The Man Who Murdered God

by John Lawrence Reynolds

  Two uniformed officers entered behind Lipson, touched their caps and nodded to Bobby’s mother. Lipson followed them down a short corridor, speaking quietly.

  “Hello!” Muriel Griffin called out cheerily as they disappeared. “I’m sorry,” she said to McGuire as she filled the coffeemaker with water. “What were you saying about Bobby?”

  “Mrs. Griffin . . .” McGuire walked towards her. “We think your son may be involved in the murders of three priests and a known homosexual in Boston.”

  Muriel Griffin was counting spoons of coffee as she dropped them into the filter basket. “Five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. That should do us, shouldn’t it, Lieutenant? Eight cups should be enough, don’t you think?”

  “Mrs. Griffin—”

  “You’re not going to call me Muriel, are you?” she said a little sadly, but still smiling.

  McGuire leaned on the divider separating him from the kitchen counter. “Mrs. Griffin,” he said slowly and distinctly, measuring each syllable as precisely as she had measured the coffee grounds, “listen to me. We have a warrant for the arrest of your son on suspicion of four counts of first-degree murder.”

  “I heard you, Lieutenant.” Muriel Griffin turned from the counter to open a cupboard door behind her. “You think Bobby had something to do with those horrible killings recently. Do you prefer sugar or would you rather have some low-cal substitute? I’ve gotten used to Sweet ’n Low because it seems recently I put on weight just like that.” She snapped her fingers, her back still facing McGuire. “Best I put out both, I suppose.”

  McGuire stood watching her in stunned silence as she arranged cups on a tray, spread cookies on a plate and brought everything around the corner of the divider, humming all the while. He listened carefully and recognized the melody; it was “I Feel a Song Coming On.”

  “Oh, good,” she said as she set the tray on the plastic laminate coffee table. McGuire could hear the heavy footsteps treading down the hall. “Just in time for your friends to join us.”

  Lipson emerged from the hallway, followed by the uniformed cops. He looked at McGuire and shook his head silently.

  “Mrs. Griffin, this is all very kind of you,” McGuire said across the divider. “But it is essential that we find your son as quickly as possible. Would you have any idea where he is?”

  “Goodness, I assume he is at the Lynwood Institute,” she replied, folding several paper napkins into a fan design.

  “He’s not.”

  “Well, perhaps he is playing tennis somewhere. Bobby is a very good tennis player.”

  “Mrs. Griffin,” McGuire said impatiently, “I can’t stress just how important it is that we find your son. For his sake and for the sake of others. Now, please tell us where we might locate him.”

  She flashed her maddeningly sweet smile in McGuire’s direction. “Lieutenant,” she replied. “If the good people at Lynwood do not know where Bobby is, and you and all of your people don’t know where he is, then only God knows. And since He knows, He’s taking care of my Bobby. I know that. I’ve always known that.”

  The coffee made, Muriel Griffin rounded the corner carrying it with her slim arm extended. McGuire noticed her plain gold wedding ring.

  “I feel a little naughty, entertaining four big, handsome police officers here all alone in my house!” she giggled. It seemed as though McGuire’s plea for assistance had simply never occurred. “Please help yourself to the cookies, gentlemen. The fudge ones, they’re Bobby’s favourite.”

  “When was the last time you saw Bobby?” McGuire asked, picking up the cue. He, Lipson and the two uniformed officers sat uneasily on the edge of the flowered sofa and chairs. The cops munched noisily on the cookies.

  “Oh, it’s been a while now.” She was filling Lipson’s cup. “How’s that? Is that enough?”

  “At the Lynwood Institute?”

  “Yes.” She looked at each in turn, smiling pleasantly. “Does everybody have their fill? Good!”

  “How was he when you saw him?”

  She chose a side chair, sat back in it and crossed her legs. “Bobby looked wonderful! We had a spat that day, but it was nothing important.” She waved her hand, banishing the thought. “Parents and young people, they’re bound to have little disagreements. Even with a child like Bobby.”

  “Your son, what kind of child was he?” Lipson enquired.

  Muriel Griffin’s face lit up, and her smile grew even broader. “Angelic! From the first moment I saw him, I knew I had been blessed by God and by heaven.” She closed her eyes. “Goodness, if you could only have seen him. His father and I, we felt as though we had been chosen to bring perfection into the world, even perfection born of sin.”

  “I suppose every parent feels that way, ma’am.” It was one of the Lexington police officers; he had drained his coffee cup and now sat balancing it on his knee.

  For the first time, Muriel Griffin’s sunny composure disappeared, and her eyes snapped open, filled with fury. “Of course they do, officer. But I’m telling you this was different. Bobby was different. He was filled with grace and purity. You could see it in his eyes, in the way his face glowed when he sang in the church choir and when he prayed and when he would encounter a sister or a father on the street.” She gestured as she spoke, her hands jabbing the air or describing arches in front of her face. “As a little boy three, four, five years old he would walk right up to a father and ask ‘Have you talked to God today?’ He was born in heaven and he belongs to heaven and heaven watches over him every day of his life.”

  She looked at each of the men in turn. “Oh, you poor, poor people, never to have seen the beauty and the heavenly grace of my Bobby. Everything flows through my Bobby’s fingertips. When he took piano lessons, he won his class recital each year. And have you seen his art?”

  “Yes ma’am,” McGuire answered. “We’ve seen his art. Your son is certainly an extremely talented young man. There is no question about that.”

  She rewarded his comment with a smile. “More coffee, gentlemen?”

  The Lexington officer bold enough to suggest that Muriel Griffin’s parental pride might not be unusual stood uncomfortably and looked down at McGuire. “You mind if we wait in the car, Lieutenant?” he asked. “Should stay on call. And we can watch the house easily.”

  McGuire said sure, he’d check with them before leaving. Muriel Griffin, the cop’s comment forgiven and her outburst forgotten, jumped to her feet and escorted him to the door, praising the wonderful spring weather they were being blessed with.

  “How’s the rest of the house?” McGuire asked Lipson in her absence.

  “Ozzie and Harriet meet the Wizard of Oz,” Lipson replied from the corner of his mouth. “You gotta see it.”

  McGuire nodded as Muriel Griffin returned to her chair and smiled at each detective in turn. “Now then,” she said. “I understand you want to talk to me about my Bobby.”

  For the next hour Muriel Griffin spun tales of her son Bobby as boy soprano, altar boy, athlete and artist. She wove her deep abiding Catholic faith among the stories like a fibre blended to strengthen the fabric of her life. It was an existence too idyllic to be real, too positive and optimistic to hold either tragedy or disappointment. During the telling her frozen smile and flashing eyes faltered only twice.

  The first time was in response to McGuire’s question about her husband’s death. She turned and stared reverently at the grainy photograph suspended over the sofa.

  “Bobby’s father was a hero,” she replied. “He died serving his country, and that’s the way he would want to be taken to God, I know. I know it for a fact.”

  “Your husband, I understand he was killed in Vietnam,” Lipson said.

  “Yes, that’s right. His aircraft was shot down.” She turned away from the picture to look at the detectives again. Her expression changed. The smile still tilt
ed the corners of her mouth, but everything else was blank, and McGuire realized he was looking at a mask. “He survived the crash,” she said without expression, “but was hunted down by the enemy and tortured to death. Terribly, terribly tortured.” She looked back at the photograph. “And now he’s in heaven, waiting for Bobby and me.”

  “How old was Bobby when this happened?” McGuire asked.

  “Six. He was six years old.”

  “It must have upset him a great deal.”

  “It changed him,” she answered, looking at the men again. “He worshipped his father. His father was next to God himself. And when I told him how his father had died, and that his father was a great hero who would have wanted Bobby to follow in his footsteps, Bobby became more intense. Oh, he was still lovable and sweet and tender.” The mask dropped, and the eyes lit up again. “My Bobby couldn’t be anything else. But it was as though everything that had made my husband such a leader of men, so brave and so dedicated, all of it was suddenly transferred to my Bobby.”

  The mask appeared a second time when McGuire asked if she had any photographs of her son they might see.

  “I have no pictures,” she replied briskly.

  McGuire said he was surprised that a parent so proud of her son would have no photographs of him.

  “I had,” she said solemnly. “But Bobby destroyed them . . . in his bad times.”

  “His bad times?”

  She nodded. “About four years ago. Just before our doctor suggested we send Bobby to the hospital for treatment because . . . because of his problems.”

  “What problems, Mrs. Griffin?” McGuire asked softly.

  She lifted her chin and bit her bottom lip. The mask remained in place. “Bobby was struck dumb by the sight of God,” she said defiantly.

  “He told you that?”

  “No. How could he tell me if he was struck dumb? I know. I just know. Everything pointed to it, and Brother Halloran agreed.”

  “Who is Brother Halloran?”

  Muriel Griffin stood quickly and smoothed the front of her skirt. “I really would like some more coffee, gentlemen,” she said sweetly. “Could I get you some? Or more cookies perhaps?”

  McGuire withdrew the poetry book from his pocket. “Mrs. Griffin,” he asked. “Do you recognize this book?” He stood and handed it to her. She studied its cover and shook her head. “No. No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this book before.” She opened its pages. “Oh, poetry. I never read poetry, Lieutenant. Between the Bible and my work at the church and reading all my magazines, there just isn’t any time for poetry.”

  “Would you mind looking through it for a moment?” McGuire asked her. “Near the end there is a page with markings on it in red ink. Can you find it?”

  She turned the pages carefully, one by one, frowning periodically. Finally she stopped and read aloud: “The death of one god is the death of all.” She looked at the two men over the book. “Why this is gibberish, isn’t it? There’s only one God, and He doesn’t die.” Smiling nervously, she added, “Bobby would call this nonsense. I know he would.”

  “Does the next section mean anything?” McGuire asked.

  She read aloud again: “The monastic man is an artist. The philosopher . . . appoints man’s place in music, say, today, But the. . . .” She stumbled, then read the rest of the lines silently, her lips moving with the words. When she had finished, she handed the book back to McGuire and smiled at him. “I have no idea what it means,” she said. “But then, I was never very good at literature. I enjoyed mathematics in high school, and I graduated at the top of my class in household sciences.” She sat down again, folding her arms in front of her. “Do you like quilts, Lieutenant? I loved quilting. When I was a teenager, I made a copy of a colonial quilt that was accepted for showing at an art fair in Boston Common one year. My parents drove me there to see it. Back then it was a real treat to go to Boston, not like it is now, with some people commuting—”

  “Mrs. Griffin,” McGuire said, interrupting her. “Who is Brother Halloran?”

  She watched him for a moment, as though deciding whether to answer. Then, “Brother Halloran has gone to his reward, Lieutenant. He’s been gathered in the bosom of the Lord.” She lowered her eyelids and crossed herself.

  “Who was he, Mrs. Griffin?”

  She opened her eyes to look back at him. Her hands flew together, and she sat twisting her wedding ring nervously. “He was the man who . . . who told me Bobby had been struck dumb by . . . by the sight of God.”

  “How did he know?”

  “Because he was a man of God himself. He knew these things.”

  “He was a priest?”

  “He was a monk.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, noisily, and leaned back, her slim, freckled arms hanging over the edge of the chair. “After his father died, Bobby decided he wanted to be a priest. He wanted to serve, to be useful while he was on this earth, like his father had been. When Bobby graduated from high school, we went to visit St. John’s Seminary in Boston.” Her eyes closed in memory. “It was beautiful! Such lovely buildings, so much open space and grounds and shrines everywhere.” Her eyes opened. “But it wasn’t right for Bobby. ‘It’s too easy, Mother,’ he said to me. He thought it would be almost like going to Harvard. The beds were too soft in the dormitory, too many things would be catered for him.”

  She lowered her voice and looked directly at the men. “That was Bobby, you see. No one was more intense about serving God than Bobby. No one expected more of himself than Bobby. So Bobby was prepared to experience life as a monk to test and strengthen his spirit before he would live the softer life of a priest.”

  The door chimes sounded, and her hand flew to her throat. “More visitors?” she said with a smile, rising from the chair. Her heels clicked-clicked their way to the door.

  A uniformed officer was waiting on the stoop. He touched his cap, called her ma’am and told McGuire that a priest had arrived, name of Deeley. “Send him in,” McGuire instructed as Muriel Griffin looked back and forth between the two men, her rose-bud mouth held open in surprise.

  Deeley was wearing his black suit and collar. Muriel Griffin seized his right hand and squeezed it, looking up into his eyes and smiling like a schoolgirl with a crush on the high-school quarterback. They introduced themselves to each other, and the woman scrambled ahead of Deeley to offer the chair she had been sitting in, then quickly poured him a cup of coffee and walked briskly into the kitchen, chattering all the while about what an exciting day it had turned out to be and how much her Bobby would have loved to be here to meet this nice, young priest.

  “What is this?” Deeley finally asked McGuire and Lipson, his voice lowered.

  “It’s her son,” McGuire whispered. “We’re sure of it.”

  Deeley lowered his eyelids. “Why?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

  Muriel Griffin placed the plate of cookies reverently in front of Deeley, then edged her way onto the corner of the sofa, beaming at him. McGuire and Lipson, momentarily upstaged, slid along the sofa to make room.

  “Do you like the cookies, Father?” she gushed after Deeley had nibbled at one.

  Deeley told her they were excellent.

  “They’re Bobby’s favourite.” She reached out and touched Deeley’s knee gently. “Are you here about Bobby?”

  “I invited Father Deeley here,” McGuire explained. “I thought he might help us understand Bobby.”

  Muriel Griffin kept her hand on Deeley’s knee. “Oh, I wish my son were here now. He would love to talk to you about the priesthood. You know, you remind me of him. I mean, just seeing you here makes me think of Bobby and the times when he and I talked about him becoming a priest.”

  “Bobby went to a monastery,” McGuire interrupted, speaking to Deeley. “Wanted to be a monk. Why don’t you tell us
all about it, Mrs. Griffin?”

  Bobby’s mother ignored the suggestion. “Have you met the new bishop?” she asked. “Tell me, what do you think of him?”

  “Mrs. Griffin—” McGuire began.

  Muriel Griffin turned on McGuire, fury lighting her small eyes. “Please, Lieutenant! You come into my home making silly suggestions about my son, unbelievable things you think he might have done. The least you can do is allow the father and I to discuss matters of the church!”

  It was Kevin Deeley’s turn to reach out. He took her hand, and when she looked back at him, he said, “Mrs. Griffin, I would be delighted to share some stories with you about things at the archdiocese. Even a little gossip perhaps. But right now why don’t you tell me and these two gentlemen about this monastery your son visited?”

  She’s practically wetting her pants, McGuire mused, watching Muriel Griffin melt under Deeley’s gaze. He could pick her up and cart her off to a bedroom right now if we weren’t here.

  Muriel Griffin finally wrenched her eyes away from Deeley’s and looked down at her lap. She toyed with her wedding ring as she spoke.

  “Bobby had heard about an order in Brookline, over near Hancock Village—”

  “The Order of Cesena?” Deeley interrupted.

  She looked up and smiled at him. “Why, that’s right, Father.”

  “Monks?” Bernie Lipson asked, looking up from his note pad. “We’ve got monks in Boston?”

  “All the major orders are here,” Deeley nodded. “Plus Greek Orthodox, Coptics and spin-offs like the Cesenas.”

  “Bobby said they were small and not very wealthy but trying to do good things. Like the Jesuits, he said. They’re trying to be a bridge of knowledge between the people and the Church, like the Jesuits.”

  “You know something about these guys?” McGuire asked Deeley, who nodded in reply. Turning to Muriel Griffin, he said “You told us Bobby graduated from high school when he was sixteen. He was eighteen when he entered Lynwood. Where was he for those two years? At this monastery?”

  Muriel Griffin continued twisting her wedding ring as she spoke. “Yes. He was learning the life of the ascetics. Studying scriptures and trying to find himself through simple work.”