Do Not Go Gentle

by James W. Jorgensen

  “Where do ye think these bad people get their ideas and their intentions?” asked Lucy.

  Cal spoke up. “Lucy, would you be willing to find out more about Sedecla and the Disciples for us? We don’t have any contacts in that community, but I suspect you do.”

  The old woman considered this for several seconds. “I do, but I have to caution ye. It will put all of us in grave danger.”

  “Ma’am, we face danger every day,” replied Jamie.

  “Not like this. If ye refuse to open your mind, your eyes may be blind to very real danger.”

  “Okay,” Jamie replied. “How about this? I promise to try to keep an open mind if you will find out what you can for us, also keeping in mind that Sedecla may just be a delusional woman with equally deluded followers. Deal?”

  Lucy stuck out a tattooed hand. “Ye have a deal, lad.” She turned to Cal as she shook Jamie’s hand. “Detective Cushing, I’ll be relying on ye to help Mister If-I-Can’t-See-It-I-Don’t-Believe-It here in line. Ye’ll need to prod him to keep an open mind.”

  Cal laughed. “Ma’am, I’ve been trying to do that for ten years. I’ll keep trying. Here’s my card.”

  “Here’s mine, too,” said Jamie.

  Cal glared at him. “You’re not officially on this case any longer, my friend.”

  “Why not?” asked Lucy.

  “He’s been ill now for several weeks and they can’t find what’s wrong with him. He’s always exhausted and has severe headaches, among other things.”

  “Is this true?” Lucy questioned Jamie.

  “It is,” he admitted, “but I’m sure the doctors will eventually find something.”

  She turned to Cal. “Did that woman do or say anything to ye when ye confronted her?”

  Cal paled. “Yes. She spoke a lot of words we didn’t understand and said she was cursing us.”

  “Don’t get him started,” said Jamie. “Plus, I was already ill when we met with Sedecla.”

  “Open mind, remember lad?” replied Lucy sternly. “This is nothing to take lightly. Do ye recall the words or what they sounded like?”

  “No, she added something in English, but it might have been different. We had another detective with us. I’ll ask him,” said Cal.

  “Do that, and let me know what ye find out.” Lucy turned to face Jamie. “I’m not saying that Sedecla caused your illness as ye were sick beforehand—but her curse could prolong it or intensify it. Ye need to take stock of your situation, young man, and decide what’s really important to ye.” Lucy stood, much to the protests of the ferret that had been dozing in her lap.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jamie as he and Cal stood as well, glaring at the ferret.

  “I mean, is solving this case and finding answers to your illness more important than clinging to your disbelief in anything ye cannot see?” Lucy reached out and touched his arm lightly.

  Jamie thought he felt a tingle where she touched him. It was a disquieting feeling, although not threatening. After a moment, he replied, “That’s no contest—I’ll work at keeping an open mind.”

  “Do that,” Lucy urged, “and I’ll call ye once I have anything that might be of help.”

  They thanked her, and as they left her house, Jamie felt despite his beliefs, that he had just stumbled across something important. “Don’t say a word,” he growled at Cal as they got into his car.

  “Me?” Cal protested. “I wasn’t going to say a thing.”

  Neither man noticed the inconspicuous black sedan that pulled out and followed them at a discreet distance.

  Chapter Nine

  “You’re a long way from Saint Brendan’s, Padre,” came a voice from behind him.

  Father Anthony O’Connor turned around sharply. He was coming out of one of the residential substance treatment houses in the Savin Hill area of Dorchester. While the JFK Presidential Library and Museum and UMass-Boston campus lay less than a mile away directly east across the 93, the Savin Hill area just west of the 93 was light years away in terms of safe surroundings. Though still residential for the most part, the admixture of industrial parks and urban housing developments added a less savory element. The area along Dorchester Avenue and Savin Hill Avenue was noted for its crime rate, especially drugs and prostitution. The halfway house O’Connor was leaving was located on the fringes of that area, so anyone walking the area alone at night needed to be cautious. Father O’Connor had been visiting one of the women whom he had been counseling for several months.

  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, O’Connor exhaled sharply and replied, “Timothy O’Neill, you scared the bejeezus out of me, lad.” He stuck out a big hand to shake the detective’s hand.

  O’Neill had been leaning in some shadows along the street and stepped forward to shake hands. While a parishioner of Saint Brendan’s, Timmy’s attendance was spotty at best. O’Connor knew O’Neill primarily through his association with Jamie Griffin.

  “Sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to startle you. What brings you up to this area of town?”

  The two men walked down the street toward Dorchester Avenue. “I’ve been working with one of the unfortunate women at the halfway house,” O’Connor gestured behind them. “She’s coming from a dark place, but she’s making good progress. Are you out on an investigation, then?”

  O’Neill nodded. “Yeah, but as I’m sure you can appreciate, I can’t say much about it. This area always keeps us busy.”

  “Of course, of course,” O’Connor agreed in his mellow, quick speaking style. “I also volunteer at the Dorchester House, taking parish food drive donations and providing support to those who come there in need as well.”

  O’Neill smiled a mirthless smile. “You’re a busy man, Father.”

  O’Connor sensed a change in the detective’s attitude, but chose to ignore it. “I do my best, Timothy. I try to do my best. I’m heading back to the T-stop.” The parish had provided O’Connor with a serviceable five-year-old sedan, plain, but reliable. “Boston traffic is never good and I find that riding the T often gives me time to clear my mind.”

  “I’ll go with you to Dorchester Avenue. This time of night, it can’t hurt to have a police escort.”

  O’Connor again noticed that O’Neill’s tone and facial expressions belied his lighthearted words. While he knew O’Neill was a cop, like Jamie Griffin, O’Connor didn’t know Timmy as well as he did Jamie. Maybe he’s just uncomfortable around me. Heaven knows “cafeteria Catholics” often feel guilty when talking to the parish priest.

  The two men walked in silence toward Dorchester Avenue. The early October day had been cold and rainy. While the rain had stopped mid-afternoon, the clouds were still thick in the sky, obscuring the stars, and the night wind blew a sharp chill through them. As they reached Dorchester Avenue, O’Neill asked, “How often do you make your way up to this end of Dorchester, Father?”

  Again, O’Connor felt uneasy. It felt like an interrogation. The last thing I need is for him to get suspicious, thought O’Connor. “Not as often as I’d like, I’m afraid,” he replied in what he hoped was an easy tone of voice. “The parish keeps me busy, but I try to help out wherever I can.”

  O’Neill crossed Dorchester to the east side of the street then stopped. “I have to meet someone down the J & J, Padre, so we’ll part company here.” He stuck his hand out again.

  O’Connor grasped it, then looked up at O’Neill’s eyes as the younger man firmly shook his hand. “Thank you for your company, Timothy,” he replied casually.

  Smiling, O’Neill said, “I’ll try to make it to Mass more often, Father. I know I’ve been lax lately, but I do enjoy your homilies. You have a knack for reaching out and touching people.”

  Again, O’Neill’s words seemed out of sync with his demeanor. “Thank you. I hope to see you soon. Good night, Timothy.” O’Connor walked away briskly, pulling his coat collar up against the wind. As he walked away from Dorchester Avenue, O’Connor felt the detective watch him leave. The priest
resisted the urge to turn back and look and walked on into the cold night.

  * * * *

  Timmy O’Neill watched Father O’Connor head toward the T stop. He gestured to two young men, dressed in leather coats and clearly not college students, who had been waiting for the next bus.

  The shorter of the two, a Hispanic man in his mid-twenties, with hard eyes, spoke. “Yes, Captain?” Emilio Gonzalez was one of O’Neill’s lieutenants. The taller, African-American youth, Thomas Jones, was Emilio’s second. They were responsible for the Mazzimah activities that took place in this vicinity.

  Although no one was within earshot, O’Neill leaned in, which caused his men to do the same. “Did you observe the man with whom I was walking?”

  “The priest?” asked Emilio. At O’Neill’s nod, Emilio replied, “Sure. We’ve seen that padre here several times. Sometimes during the day, sometimes at night.”

  O’Neill considered for several moments. “Have you seen the good father engaged in any, less than clerical activities, shall we say?” He looked intently at his lieutenant.

  Emilio took a moment to recall. “Maybe, but that’s just an impression, Captain. I haven’t been watching him all that closely. Typically, the priests know to leave us alone.”

  “Indeed. However, I want you and Thomas to spread the word that I’m interested in the activities of this particular priest. Make it a point to note his activities on future trips here.”

  “As you say, Cap,” replied Emilio firmly. “We’ll let you know when we have anything specific.”

  “Very good,” said Timmy. “Keep up the good work, Emilio.” The lieutenant briefly touched his right hand in a fist to his left shoulder. O’Neill nodded absently, and then walked down to the J&J, not to meet a friend, as he had told O’Connor, but to have a drink and ask some more questions. What are you up to, father? While O’Connor’s explanation was plausible, O’Neill’s investigative instincts were telling him otherwise. He walked from the cold, windy night into the warm noisy environment of the bar.

  A regular at the J&J, the bartender served a Guinness to O’Neill, who nodded thanks, then headed to a dim corner to think. He replayed his encounter with Father O’Connor. O’Neill wasn’t sure why he picked up a vibe from the man, but he trusted his instincts as a detective and had followed up on it without hesitating.

  The problem is, how far can I go with this? O’Neill took a long pull of his Guinness and ordered a sandwich. He thought back to his days in the academy with Jamie.

  It had been a grueling experience, by design, and while Timmy and Jamie had known each other only in passing in junior high and high school, when they recognized each other in their academy class, they had both gravitated toward a familiar face. O’Neill was also a Dorchester native, but he moved in far different circles than Jamie, who had been a modestly successful athlete and honor student. O’Neill had been one of the “outcasts,” the losers and loners who hung around the edges of the organizations and cliques that dominated high school life. He encountered Jamie only occasionally, in odd situations, like the time in junior high school, when Timmy, Jamie, and some other guys had swiped cigarettes from Old Man Hannity’s store. Out of eight, only Jamie and Timmy had been caught.

  I’ll never forget the look on Jamie’s face when his father came down to the police station to pick him up. The boys had not been charged with anything. The officers who responded to Hannity’s call had recognized Jamie and convinced the shopkeeper not to file charges and let them scare the boys instead. They had been locked in a holding cell together. In the adjoining cells drunks, street toughs, and some very rough looking indigents awaited processing. To the thirteen-year-old boys, the hour that they spent there was the longest of their lives. Frank Griffin, then a Captain Detective with the force, had stridden stiffly into the holding area, his face set in a granite stare of disapproval. Without saying a word, Frank Griffin had gestured for the officer on duty to open the cell, and then gestured for Jamie to come out. After Jamie had done so, Frank grabbed his son by the shoulder and, nodding to the officer, had marched him out of the holding area.

  O’Neill had caught up with Jamie the following day and asked him what had happened with his dad. Timmy’s father, a neighborhood “entrepreneur” who was no stranger to the police, had come down and taken his son home, tearing him a new one. That had been the end of the episode for Timmy O’Neill, whose father was an inattentive parent at best.

  I can still see the look of desperate remorse on Jamie’s face. I thought his dad had probably thrown the book at him, being a cop’s son and all, but Jamie just shook his head. “My Da didn’t say a single word to me on the walk home,” he said in a sad voice. “I was waiting for him to lay into me, but he didn’t say anything until we got right in front of the house. Then he stopped me, and I was surprised at the look on his face. I mean, he was angry, but I could tell that he was mostly disappointed. Then he said, ‘Never again, do you hear me? I’ll not tolerate anything like that ever again. You’re on your own if you ever do something like that again.’ Jamie hadn’t said anything else after that. He just walked off to his class in a different part of the school, but that was the end of Jamie Griffin hanging out with us. He hadn’t been overt about it—he just stopped hanging out with us.

  O’Neill ordered another Guinness when the waitress brought him his sandwich. “Thanks, honey,” he said, and after giving her a quick pat on the ass, he bit into his sandwich. O’Neill recalled that when they’d started hanging together in the academy, Jamie had told him that his father’s words had never left him. He took them to heart and stayed out of trouble. Unlike myself, O’Neill thought wryly. Timmy O’Neill had never been caught doing anything major, but he was always involved in any trouble to be found, and he was an indifferent student in high school. His life-changing event had not come until after graduation, when his dad had been nagging him to get a job. O’Neill had no illusions about college. His mother had died the previous year from cancer, which had only served to make the elder O’Neill more rash in his shady activities. Three weeks after Timmy graduated from high school, Matty O’Neill had been shot and killed by a partner during a deal gone wrong. He only received a little insurance money from a policy his mother had bought. It covered Matty’s funeral expenses and gave Timmy money to live on until he had sold their modest house. O’Neill then took the proceeds and went to live with an aunt and uncle who insisted that he go to community college. The violent death of his father, so soon after his mother’s passing, had shocked O’Neill into deciding to do something with his life. He went to a two-year school and got good enough grades to get into a small four-year college, where he finished with good grades and a degree in criminology, which led him to the police academy. Wonder what the old man would have made of that? he wondered as he finished his meal.

  Unlike Jamie, Timmy’s conversion was temporary. Like his father, O’Neill had been drawn to the shadier side of life. After graduation, O’Neill had spent several years in vice, including undercover work where he made contact with a lieutenant from the Mazzimah. His duty had been to turn the man or arrest him. Instead, frustrated with what he saw on the streets and wanting more from life than he could afford on his police salary, O’Neill looked the other way—for some kickbacks, of course. From there, it had been a slow but slippery slope into his current position. Along the way, he switched to homicide and managed to get his shield.

  While he couldn’t live ostentatiously on his current salary, he did reward himself with things that he could enjoy without attracting undue attention. He bought nice, but not flashy clothes, good food, and drink. He even bought a modest townhouse and refurnished it with comforts far beyond those found in similar Dorchester houses. He also had, of course, a numbered account in the Cayman Islands, which he planned to use someday soon when he had enough to slip away and live comfortably in some warm climate.

  Like the cold wind outside, however, O’Neill was chilled by the words and implied threats of his unoff
icial employer. She’s scary alright, but I can play along with her long enough to bankroll getting the hell out of here. However, the thought of putting cops in danger gnawed at him. O’Neill was greedy and corrupt, but he still believed in the “code of blue.” I’ll do what I gotta do, he thought, putting cash for the meal and drinks, along with a good tip, on the table, but there’s some lines I just won’t cross. O’Neill put his leather coat back on, zipped it up, waving at the bartender on the way out, and then exited into the cold autumn night. He didn’t notice that after a few seconds, a dark shape detached itself from the nearby shadows and surreptitiously followed him home.

  * * * *

  Monday morning found the weather much improved, with sunshine and an increase in temperature from the cold weekend weather. It found Jamie in no better mood than on Saturday. However, where his mood before was angry, Jamie was now sad and reflective, an unusual condition for him. It was now just over six weeks since the day he had first felt ill. Since late August, he had seen more doctors and had more tests done than in his entire life beforehand. How can I still be feckin’ ill?

  Jamie and Eileen were with Doctor Jasinski for the latest results from the latest battery of tests. Jerry seemed apologetic. He was almost as frustrated by Jamie’s situation as they were. The big difference was that Jerry’s livelihood wasn’t being affected.

  Jasinski looked at Jamie and sighed. “My friend, we may have to finally call this something that I know you’re not going to want to hear.”

  Jamie chuckled, but there was no humor in his voice. “At this point, Jerry, I’d just like to know what the hell is wrong with me, no matter what it is.”

  Jasinski looked at Jamie and Eileen and replied, “Well, maybe not. Right now, the only thing I know to diagnose it as is something we call Post-viral fatigue syndrome.”

  “Post-viral fatigue syndrome? What the hell does that mean?” Jamie tried, without much success, to keep the irritation from his voice.

  “Well, there’s a system called the International Statistical Classification of Diseases, commonly called ICD, which is used for the classification of diseases and conditions. The ICD provides physicians and insurance companies with a common language, if you will, so we all know what we’re talking about, at least in theory.” Jasinski laughed. “In the real world, it’s not that simple. Post-viral fatigue syndrome presents with disabling fatigue, musculoskeletal pain, neurocognitive difficulties, and changes in mood. Patients may also have nausea, dizziness, loss of appetite and unrefreshing sleep among other symptoms. Frankly, it’s something we just don’t know a whole heck of a lot about. The Center for Disease Control, the CDC, has started replacing the term ‘post-viral fatigue syndrome’ with something you may have heard of—Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or CFS. However, the CDC guidelines stipulate that the patient must suffer these symptoms for at least six months before CFS can be given as a diagnosis. Since we’re not there yet, we call it Post-viral fatigue syndrome until you get better or it has gone on for more than six months.”