by Noel Hynd
“Of course not,” she answered without expression. “I took the policeman to the grave,” she said. “I did exactly what you asked me to do.”
For a moment, Carolyn again closed her eyes. She closed them very tightly and let her own imagination sail away. She let her thoughts transport her to a faraway place, a place in the American South where she had grown up. It was like a little nova of a dream, flashing quickly, taking her to a warm, comfortable feeling of security, of being with her parents, of being with Gary when he was much younger.
Before all the trouble. . . .
Before all the insanity. . . .
Before the whole world had turned against them. . . .
Before murder had blotted both their lives. . . .
She held the fantasy moment, almost clinging to it in a tactile way. She wanted to ride it like a river of consciousness to see where it took her.
But she was unable to.
Her eyes remained closed. There was the feeling of fingers on her shoulders. Hands. Very cold. Cold as the tomb of an innocent man on a New England January morning. But the feeling imparted love, not hatred. Comfort, not fear.
Gary's hands.
She opened her eyes and in the mirror saw only her own reflection. Gary's touch lifted from her shoulders at the same instant.
She turned abruptly.
The vision was gone. No Gary.
It was as if he had never been there.
Fact was, the room was so empty that she wondered whether she was even there herself. But then again, Carolyn was crazy like that.
Chapter Seventeen
Father Robert Trintino sat in his office, a small enclosure in the rear of a Spanish-style church in a middle-class neighborhood of Tallahassee. Trintino was in a swivel chair behind a desk, the stub of a Roi-Tan in an ashtray near a telephone. There was a notebook open in front of him. He was handwriting the sermon that he would deliver the following Sunday. His thoughts were deeply submerged in the Gospel of John when the visitor rapped gently at the door frame to the priest's office.
“Father Trintino?” O'Hara asked.
Trintino's eyes rose and found the detective. “Yes?”
“I phoned earlier.”
“Ah. You're Detective O'Hara.”
“I am.”
“Please come in and sit down.”
O'Hara came forward into the office and extended a hand in greeting. The young priest stood, accepted the hand, and shook firmly. Trintino smiled tightly. O'Hara sensed that the young clergyman was on guard-either about something or about everything.
O'Hara found a worn Naugahyde chair. Both he and the priest settled down at the same time.
“You've travelled quite a way,” Trintino said amiably. “Did my secretary take the call properly? You've travelled all the way from New Hampshire?”
“That's correct.”
“Not just for the sunshine, I hope,” Trintino said, trying to make awoke of it. “Although the sunshine is here for the enjoying.”
“At the taxpayers' expense, I wouldn't dare,” O'Hara answered. “I'm on business.”
There were a few minutes of small talk. Then, “How can I help you?” the priest finally asked.
“I understand that you're a chaplain at some of the state prisons,” O'Hara said.
At the statement, Trintino's expression fell slightly, as if some of his worst fears over this visit had been immediately confirmed.
“I am,” he answered.
“You called upon a condemned man named Gary Ledbetter several times, I'm told.” The priest hesitated. “That's correct, also.”
“This doesn't appear to be a welcome subject,” O'Hara said.
“It's not,” the priest explained. “I found that visiting a young condemned man was emotionally exhausting. Whether he had killed or not barely entered into it.”
“You felt for him?”
More hesitation. “In what way?”
“Sympathy?”
“Sympathy? Yes. I tried to feel sympathy for Gary Ledbetter,” Father Trintino said. “And I think I managed to. The same as I would minister to anyone looking for God's love and grace. It wasn't always easy, but that's part of a priest's challenge.”
“Did you feel you had gotten through to Gary?” O'Hara asked. “I'm not certain I understand the question.”
“Did he accept the reason you were there?”
Trintino glanced away, then his gaze returned. “Perhaps not,” he said. “Any man likes to think that he has succeeded with whatever he set out to do. In this case . . . I don't know whether I did or not.”
“What did you and Gary talk about?”
Trintino opened his palms in a plaintive gesture, then joined his hands again. “A great number of things,” he answered. “Not all of which I could ethically discuss with you.”
O'Hara nodded.
“I'm sure Gary insisted upon his innocence,” O'Hara said.
“I think that would be a safe guess.”
The priest's answers were noncommittal, flatly intoned, and cautious. So O'Hara waited, hoping for more.
“The talks were confidential by nature,” Trintino finally said. “You're waiting for me to divulge more. And I'm afraid I can't.”
O'Hara nodded, trying to understand the priest's position. Clearly though, Father Trintino was unprepared for the next line of questioning.
“How did you feel about Gary's guilt?” O'Hara asked.
“What about it?”
“Well, you visited him. You heard him insist upon his innocence. I was wondering if you drew any conclusions.”
The priest's eyes wandered to the window and beyond, to his garden at the rear of the parish house. The eyes stayed there for several seconds, for what seemed like a long time to Frank O'Hara. O'Hara tried to read his mind, but couldn't. When Father Trintino's gaze returned, his expression was much darker.
“My guess is that Gary Ledbetter was guilty as charged,” he said. “But I must say I also had doubts.”
“Doubts in what way?”
“It was just a feeling. I sensed a great deal of evil in the man, I'm afraid. But I also saw him as something of a victim.”
“Did you think Gary was gay?”
The priest seemed taken aback by the question. “Why do you ask me that?”
“You were among the last people to deal with Gary one-on-one,” O'Hara said. “I thought you might have had an impression.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” the priest answered.
“It has to do with a lot,” O'Hara said. “I'm trying to close some cases in which Gary may or may not have been involved,” O'Hara said. “It would help to have as accurate a portrait of Gary as is possible. Warts and all.”
“There were plenty of warts,” Trintino answered after a moment.
“I know that,” O'Hara said. “But do you mind answering the specifics?”
Again Father Trintino tried to avoid the question. “It's not something that I was thinking about.”
“What was your impression?”
“He might have been,” Trintino allowed. “It wasn't my role to make such a decision or observation. All I tried to do was bring comfort to a man and help him prepare to meet God.”
“Do you think he did?”
“Did what?”
“Meet God.”
An ironic smile from Trintino. “That's what my faith would suggest,” he said. “It's hard to tell. I pray that God's judgment was merciful.”
“Did he ever mention any friends?” O'Hara asked. “Did the name of 'S. Clay' ever come up, for example?”
Trintino thought about it. “If that name was ever mentioned, I don't remember it,” he said. “Certainly not as anyone who visited him. I was the only regular visitor he had. Me and, for a while, that woman who-”
“What woman?” O'Hara asked, thinking immediately of Carolyn.
“I don't know,” Trintino said. “Gary spoke of it once very early on in his imprisonment. But he didn't tell me anythi
ng about it. Who she was or anything.”
“And you didn't ask?”
“It was clear he wouldn't talk about it. So we discussed other things. When he would discuss anything at all. I never pursued it, but the prison records might help you. I'm sure they have a list of visitors.”
“Did Gary give the impression that she was a lady friend? You know, in the romantic sense, Father?”
The priest shrugged to indicate, no.
“And you never met her?”
“I'm afraid I didn't. And she stopped coming. About three years ago.”
“That seems strange. Any idea why?”
“No.”
“Did he have any pictures in his cell?” O'Hara asked. “Of women. Any link like that?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Who took his personal effects after his death? Who arranged for the burial?”
“Personal effects? I don't know. And I believe the State handled the funeral arrangements.”
“Family?”
“Either disappeared or disowned him long ago. Unhappily.”
“I see,” O'Hara said. “So you were confused. You thought he might be gay, but he seemed to have a lady friend. Is that what you're saying?”
“You're putting words in my mouth.”
“Would they be inaccurate?”
The priest grimaced. He appeared to be running low on patience. “Detective, forgive me. But am I under suspicion here for something? You came to ask me a few questions, yet this is beginning to sound like an interrogation.”
O'Hara eased back. “My apologies, Father. It's just that I also find myself grasping for meaning in this case. You see, I brought Gary into the legal system. You saw him through to the end of it. I thought if we compared notes, we both might learn something.”
The priest nodded. “Yes. Of course. I understand.”
“Any final thoughts?” O'Hara asked. “After all, I flew all the way down here for a short conversation. Anything you can tell me would be of infinite help.”
“Yes. Of course,” the priest said. There was a contemplative look in his eye, joined by something far away. The priest sighed and his eyes, his gaze, came back to O'Hara. And with his gaze came his thoughts.
“I suppose there is one other thing,” Father Trintino said.
“What's that?”
“I hallucinated one time. Shortly after the execution. I was out in the garden behind the parish. It was a very hot day. And I thought. . . .”
The priest's brow was moist as he spoke. His eyes went away from O'Hara again, then returned.
“I felt some eyes upon me,” Trintino said. “You know how you just feel that you're being watched. Then you discover that you are?”
O'Hara admitted that he knew exactly what the priest was talking about.
“I looked up. It was midway through a hot afternoon. I thought I saw Gary. Watching me.” He paused. He motioned to the window. “Right over there,” he said, indicating a place past a hyacinth tree. Plain as day on a sunny afternoon. Then I looked away, looked back, and he was gone.”
“Uh huh,” said O'Hara, suppressing a chill.
“I was hallucinating,” the priest said.
“Why do you think that?”
Trintino seemed almost as shocked by the question as by Gary's appearance in the first place. “Well, come on,” he said patiently. “Those things don't happen, do they?”
“It's been a long time since I was part of the church,” O'Hara said. “But isn't that part of your orthodoxy?” O'Hara asked. “If we believe in spirits, believe in the soul . . .?” He let the question pose itself.
“It's not part of the Catholic faith to accept spiritualism here in this world,” the priest said. “With the exception of angels or part of the divinity.” A slight pause, and he added, “I don't think Gary was either.”
“Or the dark angel,” O'Hara suggested. “Satan's presence on Earth. Right?”
The priest sighed again.
“I'm trying to be very rational about this,” the young clergyman said. “For the sake of theological argument, you have a point. But on the other hand, we're not in the 1690s. We're in the 1990s. Many educated priests don't believe in the Devil any more. As a metaphor for bad or evil, perhaps, but not as a person. And in any case, as it pertains to a vision of Gary. . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment. “I was hallucinating,” he repeated.
“What would you say, Father,” O'Hara said, “if I told you that two other people had had a similar hallucination.”
The priest thought about it for a long moment, then, “I would say that you just expressed the situation perfectly,” he said. “Gary Ledbetter was a very disturbing individual. Had a way of playing upon another individual's mind. Made people think of many things that were not right. So, given those circumstances, it should not be surprising that out of the thousands of people Gary met in his life, as few as three would have a funny hallucination after his death. Nothing more, nothing less, Detective O'Hara. A simple hallucination.”
O'Hara opened his mouth to pursue the point. But the young priest was having none of it.
“Good day, sir,” Father Trintino said. “I hope I've helped a little. I must be getting back to my work.”
“But-?”
“Good day,” the priest repeated.
Father Trintino saw O'Hara to the door.
When O'Hara arrived at his car a few moments later, his back was to the church. On the bright, clear afternoon, O'Hara scanned the backyard of the rectory. The garden and the shade trees. His eyes found the spot where the priest said Gary had appeared. Overhead, an airplane drowned out the sounds of birds and a breeze.
“Where are you? Somewhere nearby, Gary?” O'Hara asked. “If I'm going to clear you, I need your help now, too. But damned if you don't seem to have been a murderer whether you were dead or alive.”
For several seconds, O'Hara's eyes scanned the landscape in silence. Nothing. Only humidity and a little gust of wind.
“Damn,” he said to himself.
He slid the key into the lock of the car door, turned the lock, then jumped in shock when a firm hand come down on his shoulder, much as it once had in his sleep.
O'Hara whirled reflexively, his heart skipping. The figure of a man in black came into view right behind him.
“I'm sorry. Did I startle you? I called after you, but you didn't hear. The airplane.”
Father Trintino stood close to him. Almost too close, and in the priest's eyes, in his mannerisms, O'Hara caught a suggestion of something that Gary, too, probably had sensed.
“Yes. The airplane,” O'Hara said. His fluttering heart tried to settle.
Trintino withdrew his hand.
“I did startle you,” the priest said. “I apologize.”
“I'm fine, Father,” O'Hara said. He waited. “Was there something else?”
“Gary was gay,” the priest said. “I'm certain of it.”
“Thank you.”
“Does that make him more of a criminal?” Trintino asked.
“It possibly makes him less of one.”
The priest nodded. Then his eyes ventured over to the scary area near the big hyacinth tree.
“I haven't been over there since the day I saw Gary,” Trintino said. “I don't know if I could ever walk over there again without thinking of him. In my mind, that's sort of his place, though rationally I shouldn't believe in such things.”
The priest paused.
“This is between us, isn't it? Our conversation. It's not to be repeated?” Trintino asked.
“Strictly between us,” O'Hara said.
The priest looked back to O'Hara. “The truth is, Detective O'Hara, I have no explanation for what happened. The vision of Gary. It didn't seem much like a hallucination at all. It seemed very real. Almost hyper real. Ever experience anything remotely like that? A man was standing there, and it happened to be a dead man.”
“I'm one of the other two who saw him,” said O'Hara.
“Ah.” Trintino nodded. “I'm not surprised. I sensed that was the case.” In the priest's eyes was an extreme edginess. “Something in the universe is somehow out of whack,” he said. “Is that too colloquial an explanation? In terms of accepted theology, I can't interpret events like this. They make no sense. Nor is there anyone I can speak to.”
“If it makes you feel better,” O'Hara said, “I understand. And perhaps there are things you have to accept, not question.”
The priest shrugged. “Sounds like the advice I try to give myself,” he said. “Well, I always thought that priests and policemen had a lot in common.”
O'Hara nodded.
“Something else disturbs me, too,” Trintino said. “And I didn't discover it until long after the execution. Several weeks after 'seeing' Gary in the garden, if that's what I could call it. I was making some notes on the case.”
“And?” O'Hara pressed.
“Well, it did occur to me that Gary was executed on the stroke of the sixth hour of the sixth day of the sixth month.”
For a moment, O'Hara's brow furrowed without recognition. Then a lesson from Catholic school kicked in from four and a half decades earlier.