Unspeakable Prayers: WW II to Present Day (Thaddeus Murfee Series of Legal Thrillers)

by John Ellsworth

  As soon as she stepped into the alley, she detected the sweet smell of marijuana wafting cross-current. She looked around, saw no one, but sniffed again. It was unmistakable. So she crept around the Dumpster. Sure enough, sitting on the far side, was Cammie Tedesco, a girl Turquoise's age who worked the kitchen as a fry cook. Cammie clenched a roach in a holder and inhaled the smoke from the lit end as Turquoise poked her head around.

  "Busted," cooed Cammie and she gave a broad wave of the hand to Turquoise.

  "Whatcha doin’, girl," asked Turquoise. "Why you lighting up while you're working?"

  "Man, takes the edge off. This fry cook gig is about to do this poor girl in. On my feet eight hours then home to study another four—I'm wasted every night."

  "You are if you keep doing that shit," said Turquoise, indicating the roach in its clip.

  Cammie was a slightly overweight nineteen-year-old who had attended Roosevelt University as a first year nursing student until she was ejected from the student rolls by her constant use of pot on campus. Every time there was a bust, it seemed Cammie was right in the middle of things. The nursing school had a zero tolerance policy, of course, and after two go-arounds Cammie had been kicked out of RU.

  "Too many books and papers, not enough fun,” said Cammie.

  "Hey, I thought you got kicked out of RU. Where are you going to school now?"

  "Phoenix. Online. General Studies."

  "From nursing to general studies? That sounds like a demotion to me."

  "I guess it is. It's all got me a little mixed up, I guess."

  "Tell you what. I just went through drug rehab. You should think about it."

  "No can do. No insurance. Moms can't afford."

  She sucked at the roach one last time before sorrowfully flicking it from the clip. She spit on the tip of her finger and extinguished the glowing paper remnant.

  "So, do you want to quit using?"

  "I think I'm ready. All I think about anymore is the next joint. I've lost interest since RU banned me forever."

  "Nothing's forever. You've just got to take the initiative, take responsibility for your sweet self and get back in there. Online is bullshit."

  "So how did you quit?"

  "We can talk about that. How about we have a little meeting of our own. Tomorrow night. Five-thirty, back of the dorm room. I'll get a table and two chairs. Like they say in AA, all it takes to start a new meeting is a resentment and a coffee pot. Well, you've got the resentment and I've got the coffee pot. Deal?"

  "Why not? I'd like to hear your story anyway."

  A week later, they had found among the transients two more hard rollers in need of a meeting. They threw them a lifeline and now their meeting was four previously lost souls who were amazed they were beginning to find their centers, their peace place, their—dare they say it?—sobriety.

  "My name is Turquoise and I'm an alcoholic."

  "Hi, Turquoise."

  "We've got three newcomers tonight. Will one of you read 'How it Works?’”

  So the meetings began.

  Six weeks later Turquoise told Katy, who told Thaddeus, they needed to take their back wall in the dorm room and build it out into two meeting rooms. Projected cost $5,000. Thaddeus said he'd gladly donate. He called the landlord, got the go-ahead, and ten days later the All You Can Wear Rush Hour Group had its own meeting room. They acquired a poster-size black and red rendering of the "Twelve Steps." They had "The Twelve Traditions" put up on the facing wall. They bought ten Big Books and gave them away free to newcomers—free because the newcomers were mostly hot off the street and penniless. So they got the books, read them, and a percentage of them kept coming back.

  Which was what it was all about.

  A morning meeting was added. Then a nooners'. Then a Friday Night Candlelight. Then Saturdays and Sundays (Third Step Meeting).

  They began searching for a new name for Katy’s operation.

  Naming the place was turned over to Turquoise.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bibby had spoken to no one since arriving at Our Lady of Solitude in Tonopah, Arizona.

  The accommodations—his assigned room—would've insulted a poor college student. "Spartan" was luxurious compared to what Bibby actually found there. Along the left wall, was the single bed, of course, this time covered in chocolate chenille. Adjacent was a two drawer clothes chest, topped off with a red-faced digital clock, a fluffed up box of Kleenex, and a small lamp, silk shade, with fifty-watt bulb—unsuitable for reading. Next came the required desk, consisting of a file drawer to his right and to his left, plank top, and small reading lamp with the shade matching the bedside lampshade. A ruler length ceramic figurine occupied the right side of the desk, portraying a shepherd wearing a sad robe, whose sheep were two small children gazing up at him while he gazed beyond them protectively. On the wall above was the only window, with a shade, and to its right was a painting of the Pope. On the wall to his right was a two-foot crucifix from which the Lord was suspended, eyes downcast as if allowing Bibby to proceed with some degree of privacy along whatever path his retreat might take.

  For his part, Bibby was seated barefoot on his bed, wearing Levi's 501’s, gray T-shirt with pocket, reading glasses perched on his nose. On his lap he balanced his MacBook, on which he was writing his memoir. The piece was tentatively entitled "A Portrait of the Priest as a Young Man," à la James Joyce. As Bibby believed the Lord was always at work in his life, he wasn't surprised when he found he had a visitor who wanted to talk about things which had happened three or four decades before.

  Although the nuns at Our Lady of Solitude would've been aghast had they known, Bibby met his visitor in the lobby and took her with him to his room. The reason for this was the conference room was already filled with a gathering of priests from Phoenix, and in the activities room the VCR was playing The Sound of Music. Added to this sense of necessity, was the fact the woman had introduced herself as a legal professional, which made Bibby feel more confident about the bedroom meeting than a woman paying a personal visit.

  In his room, he motioned she should sit in the rocking chair and he would take the desk chair, which he did, sitting astraddle, facing her across the top of the ladder-back. He smiled.

  "How can I help you, Ms. Susmann?"

  Christine had lugged her heavy leather briefcase with her into the room. This was partly because she never went anywhere without it where a witness statement was to be taken, and partly because it was crammed full of trial preparation materials she absolutely couldn't afford to lose had she left them in the car and something happened. She was wearing bluejeans, sandals, boat neck blouse, but had packed the light yellow sweater she had worn in San Diego. In Arizona the sweater was overkill. She had driven straight over from San Diego and the temperature had shot up from a mild 70° in San Diego to well over 100° in Tonopah, which was fifty miles west of Phoenix on Interstate 10. The room was air-conditioned, of course, as it was April outside and air-conditioning was required for all months other than December through February.

  Christine had been through the conversation she would have with Bibby, in her mind, while driving across the desert. She didn't want to get there and hit him broadside with the request he return with her to Chicago and testify in a trial about his grandfather's murder. She wanted to work up to that, politic as she was, having worked with hundreds of witnesses while employed by Thaddeus, and she had come to know how skittish most of them were about testifying.

  "I'm here about your grandfather, Janich Heiss," she said.

  "Most people know him as John E. Meekins," Bibby said. "How do you come to know his real name?"

  "I work for a lawyer who is defending the man accused of shooting your grandfather. I have come to know much about him." She left it there, dangling, avoiding any modifiers or explanation of "much about him."

  "Of course." Bibby drummed his fingers on the desk behind him and stared up at the crucifix on his left. How far he had come, he thou
ght, in distancing himself from his grandfather's world and his grandfather's crimes. Still, here he was, a full twist of the globe away from the scene of those crimes, but they were still present in the memory of this person sitting across from him. As notions and images flowed back into his own mind, he realized his own connection with the unspeakable things his grandfather had done was likewise nearby. He sadly shook his head.

  "My grandfather was a failed human being," he said bluntly. As a priest, Bibby had been awarded his Ph.D. in clinical psychology and had spent his postdoctoral years in the service of his Lord as a parish marriage counselor for one of the largest Catholic churches in Tucson. Given his occupation, blunt-speaking was a way of life for him.

  Bibby continued, "But on the other hand, as a child I loved my grandfather. He was good to me, even though he was very strict and Germanic in his approach to things."

  "Can you give me an example?"

  Bibby allowed a small smile. "He taught me how to whittle when I was a boy."

  "And that would be Germanic in what sense?"

  "My subject was a chain. He taught me to whittle a wood chain. A chain of links, which he wanted me to have to remind me to allow no one to put chains on my life. In his worldview, authority flowed from the state. All good came from the state. He meant for me to grow up and have the same feelings about nationalism as he had. No chains save that of the state."

  "What happened?"

  Bibby spread his hands and studied his fingers.

  "I became a priest, that's what happened. I searched for and found an authority higher than the state. I gladly received those heavenly chains and placed myself in the bondage of service to my God. Grandfather would have been very disappointed in me. In a way, then, it was a blessing in my life he didn't live long enough to see what I would grow into. As you know, the Nazis and the Catholic Church had a very serious parting of the ways in 1939. The Pope had his say, and Hitler, who had been raised in the Catholic church, turned his back. In Hitler's worldview, all authority came from the state, not the church, of course. In its most severe form, Nazism was at war with Christianity. Nazism meant to stamp out Christianity. Except for the Americans, it almost succeeded. This small history explains my grandfather. When he got to America, none of this had changed for him."

  "You sound like a very decent and good man. Now I am hoping you will be willing to do a very decent and good thing."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I talked to your sister. She suggested I talk to you."

  "Julie. My guess is, she wasn't much help. Her sympathies lie elsewhere and I can't convince her otherwise. She's definitely my grandfather's daughter."

  "Let me be blunt. Is she involved?"

  "Involved?"

  "With the neo-Nazis? She sounded anti-semitic as hell—excuse my language—to me."

  "She might be, I don't know. We don't talk that much anymore. Though it's not from want of trying on my part. She's always been aloof, her own person. I know she idolized our grandfather and she insisted on hearing about Germany from him every night. She made him tell her stories about the Germany of his early years over and over. Especially night time stories. That's just Julie. She's very Nationalistic in her worldview, I think you could say."

  "She's a Nazi?"

  "I didn't say that. I didn't say that at all. She's my sister, is my bottom line."

  Christine crossed her foot over her knee and toyed with her sandal.

  Suddenly Bibby stood up and put his palm to his face and said "Forgive me. I haven't even offered you water." He went to the mini fridge and open the door and pulled out two chilled bottles of water. Christine happily accepted one, twisted away the lid, and drank deeply. Bibby sat down and slowly twisted the cap off his bottle and took a small sip. He shook his head. "I apologize," he said simply, nodding at the water in her hand. "Now, how can I help in this legal case?"

  "What I need from you is for you to search your memory. I need you to think about the day your grandfather was killed. I need you to think about who he might've been talking to on the phone that day."

  "You mean that day generally? Or do you mean that day at the moment of his death?"

  "It would be far more than I could ever hope for, to learn who he was speaking to at the moment of his death. I don't expect to find that out. But I'm looking for names, identities of those he might've been in touch with that day."

  "I heard the gunshot."

  Christine was electrified and half rose out of her chair. "Did you just say you heard the gunshot that killed your grandfather?"

  "That is correct. I was hiding in his closet, as I had been trespassing in his bedroom. Someone came into the room and I was trapped inside the closet. I heard that someone take a call from my grandfather on my grandfather's speakerphone. I heard the conversation."

  "And what was it you heard?"

  "I'll never forget. I heard my grandfather say he was going to murder a certain man, that man's family, and that man's friends. In all honesty, it was my grandfather's voice talking, but it was someone else's words he was saying. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined my grandfather saying these things, when I was ten years old. But he did."

  A look of utter shock, mixed with joy, came across Christine's face.

  "Have you told anyone about this?"

  Bibby shrugged. "Until today, no one has asked me. In all seriousness, until you came here, I had no idea your client was on trial for the murder of Grandfather. Will he be found guilty?"

  "They have DNA evidence that puts him at the scene of the crime. There is no other unexplained DNA there. The circumstantial inference is very strong. Yes, he will probably be found guilty. Unless you come forward. Then he stands a chance."

  "I can't come forward. It would be a betrayal of Grandfather."

  "Nonsense, Father. You must come forward. A very old man's life depends on the truth and you have the truth. You can speak the truth about what happened."

  "This is so overwhelming. Maybe you'd best leave now. Prayers are coming up at four o'clock."

  "All right. But I'm going to wait here in Tonopah until you agree."

  "That wouldn't be a good idea. Right now I'm strongly inclined to refuse. Let's leave it at that, say our goodbyes, and you go back to Chicago."

  Bibby looked uncomfortable. He shuffled his feet and rubbed his hands together. He rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, clearly agitated.

  "I'm staying in the area, Father. I won't leave here without you."

  A look came over Bibby's face. He brightened somewhat.

  "Can you give me a subpoena or something from the court that forces me to go?"

  "Of course. I will go to the Denny's two miles back and email the office for a subpoena. Can I bring it by later this evening?"

  "You may. Again, however, there are no promises. I need to pray about this."

  "Yes, I understand. I will be back in two hours. Please be finished with prayers by then."

  Bibby smiled. "Prayers take whatever time they take. Do you pray?"

  "I don't pray. My prayer book got lost in Baghdad many years ago."

  "Well, we can talk about that. If I come on the airplane with you, will you let me pray for you?"

  "Sure. I won't interfere."

  "Will you join me?"

  "How important is it?"

  "It could be what some would call a game-changer." He smiled.

  "We'll talk about it. Right now, I don't see how it would hurt anything."

  "Good, then. Ms. Susmann, I'll see you when you get back. Please be prepared to wait in the lobby if I don't come up front right away. That means I'm still in prayer."

  "I can do that."

  "When would we go—if I agree?"

  "Tonight. Immediately. You would testify tomorrow."

  He sighed and shook his head. "So much for my retreat."

  "Look at it this way, Father. You would be moving from the general to the particular in your spiritual walk, if you
follow me."

  He smiled and chuckled for the first time. "You've got me there. Smart lady, I'll give you that."

  Christine stood and stuck out here hand. "Later, then."

  "Later."

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  "Your subpoena isn't worth the paper it's printed on," said Carrie Hartaun, the attorney for Father Meekins' diocese. "It's a total joke."

  "I know that," said Christine. "But I wanted him to have something to fall back on in case anyone from his diocese objected or had questions."

  "So I told him he could legally ignore it."

  Christine's face fell. "Thanks. That's just great."

  "Not so fast. He told me he was going to testify anyway. Something about a higher law."

  "Now that's more like it!"

  "He's ready to fly out tonight if you want to pick him up at the retreat. A taxi took him there and he'd just as soon save the money."

  "I'll send a car. We'll be flying on our firm airplane, so it will be a quick trip. We can leave as soon as he arrives at Sky Harbor."

  "I'll make sure he gets the message. And Christine? Tell your boss not to drop anymore of these worthless subpoenas on my people. If he does this again, it won't be pretty. I promise you that."

  "I'll make sure he gets the message," said Christine. "But the truth is, I prepared it myself."

  "And you're not even a lawyer? And you delivered it and you're not even a process server? You're playing pretty fast and loose with the rules, lady. You're lucky we're not turning you in to the authorities."

  "Thanks for that. Truth be told, I was desperate."

  "Yes, and out of desperation much evil flows. That's a proverb from somewhere."

  "I'm sure it is. Thanks for helping me here."