by Meg Lelvis
The door opened and a young Asian nurse smiled at them. “Are you here to talk to Mr. Sowder?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Sherk said, as he and Jack held out their ID’s.
A dark haired thirty-something man sat in a chair under a window. He wore a white dress shirt and a burgundy tie. “Hello, I’m Fred Dodge, Mr. Sowder’s attorney.”
Jack and Sherk introduced themselves and shook hands with Dodge. Donald sat in a chair beside the bed, dressed in a blue t-shirt and sweatpants. His pasty skin and droopy mouth accentuated his forlorn look.
He adjusted his glasses. “We meet again.”
“Hi, Donald,” Sherk said. “It’s nice to see you.”
“Wish I could say the same.” He gave a half-hearted smile.
The nurse indicated two chairs for Jack and Sherk. She leaned in and whispered, “He’s under medication. Will be relaxed.”
A standard hospital room, the space was surprisingly large with few decorative touches. A small table with recording equipment sat in front of Dodge.
The nurse asked, “May I offer you water or coffee?”
Jack and Sherk accepted water, which she poured from a pitcher into glasses. She topped off Donald’s glass, and Dodge waved her away.
“I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.” She smiled and left the room
“If everyone’s ready, let’s start,” Dodge said. “As you know, Donald will speak with you here in my presence. His medical team advises against transporting him to law enforcement headquarters. He’s been read his rights.” The man looked at Sherk and Jack. “Understood?”
Jack nodded. Sherk said, “Yes, Sir.”
Dodge reached over and turned on the tape recorder. He spoke the date, time, place, purpose, and people present for the interview.
“Okay, Donald,” Sherk began. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself. Your job. Family.”
Donald shrugged. “I work at Midway Airport as you know. Do some software design. Support.”
“What about family?” Jack asked.
“My mother’s in Goldpine Home. She has Alzheimer’s. Goes in and out.” He circled his forefinger near his temple. “My sister’s younger than me. Lives in Oak Lawn.”
“What about your father?” Sherk asked.
Donald’s eyes twitched. “Yeah, he’s around. Still lives in the Bridgeport house.”
“Do you see him much?” Jack figured there was a problem with the old man.
“Nah. He’s busy with stuff.” Donald shifted in his chair. “We don’t have a lot in common.” He took a drink of water.
Jack wanted to get to the point, not have this turn into a therapy session, but knew Sherk preferred a gradual transition to put Donald at ease.
“So you don’t share common interests with your father?” Sherk asked.
“No. He wanted a macho son. ‘Go into sports. Be good for you. Get your nose outta them books. Come on, let’s shoot some hoops.’” Donald’s mouth shrank into a prune.
Jack glanced at Dodge, who wore a poker face. “What about your school days back at Nativity Church?”
“What about them?” Donald looked at him through squinty eyes.
“We know you may not want to revisit those years, Donald, but school was difficult for many people,” Sherk said. “You’re not alone.”
“Right. Guess I’m the classic example of the kid who got bullied. That’s a big deal now, isn’t it? ‘Put a stop to bullying’, and all that.” He looked at the floor. “Didn’t help back then.”
“Look, dude, I know it’s tough, but you gotta talk about the damn priest some time. What did Father McGarvey do?”
Donald shook his head, evidently resigned to come clean with the truth. “You no doubt know what he did. I don’t wanna talk about that son of a bitch. Wolf in sheep’s clothing. The devil in sheep’s clothing is the truth of it.” He took a gulp of water.
“Donald, I know it’s difficult, but please look at me.” Sherk waited for Donald to make eye contact. “You can rest assured other boys were victims too. Not just you.”
Donald looked down. “I-I didn’t wanna be an altar boy, but my mom insisted. Good Catholic boys and all that. At first I really liked Father Dan. He was so nice to me. Spent time with me. I was special, he said. Donny, you’re special in God’s eyes. God loves you. He shows his love— “
During the next several minutes, Donald talked about Father McGarvey’s asking him to do special favors, keeping him after Mass, telling his parents that Donny was exceptional.
“He told me I deserved love and respect. Spent time in McGarvey’s quarters. Others don’t appreciate you, Donny. Your talents. Then in the sacristy where I learned more. More— “
“Learned more what, Donald? What did Father McGarvey teach you?” Sherk asked gently.
Dodge shifted in his chair, eyes on his client. “I don’t think— “
Donald waved him away, gave a raw, bitter laugh. “I supposedly learned about doing God’s work. How we should grow up to help God, you see. Like me, Donny. I show you God’s love. Love you don’t receive from the world. The world doesn’t love you Donny. But I do through God. Here, let me show you.”
Jack felt a chill. Then rage toward the scum priest and others like him. Fuckin’ hypocrites, preaching Christianity. Donald stared at his hands. The nurse was right. He seemed medicated all right.
“What about the nun? Sister Anne Celeste?” Jack asked.
“Ah yes, the good Sister. Sister Anne. Much adored.” Donald glanced at the ceiling. “She did nothing. Nothing. She could’ve reported him.” His voice rose.
“Was she in the sacristy, Donald? When Father McGarvey— “
Donald squirmed. “The door was ajar. She peeked in. She saw. Saw what he did.” Donald’s voice squeaky, like it needed oil.
“I’m sorry, Donald,” Sherk said gently. “No need to explain. Did she say anything? Did the priest see her?”
Donald rubbed his hands. “She didn’t say a word. Looked right at me. Think the bastard heard something. He turned around as she closed the door. But I know damn well he saw her.”
“Then what happened?” Jack’s voice quiet.
“Bastard stood up in a hurry. Said he had a meeting he forgot. Told me to go home. Remember what we talked about Donny? Our secret. It’s a sin to break a secret. People don’t understand the ways of God.
“You must’ve been upset at the Sister for turning a blind eye. I sure as hell would have,” Jack said. Hard to keep his emotions in check.
Dodge cleared his throat, gave Jack a hard look.
Donald hung his head. “I always liked Sister, but afterwards I was ashamed. Embarrassed. That all came out ten years ago in therapy. But I thought she’d save me. Do something. Tell a bishop or someone. Things would change. But—but— “
“Did the priest hurt you again, Donald?” Sherk asked.
“No. Not me. But I know he hurt a couple other kids after that. Then he left. Was sent to another parish.” Donald grimaced. “That’s what churches do. You know that. Send ‘em on to another place so they do it again. The gift that keeps giving. Ha ha.”
“So Sister Anne didn’t help you.” Sherk sighed. “The ultimate betrayal. A cliché, but brutally true.”
“You wanted to get even with those who abuse children,” Jack said. “Can’t say I blame ya.”
“Careful, Detective,” Dodge said.
Donald squinted, paused. “I dunno. The idea of doing God’s work. Wiping out evil against children. Started growing in me. Maybe— “
“Donald, I’d advise—�
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“No, I wanna get it out. Something happened inside my brain. Read about a little boy who—you know. Was in the papers last year. Something snapped in me.”
“And by now the McGarvey prick’s dead, good riddance,” Jack said. He caught Sherk’s glare. Dodge shook his head but said nothing.
Donald drained his glass. “Yeah, looked him up online. Maggot city. But someone had to atone. Atone for the sin of the Father. The nun was as guilty. She turned a blind eye. She had to pay.”
“Then Bruce Welton.” Sherk rose and refilled Donald’s glass.
Dodge put his hand on Donald’s arm. “Donald, again I’d advise you— “
“No. Let me talk. That scum Welton. On the registry. So easy to find. Messed with that little boy. Someone’s gotta save the world from that vermin. At least I could start.”
Sherk nodded. “The coach in Skokie— “
“No.” Donald’s demeanor changed. Sat straight. “I told you. Somebody else did that asshole. Not me. Didn’t know the son of a bitch.” He stared at Jack. “A copycat who knew about the Bible verses. Wasn’t in the papers. Who’d know?” Donald’s eyes glinted. “An inside job?”
“We’re working on that, Donald,” Sherk said.
Dodge turned off the tape recorder. “I think we’re done here. I’ll—”
“Ha. Wouldn’t that be something?” Donald cackled. “One of your own bumping off pedophiles?”
That would be something, all right. But who?
Chapter 37
By 6:00 Jack and Sherk were back at the station, exhausted from the afternoon with Donald Sowder. They’d gleaned solid information, which amounted to an unofficial confession of the first two murders. Time would tell whether Donald was fit to stand trial, if he’d remain at Rush or remanded to jail or prison. Jack figured the man would end up at Rush or another psychiatric facility, especially if he convinced himself and others he was doing God’s work in ridding the world of evil against children. Although pleas of insanity, mental deficiency, disorder, disease, you name it, were difficult to prove in court, Donald might beat the system.
Flopping into his desk chair, Jack called Nesbitt, who had left for the day. “I’ll try his cell tonight, update him then.”
Sherk nodded his agreement. “Let’s file our paperwork on Donald and call it a day.”
“Yeah. I’ll try Skokie, but not holding my breath on the dandruff results.” Jack made the call, and sure enough, no word yet.
The bull pen was quiet with few cops or staff around. Jack stood. “I’m outta here. The CYA garbage can wait till Monday.”
“Go ahead, Jack. I won’t be long. Have a good weekend.” Sherk turned his attention to his computer.
Jack always felt like a slacker next to Sherk. A real pain at times.
“Come on, man. Erica’s probably keeping dinner warm. Get your butt home.”
“In a few minutes,” Sherk said.
. . . . .
By 9:30, Jack was relaxing in his recliner when the phone pinged a text message. Damned if it wasn’t Molly. Tempted to ignore it, he gave in and read, ‘I’m sorry Jack. Was out of line. Please text or call me’.
“Don’t think so, baby,” he said to Boone. “Not gonna happen.” The big dog blinked his wise brown eyes in response.
Several minutes later the phone rang. Hoping it wasn’t Molly calling, he checked and saw his mother’s name on the screen. Shit. Now what?
“Yeah, Ma. What do you want at this hour?”
“Hello to you too, Jacky. Called your landline earlier. You must’ve worked late,” she chirped.
“What’s up, Ma? No time for small talk.”
“Okay. Okay. Tommy’s coming for lunch tomorrow. I want you to come too.”
Jack sighed. He pictured his mother in her pink robe, hair in curlers. “Guess so. Around noon?”
“Yes, that’s good. We’ll have a nice chicken— “
“Okay, Ma. It’s late. Turning in. G’night.” He clicked off. Knew he was grouchy, but she was used to him. Wouldn’t take it personally.
. . . . .
Clouds swept the sky Saturday morning, and made way for the sun by noon. Jack needed to talk to Andy soon about financial advice, but that could wait. The case was gaining momentum, and he was impatient for the dandruff DNA results from Skokie.
Around noon he arrived at Maureen Bailey’s house. “Come in,” she called as Jack unlocked the front door. “Taking the casserole out.”
A scent of chicken and spice glided in the air as Jack stepped in. “Smells good, Ma.”
“Come sit in the kitchen. Tommy should be here in a minute.” Maureen wore a loose blue top over black pants. A gold Celtic harp hung on a chain, resting in the center of her ample bosom.
“Lookin’ good, Ma. Didn’t have to dress up for me.”
“Ha. Just came from Saturday Mass. No time to change.” She fluttered about the room.
“Your blue blouse matches your Maureen O’Hara Irish eyes.” Jack attempted a brogue.
“Shows how much you know, smarty pants. Her eyes are green.”
“Eye, blimey, sorry you weren’t the mither of a bishop.”
“Here’s Tommy thank God. No offense, Jacky, but your accent needs work.”
Tommy joined them in the kitchen, and soon they gathered at the table laden with chicken casserole, soda bread, green salad with boiled egg slices and tarragon dressing, and a bottle of Blarney red.
Jack uncorked it and poured three glasses. “This the wine Andy ordered you for Christmas?”
“Yes, straight from County Cork.” She paused. Bowed her head and waited for her sons to do likewise. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.” All three hurriedly crossed themselves. The ritual was a habit ingrained in their childhood. Jack gave it no thought. Ma’s house, Ma’s rules.
After finishing dessert of pineapple upside down cake, the three sat in the living room drinking coffee.
“Andy said he’d come over in the next couple weeks to look through your father’s box of things. Maybe he’ll want stuff for his kids.” Maureen brushed imaginary lint off the arm rest.
“You’re sure hung up with that box,” Jack said. “Nothing in there but old papers.”
She scoffed. “They may be old to you, but they could be valuable some day. Your father went though a lot during the war.”
“He wasn’t the only one, Ma,” Tommy said. “Plenty of men got-”
“Easy for you boys to say. You never had to go. You have no idea.”
“Yeah, but not everyone came back and took it out on their families.” Jack was tired of putting the old man up on a pedestal.
“Oh pooh. You had a good life. Everyone spanked kids in those days.” Maureen sipped her coffee.
“Spanked? You call getting the belt on your bare ass spanking?” Jack said.
“Take it easy, Jack,” Tommy said. “I got it worse than you and I’m not complaining.”
Jack looked at his mother. “I know. Ma got plenty herself, but she won’t admit it.”
“He drank because of that damn war,” Maureen said. “It wasn’t his fault.”
“Come on, Ma. Admit it. Bet he belted you too. Just out of sight.”
“Jack.” Tommy’s voice rose. “You never saw anything like I—” His voice trailed off.
“Like you what?” Jack said.
“Enough. Both of you. I’m not gonna drag your father’s name through the mud. Doesn’t do anybody any good now.”
<
br /> They sat in silence until Tommy said, “Yeah, let’s leave the past where it belongs.”
“Right.” Jack drained his cup and stood. “I gotta get going. Lots of work.”
“Are you getting anywhere on the nun’s murder?” Maureen asked.
“Ma, you know I can’t say anything about an ongoing— “
“I know, I know. But you’d think your own mother— “
Tommy smiled. “Not even you, Ma. I’ll stay a little while. Help you clean up.”
“Ah, my good son.” Maureen glanced at Jack. “Used to be you, Jacky.”
Jack gave Maureen a rare hug. “Love ya, Ma. Thanks for the grub.”
. . . . .
Later in the afternoon Jack’s phone buzzed. The call he’d been waiting for.
“Jack Bailey.” He listened. “No shit. You sure? Right. Keep ya posted.” Clicked off and called Sherk.
“Heard from Skokie. The dandruff DNA wasn’t a match for the cops at the Grant Adams scene. Not in the system. Don’t know about Sowder yet. Assuming there is a copycat, we’re lookin’ for someone who knew about the Bible verses.” Jack paused. “Gotta call Nesbitt. See about getting samples from everyone on the squad. Rules are always changing.”
Jack listened to Sherk. “Yeah, right. Could be dispatch, any employee, cop or not. God, what a pain in the ass that’ll be.”
After hanging up, he thought about the headache trying to get all employees of the PD to give DNA samples. The rules of demanding cops to submit their DNA kept changing. On a voluntary basis, the guilty one would refuse, but others may too, for reasons of privacy and such.
After dialing Nesbitt’s two contact numbers outside the station, Jack had no luck reaching the captain, and left a message to return the call. Maybe he’s playing eighteen holes. Perfect golf weather.
He’d dump the case in the cap’s hands. Jack was sure Sowder didn’t do the third murder, and without forensics, he had no clue who the copycat was. Someone who knew the Bible verse was the perp’s calling card. Someone smart enough to leave no prints or anything else except a little dandruff. Someone who could access a syringe and the somulose. Someone they probably ran into every day. Who the hell was it?