Chief Among Sinners

by Lois K. Gibson

  He remembered letting her wriggle out of his grip so he could get to the ambulance before they closed the doors. Frank Stevenson took hold of his arm and told him there was nothing he could do, that Agnes Clark was dead before they got there. The priest held tight to the door, with Tim Halloran trying to wrest it from his grip. He shouted at Tom that the poor soul deserved last rites and it would only take a minute to run back and get his kit from the church. He said that if she was already dead, a few minutes more wouldn't make any difference, insisting it was the Christian thing to do. As he rushed to the church and back, he remembered the whole time Maggie Cark was yelling, "It was murder!"

  After administering last rites, he had asked Frank Stevenson if he knew what happened. The deputy told him they got a call from Madge Burns at the Police station, who said she got an anonymous call about a serious accident at the Clark house. He pulled into the alley ahead of the ambulance and thought the chief pulled in behind it. They went into the house and found Agnes on the floor. No blood, just lots of pumpkin shit. He excused his language.

  "I know what you mean. Get on with it." Terry O'Reilly then listened to Frank tell the rest of the story.

  "It looks like Agnes Clark fell off a high kitchen stool, hit her head and broke her neck. She was dead when we got here. The rest is up to the medical examiner."

  The priest thanked them for letting him do his sacred duty, got out of the ambulance, and almost tripped over Maggie Clark sitting on the wet grass, sobbing. He tried to help her up, but she shoved him away. "Who killed her, Maggie? The deputy said it was an accident."

  He wanted to shake her, get her to tell him why she said murder and who she thought did it. Instead, he knelt close to her, patting her gently to calm her. She stopped crying, looked at him, and said, "Oh, it's you Father O'Reilly," then she sagged against him, crying softly and murmuring, "It was murder. I know it."

  "Where were you, Maggie? Weren't you home when this happened?" he had asked.

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve and told him that she, Lucy, and Sally volunteered to do after-Halloween clean up at the school. The police called there and instructed them to go home immediately. They ran all the way, and when they got there, the EMTs were loading her mother into the ambulance. The deputy said Agnes was dead; it looked like she slipped and fell, hit her head, and broke her neck. Maggie said she didn't believe a word of it because nobody died falling off a kitchen stool. She was sure somebody killed Agnes, and maybe she knew who did it.

  He remembered asking Maggie who would want to kill her mother. Maggie had clammed up. She pushed away from him and tore down one of the white ghosts flying over his head, wrapped it in her arms, and ran into the house. He then saw Mrs. Murphy leaving the Clark house as if being pushed from behind, and as she rushed past him he heard her muttering, "They're too strange, even for me, my boy."

  There was nothing more for him to do. The ambulance was gone. The police were gone. Outside the Clark house, the candles were doused. Inside, the lights flicked off and the door slammed shut. As he had walked the gravel path back to the church, his shoe brushed against something soft. He stopped and picked it up. It was a leather glove. He had stuffed it in his pocket and later left it lying on the church's kitchen counter.

  It had been a disturbing sight, but Father Terry had pulled himself together enough to do his regular Sunday round of the cemetery later that night. Nobody else had taken Maggie's ranting seriously, and in the time since, her accusations were buried with her dead mother.

  Standing in the old part of the cemetery, among crumbling headstones of the poor immigrant victims of the 1862 Indian massacre, he put that night's tragedy aside and tried to gather his thoughts, and maybe some inspiration for his talk to his parishioners.

  He remembered slipping and sliding on the leaves, wet from an earlier light snow, and rushing back to the church to eat, change his clothes, and greet his congregation. Nearing the back steps, something caught his eye, a glint, a shimmer, and then he saw on the lowest step the first dead offering.

  Looking down, he saw a fish bowl, an ordinary dollar store kind of fish bowl; unremarkable, except in the light of the full harvest moon he saw one very large, very dead goldfish, lying on a bed of colored stones in the bottom of the bowl.

  Its colors were still bright orange and white, so he knew this poor fish had not been dead very long. When he picked up the bowl, he saw a scrap of bright, red ribbon taped to the rim. He spun around, trying to pierce the evening moonlight. He didn't see anybody, hear any footsteps, not even scurrying animal sounds. It was eerily quiet. The bowl wasn't there before the tragedy at the Clark house. Someone put it there after he started his walk to the cemetery. Somebody had been watching him.

  In two strides he was up the back steps and into the kitchen. Getting a better look at it in bright light, he had noted there was not a smudge or a fingerprint except his own; nothing to mar the slick glass surface and the flutter of red ribbon taped to the rim. Peering inside the bowl, he was surprised to see the dead fish had its gaping mouth propped open with a piece of toothpick, and even more surprised at the hat pin stuck in the back of its head. He especially remembered Mrs. Murphy saying, "Strange, very strange."

  'Is this a Halloween prank, a pet that died and the poor child didn't know what do with it? Am I supposed to give it last rights?' Terry had chuckled to himself at the thought.

  He remembered Mrs. Murphy dropping her big spoon in the pot she was stirring, rushing over and cooing, "Oh, isn't that precious. Here, let me have that wee beastie and I'll sprinkle a few crumbs into the bowl."

  Coming closer, she exclaimed, "Oh dear lord, the poor, dead thing. Who would do such a thing to a helpless little creature?"

  Keeping a firm grip on the slick sides so she could not wrest it away from him, he remembered thinking she would surely empty it, wash the bowl, and he would never see it again. He shoved it into the broom closet, warned her that he expected to find it there after Fellowship.

  Terry remembered trying to focus on Fellowship, his gift to his parish, every Sunday night at 6:30. It was an informal gathering downstairs in the vestry. People mingled, talked with their neighbors, munched on cookies and cider, and after they took their seats, the priest delivered a brief homily.

  Trying hard to concentrate on the service, his mind kept going to the strange offering.

  If it was a pet, why the screaming open mouth, and why the hat pin through the brain?

  He did Fellowship by rote, thoughts of the dead fish niggling through his head. When the service ended, his parishioners seemed cheerful enough, going out into the moonlit night, and he wondered if any parent knew about the strange gift? He was eager to close the big, front doors and take a closer look at his bizarre find.

  The questions persisted. "Who did this? Did it have anything to do with Agnes Clark's sudden death? Why me?"

  Now, weeks later, that Halloween night was still fresh in his mind. He remembered going back to the kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee, and taking the fish bowl out of the broom closet, careful not to mess up the pristine look of the bowl or the fish lying there, still colorful in death.

  Someone had taken great care with this clear, small coffin. What did the red ribbon mean? As he sat there peering into the bowl, he remembered, the fish started to smell. He reached in, picked it up by the tail, walked to the small washroom off the kitchen and flushed it down the toilet, toothpick and hatpin still in place. "So much for pet funerals," he muttered.

  Digging deep into his memory of that prophetic Halloween, he recalled that before turning out the lights, he opened the door to see if there was any other surprise on the back steps. Nothing there. He had locked up and shoved the fish bowl back into the broom closet. No one would see it, and if it smelled a little, there was no one to notice.

  That was October 31. Now this Sunday night, a week before Thanksgiving, and this time he had found a big, ritually slaughtered rodent under the back steps. No way could he show that ugl
y thing to Mrs. Murphy; another dead beastie, its mouth propped open in a silent scream, another long, thin hat pin sticking out of its tiny brain.

  The dead goldfish, in its pristine glass bowl, had only been the beginning. It was a curiosity. Then the tiny, striped chipmunk, in a blue jewelry box, was a cute little thing. He remembered, when they were kids, his brother Sean clipped the tail of a small chipmunk with a BB gun.

  Next was the dead bat, fitted into a slightly larger blue box. Then finally the rat. Each animal's mouth was propped open, the brain pierced with a fancy jeweled hat pin, a flutter of red ribbon on the corner of each container.

  He put on his heavy coat, pulled down the earflaps on his hat, and tugged on heavy wool gloves. Slowly opening the back door, he looked down at the bottom step to make sure there wasn't another dead thing.

  At the bottom of the steps, he turned to the small shed to his right, undid the padlock, pulled the chain to get a little light from the small bulb hanging there, and placed the box with the dead rat alongside the others, all in a row, in the order they showed up to plague him. It was November, cold enough to keep these specimens intact until he could figure out the what, why and who of this mystery.

  He closed and padlocked the tool shed and ran up the steps into the kitchen, thinking, 'This spate of dead animals, gifts or not, it's time to call Herb Gordon. Maybe he could help get to the bottom of these strange goings on.'

  The priest wondered where the fancy hat pins came from. There were usually a few at garage sales he visited, and curio antique shops, but who would have several of them at hand? No fancy hats on any women in his congregation.

  Tonight, the dead rat got to him. It wasn't only that it was dead, that it smelled of the creek behind the church, but it was big, freshly slaughtered and scarier than all the rest. The animals were beginning to unnerve him, but Terry didn't want to get the police involve and blow what might be a young parishioner's harmless prank out of proportion. He would call Rabbi Gordon instead.

  Herb and Terry commiserated with each other about their problems, supported each other, and studied together. Rabbi Gordon was a scholar of Torah and Talmud, and besides serving the Jewish community of Oakton, he was part-time faculty of Jewish Studies at both St. Mary's College and Winona State University.

  Terry considered Herb his closest friend, and he was the person Terry trusted more than anyone. They were both unmarried and both committed to their calling. One major difference; Rabbi Gordon's people kept introducing him to young Jewish women from around the Mid-West, hoping to find him a proper wife.

  He picked up the phone to call the rabbi, but then he stopped and another name whispered in his mind. Kate Addams.

  A shiver went through him, as her name filled his mind. He leafed through his address book to find her number. Talking to Kate always made him feel better, but would Kate want to talk to him? His fingers tingled as he put his hand to the phone. He was still a priest, still held his vows of poverty and celibacy, but there was a time, with Kate, when his life as a priest teetered on the edge of a tempting abyss.

  When he came to Oakton, he got involved in community projects to get to know the locals. While working at a food shelf, he met Kate Addams, a police officer's daughter.

  When she was a senior in high school, Kate devoted a lot of time to helping the less fortunate. She also volunteered at the hospital and the local nursing home. Those activities coincided nicely with his, and they got to know each other well.

  Father O'Reilly was entranced by Kate. She was a bright, mature, very attractive young woman. She was tall, squarely built, and curly reddish brown hair that she usually pulled back in a pony tail, green eyes, and a beautiful complexion. She resembled her father, Chief of Police Scott Addams, more than her mother, Louise Addams. Her fierce sense of commitment to the less fortunate appealed to him. They became very close friends.

  His palms got sweaty whenever they worked together. It should have been a warning sign, but he had never been close to many women except his mother and sisters. It pleased him to know Kate was unattached, not interested in the jocks in high school.

  It began as a happy sharing of interests, especially history. They would meet at the Monroe County Historical Society office in the Oakton Library. Kate's mother was the town librarian, and she was very helpful when they were digging into the history of Oakatonawa. They often shared these learning sessions with Rabbi Gordon, and the four of them became good friends.

  Terry and Kate learned about the cemetery behind St. Timothy's, about the Indian massacre and the fate of the Sioux, Dakota, Fox, and other tribes of southern Minnesota, about the miscommunications between Indians and white settlers that ended in the massacre of 1862, which resulted in the infamous Mankato hanging of thirty-two Indians and the expulsion of Native Americans from Minnesota on the long 'trail of tears' to the Southwest.

  He and Kate sat side by side in the library, and each time he edged closer to her, she didn't object. They usually parted company on her way home, but one May evening, he pulled her into the grove of trees near the church. She melted in his arms in a passionate kiss that he returned with a passion he didn't know was in him.

  It became part of their routine, stopping in the woods, lying together on the soft pine needles, approaching that dangerous, ultimate expression of love and commitment. Kate was willing and eager. She professed her love physically and in words, murmurings in his ear that made him ready to explode.

  What stopped him from falling off the edge? Thoughts of Mother O'Reilly's disappointment, thoughts of Da saying I knew you'd never amount to anything, his own questioning thoughts of what he would do if he wasn't a priest.

  Kate insisted he could lead a righteous and fulfilling life without hiding inside a cassock. She believed in him, beyond his belief in himself. In the end, his calling, his commitment to the Church, over rode the temptations of Kate's body.

  They talked and talked and Kate got angrier and angrier. She went away to college, then law school, and they saw little of each other. The last time they spoke, Kate said she was reconciled to his decision, admitting she still loved him but now more like a brother than a lover. Terry was disappointed, but relieved. She told him she was concentrating on her studies and her own career. So there was no love affair. He was still Father Terrence Francis O'Reilly with vows intact, and Kate when off to law school at the University of Minnesota where she was now a senior. Did Kate still feel about him 'like a brother?'

  His past, present, and maybe his future could be at risk, but what will be, will be. 'After all,' he told himself, 'we are all in God's hands.'

  The phone rang, and a little thrill went through him when he heard her voice. The thrill was short-lived. A machine told him to leave a phone number and she would call back.

  Disappointed, he thought, 'I guess I'll have to call Herb anyway.'

  Terry had not mentioned his bizarre Sunday night gifts (if that's what they were) to his friend, even though they had breakfast together every Monday morning the day after each incident. But Terry hadn't been ready to talk about them, hoping that if he didn't acknowledge the whole weird thing, leprechauns might whisk it away. Since that wasn't the case, maybe talking things over with other men of faith in the area would give him the support he needed to get through these strange times.

  Southeastern Minnesota was home to a diversity of nationalities and religions. St. Timothy's was a small Catholic parish of about two hundred families; the largest church in Oakton was Kurt Schultz's Grace Lutheran with five hundred families. There are about twenty-five Jewish families in the area, and once a month, for Sabbath, special holidays and family rituals, they came together as a congregation, and Herbert Gordon serves them as rabbi.

  He knew Rabbi Gordon was staying overnight in the house he rented in town. Unless he was making a Shiva call to a grieving family, or sick calls, he might be home.

  After the fourth ring, the answering machine came on. Terry left the message that he would see Herb
at Millie's Diner the next day at 7:30 for breakfast, mentioning nothing about wee beasties. He realized Herb would be puzzled about the call because they had a standing Monday morning arrangement that needed no confirmation.

  He tried to turn his mind to something else, anything but the dead river rat. Getting ready for a rare early-to-bed evening, he picked up Constantine's Sword hoping to get through a few pages before he went to sleep. Nothing doing.

  The book fell to the floor. Kate's voice echoed in his head. He saw her face, her eyes looking at him, questioning him about the fish, the chipmunk, the bat, and now the big rat. Tossing and turning, questions rolled around in his head, and then a chilly November sun wavered across his eyelids. They fluttered open in the cool light of Monday morning, the start of another week.

  Two

  At the corner of 7th and Main, Terry waved when he saw the rabbi pacing back and forth in front of Oakton's favorite eatery, Millie's Coffee Shop and Luncheonette. Inside Millie's, the decor was true retro. Booths along the sides were covered in red vinyl. The chrome swivel stools at the counter facing the kitchen were also covered in red vinyl. Everything had been covered and re-covered in red vinyl, since Millie opened in the 50s, right after the Korean War. As the priest crossed Main Street, he heard Herb yell hi and as Terry got closer Herb called out, "You got me worried, when you called to confirm. What's up? Something serious? Not the Kate thing, I hope."

  Terry nodded, pointing to the door and as they went into the diner he said, "I wish it was Kate. You could help me with that prob­lem. It's even more complicated. First, let's order."

  They sat in their regular back booth, ordered breakfast, then facing each other over mugs of hot coffee Herb said, "Okay, Terry, enough stalling already."

  "Well," Terry started, slowly, "I don't know exactly how to tell you what's been happening. It's eerie on the one hand, and possibly an in­nocent prank on the other."