Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but I’ve never been comfortable with him. I don’t trust him.”

  “What has he done to make you feel this way?”

  “Nothing definitive,” he said, “but...there was the time when there was an accusation made concerning missing collection money.”

  “He was accused of stealing?”

  “No, but he was the one under suspicion due to his accessibility.” And then he said quickly, “This was all very hush, hush and I’m only telling you this because of your position, you understand.”

  “The Monsignor doesn’t seem to have a problem with Crockett,” I said.

  “Lord, forgive me,” he said, “but the Monsignor is sometimes overly trusting and forgiving to the wrong people. If I were you, I’d keep a wary eye on Crockett.”

  I didn’t find Crockett likable when I interviewed him, but I didn’t get the feeling he was predisposed to crime. Danny Nolan did report that Crockett had no criminal record.

  Father Faynor’s opinion of Crockett could be erroneous, or maybe he just didn’t like the guy or maybe there was more to it. Until there was some corroboration, I wouldn’t give Faynor’s suspicions much credence but, as always, I made a mental note.

  Chapter 5

  The funeral mass concluded at 10:00 a.m. I attended the service alone. Sandy couldn’t attend due to a court commitment. Monsignor Belducci gave a beautiful eulogy followed by a roster of Metro area clergyman and laypeople who knew Andy and felt the need to say nice things about him. I was offered the opportunity to say my , but I declined. I knew there would be a shower of accolades for Andy and my personal feelings for him were mine alone. There wasn’t an empty pew in the chapel, so I stood at the rear behind a couple of elderly women who cried incessantly into their handkerchief. Halfway up the aisle, I spotted Marlene and my daughters, but I thought it best to stay away.

  The pallbearers consisted of six young men from various organizations with which the Father had been involved. They carried the bronze casket out the double doors to the small cemetery at the side of the church. The mourners followed in a double line with me taking up the rear. It was hot as usual, but the gentle breeze and the beautiful surroundings of the cemetery made the morning almost peasant, despite the solemn occasion. The procession continued up a grassy slope to the burial site where the casket was placed into position, after which family and friends stood, or sat on folding chairs around it. I kept a distance and watched the proceedings with as much reverence as I could muster. I supposed these practices bring solace to most people, but I’ve never taken much comfort in looking at a corpse on display, that’s why I’d decided not to attend the wake. The good memories of a person live in one’s mind forever and to blemish them with the morbidity of these proceedings is a sin in itself.

  I stood beneath a huge Sycamore tree and quietly watched and listened. The faces in the crowd were somber and teary-eyed. Every attendant wore black and moved in reverent slow motion, heads hung low, fingers laced together in prayer. Arthur Conlon and his daughter were seated at the head of the casket, looking weak and weary. The pain in their faces made me think of my daughters. I couldn’t fathom losing a child that way.

  Trying not to think about it, I turned away from the gravesite and walked a few feet into a small clearing. As I did, I spotted Crockett in the distance, half-hidden beneath the overhanging limbs of a Willow Tree. He was leaning against the tree with his hands in the side pockets of his overalls. He was puffing a cigarette that dangled from his lips while he watched the ceremony from beneath the brim of a New York Yankees’s cap pulled low over his eyes. He stood motionless and showed about as much emotion as any of the nearby cement statues that dotted the cemetery grounds. I watched him until he snatched the cigarette from his lips, flicked it in a high arc in the direction of the gravesite, and walked casually back to the rectory.

  I wondered why he wasn’t among the mourners.

  After the funeral, I drove back to my apartment, got into my street clothes and drove to the precinct. There was a note on my desk from Garcia telling me Chief Briggs wanted to see me ASAP. I walked across the room to Briggs’s office. He waved me in before I could knock. He was still wearing the black suit he had worn at the funeral,which made his hair and mustache appear more silver than the dull gray they were. He sat in his swivel chair and slid a manila file folder across his desk toward me as I entered.

  “Autopsy and fingerprint reports,” he said.

  He leaned back and waited while I gave the reports a quick read.

  “No prints other than the Father’s?” I said.

  “Not a smudge,” Briggs said. “And his prints were found around his desk and on his personal items, just where they should be.”

  I thought of Crockett’s dust cloth gliding over exposed surfaces, obliterating any prints that might have told us a story.

  Cleanliness is next to Godliness.

  I turned the page and continued to read.

  “According to this, death was the result of asphyxiation due to strangulation.”

  “And twenty-two puncture wounds, postmortem,” Briggs said.

  “Conlon was strangled to death and then stabbed?”

  “That’s how the report reads.”

  “Why would somebody do a thing like that? Dead is dead.”

  “Sick hatred, uncontrollable rage.”

  “Could there be an error in the report?”

  “Not likely,” Briggs said.

  I read some more.

  “No other marks on the body, other than a large open wound on the back of his head.”

  “Probably got it when he hit the floor,” Briggs said.

  I closed the folder and handed it back to Briggs.

  “What could a priest do to make someone hate him that much? Andy Conlon certainly wasn’t that kind of person.”

  “People hate for a variety of reasons,” Briggs said, “most of the time it’s unjustified.”

  “I get it,” I said, “but a priest?”

  Briggs didn’t answer.

  Chapter 6

  On Friday morning, I drove out to the Conlon home in my Chevy. I had called Eileen Conlon on Wednesday and planned to interview her. She was more than cooperative, even eager, but told me I’d be unable to talk to her father since he’d been taken to a local hospital and was under a doctor’s care. The death of his son was a great blow to him and his eighty-five years, and she didn’t want to lose him too. I promised not to take up much of her time.

  When I arrived at the house around mid-morning, I drove up the double driveway and parked in front of the two-car garage. The house was a sprawling ranch sided with cedar shakes that had been stained a light brown. White shutters hung on either side of the windows on the street side, and a slate gray roof covered it all nicely. The grounds were immaculately kept. The manicured front yard was lined on either side with evergreen trees and bordered for privacy with flowered rhododendron and closely placed Arborvitae.

  I got out and walked up the paved walkway to the front door. I pushed the door button and waited while a melody of soft chimes resounded inside the house. Within a minute, Eileen Conlon answered the door, looking weary. No amount of make-up could hide the evidence of what she’d been through this past week. The paleness of her skin contrasted against her glossy black hair, which she kept pulled away from her face with a white headband. And the excessive amount of red color she’d applied to her full lips didn’t do much to improve her appearance. She was wearing black slacks, a white long sleeve blouse, and open-toed bedroom slippers.

  “Detective, Graham,” she said. “Come in.” I stepped into a small entrance hall and then followed her into a large living room. She led me to an oversized, white leather sofa. I sat near enough to her to detect a mixture of expensive perfume and stale cigarette smoke. The room was comfortable, but a bit ornate for my taste. A plush mauve-colored carpet covered the expanse of floor and matching flowered draperies hung from the large windows that were cen
tered in the front wall beside the main entrance door. Several recliners, a mahogany bar covered in white leather, a mahogany coffee table, and a white baby grand piano completed the furnishings. There was a framed photograph of Andy on the piano, arm in arm with his father and sister.

  “Thank you for seeing me so soon,” I said.

  “Although the Lord saw fit to take Andy,” she said, “he was all I had left in this life, other than my father. And I fear he won’t be with me much longer.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “Just a few questions and I’ll be on my way.”

  I waited while she slid a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table, lit it and leaned back against the sofa cushion. She took a long drag and let the smoke out through pursed lips, slowly.

  “Is there any reason you can think of why anyone would want to do this to Andy?” I said.

  “I can’t make sense of it,” she said. “My mind’s been reeling. Andy wasn’t perfect, but he was a good person. You know that as well as anyone.”

  “Of course,” I said. “Is it possible he might have been hiding something? Involved with something or someone that he shouldn’t have been involved with?”

  “You mean, a woman?” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  She leaned forward and snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the coffee table, then looked at me with indignation on her face. “The answer to your question is, no. Andy had no past and no secrets, he was exactly what everyone thought he was. What you saw was what you got.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but you‘ve got to understand. I must ask these questions if we what to get anywhere.”

  She looked suddenly contrite. “Of course, you’re right,” she said. “I’m being foolish. You were as close to Andy as family. Please, go on.”

  “Have you noticed any changes in Andy recently, changes in his behavior, moodiness, anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No, No,” she said, suddenly agitated again as she got up and walked hurriedly to the front window. She stood with her hands on the back of her hips, looking out at the street without saying a word. I waited.

  When she turned around, her eyes were moist with tears. I got up from the sofa and went to her. “Can I get you something?” I said.

  She removed a handkerchief from her pocket and began to wipe her eyes. “I’ll be all right,” she said.

  I took my business card from my wallet and handed it to her.

  “Maybe this is a bad time,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been much help.”

  “We’ll try again when you’re feeling better,” I said.

  As I turned to the door, she took hold of my arm.

  “Do you think you can find whoever did this to Andy?”

  “I’m gonna try my hardest,” I said and meant it.

  When I got back to my desk in the bureau, Detective Garcia had left a note paper-clipped to my blotter telling me I’d gotten a call from a Martin Bloomhouse of the Youth recreation center in midtown Manhattan and that he’d called concerning Father Conlon. I was to return his call at my earliest convenience. I didn’t know Martin Bloomhouse but punched up his number right away.

  A deep voice answered the line, identifying its owner as Marty Bloomhouse.

  “Detective, Graham,” I said, “returning your call.”

  “Thanks, detective,” Bloomhouse said. “I know you’re heading the investigation into Father Conlon’s murder. I have some information that might be helpful.”

  I could hear the sense of urgency and concern in his voice.

  “You can come by the bureau anytime,” I said. “I’m free all afternoon.”

  There was a short pause. “Can you come to the rec center today? There’s someone I’m sure you’ll want to meet. Do you know where it is?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said.

  The Youth recreation center was an aging two-story building in lower Manhattan. It consisted of a large gymnasium, a movie theater, several workout rooms, a craft center and a few administrative offices on the second floor. A fenced-in playground stood against one side of the building. There didn’t seem to be a defined main entrance, so I parked in the parking lot and walked to a pair of steel double doors, which opened to the gym. As soon as I stepped through the doors, I was engulfed by the combined odors of sweat and floor varnish, bringing back memories of my high school days when I’d been on the wrestling team. When your face gets that close to the floor, you don’t soon forget that smell. It’s funny how different smells can trigger different memories.

  Other than a few guys shooting hoops to my left, the gym was empty. On the opposite side of the gym, a door opened, and a kid walked across the floor toward me. He was wearing gray sweats and high-top sneakers and a bright red sweatband around his head. He looked to be about eighteen, tall, lean and handsome and walked with a slight rhythm. When he approached me, he said, “You Detective Graham?”

  “I am,” I said, with an amiable smile.

  He didn’t smile back.

  “I’ll take you to Mr. Bloomhouse’s office,” he said.

  I followed him across the gym, and through the door from which he’d emerged. Although he’d started with a smile, he never spoke another word, but suddenly turned matter of fact and unfriendly. We walked down a short hallway until we reached an open doorway. He pointed through the doorway, then turned and started back down the hallway, leaving me without introduction. I walked through the doorway.

  The office walls were cinderblock painted a dull white, with a paneled drop ceiling and a gloss ceramic floor. It was sparsely furnished with a metal filing cabinet, two wooden chairs, and a large wooden desk. All the furnishings seemed old or secondhand. Behind the desk, Bloomhouse sat with a basketball between his ankles, working a hand pump and breathing heavily. He was short but well-built and had the body of a weightlifter. He wore a sleeveless sweatshirt and the muscles in his arms rippled each time he pushed on the air pump. He worked the pump with perfect rhythm and stopped only occasionally to push back his dark hair whenever it fell over his eyes.

  “Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be right with you.”

  I sat in a chair in front of the desk and watched as he continued filling the basketball. When he was finished, he bounced the ball a few times on the floor and then stuffed it into a mesh bag behind his desk with some others. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face and forehead. “Thanks for coming,” he said.

  He got up and walked to a small refrigerator in a corner, removed two bottles of Perrier and brought them back to the desk. He handed me one, sat down and guzzled his before I could say thanks. When he was finished and fully refreshed, he said. “This Father Conlon thing is a terrible business.”

  “The worst kind,” I said.

  “I mean…a priest for chrissake. Who would want to hurt a priest?”

  “Somebody,” I said. “What did you want to see me about?”

  “It may be nothing,” he said, “But I know how you guys think. Everything means something when you’re investigating a crime.”

  “It does,” I said. “Whattaya got?”

  “The kid, Kevin Regan, I want him to tell you.”

  “I don’t know him,” I said.

  “He’s a local kid, been involved with the rec center for a couple of years now. He was close to Father Conlon. It may be nothing, but like I said—”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe. Bloomhouse looked over my shoulder and said, “Kevin. Come in.” When I turned, I saw a tall kid walking toward me. He was of average weight and built and looked to be about ten years old. There was nothing distinctive about him, except that his hair was bright red and parted neatly to one side, an unusual look for a kid growing up these days.

  “This is Detective, Graham,” he said. “The one I told you about.”

  The kid looked me over but didn’t say a word.

 
“I want you to tell him what you told me,” Bloomhouse said.

  The kid leaned against the desk and pushed his hands down into the front pockets of his jeans. “I don’t wanna get in no trouble,” he said.

  “I explained everything to you,” Bloomhouse said. “You want to help Father Conlon, don’t you?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Father Conlon and Kevin were very close,” Bloomhouse said to me. “You could say the Father took a special interest in him. Ain’t that right, Kevin?”

  The kid nodded again.

  I leaned forward in my seat, closer to him, and said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Take your time and say what you wanna say.”

  “Tell him about that day on the playground,” Bloomhouse said.

  The kid took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then said, “The Father and me was shootin’ hoops on the playground.”

  “When?”

  “About a month ago,” Bloomhouse added.

  “We shoot hoops a lot,” the kid said. “The Father was pretty good.”

  “We took a break and sat on the bench by the fence. Father bought two sodas. It was hot, and we were sweatin’. I took a long drink, and when I finished I saw him.”

  “The boy’s father,” Bloomhouse said.

  “That’s a problem?”

  “His parents are divorced. Kevin lives with his mom.”

  I looked at Bloomhouse for an explanation. He shook his head. “Go on, Kevin,” he said.

  “The Father asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Said the Father had no right keepin’ him from his son. The father said it wasn’t up to him; it was up to the court. That’s when he came inside the gate. The father asked him to leave again, but he started to yell. The Father yelled back, and I thought they were gonna fight ‘til, the Father sat down on the bench again.”

  “Tell Detective Graham what you heard,” Bloomhouse said.

  “I-I heard him say to the Father, ‘I’ll kill you if that’s what it takes’.”

  The boy looked embarrassed and lowered his chin to his chest.

  Bloomhouse got up quickly, grabbed the bag of balls and walked around the desk with them.