by phuc
“Exactly,” Daryl replied. “And like Kemper, he killed his mother at the end.
When we burst in there and found him sitting on the floor of his bedroom cradling her ...
her head in his lap, and rocking back and forth bawling like a baby ... well, it was obvious that he'd finally snapped and struck out at the authority figure who was the cause of his obsession. And in killing her he not only set himself free from his sickness, but he destroyed a part of himself as well."
Bernie Haskins was silent for a moment. Daryl continued: “He also gave me some pretty important information on the South Bend connection."
Bernie's eyebrows rose. “Oh? And what's that?"
Daryl told him and Bernie's eyes grew wide. “I'm sure we can run checks in South Bend with Charley's mug shot, see if we can locate some surviving witnesses to see if they remember seeing him. We might even be able to find this old girlfriend of John's.
She might be able to tell us something Father Glowacz didn't. It's worth a shot. The dates he gave me place Charley in the same area the three South Bend victims were killed and dumped."
Bernie whistled. “Christ."
“I wanted to question him some more,” Daryl continued. “But he's been through so much that he got pretty defensive. Especially when it came to sex and how he felt his mother would react when she found out one of her boys was yanking his crank or laying pipe with some broad. I had to back off and ... well, you'll hear it on the tape. He told me enough to allow me to piece together the rest of the puzzle. I'm sure we can fill in the missing pieces with the rest of the investigation."
“Yes, I'm sure we can,” Bernie said. “Besides, maybe later when Father Glowacz is feeling less stressed he'll be willing to talk to us in more depth."
Daryl nodded. He'd been thinking the same thing, but doubted if he wanted to do that. The man had been through enough. “Maybe."
Daryl turned toward the door and paused for a moment, turning back to Bernie.
“Oh, one other thing. Father Glowacz asked that nothing be mentioned about him being Charley's brother when we finally make a statement to the press. I guess he doesn't want it to be known that a respected parish priest in Los Angeles has a brother who is the Eastside Butcher. Or maybe he just wants to avoid the press. Whatever the case, I told him I'd do my best. Maybe he'll ask his bosses or the Vatican—whoever it is priests report to—for some time off to get away until the fiasco wears down."
Bernie nodded. “Maybe. I don't blame him."
Daryl smiled wearily. “I'm going home. See you tomorrow?"
“Yeah. I'll be here."
“Okay. Night."
“Take care. And Daryl?"
Daryl stopped and turned around.
Bernie smiled, proudly. “Good job."
Daryl smiled back, feeling for the first time that the horror was finally over.
Chapter 30
The following afternoon, shortly after three-thirty p.m., Father John Glowacz sat in the drab waiting room at the men's central jail in downtown Los Angeles calmly reading a magazine. He was dressed casually in blue jeans, a short-sleeve shirt, and white tennis shoes. His hair was combed neatly, his features sallow. Beneath the wire-rims of his glasses his eyes bore traces of red from the last four days of turmoil. He was holding up as best as he could.
The waiting room was occupied by a variety of people, most of them black and Hispanic, but a few of them white. Mothers and fathers in to see sons who had been arrested for various felonies: hit and run, assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder. Even that old standby, murder in the first degree. Father Glowacz wondered how many of these other people had loved ones at the jail who were behind bars for taking another life.
He had been seated in the waiting room for approximately twenty minutes. He thought about dressing more appropriately and donning his clerical collar but decided not to; he had deal with this on a family level. When he arrived he had gone up to the receptionist window and told them he was here to see his brother. The clerk behind the counter ran her finger down a list, found an entry, and looked up at him. “Identification, please?"
Father John Glowacz had presented his driver's license. The clerk scrutinized it, then handed it back. “Have a seat. Your name will be called when your visitor is ready."
Father John Glowacz thanked her and seated himself in the far corner of the waiting room. Two seats down from him, a young woman with dirty-blonde hair was trying to quiet a young toddler who was crying and making loud noises. The young woman was probably in her early twenties, but she looked older. Father Glowacz had seen expressions of similar despair; lower class, probably on public assistance or held a minimum or lower-paying blue collar job, uneducated, was probably here to see her boyfriend or husband who would be in the joint on something petty and trivial. Drugs.
DUI. Maybe domestic violence. The vicious cycle turned on and on.
He thought about his own role in what had happened. If he had only been strong enough to face his own problems and deal with them, he wouldn't be sitting in this waiting room right now and his brother wouldn't be in jail. Both of them would be seeking much needed help. Father Glowacz knew he needed help and spiritual guidance, but he didn't know where to turn. He had an appointment with the Los Angeles Archdiocese tomorrow, where he planned on tendering his request for a transfer, but he also wanted to unload some of his own burdens.
Why did I let it go on this long? he thought, trying to calm himself down. Why didn't I just nip it in the bud early on? I could have prevented all this. I could have saved Charley from everything and—
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. “Mr. John Glowacz?"
John looked up. A young black officer wearing the tan uniform of an LA County Sheriff's Deputy was motioning to him. John rose, replaced the magazine on the battered table in the center of the room, and went through the door to see his brother.
Rachael Pearce was sitting propped up in bed sipping a cup of tea when Daryl entered the room. He had just fixed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast for her, and as he set the tray on the bed Rachael smiled. “This smells wonderful. I should get hurt more often."
“Don't even think about it,” Daryl said, chuckling. “How are you feeling?"
“Better. There's less pain in my side. I'm just really tired now. All that stress really took a toll on me. It seems all I want to do is eat and sleep. How are you?"
“You really want to know?"
“Of course."
Daryl got into bed with her. For the past day or so, Daryl had felt great. The Butcher case had taken a heavy toll, creating pressure in their relationship. Now that the case was closed and he had saved Rachael from the clutches of a madman, Daryl had emerged the victor. He felt he had conquered a tremendous personal demon. By saving Rachael he felt he had done all he could in trying to save Shirley, even though that first fatal incident had resulted in a far more serious tragedy. Instead of blaming himself for not being able to save Shirley, Daryl finally felt that he had done all he could in preventing the murder. He felt he'd redeemed himself by saving Rachael from Charley Glowacz and that helped close that painful door to the past.
“Remember how I told you last night that I felt that a part of me felt some sense of closure? That closing this case was, in a sense, a symbolic closing of my past feelings of inadequecy in dealing with Shirley's death?"
Rachael nodded. They'd talked about this numerous times. Daryl knew that police-work was his way of dealing with Shirley's death. Last night he had told Rachael that saving her from Charley Glowacz and playing a part in his capture had been the epitome of his career. There was no longer the burning need to chase after the ghosts of Shirley's killers, trying to amend her death.
“I've been doing some thinking. And I've come to the decision that the Butcher case is the last case I'll ever take. I'm done with it."
Rachael looked surprised. “Done with detective work?"
Daryl paused and looke
d up at Rachael. “Yeah. I think so."
“Honey! Are you sure?” Now Rachael looked concerned.
“I'm thinking about it,” Daryl said. He had been thinking about it. Quite a lot, in fact. He didn't want to be involved in anything else that he deemed a risk to his and Rachael's personal safety anymore. The fact that he had almost lost a woman he had come to love very deeply, or that he had been almost killed by a revenge-seeking gang member, was what affected this contemplation of his career. “Haven't made up my mind yet, but ...
yeah. I think it's something I may want to do."
Rachael looked down at him, pride beaming her features. She opened her mouth to respond when the bedside telephone rang.
Daryl reached across the bed and scooped up the receiver. “Hello?"
A sharp, excited voice barked at him through the receiver. Daryl's features grew alarmed. “What? Are you serious? When did this happen?"
Rachael looked concerned as she watched Daryl. He sat up in bed, the covers spilling down to his lap. Rachael sat up next to him, watching his face and trying to listen to what was going on. From the look on Daryl's face the news wasn't very good.
“Jesus Christ,” Daryl said. He ran a hand through his thick hair. “Does anybody know about this? Bernie Haskins, the Chief?"
Another barrage of conversation from the other end. Then Daryl responded: “Not a word about this to the press. Not until I get there and we've gotten ahold of either Bernie or the Bureau.” He hung up.
Rachael hovered over him, brimming with worry. “What is it? What happened?"
“That was Steve,” Daryl said, swinging his legs over the bed and reaching for wallet and keys. “Charley Glowacz just killed himself in his cell."
The news hit Rachael like a sledgehammer. “How? They had him on suicide watch, didn't they?"
“Yeah, they did. He was in solitary and he had a guard posted outside his cell.
They took away his shoes and the light was too high on the ceiling for him to jump to and smash down. Besides, it was reinforced by plexi-glass."
“Then how did he kill himself?"
Daryl looked at her, his face pale with shock and disbelief. “He bit into both his wrists and bled to death."
Father John Glowacz was sitting in the office of Father James O'Grady in the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. A minute before he had been ushered into the Father's office by a pretty young woman who was filling in for Father O'Grady's personal secretary. The young woman had blonde hair that was cut short, framing her pretty features exquisitely.
She had offered Father Glowacz a kind smile as he entered the lobby of the Archdiocese and announced himself. She didn't even offer him a seat in the waiting room; simply stood up with a kind smile and said, “Right this way, Father Glowacz. Father O'Grady is expecting you."
She led him down the hall and knocked lightly on Father O'Grady's office door.
Father James O'Grady was up in an instant, a look of concern on his ruddy features.
“Father Glowacz,” he said softly. “How good it is to see you."
“Father O'Grady.” John Glowacz smiled and the two men embraced. John Glowacz felt comforted by the older man. He had seen Father O'Grady two days before at the funeral masses for his mother and Charley. Father Peter Murphy, Pastor at Our Lady of Guadalupe, had presided over the mass. Despite the fact that it was a private mass, security had to be called in to keep the crowd outside from growing unruly. The news that Charley Glowacz was identified as the Eastside Butcher had caused an explosive reaction in the neighborhood. Many of the residents and parishioners were still coming to grips with the fact that the killer was not only a familiar face, but a family member of a beloved figure in the neighborhood. In the past few days Father Glowacz had caught more than a few vibes of resentment from his parishioners and the areas residents.
He stifled back a sob as a sudden well of emotion washed over him. Father O'Grady stepped back and nodded at the pretty young blonde woman. “Theresa, get me a pot of coffee, please. Father? Coffee for you, too? Or maybe some tea?"
“Coffee is fine,” Father Glowacz said, not looking at the secretary as she headed back down the hall to the small kitchen that was nestled off to the side of the foyer.
Father O'Grady led him into the office and motioned for him to sit. John sat down in a plush recliner in front of the massive oak desk that took up the entire rear half of Father O'Grady's office. O'Grady perched himself up on the edge of the desk, a concerned look on his face. “Please accept my condolences for the loss of your mother and brother Charley, Father Glowacz."
“Thank you,” John said.
“Would you like for me to pray with you?"
John opened his mouth to answer, then paused. He looked up at Father O'Grady.
“I would but ... not just yet. I need to talk, James. I need to talk to you about something ...
rather important."
“Then talk we shall.” James moved back around to his side of the desk and plopped his stocky frame in the chair. He regarded John over the large oak desk. He was a large man, not very tall, but overweight by about eighty pounds. Most of that weight resided in his stomach, buttocks, thighs, and the doughy flabs of his cheeks and jowls.
John Glowacz had known James O'Grady on a professional level now for six years, and personally for two. He had gone to him four years ago to request funds for Our Lady when it became apparent that Danny Hernandez's gang ministry was proving to be a success. Father Glowacz had wanted the funds to go towards buying computers for the youth center to provide job training and education, as well as purchasing more sports equipment for the playground and hiring a couple of counselors to be on hand to work with the children. He had wanted to employ Danny full time, but the funds James O'Grady had been able to shake from the coffers of the Archdiocese hadn't been enough.
Next time, Father O'Grady had told him when he received that first check. James had presented the check to him at a get-together at St. Jude's in downtown, and his fatherly hand on his shoulder had been reassuring. “I like the work you are doing at Our Lady of Guadalupe,” he'd told him. “I think that there is much more good work in store for you at that particular parish.” They'd spent the rest of the evening talking about the plans John Glowacz had for Our Lady, and for the first time since he'd entered the priesthood, Father Glowacz felt that he had met a superior who understood what his mission was. From that point on he felt he had an ally in Father James O'Grady.
The pretty blonde secretary came back into the room bearing a tray with a pot of coffee, two mugs, and bowls of sugar and creamer. She set them down on the edge of Father O'Grady's desk. “Will there be anything else?” she smiled.
“No,” Father O'Grady said. “Thank you, Theresa."
Theresa smiled at Father Glowacz and left the room shyly. “Is she new? She seems awfully bashful."
“She's replacing Alice while she's on vacation,” James O'Grady replied, picking up the pot and pouring them coffee. Alice Peterson was Father O'Grady's personal secretary and had been working for him for twenty years. “Alice and Charles, her husband, went to Europe for the month. Theresa is a friend of Alice's daughter, Joyce.
She is enamoured by the church. Totally enamoured."
John's eyebrows raised. “Really? She seems so young. I don't think I've seen anybody her age be so enamoured with the inner-workings of the Catholic Church in ...
well, in ages!"
“Yes,” James said. He handed John his coffee. “It's really refreshing. Theresa is only twenty-one and is entering Cal State Long Beach this coming semester. She's the total opposite of Alice's daughter, Joyce, who is more interested in chasing boys and going to ... what do they call them now? Raves."
Father Glowacz laughed. Raves. Synonym for Wild Party.
“Here's some cream and sugar if you want some.” Father O'Grady pushed a small container of sugar and a cup of powdered creamer in John's direction. He leaned back in his chair and sipped at his coffee. “I pre
fer mine black."
John Glowacz picked up the plastic spoon that Theresa had brought in on the tray of coffee and spooned some sugar in his coffee. He opened the powdered creamer and began doling it out. “I like it with the works, myself.” Cream and sugar added, he stirred it into the coffee, making it a rich golden color. He set the spoon down and picked up the cup, taking a sip. “Ahh. Perfect."
James O'Grady smiled at him over his desk. “Good.” He sipped at his own coffee, regarding him calmly. “So what can I do for you today, Father Glowacz?"
John had been rehearsing what he wanted to say all morning and now he let it all out. “I am here to put in my request to be moved to another parish."
Father O'Grady's eyes widened slightly in surprise. “A new parish? Are you sure, John? Forgive me for sounding so crass, because I know you've suffered such a tremendous loss, but all the work you've—"
“I know, James,” Father Glowacz interrupted. “The work I've done at Our Lady is still incomplete. Four years ago I had outlined my entire plan to you for what I wanted to do at Our Lady of Guadalupe. And I'm halfway there. But ... may God forgive me, I just...” he was at a loss for words. He struggled to rein his emotions in. He couldn't cry in front of James O'Grady. He took a deep breath and looked the older man in the eye. “I just can't take it, James. I spent all day yesterday going through my mother's things at the house, trying to decide what stuff I wanted to donate to charity, what I wanted to throw out, what I wanted to keep. And being in that house left me feeling so cold. Ever since the press found out my relation with Charley, it's been horrendous. They were practically camped out there at the house when I arrived and wouldn't stop asking me questions when I walked up to the front door. I asked them very nicely to please leave me alone and one of them blocked my path.” His breath hitched. “I'll tell you, James, when that happened, when that reporter blocked my path to my mother's house, I felt this—God, forgive me—I felt this incredible rage. I just wanted to reach out and snap that man's neck with my bare hands. I was literally shaking. I was thinking the whole time ‘you don't care about the people who died. You don't care that my mother died. You don't care about the conditions the people in these neighborhoods have to deal with. You don't care who my brother was as a person. You just want to make him up like some cheap monster to sell more newspapers and magazines. If I were to tell you everything I knew about my brother, all the good things that he was, all the good things he stood for and did in his life and the community, you would ignore it and write about the crimes it is alleged he committed. And if I didn't tell you anything, you'd make things up anyway and it would be printed and that's what people would believe. And it wouldn't matter what I had to say'. I thought all that and I was filled with so much rage that I came close to ... physically assaulting this man. I gave a quick silent prayer for the Lord to lead me strongly and then I merely said, very calmly, ‘Would you please step out of my way, sir. You're blocking my path.’ Just like that. I spoke to him the way I would speak to a young kid coming to me for guidance, or the way I speak to people in the confessional booth. And he blinked as if he were snapping out of some delirium and stepped out of my way, calm as you please. And he asked me one question as I was unlocking the door. Actually it was a very astute observation, followed by a question. He said, ‘Father, your brother Charley is believed to have committed the Eastside Butcher killings, all the while assuming what you thought was a normal, productive life. If you had known what he was doing would you have tried to stop him?’”