“Aspergillum?” Barbara asked.
“The instrument to sprinkle Holy Water. It has a long wood handle with a silver ball at the end.”
“Thank you. Please continue.”
“It took only seconds for the man to reach the front of the sanctuary. People were screaming and scattering in all directions.” He visibly shuddered. “There was blood everywhere. I saw Peter Brennan step into the aisle as the killer moved toward his daughter.”
“The young woman in the white gown? Lois Brennan?”
“Yes.” Doherty’s voice broke as he said, “She took her vows last evening. That’s why we were all there. Lois Brennan had just become a nun.”
Barbara hesitated a few seconds to allow Doherty to collect himself. Then she said, “Do you remember what happened then?”
“The man swung the machete at Mr. Brennan. It was awful. I can remember the sound the weapon made when it hit his chest. I never heard anything like it before. Mr. Brennan cried out and dropped to the floor.” Tears now fell from the priest’s eyes, over his sallow cheeks, and onto his hands still resting in his lap. He ignored them.
Doherty took a shuddering breath. “Lois Brennan was kneeling in front of the altar. Her eyes were closed, and her lips moved in prayer. It shocked me. Here was this mayhem going on behind her and she never moved.” After a second, he said, “She was one of the most devout women I have ever known. She would have become a wonderful nun.” Another pause. “She’s with our Lord Jesus now.” The priest’s eyes widened when he added, “The killer stood behind Lois, shouted something, and struck her again and again and again.”
Doherty’s eyes seemed to go out of focus for a couple seconds.
“It was as though he had come to the church primarily to attack her.” Then he repeated the keening noise, which went on for several seconds. His face seemed to have sagged even more as he reached behind him and took a water bottle off a credenza. He unscrewed the cap and took a long drink. After he put down the bottle on his desk, he took a handkerchief from a pants pocket and wiped perspiration from his forehead. After a long beat, he said, “Where was I?”
Barbara could now smell the odor of sour perspiration coming from the priest. His sparse, white hair was plastered to his scalp. “You said you thought the killer might have targeted Lois Brennan. Why do you think that?”
“He moved quickly through the sanctuary, swinging wildly, haphazardly at people, striking each of his targets with one blow. But he spent time over Lois. One strike didn’t satisfy him. As I said before, he struck her repeatedly. She was covered in blood. Oh, my Lord. Her white gown was….” He let the thought hang in the air, incomplete. When he gathered himself, he added, “It was as though Lois symbolized everything he hated.” His tears began again.
“Do you need a moment, Father?” Barbara asked.
Doherty shook his head and blew out a loud breath.
“What happened after that?”
“There were children in the first pew. The killer turned right toward them. That’s when Lois’s brother, Lucas, ran into the aisle, picked up the aspergillum, and went after the killer. He swung at him and hit the back of the man’s head. But the man spun around and stepped toward Lucas, his arm raised high in the air. I thought that he was about to kill Lucas. I’ll never forget it. But Lucas hit him again. I heard something crack when the aspergillum hit the man’s face and he fell to the floor. Then Lucas hit him over, and over, and over again. He seemed possessed. He didn’t stop until I went over to him and grabbed his arm.”
“You know the Brennan family well?”
“Oh, yes. Quite well. They’ve been members of my parish for decades.” He tried to say something else, but nothing came out.
Barbara had half-a-mind to terminate the interview, but she knew that the best time to get information from a witness was as soon as possible after a crime had been committed. She also wanted to query the priest more about his comment that the killer seemed to have specifically targeted Lois Brennan. She didn’t want to leave the church without some idea about the motive for the slaughter.
“What can you tell me about them?”
It took Doherty a minute to collect himself. For a few seconds more, he seemed to reflect on Barbara’s question, and then finally said, “That poor family has been through a lot. This might take a few minutes.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“I met Peter and Mary Brennan when they first moved to my parish. They were a handsome couple, anticipating their first child. Completely committed to the church. I christened all three of their children. Lucas, Edward, and Lois. They attended mass regularly.”
The priest smiled and said, “The first time I had a conversation with Lucas was when he was about seven or eight. He was attending catechism class and seemed disturbed about something one day. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he had seen a story on television about a man who killed several people. The story had shocked him and left him feeling out of sorts. He couldn’t assimilate the concept of how one person could kill another.
“ ‘Why would someone do that, Father?’ he asked me. I told him there were bad people in the world and that I hated for children to hear about such things.
“ ‘But why would someone do that?’ he asked me again.
“I remember what I said as though it were yesterday.” Doherty looked away, seemingly recalling the conversation. “I told him some people kill because they have been corrupted by Satan. They don’t think the way we do. They’re pure evil.
“ ‘Like crazy people?’ he asked.
“Yes, like crazy people, I said.”
Doherty again wiped his forehead. “I told him people sometimes kill because of bad things in their lives and they can’t see any other way to react. But he didn’t understand. Then I told him that people sometimes kill to protect their families.
“ ‘Do you think my father would kill someone if they attacked my brother or sister?’ he said.
“If that was his only choice, I suspect he would. I think your father would do whatever it takes to protect you, your brother and sister, and your mother.
“He then asked me if I could kill someone. I told him I could never take someone’s life.”
A sad expression came over Doherty’s face. “I’ll never forget what he then told me: ‘I could never do such a horrible thing.’ I patted him on the shoulder and said I hoped he would never be faced with a situation that would cause him to even consider committing murder.” Doherty’s voice suddenly became husky. “All that changed here just a few hours ago.”
“You said the Brennans have been through a lot. What were you referring to?”
“Until Lucas’s fourteenth year, his life could have been described as one based on faith and love and on the belief that good always triumphed over evil. In a sense, he had lived a charmed life. Raised by loving parents and taught to have faith in his family, his God, and his fellow man. But then events seemed to conspire to undermine his love for those institutions or his faith in their integrity, their steadfastness, their everlasting goodness. But, still, Lucas’s beliefs prevailed. He had been taught well. He was an unshakeable true believer.”
Barbara shifted in her chair. She was about to interrupt the priest because she couldn’t see where his tale was heading and how it would help her investigation. But she decided to remain silent for the moment.
“Even after his mother, Mary, died of cancer when Lucas was fifteen, after she suffered interminably for six months, and his father subsequently devolved into an emotional basket case, seeking solace in alcohol, Lucas’s beliefs sustained him. He didn’t complain about taking on an after-school and weekend job as a busboy at a local restaurant. He didn’t blame God for the loss of his mother or for the precipitous emotional deconstruction of the father he had admired and looked up to. As the eldest of three children, he accepted responsibility for their well-being.”
“Sounds like a good kid,” Barbara said.
�
��The best,” Doherty answered. He chuckled in sort of a deprecating way and said, “I considered talking to his father about Lucas going into seminary to become a priest, but I put it off because the family needed him so badly.” Doherty sighed, then continued: “After a two-year period of alcohol-induced self-abasement, which brought the Brennans to the edge of financial ruin, Lucas’s father rallied. He found a construction job with a friend’s company. But the work seemed to be the only form of expression for Peter’s energies and emotions. After exhausting days on the job, the old man had nothing left to give to his children.
“But Lucas remained committed to his values regarding family, God, and mankind. There was a strength in the young man that anyone who knew him found extraordinary. Neighbors, schoolmates, teachers, and co-workers admired him. That boy had more character than ten grown men.
“The Albuquerque neighborhood where the Brennans lived is cheek-to-jowl with the area called the War Zone. Near the State Fair Grounds. It isn’t the safest part of the city.”
Barbara said, “I know. My partner and I spend more time in that part of the city than we like. There’s a tenuous peace that hovers over that neighborhood, like a storm cloud that perpetually threatens to unleash a downpour. Usually, the threat acts only as a tension creator. All residents are wary; many are frightened. Crime is intermittent and unpredictable. Generally, different ethnic groups barely get along. They seem to have little tolerance for one another.”
Doherty nodded. “In contrast, tolerance is a key to the Brennan family ethic. Racial, ethnic, and religious slurs, as far as I know, are non-existent in their home. Lucas was raised to believe that others would treat him as he treated them. So, when a group of teenagers who were affiliated with a California-exported gang set upon him one night after he’d finished a late shift at the restaurant and stepped off a bus, he didn’t change his mind, as many would have, about an ethnic group because of the behavior of a few. Sure, he was surprised and terribly distressed by what had happened to him, and it took weeks for his body to heal, but he went on about his life. He didn’t lose faith. His beliefs were rock-solid.”
The kid sounds like a saint, Barbara thought. “Did he go to college?” she asked.
The priest slowly wagged his head. “Lucas badly wanted to attend college. He graduated near the top of his high school class and received several scholarship offers. But, in his mind, he couldn’t justify accepting any of those because he had obligations to his brother and sister. He took a job with the same construction company his father worked for. Eddie, the second of the Brennan children, was one year younger than Lucas and immediately after high school graduation enlisted in the Army. One year later, Lois entered a convent.”
“That must have relieved some of their financial stress,” Barbara said.
Doherty shrugged. “Of course. But it wasn’t that the Brennan household was now absent stress. Eddie had been shipped off to Afghanistan and had told Lucas that the situation there was worse than he had imagined. The brothers exchanged emails quite frequently. Apparently, Eddie shared graphic stories with Lucas. I had several conversations with Lucas about his concerns for his brother. He experienced terrible tension headaches because of his worry about Eddie being over there. He confided in me that he prayed every day that God would protect his brother and would influence the leaders in Washington to bring the troops home. His confidence that his fellow man would do the right thing continued unabated.
“Nearly two years had passed with Lucas and his father working together. They’d pooled their earnings and built up a savings account that, along with a new mortgage, finally made it feasible for them to make significant repairs to their home.”
“Sounds like things were going well for them,” Barbara said.
“Yeah, until the economy weakened. The construction company Peter and Lucas worked for initially laid off employees as things slowed down. Finally, it closed its doors. Peter and Lucas couldn’t make enough money doing part-time jobs to stay current on the mortgage. When they became six months delinquent, the lender foreclosed on the property. They lost their home about a month ago.”
Doherty stopped at that point and just stared at Barbara.
“Is there anything else you would like to tell me?” she asked.
Doherty fluttered his hands and barely shook his head.
And the kid has now lost his father and sister, Barbara thought. She thanked Father Doherty for his time and let him escort her out to the sanctuary. Although the bodies had long since been removed, there was plenty of evidence that a ghastly event had occurred there. Stains in the carpet, the coppery odor of blood, the stench of other body fluids, the floor and pews littered with parishioners’ personal effects. The room was cold because someone had left the front doors of the church open—maybe to vent some of the smells. Barbara looked out through the open doors and saw snow flurries falling, blown around in an anarchical pattern by gusts of wind.
Great, snow in Albuquerque, she thought. A perfect addition to an already crappy day.
“When will you be finished with”—Doherty waved his hands around to indicate the large space—“all of this?”
She didn’t want to describe the church as a crime scene that needed to be processed. Instead, she said, “I’ll do everything in my power to expedite the investigation.”
After Father Doherty left her, Barbara went outside to her unmarked vehicle and drove to the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office headquarters in downtown Albuquerque. In the Detective Squad Room, she called Susan. “You with the Brennan kid?”
“I’m just a couple blocks away. I got hung up on a phone call from the lieutenant. You finished with the priest?”
“Yeah,” Barbara said. “He’s pretty torn up. You can imagine. He saw it all happen. He had a front row seat through the entire attack. Probably wondering how he escaped injury. Call me when you leave the Brennan apartment. I’ll meet you somewhere for an early breakfast.”
“I’ll be glad to get this over with,” Susan said. “That poor kid is probably suffering something awful.” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “I hope he can take some satisfaction from taking down the guy with the machete. Lucas Brennan probably saved a lot of lives.”
Lucas had been trying to mentally and emotionally process the events of the past few hours. Like a terrible dream, everything that had happened seemed surreal. He checked his cell phone and noted the time: 2:00 a.m. He walked around the rundown second floor apartment he and his father had shared for the past month. The brown stains on the ceiling from roof leaks, the threadbare soiled carpet, the cracked paint on the walls, the dated kitchen appliances, the rust stains in the sinks and the shower sickened him. He moved to the front window and parted the curtains. The deputy who had driven him home was still posted outside in his cruiser. A detective had, at first, wanted him to go to the sheriff’s department to be questioned, but she’d changed her mind when he’d asked to be allowed to go home. She’d agreed if a deputy accompanied him.
He was aware of shouting coming from the apartment next door—a regular occurrence at all hours of the night—but ignored it the way one ignores—even becomes inured to—the hum of an air conditioner or the vibrations from and sounds of passing traffic. But exhaustion had set in and he finally collapsed on the saggy couch they’d salvaged from a thrift shop. He barely remembered a call that had come in from one of the female detectives a few minutes earlier. She’d told him she would be by in a little while. What more can I tell her than I already did at the church? he wondered. He looked around the living room and felt a crushing sadness.
“What did faith in God and in your fellow man get you, Dad?” he whispered. “It’s just Eddie and me now.” A sudden and brief sob broke from his throat. Then his cell phone rang, startling him. He was about to ignore it but sneaked a peek at the screen and saw that the caller was someone named Stanley Wisniewski. At first, the name didn’t resonate. But then he remembered that Eddie had mentioned Wisniewski. How the
two had met in Afghanistan and become fast friends.
He answered the call. “This is Lucas Brennan.”
“Lucas, it’s Stan Wisniewski. I’m a friend of your brother, Eddie. I’m call—”
Wisniewski’s voice cracked. Then he choked out a sob.
Lucas’s breath caught in his chest; he couldn’t seem to breathe. He finally expelled the air in his lungs. “Stan, what’s happened?”
Wisniewski coughed, paused a couple seconds, then said in a heavy, raspy voice, “Eddie and I have been best friends since we shipped over here.” Another pause, then: “We agreed to notify our families if something happened to either one of us. I’m sorry to have to tell you that…Eddie was shot in a fire fight today.”
Lucas felt icy fingers penetrate his skull, cascade through his chest, and down into his gut. His whole body was suddenly cramped.
“Is Eddie okay? Is he going to be all right?”
“He didn’t make it, Lucas.”
Wisniewski broke down and cried. He sounded inconsolable. His words were incomprehensible. Lucas’s eyes welled with tears, which rolled down his cheeks. His throat felt tight and dry. He didn’t have the strength to move.
“The Army will officially notify you about what happened,” Wisniewski continued in a hoarse voice that was now little more than a whisper. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to bring you this news. I know what your family meant to him. How close you and Eddie were.” He stopped for several seconds this time, then said, “I’m so sorry, Lucas. I’m going to miss Eddie so much.”
Lucas felt as though his insides had been invaded by creatures trying to bore their way out. His hands shook and he had to squeeze the cell phone to keep from dropping it. He tried to thank Wisniewski for calling but couldn’t get the words out. He mumbled something but wasn’t certain what. He felt as though he was going to scream, but suddenly focused on how he would tell Lois and his father about Eddie. Then he shook his head. Momentarily, he’d put aside what had happened to them. But then the realization of his father’s and sister’s deaths struck him like a lightning bolt. There was no one left with whom he could share his losses. His family was gone. God and man had abandoned him. Tears continued to cloud his vision as he stood and flung his phone against the wall.
Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology Page 11