Chief Among Sinners

by Lois K. Gibson

  He was grateful that Herb sat quietly, eating his breakfast, listen­ing through his recitation about the dead animals. While waiting for the story to end, Herb kept his eyes locked on Terry's plate of eggs and bacon, watching the eggs congeal and resisting the urge to reach across and grab a strip of bacon while it was still crisp.

  Herb munched his crusts of toast, tense, mouth tight, as he re­lated the tale of the last four Sunday evenings. Terry said he had Po-laroids of each animal and the boxes they came in, and when Herb reached for the pictures, Terry said he would do them both a favor, and hold them till they finished eating.

  When Terry was done and slumped back in the booth, the back­ground chatter of other diners, the clatter of dishes, and the ching-a-ling of the cash register filled in the silence between them.

  When Herb cleared his throat, Terry pushed the Polaroids across the table.

  Terry watched his friend study the dozen Polaroids, turning them this way and that. Then he comment, "Well, this is curious, and it does seem a bit off the wall, but these seem like harmless pranks, not sin­ister. My guess is some kid has a red-ribbon fetish and likes to deliver strange dead things to your back steps, trying to freak you out."

  Terry was surprised when Herb added, "Frankly, my friend, I was afraid you were in trouble with a parishioner, or maybe one of the aco­lytes, God forbid. Or Kate was back and you almost forgot, again, that you're a priest. That would be tough, but this story... I don't know."

  Herb spoke haltingly, watching his friend's face as he spoke. "Of course, it isn't happening to me."

  "You know," Terry said, "it doesn't seem as ominous in the telling as it did in the happening. Week after week, this became serious stuff. In my well-ordered Catholic mind, there had to be a message in the tortured dead animals, their mouth's propped open in a silent scream and even weirder, a hat pin stuck in the brain of each one. Where did those hat pins come from? Answer me that. Tell me that's not strange, and each box with a red ribbon stuck on it."

  He thought for a minute and sipped his coffee. "Maybe it's be­cause these things were waiting for me when I came back from the cemetery. Maybe moving around those old gravestones get me in a receptive frame of mind, but I'm telling you, my friend, those dead animals really shook me. Next week is Thanksgiving, another Sunday, and I dread facing it alone."

  Terry sat up straight when Herb leaned forward and said, "By alone you mean you want help. You're telling me there's something I can do? I'm listening."

  The priest answered, "I'm going to make this simple. Come over to the church Sunday at five. You'll hide and catch the perp in the act. Then we'll know who's doing this and why. After Fellowship, Mrs. Murphy will serve up one of her special meals for us. You know she's the best cook in the county."

  Herb leafed through a few apps on his iPhone, "Okay, you're on. I'm clear for Sunday night. It won't be easy to hide near those steps, but we'll figure it out, and my mouth is already watering for Mrs. Mur­phy's dinner."

  Outside on the street, when they shook hands, Herb held onto Terry's hand. Terry was glad to hear his friend tell him that he wasn't alone, and he should try to look at these things for what they were, a couple of dead creatures in boxes with red ribbons. He reminded Terry that Kate had been a lot bigger problem, adding, "Thank God that's over."

  Terry was taken aback when Herb asked, "That is over isn't it? You told me she's coming home. Are you prepared for that? Now that's serious business."

  Terry smiled. "You sure know how to change the subject. Yes, I'm okay with Kate. And I'll try to remember it's just a bunch of dead animals. See you Sunday, five o'clock." He turned and walked briskly toward St. Timothy's, thinking about the conversation.

  "Well, it wasn't really a conversation," he mused. "Herb listened and I talked. He didn't say much. What did I expect him to say? 'Oh my God, Terry, what a disaster. Should we call the police?' Not only didn't he say any of those things, if he had, I would have thought he was unhinged. That's probably what he thinks about me." After a long, busy, Thanksgiving weekend, it was Sunday night and almost that time again. Dark at 5 p.m., there were no longer dark blue clouds laced with hints of pink and streaks of gold scudding across the autumn horizon. This last week of November, the sun set at 5 p.m. It was a winter night in Oakton.

  A little before 5 p.m., Rabbi Gordon knocked on the back door of St. Timothy's. Father O'Reilly opened the door and stared at his friend standing awkwardly in army desert camo and hulking fishing boots. "You're early, and what are you dressed for?" he asked. "It's not Armageddon yet, is it? Where did you find that get-up?"

  Herb answered, "Not Armageddon, my friend, but certainly a small war, and camouflage is called for. It isn't mine. I was at the bar­ber shop and happened to mention that I needed to hide out from someone. In the barber chair next to mine, a vet, just back from Af­ghanistan, offered me his gear, including an army knife and a gun."

  Terry watched him pull a mean looking knife from a sheath at his waist, and when he waved it around the priest backed away. "You look very menacing, and please, stop waving that knife around. You'll hurt yourself.

  "Listen, Herb, I thought you said this was a prank and we're prob­ably dealing with some smart ass kid, not going to war on the whole neighborhood."

  After Herb sheathed the knife, Terry grabbed his coat and went out and down the steps. Herb followed, looking for a good hiding place. Finally, they decided that if Herb huddled near the shed next to the walking path with no lights around, he would be pretty invisible.

  They returned to the house and went into the kitchen, and the priest saw Mrs. Murphy's face go pale. "It's only Rabbi Gordon, Mrs. Murphy. She didn't recognize you, Herb, so the outfit works."

  They watched Mrs. Murphy's face return to her normal ruddy complexion and she said, "Saints in heaven, protect us this day from a rabbi at war." After Terry explained that the army camouflage and night goggles were part of the plan to catch the animal killer, Mrs. Murphy smiled and said, "Father Terry never told me you were a Green Beret or Spe­cial Forces. You gave me quite a turn, you did, but come here, m'lad, and have a hug for luck." She stopped stirring and pulled him to her.

  "Well, I love you too, Mrs. Murphy. And I promise to protect Father Terry from all comers, large, small, or dead. Now, we have to get started."

  Herb led the way down the back steps and Terry followed after. "You know, I'm not sure what we're doing here," Herb said, almost to himself. "I don't know shit about ambushes and surprise raids. I'm just a back-woods rabbi doing a favor for a friend." Herb cleared his throat and snapped to attention. He barked at Terry, "Open the shed now, Fa­ther O'Reilly. Let's see if there is anything we can use for this state out."

  Terry wasn't used to Herb barking out orders, but he did as or­dered, pulling out a broken lawn chair and a dirty tarp. He opened the lawn chair and told Herb to sit to make sure it would hold his weight, then he pointed to the corner of the shed, slightly removed from the steps, where the dead animals were left. Herb sat down and Terry ar­ranged the tarp over him.

  "Hey, guy. Leave room for me to breathe, and I need to see what's happening. Now get your scrawny ass out of here."

  Terry continued down the path as usual. He tried to look casual as he made his rounds, but his thoughts remained on the mystery of the wee beasties and Herb keeping watch behind the church.

  The cemetery gate squeaked when he opened it on his way back, but besides that only the rustling of the leaves as he shuffled through them filled the air. He saw Herb at his post, peering through his gog­gles at him across the cemetery. Herb stood up, shoved the goggles in the case, and threw the tarp over the chair. He was shivering, and Terry clutched his coat tight around him as well. Together they rushed up the steps and into the kitchen.

  Through chattering teeth, he told Terry, "It's hard to believe any­one saw me. You said even though you knew I was there, when you looked all you saw was a pile of stuff thrown against the wall. Think about this, Terry, it's Thanksgiving.
Maybe whoever was doing this went away, or it was just a prank and now it's over and that fat rat was the last of it."

  He peeled off the camouflage outfit, revealing regular slacks, shirt, and sweater underneath. Mrs. Murphy put bowls of hot soup in their cold hands as they warmed themselves in front of the stove. For Terry it was a brief warm-up before he rushed off to do Fellowship. Herb Gordon was content to sip his soup and watch Mrs. Murphy stir and putter while he was out.

  As soon as Terry returned from Fellowship she laid out a sumptu­ous meal for them. They went at the food with lip-smacking gusto and lots of joking around.

  "This brisket, potato pudding, and gravy beats your Irish corned beef and cabbage, any day of the week," Herb chided.

  "That's only because you don't know what's really good," coun­tered Terry.

  They bantered with each other until the last morsel of chocolate cake was gone and each man sat back satisfied and at ease.

  Mrs. Murphy finished cleaning up and waved goodbye. When she was out of ear-shot, Terry said, "I'm sorely disappointed. I was sure somebody would show up and you would be able to scare the bejeesus out of him when you threw off the tarp, to reveal the savage warrior." He smiled. "Well, the funniest thing about tonight is how you looked in that ridiculous outfit, and it didn't help anyhow, but that's okay. You did your job, and I felt better knowing I would come back from those sorry graves and not find another eerie surprise."

  Rabbi Gordon got up and got his coat. Well," he said, "I got the best of this bargain. No dead animals and a great meal."

  Terry thanked him and told him how important it was that he could count on his friend even in the weirdest of circumstances, no questions asked. He put a hand on Herb's arm, asking if he could stay another few minutes, adding that it wasn't as if he had somebody wait­ing for him and had to rush home.

  Terry saw the slight smile on Herb's face when he assured Terry that he could stay a little longer if it was important.

  Terry got his own coat and said, "Button up and I'll show you my pets. I didn't show them before because I wanted you to be able enjoy your dinner."

  Terry undid the padlock on the shed door, reached in, pulled the string to the small hanging bulb, and a dim light spread over his cache. Hunched to one side, he beckoned the rabbi. Herb hunched down and poked his head inside the shed.

  "Wow, that's some line-up. You've got Polaroids. How come you didn't get rid of these things?" Herb asked. "And how often do you come out here to give yourself the willies? For God's sakes, Terry, let me help you bury them or burn them or something. Why keep these grotesque reminders of your weekly terrors?"

  "That's simple," Terry said, picking up the box with the dead rat, trying to hand it to the rabbi. "I had to keep them or nobody would believe my story. Tell me honestly, would you if you didn't see for yourself? And besides, it's natural cold storage, so they don't smell and they don't rot. I've got everything but the goldfish, and I know it sounds crazy, but I even cut out a picture of a goldfish, from one of Mrs. Murphy's magazines for the bottom of the fishbowl so, when I show these to other people, everything will be pretty close to the way I found them."

  They backed out. Terry locked the shed and they marched silently up the back steps and into the kitchen. Sitting at the table, Herb picked up the Polaroids, looked at them, and said, "You know you are one crazy son of a bitch, Terry." He inspected the photographs again.

  "I believed you when you showed me the pictures at Millie's, but maybe you're right. Somebody else would want to see the actual dead bodies in the boxes, with the ribbons and hat pins and the rest of that crap."

  Looking closely again, at each one, Herb said, "What grabs me is the neatness, whether it's straw, leaves, shredded paper. Whoever is doing this is almost obsessive about these coffins, each is so specific to the size of the creature. And I'm intrigued by the shoe box: 'white, girl's 6.' Is that to point us in the direction of a girl or is it misdirection, or is it the only box our animal slayer could find to fit the rat?"

  Terry answered, "I was grossed out by that one, but even if we don't have a clue to what it means, tonight, because of you, I don't feel so 'out there' and by myself."

  Herb suggested that maybe the rat was the end of it and they should both hold on to that good thought.

  Three

  A week later, after the gate squeaked shut, Father Terry looked back at the cemetery. Tonight, with boughs of the fir trees heavy with snow bend­ing almost to the ground and a dusting of fresh snow on top of the gravestones, it looked like a Christmas card. He started walking back to the church, smiling as he remembered Thanksgiving Sunday with no wee beasties on the back steps, and the special dinner he shared with Rabbi Gordon.

  He spent a relaxed, but busy week, adding Christmas preparations to his busy schedule. Another Sunday went by without a wee beastie, and tonight with Christmas three weeks closer, he let down his guard completely.

  "Whoa! What's this!" Terry stopped, one foot poised over the bottom step. "Not again," he gasped. "Who could do this horrible thing?"

  When he poked his finger at it, the rabbit, killed in the act of giv­ing birth to a tiny baby rabbit, felt cold as ice. A red ribbon was around its neck; the soft mouth propped open with a broken twig and a hat pin, topped with a small opal, sticking out of its furry brown head.

  The priest looked around, trying to see if someone was standing out there in the dark, watching his reaction to this latest horror.

  He studied the hard ground, hoping for signs of shoe prints. The wet leaves seemed to have been pushed around, but nothing to show a human presence. As upset as he was at this latest killing, he had no time to deal with it. He shoved the box holding the grotesquely muti­lated animal under the steps and hurried inside.

  The priest rushed past Mrs. Murphy, ran to the sacristy, changed his clothes, did a quick once over with the electric razor, and was in place; breathless, but up to his Fellowship duties.

  By the time his parishioners left the church, so had Mrs. Mur­phy. Ignoring the dinner she left for him, he went to the phone in the kitchen, dialed, and waited. "This is Rabbi Gordon. Can I help you?"

  "Well, Herb, this one is even bigger than the rat. Get over here, right away."

  "Hey, Terry, can't it wait? I'm really busy, but I could be there in a half hour." Terry realized the rabbi sounded a little breathless, and for just a minute, he thought he heard a woman's voice in the background.

  "Well, it's another dead animal, worse than any of the others, if you're interested, but it can wait. It's dead. It's not going any place. See you in half hour. Don't rush."

  Terry was angry at himself for being annoyed. It was none of his business if Herb had a woman in his life, even if he couldn't. But they were best friends. 'He could have told me.'

  Five minutes later, Terry heard a car screech to a stop. With his coat on, he walked out, greeted Rabbi Gordon with a wave of his hand and said, "I'm sorry, Herb. Of course you were busy. I didn't mean to drag you out. But when you see this one, you'll understand."

  Herb said, "Whether I understand or not, Terry, you are my best friend and when you say 'urgent,' I'm there for you. Let's see it."

  The priest reached under the steps to grab the box. Light stream­ing out the open back door, they sat down on the steps to study an­other dead beast.

  Examining the dead rabbit and the box, the rabbi noted the red ribbon was not attached to the box, but around the neck of the dead animal. He commented how curious that it wasn't pulled tight to stran­gle the poor beast.

  He sighed. "I'm sorry to see this, Terry. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to do this rabbit, right at the moment of birthing. We are dealing with a maniac or someone with bi-polar disorder somebody who gets their kicks mutilating animals but, this one is past weird. And here, I hoped, for both our sakes, this was over and done with."

  In unison, both men turned their heads up, looking at the sky. Terry hoped to would find an answer in the heavens above. There sure didn't seem
to find one here, on earth. Herb finished his silent prayer first and took a second look at the box. "Hello. What's this?" He care­fully handled a paper with some writing on it tied around the animal's neck with the red ribbon. In a child-like scrawl were two words: HELP ME!

  Terry said, "That was the first thing I noticed when I saw the box."

  Questions flew between them: who, why, how dangerous, was it life threatening? Herb clutched his coat tighter, blew on his cold hands, stuck them in his pockets, and turned to Terry.

  "I assume you have Polaroids, and I'll look at them later. Right now we should take a broader view of this whole thing and figure out what we think we know. We know, or think, that there is a child who needs help. Or it could be an adult with simple skills, or," he hesitated, "let's admit it, we don't know anything about anything."

  Terry said, "Well, that's great but not very enlightening." He paused before asking, "Is it time to go to the police?"

  "I don't know," replied Herb. "Would the police know where that size 6 shoebox came from. The goldfish bowl? Maybe...could there be fingerprints on the paper or the box? Listen, Terry, let's be more careful with that scrap of paper, but as long as you're holding it, turn it over, and let's have a closer look."

  Terry knew they could study it more closely if they went into the kitchen, but he couldn't leave the dead rabbit on the steps, and he didn't want to take the rabbit into the kitchen. So, they sat where they were, studying the small scrap of paper. The light from the kitchen revealed nothing more than those jet-black words: HELP ME!

  "What in God's name is going on here?" Terry cried out.

  Very quietly Herb said, "Terry, my friend, we've got to get some answers. Could this be happening at other churches? We should ask Kurt at Grace Lutheran, and Iris at St. Andrew's, if anything like this happened to them. Let's do that before we think police.

  "It's only 7:30, Herb. Plenty of time for me to see MacDonald, and you hustle over to see Kurt. We won't give it all away. Just find out if they have noticed any strange goings on since Halloween. I'm not sure it'll help, but, at least, it's a plan.