The Trinity

by David LaBounty

  Robertson stands in the storefront window of his station, drinking a cup of tea. He has his coat and his hat on, and he is ready to go. His heart races; never has he gone to question someone with the intent of implicating him in something as sinister as murder.

  The inspector pulls up in front of the station in a car that Robertson doesn’t expect, a 1970-something white four-door Ford Cortina. When the inspector steps out of the car and into the empty street, Robertson sees why he needs such a large car. He is a massive man, average height but thick in the legs, thick in the chest, broad in the back and shoulders, with a gut of tremendous size. Robertson wonders how he chases the thinnest of thieves through the alleys and neighborhoods of Dundee.

  They shake hands without introducing each other. Silently they step into the inspector’s car and Robertson gives him directions as they drive past the dark and stony ruin of Lutherkirk Castle to the priest’s cottage.

  There is a light in the window, and they can hear music pouring out of the house.

  They tap softly on the front door, and there is no answer. They knock louder and the music stops. The priest answers the door in his bathrobe. Robertson fears he is naked underneath.

  One fact is obvious to both men of the law: the priest is drunk. They can smell it on his breath, can smell it coming from his pores.

  The priest smiles his best disarming smile. Crowley recognizes the constable, and though he is smiling, Robertson can see irritation in his eyes, the same drunken anger he has seen in the eyes of husbands whose wives have called because they’ve taken to knocking her around a bit after a night out with the lads. Eyes that say they’re being bothered and you are a nuisance, Mr. Policeman.

  Robertson introduces the priest to the inspector. As promised, he says, someone from Dundee would like to have a word.

  “Hello, hello,” Crowley says. He invites the two men in. He offers them a drink, wine, beer or sherry. Robertson declines because he is on duty and he’s not much for drinking on Sunday. Holliday takes a glass of sherry.

  The living room is cluttered, as it was when Robertson came on Friday. A thin and worn sheet with a pattern of flowers in between stripes is thrown over the couch. “To cover the blood,” Robertson says to Holliday as the inspector’s gaze lingers on the couch.

  The priest opens cupboard doors, searching for the sherry and an appropriate glass. Peering into the lighted kitchen, Holliday sees stacks of dishes in the sink and others strewn across the counter. The garbage can in the kitchen is also overflowing, and the old and yellow tiled floor is dirty.

  A bit of a pig for a priest, Holliday thinks to himself. But not too piggish to take a crack at innocent blokes coming out of a club on a dreamy Friday night, or minding their own business on Christmas day.

  They sit down, the policemen on the covered couch and the priest on his sagging armchair. Holliday is direct, leaving no time for pleasantries. He points to the swastika on the mantel. “Father, what is that doing there?”

  Crowley sips his glass of wine. His body betrays nothing, but Robertson sees his gaze follow the inspector’s chubby finger and rest on the black miniature swastika on the iron pedestal.

  There is fear in Crowley’s eyes. He doesn’t look up until puts his smudged wine glass back on the coffee table.

  Despite his apparent inebriation, Crowley’s mind quickly summons a lie. “My first job out of seminary was as a parish priest outside an Indian reservation in Arizona. There was a conference of community churches and tribal leaders, and a Navajo medicine man gave it to me. He said that it’s a Navajo symbol for peace.”

  Impressive, thinks Holliday, but he doubts the sincerity of the story. He decides to ask about Rodgers instead—was he a churchgoer, how long had Crowley known him, and if he wasn’t a churchgoer, why had he confided in Crowley?

  Crowley answers each question with either a “no” or an “I don’t know.” Holliday and Robertson both know that he will reveal nothing to them, but a seed has been planted in the priest’s ear. He now has a face to the otherwise faceless Scottish law, a law he has so callously and carelessly ignored.

  “Well, it must have been disturbing, seeing a lad blow himself away like that,” concludes Holliday. “But you’ve got the Holy Father to lean on, don’t you? In times like this.”

  Crowley stares at the fireplace and thinks a moment before answering. “Yes, it was—and still is—disturbing. Sometimes our Father leaves us more questions than answers, and then some of us stop looking for answers.”

  As they leave, Robertson and the inspector say farewell to the priest without shaking his hand. Crowley stands in the open doorway and remains there until the white Cortina disappears down the driveway. He closes the door and leans against it, studying his living room.

  He thinks he has fooled the police and his tracks are sufficiently covered. He takes one of his few remaining Valiums. He lies on the couch and feels the pleasant narcotic effect. He thinks about the newly arrived seaman who attended Mass earlier in the day. He seems lonely to Crowley… Maybe he can come out with Hinckley, if the two already know each other. He has nice features, the priest thinks, blond hair, pink skin, and he seems somewhat intelligent; the eyeglasses intimate and perpetuate that stereotype.

  The priest falls asleep again on the couch and soon begins to dream. He is standing in a field, a green and purple Scottish field full of heather and thistle. The sun is shining in an azure and bright summer sky. The sparse and wispy clouds are high above the hills and mountains and he is standing on the shore of a loch, facing the water. He is wearing a white robe, the warm but forceful wind ruffling the skirts and the fabric of his sleeves. A knotted wooden staff is in his right hand. In front of him with their backs to the water stand Hinckley and the new seaman. In his dream, he remembers the name Fairbanks. They are wearing brown robes, the waists tied with ropes, like novices in a monastery. Past them, he can see his reflection in the still, pure water. His hair is long and gray and his face, unusually thin, features a full white beard.

  He looks to the sky and calls to Odin, speaking in tongues in what he guesses is ancient Icelandic. He raises his staff to the sky, which quickly darkens. Thunder roars. From a newly formed cloud, a lightning bolt strikes his staff. A current of electricity binds the three of them together. He receives their energy, and they receive his wisdom and his desire.

  The priest awakens. He is sweating and smiling. He ambles up the stairs to his musty bedroom. He had been dreading Monday, but now he can’t wait for the day to begin.

  It is the heart of winter, and Chris goes a whole week without seeing the sun. It is dark when he goes in for his mid-watch and dark when he finishes. The same holds true for the day watches; the sky is perpetually dark. He doesn’t see the sun until his day off.

  February comes. Chris has been in the Navy for six months. His days in Michigan seem distant, and the members of his family become more and more blurred as they drift into the recesses of his memory. He seldom thinks about them anymore. If he does, he becomes sad and then angry.

  During Monday morning quarters, a Monday when Chris has a day-watch, Chief Lassiter singles Chris out and calls him in front of the half-dozen people who make up the day-staff of their division. He shakes his hand and presents him a patch consisting of three stripes and the insignia of their communications rating. He is being promoted. His face turns red and he feels a giddiness in his chest. He has made it to E-3. The chief points out to those witnessing the event that not everyone makes it to E-3; some get promoted to civilian, and this shows that Seaman Apprentice Fairbanks is an asset for the Navy.

  After a few announcements germane to the functions of the base, Chris and his supervisor return to their work area, and there is work to do. The printer is printing constantly. There is a Soviet exercise in progress, and it appears that a good chunk of the Northern Fleet is leaving Murmansk, as it would do in a war. The Americans respond by sending naval fighter jets scrambling out of Keflavik, Iceland, and the Air Force sen
ds jets from bases in England and Germany. It is exciting and somewhat tense as Chris watches the events unfold via the messages coming on the printer. He feels very important; he has just earned more stripes and the security of the United States is passing through his hands.

  Petty Officer Freeman has seen all this a hundred times before during her six years in the Navy. She sees it all as a giant chess game between the two superpowers. She stifles a yawn while Chris constantly rips paper off the printer and types into the computer.

  The activity wanes as the day winds down. Chris asks Karen a tentative question, one that has been on the tip of his tongue since he met her.

  “What kind of job can you get with a degree in history?”

  “Nothing, really. Teaching, that’s about it.”

  “Were you a teacher?”

  “Yes,” she replies, without looking at him.

  “Why did you stop?”

  She looks up from her desk where she has been writing the details of their watch in a green logbook. Her eyes tell Chris that she doesn’t like his question, but she smiles slightly. “Because I joined the Navy.” She returns to the logbook, and Chris knows not to ask her any more questions.

  He has filled in a detail of her life. She was a teacher. He can’t picture that. In his still adolescent mind, teachers still possess a place of authority and sometimes veneration. Many teachers, good and bad, still affect his behavior, as they assume part of his recent memory. Teachers were more influential than his parents. Even though he was a mediocre student, he liked some of his teachers better than either his mother or father.

  He respects Karen as a supervisor, but he can’t picture her melancholy and pretty face standing in front of a classroom. He can’t picture her in anything but the dungaree uniform and blue working jacket that she constantly wears, as she appears to have a perpetual chill.

  She has become even more enigmatic.

  Quietly, the Americans’ ban on travel to Dundee is lifted. Almost instantly, the population of the base forgets about its recently deceased fellow sailors. The clubs in Dundee once again host a bevy of young Americans, Americans who don’t worry about their safety in the slightest.

  The killer is dead. The Navy, the captain of the base, and the master-at-arms all sigh in relief. They quickly vilify Rodgers and don’t question Chaplain Crowley’s role in the suicide at all. In fact, the captain apologizes to him. He states that it was only out of the kindness of the chaplain’s heart that the young and disturbed man ended his life in the chaplain’s presence. It was above and beyond the call of duty for Father Crowley to invite the young man into his home to discuss his troubles, and he is sorry that the result of that extension of compassion and kindness resulted in such a pathetic tragedy. It would have been better if he had turned himself in. The families of the victims would have been able to feel a sense of justice.

  The Tayside coroner did not find enough evidence to rule out the assumption of suicide. The coroner did find the Valium in Rodgers’s blood, but it was not a lethal or even a particularly large dose, and he could have gotten it anywhere. For all they knew, he may have been taking it recreationally for several weeks or even months. There was no strange skin or debris under his fingernails, as there would be if there had been some sort of struggle, and there was powder on his fingers, indicating his hand was holding the gun when it was fired.

  Holliday alerts the coroner of his suspicion of murder, with the priest possibly having a hand in it. He wants the coroner to agree and say that murder is still a possibility. His requests are pointless; the inspector’s superiors quickly and tidily wrap the case up. The murders now stand solved, and if there are more Americans involved in predatory racist behavior, they probably won’t do it again. Not now, not after they’ve been under scrutiny. Leave the sick American buggers to the Americans; let them sort out their own. Spend the people’s money locking up criminals who victimize the Scottish people.

  Holliday is furious when he telephones Robertson and tells him Rodgers’s death was ruled a suicide and that no further investigating will be done of the murders in Dundee.

  As a personal favor, Holliday asks Robertson to keep an eye on the priest, to drive by his place as often as possible.

  “You know I’m a one-man outfit here,” replies Robertson.

  “I know it,” says Holliday, “but if this priest thinks he got away with something, he’ll be apt to try it again. If he is the leader of some wee group, then he’s an arrogant bastard. He probably thinks he’s smarter than we are. Just do what you can. Drive by when you can, ask his neighbors, ask people up in that cute little village of yours if they notice anything peculiar going on at that bloke’s place. He will do something again, and I don’t want to miss him. My gut has never been wrong, not on something as big as this. That, and I just don’t like him. I know he came off as being pleasant when you first met him, but when you and I went to see him, he was drunk off his ass. What sort of priest gets drunk on a fucking bloody Sunday?”

  The inspector pauses long enough to light a cigarette that has been unlit in the corner of his mouth for the entire conversation. Robertson remains silent and doesn’t answer his last question.

  “Do what you can, that’s all I ask. I’m sure we’ll be talking about this sooner than later.”

  “I will, Inspector, I will. You look after yourself, and I hope our paths cross under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Cheers, mate, but in our line of work, I don’t think they will.”

  Crowley calls Seaman Hinckley in the supply depot. Eyebrows are raised among his co-workers when he is summoned to the phone. It is an odd occurrence for Hinckley to receive phone calls; he is not known to be sociable, and now he is even more of an outcast because of his past association with Rodgers. He was interviewed by Chief Wilson and the supply officer after Lee’s surmised suicide. They found him to be without suspicion. He said that he and Lee were only drinking buddies. He knew Lee didn’t like blacks, but he didn’t know about any killing. Nobody pressed him too hard for details. The command was fearful that Rodgers didn’t act alone, and they didn’t want to know about any further involvement. They took Brad at his word and told him to choose his friends more carefully.

  The priest is direct. “Come on out Friday evening. Don’t eat at the galley; we will drive into Dundee and eat there.”

  “Okay…”

  Crowley hangs up.

  Friday comes and Hinckley takes a cab out to the priest’s house. He is quiet and not his usual brash self. Lee was his friend, and he had a hand in his murder. Guilt and sadness have been consuming him for the past week.

  He misses his friend. He has been eating in the galley by himself, spending his evenings in his room in the barracks if his roommate is working, or in the lounge watching Armed Forces Television if his roommate isn’t. The Armed Forces Network mainly offers reruns of the less racy American sitcoms, major sporting events, or news of the social and goodwill activity of the various branches of service stationed throughout the world.

  He has gone through the week mindlessly, barely making himself presentable in the very casual dungaree uniform.

  Crowley senses all this immediately upon Hinckley’s arrival. He offers him a beer. Brad declines. This concerns the priest. He herds the young man into his car and they head to Dundee. They drive in silence. The priest attempts some small talk; he even asks about football.

  “The season is over,” replies Hinckley. It’s the only comment he makes during the half-hour drive into Dundee.

  They stop to eat on the edge of town at a gloomy pub along East Dock Street, an establishment preferred by the men who work the boats. It is dark and plain and somewhat dirty. They sit at the bar and eat fish and chips. Brad, in this atmosphere, drinks one pint and then another and then his mood lightens and he forgets about the previous week.

  He realizes he is with his other friend, the priest.

  “Why was he such a dumb son-of-a-bitch?” Brad asks the prie
st suddenly.

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” answers the priest, who knows a little bit about mourning. He knows Brad misses his friend and is feeling guilty. Even though he is and was a bad priest, he has a sort of intuitiveness for human nature. He was himself a sensitive young man. His sensitivity didn’t erode until his latter days in Houston when his heart became filled with so much hate.

  “He is better off where he is now, I assure you. His acts were seen in heaven, and the gods want us to continue, they do. I had a dream that a beautiful maiden flew down from the sky and took Lee into her beautiful alabaster arms. She held him against her breast and flew into heaven. She was a Valkyrie and Lee was given the honor of entering Valhalla, our white heaven, as a fallen warrior. We had to do it. He would have talked and then you and I would not be sitting here right now.”

  Brad nods and he feels reassured by the priest’s words.

  “He wasn’t nearly as intelligent as you are, not nearly,” Crowley continues. “He didn’t sense the importance of what he was doing. He didn’t see the big picture, unlike yourself. You know our task is holy and right and necessary. We must continue, but we will do so differently. We need another member. Two of us just aren’t enough. There is magic and strength in the number three, in a Trinity. There must be three of us, three of us bonded by blood and courage.”

  Hinckley is flattered by the priest’s compliments. No one has ever complimented him on his intelligence. He was considered slow in school and slow by his mother, who raised him in front of a television set. He often spent the late afternoon and evening hours after school by himself, watching cartoons and game shows, as he waited for his mother to arrive home from whatever restaurant or tavern she was working in at the time.

  She would leave him bags of potato chips and soda for dinner if she was going to be especially late coming home. If she returned at a more reasonable hour, she would bring him something from work in a Styrofoam box. Homework was largely ignored; she would only pay attention to his grades when he came home with a dismal report card. She thought he was dumb, and there wasn’t much point in trying to develop him academically. She felt he was happiest in front of the television set. So be it. He would have to work for the rest of his life, so what was wrong with a little childhood slothfulness?