“Did you try to pick the cards up?”
“First I got out of the beer, then I tried for the cards, but they were gone.”
“Do you think you could recreate the all cards you wrote that night for us?
“S-okay.”
About an hour later, Father Carry stood up, one hand on Bryan’s shoulder. “Detectives? We’re done over here.”
Mallory sat at a desk nearest Bryan. “Thank you for doing all this, Bryan.”
“S’okay.”
The detective scanned several cards, then returned to the first. “Do you mind if I number these?”
Bryan’s eyes opened in alarm, but he recovered quickly, swallowed hard, and, with a pat from the priest, nodded his head. “S’okay.”
Mallory read through the cards in all their exhaustive detail, numbering each one in the top right corner. Bryan had a pattern of writing only one set of thoughts per card, so some cards were spare and some were crammed with writing. As he read, Mallory made two stacks; the one on the left grew taller fairly quickly. When he came to the last card, the detective read it three times before reacting.
“Hunh,” he said, and placed it on the smaller stack to the right. He straightened that pile, flipped through them quickly, said “Hunh,” again, then passed the smaller stack to his partner.
Gunner read them quickly, seeming to barely scan them. “Well, fuck me running; an exact copy of the cards we have, up to when they left.”
Mallory raised his right eyebrow, nodding, then turned to Bryan. “Can I ask you a question, pal?”
Bryan looked up, suddenly, immediately a different person. “We’ve barely met, Detective Mallory. I don’t know where you come from, but I was raised in The Bronx, where it takes a lot longer than that, and a lot more actual effort, to be ‘pals.’ Don’t you agree, Father?”
Father Carry smiled, nodding slightly. “Of course I do,” he tipped his head toward Mallory. “But the detective’s a Bronx boy, too. He knows what you mean.”
Mallory did some nodding himself now. “You’re right. Sorry.”
Bryan eyed him, “Go ahead. Ask me your question.”
“Did you write anything else that night at the concert?”
Bryan seemed horrified. “Not after they disappeared. Daltrey was so mad. I couldn’t write with him so mad. It felt like that would have been rude.” He thought for a moment, then returned his steady eyes to Mallory’s own. “But I did write it all again later, when I got home. A complete set, not just what I remembered now. It’s all there now. At my house.”
THIRTY-NINE
Bryan Josephs and his mother lived in a small, aged bungalow in Edgewater Park, a former fishing community in the Throgs Neck area that had evolved over the decades into a closed-off neighborhood of narrow roads crowded with houses barely 10 feet apart. With no space to build out, many homeowners there had built up over the last decade or so, renovating their bungalows into two-to-three-floor houses. But the Josephs’ remained as it had originally been — tiny. The front door opened onto a cramped living room, followed by a tiny kitchen behind it to the left, and a narrow, short hall ending with a bathroom at the rear and two doors on the right, each presumably leading to bedrooms.
The detectives followed Bryan and the priest into the living room, creating an instant crowd in the cramped space.
Two corners bore shelves displaying pristine Hummel statuettes; collectors would have paid top price for those once-popular sculpted children. The curtains, lamps, end tables, coffee table, even the immense television console, all pushed back the calendar to the 70s. Only a marginally newer television marred the scene. Sitting right above the dead eye of the console, it seemed to be an intruder from another time, maybe the 80s.
Mrs. Josephs sat on a once plaid couch long since dulled to muted shades of worn out brown. Both her huddled frame and the worn piece of furniture were covered with crocheted afghans in warm shades of red and orange. She had fallen asleep praying the rosary; her black beads dangled from a loosely clenched hand. Father Carry and Bryan went to her, each kneeling at a side, the priest touching her hand gently.
“Marion, we’ve come home,” he whispered.
“Yeah, Ma, and we’ve got guests. C’mon, let’s make’em something to eat.”
Marion Josephs opened her tired eyes, and to her credit, did not leap in fear or bewilderment. Instead, she smiled at her beloved son. “You had me worried, kiddo. I was sure something bad had happened. I felt it in my heart.”
“You were right, Ma, but your praying must’ve helped. Father came to help me.”
The mother’s eyes grew concerned now. She was a sizable old woman, but her hand seemed frail as she placed it shakily against Bryan’s cheek. “What’s the matter?”
Father Carry interjected, “There was a misunderstanding. The police were involved, but now they know Bryan is not the one they seek. In fact, he’s trying to help them with their case.”
At this, the priest stepped back, revealing Mallory and Gunner, who had remained just inside the door about a foot away. Marion Josephs’ face reflected the emotions she experienced: the smile of welcome gave way to awe and fear, then recognition of the situation as Father Carry had explained it, and finally, relief and the return of that welcoming smile. With that relief came a recovery of manners.
“Hello, how do you do?” She asked this as she struggled to get up, accepting a hand each from Father and Bryan. She rose to her full height, a bent five foot, six inches. In her youth, she was probably three inches taller, Mallory noted.
One afghan came with her, wrapped around her shoulders and functioning as a shawl. Beneath it was a simple black dress, also worn with age, suggesting her status as an old-fashioned widow. These days, wives did not wear black from the day their husband passed.
“Can I offer you gentlemen some tea?”
Before the detectives could decline, Father Carry nodded. “That would be wonderful, Marion. In the meantime, Bryan has agreed to show us his room.”
Bryan led them all 13 steps to his door. He opened it without fanfare, and flicked on the lights as he entered. Mallory and Gunner looked in from the doorway, stunned.
Every wall was covered with pictures, posters, and bulletin boards. Above the bed hung an ancient, framed poster of Led Zeppelin in concert: Robert Plant screaming into a microphone, golden curls cascading down his shoulders, chest framed by a way-too-small, feminine blouse; Jimmy Page in silk pants adorned by a flowing dragon, one leg kicking out, his Les Paul angled dramatically, right hand rising in triumph; John Paul Jones calmly playing bass, looking like a page boy-wearing accountant compared to the others; and John Bonham, John Henry Bonham, pounding away on his throne of drums.
It had been a long time since Mallory had looked upon this poster – in the room he had shared with two brothers when he was a kid, in the 70s.
Another poster, also framed, offered Roger Dean art from Yes’ Relayer album. Mallory remembered seeing Yes at Roosevelt Stadium in New Jersey when it came out. Their lightshow’s lasers had shot across the Hudson River that night, bouncing off the Twin Towers, scaring Manhattanites. The Twin Towers. Long time ago, he thought; such a long, long time ago.
Covering much of the remaining walls were dozens of pages ripped from old fan magazines showing Alice Cooper, Keith Moon from The Who, Peter Gabriel in theatrical make-up, Richie Blackmore (Mallory couldn’t tell if the picture caught him in his Deep Purple or Rainbow days), a shot of Paul and Linda McCartney performing with Wings, Freddie Mercury of Queen, and others. Mallory knew them all, and remembered where many of the pictures had come from: mostly Circus or Circus Raves magazines, though the illustration of Hendrix as a guitar-playing angel sitting on a cloud was definitely from Creem. Mallory remembered a quote from that fictitious, humorous piece, Hendrix supposedly saying from heaven: “Don’t ever die, man. It’s the shits.” It struck Mallory how many of those pictured on Bryan’s walls had ignored Hendrix’s advice.
“I had that Ze
ppelin poster. And I remember so many of these pictures,” Mallory said.
“Thanks,” Bryan said, his proud smile showing the wrinkles at his eyes, the deep creases in his cheeks. “I’m careful not to mess any of this up. Impossible to replace this stuff.”
“You got that right,” Gunner said. “Hey, Marc Bolan!”
“Of T-Rex, yeah. Did you like him?”
“’Bang a Gong, Get it On’, baby,” Gunner cracked. He admired the framed copies of Time and Newsweek, both dated October 27, 1975, featuring Bruce Springsteen on their covers. “Kept both, huh?”
“Never happened before. Not even with Elvis or Dylan.”
“That’s when they were sure Springsteen was the next Dylan. Good as he is there’s only one Bob—”
And then Gunner stopped. “What is this?”
Gunner pointed to a wall covered entirely in corkboard. The corkboard in turn was covered with index cards. More than 200 sets of index cards, all in little envelopes, pinned to the boards in neat rows. Some of the older envelopes were re-enforced with tape to better hold the cards. A ripped concert ticket sat above each set of cards. Except for the last row; where all the tickets were whole, the last being from The Who concert.
Bryan smiled. “These are all my shows. Every ticket. The set lists. And my notes, my memories of each show. I read them and remember. Back in high school, I was a little…. troubled. Father told me to keep all the good I could find close to me, so I could see it, touch it, feel it. Kinda like Tommy, ya know? And I did. I used to carry a show or two around with me, like in school, on bad days. Now they’re all here, any time I need them.”
Mallory moved to Gunner’s side, inspected the wall of memories. “Absolutely amazing, Bryan. I wish I had been smart enough to do this.”
“But you still have the memories, right? Think of a band you saw back then.”
Mallory seemed thrown. “I don’t know, Bry—”
“Bad Company. Didja see them?”
Mallory stopped a second, then laughed. “Yeah, I did, since you mention it. At the Garden. The Running with the Pack tour. My friend Lenny drank for the only time in his life.” He chuckled. “Poor Lenny threw up through half the concert, but refused to leave. Just kept staggering back and forth to the men’s room. And we would shout to him, ‘You just missed ‘Shooting Star,’ you just missed ‘Rock Steady.’” He chuckled again, longer. “That was actually a good night.”
Bryan maneuvered himself between the detectives, one hand reaching up, running fingers across his tickets and index cards. “Now do you see what I’m saying? Music? Shows? Memories like these? They have power; can renew you whenever you need it.”
He brushed his hand lightly across the corkboard, and then down, stopping at the last set of cards. He carefully, lovingly removed the push pin, took the envelope it was holding, eased the pin back into the board, then handed the cards to Mallory. There were significantly more cards in the envelope than Bryan had generated at the station.
“These are from The Who show, the one where my cards disappeared. I rewrote everything that happened. Everything.” He hesitated before letting them go, so both men held the cards for a moment. “Will I ever get them back?”
“Three days at the most, Bryan.” Mallory looked Bryan in the eye. “I promise.”
Bryan exhaled, relaxing a bit. “S’okay. I trust you.” He thought for a moment, his eyes wandering to the left, scanning almost the whole room. Finally they stopped on a small filing cabinet. He nodded. “Wait. One more thing.”
Bryan crossed the small room, crouched and opened the cabinet’s bottom drawer, revealing neat orderly files. He flipped through them, selected one, extracted it. He delicately flipped open the file, selected the top copy from among about a dozen duplicate packets. He closed the file, bent at the waist, slipped the folder back in the precise place it had been, closed the drawer, straightened up, turned to Mallory.
“Here,” he said. “This is what Luke and I talked about before the show. He had forgotten since high school. I didn’t have a copy to give him, but I remembered every level, all the details. He loved it, took notes on some cards I gave him, said he’d look it up on the internet, though I think books are much better.”
Bryan Josephs handed Mallory a packet several pages long. On top was a map. The subsequent pages offered detailed explanations of each area.
The map was of Dante’s version of Hell.
FORTY
“Do you think Bryan would be able to pick someone out of a line-up?” Mallory asked Father Carry. They were sitting in the Crosstown Diner, a greasy spoon off East Tremont Avenue. Gunner was demolishing a bacon-Swiss burger, fries and a Coke.
Father Carry went with tea and an English muffin. Mallory had decaf coffee and two Excedrin.
“Slim chance. His memory is precise, but not flexible. If I arrived at his house in street clothes and sunglasses, Bryan might not immediately know who I was. The black suit and collar complete me for him.”
Gunner shoved a wad of burger to the side of his mouth, making a bulge that allowed him to speak. “What’s your deal with him anyways?”
Father Carry sat silent, then shrugged. “At one time we thought Bryan was at risk. Even after years of monitoring, some of us still do. After seeing him today, though, I must admit that perhaps he was merely a conduit. For me, that is cause for even deeper concern.”
Mallory tensed. “What are you talking about? Who are ‘we’? Bryan’s a little old for Fordham Prep to still be concerned, unless you head the alumni committee.”
“Hardly,” the priest chuckled. “The ‘we’ concerns my assignment before teaching. To be perfectly frank, Bryan was actually the reason I was sent to Fordham and started teaching at all.”
Mallory glanced at Gunner. “You lost us, Father.”
“Understandable,” he nodded, thoughtfully spreading jelly on half of his muffin. “Not many can accept that priests actually perform the duties of my other assignment. My area of expertise has gotten, ah, bad publicity, you might say.”
Gunner pushed his empty plate away. “Okay, I’ll bite; what was this misunderstood assignment of yours?”
Father Carry munched the muffin slowly. He swallowed, then studied each of them before he spoke. “You were fair with Bryan; I owe the same to you.” He sipped his tea, placed the cup back in its saucer. “By training and harsh experience, I am an exorcist.”
A soft, sarcastic chuckle escaped Mallory. “Thanks for your help today, Father. We’ll call if we need anything.” He turned immediately to Gunner. “We better get back, finish the paper work. I’ve got to get home—”
The priest broke his muffin gently. “Does my profession make you nervous, detective?”
“No offense, but I’m not religious, don’t believe in church doctrine, and have no use for its more colorful claims. I deal in facts alone, Father.”
“As do I.”
Mallory slid out of the booth, stood over Father Carry. “Clearly, we define the word differently. Go back to your church or your campus office, practice your theories there. We’ve got a crime to solve.”
“As do I.”
Gunner was enthralled. “So, you travel the world going after bad little Catholics?”
Father Carry chuckled. “You can’t believe there is only one priest doing this sort of work?”
Gunner reddened. “Okay, so you serve what, the U.S.?”
Mallory scowled. “Don’t encourage him.”
The priest laughed. “Detective, the Catholic Church, right now, today, has an exorcist assigned to almost every diocese in every county, in every state of this nation. We are similarly staffed in most nations around the world. It is not a young priest and an old priest like the movies. We basically have an army.”
Gunner was stunned. “You guys need that many?”
Father Carry sat back. “While careful study and enormous evidence must precede our taking any action, we’re kept busy.”
Mallory leaned forward,
arms folded tightly. “You thought Bryan Josephs was possessed? And now he’s suspected of killing like a man possessed? What a coincidence.”
“Detective, by now your work must have proven to you that there are no coincidences. Everything happens for a reason.”
“That’s right, and where there’s smoke there’s fire. You seemed to think it was hellfire. And if you’re so convinced, maybe we should go right back to Bryan’s house and arrest his demonic ass.”
With that, the detective strode toward the exit. Gunner followed. The priest calmly finished the last of his tea before moving.
Out in the parking lot, they were halfway to their car before Gunner turned and saw Father Carry sauntering towards them, sliding a hand into his black jacket. He extracted a pack of Marlboros, lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply. He made no move to chase the detectives, but they slowed down anyway; ingrained altar boy deference never fades. When he spoke, the cigarette still between his lips, the cops slowed to a halt.
“This isn’t a hobby, detectives. I’ve been investigating this case longer than you’ve been on the force. Bryan was referred to us at age eight, with concerns that he might be possessed, or at least vulnerable to attack or invasion. You think you’re skeptical? We resisted that claim for five years, but every test we threw at him consistently produced just enough evidence to support possession as a possibility.” He took the cigarette between his left index finger and thumb, cupping it so the ember glow was obscured, inhaled once deeply before removing it from his mouth. He held the breath for a moment. “That was, at least until today. After seeing him with you and that detective squad, I am reassessing.” He punctuated the last statement by releasing a stream of gray smoke. He studied the cigarette, raised it to his lips, toked again, held it, then let it seep out of his nostrils, the smoke creeping up along his features before floating off behind him. A sudden intensity flared in his eyes. “And let me assure you, what I see now is far more disturbing.”
This brought Mallory striding back, coming in too close, invading the priest’s space. “What exactly are you talking about?”
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