by Mike Markel
“Sure, Margaret is the vice president. In Soul Savers, that means essentially that she is the second in command behind her husband, who was the president. I haven’t had time even to contact the other Board members and schedule a meeting to discuss the tragic passing of Arlen Hagerty, and I must admit I haven’t even had a moment to think about the issue of succession. I believe the by-laws call for the Board to appoint an acting president, but that the vice president does not automatically become president if the president cannot fulfill the duties of the presidency.”
“Do you think Margaret would wish to be president?”
“Yes, indeed. Margaret is a woman of many talents. She has a keen organizational mind. She can think at an extremely high level, both tactically and strategically. I assume she would wish to carry on her husband’s work, because it was she who approached the Board several years ago, seeking an official role in Soul Savers. She had spent some years assisting her husband in an informal capacity, and I must say she always impressed the entire Board with the clarity and depth of her thinking, as well as her numerous ideas for improving the operations of the organization.”
“So you think the Board would be positively disposed to her being president?”
“Well, I hesitate to speak for anyone other than myself … Oh, my goodness, Detective. I forgot for an instant that I was speaking with a police detective. Please tell me you are not considering the possibility that Margaret Hagerty had anything to do with the murder of her husband.”
“No, no, Archbishop, absolutely not,” I said. He sounded upset. No point in rattling him more. “I’m just trying to get a sense of who the players are. No, we don’t suspect Margaret Hagerty at all.” I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d lied to an archbishop. I lie to everyone; it’s what I do. I just don’t talk to a lot of archbishops.
“I’m greatly relieved, I must say. Margaret Hagerty has worked tirelessly on behalf of Soul Savers for many years, and I would feel terrible if I thought anything I said had given you the impression—a wholly unfounded impression—that her motivations were anything other than completely selfless.”
Ryan came up to my desk, and he stood there, unsure whether I wanted him to sit down. I motioned for him to sit and hit the Speaker button.
“No, no, I didn’t read you as saying that at all. If I could, though, I’d like to get back to that question you were just about to answer, about whether you think the Board would look positively on her becoming president.”
“Yes, of course. I would imagine—again, I cannot speak for anyone other than myself—that the Board members, with one possible exception, would look on Margaret’s candidacy with pleasure and relief.”
“Who would that possible exception be, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“No, there have been several items in the local media about a split on the Board. I hesitate to even call it a split. It is certainly nothing that would rise to the level of a schism. The Board member I refer to is Timothy Sanders, the founder of Soul Savers.”
“What should I know about Mr. Sanders?”
“Mr. Sanders, who is, incidentally, the only other Roman Catholic on the Board, founded Soul Savers some fifteen years ago. He envisioned it as a charitable organization built on the principles of family and respect for the life of the individual. His positions reflected, fairly closely, those of the Church.”
“Help me understand what you’re saying, Archbishop. How did his views come in conflict with those of the rest of the Board, or of Arlen Hagerty?”
“I would say the conflict was more a question of means than of ends. Mr. Sanders wished Soul Savers to remain a fairly small charitable organization in Colorado Springs, ministering primarily to young women at times of crisis. His focus was always on protecting the lives of the unborn by helping these young women find families that wished to adopt their babies.”
“And what was Mr. Hagerty’s focus?”
“Mr. Hagerty always took a keen interest in young women.” I shot Ryan a look. He gave me the abbreviated closed-fist jab, which my ex taught me was the universal male gesture for sex. “However,” the Archbishop said, “Arlen saw that Soul Savers could become a much larger organization that could branch out into other family-values issues. But he thought the organization could grow only if it took a more public stance in the civic arena. The stem-cell debates, for instance, were the idea of Arlen Hagerty, and of Margaret, of course.
“Timothy Sanders thought the debates cheapened Soul Savers, turning it into—I believe his phrase was a ‘sideshow act.’ He warned that the organization was on a slippery slope, that it was in danger of becoming a political organization that would be swallowed up by the greater Christian conservative movement and lose its identity. He objected, for instance, when he learned the Hagertys were distributing get-out-the-vote pamphlets and voter-registration forms at the debates.”
“I take it Timothy Sanders lost the battle?”
“I’m afraid he did. When he presented an ultimatum to the Board—we must stop the debates and return to our original mission or he would step down as president—the Board called his bluff and installed Arlen. I might add that my election as chairman of the Board was probably a sop to Timothy. As a highly visible member of the Roman Catholic Church who was originally appointed to the Board primarily, I suspect, to enhance its ecumenicalism, I certainly did not expect to assume its leadership. But then I was elected to chair the Board, and Timothy was appointed a life member, in honor of his accomplishments.”
“Does Timothy Sanders still live in Colorado Springs?”
“No, he moved back to this home town of Waco, Texas, I believe, when he resigned as president.”
“Let me ask you one more question about Margaret Hagerty, if you don’t mind. I realize you’ve been very generous with your time, Archbishop. Do you know whether she was aware her husband was critically ill?”
“Heavens, no, I had no idea he was ill. What was his illness?”
“He had heart disease. It had progressed quite far.”
“I had no idea.”
“And one more question, Archbishop. Do you recognize the names Jonathan Ahern or Connie de Marco?”
“Jonathan Ahern is the fellow who debates—debated, I should say—Arlen. I never met the man, although I had heard Arlen was quite fond of him. And the other person—Connie, you said?—I haven’t heard of her.”
“Archbishop, I’ll let you go now. Let me express again how grateful I am for being so generous with your time.”
“My pleasure, Detective Seagate. I hope you can apprehend whoever committed this terrible crime.”
“We’re sure going to do everything we can. If you can think of anything you’d like to add, please call this number.”
“I certainly will, Detective. Godspeed.”
“Yes, Archbishop, you, too,” I said, cringing at my signoff as I hung up. Well, at least I didn’t say, “Right back at ya.”
“Okay, Karen,” Ryan said, his hands clasped behind his head, “what did you learn, except that Arlen Hagerty took a keen interest in young women.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I think that’s something we can all agree on. The Archbishop describes Margaret as smart and ambitious, but he was horrified at the thought I was considering her a suspect.”
“So you told him she isn’t.”
“Sure, why not? No reason not to.”
Ryan said, “Did you get the impression he was pointing to her and just pretending to be horrified?”
“No, not at all. I think he was being completely straight with me.”
“Well, we need to track down this Timothy Sanders.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“But we haven’t gotten any closer to ruling out Margaret as a suspect.”
“Not until we can find out she knew he was gonna die anyway.”
“I don’t know,” Ryan said. “That would make it less likely she would kill him, but it doesn’t rule it out.”
“Yeah, you’re right. People can flip out and do stupid things. Still, it’d be good to know whether Margaret knew Arlen was circling the drain. I think that sounds like a nice project for you.” I looked at my watch. “I’m gonna head on home, Ryan.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow,” he said.
I was walking out when I heard someone call my name from the break room. I looked over. It was Matt, a uniform.
“Detective Seagate, got a second?” he said. Since our one-night stand almost two years ago, I had tried to avoid him. One of the ten or twelve things I had learned from that mistake is, you don’t ever want to get involved with someone you work with.
“Hey,” I said.
“Say, Detective—”
“Just use my name, okay?”
“Yeah, sure, Karen,” he said. “I hear you and Ryan caught the security for the stem-cell guy.”
“That’s right.”
“That didn’t go down too good, did it?” He was wearing a smirk.
“You mean him getting killed?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Where you going with this? You got something you’re tying to say?”
“No, nothing. It just seems the security didn’t work out that good, know what I mean?”
“Yeah, Matt, everyone always knows what you mean.”
“Hey, no need for an attitude,” he said, palms up, forcing a little laugh.
“He was in his hotel room, where someone killed him. How’re we supposed to prevent that?”
“Yeah, you’re right. Of course, if you’d been there with him …”
I shook my head in disgust. “I’m just wondering, Matt. Are you disappointed you turned out so incredibly stupid, or you okay with it?”
“You didn’t think I was stupid that night at the club—or in your bedroom.”
“Yeah, I did,” I said, walking out of the break room. Truth was, I couldn’t recollect anything he said, ever. He might have been speaking Greek the night we were together. I did remember his beautiful grey eyes and his smile, like a little boy’s, and the way he looked that morning, asleep on my bed. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about Matt.
In fact, I never thought about him—unless he threw it in my face. Now, reviewing my decisions that night, I wondered whether I was so taken with him I didn’t see what an idiot he was, or if I had him figured out all along and just didn’t care. I wasn’t feeling real good about either of those explanations. One thing for sure: with the two of us working in the same building, I was never going to put that one night behind me. I turned to face him. “You’re an asshole.”
* * *
I was exhausted when I picked up the phone and hit the On button. I do a lot of stupid things these days, but I don’t think I’m basically a stupid person, if that distinction makes any sense. But I was sure I was calling him too much. I turned the phone off and put it back on the table. Screw it. I picked it up a second time, hit On again, and punched his speed dial.
“Hello?”
Shit, it was the girlfriend. “Angela, this is Karen. Is Tommy in?” This girl’s been around over five months, which could be a record for Bruce. His strategy, although he would never admit it, probably never even recognize it, was to make up for the time we were married. Thirteen years, at maybe three or four women per year. Forty-five, give or take, is a lot of women. And while he was going through them, the clock kept ticking, dozens more girls turning eighteen every day. He would never catch up.
“Let me see if I can get him.” Angela called out Tommy’s name. Her voice was clear and strong, unconcerned. Living in the father’s house, getting a call from the mother—she didn’t find it uncomfortable. Why should she? If anyone was out of line, it was me, not her.
I heard the tiny tap as Angela placed the phone on the table. It sounded like soft wood, probably the pine end table near the front door. Angela was humming something cheery as she sailed off to do the next thing.
A moment later Tommy picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, honey, how are you?”
“Oh, hi, Mom. Shitty, thanks, and you?”
“Hey, watch your language. Cursing on the phone is a federal offense, asshole.”
“Yeah, I know, and you’re a cop.”
“That’s right. And I can bust you anytime I want.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No, sweetie, I just wanted to talk to you, see what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on. Like I told you yesterday, and the day before that.” The words struck me like a fist. The one thing I feared most was happening: he was pulling back. I knew I was trying too hard to stay in his life, to show him how much I loved him, to help him stay on top of things. But I wasn’t doing it smart enough. I was screwing it up, just as I had the divorce and the custody.
When Bruce left, I’d fallen apart. We hadn’t been close for a while, and I had concluded Bruce was a cold, self-centered jerk who mostly wanted to be left alone to play with his stupid fishing rods. His idea of a great day was to trailer the aluminum boat to the lake and sit there for five or six hours, staring at the fishing line, making sure it didn’t twitch, taking a break every now and then to piss beer into the water.
When he couldn’t go out in the boat and sit there for hours doing nothing, he would turn on the TV and watch some other idiot sit in a boat, doing nothing. My God, at least when you watch golf on TV you’re pretty sure someone’s gonna take a swing at the ball every once in a while, not just stand there for an hour staring at the grass.
But Bruce was an attentive husband every third night. Hey, I need it, he would say, and I couldn’t tell whether he was too stupid to know how that made me feel or just didn’t give a shit. Which of course made it worse when he left. If he had been half as good a man as he was when we got married, that would have been one thing. People can grow apart. Marriages can get parched and die. Still, when an enormous waste of space like Bruce decides to move on, it’s hard seeing that as a compliment.
The custody arrangement was routine. Tommy stayed with me, and Bruce picked him up on weekends. This was when that thing happened with Matt. Two days later, the chief called me into his office and told me I was transferred to the night shift. I said I couldn’t do that, because of my son. He told me it was night shift or I was gone. He couldn’t have me “fucking the uniforms”—he was always something of a poet.
I was furious. I said why don’t you move Matt? The chief said I was the one who slept with him. As a detective, I should have known better. I still wonder whether Matt slept with me just for bragging rights or to help the chief get rid of me.
So I went to Bruce for help. Kind of a mistake. He blew up at me, saying I was whoring around in front of Tommy. He told me it was my problem; there wasn’t anything he could do. But that next week he thought of something: he went to the judge who handled the divorce and got custody. Bruce’s mother, Eileen, who lived in town, said she was willing to fill in after school at Bruce’s house.
“Well, come on,” I said to Tommy on the phone. “There’s gotta be something going on in that pathetic teenage hell you call a life. I mean, you do wake up, right? And go to school, don’t you? Something’s gotta happen.” No response. I counted one, two, three. “Listen, pal, you give me two sentences in a row right now or I’m coming over, and you know I’m gonna make you brush your damn teeth, which you hate doing.”
“All right, all right.”
“Okay, now we’re gonna talk, like two advanced primates.”
“Great.”
“So, the basketball camp ended, right? How was that?”
“Yeah, the basketball camp ended. I almost forgot about that. We had our big awards thing at the pizza place.”
“Yeah, you have fun?”
“Fun? Sure, I had a lot of fun. The perfect ending to the perfect season. It starts with me not making the A team. It continues with me taking four whole shots in twelve games.”
“But, honey, that’s not the poin
t of—”
“What did you call for?”
“I told you, to see how you’re doing. Listen, Tommy. You’re going to have to deal with this. So you’re not the world’s greatest basketball player. There’s a lot worse things—”
“I don’t give a crap about the basketball, Mom. I know I suck. It’s just, they could’ve given me one of those shitty trophies—”
“All right, that’s it. You have the right to remain silent—”
“Okay, okay. But they could have made one up saying ‘Made the Other Team Feel Good When He Stepped on the Court’ or something. Anything. Shit, they even gave one to the wheelchair kid who just flaps his—”
“Tommy, you know what we agreed about referring to Mike.” It came out harsh. I meant it to.
“Yeah, I know. It’s just if they could give—”
“It’s just nothing. You talk about him respectfully. End of story.”
“Okay, okay.” His voice was small. “I’m sorry.”
I could feel his shame. I let it hang there for a moment. “Well, you never know, brat. Maybe they ordered you an extra-small trophy and it got tossed out with the packing peanuts.”
“Ha, ha. That’s hilarious.” But I could hear he was trying to cover up a small laugh.
“So, is Angela all moved in?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Dad made me go over to John’s for the weekend.”
“I understand. He didn’t want to make it any more crazy for you than necessary.”
“Sure, this way I didn’t notice anything. I just came down to breakfast and said ‘Good morning, Mom. We got any corn flakes? Say, wait a minute. I thought you had brown hair, Mom. And weren’t you a little taller? And didn’t your name used to be Karen? Wait: I think I figured it out. You’re not my mom, are you? That’s right, you’re my dad’s new girlfriend.’”
“Okay, that’s enough. Look, this is hard for everyone. Your father’s trying to do this the best way he can—”
“And he’s doing a really shitty job at it.”
“Honey, you’re gonna have to be patient. Everyone’s just feeling their way along here. There’s no easy way to do these things.”