Prodigal Father

by Ralph McInerny

  There was a tap on the door and she called, “Come in.” When she turned in her chair there was Stanley Morgan standing in the doorway, a winning smile on his face.

  “Surprise.”

  “Stanley!” He closed the door behind him but remained where he was.

  “Have you heard?”

  She wanted to shake her head, say no, lie, but her reaction had already given him the answer to his question.

  “I didn’t do it. They’re going to think I did. It will look as if I did. But, Edna, you have to believe me.”

  He came and took a chair, facing her across the desk. His pleading look was that of a little boy wanting his mother’s trust.

  “Stanley, if you didn’t do it, then …”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Edna. I found that out once the hard way. It’s why I wanted to know you, and your family.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Marie Murkin told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “About your husband.”

  “She just told you that?”

  “It came out as we were talking.”

  “I’ll bet it did.”

  “Thank God it did. Edna, I didn’t have anyone waiting for me when I got out. No visitors, either, not that I wanted any. But I saw what it was like for the wives and relatives who visited. They were being punished, too, in their own way, but they hadn’t done anything.”

  “So you pitied me?”

  “Would that be so awful?”

  Despite herself, she felt a wave of tenderness toward him. His manner was not that of the man who had taken her to dinner or taken them all to the ball game. Again she had the sense of him as a boy, allowing her to think of her own feelings as maternal.

  “Tell me what happened out there.”

  He realized that the conversation had taken a decisive turn in his favor. “Don’t you wonder what I was doing there?”

  “You were on retreat.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Where did you get all your information about me?”

  “Mrs. Murkin?”

  Edna nodded. “Father Dowling is very close to two men in the detective division and what he learns, Marie learns.”

  “I told Father Boniface that I wanted to make a retreat. What I really wanted was to confront Richards and scare him into compensating me for what I had been through.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I never got to talk with him. They put me up in the lodge, with the groundskeeper and his family. Richards was dodging me, of course, but I was there and I could be patient. Too patient. I waited too long.”

  “But why would anyone suspect you unless Richards—that’s Father Nathaniel, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Richard Krause, Nathaniel Richards, Father Nathaniel.”

  “Unless he told someone why you were there, who would know?”

  “Father Boniface. I went back and told him why I was there.”

  “To have it out with one of the priests?”

  “Edna, do I look like a violent man? I wanted him to squirm, I wanted him to fear I would blow the whistle on him. The fact is, I think he was planning to plunder the Order. You’ve heard of all the the pressure for them to sell?”

  She believed him. But at the same time she doubted that the police would. Or maybe anyone else. He had come to Fox River in search of the man who had been killed. He had asked about him hither and yon, at the rectory, for example. Marie had said something that turned his mind to the Athanasians—Father Dowling was then on retreat there, a wild hunch, and it had been inspired. He presented himself there as a retreatant. That put him on the ground with what the police would think of as his prey. As he described the estate, the maintenance shed was between the lodge and the mansion. It would be assumed that he had arranged a meeting with Nathaniel and been waiting for him with an ax.

  “To kill the golden goose? Edna, I was there to get back money he had stolen so I could rebuild my life.”

  There was no way the police would believe him. But if he hadn’t killed Nathaniel, someone else had, and when the police found the murderer, Stanley Morgan would be safe. The problem with that was, if they couldn’t find Stanley, they wouldn’t be looking for anyone else. It was a dilemma.

  “Stanley, if you run, they will find you.”

  “But if I don’t run?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He sat back, looked around, extended his arms. “Isn’t there somewhere in this building I could stay?”

  “You want me to hide you?”

  “I want to hide myself.”

  “It comes to the same thing.”

  “Look, I’ve been in this building before. I didn’t have to talk to you. I would have found somewhere in the building …”

  There were several places in the old school he could hide without any fear of being found. Edna thought of the nurse’s office on the third floor, a suite of rooms, and no one ever went up to the third floor, it was too much of a climb for the seniors who spent the day here. She realized that she was beginning to conspire with him, doing just what he had hoped she would do. She tried to shake away the compassion she felt. It was a doomed hope that he could just stay out of sight long enough for the murderer to be found. But what if he was the murderer? She was too susceptible to him, she knew that. She wanted to believe him. He had appealed to her at her weakest point, the long trial she had undergone because Earl was in Joliet. But all she had to do was imagine what Marie Murkin would make of her agreeing to let Stanley Morgan hide in the school. She tried not to think of Father Dowling’s reaction, but it would certainly be more understanding than Marie Murkin’s. She was at a crossroads and she knew it. Reasons for refusing piled up in her mind, her kids, the seniors downstairs. She could lose this job. She could be arrested herself, for harboring a fugitive. The whole project was insane. But he had come to her as to his only hope.

  “Where are your things?”

  “Outside your door.”

  “Good Lord. Come on.”

  She got up and hurried to the door, but he was there first to open it for her. There was a garment bag and briefcase in the hall. He picked them up and she headed for the stairs with Stanley close behind her. On the third floor, in a corner farthest from the rectory, was what had been the office of the school nurse. The door was unlocked. When he had gone past her into the office, Edna pulled the door shut and sighed. He dropped his garment bag and put the briefcase on the desk, looking around. In the inner room was a cot where ailing students once had lain. There was a small bathroom.

  “It’s a little apartment,” he said.

  She nodded. They were now partners in this completely foolish enterprise. She was acting against reason, overriding every argument, behaving like a woman. Like a mother, she amended. This was an entirely maternal move. He took her hand.

  “I’ll never forget this.”

  “It’s not going to work.”

  “Just let me give it a chance.”

  She had already done that. She took her hand from his. “Where is your car?”

  “It was a rental. I left it at Marygrove.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “The bus.”

  Her heart sank. If he had abandoned his car, they would assume he had not gone far. With the car, he could have gone to O’Hare and got a flight out of town, if he could have done it before they alerted security at the airport. He looked almost carefree, now that he had a refuge, and her heart went out to him. He was doomed to be found. There was no way he could hide here for the time necessary for the attention of the police to turn elsewhere. His absence would shout his guilt.

  “Stanley, you have to think of another way. You can stay here for now, but you have to think of something else.”

  “Edna, if there had been something else, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

  “We’ll both think about it.”

  He reached for her hand again, but she turned and o
pened the door, put a finger to her lips, slipped out, and closed the door on his vulnerable little-boy smile.

  5

  The enemy shall not outwit him, nor the son of wickedness afflict him.

  —Psalm 89

  It had taken a murder to do it, but Tuttle and Peanuts Pianone the improbable cop were buddies again. On the day of the murder, as soon as the mornings news infiltrated his groggy mind, Tuttle picked up the phone and called Peanuts. No answer. He called downtown. After five minutes, Peanuts came to the phone.

  “Pick me up right away, Peanuts. We’ve got work to do.”

  “She going to let you out?”

  “Forget about Hazel. Get over here. I’ll explain over breakfast at McDonald’s.”

  An army might move on its stomach, but Peanuts preferred to be immobile while he attended to his. Food delivered to a location was one thing, but eating in a moving vehicle was against something deep in Peanuts’s character. Fast food eaten slowly was not a sacrilege. But fast food eaten fast while moving at a fast clip—here was sin indeed. So it was that Tuttle and his old friend took their trays to a corner booth where the little plainclothes cop fell to. He was a cop because of the Pianone connection and he was plainclothes lest the public realize he was a cop. The demands on Peanuts were minimal, something he would have welcomed if it had not finally dawned on him that he had remained on the bottom rung while newcomers had climbed the ladder of success. He was particularly rankled by the esteem in which Agnes Lamb was held—black and a woman, she activated both his racist and chauvinist glands.

  “We got to go out to the Athanasians, Peanuts.”

  Small, uncomprehending eyes lifted to Tuttle.

  “The murder of the priest.”

  It was clear that Peanuts knew nothing about it. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Peanuts was driving an unmarked car, but the cop at the barricaded gate knew a police car when he saw it. He broke into a big grin at the sight of Peanuts.

  “Gonna solve the crime, Peanuts?”

  “Shove it.”

  The sawhorse was moved aside, and they drove in, through the trees, past the vast expanse of lawn, toward chaos. Tuttle could see the television trucks, with their aerials raised, he saw the milling crowd of reporters, his pulse stirred at the promise of involvement. Somehow his client’s interests were at issue here and he meant to represent Leo Corbett beyond the call of duty. He hoped Tetzel was here, hangover or not. The series of articles had been a stroke of genius and Tuttle had another stroke when he heard the morning news. Scandal at the Athanasians. A priest found dead at the grotto. All this was good news for Leo Corbett, Tuttle was sure of it, though he could not have explained why. Fortunately Peanuts was not motivated by explanations. All he knew was that Tuttle was defying Hazel Barnes and they were a team again. Peanuts nearly ran down a televison crew, the cameraman being pulled out of danger before being added to the casualty list. Curses floated after them.

  “Keep on this road,” Tuttle said.

  The scattering media people had revealed a road running through the divided Red Sea Peanuts made of them. They rounded the building and saw the squad cars, the coroner’s vehicle, cops everywhere. Peanuts pulled onto the lawn and parked. Tuttle was out of the car before the engine stopped. He had spotted Cy Horvath.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Tuttle?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Peanuts brought me.”

  Horvath turned and saw the squat, bloated figure of Peanuts approaching. He shook his head. “The first team has arrived.”

  “What’s going on, Horvath?”

  “Ask Peanuts.”

  Horvath muscled his way through a band of reporters who had been admitted to represent their fellows out front. Tetzel was among them, looking like the wrath of God. He grunted when Tuttle greeted him, glanced at Peanuts, and then took a deep breath, but nothing short of Alka-Selzter would help. Fortunately, Tuttle had some. He shook out two tablets into the reporter’s hand.

  “I need water.”

  “Let’s find some.”

  They circled the taped-off area in front of the grotto, Tuttle lifting his tweed hat in deference to the Virgin, Peanuts tracing a cross over his breast.

  “What’s that building?”

  “Where we’re going. The lodge. It’s where the groundskeeper lives.”

  Tetzel just opened the door and went into the kitchen. He headed for the sink, picked up a glass, filled it with water, and dropped in the tablets. Fizzing began. Relief was just a swallow away. He upended the glass, swallowing the contents in two gulps, then stood with closed eyes, waiting for the pain to stop. A man came down the stairs and stopped when he saw them, then passed quickly through the kitchen and outside. Tuttle was trying to place the man. His face had been familiar, but he couldn’t remember why.

  Restored, Tetzel filled Tuttle in on what had happened. They left the kitchen and wandered around, Peanuts ever at Tuttle’s side, picking up information here and there. They listened to Pippen talk to the reporters but she didn’t have many details. The priest had died about two in the morning, death was caused by an ax.

  “You through here, Doctor?”

  “Not yet.”

  The body was taken off downtown in the 911 ambulance. Tuttle broke away from Tetzel and the other news hawks and started up the path that led to the chapel.

  “Where we going?”

  “To make a visit.”

  He pulled open the great doors and they stepped into the cool almost darkness. Peanuts dunked his hand up to the knuckles in the holy water and made another cross on himself. Tuttle imitated him. When in Rome. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw two figures seated side by side in a stall on the raised level where the altar stood. He made out the distinctive profile of Father Dowling. Why should he be surprised to see a priest in church? Because Dowling belonged at St. Hilary’s. What was he doing here? After a time, Dowling and the other man rose, knelt, and then got to their feet. The other man was a priest, too, wearing a robe. They came down from the sanctuary, turned and genuflected, and then left by a side door.

  “Father Dowling,” Tuttle said.

  “Who’s the other guy?”

  “Must be a local.”

  Outside again, they found a bench under a great oak and sat there, leaves murmuring above them, birds twittering. Peanuts looked warily upward. But finally the attraction of immobility exerted itself and he relaxed. Tuttle wanted to think.

  His thoughts were on his client, Leo Corbett. His first reaction was that what had happened here was good news for Leo, and now he was sure of it. Tetzel’s last article had done a real job on the Athanasians who were down to a handful and counting. This murder would put a nail in their coffin. Tuttle saw smooth sailing for Leo’s claim on the property. The Athanasians were pretty discredited now. No wonder the priest with Father Dowling had walked as if he were carrying a great burden.

  Tuttle thought of Hazel, too, and found himself wondering how he would tell her about all this. Here was proof that his friendship with Peanuts was indispensable. He could never have gotten on the grounds if Peanuts hadn’t driven them past those barricades. Oh, there were probably ways to get in apart from the main gate, but if the main entrance was barricaded chances were other entries were, too. Tuttle imagined himself trying to climb the fence. No way. Peanuts had been his open sesame, no doubt of that. And Hazel would have to be impressed by all the inside dope he had gotten.

  He hung around Marygrove most of the morning. When he learned that the police were looking for a man who had been staying in the lodge, Stanley Morgan, Tuttle knew that had to be the guy who had hurried through the lodge kitchen when Tetzel was taking his Alka-Seltzer.

  6

  You have set our iniquities before You, our secret sins.

  —Psalm 90

  Charlotte Priebe had fulfilled her mission and brought Leo Corbett to Lars Anderson. The three of them had sat in the great man’s office and Leo’s prospects
had been explained to him.

  “What if I don’t want to sell?”

  “Because you want to live in the house your grandfather built?” Anderson said understandingly. “Don’t worry. That will be preserved. You will have the house, the lodge, lots of land. And a ton of money from selling the rest.”

  Leo tried to look skeptical, but Charlotte knew he was hooked. Because he was hooked on her. Suddenly the axioms of the market economy dawned on her and she wondered why she was delivering this sacrificial lamb over to Lars Anderson with only the prospect of an avuncular nod of gratitude and a bonus to boot. But what bonus could compete with what Leo stood to make if his claim against his grandfather’s estate was recognized?

  “It’s in your self-interest,” she explained to Leo, crossing her legs and watching his eyes cross in response. She looked significantly at Lars Anderson. “Maybe I should explain it to Leo, without pressure, setting out the advantages.”

  Lars, the old devil, took the bait and she led Leo off to the officers’ dining room.

  “What an interesting life you’ve led,” she said later, when they were settled in a little bar on State, hors d’oeuvres and a bottle of Peruvian red ordered.

  He had led an interesting life, one reversal after another. She commiserated with him as he told of his geological father and autistic mother. Her own parents had been consigned to the dustbin of history, as someone had once called it. Leo was delightfully literate, his academic failures not having interfered with his education. They were on Proust when their salmon came, with new asparagus and a white wine suitable for the main course. The Peruvian red remained on the table. Leo had swilled that as if its purpose was to slake one’s thirst rather than excite the palate. Sitting across from her, calf-eyed, responsive, Charlotte saw him as a huge mound of clay for her to mold.

  “I myself come from a humble family.”

  “Better than a humbling one.”

  “And now you have been awarded your grandfather’s charter membership at the country club.”