Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  Ah, me, he thought, heading up the walk. It’s not my world anymore. Not my church maybe.… This Father John Barrow, he with the easy, breezy manner that appealed to the young Catholics, the young church … Father Sullivan couldn’t help but like him sometimes, couldn’t help being jealous, too.

  Father Sullivan paused to glance at the strange new open space in the yard, at the sawed-off stump that had once been the foundation of a magnificent old tree. Until the night of the ice storm. Ah, me, he thought. Lots of trees died that night; no sense mourning them all.

  Father Sullivan thought again of Father John Barrow and was annoyed. I never knew the church was supposed to be fun, Father Sullivan thought, pressing the buzzer and hearing it ring inside. The church sure wasn’t “fun” for me, especially early on. That was the point, though. Whoever said being a Christian, being a Catholic, was supposed to be fun all the time? It wasn’t for Jesus.…

  He pressed the buzzer again, longer this time. Father Sullivan pressed his nose to the cold glass; he could see the vestibule inside clearly enough. Doors to the rooms closed. No sign of life.

  He glanced back to the street, his eyes resting on the young priest’s car. A disgrace, for a priest to be driving—

  Father Sullivan saw the red slips of paper stuck under a windshield wiper. Parking tickets, for God’s sake. He was puzzled: Father Barrow had lived in this house for some months, and he was certainly familiar with the parking regulations. It was foolish of him to have left his car on the street, rather than in the driveway, when he went away for his golfing vacation.

  Father Sullivan studied the car. There were two long fingers of ice running from the roof down the side, then to the snow on the ground. For God’s sake, that car’s a disgrace. Young Barrow must have taken a cab to the airport, Father Sullivan thought.

  Father Sullivan had come to investigate why the young priest hadn’t returned from his vacation when he was supposed to. The sight of the car was just an extra annoyance. His excellency the bishop doesn’t care much for his priests committing venial sins with the law. And God help you if you’re thinking of trying to get these tickets fixed, lad. Purgatory’ll seem like a picnic compared to what the bishop says to you.

  All right then, young Father Barrow. I hope there’s no monkeyshines going on in there. If you’re here, I gave you time to answer the door, and I’m tired of standing in the cold, and furthermore, I don’t like running errands for the monsignor. Not at my age, I don’t.

  Father Sullivan used the key from the diocese office to open the door. The vestibule was cold, and the air had a bad smell. Forget to empty the garbage before you left, did you?

  His foot kicked a pile of envelopes and magazines, scattering them across the vestibule floor. Must be a week’s worth, he thought.

  Father Sullivan groaned as he stooped to pick up the mail. Then he slid open the big door that led to Father Barrow’s apartment. On a chair just inside the door lay a couple of days of mail—right where Father Dino had put it when he came by to check after the ice storm.

  Father Sullivan tossed the mail he had just collected onto the chair with the earlier mail. He felt sad and more than a little hurt. Young priests abandoning their calling (there had been more than he cared to remember) were apt to do things like this, not coming home from vacations.

  John Barrow, don’t you do this to me, lad. You’re a good priest, all things considered.

  “John? Father Barrow, are you here?”

  Silence.

  It was uncomfortably cool in the big room, and there was an unpleasant smell. Father Sullivan knelt before the fireplace and sniffed. Cold ashes, maybe that was it. Or maybe a squirrel had crawled into the chimney and died.

  “Father John? Come on, lad.”

  He went to the kitchen; the smell was worse. The lad’s got to learn some basic housekeeping, Father Sullivan thought. He’s supposed to be helping to keep this place in shape.

  “John? Father John?” But by this time he didn’t expect an answer.

  Father Sullivan knew where Barrow’s bedroom was, and he knocked. After a few moments, he opened the door.

  Wonder of wonders, Father Sullivan thought when he saw the luggage and golf clubs. You did come back. Bless you, lad!

  He must have just walked a couple blocks to a deli or a newsstand, Father Sullivan thought. Relieved, resolving anew to scold the young priest for worrying him, Father Sullivan took off his topcoat and laid it on the sofa. Then he sat down in an easy chair to wait.

  He was sure his young friend hadn’t gone far; he hadn’t even unpacked yet, hadn’t picked up the mail. John Barrow, you’re a good-looking lad and you’ve got the gift of gab, and I should know, being Irish. But you’ve got to straighten up, lad. I can’t be covering for you every time you want to bend the rules a little to have some fun.

  After sitting for ten minutes or so, Father Sullivan stood up. Too long in one place would aggravate his arthritis. Besides, he had waited long enough. Father Sullivan glanced at the golf book on the table. The golfing priest, he thought, not unkindly.

  He went to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed.

  “Catholic Diocese of Bessemer. Father Morini speaking.”

  “Dino, lad, it’s Father Sullivan. Has the boy priest checked in yet?”

  “Not a word, Father.”

  “Ain’t that strange. Well, his luggage and golf clubs are here, but no sign of him.”

  “Out for a walk perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. His car’s been sitting out front, collecting parking tickets. Looks like it’s been there all the while.”

  “You know—Father, perhaps I should have mentioned it—but when I stopped by days ago to check the place after the ice storm I was surprised to see his car.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes, Father. I thought I recalled his saying he was driving to the airport and leaving his car in the garage there.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “I’m sorry, Father. Perhaps I should have mentioned …”

  “No, Dino. It’s his car, his tickets. He can’t just be going off any which way and keeping his own schedule, can he, now? Not if he wants to be a priest.”

  “No, Father.”

  “Tell you what, Dino. He’s a lousy housekeeper, too. The place smells like a sty. Did you notice it when you were by here?”

  “I thought, well, I thought it smelled unclean, yes. At first I thought there’d been a sewage backup, but I peeked into the basement and saw that the floor was dry. So I thought perhaps he’d forgotten to empty his garbage.”

  “Well, did you empty it?”

  “Oh, yes. There was some garbage in the basket under the sink, although not all that much. I left it by the curb.”

  “Well, it still smells like the breath of hell. I’ll just wait here a bit longer and hope to have a heart-to-heart with Father John. Good-bye, Dino.”

  The smell was stronger in the kitchen, no doubt about it. Father Sullivan bent over the sink and sniffed. Then he opened the cupboard beneath the sink, peering into the plastic refuse container. Empty, and with a fresh liner. Then what …?

  Father Sullivan moved closer to the closed basement door. Yes, the smell was worse still. Dino, I thought you said there was no sewage backup.

  Father Sullivan opened the door to the basement and was overwhelmed by a stench.

  “Dear God in holy heaven.” He held a handkerchief to his nose, found the light switch, and slowly descended the stairs. He expected to see an ankle-deep pool of raw sewage, so overpowering was the smell, but the basement floor was dry.

  He entered the furnace room, found the light switch. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but the smell was almost unbearable.

  Something familiar about it. What?

  Another room. Father Sullivan found the light switch just inside the door. The first thing he saw was the golf target hanging on the wall. Dried streaks of brown hung on it everywhere.

  Father Sullivan heard squeaks and t
he rustle of tiny feet as the rats fled the intruder. Then he saw the lump on the dirt floor and knew in an instant why the smell was familiar. He had been a battlefield chaplain in the Pacific in World War II.

  “Dear God in holy heaven.”

  The swollen lump on the dirt was barely recognizable as human. Father Sullivan’s eyes lighted only for a moment on what had been the head. Then they focused on the steel rod sticking out of the skull. Dear Jesus.

  Dear God, I pray he has found the peace he’s entitled to after dying like this.

  Father Sullivan turned to go back upstairs and call the police. He had taken only a couple of steps when he fainted.

  Patrolman Edward Delaney was chased back to his police cruiser by a biting-cold breeze. He put the giant cup of coffee and the hot Danish from Grossman’s deli on the dashboard and watched as the windshield started to steam from the inside.

  Coffee and Danish from Grossman’s was one of the officially forbidden but much coveted freebies that went with patrolling in the university district.

  The coffee cup was pleasantly warm in his left hand whenever he took a sip.

  “All cars, prepare to copy,” the radio said.

  Delaney gripped the pencil in his right hand over the clipboard on the seat.

  “Be on the lookout for a 1970 Mustang, color blue, license number …”

  Good, he thought. I can finish my breakfast.

  “Car sixteen, one-six, minor Code One on the Ambrose Parkway near University exit.” Another patrol car had been summoned to an accident.

  Edward Delaney was twenty-two and had come out of the police academy the previous autumn. He had grown up in Bessemer and his father, Brian Delaney, had been a cop. It had seemed only natural that the son would be a cop, too.

  His father had saved a couple of lives and been written up in the Gazette. Now the father was a honcho on the State University security police.

  Maybe he, Edward Delaney, would do something heroic, he thought as he finished the Danish.

  “Car nineteen, one-nine.”

  Me, he thought.

  “One-nine responding.”

  “Code Ten, repeat, Code Ten at forty-six Norwood Avenue. Please respond at once. Detectives on way.”

  Holy shit. A Code Ten was a homicide. Delaney’s heart was racing. “Uh, roger. Will I, do I need backup?”

  “Negative, one-nine. See a Father Sullivan at forty-six Norwood and secure scene, please.”

  There was no ice on the Ambrose Parkway or on the side streets, and with his red gumball and siren going he made it to Norwood Avenue in a few minutes.

  He saw a man with a priest’s collar standing on the walk in front of the house, waving to him. Jesus! The priest was holding a bloody handkerchief to his head. What the hell! They said I didn’t need backup. My first homicide …

  He braked so hard at the curb that the half-full coffee cup, which he had completely forgotten and which had survived the trip on the dashboard, tumbled back onto the seat. Son of a bitch, coffee all over the clipboard and upholstery and my pants.

  Delaney got out, fumbling for his service revolver. The gun shook in his hand. I’m not ready for this.…

  “It’s all right, lad,” Father Sullivan said. “I just knocked myself on the head, that’s all. There’s no one here. No one alive, anyhow.”

  “Show me,” Delaney said, holstering his revolver with great relief.

  The smell hit Delaney at once. It was so bad that he braced himself to see the body at any moment. Has to be an old corpse, Delaney thought. He wondered how he would react. All the bodies he had seen so far had been in coffins; he hadn’t even investigated a fatal wreck yet.

  The patrolman followed the priest into the kitchen. The smell was worse. The body must be very close.

  “Down here, lad,” the priest said at the basement door.

  Delaney followed the priest down the stairs. What he had smelled upstairs was nothing compared with what dashed his senses in the basement.

  “Through there, lad.”

  Delaney went through the furnace room, saw the target on the wall. Nothing he had imagined, nothing he had heard the veteran cops talk about, prepared him for the sight on the dirt floor. He swallowed as hard as he could, just in time to keep everything down. He felt dizzy as he turned and walked out.

  I’ve got to act like a cop, he thought. So he said, “Did you touch anything, Father?”

  “God no, lad. Except for the light switches. I’m afraid I fainted and banged my head.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re entitled. Come on, let’s get out of here.” At least I didn’t faint, Delaney thought.

  “That’s Father John Barrow,” Father Sullivan said on his way up the stairs. “I recognized enough of him to be sure.”

  “Father John Barrow?”

  “Yes. He was supposed to be on vacation. In Florida. When he didn’t return on time, I came by to investigate.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks like he never left.”

  Back outside, Delaney breathed huge gulps of cold, cleansing air. Where the hell were the detectives?

  Several people—men and women of retirement age—had gathered on the sidewalk in front of the house. Secure the area, Delaney thought. That’s what I should do. Then he spotted four young boys crossing over the lawn, looking curious and smart-alecky.

  “You guys should be in school,” Delaney said.

  “Going home for lunch,” one boy said.

  “Just keep walking, fellas. Okay?”

  Delaney walked toward his patrol car, glad just to move away from the house. “Nothing to see here, folks,” he said to the people on the walk.

  Delaney opened the trunk, got out the coil of yellow cloth tape that bore the words POLICE LINE—DO NOT CROSS, and tied one end to a pole next to the driveway. He was unraveling the tape across the front of the yard when he saw the car full of plainclothes cops pull up.

  Delaney stood on the sidewalk for a long time, shooing along the curious as gently as he could. It was cold enough to make his legs shiver and his toes tingle, but he was glad to be outdoors. His stomach was getting better by the minute. A little smugly, Delaney remembered that the old priest had passed out. Another patrol car had come by to take him to the hospital. He sure looked green around the gills, Delaney thought.

  “Delaney,” a detective hollered from the porch. “Captain McNulty wants you. In the basement.”

  Delaney’s smugness vanished in an instant and was replaced by double-barreled nausea. Part of it was plain fear: Raymond McNulty was captain of detectives and known throughout the department as an iron-hard taskmaster who brooked no laziness or mistakes. Delaney figured he must have done something wrong. For a moment, he imagined that the old priest, Father Sullivan, had noticed his clumsiness and told someone.

  The other part of Delaney’s nausea was the thought of going into the basement again.

  Delaney took some comfort from the expressions on the faces of the veteran detectives. Nobody was trying to hide how sick he felt.

  “Come over here, Delaney,” McNulty said. He was standing to the side of the golf target, about twelve feet from the corpse. McNulty was about six feet tall, gray haired, red-faced, and built like the linebacker he’d been in high school.

  Delaney’s knees were shaking, but he started to feel better when McNulty smiled slightly.

  “That was okay, what you did here,” McNulty said. “Good work.”

  “Thanks, Captain. I didn’t do much.”

  “You kept people off the front yard. Now, that could be important, if we were dealing with a burglar, say. You think we are?” McNulty was speaking in a low, almost conspiratorial voice.

  “I, I don’t know, Captain.”

  “Now listen, Delaney. I know your dad, and I know how you did in the academy. You’re not a career patrolman. Someday you might be a detective. That’s why I called you down here.”

  McNulty took a couple of steps closer to the corpse, and Delaney followed, reluctantl
y. McNulty read his mind. “Where they do the autopsies, there’s a stainless-steel room with a big air circulator,” McNulty said. “Changes every last bit of air in the room in under two minutes. Did you know that? I’ve still been sick, and I’m not ashamed to say it.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  Near the entrance to the room, two men wearing rubber gloves held a large green bag.

  “In a minute, guys,” McNulty said to the men. More quietly, he spoke to Delaney. “We’ve been over this dirt floor with little rakes, like the kids use. No telling what we’ll find. Understand?”

  “Right, Captain.”

  “So what do you think. Burglar?”

  “Could be.” Delaney felt stupid.

  “Delaney, anything could be. Why was he chopped up so bad?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “I can’t either, for certain. But it looks like pure rage. Doesn’t it?”

  “Could be, sir.”

  “And why do you suppose his pecker was hanging out?”

  “It could … oh, you mean …”

  “Christ, you guys are naive nowadays. There’s golf balls all over the floor, a couple of golf clubs lying over there, and he’s got a golf club sticking out of his head. What’s that tell you?”

  Delaney felt increasingly stupid as well as sick. “I don’t know, Captain. Some kind of ritual?”

  The detective captain had to stifle a laugh. “Ritual, shit. Means he invited someone to the basement—a guy, most likely, though we won’t take that for granted—to practice a little golf. Then …”

  McNulty’s expression invited Delaney to speculate.

  “Right, Captain. Then maybe they, uh, got into some hanky-panky, and maybe … a lover’s quarrel?”

  “Could be. You’re thinking along the right lines.”

  Delaney was feeling more confident. “Thing is, Captain, if they knew each other, wouldn’t they most likely have been doing it upstairs instead of down here, dirt floor and all?”

  McNulty nodded and smiled. “Good thinking. Which is why forensics is checking the sofa and bed sheets.”

  “So maybe they were strangers,” Delaney said. “Maybe it was someone he picked up.”

  The detective captain nodded. “A stranger, or a fairly new acquaintance. Diocese says Father Barrow was supposed to go to Florida for a golfing vacation. So we’ll check the passenger list on the plane he was supposed to take. Then check the motel in Florida—”