by Brian Shea
“Thanksgiving holds particular significance for Kris and her family. It was the day her adoption was finalized. For her, it was the first family meal she had in a very long time. So, for her, it's not just Thanksgiving, it's a time when she reconnects to that point when she was first brought home. When she gained a home after living so long in the foster care system without one." Kelly somewhat regretted the serious tone in the conversation because he saw the glimmer dissipate from Embry's eyes as she looked up at him.
"I get it, Dad. But still, when is she coming?"
"Like I said, dessert. So maybe sometime between 5:00 and 6:00."
"And how long is she going to stay? Hopefully she’ll join us for game night. If she’s going to be your girlfriend then she should stay for games.”
“I told you, we’re just friends,” Kelly said a little more emphatically than intended. His denial made the truth more obvious.
Ignoring his attempts at concealing the nature of their relationship, Embry continued, “I think you should dress up. Better idea, I should dress you. How about that? Let me get you ready for your big date."
"Embry, I told you, she's just a friend. I invited her over for dessert. She’s my partner. You don’t make a big deal when Mainelli stops by. Or the times that we've met some of my other partners out at a restaurant for dinner."
"This is different, Dad, and you know it," she said. “They aren't girls.”
"True, but they're still cops. She's a cop. A good cop at that."
"I know, Dad. You told me the stories. I get it. But I also know you, and I can see plainly that there is a little more to this visit than you're letting on. You're trying to be cool about it. And guess what? It's not working."
Kelly pushed the squeaky cart forward, fighting to keep it straight as they moved down the aisle.
"Does it bother you?" he asked.
"What?" Embry smirked.
She was going to make him say the words. "If it was a date? If she was more than a coworker? Would it bother you?"
Kelly had wanted to ask this question of his daughter since he first broached the idea of having Barnes over for Thanksgiving.
It had been well over a year since the relationship between Embry's mother and Kelly had dissolved completely. And although she had moved on, he, for all intents and purposes, had not. He hadn't dated, and he had never brought a woman home with him, never introduced a new potential prospect to his daughter. This would be a first for him. He was entering uncharted territory and he was worried—actually terrified—how his soon-to-be nine-year-old would take the news.
She seemed fine with her mother's boyfriend, so it was reasonable to assume Embry would accept it when Kelly found someone else and be open-minded to it. But now that it was upon him, he was worried maybe it was too soon. Maybe she wasn't ready.
The two had always been close as far as fathers and daughters went. With the circumstances of their relationship, and Kelly being a single parent, he was closer to her now than ever before. He feared introducing a new woman into his daughter's life would have negative consequences, damaging the bond formed.
"I'm happy for you, Dad. You’ve seemed so lonely since you and Mom split. And I like the idea of you dating now.”
Kelly leaned down and kissed her forehead. She smiled and tucked a loose curl of auburn hair behind her ear.
“Hey, and if she's as cool as you say she is, then I'm sure to like her."
And just like that, the burden was lifted from Kelly's shoulders. The worry of the past couple months, the trepidation that his decision was a selfish one, evaporated. His daughter had given him her blessing, and with that, he suddenly felt more comfortable with the idea of moving forward with his relationship. Kelly also had a newfound respect for his young daughter and the wisdom she possessed at such an early age. Sometimes life and its circumstances taught children lessons that would be better learned later.
But Kelly couldn't change the past. He couldn't mend the damage done in those dark times after his partner's death and the fallout it had on his family. What he could do, what he had been doing since the dissolution of his marriage, was to put his energy into his daughter and the relationship they had, balancing work against life as a single dad. Something that took some adjustment, especially after being assigned to Boston PD’s illustrious Homicide unit and the endless sea of cases crossing his desk. Suffice it to say, looking at his daughter now, they'd both adjusted well enough to the circumstances. Their bond and relationship were stronger now than ever before.
"Tell you what, Dad, I'll try a Brussels sprout if you let me sit next to Kristen when she comes for dessert."
Kelly felt his cheeks reddening. "Of course. You win. A Brussels sprout for a ticket to sit next to the guest of honor seems like a fair trade."
She giggled. It was an excited, infectious giggle, and he was beginning to hear it often. Embry seemed to have thoroughly bounced back from the initial fallout of her parents' divorce.
Kelly shook off the cold from the vegetable refrigeration unit as they pushed the noisy cart toward the Stop & Shop’s meat and dairy section.
"Well, it sounds like this Thanksgiving is going to shape up to be just perfect," Kelly said.
"Except for the Brussels sprouts," Embry muttered under her breath.
Just then Kelly felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket and stopped the cart. He pulled it out to see a familiar number and answered on the second ring.
"Hey, Donny, what's going on in the world of God?"
The response came in the form of ragged breaths. Donny sounded as if he was running, and at first Kelly thought maybe his childhood-friend-turned-Catholic-priest was out for a jog. Keeping himself fit was something that he did on top of taking care of the parishioners he served. Perhaps Donny had butt-dialed him, and he was just catching the rubbings of his phone against his arm or pocket.
"Donny, are you there?" Kelly asked, louder now.
"Hey, Mike, I really need to talk to you. Something awful has happened."
Kelly stopped, giving his full attention to his friend, a man who prided himself on remaining calm. The priest had heard and seen horrible things in his time serving the Dorchester community and always managed to keep a level head. To hear the panic in his voice concerned Kelly immensely.
"Donny, what is it?"
Another ragged breath and a sigh. "It's Father Tomlin. He’s dead. Somebody's killed him, Mike…here at Saint Peter’s!"
Kelly paused for a second, considering his friend’s words. "Somebody killed a priest inside your church? When?"
"Shot him. I just found him dead in the confessional. Gunshot to his head. They shot him through the confessional, Mike. Who does that? Who murders a priest, let alone murders him inside a confessional inside of God's house? Who does such a thing?"
The ragged breathing changed into a whimper as his friend cried softly through the receiver.
"I'll be there as quick as I can. I just got to drop off Embry and then I'm heading your way. You already called the police, right?"
"I called you first."
"Donny, hang up and dial 911. The cops need to be there right now. They need to hold the scene. They need to secure it. Don't let anybody in, and anybody that's in there, do your best to keep them there until the cavalry arrive. Do you hear me? Call 911 now. Report it. They'll send marked units. I will be there shortly, I promise."
Kelly’s tone was serious as he tried to snap his friend out of the dazed and confused mindset he was stuck in so that he could do the right thing.
"I'm hanging up now, Donny. Do you hear me? I'm hanging up the phone now. You're going to dial 911. I am going to be there as soon as I can."
Kelly ended the call, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and looked at his daughter, who had only heard half of the conversation. Her eyes were now as wide as when he had grabbed the Brussels sprouts, but now they were layered with a serious undertone. She knew something bad had happened. He always tried his best as a pare
nt and cop to shield his daughter from the horrors of his job, but sometimes it wasn’t possible.
Kelly rarely, if ever, talked about his case work, and never brought his work home with him, at least not where she could see. He alone carried the emotional burdens of the things he experienced. He tucked them deep, sheltering his daughter from such horrors and working hard not to impact her childhood.
But this situation was unavoidable. Had Kelly known it was a call from work, he would have stepped further away from his daughter and spoken in hushed tones, something she'd become accustomed to. Embry knew that when her father answered a call and walked away, it was most likely work and she was not privy to the details. He’d caught her eavesdropping only once and had nipped that in the bud. But this time, she had caught the full force of the conversation.
"Honey, we've got to go now. Donny needs me. Something bad's happened."
"Is he okay?" Embry asked.
"He's fine," Kelly half-lied, knowing that his friend was physically fine but would have emotional scars that lasted a lifetime. "Donny's tough. He's from the old neighborhood. He'll be okay. I just got to get you home so I can take care of him and help him out. Do you understand?"
Embry nodded.
He reversed the squeaky cart, abandoning the last few items on his shopping list. Kelly shoved the cart forward to the self-checkout aisle, making quick work of the few items that he had, bagging them, and then heading out the door with Embry in tow.
A dead priest the Sunday before Thanksgiving was no way to start the holiday festivities.
3
Marked cruisers posted at each end of Bowdoin Street had effectively shut it down in a one-block radius of Saint Peter's Church. The squad cars, their distinctive powder-blue-and-white color pattern unique to the Boston PD, successfully cut off any vehicular traffic. Although the patrol cars’ positioning stopped civilian vehicles from entering the area, the officers assigned to securing the perimeter were still in the process of extending the distinctive yellow crime scene tape so onlookers and civilian foot traffic couldn't enter the space.
Kelly stopped his unmarked Caprice near the grassy park area at the disjointed three-way intersection where Bowdoin met with Adams and Church Street. He stepped out and surveyed the scene, taking in the initial perimeter being set. It was better to start big and collapse the scene inward than try to expand it, which made for all sorts of challenges regarding evidence collection and scene integrity. From Kelly’s initial take, the on-scene patrol supervisor seemed to have done a decent job of giving a wide berth to the investigative area around the church.
It was cool, not cold, and Kelly only had a department-issued navy-blue windbreaker over his hooded lightweight gray sweatshirt. Even though his jacket had the BPD logo on the front and lettering on the back denoting his unit, Homicide, Kelly tugged at his beaded chain necklace, releasing the worn leather of his badge carrier. His detective shield was now prominently displayed outside his jacket at the center of his chest.
He dipped low, slipping under the tape, his badge swinging freely. Kelly recognized the patrolman who was busy unraveling the plastic tape nearby.
"Been a while, Kelly. How’s the murder beat treating you?" Officer George Arundale asked.
“Not bad. It’s a front-row seat to the show,” Kelly offered, a standard response he’d begun giving with more frequency. The truth was, his recent position had exposed him to the underbelly of the criminal world, some of which had its roots in the department itself. A revelation Kelly wished he never uncovered and something that left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Kelly knew Arundale from when he worked the Eleven back in the day. Although the two had been on opposite shifts, they’d gotten along well enough, even if only through locker room jocularity.
"I’m thinking of taking the detective’s exam next time it comes up," Arundale said, eyebrows raised. “What d’ya think?”
“Go for it. Best of luck.” Kelly gave him a goodbye wave and moved quickly toward the front steps of the church, the same church where not too long ago he had flattened the nose of Connor Walsh's enforcer, Tommy Sullivan.
An eternity seemed to have passed since that clash, yet in reality it had only been a couple of months. In that time Kelly had settled into the responsibilities of his job as a homicide detective, temporarily putting on hold his battle with Boston's most notorious crime lord. His caseload had diverted him from his efforts at putting the boss in custody. His inability to focus his investigative energy on taking down the kingpin had nothing to do with finding out that Walsh was his biological father.
Father Donovan O’Brien was speaking to two patrolmen at the top of the steps. He looked distraught, and the cool breeze whipping around the building was blowing his hair wildly. Kelly could see that Donny was nearing a state of shock, an understandable reaction after having just witnessed the death of his colleague.
As Kelly made quick work of the stone steps, Donny looked past the officer questioning him, his eyes brightening slightly upon seeing his friend approach.
Kelly put his hand on the patrolman’s shoulder and said, "I've got it from here for now. Would you guys mind giving me a second with him?"
The two patrolmen looked at each other and shrugged, knowing that Kelly’s homicide detective status meant his decisions on scenes like this trumped theirs. They'd have to get whatever information they were seeking for their initial report later.
The two jogged down the stairs and back to the sidewalk, where they began talking with the shift supervisor, likely explaining why they were no longer questioning the priest.
Kelly recognized the on-scene supervisor and gave a friendly wave to Sergeant Connolly. The seasoned sergeant gave a nod, his silent approval.
Kelly turned back to his friend. "Okay, Donny, run me through it right now. Tell me what you found. Take your time—no detail is too small."
"It was crazy, Mike. I mean, I had just finished Mass. I had gone into the back to arrange things and straighten up for Father Tomlin, who’d be delivering the next service."
“Why was he in the confessional?”
"We offer it after each Mass. It was Tomlin’s turn to hear confession. We rotate.”
“And how many people were waiting to be seen by him?”
O’Brien shrugged. “I have no idea. To be honest, I wasn’t paying any attention. After I see the parishioners off, there’s lots of prep to be done in advance of the next service.”
“What about the people in church today? Do you remember anything that stood out among any of the attendees?"
"I mean, it's a pretty big parish, Mike. You might remember, when you used to attend on a regular basis."
Kelly took the subtle blow in stride. He had long since stopped going to Mass, even though his friend reminded him of his absence on a regular basis, particularly on Thursday nights when they boxed at Pops' gym. Kelly always came up with a reason why he couldn't attend. The reality was that after years of seeing the things he’d witnessed as a street cop, then as a narcotics detective, and now in Homicide, he felt a sense of disconnect that he couldn't quite place. Baxter Green’s death had been the nail in his soul’s coffin, severing the last thread in his belief in a higher power. Although he continued to raise his daughter in the principles of the Catholic faith, he himself had become a wayward follower at best.
"I get it, Donny. You can slap me on the wrist for not attending some other time. But did you see anyone during or after Mass who may have stood out from the rest, somebody you haven't seen before?"
Donny flexed his brow, thinking hard. Kelly let his friend silently process the question.
"Honestly, Mike, I can't think of anybody who stood out. I mean, it was the usual crowd. Familiar faces and unfamiliar ones. We get visitors, family members in from out of town. Heck, Mike, it's just before Thanksgiving, people are in town for the holidays. There were plenty of new faces, and none that stood out as being a criminal or a murderer. I mean, what would I be lookin
g for anyway?"
Kelly knew he was right. Murderers didn't always wear dark hooded masks and sunglasses and look like the Unabomber or Charles Manson. He'd met many a killer, confronted them face-to-face after seeing what they were capable of, and there was no way to tell just by looking. If you passed them in an aisle at your local Stop & Shop, the average citizen would never look twice. Some of the most dangerous killers in the world were able to pull off normal lives, hiding the darkness of their hearts from outsiders. Ted Bundy charmed people, making himself invisible in plain sight, even after the legal system had exposed him for the monster he was. Kelly knew it would be impossible for Donny to identify the killer unless he had actually seen someone with a gun.
"Okay. I knew it was a long shot but had to ask. Tell me about your routine. Walk me through what you did this morning after Mass ended."
Kelly wanted to establish a clear and concise timeline. From there, he could build his investigation around the avenues of approach and escape for the person, or persons, who committed the crime. He planned to check the neighboring buildings and surrounding area for any video surveillance that might pick up foot or vehicular traffic. A tight timeline greatly reduced the hours of tedium when reviewing surveillance footage.
Kelly had to explore all the angles if he was to approach the case in a way that would yield the highest solvability. The first step in moving in that direction would be to establish the timeline.
"Well," Donnie began, "after the parishioners left, I cleared the altar area and staged it for the opening of the next Mass. I had to refill the communion hosts and wine decanters. The bottle was nearly empty, so I went to the back of the church where the reserves are kept.”
“How long were you in the back?”
“Not long. I came back to replace the empty bottle.”
“Did you notice anybody in the church at that time?” Kelly asked. Now that his friend was mentally walking through the moments leading up to the discovery of Father Tomlin’s body, it was easier to access memory recall by breaking things down into smaller, more specific chunks of time.
