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Wrestling With God

Page 8

by Hanley, Don;


  He looked around at the group of inmates, "Is that right? Is that what happened?"

  Arthur spoke up, "Yessuh, Mr, Bailey, that's sactually what happen." Others shook their heads in agreement.

  He whacked me upside the head with his club. It hurt but not too badly. He yelled, "Alright, you assholes, get back to work. And nobody touch Bruiser till the medic gets here."

  The little crowd dispersed and Bruiser still had not moved a muscle. I hoped I had not killed him, but I didn't have any of the same feelings I had when my own dad fell. We all got back to our chores and worked until 5:00 p.m. At dinner, I think I got a bit more respect. A place was saved for me on each side of the first white table and several guys nodded and looked at me for the first time ... the first time I noticed, anyway.

  We learned the next day at breakfast that Bruiser was in Intensive Care at a local hospital.

  I was relieved that I only had only a day and a half to stay here and Bruiser would surely remain in the hospital until I was long gone. On Saturday morning, I mentioned at breakfast that I was being moved out that day. One fellow said, "Probley because of Bruiser. When he gets back here and yer still here, yer a dead man." Another very good reason to be happy to go.

  I didn't know what his fate was when I walked through the prison gate on Saturday morning. I sucked in the fresh air as if I had been holding my breath all week. I truly wondered how these men stood to be in this place for years and years. My admiration for Jack grew this week. Any concern I had about Bruiser vanished the second I saw Rebecca, Julie, and April. I gave them all a big hug, so big that April uttered, "Daddy, don't break me in two."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry, punkin. I am just so glad to see you all. This has been the longest eight days in my life." I gave April another light squeeze and set her down.

  Chapter 10

  REBECCA

  It was a cold January morning when I returned to Maria Sorrel's house in Coleman, Illinois. I was glad to get back to working on Jack Carroll's case after taking three weeks off. Maria's email stated that she had a little more information on Father Joe Carson. She was sure it would be helpful for my case against the s o b.

  Maria opened the door as soon as I stepped on the porch. Suzie was in her arms and Maria ushered me in. "Hi, Rebecca, it's great to see you again. Come in and tell me how you've been and then I'll tell you a couple of stories that will ruin your day. How's that?"

  "If what you tell me helps me nail a certain bastard named Joe, then my lost joy will only be temporary, so how's that?"

  "Í like your spirit." We moved to the living room and Suzie smiled at me. "Suzie's still smiling, so I guess she still likes you, too." I followed her into the living room and sat on the recliner opposite the couch.

  Maria rested the baby-holding arm on the side of the couch and began, "The day after Christmas, I was in the Safeway and ran across a classmate who is now a social worker with the county. She looked frazzled and upset and I suggested we get some coffee and chat a bit. She welcomed it and we went to my favorite diner. She had just come from a house where a mother was strung out on meth and had stabbed her fourteen-year-old daughter. The daughter had told her that someone had said she was the bastard child of a priest. That priest had been in the Coleman parish around the time her mother was pregnant with her. The informant was a snarky little shit who was always fighting with her own daughter."

  "I asked the mother if she knew the priest's name and she said it was our friend, Father Joe Carson. She went on to say that she had been called by the police and they had sent the girl to the emergency room. Anyway, I helped her unload and then asked her what her current name is and that of her daughter. Her name is the same as in high school, Ruth Morehouse; she had never married. Her daughter's name is Debbie." Suzie whined just loud enough for her mom to begin nursing her.

  I wrote the names down. "Do you think she will talk to me?"

  "I'm fairly sure she will. And here's another one for you. Ruth is a psychological mess and we need to take everything she says with a grain of salt. She said that when she told Father Joe that she was pregnant, he asked her to marry him. I doubt that very seriously. I think she was just trying to save face. You might be able to use that in your interview. She said something else that might have some truth in it. She said Father Joe was a bisexual. She knew a boy, between her own and her daughter's age, who had been molested by the priest. She said that they had gotten drunk together one time and he told her that he'd 'screwed' a priest right here in Coleman. I think I met that fellow and he was a drunken loser. I think he's still around, but I don't know anything about him ... like where he lives or works, if he does. You might get some information from Ruth.

  "Well, Maria, this is definitely helpful. We both know that Father Joe molested boys as well as girls. Thanks for informing me. I'll see if I can first find Ruth Morehouse. Will I be in any danger if I go to her house?"

  "No, I really don't think so. I'll call her and tell her you're coming and tell her that you might be able to help her. I'm wondering if she ever got a DNA test to see if her daughter, Debbie, is really the offspring of Father Carson."

  "Great idea. If he is, that would be another nail in his coffin. Thank you so much, Maria. I'll visit her and then Chad." I stood up to go.

  "Wait one damn minute. You gotta pay me back by having lunch with me. Let me put twinkle-toes to bed and I'll be right back."

  When we finished eating, Maria said, "Now you can go. Hopefully, I'll get a nap in before the others get home from school. Let me know what you find out."

  Ruth Morehouse lived literally on the wrong side of the tracks, in a small run-down shack only two blocks from where Susan Gilsinnen's mother lived. The driveway was a muddy mess, so I walked through the crunchy snow to the front stoop. When the doorbell didn't seem to work, I knocked on the door. A skinny woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a faded flower-print dress under a stained brown sweater, opened the door. She looked like she just woke up. She croaked, "Whatdawant?" Whatdayawant seemed to be the common greeting of poor victimized people.

  I answered as if she had just said, 'welcome to my wonderful world.' "Good afternoon, I'm Rebecca Brady, and I'm looking for information about a priest who was stationed here in Coleman a few years ago. I'm told that you might be able to help me."

  "By who?" Ruth snarled.

  "By a social worker. I am embarrassed to say I didn't get her name." I really was embarrassed.

  "Probably that bitch that came with the police when I hurt my daughter."

  "I did hear about that. How is your daughter?"

  "She's okay and back to being her usual self ... a drama queen."

  I was getting cold standing in the doorway, so I asked, "Ruth, could we talk inside?"

  "Damn, you're a pushy bitch, aren't you? Come on in, you probably won't make my fucking day any worse." She turned and shuffled over to a chair. I wasn't sure she was as safe as Maria said, but I followed her and sat down on an old couch of doubtful cleanliness. Cotton padding protruded out of several tears and holes. The small room smelled of mold, dust, garbage, and vomit. I'm sure I looked as out of place as I felt.

  Ruth said, "I suppose you're thinking of that asshole, Father Joe Carson. Is that right?"

  "Yes, that's the guy, and from what I've learned so far, he is not a stellar character."

  "That's fer damn sure. So, what da ya want ta know?"

  "I learned that he has molested several children here and in another town several years ago, but he was never charged for the crimes. I am hoping to gather enough information to get him convicted so that he does not hurt any more children. Ruth, were you one of his victims?"

  "You ain't representing tha police, are ya? Or one of them social workers?"

  "No, Ruth, I'm neither of those. Right now, I'm a writer who is trying to help children."

  Ruth bit her lower lip, looked around thoughtfully, then said, "Naw, he didn't molest me. He told me he loved me and we fucked."

  I
must have looked a bit startled, as she added, "Yeah, we were lovers for a few months. I'd go to his house, we'd shower together and then we fucked. He was good in bed—gentle, slow, and I think I came every damn time. Never had before, so you could say he really introduced me to good sex. Ain't found anybody like that since, and, believe me, I've tried."

  In a way, this fit with the other stories. Joe would seduce the children and then when he was done with them, he acted like he didn't know them. "So, Ruth, what happened to break it up?"

  "I got pregnant and he asked me to marry him. A priest from here had already left to get married, you know. Of course, I wasn't about to be a preacher's wife, so I said no. I did ask him to help me with some child support. That's when he acted like he didn't even know me. I said I could prove it with one of them DNA tests, but he said it would cost more than I could ever afford and he sure-as-hell wasn't going to pay for it."

  At this point, Ruth began to cry, "For weeks, he kept telling me how beautiful and special I was, and then, when I really needed him, he said, 'Don't try to embarrass me, Ruth, because no one is going to believe a dirty little ugly beggar who lives in a rundown shack.'"

  She sat there and sobbed for I don't know how long. I didn't believe the priest ever asked her to marry him because he never had shown that kind of sensitivity nor kindness to any of his other victims. The rest of her narrative fit with the other stories I'd heard. "You know, Ruth, he was lying about the paternity test. You could have gotten the test done free, through Planned Parenthood and other agencies. Is your daughter, Debbie, Joe Carson's child?"

  "How'd you know her name? Oh, yeah, the social worker bitch. Yeah, the priest's her daddy. I don't know how that kid in school ever found out about it because I ain't never told Debbie, nor anybody else. I'm really sorry for hurting her. I was cutting up veggies when she came home from school and she accused me of the affair with the priest and called me a whore, a cunt, and every damn hateful word she could think of. She was screaming her damn head off. Ya could hear her a mile away. I got so damn angry that I stabbed at her with the knife I was using. Cut her on the shoulder. Bled like a son-of-a-bitch. I got scared and called 911. Paramedics came with the police."

  "Ruth, did the police say they would file charges against you?"

  "Debbie begged them not to, so maybe they won't." Just then we heard footsteps crunching through the snow. We looked out of the dirty window and saw a teenage girl, a policeman, and an older woman approaching the house. Ruth said, "That's Debbie now. Is that your social worker?"

  "No, this must be a different one." I hoped it wasn't the one Maria had talked with. I told Ruth that I spoke directly with the social worker in order not to put any suspicion on Maria Sorrell. Luckily for me, it wasn't the one.

  Debbie didn't fall far from the tree, as she took one look at me and said, "Who the hell are you?"

  Ruth said, "Debbie, this is Rebecca Brady and she is working on a case that may help us."

  The social worker introduced herself as Cynthia Jones, and asked, "How is that, Ms. Morehouse?"

  I was surprised Ruth didn't tell her to mind her own business, but, in a polite voice said, "Something that might help our finances, Ms. Jones. Nothing to do with my hurting Debbie." She turned to the policeman and asked, "Are ya gonna charge me fer hurting my daughter?"

  The young officer spoke softly and politely, "Not today, Ms. Morehouse, we're not, but it will be on your record at CPS. Ms. Jones, here, is a CPS worker, and if there is another incident, she will call us and you will be charged and you will go to jail. They also said that now it is mandatory that you begin a drug rehab program for your meth habit." Ruth looked surprised at this, and the young man said, "Debbie told us about it. It helped because we are now ordering you to do the rehab rather than jail. Would you be willing to start a rehab program?" Ruth nodded and the officer continued. "Ms. Jones has some information here for you." She held it out to the chastised mother and Ruth took it.

  When the couple left, I asked if it would be helpful to get that paternity test done now, and Ruth said, "You betcha, that's exactly what I'd like ta do. Could you help me with that?"

  I told her I could and I filled Debbie in on Joe Carson and asked her to give me a few strands of her hair in a new plastic baggie. I was surprised that they had one. I would ask Dan McGuire to find a way to get some kind of DNA sample from good old Father Joe.

  When I got back in the car, I called Maria and she had managed to find out where that young man lived and remembered what his full name was. Chad Bostick was his name and he lived only a few blocks from where I was sitting. I found it amazing that the entire town didn't know about Father Joe and his shenanigans. He must be a very clever sneak.

  I looked at my watch and it was almost 3:00. If I headed back to St. Louis now, I'd get there just in time to join the rush hour traffic. If I left in an hour or so, I might be able to avoid it. I was exhausted but hated to come back to Coleman if I could interview Chad today. I called Jerry to see how the home scene was doing, and get his opinion.

  He answered the phone after only two rings. "Hi, Beautiful? How's the interviews coming along? Are you wrestling with God?"

  "Hi, Honey. No, I'm wrestling with the devil. I'll tell you all about it when I get home." We talked for a few minutes and April was in his lap and she had to talk to Mommy. Connecting with the two of them gave me a bit more energy, so I decided to see if I could get an interview with Chad Bostick.

  I found his address. He lived in an old run-down apartment building's second floor. Oddly, the building was built on two levels. Four steps in the middle of the second floor led up to Chad's apartment. His number was the first one above the steps. I knocked and an elderly woman, in a clean but faded house dress, opened the door. She had a sweet smile and I introduced myself and she said that she was Chad's grandmother. Her name was Esther. She invited me in and said she'd see if she could find Chad. I didn't think that should be too difficult because there were only two doors off the living-room-dining room-kitchen where we were standing.

  A groggy male voice shouted, "Goddammit, gramma, I'm tired. Whoinhell wants to see me, anyway?"

  "Oh, Chad, honey, don't be so angry with me. There's a very nice lady who has come all the way from St. Louis to talk with you. She said it was very important. So, please get up and come out to the living room, honey." Esther sounded as sweet as Chad sounded bratty.

  "Ms. Brady, Chad is a very sensitive person. If this is some private thing, I'll just go visit a neighbor, okay?" I nodded and she went back to the bedroom door and loudly said, "Chad, the lady says this is a private thing, so I'll go talk with Ms. Pratt, okay?"

  I thanked her and she left to go next door. Before leaving, she asked if I needed anything. I said no.

  Chad stumbled out of the bedroom clad in jeans, a Brat Pack tee-shirt, and bare feet. He looked to be somewhere between early twenties to mid-thirties, but sounded like he was a spoiled thirteen year old, "Who are you and whatdaya want?" he muttered as he stumbled to the kitchen area. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out a gallon jug of milk and drank about half of it from the plastic bottle. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then said again, "So whatdayawant? And who are ya?"

  I wondered how his grandmother could be so sweet to this uncouth barbarian. "I'm Rebecca Brady. I'm gathering information on a priest who was stationed here in Coleman several years ago. He molested several children and I got your name from one of his victims. I believe you knew Father Joe Carson. I would appreciate any information you can give me on him."

  He plopped down on the end of the couch and angrily asked, "Did this informant tell you I was one of his victims, or what?"

  I knew he had to have been very secretive about whatever happened between him and the priest, so I said, "I was just told that you knew him and might have some ideas that would help in my investigation."

  "Yeah, I knew the bastard. I wasn't one of his so-called victims. We had an affair and I didn't do anyt
hing wrong." When he said the word, 'wrong', he jumped up from the couch and shouted, "I didn't do anything wrong," and again, "I didn't do anything wrong!" even louder, and kept repeating it rapidly and loudly and stomping back and forth across the living room. He must have repeated the phrase fifty times and pounding his fist each time. I began worrying that he might become dangerous. After a time, he started adding, "He said he loved me and he locked me out. And I didn't do anything wrong." Louder, "He said, he loved me. He said he loved me. Damn him. I didn't do anything wrong."

  He kept repeating these phrases over and over in various order. I pushed myself back against the corner of the couch. I was worried and wondered if grandma would hear him and come back. And then I worried that he might hurt grandma ... or hurt me. I shouted, "Chad, I didn't say you did anything wrong."

  "Don't say that word—WRONG! I didn't do anything wrong." And he again started repeating the phrase over and over, and began crying, then sobbing loudly. I thought of calling 911 but I was afraid to move.

  Finally, Grandma Esther gently opened the door and peeked in. She saw me sitting and looking scared. She crept in and closed the door. In a soft voice, she said, "Chad, honey, what's the matter? Are you okay?"

  Sounding like a little boy, Chad sobbed, "No, gramma, I didn't do anything wrong. Father Joe said he loved me and I didn't do anything wrong. Please make this lady go away, I didn't do anything wrong."

  Esther evidently had experienced something like this before, as she motioned to me to come to her. I slowly and quietly crept toward her as Chad kept pacing and sobbing. Esther whispered, "I do think it best if you leave. She slipped me a small piece of paper with a phone number on it and whispered, "Please call me later."

  Esther opened the door and Chad moved toward us. As quickly as I could, I stepped through the door. He made it to the door and said, "Go away, go away." He gave me a push on my back and I suddenly felt myself falling down the four steps. I hit my head and right shoulder on the bare wood floor of the lower landing. I passed out.

 

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