The Only Good Priest

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “You’ve had break-ins before?” I asked.

  “Twice, although this is the worst. I’m planning to make it the last. And today is deadline. We’ll have some computers working soon. The paper will be out on time.”

  “Who did it?” I asked.

  She pulled a cigarette from a cookie jar on top of the coffee table and a silver cigarette holder from a clip on the side. She organized these and lit the cigarette before she answered. “Who knows? Jealous lesbians? Envious gay men? Threatened straights I’ve put out of business? This is a sideline, a hobby for me, but somebody’s going to pay.” She spoke very calmly for all her threatening words. Her violet eyes met ours as she puffed contentedly.

  “You’re here about Sebastian.” She didn’t wait for confirmation. Her eyes got misty. “He knew people, understood them, not in some saintly, otherworldly way but like a real person, looking at real foibles and major character flaws, and yet he still cared about them. He’s the first professionally religious person—priest, minister, nun, whatever—I ever met who was actually a holy person, a good, kind, loving Christian person. And some bastard murdered him.” The glint of tears appeared in her eyes.

  “How can you be sure it was murder?”

  “I know bullshit from cops when I see it. Plus my contact in the chancery is very reliable.”

  “Like I said last night, we need to talk to your source,” I said.

  “I’m trying to get him to agree. I’ll need more time.”

  We told her about Sebastian testing positive for HIV antibodies.

  “Test can’t be right. He didn’t have AIDS. I’d know. He couldn’t have hidden it from me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know,” Scott said.

  “Possible,” she conceded. She mushed out her cigarette in an ashtray large enough to hold half of Lake Michigan. She sighed. “You’re here because you found out I went downstairs that Sunday.” Stated, not asked. “I figured, with you talking to the troops, it’d come out. I am not universally loved.” I liked her melodious and soothing voice.

  “I went down to talk to him about getting rid of Bartholomew as treasurer. The man is a menace.” She recounted a string of the old man’s sins as treasurer. “I’m a businesswoman,” she finished. “I can’t stand incompetence, no matter how kind we should be to the old coot.”

  Sebastian had refused, saying the old man needed to feel wanted. The group would survive any blunders he made. It wasn’t as if Bartholomew were stealing from them. “My last words to him were petty, harsh ones about a totally unimportant issue.” She sighed. “Life’s a bitch.”

  After a few moments she continued. “I’ve never met a more powerful or strong-willed person than Sebastian. Yet he never raised his voice, put himself forward, or joined a faction.” She’d neither seen nor heard anyone else making their way to see the priest that day.

  I explained about trying to find who Sebastian met at the bar. Who he might be and why Sebastian met him.

  Monica thought. Inserted another cigarette in the holder and began puffing. “All I know is that if anybody ever talked about going for a drink, he always suggested Roscoe’s. We went a few times. He never met anybody when I was there.”

  It wasn’t much, but that’s all she gave us. I got a photograph of Father Sebastian from her. I wanted to show it at Roscoe’s: a slim chance, but at least a place to start. Monica had to get back to the paper. She told us she’d send Priscilla up to talk to us. She picked up the phone receiver, punched several buttons, and requested Priscilla’s presence.

  A few minutes later Priscilla stomped in. She did not sit. She gripped the back of a chair hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

  “What is it?” she demanded after Monica left. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Did you know Sebastian tested positive for the AIDS anti-bodies?” I asked.

  “The old bastard had AIDS? I don’t believe it. He was so moral. I can’t believe he’d ever have sex with anybody. Who’d want to? Still, he was the only politically correct male I knew. Don’t know how he pulled that off.”

  “Why’d you go downstairs to see Sebastian on Sunday?”

  The question set her off. For five minutes she berated us as incompetent males and unwanted outsiders. Scott got up and walked to the window halfway through the tirade.

  When she paused for breath, I said, “Did you kill him?”

  She switched instantly from macho pig insults to deadly calm. “You heard of Lesbians for Freedom and Dignity?”

  I nodded.

  “We don’t put up with insults from men.”

  “It wasn’t an insult, just a question.”

  She waved a finger in my face. “You’ll be sorry, fucker,” she said and stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “I refuse to deal with that shit,” Scott said, coming back from the window.

  We walked downstairs. The cleaners had reached the second floor by now, but it still looked to be unusable for days. Downstairs, a few computers hummed, repair trucks sat outside, tie-clad men peered into the insides of terminally ill machines. Repair men in hours, that was power and money at work.

  We’d promised to pick up Bartholomew at two. He had given us his phone number and address the day before. We called ahead to make sure he was home. No answer. We drove over. Bartholomew lived above a straight bar on Lincoln Avenue, just south of Diversey. No Bartholomew waiting outside, as he promised the day before. We banged on the downstairs door and pressed the buzzer. Still no answer. We tried the first-floor tavern. Behind the bar, a bald little guy with a towel draped over his left shoulder had his bookie receipts spread out on the bar top. A cigarette with a one-inch ash dangled from his lips. I watched him as he deftly moved his beer glass two seconds before the ash dropped. The ash received a swipe with a fist, and the beer returned to its rightful place. “Help youse?” he said, not looking up.

  We stood on the other side of the bar, waiting. Finally he looked up at us. He gaped. “Scott Carpenter.” His cigarette plopped into his beer. “Whatever you want, it’s on the house,” he said.

  “We’re looking for the old man upstairs, Bartholomew Northridge. Know him?”

  “You mean the cranky old fruit?”

  Scott tapped him gently on his flabby chest. “You mean the kind old gay man,” he said softly.

  The bartender looked at the finger and smiled weakly. “Yeah, sure, sorry. Who’s prejudiced?”

  “Have you seen him?” I asked.

  “Nope. Should be up there. Most days he stops in here around noon. Not always.”

  With only a little prodding from sports hero Scott Carpenter, the guy gave us his key. Again he offered us any free drink in the house.

  “Another time,” Scott told him.

  A long single flight of linoleum-covered steps led up to Bartholomew’s room. The linoleum might have been bright green upon installation fifty years ago, but no longer. We called from the outside the door, but no one answered. Unlocking the door and entering, we found Bartholomew at the kitchen table staring into a cold cup of coffee.

  It took little more than a glance to take in his whole apartment. His living space depressed me. The walls were bare. Everything was clean and spartan. A few carefully mended kitchen chairs sat under a card table. The single bed had an old army blanket, tucked in with military precision, as its only covering. A stack of gay porno magazines peeked from under the side of the bed. Two library books, Greenberg’s The Construction of Homosexuality and After the Ball, by Kirk and Madsen, sat on the nightstand. The only light in the room came from a floor lamp any self-respecting garage sale would reject. An open doorway revealed a spotless john.

  He raised two film-covered eyes to us. “I can’t,” he whispered.

  I stayed in the doorway. Scott sat in a creaking chair across from Bartholomew. He took one gnarled old hand from around the coffee cup and held it between his own.

  “What’s wrong, Bartholomew?” he murmured.

  �
��I’m scared,” the old man mumbled. “Scared I’ll catch it. Afraid to die.”

  Patiently Scott explained how you can or can’t catch AIDS. He added, “We’re all afraid to die, Bartholomew. You can’t stop living out of fear. You have to volunteer. To honor Father Sebastian’s memory, if nothing else.”

  The old man stared out the window at the brick wall of the building next door for the longest time. Scott waited, unmoving and silent. His hands around the other man’s gave warmth and courage. The old man’s pained eyes met Scott’s. The deep blue lamps of my lover radiated their warmth.

  “I need my coat,” Bartholomew said.

  We walked him into the clinic. A bright-eyed young man chattering happily took Bartholomew from us and led him away. As he always did when he stopped at the clinic, Scott checked the roster of people with AIDS in area hospitals. He took notes on several new ones and talked to the volunteer to be sure they’d updated his list. Scott visited every person with AIDS in every Chicago hospital, as long as they didn’t refuse to see him.

  As we left, Bartholomew rushed back to us. “I need to talk to the two of you. I know something about—” He broke off as an attractive young attendant walked up to us.

  He smiled at Bartholomew. “I have a blind person with AIDS who needs to be read to this week. We can begin your training later. For now, we have a million envelopes we need help with stuffing.” He gave the old man a genuinely warm and caring smile.

  Captivated, Bartholomew let himself be led off. “I’ll call you tonight,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Before we left, we phoned ahead to the Twenty-third District police station, trying to get hold of the Chicago cop Frank had mentioned. He was in. We drove up Halsted to the station. They could have used this place for the run-down precinct station of any urban TV cop show. The cops readily recognized Scott. He signed autographs and chatted happily. The commander came down and greeted him. We got the Cooks tour. When done, he asked if there was anything specific he could do for us. We asked for the man Frank had named, Paul Turner.

  With a minimum of curiosity, satisfied by our bland replies and his desire to call everybody he knew to tell about meeting Scott, he led us to a small room on the second floor.

  The door stood wide open to reveal a room cluttered with six desks, bookcases, chairs, and barely enough room to walk between all of them. Heaps of paper covered the tops of each desk with only a tiny square open where its occupant could lean an elbow. One man sat in the room, maybe thirty, nice-looking, in a shambling, rugged way. He was the only cop who hadn’t clustered eagerly around Scott. The commander introduced him as Detective Paul Turner, the guy we wanted. He told Turner to treat us well. With a final handshake for Scott, he left us. Turner smiled, shook hands, said it was nice to meet both of us. He wore a dull blue tie and a white shirt and nonregulation blue pants; flung over the back of his chair was a herringbone-gray coat that sort of matched his outfit. He wore his shoulder holster and gun. He removed files from two chairs and placed them carefully in order on the floor. I guessed that after we vacated these seats, he would replace the materials exactly as he had found them.

  Turner had thick black wiry hair, a quarter inch longer than a brush cut, and at two-thirty in the afternoon he had a five o’clock shadow. He rested his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands, and let his brown eyes gaze at us. If he used that innocent look on me and I was guilty, I’d confess immediately.

  I explained our problem from the beginning, leaving out innuendo, sticking to the facts as much as possible. I talked for ten minutes. His attention never wavered.

  When I finished he said, “If I hadn’t talked to Frank Murphy, I’d toss you both out of here on your asses. I assume you only got this far because nobody in this town would dare question Scott Carpenter or anybody with him. Shitty police procedure, but not hard to understand.” At times I had to lean forward to catch his words, spoken in a soft baritone.

  “I prefer rules and regulations. You get a dead body. The blues arrive, secure the crime scene. Lab folks show up, take pictures, file reports; detectives ask questions, interview people. Nice, neat, orderly. You two guys are not in the regular order. I think you’ve found some interesting stuff, but I’m off the case. I’m not supposed to care.”

  I described Frank’s comments on those in charge.

  “He shouldn’t have told you, no matter how much he trusts you. I like Frank. Maybe it’s easier to trust people in the suburbs.”

  “You don’t believe us?” Scott asked.

  He smiled briefly at Scott. “Belief isn’t my problem at this point. Power and the lack of it are. I’m off the case. I ask why? I’m told to go to work on my other cases. I press the commander. He presses back harder. So I shut up and wonder who’s got the clout to push him. Frank tells me documents have disappeared. My sources confirm this. I tried to get official access to the files. No dice. I tried people I know. Nothing. Nobody connected with this case will say word one, not my best contacts. I’ve been a detective five years. I don’t need a road map to see where this is going.” He shrugged. “Now you guys show up, outside of regulations and orders. Normally I’d be real interested. But now I’ve got no questions to ask. It’s not my job or my problem. What you’ve told me adds up to official zip. I could pull in these people, some of whom could squawk real loud. Then I’m in deep shit. For what? A famous baseball player, a concerned schoolteacher, and a dead priest. You guys are out of your league. I’m out of my league. My best advice is, Forget it, boys. If the case has this kind of pull behind it, my guess is people could get very nasty about you poking around.”

  He twined his hands together, placed them behind his head, and slouched back. No dampness under his armpits.

  “Do I agree with you? Doesn’t matter. Can I do anything for you? Nope, sorry. Would what you say hold up in court? No. Is somebody covering up? Obviously. Should you keep your noses out of it? You bet.”

  He put his arms down and placed his hands on the table, palms up. “What else can I do for you?”

  “What kind of cop are you?” Scott demanded. “Don’t you know we’re telling the truth?”

  The cop smiled. “I think everything you told me was the truth.”

  “Then what the fuck?” Scott vented his frustration.

  The cop never took his eyes away from Scott’s face, listening as if he heard your deepest secrets in everything you said. When Scott ran down the cop said, “I’m more frustrated about this than you are.”

  I believed him.

  “I deal in real things. Those I can change. This is one I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Simple honesty in clear brown eyes.

  “If I were on the case, I’d tell you to fuck off as nosy busybodies even if your best friend was the chief of police.” He wasn’t threatening or being cruel, just expressing his method of working and dealing with amateurs. “Do me one favor?”

  I nodded.

  “If you find anything out, let me know. If they find you dead, I’ll have a start on an investigation.”

  “If you think we’re in danger, why won’t you help us?” I asked.

  “I don’t know if you’re in danger. But I don’t like the smell of this whole business. Warning you to be careful is all I can do.” He shrugged. His shoulders were broad and well muscled.

  We got up to leave. Police business over, he said, “My sons would never forgive me if I didn’t get Scott Carpenter’s autograph. You better sign one for me too.” That was refreshing. Usually an adult wouldn’t admit it was for him.

  He walked us to the door. He took out his wallet, pulled out a card, and gave it to me. “This has my home number, too. I hope you won’t need to use it.”

  We thanked him and left.

  We drove back to River’s Edge for negotiations with the board of education.

  I expected the meeting to last until all hours of the morning. I wanted to confront Clarence the creep, but it would have to wait.


  The lawyer for their side took fifteen minutes to deliver the message to the lawyer for our side. The board’s basic response to our last offer: Fuck you, go to hell. The mediator, part of the process required in all Illinois school district labor disputes, wrung her hands and requested more meetings. We said bullshit. In fifteen more minutes we acted on the authorization of our members and our vote of Saturday and told them we were ready to strike. I was home by nine. I ranted about asshole administrators for fifteen minutes. Scott’s heard the drill several thousand times before. He let me run on, then suggested we confront Clarence.

  We didn’t call. We drove straight to the rectory. Nobody home. We sat in the car while I fumed. Scott suggested we visit the Manhattan woman friend. Even though it was nearly ten I decided to try it. This wasn’t a social call, and maybe a late-evening confrontation with possible exposure of this relationship might shake loose some information.

  Half an hour later we strode up the walk. The almost springlike forty-degree temperatures had continued. The woman who met us at the door wore blue jeans and a heavy black sweater. She carried a sleeping baby. We caught a glimpse of Father Clarence in faded jeans and gray sweater lounging on the couch, feet up, gazing at a TV program. He looked in our direction and abruptly sat up straight. We told the woman we wanted to talk to Father Clarence.

  “Let them in,” he called.

  Inside, the woman began to demand to know who we were and what we wanted. Clarence calmed her down. He asked us all to sit. Our voices had waked the baby. Its cries rose quickly to a full bellow. I presumed the woman to be the mother. Probably around twenty-five, she seemed accustomed to the baby, but for whatever reason, her attention torn and her home threatened, her mothering attempts were for nought. The baby squalled louder. Clarence took the kid. Comfortable as he seemed with the child the crying didn’t stop. “She’s teething,” the mother explained, “and your presence doesn’t help. It took me an hour to get her quiet.” While she directed her anger at me, Scott took the baby from Clarence. The kid stopped crying almost instantly. The man’s a wizard.