptied his guts into the brain bucket.

  “You’re not the first one to do that. Don’t worry,” Ketcham assured him a few minutes later, out in the hall. A smile was tugging at the corner of the detective’s mouth. “At least the brain wasn’t already in there. That would have caused some problems.”

  Parker had apologized profusely and repeatedly, but Ketcham was clearly more amused than annoyed. Parker hadn’t stuck around long enough to learn how Dr. Potter would react.

  “Go home and get some rest,” Ketcham said. “I’ve got some solo work to do this afternoon anyway. I’m going to compare statements and do a little digging into Damien’s background. I’ll get you copies of anything that might be up your alley.”

  “Thank you, Detective Ketcham.”

  “No problem. Gargle some mouthwash and get some sleep. I’ve got to get back to the autopsy.”

  Parker loved the idea. He wanted nothing more than to shut his curtains and curl up in his bed. But when he pulled up to his house, the Jesuits’ Cadillac was in the driveway.

  TEN YEARS AGO

  Danny sat in his car, parked under a bridge. He locked the doors, pulled his keys out of the ignition, and tossed them under the seat. It was better if they weren’t easily accessible.

  He could sense that They would be back any minute now. It was a familiar but still disconcerting feeling. His mind was spinning, refusing to land on any one thought. This in-between time was complicated for Danny. He felt emptied, in both a good and a bad way. There was a certain freedom to be enjoyed during these brief windows, but an intense longing as well. He knew Their return would be painful yet ultimately satisfying.

  There would be more of Them this time. A lot more. That’s what he really cared about. More in number and more in power.

  This unexpected side effect of repeated expulsion had prompted the change in Danny’s motivation. He was no longer driven by the attention or the sense of awe focused on him by a group of perfect strangers. Nor was it the perks that came with it, numerous as they might be.

  As he’d moved into the affluent suburbs of Grosse Pointe and Farmington Hills, the treatment from churches had gone deluxe. The bigger ones had green rooms, where they would bring Danny after the service. They’d give him a six-dollar bottle of sparkling water and treat him like a king. Danny had eaten this up at first, but now it just got in the way. It wasn’t about attention anymore. It was about the power that increased each time They came back.

  The temperature in the car began to drop quickly. Or at least it seemed to. Danny sucked in a deep breath and held it. With a jerk, he arched in his seat and ground his teeth. Dread always came first, but then a kind of contentment took its place. The whole process was getting quicker each time. Within three minutes he was calmly pulling his keys from under the car seat and turning on the ignition.

  Perhaps the reason it had taken him so long to realize he was no longer pretending was that Danny remained fully aware of what was going on. He didn’t black out or lose time. He was fully conscious and usually in complete control of himself.

  Danny was still Danny. But he was more.

  ELEVEN

  “HOME FOR LUNCH ALREADY?” MICHAEL ASKED, PEERING OVER Parker’s backyard gate.

  “No, I’m done for the day.”

  “We came back to dispose of the burnt cat,” Michael explained. “You heard me, the sickos burned a cat. Can you believe it? Probably had a name. We didn’t want you to have to deal with it.”

  “I would have had to. How could I explain that to anyone else? Thanks.”

  Michael opened the gate and emerged from the back, pulling off a pair of long rubber gloves. Ignatius came up behind him, holding a shovel, followed by Xavier.

  “This works out well,” Xavier said. “We were going to ask you to accompany us to the Church of the Transfiguration later this evening, but now would be better. Are you free?”

  “How do you break into churches during the day?”

  The priest laughed. “We’re not breaking in. We have an appointment with the parish priest.”

  “I’ll pass on this one. I need to get some sleep.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Xavier warned. “You’ll confuse your internal clock. You wouldn’t want to wake up at 3:00 a.m., wide-awake. Better to power through and sleep well tonight.”


  “You may have a point.”

  Michael flashed a smile. “It won’t take long. We’ll buy you lunch. What do you say?”

  Parker’s stomach had calmed down after he vomited, but the thought of putting something else in it caused it to rebel again.

  “The last thing I want is to eat right now,” he said.

  “Good. Because we just had omelets. Big ones. You can ride shotgun.”

  “This church wasn’t on your list last night, was it, Father Xavier?” Parker asked.

  “No, that list analyzed vandalism. I don’t expect we’ll hear about much of that here. My experience tells me that people in this sort of neighborhood respect the Church. In fact, I would pity the young delinquent caught by the locals while defacing this building.”

  There were a dozen cars in the lot of the old brick edifice. Michael put the car in park and looked earnestly over at Parker.

  “Now, there are going to be crucifixes in here. You gonna be okay?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Just warning you.”

  Father Ignatius scowled. “What is this talk?”

  “Inside joke.” Michael twisted in his seat to address his fellow Jesuits. “When we get in there, forget the charade. I’m taking the lead this time.”

  Father Xavier looked dubious. “If you think they’ll buy it.”

  “There’s nothing to buy. I’m leading this investigation.”

  “We have no objection,” Xavier said.

  Ignatius nodded.

  They entered through a 1940s addition to the church. Parker surveyed the foyer.

  “These old buildings must be a bear to heat and maintain.”

  Ignatius snorted. “Did you say old?”

  Michael leaned in to Parker. “Father Ignatius was baptized and confirmed in a fourteenth-century Spanish monastery, so . . .”

  “Well, it’s old to me. Our facility was built in 1981.”

  There was an explosion of clerical garb as Michael and Xavier collided with a speed-walking priest rounding the corner. The large beads of his rosary clacked, and his salt-and-pepper beard reverberated with the impact.

  “Excuse me, friends,” he said with a voice much smaller than his frame would have suggested.

  “It was my fault,” Father Michael said, holding out his hand. “You must be the Reverend Monsignor John Naughton.”

  “I am indeed.” The priest gave Michael’s hand a single weak shake.

  “I’m Father Michael Faber. Do you have a few minutes to speak with us?”

  The monsignor’s face brightened. “You must be the men from the Vatican.” He looked to Xavier expectantly.

  “Indeed we are,” the priest replied with a slight French accent Parker had not yet heard. “I’m Father Xavier and this is Father Ignatius. And this is Parker.”

  “Father Xavier, Father Ignatius, Father Parker,” he said, shaking each man’s hand.

  “Mr. Parker,” Ignatius corrected.

  “Reverend Parker. Reverend Saint, actually,” Parker said.

  The bearded man drew up his brow, impressed. “Parker Saint? Do we have a local celebrity in our midst?”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “How on earth did you get mixed up with the Vatican’s men?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Ignatius shook his head. “A short story. We commandeered him.”

  The monsignor laughed. “And you’ve got a young protégé as well. Sounds like a good arrangement.”

  “He’s still in training,” Ignatius said, mussing Michael’s hair. “You’re doing very well, my son.”

  “We were hoping to speak with you for a few minutes this afternoon,” Xavier explained. “We apologize for the short notice, but it concerns some rather pressing church business that cannot wait.”

  “The bishop told me to expect you at six o’clock this evening,” Naughton said with a pained expression. “I’m afraid I’m supposed to be hearing confessions for the next two hours. I have people waiting.”

  “Not a problem. Father Ignatius can hear the confessions while we talk.”

  Michael held up a finger. “Are you sure that’s—”

  “It will be fine, Father Michael. Don’t you think?”

  Ignatius waited, his eyes on the young priest.

  “Yeah, I guess it will be fine.”

  Ignatius bowed slightly and followed the monsignor’s simple directions to the confessional. Michael’s eyes followed after him, full of concern.

  “He doesn’t like hearing confession?” Naughton asked.

  Xavier waved a hand. “It’s not that. Father Ignatius has been serving the Church in a very different capacity for many years. But hearing confession is like riding a bike, as they say. Besides, we hear each other’s confessions regularly, and I can attest that Father Ignatius is more than capable.”

  “Yeah, no one’s getting away with anything today,” Michael mused. “May we follow you to your office now, Monsignor?”

  “Of course.”

  They passed under an archway and down a few stairs to a door adorned with a nameplate and a large framed placard bearing the words War Is Not the Answer. The parish priest unlocked the door and invited them to sit in two high-backed leather armchairs facing his desk. Father Michael grabbed a stackable metal chair from the corner and sat between them.

  The Reverend Monsignor Naughton slipped in behind his desk and silently studied his guests. “I have to admit I’ve been relentlessly curious all day, wondering what the Holy See could possibly want with our church.”

  Xavier spoke, friendly but efficient. “We’d like to discuss three items with you today. The first, and most mundane, is the question of whether your church—particularly the building—has been the victim of any occult-related crimes. Any sort of defacing or desecration?”

  Naughton pursed his lips in thought. “None that I can think of, no. I’d be very surprised by any defacing or malicious property damage here. We’ve done quite a good deal of mercy ministry in this neighborhood. We help ex-cons transition back into society, support addicts trying to kick their habits, and we feed a hundred and fifty people three times a week. Our church building is safe here because we are well thought of in the community.”

  “That’s what I was telling Pastor Parker. There’s more respect for the Church in the inner city than most other places.”

  “We prefer to call this a ‘transitioning neighborhood,’ but yes, I agree. Does that cover item number one?”

  “It does.”

  A young man, sloppily dressed, shifted uncomfortably in the confessional.

  “I’m not sure about all this. A little archaic, isn’t it?”

  Father Ignatius never got sidetracked during confession. “Yes, the Rite of Reconciliation is an ancient sacrament of the Church. Now, please begin.”

  “It’s just, I’m not really used to—”

  “I realize that I’m not your parish priest, but be assured that I have taken my vows and have been a priest for almost fifty years. I am more than qualified to hear your confession.”

  “I’m not used to being in here is all,” the young man said. “Anyway, this week has been a little better than last.”

  Ignatius sighed. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. How long since your last confession?”

  “A week. I come every Thursday and meet with Father John.”

  “And yet, the confessional seems foreign to you. Why do you suppose this is?”

  “Because we don’t use it. We meet in Father Greg’s old office. There’s couches.”

  “You do confession face-to-face?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s sure not like this.” He poked at the screen. “It’s more like a counseling session.”

  “A counseling session,” Ignatius repeated, horrified.

  “Yeah, we talk about my spiritual life. My struggles, my successes. That’s how a lot of churches are doing it these days. Like a counseling session.”

  “Does F
ather Naughton assign penance?”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s mostly exercises to help me with my struggles, so I can grow spiritually.”

  “Like what, for example?”

  “Last week, he had me write down one thing I did each day that made God smile. I have it with me if you want to hear—”

  “No! I’ve heard enough. Your confession has been vulgar and blasphemous. Your penance is sixty Our Fathers, one hundred Acts of Contrition, and forty Hail Marys.”

  “But I haven’t even gotten to my sins yet,” the young man objected.

  “If they’re worse than what you just told me, I don’t think I could bear hearing them.”

  “Item number two,” Michael said, “is the girl who was murdered Sunday night.”

  “Isabella.” Sadness stole over the monsignor’s face.

  “She was a member of your church?” Xavier asked.

  “Technically, yes. She was baptized here, catechized here, and made her First Communion. But we haven’t seen her lately. She kind of . . .” He grappled for the right word.

  “Lapsed?” Parker offered.

  “I suppose, but that word describes a whole generation. These young adults raised in the church are functionally no different from their peers. They want to be moral and they believe that God looks out for them, but they see no need for devotion or piety, much less attendance at a local church.”

  “So she never came to Mass,” Michael said.

  “Once in a while. She usually came on Mother’s Day as a gift to Rosa—that’s her mother, of course. I’m afraid that Isabella viewed the sacrament as something of an occasional magic pill that got her off the hook with her Creator. Much like what the Protestants accuse us of teaching.” He gestured to Parker. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “And yet, I wonder how many of her generation take time to fathom the mystery of the Eucharist, the power of what Christ accomplished for us and its potential to change this world.”

  “Will you be saying her funeral Mass?” Xavier asked.