Once my eyes adjusted to the light I gazed on a room that looked exactly like a maiden aunt’s kitchen should, from the metal canisters with ingredient labels on the outside to the embroidered God bless our home framed plaque. A filled glass cookie jar sat on a corner of the counter next to the refrigerator. The room smelled of fresh bread and musty old wood mixed with spices on the tip of recognition.
They seated us. A plate of cookies, fresh bread, and corn muffins appeared, along with tall glasses of milk. At first we tried saying no thanks. It was like trying to refuse your grandmother. We ate and sipped and waited. When we were sufficiently fed, they brought out their revelation.
Harriet got out a stepstool from the pantry, climbed it, and pulled a stack of mail from the top shelf of the cupboard over the sink.
“This is Father Sebastian’s mail,” she said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“We didn’t steal it,” Harriet said.
“We’ve been in charge of sorting mail at the rectory for twenty years,” Mildred added. “Constance and Father Clarence tried to take the job away from us, but Father Sebastian came to our rescue.”
They hadn’t known what to do with the dead priest’s mail. No one seemed to care when they asked, so they’d kept it and brought it home every night.
“It was my idea to show it to you,” Harriet said. “Like those detectives on TV. You’re so young and handsome, and you were so polite last time. We wanted to help you. We thought this might be a clue.”
There must have been thirty envelopes, all open. I asked about this.
“Father Sebastian trusted us. We’d open each piece of mail, examine it, and decide on its importance. We placed it in separate piles on his desk every afternoon. We’d been doing it for ten years. It saved him time.”
“Plus you thought you might try a little detective work yourselves,” Scott suggested.
They nodded. “But it didn’t do us any good. We couldn’t find anything important,” Harriet said. “Then we thought of you. And you were such nice boys. We wanted to see you again.” She smiled shyly. “We forgot to get Mr. Carpenter’s autograph.”
I felt odd looking through a dead man’s mail. It seemed illegal, or at least indecent. This gave me pause for a second. If anything here gave us a clue to finding Jerry, I wasn’t concerned about esoteric legal points.
The four of us sat around the Formica-top table on plastic-covered chairs. The women watched as Scott and I divided the stacks. I started with very little hope. They’d seen too many TV shows. My stack had a few bills, a lot of junk mail, and a personal letter from a former parishioner now living in California. I examined everything carefully. The letter was innocuous and pleasant enough from someone unaware of tragedy. The bills showed no pattern. A few meals on his VISA charge at suburban restaurants didn’t reveal anything. The MasterCard bill showed some purchases at a men’s clothing store in the past month. It could have been socks and underwear. No singular fact leap out to reveal a hidden life.
Scott sat leafing through a small stack of canceled checks. He had the other mail sitting to his left. He slowly began separating the checks into two stacks.
“Find something?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
The two women and I leaned closer. Scott pushed one stack to his left. “Those are ordinary checks.” Then he held out four checks in a fan. “These are all made out to Dr. Hiram Kramer, all for seventy-five dollars, each a week apart.”
Harriet and Mildred didn’t have a clue as to who Hiram was. I had a guess. Maybe a medical doctor, but probably some kind of therapist. We checked the local phone book but found no listing. We tried directory assistance. Hiram had an office in the Loop and lived in Rogers Park on Sheridan Road. We decided against a call and voted for a visit.
We thanked Harriet and Mildred. It was a slender thread, but better than anything else we had to go on.
Scott hurried out to his Porche and came back with enough baseballs for all their nephews and nieces. He gets so many requests for signed baseballs, he started carrying a supply in the car. They beamed at us. They wanted to give us supper, but we managed to beg off.
We drove to the city up I-57 to the Dan Ryan Expressway. Took the Stevenson to Lake Shore Drive and up to where it ends at Hollywood and turned right onto Sheridan. I hit a huge pothole at full speed.
“Easy,” Scott said. “We’re not even sure he’ll be there, or if he’ll tell us anything. We probably should have called ahead.”
I slowed down, but not much. Hiram Kramer lived in the last high rise before Sheridan Road turns to go around Mundelein College and Loyola University.
He was home. When the security guard mentioned Father Sebastian’s name into the phone, the person on the other end gave him permission to let us in. I knew immediately as soon as he opened the door that this was the mysterious stranger who met Sebastian on Sunday nights at Roscoe’s: short, slight, with dark hair and a pipe.
He showed us into a living room furnished in books. Eight-foot-high bookcases filled every available wall. A rolltop desk placed in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows gaped open. Kramer sat on a swivel chair in front of the desk. He seated us in two canvas-backed captain’s chairs, the only other seats in the room except for a long black leather couch.
After our introduction he acknowledged Scott with congratulations on his ninth twenty-game season last year.
Then Kramer settled himself into his chair, leaned back, and placed his stocking-clad feet on an open desk drawer. I explained why we’d come, where we found out about him, and how we needed his help.
He fiddled with his pipe, tamped down the tobacco, then used a lighter. The resulting flame reached at least nine inches on each puff. He grinned in satisfaction and faced us. He needed a beard on his face for the right cliché effect. Instead he showed us yellowed teeth and said, “Even though he’s dead, I’m not at liberty to talk about him.”
“Someone killed him,” I said.
He took the pipe by the bowl and stared at us. “There’s been no mention of that in the papers. Why hasn’t anyone heard? I can’t believe it. His death was shock enough. He was the only good priest I ever knew.”
I spoke as persuasively as I knew how, trying to get him to open up. He wouldn’t budge. He talked about professional ethics.
“At least tell us about your relationship with Father Sebastian. It had to be more than professional,” I said.
He puffed on his pipe thoughtfully for a minute, then said, “I can go into that a little bit. We met in seminary.” Both just out of high school, the two of them had discovered a shared interest in medieval chant. Their mutual sexual orientation had led to little more than a bout or two of mechanical fumbling. “We never even got all our clothes off. We decided our friendship was more important than sex. Besides, in those days it was necessary to be exceptionally discreet.”
I asked about a liaison with John Smith. I got a surprised look. “How’d you find out about that?”
I told him we’d had a talk with Smith.
He fumbled with his pipe, knocked out the ashes, rearranged some papers on his desk, and finally picked up a pen and tapped one end against the desk. With a conscious effort he stopped fidgeting and gave me a direct look.
“Even if it was murder, what would a thirty-year-old relationship have to do with it?”
“We were hoping you could tell us.”
He frowned. “I guess I can tell the story, but it reflects more on me than on Sebastian or Smith.” He took a deep breath and began to talk.
Thirty years ago he and Sebastian had been as inseparable as the restrictive rules at the time permitted. Then Smith had entered the picture. For a while the three palled around together. After a while he realized the other two had begun to leave him out of their activities. He’d confronted Sebastian. They’d argued.
He got a soft look in his eyes. They glistened with moisture. “My jealousy consumed me. He offered friendship. I wanted him ex
clusively. He was so damn kind and understanding. I left the seminary rather than see the two of them together.”
Hiram told us he’d done a lot of growing up, got some therapy, and joined a program to become a psychotherapist. During that time Sebastian looked him up. They’d kept in contact. Then two years ago Sebastian had come to him to ask formally to be in therapy. He’d insisted on paying like any other client.
“Were Smith and Sebastian lovers?”
“You mean did they have genital contact?” His eyes flashed angrily. “I have no idea. I didn’t want to know then or now. If you mean, were they in love? In a schoolboy-crush way, I suppose you could say yes.” His tone and manner, though, said yes, he did care. I thought to myself, some hurts never go away.
Kramer insisted that, while they were still friends, their relationship for the past two years was definitely client and therapist.
“Did he tell you he tested positive for the AIDS antibodies?” I asked.
“That’s something I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
I sighed. It was impossible to find out anything they’d discussed in therapy. I asked, “Why meet at Roscoe’s?”
“Why not? It was convenient. I drove down. It made less of a trek home for him.”
“You won’t tell us anything?” I asked.
He relit his pipe, then gazed at us over the smoking bowl. “You gentlemen ask for a great deal. I understand your emotional involvement because of your nephew. You aren’t the police. I told you all there is about Sebastian and me, but you’re a couple of amateurs who can be of little benefit to my former client. It is his interest I need to protect even though he’s dead.” Puffs of smoke escaped languidly from behind the hand that engulfed the bowl of the pipe. A minute later he put the pipe down and said, “You’re obviously used to people being charmed by Mr. Carpenter’s fame or perhaps the people you request information from are swept away by the force of your obvious emotion. I’m not. Come back with a court order or put me on the stand. Then I might talk.”
Minutes later we gave it up as futile. At Scott’s place I called Neil. I told him I wanted the remaining members of the Faith Board of Directors in the penthouse within the hour. He began a few protests, but I issued orders, and for once the old queen shut up and did as he was told.
Five minutes later the intercom phone rang. That was quick, I thought. But it wasn’t Faith. The doorman asked us if we’d see Detective Turner.
9
In the living room, Turner inspected Scott’s World Series MVP trophies and Cy Young awards. He nodded appreciatively. “I played baseball in high school,” he said. He smiled as he took a seat on the couch. “I pitched, but not in your class.”
“Why’d you give it up?” Scott asked.
“I went for one of those mass tryouts the White Sox had one summer. Instead of being the star from my team, I was one of four hundred who thought his fastball could strike out the side. It couldn’t.” He smiled ruefully. “So I became a cop. I like it.”
He settled himself on the white leather couch and said, “You boys have been pretty active.”
“Wouldn’t you be if one of your family’d been kidnapped?” I said.
He held up a hand. “I’m not criticizing. Not yet, anyway. I will tell you this. While there is no longer overt opposition to a murder investigation, I’ve never felt such pressure from the higher-ups to go easy. That’s one thing. But the pressure also comes in weird indirect ways too. It’s like being beaten to death with an all-day sucker. Reports that usually take an hour take a day. If they used to take a day, they take a week. Only somebody with powerful clout could pull those kinds of strings. Every little bureaucratic inconvenience somebody can put in my way in investigating this has been there. Plus I keep hearing about you guys. Your friend Prentice complained to the beat cop. Our guy wasn’t too sympathetic. Prentice had no witnesses and wasn’t willing to show any bruises from the torture.”
Scott said, “I tried to twist his dick and balls off.”
Turner said, “You’ve got to let the cops handle this.”
“They haven’t solved it,” I snapped.
“Neither have you,” he countered. “What you have done is piss people off or scare them away. I admit I wouldn’t be pursuing this, at some danger to my career I might add, if I didn’t believe you. However, I’m not going to risk my job for a couple of fuck-ups. I’m not going to tell you to stop. I know you won’t. This is a warning. If you’re caught in anything even slightly illegal, you’re dead meat. Besides shit from me and the rest of the police department, whoever’s behind the cover-up—and we all suspect the Church—has more power than even the most popular baseball player.”
“They’d hurt us?”
“Oh, yes, but in subtle ways. It’d be as if they were slicing off your skin layer by layer. Painful torture and eventual death. They won’t call a press conference to denounce you. I’ve seen the Church do this kind of thing before. Somebody will be a friend of the owner of the team, and with a whisper in his ear, suddenly you find yourself traded away. That’s one small example of a thousand kinds of revenge they might take. Be careful. Go easy.”
We thanked him for the warning.
“I’m also here to tell you that Father Sebastian was poisoned.”
We gaped in astonishment.
“The Catholic Church isn’t the only institution around here with hidden powers.” He said that, like the HIV test, other parts of the autopsy had been done before official word came down to cool it. “My source wasn’t able to find out what kind of poison,” he said. They planned further tests. For now, they were questioning all the people at the rectory who might have had access to his food.
I couldn’t see Mildred and Harriet Weber as murderers.
We told him all we knew. He left around eight-thirty, after a final warning.
The members of the Faith Board of Directors arrived within fifteen minutes of one another, a half hour after Turner left.
Neil came first. He permitted himself a detailed inspection of the decor in the living room and kitchen. We didn’t take him on a tour.
“How butch,” he murmured, descending the steps to the fireplace alcove. “All it needs is a white bearskin rug, and I’d orgasm as I stand here.”
“Please don’t,” I muttered.
“And I love the paintings. Who did you get to do them?”
“A friend,” Scott said.
Neil swished over to inspect the signatures. “Never heard of him,” he said, peering at the painting.
“He’s probably never heard of you,” Scott said.
Neil harrumphed. He came back to the center of the fireplace area. “What did you boys do to Prentice? To get him over here, I had to threaten the child within an inch of his life.” He pointed to Scott. “He especially doesn’t like you.”
“It’s mutual,” Scott said.
The buzz of the lobby phone interrupted any further rejoinders. Clayton, whom we hadn’t seen since we interviewed him in Bruce’s Halfway There bar, entered, followed soon after by Prentice and Monica, arriving at the same time.
When I’d seated them around the fireplace and we’d gotten them drinks, I explained the situation to them. I concluded, “Bartholomew is dead, Sebastian murdered, my nephew missing. I think one person or group is responsible.” I paced the room as I spoke. They sat on the matching white leather sofas, Prentice farthest from Scott.
“Has anybody heard from Priscilla?” I asked.
Universal head shakes. I sat on the arm of the couch next to Prentice. He looked up at me, then away. “Where could they hide a kid?” I asked. “This isn’t Beirut.”
“Maybe they went underground like radicals from the sixties,” Clayton suggested.
“Does that still happen?” Neil asked.
“People can and do,” Monica said. “It’s easier than you think.” She explained that without her knowledge the Lesbians for Freedom and Dignity had hidden away for months in the church complex ren
ovation. “You need a group small enough, and people who know how to keep their mouths shut.” She shrugged. “It’s obviously happening in this instance.” She picked up her purse from the floor, drew a gold cigarette case and holder out, looked around the room. “Does anyone mind?”
Scott found her an ashtray while she lit up and struck an elegant pose.
Neil rose, twirled, and flounced to the window. I never found his aging Queen Mother act less amusing. “It’s useless for us to pursue this.” He returned to stand above us. “We shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”
“We only did because of Jerry,” Scott said. “I don’t give a shit about your lesbians, your causes, your goddam religion, your goddam priests, or your petty quarrels. I’m not sure I care that Sebastian is dead. Although out of this whole group, he seems to be the only genuinely good person. Bartholomew died and I feel sorry for him.”
“The deaths have to be connected,” I said.
Prentice said, “Why are we here?”
“Because we need help,” I said. “The Church has shut us out. The cops don’t want us to interfere. The only chance left is the lesbian connection. You knew some of these people. All of you at least knew Priscilla. Where would she go?”
Clayton said, “The police asked us the same thing. We’ve already told them all we know.”
“Which is nothing,” Monica said. She twirled her hand and cigarette.
We urged them to try again. To think of anything that they hadn’t thought of when the police questioned them. I turned to Clayton. “I haven’t had the chance to ask you. Did you know Sebastian was HIV positive?”
He gave me a puzzled look. “No. I don’t believe it. He always defended priests’ being celibate.”
I assured him it was true. I went back to urging them to try and think of anything that might help.
Monica reported that the police search of Priscilla’s apartment had led to nothing.
“Can we see her place?” I asked.
The Only Good Priest Page 14