Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  She sat composed, not the least bit flustered or bewildered by what she had just witnessed. She had removed her sunglasses and hat and was still smoking her cigarette. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she had covered her shoulders with a beach towel.

  “What happened to you?” she said.

  “Your boyfriend was uncooperative.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Have you done something that you should be arrested for?” I said.

  She drew hard on her cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. When the smoke cleared, she began to offer information before I’d had a chance to ask for any.

  “You want to know about David and me,” she said. “And why I’m here.”

  I waited while she dropped her cigarette in the sand and crushed it under her foot.

  “We became friends…acquaintances some time ago,” she said. “I met him when I visited my brother at the church.”

  “This was after you left the service of the church?” Danny said.

  “Of course,” she said. “I would not offend the Lord with what He might construe as insolent behavior.”

  “How long have you been dating him?” Danny said.

  “We’re not dating,” she said. “We’re just friends.”

  “Seems like more than ‘just friends’, spending time alone with him at his home,” I said.

  “He invited me here for the day. I thought it was a way for me to relax, getaway. I’ve been so upset,” she said, “with all that’s happened. I lost my father recently. The death of my brother was too much for him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Your brother’s concerned for you. He said he hasn’t heard from you in several days,” Danny said.

  “I don’t answer to Troy,” she said. “He’s a ‘come and go brother’ and I don’t consider him a part of my life. As soon as the estate is settled and he gets his money, he’ll be gone again.”

  “How much do you know about Crockett?” I said.

  “No more than he has told me,” she said.

  “Tell us about it,” I said.

  “Just a scanty description of his early life,” she said. “How he came to work at the church. It was my brother that helped him obtain the job there. He and David had a mutual respect. David told me he thought Andy was a good guy.”

  She picked up her hat from her lap, and placed it on her head, and slid her sunglasses over her eyes. “Why did David run?” she said.

  “We were hoping that was something you could tell us,” I said.

  “I have no idea. Is he in trouble?”

  “He might be a suspect in the murder of your brother.”

  “Mother of God,” she said and crossed herself.

  She got up and let the beach towel slip from her shoulders, then turned and walked out toward the water. I watched her walk away, leaving a trail of footprints in the sand behind her until she stopped at the water’s edge where the sand was smooth and undisturbed. In the setting sun, she appeared as a silhouette, a lonely figure looking out at the lonely sea.

  She stood staring at the horizon, until she lifted her eyes to the Heavens, perhaps in prayer, perhaps in a self-indulgent moment of solitude, designed to elicit sympathy from Danny and me. When she walked back to us, she seemed visibly disturbed. She removed her sunglasses, picked up the towel and wiped her moist eyes, then draped it across her shoulders again. I wasn’t convinced her distress was genuine.

  “I think you should contact your brother,” I said. “Do you need a ride home?”

  “I have my car,” she said. “I’ll change and lock up the house and leave.”

  “If you hear from Crockett, let us know,” I said.

  “You’d be smart to terminate your friendship with him, for your own good,” Danny said.

  “I’ve been too hasty,” she said. “My imprudence may have violated God’s law.”

  “Your imprudence may have violated man’s law,” Danny said.

  Chapter 21

  It was Tuesday morning. I was sitting at my desk going over my notes on the Father Conlon case. It had been a week since Danny and I had had our unexpected encounter with Crockett and Eileen Conlon at the Jersey shore. The statewide APB had, thus far, proved fruitless. There had been no sign of Crockett.

  My phone rang.

  “Detective, Graham,” I said.

  It was Monsignor Belducci.

  “Good morning, Monsignor.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not,” he said. “There has been a tragedy.” The monsignor paused before he said, “Father Faynor has been murdered.”

  I sat for a moment letting the monsignor’s words sink into my brain. As dreadful as the news was, my emotions remained stable. It’s not that I was callous or uncaring; but after having spent twelve years as a homicide detective, I learned quickly, the dark recesses of the human mind and its evil capabilities. I wasn’t surprised by the degree of malevolence a human being can engender. When one confronts death and murder daily, the only way to deal with it is objectively.

  Andy Conlon’s murder had hit me hard because of the personal association he had had with me and my family throughout the years. Although I’d endured the heartache and grief over the loss of a good friend, those painful emotions, in and of themselves, provided comfort by reassuring me of my own humanity.

  “When did it happen?” I said.

  “I believe sometime, last night. When he didn’t report for his mass this morning, I sent Father Sidletski to his room. He found Father Faynor there. I thought you should know.”

  “Are there police on the scene,” I said.

  “Many,” he said.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said.

  There were squad cars and an ambulance at the side door of the rectory when I arrived. I didn’t know the officer at the door, so I flashed my shield as I passed him and headed up to the second floor where the priest’s quarters were. The hallway outside Father Faynor’s room was crowded with the usual technicians: fingerprints, forensics, and photos. I worked my way through the suits until I saw Chief Briggs and Detective Garcia standing at the center of Father Faynor’s room. Beside them, Father Faynor lay face down on the carpeted floor. He was wearing jeans and a white tee shirt. He wore no shoes or socks. His tee-shirt was saturated with dark red blood. Protruding just below his left shoulder was what looked to me, to be a screwdriver buried deep to the handle. Things were starting to look familiar. I walked over to Briggs and Garcia. “This is starting to look like a sick habit,” I said.

  “What comes to my mind first,” Briggs said, “is what’s the connection between the murders of these two priests?”

  I knew of one connection between these two priests, but wasn’t about to disclose that information just yet. There was no such thing as coincidence, here. There had to be a motive, a reason that connected the two deaths. I had no intention of telling Briggs what Father Sidletski had revealed to me about Andy Conlon. I was still having a hard time accepting it myself. If Briggs knew I was holding pertinent information about a case, he’d have my head.

  “If we find that out,” I said. “We’ll have motive. When we have motive, we’ll have our man.”

  “The press has been having a field day with Father Conlon’s murder,” Garcia said. “The story’s been in the papers almost every day since it happened. The public wants answers.”

  “We’ll keep this one undercover for as long as we can,” Briggs said. “But it won’t be easy. Did you see any media people outside when you came in, Max?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “It won’t be long before they’re all over like maggots,” Garcia said.

  Briggs said to Garcia: “Let’s clear away some unnecessary vehicles and secure the scene, tamp things down a bit. And tell them to turn off those damned lights. I’ll take care of it from my office if there’re any media follow-up.”

  Garcia nodded and walked out.

 
“Max…my office,” Briggs said. “I wanna discuss a few things with you.”

  “Okay, chief,” I said, and followed him out.

  ***

  “The screwdriver indicates the same MO unless somebody’s trying to deceive us,” I said, “or send us a message.”

  “It’s too blatant, too deliberate,” Briggs said. “These two murders are tied together just by the same type of weapon used. Why a screwdriver, why not a knife, or a pair of scissors?”

  “The killer might be trying to mislead us, send us looking in the wrong direction,” I said.

  Briggs removed his suit jacket and placed it on the back of his chair. He sat down at his desk and began rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. When he looked back up at me, his eyes were moist. He looked tired. “The Mayor’s on my ass, Max,” he said. “Whattaya got?”

  “Not much,” I said. “Other than Crockett, who’s on the run. And we’re not sure he’s guilty of anything, right now. DNA from the hairs found inside the overalls doesn’t match his DNA.”

  “Then, why the hell is he running?”

  “Maybe he did kill Father Conlon, and he thinks his DNA matched, or that we have evidence against him that proves his guilt.”

  “Does he have motive?”

  “None that I could find. He told me he got along well with Father Conlon. Father got him the custodian job at the church. And he’s friendly with Father Conlon’s sister, Eileen.”

  “We traced Crockett to a shore house in New Jersey. Eileen Conlon was there with him. When Danny and I came upon them, they were basking in the sun like a couple of honeymooners. When Crockett saw us, he panicked and made a run for it. He took off on a motorcycle.”

  “In what way is this woman involved with Crockett?”

  “She said she was there just for the day as per his invite, needed to get away from all the stress. She claims he had always been nice to her, and she saw no reason for not accepting his invitation. She denies having an affair with him. She says she made a mistake by being there that day, regretted that she may have offended the Lord. She’s very pious.”

  “How do you account for this new murder?” Briggs said.

  “I don’t,” I said. “Crockett can’t be in two places at once, unless he doubled back, unseen, to murder Father Faynor. He knows the church and rectory very well, and he has keys to almost every door, but it would be really stupid and risky for him. He didn’t get along with Faynor, but I don’t think he hated Faynor to the degree he would commit murder. Hatred could be a motive for murder, but I don’t think it applies here.”

  Briggs removed a manila folder from his top drawer and slid out several papers. He began reading the preliminary report that I’d submitted to him regularly concerning the Conlon case. He paused to read the last page.

  “Troy Conlon,” he said.

  “Father Conlon and Eileen Conlon’s itinerant brother left the family a while ago. Never been a part of it. Father Conlon left him a small inheritance. He showed up recently to collect it. According to Eileen Conlon, as soon as he gets his money, he’ll be gone.”

  “Motive?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He could have orchestrated his brother’s death to gain his inheritance.”

  “How could he be sure he’d receive any inheritance?”

  “I’ve been confronted with that question before,” I said.

  Briggs furrowed his brow. “Not an impossibility,” he said. “When, exactly did he arrive on the east coast?”

  “Eileen Conlon notified him of the Father’s death. I’m sure he hurried here for his money. I’ll get the exact date he arrived from the airline’s manifest.”

  Briggs read further down the page. “What about this Regan?”

  “He’s got an ex-wife and one young son, Kevin, a good kid. I met him at the midtown Youth Center where he spends a good amount of time. Father Conlon took Kevin under his wing, so to speak. He and Kevin became buddies. Kevin’s father resented Father Conlon’s close relationship with his son, felt he was impeding his efforts to get his son back. There were several heated exchanges and a threat.”

  “What kind of threat?”

  “Regan said he would kill Father Conlon if he didn’t stay away from his son.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Kevin Regan told me. He’d heard them arguing in the playground.”

  “Can we rely on a kid’s word?”

  “I eventually caught up with Arnie Regan and confronted him with it. He admitted saying it, but only in the heat of anger.”

  “Possible motive, if I ever heard one,” Briggs said.

  “He was also dumb enough to hire several ‘mouth breathers’ to work me over. But here’s the kicker. It wasn’t his idea. Regan admitted to me, Crockett had paid him two hundred dollars to rough me up, scare me into dropping the Conlon case.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “He resisted my questioning. but my interrogation method was very persuasive. “I’m sure he didn’t lie.”

  ***

  Chief Briggs wasn’t very successful at keeping the Faynor murder out of the media. By the end of the day on Wednesday, the entire city had exploded with the news that a second priest at St. Trinity had been brutally murdered.

  Briggs called a press conference for 9:00 a.m. the following morning. He wanted me to be a part of it. I hated those things and wasn’t very good at engaging the press, but Briggs gave me no choice. The public wanted answers, and it was within his purview to calm the populace.

  The next morning, we met on the steps of the church rectory. The morning was crisp and clear. Police barricades cordoned off the front of the steps, and shortly before nine, there were already many journalists and media people gathered behind it. At precisely 9:00 a.m. Briggs stepped up to the podium. I stood behind him and to his left. Danny Nolan stood next to me. The department PR person was there, as were a couple of top brass from other precincts.

  “Before I begin,” Briggs said, “I want to say I will discuss this case on a, need to know basis. The public has a right to be informed and the department will release information we feel is pertinent, but will in no way jeopardize the ongoing investigation. You all know, by now, what the current situation is, so, in the interest of expediting things, I will begin by taking your questions.”

  This ignited a rush of waving arms and chaotic shouting. Briggs pointed to a young woman near the front row.

  “It seems that your department is at an impasse with this investigation,” she said. “Can you give us any news that might mitigate the public’s concern and offer hope that whoever committed these crimes will eventually be caught?”

  “This department is not at an impasse,” Briggs said. “Our investigators have uncovered several avenues of pursuit, many of which, have proven to be fruitful.”

  “Can you be more specific?” someone shouted.

  Briggs looked at me. I knew he wanted me to answer that one. I walked up to the podium. “I’m Detective, Graham from Homicide,” I said. “We have several names on our suspect list, which we are following up on. There is nothing conclusive at this time, only possibilities.”

  “Based on what?” a voice shouted.

  “Based on suspicious behavior and conjecture,” I said. “However, crimes aren’t solved with conjecture. There needs to be motive beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  A reporter in the back of the crowd raised his hand. I called on him.

  “When do you expect to have something viable?” he said.

  “We hope to tie up loose ends soon,” I said.

  A younger reporter in the front row asked, “Other than the fact that the two victims were priests, are these two murders related or coincidental?”

  “There is nothing coincident about them,” I said. “We believe, at this time, the two murders were committed by the same person.”

  “What about a copycat killing?” someone said.

  “A
highly improbable possibility,” I said, “given the nature of the crimes. People don’t kill for no reason, other than those with deranged minds, but the suggestion has been explored.”

  I’d had enough and walked away from the podium. Briggs stepped up again just as someone shouted, “Is the public at large in any danger?”

  “We have no reason to believe these are indiscriminate killings,” he said. “There is a definite motive and reason behind them.”

  “Have you established motive?” a voice said.

  Briggs simply said, “No.”

  An older reporter wearing a wide rim hat and sporting a full beard moved forward in the crowd and said, “Murders occur every day, especially in this city. But it’s not every day that a priest gets murdered. Due to the esoteric nature of these crimes, shouldn’t your department be handling them in a special way other than standard operating procedure?”

  “A crime is a crime,” Briggs said. “Each case is handled according to its particulars. Our department uses state-of-the-art procedures and forensics, which have proven to be positive.”

  “Then why is it taking so long to find the killers?” another voice said.

  Briggs didn’t like the question. I could see it in his face. He leaned in closer to the mic and said, “Investigating a crime, especially one as heinous as this, takes its own time. It’s like building a wall, one brick at a time until it’s completed. Clues are put together, one at a time, until a picture emerges, much like a puzzle. Some crimes are solved quicker than others, some take longer due to the particulars of the crime. Therefore, there is no such thing as, taking too long to solve a crime. This department works as diligently and expeditiously as the circumstances allow.”

  I knew Briggs had had enough when he said, “Thank you all for coming. We will keep you all abreast of the investigation as is appropriate.” He turned away from the podium and walked back into the church. The rest of us followed as the crowd shouted more questions in a chorus of noise and confusion.