CHAPTER 34
Antelope left the station and drove to Our Lady of Sorrows Church. The housekeeper, Sister Julia, answered the front door of the rectory.
“Good afternoon, Detective. Are you here to speak with Father Bellamy?”
“I have more questions, if he can spare a few minutes of his time.”
“I’m afraid he’s not here. He’s worn out from the funeral service.”
“Where might I find him?”
“He’s gone for a swim.”
“Where does he swim, at White Mountain or downtown?”
“Usually he’ll go to the Recreation Center, but in summer he prefers to swim outside. He’s got a guest pass over at the Preserve.”
“That’s the apartment complex where Connor Collins lives, isn’t it? I didn’t realize they had guest memberships there.”
“I don’t believe they do. Connor set it up special for Father because he likes being outdoors so much. And he needs all the relaxation he can get after what he’s been through with Stacey and Connor.” She shook her head. “Frankly, I don’t know how he does it.”
“Thank you, I won’t take up any more of your time today.”
He drove straight to the Preserve and parked where he could observe the activity at the pool. Father Bellamy walked out of the locker room a few minutes later. When he spotted Antelope, he waved and held up a hand, indicating that he should wait. He disappeared into the office and a few minutes later came out with the manager of the pool.
“Good afternoon, Detective. I wasn’t expecting to see you. It’s been a stressful, exhausting time for all of us. But I guess the policeman’s work is never done. I arranged with Jeffrey here to find us a small conference room to meet in and he obliged us, thank you very much, Jeffrey.”
“No problem, Father,” the manager said brightly. “Follow me, it’s right down here. Will Mr. Collins be joining you also?”
“No, not today, it will be the two of us, thank you. Oh and some ice water would be very welcome, Jeffrey.”
The pool manager gave a salute and went off to get the water.
“To what do I owe this honor, Detective?” Father Bellamy asked, turning his smile on Antelope. “I thought you got what you needed the last time we met?”
“A few more questions, Father. Thank you for your time. I know it’s been a long day for you.”
“A sad day, most certainly. Stacey’s been laid to rest. Now the real grieving can begin for her poor family.”
“I’m sure the family appreciated you going down there to officiate.”
“I didn’t realize you were there. I spotted the sheriff, expected to see you. I don’t know how I missed you in such a small group.”
“I made it my business to stay out of sight.”
“Thinking the killer might show his face, were you?”
Antelope shrugged. “It happens.”
“Did he?”
“I’d be down at the station questioning him right now if he had.”
Bellamy sighed. “No luck for you today. Let’s hear those questions.”
Jeffrey knocked on the door before entering. Bellamy waved him in; he placed a pitcher and two glasses on the table, and then left them alone.
Antelope waited until the door closed before he began. “Did you know Father Kroll?”
Bellamy’s eyes widened slightly. “What’s he got to do with your investigation?”
“Before I leave here today, the reason for my questions will become clear. Right now, though, I need you to answer them for me.”
“All right, you’ve made your point. Father Kroll celebrated forty years in this parish and moved to a smaller church. I replaced him as pastor. We never served together. There was no overlap. So the answer is simple and clear: I don’t know Father Kroll at all.”
“This will be a difficult question perhaps. Are you aware of any allegations of sexual misconduct against Father Kroll?”
“It’s not a difficult question, Detective. It’s an absurd question. It doesn’t deserve an answer but I’ll give you one. I am not aware of any allegations of sexual misconduct against Father Kroll. And further, if I had heard any such allegations, I wouldn’t believe them. Father Kroll is above such egregious behavior.”
“How can you be so sure when you stated you don’t know the man? This kind of behavior remains an ongoing problem within the Catholic priesthood, as I’m sure you know.”
“I’m aware of this scourge upon the clergy.” Bellamy’s face was growing red. “It’s a sadness and an utter disgrace. Is this where you tell me the reason for you coming here today?”
“We received some information indicating that Father’s Kroll’s transfer wasn’t voluntary—that it was hastened by reports of sexual behavior with minor children. Are you saying you were not made aware of these allegations at the time you took over from him?”
“I was never informed of anything of the kind. Who made the allegation, if I may ask? And what does it have to do with Stacey being murdered? We’re talking about fifteen years ago.”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Antelope said mildly. “Presumably, though, the victims remained in the parish. Has anyone ever told you they were molested by Father Kroll?”
“Never. I can assure you, I would have followed the guidelines set up by the Church in regard to these unsavory matters. We are all educated and aware today, as we were not in the past, about the proper way to respond.”
“Does the Church tell you not to discuss these cases?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have it on good authority that three altar boys were molested by Father Kroll and that’s why he was transferred out of Our Lady of Sorrows. The Church subsequently made financial settlements with the families of the three victims. This happened right before you became pastor. You must have known. You said you have a knack for connecting with the young people in the church. Did any of them talk to you about being sexually abused?”
“I pride myself on my ability to read people. I can honestly say, in all the years I’ve been working with the children and adolescents in this parish, I have never thought any one of them had ever experienced such a traumatic betrayal.”
“Sounds like I’m at a dead end here. Thank you for your time, Father.”
“You’ve put me in a foul mood I’m afraid,” Bellamy said, pushing back his chair. “This whole sexual abuse thing turns my stomach. If you haven’t got any more questions for me, you’ll excuse me while I indulge in my swim. I need it even more now.”
“I didn’t realize the Preserve offered memberships to the community.”
“They don’t. Connor worked his magic and secured a seasonal pass for me. I’m forever indebted to him.”
“The two of you are pretty close, it seems.”
“When I first came to this parish, Connor was a lost soul. It would be tough for any child to be orphaned at five. Connor was a sensitive boy; I sensed he wouldn’t make it without some guidance. I saw it as my pastoral duty to take him under my wing. He remains grateful and repays the support every chance he gets.”
Antelope stopped at the Burger Bar on his way back to the office and picked up two cheeseburgers and a vanilla shake for dinner. As always, when he worked a murder case, his meals consisted mostly of fast food.
The route took him past the church, the Astro Lounge, and the house on Cedar Street—the small radius in which the story of the crime was playing out.
He ate at his desk quickly, eager to spend some time with Stacey Hart’s phone and cull any secrets the electronic device held. When he finished, he opened the file containing the printed pages downloaded from the tracking app. It didn’t look like much, just two pages detailing Connor Collins’s travel in the BMW for six weeks, beginning May 13 and ending June 21.
He wondered how Stacey felt when she did it—the whole process, from the point of decision to the execution. A combination of sadness and a secret thrill, the truth about the man she loved revealed?
Did she want to know the truth? Confirmation of his deception and betrayal would have meant the end of her future with him.
He opened the folder and went through the information line by line. Stacey had acted fast on Kelly’s suggestion. She’d begun tracking Connor’s whereabouts the day after meeting with Kelly.
On Tuesday, May 13, recordings of the location of the BMW began.
Antelope read each date entry methodically.
Weekday mornings he traveled from the Preserve to his office in the Sweetwater County Building on US Highway 191.
Weekday mornings he traveled to and from the office to the county courthouse in Green River.
Weekday afternoons he traveled to and from his office or the District Court to local restaurants.
He made three trips each week to Our Lady of Sorrows Church, including on Sunday, presumably for Mass.
Every Saturday, he traveled to the Cedar Street house, with the exception of Saturday, June 7.
On Friday, June 6, he traveled to Evanston, Wyoming, and returned on Sunday, June 8.
There were no trips to Salt Lake City.
Antelope flipped to Friday, June 20. Connor told him he’d met Stacey at Johnny Mac’s Good Time Tavern, and that he’d gone straight home after they argued.
The tracking device showed him leaving the tavern at 9:10 p.m. He arrived at 2276 Reagan Avenue at 9:27 p.m.
At 10:30 p.m., he left 2276 Reagan Avenue and drove to Our Lady of Sorrows Church.
Collins had intentionally and willfully provided false information when he said he went home after leaving Johnny Mac’s Tavern the night Stacey was murdered.
From the first day of the case, he’d had a bad feeling about Connor, but he’d kept it in check in the absence of any real reason to distrust the man. Now his instincts were beginning to seem more credible.
As an attorney, an assistant prosecutor for the county, Connor would have understood the problem he was creating for himself in providing false information during the investigation of a homicide. Whatever reason he had for concealing his visit to the church, it must be very important.
Antelope spent another hour reading the text messages Stacey Hart had sent and received in the week before her death, as well as scrolling through her call log.
As he expected based on what Kelly had said about Swailes deleting messages, he found no evidence of communication between Stacey Hart and Jack Swailes.
The phone log confirmed what Collins had told him: Stacey’s last phone call was to her fiancé at 1:17 a.m.
The only other activity in the call log was an incoming call at 10:05 p.m. from a number he recognized as belonging to Max Hart.
Max never mentioned placing a call to his sister on the last night of her life.
CHAPTER 35
It was late afternoon, long after my last patient left the office, the last light of day soft at the western windows, when Fern Hart called. I debated whether to let the call go to voicemail. Given the recent circumstances, however—her daughter murdered, her son falling apart—I decided to go with the personal touch and answer.
Professional ethics and HIPAA laws are designed for maximum protection of patient confidentiality. Max Hart had never given me permission to communicate about his treatment with his mother. Quite often, though, patients’ families have information important to the safety of the patient. The laws and standards have evolved to allow psychotherapists to listen to what a family member says, as long as we don’t give any information in return.
“This is Dr. Hunt,” I answered.
“Hello, Dr. Hunt, this is Fern Hart, I’m calling about my son Max. I know you can’t tell me he’s your patient, but I know he is. I didn’t know if I would get you directly or if I’d have to leave a message. Is it okay if I go on? I mean, do you have time now, or should I call back and leave a message?”
“Now is fine,” I said. “I have a little time. What is it you want to tell me?”
“I wouldn’t bother you except I’m very concerned about Max. I’ve never felt the need to call before. But he’s not been himself since my daughter was killed. I suppose you need me to be specific. He’s been sleeping a lot. I know this because he tells me he was sleeping whenever he manages to pick up the phone. He isn’t meeting with any of his training clients.”
“He’s taking some time off from work?”
“You make it sound so normal. Of course he needs time. It’s not even a week since Stacey died . . . I don’t know, maybe I’m being dramatic to be concerned.”
“Is there something else?”
“He’s very shut down, very inward focused. And he can get lost inside himself. This kind of slip into isolation never ends well for him. The way he gets out of it is always through some forceful acting out.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Of course not, I’m being vague and unhelpful. Maybe a few examples will help. Maybe he told you about his record—three separate assault charges, hundreds of dollars in fines, anger management classes twice. Those incidents happened after a period of depression, like what he’s going through now.”
“Tell me more.”
“He starts drinking and ends up attacking someone in a rage. Twice it’s been a man, and the last time it was a woman. People at the party told police the girl provoked him; he tried to walk away but she got in front of him and threw a pitcher of beer in his face. But still, there’s no excuse for what he did.”
“What did he do?”
“He grabbed her by the arms and pushed her away from him; she fell and hit her head pretty bad on the floor.”
“And what happened with the two males he assaulted?”
“Same kind of circumstance—he was drunk, someone said the wrong thing, and he started swinging. With one of the men, there was a bottle involved; Max broke it over his head.”
“You’re worried he’s going to hurt someone.”
“Yes.”
At the time Max entered treatment, in the process of taking his history I’d gotten all the details about the events Fern Hart was relaying to me now, so none of this was coming as a surprise. In part because of his tendency toward violence when intoxicated, Max had voluntarily quit drinking and entered recovery with Alcoholics Anonymous. Before Stacey’s death the previous week, he’d had five years of sobriety. To my knowledge, his anger had never escalated to include violent behavior when he was sober.
“Is there anything else you want to share, Mrs. Hart?”
“I don’t know if you noticed, because you only see him once a week, but when Max is drinking, there’s trouble. And he started drinking again a few weeks before Stacey died.”
I kept my surprise at this revelation to myself. “And what are you thinking?”
“This is such an awful thing for a mother to think.”
“I’m not here to judge, Mrs. Hart.”
“It’s just . . . I’m so worried for him. And the two of them were arguing, Max and Stacey. They drank together that night. Max doesn’t handle alcohol well. He can go a long time without drinking, but when he starts he can’t stop.”
“I see.”
“And so it makes me wonder, as horrible as it is to think it, God forgive me for saying it, I wonder if Max lost control and killed Stacey.”
I kept my silence.
“And there’s another thing: Max and Stacey argued the last time the three of us were together. I should have told the detective the day he came to the house, but in front of Max I didn’t feel comfortable going into it.”
“Mrs. Hart. I know you’re calling to give me information to help with Max. But what you just said takes our conversation into another arena. I think this is something Detective Antelope needs to hear directly from you.”
“Of course. I’m just so worn out from everything. And I’m not sure it makes one bit of difference, this little thing between them. Can I tell you about it, and I promise I will call Detective Antelope tomorrow? I don’t think I can go through it twice tod
ay.”
“I understand. Why don’t you tell me the gist of it so I can follow up with Max.”
“I’ll never forget her words because of the way she said it, so different from her usual way, the way I want to remember her. It’s like the words are burned into my brain, when all I want is to forget she ever said these things.”
“What did she say, Mrs. Hart?”
“She said, and I’m going to quote her, ‘I’m getting sick and tired of having to be the one to carry the torch of the perfect life. I am damn sick of having the perfect life or trying to make it seem like I have the perfect life. Let somebody else try doing it for a while and see how either of you like it.’” Fern stifled a sob. “I can’t remember what set off the tirade. I remember apologizing and saying I didn’t mean to upset her. It didn’t help. In fact, it upset her more.”
“What did she say?”
“The worst thing ever. She said, ‘I hate my life.’
“And I shouldn’t have said what I did, but I wanted to point out to her how fortunate she was, so I reminded her of her wonderful career, her vintage home and all the money to make it a showcase for her taste, and, most important, her engagement to the love of her life. And you know what she said? She referred to all her blessings as golden handcuffs. She said she felt trapped.”
I was taking notes now. “Had she ever suggested this before?”
“Never. She’s been planning this wedding, looking forward to it for years, we all have. I called it wedding jitters, cold feet, said every bride feels nervous at some point. The wedding was so close . . . her feelings were breaking out right on schedule.”
“Did Max take part in this conversation?”
“Oh, he was right there, listening and taking it all in. But you know Max. Sometimes he uses his head injury as an excuse not to get involved.”
“I never noticed.”
“Whenever things get uncomfortable, he checks out or leaves. He’s told me it’s his way of not getting overstimulated and losing control.”
On a Quiet Street Page 13