by LAURA HARNER
After the greetings finally settled and drinks were poured, we took seats and got around to business. “Carmine, we’re working a case at the church. It might involve one of the priests. We have the directory and can access their bios, but is there any unofficial stuff we should know about? Or for that matter, are there any rumors that seem to be picking up speed?”
Carmine’s eyes widened. “St. Joseph’s? You got a recovery job at the church?” He paused and stared into his glass for a moment, his lips pursed, brows drawn together. When he looked up, the smile was gone and his eyes were a little more narrow than usual.
“I’m not involved much, except to write the checks to keep Lida happy, but, yeah there’s always a couple of good rumors at any church—especially one this big. You know how it is; the men get dragged along to a potluck or to work on some project or other. While the wives set about doing good, the men stand around and gossip, know what I mean? So yeah, there are stories, speculation. I woulda thought it was more likely someone was diddling a kid than dipping into the building funds, though.”
“Ahh…so those are the rumors, huh? Spill.”
“The money one is what I hear about most—and the only thing I can tell you is there has been a lot of targeted fundraising. For the past three years, the Stewardship Committee, along with Monsignor Edwards have been driving home the ten percent tithe, and strongly suggesting that a portion of the donation go directly to the Capital Campaign. These requests border on strong-arming, with frequent warnings of needing to let staff go and even a proposal to close the church to the mid-week activities.” He raked his fingers through his sleek, overly black hair. “Those kinds of messages really get people stirred up, and they’re all bullshit, in my opinion. They got no intention of shutting anything down.”
“I spent a little time on their website this morning,” Archer said. “I noticed that Capital Campaign goal was fifteen million and each of the last two years the amount was adjusted upward. That’s generally frowned upon of in this type of campaign. What’s the reason given for the increases?”
After a quick sip of his drink, Carmine nodded. “That’s exactly what has people starting to grumble…times are hard everywhere, right now. According to the latest update, there were unanticipated cost overruns that the church, not the contractor, has to absorb. Very vague, actually. The Monsignor—he’s the top dog—does all the public messaging, but the real power behind the money throne is Father Scott. He’s the business-minded one and oversees the construction.
“Donations are slowing, and at least one big contributor pulled his support. Just last week, I got a personal invitation to increase my tithe, extending beyond my personal income to a donation based on the income of my business. Which ain’t gonna happen. I spoke to a few other business owners who received similar suggestions.”
“Damn, Carmine! You donate ten percent?” I asked. It shocked me. I knew Aunt Sophie and Lida were both heavily involved in the church, but I had no idea Carmine took things so seriously. “Here I thought your interest in the rummage sales was meeting women.”
“Hey, don’t knock it.” He’s grin was easy. “Lest you get the wrong idea, I tithe based on my reportable income. Keeps the women in my life off my back. I figure paying for the peace is worth it. No amount of money’s going to pave my way to heaven. The key to the Pearly Gates ain’t a credit card and you can’t fool God with a cash donation.”
Shaking my head, I smiled. My cousin Carmine, philanthropist and philosopher. Who knew? “Okay, what about the other rumor. Do you seriously think you have a pedophile?”
With a sigh, Carmine set his drink on the end table and stood. He rubbed the thumb of one hand against the palm of the other, a tell that something was making him uncomfortable. “No, actually, I don’t. But I do think we have one who isn’t doing so hot on his vows of celibacy. I don’t think I’m the best man to talk to about this, Zack.”
“Yeah? You got a name of who I should be talking to?”
“Yeah. Deacon Kenneth Gregg. He’s a good man. You can trust him. You can reach him through the main office line or his personal email is on the St. Joseph’s website. I…uh…gotta go.” He started moving to the door, and after a quick glance at Archer, I stood quickly and followed Carmine out.
“What’s up, Carmine? A priest boffing a parishioner isn’t exactly unheard of. And it’s just the sort of rumor we’re trying to track down.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. Look, I don’t want to know any more right now. Maybe when this is all over, you can tell me.” I was surprised at his reticence. For all this talk about the legitimate part of his life, my cousin was a criminal and a damn big deal. He made his money from other criminals and knew where all the skeletons were buried. If he ever got busted for his ID business, he’d be dead before he ever got a chance to make a deal with the DA. This burying-his-head business was definitely un-Carmine-like behavior.
As a wickedly keen observer of human nature, I was sure Carmine could shed some light on our case, but for now I would let it go and find this Deacon Gregg. An afternoon spent gossiping with a few church elders wouldn’t hurt, either.
We stepped to his car, and I said, “Oh, hey, Carmine—I almost forgot. Aunt Sophie says she thinks Archer and I stand a better chance at having kids than you do. She wanted me to ask when you’re going to make her a grandma.”
After an impressive shudder that threatened to knock him right out of his shoes, Carmine looked at me with big dark eyes. “Zack, come on, help me out here. You and Archer gotta have kids—and Jeremiah doesn’t count.”
“Fuck you.” I laughed at Carmine’s foolishness.
“Hey, Zack? Seriously. You know I love you, right? You and Archer are the brothers I never had.” He squeezed my shoulder, before climbing into his car and driving away.
Chapter Three
The following morning was another scorcher, hot, humid, and well on its way to sauna, without a breeze to be found. Typical Atlanta in July. And August. Goody, something to look forward to. I kissed my lovers good-bye and left them bent over the computer, brushing up on all things Catholic. St. Joe’s was quite accommodating, scheduling the Sacrament of Penance every Tuesday and Saturday afternoon. With a careful study of the church calendar, it was easy to see that Saturday afternoon only had one activity scheduled: the Sacrament of Penance. Tuesdays must have been a make up session, since two priests were scheduled for other parish duties, leaving only one father available to hear confession.
Tonight it was Father Timothy’s turn. Archer had a few hours to turn Jeremiah into a repentant Catholic. I needed to get the background information and return home in time to wire my boy for sound. There was no way I would let him go into the booth without hearing every word spoken.
It took me longer than I expected to get to Deacon Gregg’s, thanks to a three car pile up on the I-20 that snarled traffic in all directions around the MLK exit. After circling back around, I managed to get to the Westview neighborhood and cruised slowly through the old streets, dismayed by the number of “bank-owned” for sale signs. This was a classic Atlanta community, circa 1940, and it looked to be in a steady decline. Not structurally, but economically. Maybe the affordable neighborhood would be discovered by the next generation of entry-level downtown employees and experience a resurgence. I made a mental note to mention this to Archer as a possible investment opportunity. There had been times over the course of our investigations we’d wanted a place to put a client or a witness. One of these small homes might be perfectly suited.
Parking in front of the deacon’s bungalow, I took the time to appreciate what could be accomplished with the property. The brick exterior was nicely aged to a rich red, highlighted by recently painted white aluminum awnings. The neatly trimmed boxwood added a perfect touch, and I felt like I’d been transported back in time.
“I guess from your smile that you like what I’ve done here.”
The man who stepped out from the front door looked exactly like his
photo on the church’s web page—minus the black clothes and white collar. With a book tucked into the crook of his arm, wearing khakis, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and sandals, Ken Gregg looked like he could be a college professor. Light brown hair mixed liberally with strands of gray curled over his ears and touched his collar. The half frame glasses sat low on his nose made him look older than the fifty-two years his bio claimed and enhanced the professorial impression.
For small houses, they all had surprisingly large yards, and I answered as I walked up the long drive. “I do. Have you been here long?”
“A little over two years. I’ve enjoyed bringing this little place back to its original form. I’m Ken Gregg.” He stuck out his hand.
Completing the shake, I said, “Nice to meet you, Ken. I’m Zack Carmichael. As I said on the phone, I have a few questions, and Carmine DiSalvo thought you might be able to help me.”
“You look like your cousin. He says you were close growing up.” I blinked. Carmine told Gregg we were cousins? That opened up a whole lot of questions about just what their relationship was.
“You seem to know more about me than I do about you. Are you and Carmine friends? I mean beyond your church deacon role?”
“I think you would be safe to say that. Come on inside out of the heat, Zack.” He held the door open, and I stepped into the cool interior. The AC was a much-appreciated improvement over the original design of the bungalow.
I looked around the long, narrow living room, imagining the little fireplace was just the right size to heat the house in the winter. None of the furniture was new, but it was all so perfectly comfortable looking—lived-in without feeling tired. “Very nice.”
“I like it. Deacons don’t necessarily take a vow of poverty, but we aren’t a part of the church to get rich.” His laugh was light, and he waved me to follow him to the back. We ended up in the relatively large kitchen. It ran the width of the small house and opened into a screened-in porch, adding even more light and space.
“Coffee?”
“Please. Black.” He poured a mug for me and then topped his own. I was content to watch and wait. We took our coffee onto the porch and once seated, Ken started to talk.
“I bought this place a few years after my wife died. I needed a smaller place, and I wanted to make something my own. This was a real fixer-upper. The whole neighborhood is, really. It became an area of ministry for me.” He sipped his coffee. “The lending debacle of a few years ago really hurt—many of the original owners of these homes saw rising values and borrowed against their equity. Then the market crashed, and the rest… Well, anyway, I bought in as the prices bottomed out, then got to know my neighbors. Now I spend much of my time helping them work with their banks or find alternate sources of funding.”
Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t imagine you’re here for my reminisces. Carmine said you had questions about St. Joseph’s clerical staff and certain rumors.”
“I do. They are rather personal.”
Ken sighed. “I gathered as much. I’m not sure what I can tell you, Zack. There isn’t anything illegal, nothing that I know. I told Carmine—”
“How do you know my cousin? He seems to think a lot of you—considers you a friend, and he doesn’t have too many friends.” I repeated my question from earlier, hoping to ease him back into talking through more storytelling. He was the type of man who didn’t want to spread rumors or speculate about a fellow cleric. Besides, I really wanted to know. This gentle man of God hardly seemed like someone who would entertain Carmine for very long.
His smile seemed private as he stared into his mug, and I wondered if he was going to answer me. Then he looked up and said, “I’ve known Carmine for a few years now, and yes, we met through the church. We have been on a few committees together—although he hates serving on them with a passion. We discovered early on that he had a hard time saying no to me.” Ken laughed at some memory, but didn’t share it. I was starting to get a serious bromance vibe from him, which was weird. As far as I knew, Carmine was one hundred percent into women. Still…
Ken continued, with the smile lingering in his voice. “After a while, he offered to help off the record if I promised to quit asking him to come to meetings and be on committees. We became good friends, and most of our time together is actually not related to work with the church. He helped me do a lot of the work here at this house. He’s quite handy with a hammer.”
“Carmine?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. I was seriously beginning to wonder if I knew my cousin at all.
Again, that soft laugh rang out, as if Ken delighted in surprising me. “I’m sorry. I’m meandering. Carmine said he told you about our financial distress rumors. Is that what you’re looking into?”
“No…nothing so straightforward. Listen, Ken, I need to know about rumors of sexual activity.”
Blood rushed to his cheeks, a blush or anger, I wondered. He set his mug on the table with a thunk. “I can’t believe he would—I suppose it’s my—probably trying to protect…” Then he stopped talking and just stared at me.
“I’m not here to ask about you, Ken, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He blinked at me. “Not about—I don’t understand.”
“Let’s start over and I’ll give you a hypothetical situation. Suppose there was a young man who knew without a doubt that he was gay, but to please his parents he went to confession. What would normally happen?”
With lips pursed in a little frown, Ken nodded his head slowly, as if trying to give himself a mental restart into my scenario. “First, let me ask if the young man was of the age of consent?”
“Yes, he was eighteen, college-bound.”
“I’m assuming you mean he engaged in a homosexual act, as opposed to just expressing feelings that he might be gay. Because the church does not identify homosexuality itself as a sin, just the associated acts.” Ken held up a hand to halt my protest. “I deliberately didn’t wear my clerical collar this morning. That doesn’t absolve me from my duties, but assume we are two men discussing Catholicism—two new friends, I hope. Let’s not drag ourselves into the philosophical weeds.”
Blowing out a breath, I nodded. “You’re right. The man we’re talking about did confess to having sex. So what would happen? A couple of Hail Marys and Our Fathers?”
“It depends the priest. The church is very clear on its position, but there isn’t a prescriptive Penance handbook. The penitent would have to confess his sin, pray for forgiveness, and ask for God’s help not to sin again.” Ken stood and refilled both our coffees, before resuming the conversation.
“Most likely there would be a certain number of prayer recitations. The Monsignor is more likely to choose a stricter penance if he feels this is a repeat offender who is covering his bases as opposed to someone genuinely seeking forgiveness and God’s help to change his behavior.”
“More strict, how?”
“Such as having the penitent come to the church every day for a week to recite prayers. Those are the only two scenarios I can envision for the priests at St. Joseph’s.”
“Tell me about St. Joe’s pray-away-the-gay group. Whose idea was it to start, and would attendance be considered an appropriate penance?”
Eyes widening almost comically, Ken fought against a cough and lost. When he finally sputtered his way back to breathing, he sat up and looked at me through red, watery eyes.
“Tell me—oh, please, tell me that isn’t true? I mean, it isn’t true. We don’t have one, so if you’ve heard something…if you know…”
Deciding to tell him what I knew was a no brainer. He didn’t know the group existed, that much was clear, but he damned sure would tell me what I needed to know about Father Tim.
Nodding, I confirmed his fear. “I do know. About four years ago now, this man we’re speaking of—his street name is Gabe—he was asked to join the group the day he went to confession. There were three other men in the meeting that first night. He tells
me it was set up like an AA meeting. At the end, he decided it wasn’t for him, but the priest running the group asked to keep meeting with him privately and brought him to more meetings.”
“But that goes against the tenets of AA. It would have to be the individual’s choice—wait—” Ken’s breath was fast and shallow. “They met alone? How long did this go on? It’s not still—” An angry flush crawled up his cheeks. “Do not tell me this priest had sex with…this Gabe.”
“He did. And with the others in the group, as well.”
There was a long moment, and I waited, letting him think over everything he’d heard. With his hands clasped together, as if in prayer, Ken finally spoke, his voice soft, but with a note of steel certainty.
“Father Timothy.” Then he raised his head, new lines appeared to bracket his mouth, leaving him looking older and infinitely sad. “You’re talking about Father Tim.”
“Yes. Will you help me stop him?”
Chapter Four
As soon as I buckled my seatbelt, my phone rang, and I answered without looking at the caller ID. “Zack Carmichael.”
“Zack? It’s Cannon. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure, Cannon. I’m going to leave you on speaker because I’m driving, but I’m in here alone. How’s the new job?” Dr. Cannon Malloy was recently divorced, recently out, recently promoted to Chief of Surgery, and most recently…finally convinced things with Chance Dumont had run their course. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I hadn’t liked Cannon very much when they’d been together five years earlier—but that was probably because of Mrs. Malloy. Now that he was finally being honest with himself and others about who he was, I discovered I kind of liked the arrogant prick.
“I’m good, Zack, really. I wanted to thank you for the dinner party last week. That was really very thoughtful of you, Archer, and Jeremiah to host on my behalf.”