Blind Sight

by Carol O'Connell

  —

  FLORAL OFFERINGS for the dead nun were enough to fill a cathedral, too many for a neighborhood church like St. Jude’s. The inspired sexton and his helpers had wound the overflow into garlands that hung from the walls in natural wonders to rival the stained glass.

  It was rare for this house of worship to be visited in great numbers at this time of year. Summer was a fallow season for Father Brenner’s trade.

  Tonight, there was one more wonder to behold. Should he live to be a hundred, he would never see this spectacle again. His chief suspect in the working of miracles was Cardinal Rice’s emissary, Father DuPont, who had declined a place in the first pew to sit in the last.

  Father Brenner turned his eyes toward the raised tier of the altar, so like a stage, where church history was in the making—all for the love of a woman.

  By unprecedented permission granted by the cardinal himself, a prioress and ten cloistered nuns stood there, wearing the long black robes and veils of their order. They had journeyed many a mile. No longer sheltered by far-off monastery walls, they bravely stood exposed to a public gathering. In a further breach of centuries-old tradition, they formed a choir and sang Sister Michael to her rest. Their songs were old, but their voices were new to this world. Imperfect performers, they cried as they sang, creating wavers in notes here and there that broke heart after heart in row upon row.

  —

  DETECTIVES WORE WHITE CARNATIONS in their lapels and played the parts of ushers strolling to the organ music. Moving down the rows of pews, they searched faces for one to match a rough drawing, and they also scanned all the summer-bare skin for identifying marks.

  Beyond tall wooden doors, left open to the night, a crowd filled the church steps, the sidewalk and the street, and everywhere out there were candles and cigarette lighters and matches held high. Amid that gathering of standing mourners, one upraised arm was covered in tattoos of snakes, hearts, daggers—and a twining vine of red roses to match every cop’s camera-phone image of a dead woman’s naked thighs. This skinny arm was grabbed by the large hand of a uniformed officer, who sang out to nearby detectives, “I got him!”

  —

  IGGY WATCHED the TV news coverage of the church interior, and he described it to the child beside him on the living-room sofa. “There’s a shitload of flowers. And the people—big turnout, kid. Angie would’ve loved it.”

  The boy held up one hand to shush him, the better to hear the priest introduce a speaker, Harold Quill.

  “Hey,” said Iggy. “That’s your uncle?” Sure it was. The guy even looked like the kid.

  The boy left the sofa to stand close to the TV screen on the wall, his hands cupped to catch only that voice in the church. When the uncle began to speak—to beg for help—the boy hugged himself, bending at the waist, as if he had taken a hit, and he slowly folded to the floor. Head low, arms wrapping round his legs, he was all knees and elbows now. When the uncle was done talking, the kid’s voice cracked on the words, “I want to go home.”

  Ain’t gonna happen, kid.

  At that moment, the boy lifted his face, his attention called to an empty chair, and he nodded to no one there.

  “Stop it!” Damn kid and his games. The boy turned to stare at him, glare at him with Angie’s big gray eyes, like he could see—or she could.

  Jesus. What the— Iggy heard the tiny muffled sound of bells. From the hallway? Naw. He turned back to the TV. A church. Yeah, churches had all kinds of bells. But still, he pressed the mute button on the remote control, and he strained to catch that sound again. All he heard was the dog’s heavy breathing on the floor at his feet. No jingling.

  —

  WHEN THE CHURCH had emptied of all but the clergy, the monastery choir gathered in the nave with their small bags of belongings, saying their good nights and preparing to leave under the protection of the teaching sisters from the parochial school. The visiting nuns would be their guests tonight. A small child of the parish approached the gathering, not on the run, which was her nature, but stepping softly on best behavior. She reached up to give Father Brenner a folded paper, and he opened it to see the letterhead of Cardinal Rice.

  The priest thanked the little girl and shooed her away to join her parents, who waited on the steps beyond the doors. Turning to the monastery’s prioress, he said, “Reverend Mother, the cardinal is here.” Father Brenner pointed to the confessional, a small, freestanding structure with three doors. A light glowed above the center compartment in invitation to the Sacrament of Penance. “He’d like a word . . . in private.”

  The prioress nodded and excused herself from a conversation with Father DuPont, asking, “Wait for me? I have a few more questions.”

  —

  HER BLACK ROBES flowing, she walked to the end of the aisle and opened a door to enter a closet-size enclosure. Arthritic legs were slow to bend as the prioress lowered herself to the cushioned kneeler. Before her was the metal weave of a lattice, all that separated her from His Eminence, but the prioress kept Custody of the Eyes, looking down at her veined and wrinkled hands clasped in prayer upon a worn wooden ledge. She began the ritual words that must open every conversation in this intimate space, “Forgive me, Father, for I have—”

  “The cardinal’s busy,” said a woman’s voice, and a gold badge was pressed to the lattice. “But there will be a confession.”

  13

  Mallory leaned close to the metal grille and spoke softly so her words would not carry beyond the flimsy wooden door of the confessional. “I know your family was loaded with money. . . . and you got a law degree from Georgetown.”

  “That sounds a bit like an accusation, my child. So my background doesn’t fit your idea of a monastery prioress?”

  The old woman was a backlit shadow, but her voice gave away attitude, and the detective could hear a smile on the face of this glorified nun.

  “No,” said Mallory, “it does fit. Thirty-five years ago, you were a public defender. Your caseload would’ve been heavy on street trash. Lots of hookers like Angie Quill. You don’t want to lie to me. I’ve already talked to DuPont.”

  Hesitation? Was the prioress still smiling? The detective thought not.

  “Sister Michael had a difficult life.”

  “I’ve already heard that story,” said Mallory. “My interest begins when she was just a hooker knocking on your door. No education—rough trade for a monastery. DuPont says you signed her up as a nun because you thought she had a true calling. I say you gave her sanctuary.”

  “Can’t both things be true?”

  “Don’t jerk me around.” There would be only one warning.

  “From our point of view, Sister Michael’s life began when she entered the—”

  “I don’t have time for this!” Mallory pounded the grille.

  Oh, too violent?

  The silhouette of the prioress went rigid, tensing. Feeling less protected now? Mallory whispered a little poison through the metal screen. “Angie’s nephew is just a little boy. I have to find him before a freak cuts out his heart—while it’s still beating.”

  The prioress lowered her head, and her form in shadow appeared to be cut down in size—not quite chopped off at the knees yet, but given time—

  “I know the girl didn’t trust cops,” said Mallory. “But you better trust me. I’m all that boy’s got. Angie loved him—that much I believe. Now you tell me something that isn’t a lie. Were you hiding her? Was she scared?”

  “My first impression of Angie . . . she was beaten down by her life and very tired.”

  Too tired to run. Too tired to fight.

  “Go on,” said Mallory, and the prioress did go on—and on.

  —

  WAS HE LOOKING at Angie Quill’s killer? Probably not. Riker sat down next to the suspect and gave him a hey-how’s-it-goin’ smile.

  The cop on the
other side of the table did not pull up a chair. Detective Washington liked the advantage of looking down at the young man, who was surprisingly clean-cut from the neck up, lacking the beard and long hair of their sketch for the tattoo artist. Washington had taken the lead, though he had yet to say one word. He only sneered while eyeing the suspect’s torn jeans, the raggedy T-shirt—and tattoos that covered both arms.

  Joey Collier was quick to guess that he had just been assessed as lowlife scum, and now he wanted it known that, sure, he made the punk scene by night, but he wore a suit and tie in the workday hours. “When I quit inking skin, I went back to school for my CPA. I’ve got a job in a big accounting firm. Lots of corporate clients. I’d rather the news media didn’t—”

  “No worries, pal,” said Riker. “When you got grabbed off the street, all the reporters were inside the church.” He stared at the accountant’s arms of red roses, snakes and daggers. “Bet that wouldn’t go over well at the office. So you gotta wear long sleeves to work all summer, huh? Damn.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” said Washington, a genius in the game of Bad Cop, a rough-talking, I’m-gonna-getcha, bastard of a cop.

  And Riker, a friend to all mankind tonight, asked, “How long did you know Angie Quill?”

  “Three years, maybe a little longer,” said Joey Collier. “She came in once a month for a tattoo. But that was years ago.”

  “How’d she pay?” Washington looked like he was about to crawl across the table and do some damage. “Did you get that girl to spread her legs?”

  “No, she wasn’t like that. Angie was a nice kid.”

  Riker laid the old mug shot on the table, the picture of Angie Quill punked out with purple streaks and goth-black fingernails. “She was a hooker. You know it. We know it.”

  “She never came on to me.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Washington. “And you never made any moves on her? Gimme a fuckin’ break.” Alongside the mugshot, he set down the medical examiner’s photographs of the tattoos on Angie Quill’s thighs. “So she’s standing there, her skirts hiked up. Great legs.”

  “She wasn’t like that,” said the former tattoo artist to the angry cop facing him—disbelieving him.

  “Okay, Joey,” said Riker, the smiling detective. “I’ll buy that. How’d she pay for all those tats? You didn’t say.”

  “Cash. But she didn’t pay for the first one. That time she came in with this guy. He paid for the first rose.” Joey pointed to the roses on one arm. “She liked my tats. So the boyfriend told me to start a vine on her thigh. That’s why I think he bankrolled the rest of them.”

  Riker pushed a pad of yellow-lined paper across the table. “We need a name and address for this guy.”

  “Are you kidding me? I only saw him once, and that was ten years ago.”

  “When Angie Quill was fifteen,” said Washington, “a minor child.” And his face said, I got you now, you little pervert.

  “We can work this out.” Riker lightly rested one hand on Joey’s shoulder. “You didn’t screw her for the roses? Okay, we find this guy, he backs up your story, and you’re outta here.” The detective tapped his watch. “You need your beauty sleep, pal. You don’t wanna show up for work tomorrow with bags under your eyes.”

  “I never got his name, but he’s the memorable type—a bruiser. And he pulled out a big wad of a cash—big as my fist.” The tattoo artist jammed a thumb in Washington’s direction. “Big as his fist. . . . After that, Angie came in alone, always paid cash. Brand-new bills, just like the boyfriend’s money. My guess? Every time he got laid, the guy marked her with another rose.”

  “But she never screwed you.” Washington was playing thick with disbelief. “Not even a blowjob to save herself some money?”

  “That was never gonna happen. The boyfriend scared me shitless. It wasn’t anything he said. It was the eyes, I guess. Like he could go medieval on me any second.”

  “You’re doin’ good,” said Riker. “You remember if the boyfriend was a smoker?”

  “Oh, yeah. Chain smoker. Hard to forget that part. The guy lights up a cigarette, and he looks at me—scary cold. I figure he’s waiting for me to tell him to put it out. He’s standing right under the no-smoking sign on the wall. But I wasn’t about to say anything. Not to him. I figured that might be worth some broken teeth.”

  —

  IGGY CONROY drove through Alphabet City, east of St. Marks Place. He kept a lookout for a parking space in the old neighborhood. His white van rolled by the apartment house where he had once lived with his mother. It had not changed. Same old crack on the second step. But next door was a dry cleaner, and that was not right. The old pizza parlor had closed up shop and gone away. Iggy took this loss personally.

  That was where he first saw Angie, his come-and-go girl, the one with the jingling red flip-flops. That day, she had been jailbait in schoolgirl braids and blue jeans. How old? Not old enough. But so pretty. He had not been the only man in that place to watch her for the length of the line to buy a slice and a soda, but he had never thought of approaching her. Only fools and perverts messed with kids.

  Half a year later and late at night, he caught sight of her again. No bells, no flip-flops or braids that time. She wore red lipstick and a trashy skirt the size of a low-slung belt. She was otherwise the same kid—until the moment when his van slowed down, when the girl knew his eyes were on her, and snap—that fast—the girl grew up. One hip swung out as a high-heeled shoe stepped off the curb. And, curbside, she had negotiated money and terms like an old pro.

  Years after that, there were still times when Angie would walk out of his bathroom, her hair damp from a shower, no makeup on, and all alone for all she knew. And then he would see the other girl, the jingling one, but only for the few seconds before she sensed him nearby, watching her, and then—snap.

  She would come and go like that.

  —

  ANGIE QUILL’S former counselor stood in the hallway. “Sorry I’m late,” said Father DuPont. “I thought you might’ve gone to bed. It’s very quiet in this building. It feels so—”

  “Empty? Well, I don’t have many tenants. None on this floor.” Charles stood aside to usher the man into his apartment.

  At the end of the vestibule, the priest paused to take in the front room of antique furnishings and paneled walls. “I love the windows.” Tall and arched, they were an architectural detail from a time when this old apartment building had belonged to the factory age of SoHo. The interior had since been remodeled to resemble more elegant private rooms of the same era. And now DuPont focused on the tray of whiskey and glasses set out on a small table between two armchairs. Taking this cue, he took his seat.

  When Charles had poured their drinks, he said, “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I’m flattered that you remembered me. There were so many psychologists at that convention.”

  “And you were out of uniform,” said Charles. “You wore a gray sports coat over a T-shirt. Faded jeans, right? It was winter in Chicago. You were carrying a topcoat. Camel hair, I believe.”

  “Impressive.” The priest made short work of his whiskey. “There were at least a hundred people in the room. After you read that brilliant paper, I’m sure half of them had a word with you.”

  “But I only heard one confession that night.” Charles raised the bottle. “Refill?”

  —

  IGGY LIKED TO TRAVEL by rooftop in New York City, where security cameras only watched the streets, and the only light tonight was a waxing moon. Mindful of high windows on the other side of St. Marks Place, he crouched to keep his silhouette low. There was no need for him to pick the crummy lock on this roof door. He turned the knob hard, forcing it until he heard the mechanism break, and then he was through the door and down the stairs to the top-floor landing, where music played in one
apartment. Across the hall, there was no sound at all behind Mrs. Quill’s door. The kid’s granny was probably in bed, and now she could kiss her nighty goodbye. His résumé included accidental deaths for insurance money, and he favored bathtub drownings.

  But first—a quiet little talk with the lady. In Iggy’s experience, nobody ever screamed when the point of a knife was an inch from an eyeball. It never failed.

  Gently, so gently, he worked two bits of metal in her locks. The door was opened slowly with no giveaway squeak to the hinge. Guided by the thin beam of a key-chain flashlight, Iggy passed through one room and another to find beds with bare mattresses holding piles of old clothes and cardboard boxes. The bed in the last room had sheets and pillows, but no Mrs. Quill. He checked the closets and every space that might hide her. No luck, but he did find enough crucifixes and rosaries to stock the gift shop of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Where was Angie’s mother tonight? The church service had ended hours ago.

  There was no toothbrush in the bathroom. Maybe she went home with the kid’s Uncle Harry. Or could Mrs. Quill be in protective custody? No, that would only work if the cops were onto him. And how much could Granny tell them, anyway? Nothing. Fat chance that Angie would give a God freak like this one any details about her johns.

  So what was he doing here? If there had been a good reason for the risk, he had forgotten it, and he blamed this on the drugs he took to keep his eyes wide open. If Granny or the uncle had a name and address to give up, the cops would have come for him days ago. So why the—

  A reason for coming after Angie’s mother popped into his head. He had a question. Why had the girl gone away?

  He returned to the front room and its reek of incense. Everywhere he flashed his beam of light, it hit a plaster saint or a plastic one, and Jesus Christ was framed on every foot of wall space. What was it with all of this zany, hair-on-fire-for-the-Lord crap?

  Oh, idiot!

  He smashed one hand into his forehead, as if that might fix a loose connection and restore common sense. He was surrounded by all the evidence he could ever want that Angie had not known what he was—what he did. She had not been running scared, not running from him. Angie had left him for God.