by Meg Lelvis
LePere looked up from her desk. “Good morning, Detectives. Close the door, have a seat.” Her smile looked forced. Tall, blond, and willowy, she appeared to be in her mid-thirties Although her blue eyes and high cheekbones were eye-catching, staff members found her offensive and difficult; no one admitted she was, by traditional standards, a pretty woman.
The men obeyed orders and sat in two chairs across from her tidy glass-topped desk. The room was small, but uncluttered. Pale yellow walls held framed certificates along with photographs of lions and cheetahs from a safari vacation with her father, according to the grapevine. She allegedly acquired the sergeant’s position through family connections. Jack didn’t know details, just hearsay. Why a rich bitch would want the job was beyond him.
“What’s your plan with the nun?” Old bag didn’t beat around the bush. She wore her usual uniform of tailored dark pants with a white long sleeved shirt, a colorful silk scarf draped around her neck. A coordinated jacket hung on the coatrack by the door.
Sherk said, “We’ll talk to Sister Anne’s niece again about a possible family connection to a priest, review surveillance tapes from the apartment, inside, outside, and get the tech man to research former priests at Nativity for allegations.” Jack preferred to let Sherk do the talking when they dealt with LePere. Didn’t trust himself to keep a lid on.
She squinted. “You think this might be priest abuse?” She looked at Jack. “Cat got your tongue, Bailey? What’s your theory?”
Jack shrugged. “Could be abuse connection with the Bible verses. We’re checking financial, phone, the usual records, but not expecting anything remarkable.” He didn’t tell the battle ax more than he had to. Times like this he longed for his old job in Texas where he ran the investigation.
“Okay, go back to the church. Talk to more people. Squeeze the priest on anything she kept personal, a possible confession, even though he’ll claim confidentiality. Do the job you were trained for.” She waved them toward the door.
Jack felt his blood pressure rise. They did this crap yesterday. Useless busy work. Typical of the broad.
Sherk said, “All right, we’ll revisit the church, but I don’t think it’ll—”
“I do the thinking around here, Sherkenbach.” She turned to her computer. “And next time bring me some evidence.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Sherk tipped an imaginary hat.
“Have a nice day, Sarge.” Jack hoped she caught the sarcasm.
“It’s Ms. LePere to you. And close the door behind you.”
On the way to their desks, Sherk said, “Don’t let her get under your skin, Jack. Not worth it.”
Jack growled. “One of these days, Sherk, pow, she’s flyin’ to the frickin’ moon.”
Sherk sniggered. “’Come not between the dragon and her wrath.’”
Jack harrumphed. “Hamlet, I suppose.”
“King Lear, and I misquoted. It’s actually ‘his wrath,’ not hers.”
“Whatever.” Jack turned on his computer. “Wanna take another look at surveillance while I get the research goin’?”
“Sure, and then we can go back to the church per the dragon’s orders.”
Jack rose and headed across the room where a thirty-something man sat staring at his computer sreen. Gary Calvin was the department go-to computer geek, who worked his magic tirelessly and modestly. The guy was beyond smart; a genius at least. Overweight with curly red hair, his uniform of choice was raggedy jeans and t-shirts inscribed with pithy sayings.
He looked up as Jack approached. “Hey, Bailey.”
“Got a job for you, Calvin. Top priority. Stop whatever you’re doing.”
“Yeah, you and half a dozen other people tell me the same thing. What is it?”
Jack examined the words on Calvin’s shirt: I’m Here to Help your Ass—Not Kiss It. “Great turn of phrase.”
“Ha, my mother gave it to me when I moved back home.”
Jack groaned. “Sure hope you’re kidding.”
“I am. Now, what’s beyond your computer skills that you’re bothering me for?”
Jack explained the nun’s case and background needed on the church and priests. “I wanna find any hint of allegations, and if so, who attended the school during the time the priest in question was there. Looking for about fifth to ninth graders.”
Calvin brushed his hand through his wavy locks. “Gotcha. Not my first priest investigation.” He waved Jack to leave and began tapping his keyboard.
Jack threaded his way across the room to his desk. He called Molly Winters and asked about her aunt’s family relationship to a former priest. He jotted down notes as he listened. “Thank you, Ms. Winters. By the way, has Father Jim called?”
He paused. “Good. I see. Well, keep us posted when you know what time the Mass will be.”
Within ten minutes Sherk arrived and sat down. “Nothing on surveillance, Jack. Tapes ran from early evening to yesterday when first responders arrived. Suppose the perp could’ve snuck in earlier. Just the usual looking people. The desk clerk saw nothing.”
“Crap. Hoped something might show up. Not the best security, but for an old folks place, it’s not bad.”
Sherk said, “Nothing was visible on the front street, but the cameras don’t cover more than about a fourth of the block either side. Even less in the back.”
Jack frowned. “I got Calvin on the priest research. Talked to Molly Winters too. Found out the nun was related to a former priest. Ready for that story?”
Sherk flipped his notebook open. “Go ahead.”
Jack read his notes. “Sister Anne’s sister is Molly’s mom, Lila. She marries a Jon Murphy, whose cousin, Joe, is a priest at Nativity in the seventies some time.”
“So Sister Anne’s brother-in-law had a cousin who was a priest at Nativity when she was there,” Sherk said. “Not exactly kissing cousins. Guess it could be significant.”
“Too early to tell. Let’s head out to the padre’s. A waste of time, but it’ll keep the ol’ biddy off our ass.”
Sherk glanced at his watch. “Time for a break. We can check out the new coffee house across the street. Made for cops.”
“You kiddin’ Sherk? I heard that’s a tea room for bored soccer moms.”
“Au contraire. The Jackalope Coffee and Tea House caters to all clientele, including men of our station, no pun intended. Their specialty is a delicacy called ‘puffs of doom cream puff.’”
“Cream puffs? I rest my case.” Jack said.
The men donned jackets from the cloakroom near the door and headed out of the building.
They strolled across Halsted Street and approached the coffee house near the corner of Thirty-second. Splashy colored images were painted on the windows with large lime-green and orange letters above the doors spelling ‘Jackalope.’
“Gotta admit, it doesn’t look like a prissy tea room,” Jack said as they entered the establishment. He was glad only a few customers were seated about. Didn’t like crowds. He spotted a table near the far wall. “Let’s sit there. Be by ourselves.”
The men shrugged off their jackets and sat across from each other. Sherk gazed at the décor. “Quite a place. Sandwiches and soup too, Jack. We’ll come here for lunch some time.”
Jack pointed to a rabbit-like head with antlers mounted on the wall. “Is that supposed to be a jackalope?”
Sherk chuckled. “Suppose so. Looks like a combination jackrabbit and antelope. You may know the jackalope is a mythical creature peculiar to North American culture.”
“Do I look interested?”
A young girl with pierced ears and nose arrived an
d took their orders of black coffee, a cream puff for Sherk, an apple fritter for Jack.
“Shit. Hide your head,” Jack whispered.
Sherk turned and looked toward the door.
“I said hide.” Jack bowed his head, studying his hands.
“Well, if it isn’t my two top detectives hard at work serving and protecting.” Daisy LePere and Captain Chub Nesbitt approached the table. Jack looked up; wanted to wipe that oily grin off her face.
Sherk started to rise. “Taking a quick break, Ma’am. Good morning, Captain.”
“At ease, Sherkenbach. We won’t stay,” LePere said.
“Good morning, Detectives,” Nesbitt said. “Don’t get a chance to see you very often.”
Thank god for that, Jack thought, although Chub Nesbitt was a decent guy; better than LePere. A sturdy black man in his sixties, Nesbitt stood over six feet tall and dressed with impeccable taste. He had a large square face, and was amiable to all.
Jack nodded, wanting to bolt from the place.
“We’ll let you get back to work now. I’m sure you’re busy planning strategy for your case.” LePere gazed at Jack and turned away.
“Good to see you guys,” Nesbitt said. He led LePere to a table across the room.
“Simmer down, Jack. I can see your blood boiling.” Sherk snickered.
The waitress appeared carrying pastries and steaming mugs of aromatic coffee.
“Mmm, look at this.” Sherk eyed his huge crusty blob of a cream puff. He picked it up and bit off a chunk, then returned it to the plate. Thick, yellowy filling oozed from the bite mark onto the dish. “Ahhh, wunderbar.”
“You got the German sweet tooth, Sherk.” Jack wrinkled his nose at the ravaged puff or whatever it was, opened his mouth and devoured a chunk of apple fritter.
He glanced at LePere and Nesbitt who were ordering from the waitress. “LePere can’t afford calories; the bitch could stand to drop ten pounds.” He wasn’t about to admit her weight looked average for her height.
“I’ll bet she has coffee or tea,” Sherk said. “Don’t let her irritate you.”
Jack grunted. “Just our luck we run into them. This place is too close to work.”
“You need to practice your social skills.” Sherk took another bite. “Anyway, we should get the forensics report back this afternoon, maybe autopsy if we’re lucky.”
“Won’t be anything new,” Jack mumbled. “A waste of time going back to the church too. At least the padre might know when the nun’s funeral will be.”
“You planning to go?” Sherk polished off his pastry.
“Yeah, we should. See who’s there. Perp may show up.” Jack didn’t buy that old cop’s tale, but who knew?
Chapter 4
The rest of the day, a total bust. Father Jim was no help, claimed he knew nothing more than yesterday. Sister Anne Celeste’s funeral Mass was scheduled for next Tuesday morning at 10:30. The priest’s parting words were, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints.”
“Ah, the Psalms,” Sherk piped up. “One hundred fifteenth I believe.” Frickin’ show off.
Father Jim smiled. “Close. One sixteenth.”
After they left, Jack said, “Thought you knew your Bible, Sherk.”
“Yes, I slipped up on that one.”
They wandered through the education building, looking for anyone new to interview regarding Sister Anne. No luck. Each person repeated the same sentiment: the nun walked on water. Eager to leave, Jack hoped he’d seen the last of Father Jim and his church. Then he thought of the funeral. Maybe the case would be closed by then. Fat chance.
Back at the station, Jack and Sherk dined on a makeshift lunch of vending machine baloney sandwiches, Fritos, and Sprite. Seated at his desk, Jack unlocked the bottom drawer, looked around, and twisted the cap off a flask of Jameson. Surreptitiously, he splashed an ounce or two into his Styrofoam cup of soda.
“I saw that, Bailey,” a raspy woman’s voice croaked behind him. “Gonna get caught one of these days.”
He sighed, took a swig. “Want a taste, Velda?”
A stout woman in her sixties sidled up to him. “Too early for me. But let’s meet at the pub after work, my treat.”
Jack smiled at her. “Got plans today, but sometime real soon.”
She rolled her eyes, permed gray curls held rigid. “Sure, that’s what they all say.”
Dressed in a tan pantsuit which would look attractive on a taller woman, Velda Vatava, known as the general of the bull pen, was confident no one could run the department as well as she. Assertive and efficient, she fancied herself among the brass, even if her salary did not reflect that status. She reminded one and all she was an organizational guru.
“She’s a glorified secretary, but doesn’t know it,” Sherk had told Jack his first day on the job two years ago. “A stickler for rules, but get on her good side, and she’ll ignore them. Get on her bad side, and watch out. A couple guys transferred when she made their lives miserable.”
Jack remembered the day Sherk introduced her. Jack held out his hand. “Velda Vatava. That’s quite a name. What is it? Polish? Czech?”
“Gettin’ close. Hungarian.” She beamed as if proud of her heritage. “Most people have trouble pronouncing it.”
“Not me,” Jack said. “Actually it’s kinda poetic.” A word seldom used in his vocabulary.
“Ha!” Sherk said. “You want to hear poetic, tell him your middle name, Velda.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “Oh all right. It’s Veronica.”
“Velda Veronica Vatava,” Jack said. “Sounds like a nursery rhyme or something.”
She’d tittered along with Sherk. “Actually, that’s what Sherk first said. Like that children’s writer, Shel Silverstein. Sherk even started writing a poem about it.”
“Velda, we could wax poetic all day, but we have work to do.”
Since then, Jack remained on Velda’s good side, even though she was often a real annoyance. He knew enough to play the game.
Jack took another drink. “Got something important, Vatava?”
She handed him a file folder. “Always important, Bailey. I got this from forensics on the nun murder. Autopsy report should be in tomorrow morning.”
Jack opened the file. Maybe she’d leave if he looked down to read it.
“Have a good one, guys.” She turned and strolled away to bother another cop.
“Here, take a look.” Jack handed Sherk the file. “Tell me it’s good news.” Scanning the report, he said, “Nothing earthshaking for now. They found a couple partial prints on the nightstand plus synthetic fibers around her shoulders and neck. Fibers and DNA will take a couple days at least. May find a match. ‘Hope springs eternal,’ Jack.”
Jack groaned. “Enough with your Shakespeare.”
“Alexander Pope.” Sherk said.
“Take your word for it.” Jack polished off the remainder his sandwich and guzzled his drink. “Perp must’ve worn paper booties, no footprints. Shows some smarts. Let’s see if Calvin found anything.”
They tossed their napkins and cups in a trash can and made their way to Gary Calvin’s desk. He looked up from his screen. “You’re in luck, guys. Found some flaws in the otherwise lily-white reputation of Nativity of Our Lord back in the seventies.”
Sherk and Jack, on either side of Calvin, stared at his computer. The geek clacked away, bringing up various lists and charts. “Here we have sex abuse allegations brought against a Father Daniel McGarvey in 1973 and 74. Couldn’t find out who instigated them, but he left for greener pastures soon afterw
ard. Died in the late eighties.” Calvin glanced at the detectives. “You know they covered up the sins of the fathers, so to speak, by shipping them off to other parishes out of town.”
“Right,” Jack said. He recalled when the Boston Globe broke the story of that city’s priest abuse scandal. “What about former students?”
Calvin reached for a file on his cluttered desk and handed it to Sherk. “You guys can go over these names and ages. No one showed up in the data base, so if your theory stands, your perp doesn’t have a record.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear that? Thanks, Calvin.” Jack followed Sherk to their desks where they each perused enrollment lists during the time of Father McGarvey.
“At least no complaints against Father Murphy, the nun’s distant relative,” Sherk said.
“None we know of.” Jack knew anything was possible.
They skimmed the lists of students, focusing on fourth through eighth grade boys. Jack thought he recognized several last names, even though he attended another Catholic school ten years earlier than these boys. Perhaps familiar names from intramural sports back when Bridgeport was smaller and personal.
Nothing on the lists jumped out at Jack. “We’re spinning our frickin’ wheels, Sherk. I’ve had it up to here.”
Sherk nodded. “I agree. Until we get something from autopsy and DNA, we might as well put the good Sister on the proverbial back burner.”
They turned their attention to other matters, namely their never-shrinking stack of paperwork. Before long, Velda reappeared at their desks.
Jack looked up. “Back so soon?” Thought he was rid of her for the day.
She ignored his question. “Got a call from Nancy at the Herald. She wants an update on the nun. The Trib and Sun-Times called too.” She held her spiral notebook open. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Why the interest from those people?” Sherk asked.
“The murder of an elderly nun is news, particularly when robbery or money isn’t the motive. Besides, generations of Bridgeport kids had their knuckles rapped by her,” Velda said.