The Man Who Murdered God

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  “You talked to Deeley lately?”

  “Not yesterday. Deeley’s interested in priests, not fags.”

  “Call him. Tell him about Vance so he’ll pass it on to the archdiocese. Otherwise they’ll think we’re falling on our asses down here.” He looked towards the window. “You got nothing to add, Lipson?”

  Lipson shook his head slowly.

  “Then let’s get on with it,” Kavander said in a resigned voice.

  Lipson slid from the windowsill and headed for the door. McGuire stood up, turned to follow him, then stopped and looked back at the captain. “Jack?” he asked.

  “What?” Kavander had opened his desk drawer and was selecting a toothpick.

  “What if it works?”

  “What if what works?”

  “What if it pays off? Somebody sees the writing and starts pulling something together. What then?”

  Kavander jammed the wood sliver into his mouth and swung it from corner to corner, studying McGuire. “Then I’m a jerk, and you’re a hero,” he said finally.

  “And Vance?”

  “Vance is still an asshole.”

  McGuire followed Lipson out the door and down the hall to the squad room. He slumped at his desk and began going over the overnight reports and tip sheets again until he became aware of Lipson watching him. “What’s up?” he asked, looking over at his partner.

  “You know anything about Vance?” Lipson asked.

  “All I need to know about him. Why?”

  “Did you know he’s got a wife and two small kids at home?”

  “Am I supposed to be upset?” McGuire turned back to the reports.

  “Fat Eddie, what’s he going to do if he loses his job, his pension? He’ll be lucky if he can get hired as a security guard over at Prudential Centre.”

  McGuire brushed the reports aside and swung back to face Lipson again. “Hey, what the hell am I?” he demanded. “The United Appeal? If Jack Kavander and the commissioner say he screwed up, am I supposed to hold a tag day for a doorknob you couldn’t stand being around?”

  “All the pictures were in our office, Joe.”

  “So what’s it prove? It’s an open office. Everybody on this floor knew about the pictures.”

  Lipson sat silent for a moment, then stood and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Bernie,” McGuire called after him. “You know what I asked Kavander?”

  Lipson looked at McGuire.

  “I asked him what if it works? What if it gives us the only solid lead we get, after four people have been blown apart with shotguns? What do we think about it then, huh?”

  His partner turned and walked out the door and down the hall.

  At ten o’clock Janet Parsons entered the squad room with a number of small white sheets torn from a note pad. She walked directly to McGuire’s desk and sat down facing him. “Three calls,” she said softly. “Two regulars, guys who confessed earlier and said they wrote it.” She held a hastily scribbled note up for him. “One new guy. This one’s hot.”

  McGuire took the paper from her and read a name, address and phone number.

  “He’s a doctor out at Lynwood Institute. A psychiatrist. Lynwood’s a rest home, you know that?” McGuire shook his head, still reading the note. He could feel his pulse quickening and recognized the rush of excitement he felt when he crossed the threshold of a murder case. He was about to leave ignorance and confusion behind to enter a place where everything would be revealed, orderly and logical, waiting to be gathered up and presented to the world. “Says he had a patient,” Janet said. “A young blond guy who used to write the same words over and over again on walls, in books, everywhere.”

  McGuire was up and slipping into his sports jacket, calling down the hall to Lipson.

  “Says the kid had freedom to come and go,” Janet continued, raising her voice. “But that he didn’t come back last night.”

  McGuire paused at the doorway to look back at her. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said. “Call the guy back and tell him we’re on our way. Now.” He handed the note to Lipson, who had emerged from their office. “This is it,” he said to his partner, “I’m betting the farm on it. This is it.”

  “Joe,” Janet said quietly, standing and moving closer to him. “What about Vance? What’s going to happen to him?”

  “He’ll be back,” McGuire answered as Lipson left ahead of him to get the car. “Hell, even Nixon came back, didn’t he?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mattie woke with a hangover. She rolled over and tried to smother her headache with the pillow, hiding her eyes from the warm rays of the sun. The bed seemed to spin slowly under her, and her stomach felt uneasy. When she opened her eyes and lifted her head, she saw the brilliant morning light reflected from mirrors and from the polished surface of her Italian brass bed. She lifted her wrist, squinted at the watch with one eye. Eight o’clock. Damn.

  She struggled out of bed and slipped into her robe, then padded into the kitchen, where she sat morosely watching the kettle until it began to boil.

  Jesus, she had to stop drinking tequila. So easy going down, so hard on the head. She smiled, remembering the scene with Chris in the bar. Hell, it had to come to that. He’d been fun for a while.

  She looked up at the ceiling. There’s a kid up there, she remembered. In the guest room. The young guy I nearly ran over, coming out of the parking lot. And I brought him home with me. I must have been nuts.

  The kettle began to whistle. She jerked the plug out of the wall and reached for the instant-coffee jar. No, she remembered, I wasn’t nuts. I was half drunk. If the cops had arrived, I might have woken up in a cell this morning and kissed goodbye to driving for about a year.

  She heard the ceiling creak above her, heard footsteps walking towards the upstairs washroom. What do I do now? The toilet flushed, and she grinned to herself. Hell, you do the same thing you always do when you bring somebody home. You make breakfast and ask if he had fun last night.

  No, wait a minute. This isn’t the same. There was no groping and grabbing and changing positions last night. She made him, what? Hot chocolate? Yes, and gave him some stale cookies. And he kept thanking her. Christ, she almost ran him over, he’s got a bruise the size of a grapefruit on his calf, he could hardly walk up the stairs, and he’s thanking her.

  He wanted me to tuck him in, she recalled. Acts like a kid in some ways, doesn’t he? Good-looking, though. Not too muscular, but at least he had a flat stomach. God, she was tired of men with pot bellies. Some of them were almost proud of their gut. Their beer reservoir, they called it, the pigs. God. When was the last time she’d been able to reach over and stroke a man’s flat belly?

  “Good morning.”

  Mattie almost spilled her coffee. He was standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs, wearing baggy exercise pants and no top.

  “Hi,” she answered. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, I did. That bed is very comfortable.”

  “Bought it for my mother. Did the whole room for her. I even had the bathroom installed en suite. We were going to live together and share the expenses.” She pulled a ceramic mug down from the cupboard. “You drink coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “What happened to your mother?”

  “It lasted a month. We fought from the first day and never stopped. She thought I was a slob. I couldn’t stand her cooking. She didn’t like my friends. Pretty soon I was convinced I was adopted because I couldn’t possibly have been born to a witch like her. And she was convinced they’d mixed up the kids at the hospital when I was born. So she went back to Ohio. Now we just send Christmas cards. How about orange juice? You like orange juice?”

  “Orange juice would be fine. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course you can sit down.” She remembered his injury. “How’s your leg?”

&nb
sp; He sat, stretched his leg out and pulled the cuff of the exercise pants up, revealing the large blue and purple bruise on the calf and shin bone. “It feels stiff,” he said. “And tender. It hurts a little bit.”

  “Look, I feel terrible all over again,” Mattie said, touching him gently on the shoulder. “If you want, I’ll take you to a doctor or a hospital and we can get it looked at.”

  “No, please.” He pulled the cuff of the exercise pants down to cover the bruised area again. “I’m sure it will heal by itself. It’s just a bruise.”

  “We’re both lucky I didn’t run you over.” She headed for the refrigerator. “What else can I get you besides orange juice? A glass of milk?”

  “Yes, thank you. Doesn’t that bother you about your mother?”

  “What, that she’s a lousy cook?” She poured large glasses each of juice and milk and carried them back to the breakfast table.

  “No, that you don’t enjoy each other’s company. I thought mothers were always close to their children.”

  “That’s the problem,” Mattie said, sitting opposite him and sipping her coffee. “She still thinks I’m a child.”

  “I try to talk to my mother every day,” the young man said.

  “Well, that’s nice. It’s good to still have a close relationship with your parents at your age. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Great age. I remember when I was twenty-two. Best year of my life.” She took another sip of coffee. “Where’s your mother live?”

  “Lexington.”

  Mattie lowered her cup and stared at him. “Lexington? You live there? No wonder you talk to her every day. Hell, the way you were talking, I thought she was in another state. Lexington’s just down the road.”

  “I don’t live there,” he explained. “I haven’t lived there in a long time. I’ve been staying with friends.”

  “Aw, you poor kid.” Mattie reached out and touched his hand gently. Such soft skin. Such innocent hands. “A broken home, right? No father, right?”

  “Well, I did have a father but—”

  “It’s all right. God, I swear we’re raising a whole generation of kids who don’t know what it’s like for their fathers and mothers to sleep under the same roof together. Listen, it happened to me, too. I was just nine years old when my parents split up, and I never got over it.” She grinned and lowered her voice. “I had a shrink once, told me the reason I was so nuts about men was because I kept looking for a father figure, looking for a man in my life I never had.”

  He looked confused and sat silent while she spoke. Finally he said, “The sun’s shining. It looks like a nice day. I guess I’d better be going.”

  “Going?” Mattie grabbed the young man’s wrist. “What do you mean, going? No, you’re not. You’re staying here. I owe you at least that much. Just stay here a day or two until your leg is better. Call your friends and tell them . . .” She paused, then giggled. “Tell them you were picked up by an older woman who took you home with her.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  Mattie reached for her coffee cup. “Just a joke. Bobby, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Bobby Griffin. And you’re Mrs. . . .”

  “Mrs. Nothing. Just Mattie. Mattie O’Brien.”

  Bobby smiled. “Mattie. I’ve never met a Mattie before. It’s an unusual name.”

  “It’s a ridiculous name,” she sneered. “It’s the only thing I could do with Matilda. Couldn’t even use my middle name in place of it, because my mother gave me her maiden name. Matilda Austin O’Brien. When I was a kid they put the three letters together and called me Mayo. Like in mayonnaise? So I had to settle for Mattie. Right around then, when the kids were calling me Mayo and I was trying to live with at least Mattie, that’s when the relationship between my mother and me began to fall apart.”

  She drained her coffee and gathered Bobby’s empty glasses together. “So what do you do, Bobby?” she asked. “You still going to school? Got a job somewhere?”

  “I go to the aquarium,” he said as she carried the dishes to the sink.

  “What do you do there?”

  “I watch the otters.”

  She turned to look at him, this young blond boy with the almost feminine features, sitting in the sunlight filtering through her kitchen window. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, she thought. He seems harmless enough, but, hell . . .

  “You watch the otters,” she said finally.

  Bobby nodded his head vigorously. “Do you like otters?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, folding her arms and resting her hip against the kitchen counter. “I spend most of my time around rats. The two-legged kind.”

  “I’ve never seen two creatures show as much affection for each other as the otters do,” Bobby said. “Not even people. They groom each other, and they even swim holding hands. It’s . . . it’s touching.” He looked away, blinking his eyes rapidly. “Wouldn’t . . . wouldn’t it be nice if people just spent their time showing affection for each other?”

  Mattie walked quickly over to him. “Hey,” she said putting her arms around his heaving shoulders, “take it easy. What’s wrong?” She felt him shake in her arms, his body trembling with sobs. Mattie knelt down to look into his eyes, taking his chin in her hands. “You poor kid,” she asked. “What’s wrong with you? Why did you get so upset just thinking about a couple of animals?”

  Bobby kept his head turned away from her, embarrassed at his tears. “I get too . . . emotional at times,” he said. “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Who? Who tells you that?”

  “My friends.”

  “Well, showing your emotions is all right. I just can’t figure out why you got so upset thinking about the otters.”

  He kept his eyes from her, then swivelled his head to look around the kitchen and through the doors leading elsewhere in the house. “You have a lovely home,” he said, wiping the last of the tears from his eyes. “Did you mean it when you said I could stay here? For a little while?”

  “Sure,” Mattie replied, standing up. “Enjoy yourself. I have to go to work.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Jenkins Real Estate, down the road towards Framingham.” She looked at the clock on the kitchen stove. “And I’m going to be late this morning if I don’t get a move on. I’m showing an estate over on Mountain Road to this couple from Florida. The place is going for two million four, and I think they make their money in slightly illegal ways, but if I swing it, we’ll make almost a hundred thousand in commissions.” She crossed both fingers and held them up for Bobby to see. “Ask me if I’m nervous.”

  “I know you’re nervous,” Bobby said. “But I hope you’re successful. I’d like to see you happy. You seem like a good woman.”

  “Good?” She smirked. “Actually, I’m best when I’m bad.” From the way Bobby looked at her, she could tell that he hadn’t understood.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m going to leap into the shower. There’s lots of cold cuts in the fridge if you get hungry, and the TV set in the living room is on cable, so you can watch movies if you want. I’ll leave you a spare key if you want to go for a walk. There are some woods over here behind the house, and a path through the ravine—”

  “I won’t need the key,” Bobby said. “I’ll just sit in that chair.”

  “Where?” She looked to follow his gaze through the door to the living room.

  “That one. There, in the corner.” It was her favourite Queen Anne wing chair, overstuffed and covered in a flouncy, flowery material. A small brass lamp sat beside it on a cherry-wood washstand Mattie had refinished herself. Behind it were two framed steel engravings of London she had brought back from Europe. Heavy pine beams dominated the room, running vertically up the walls to horizontal beams placed a few feet below ceiling level. The be
ams, wider than a man’s hand, wore the warm patina of age and provided a rustic Tudor-like mood to the room.

  “It’s a nice corner to read in,” she said. “Cozy. See those beams? They’re over two hundred years old. They came from an old colonial barn. When I had this room decorated, this carpenter friend of mine suggested we use them. Not to hold anything up, just to show off the wood. Anyway, I like to snuggle up there on winter nights and hear the wind whistle around the corner.” She looked over at the light streaming through the window. “But you don’t want to stay inside on a beautiful day like this, do you?”

  “Yes,” Bobby replied. “I don’t really want to go anywhere. I’d just like to spend the day in that chair, curled up and thinking.”

  “Well, Bobby, you do whatever you want, okay?” She glanced at the clock again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m really running late.”

  She turned to leave the room, and he stood up and nodded politely. She stopped, looked back at him for a moment, then walked down the hall to her bedroom.

  Later, standing in her shower, working the shampoo and conditioner into her hair, she asked herself what she had done. I’ve got a weirdo in my house who cries over otters, she thought. And I’m leaving him here all alone.

  I must be nuts, she told herself for the second time that morning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ollie Schantz had thrived on the pressure of an intensive murder investigation. When tempers were short and frustration was highest, Ollie’s jokes and wry observations on life and death flowed most freely.

  Once, when McGuire was grumbling about attending the funeral of a murder victim in order to record the licence-plate numbers of mourners, Ollie commented, “You gotta be reasonable about funerals, Joe. If you don’t go to other people’s funerals,” he said with a straight face, “how can you expect them to come to yours?”