He closed the Suffolk file in frustration and did what he usually did when he couldn’t see the way forward. He cleaned his apartment and watched TV until he was tired enough to go to bed.
He fell asleep sooner than usual, and so awoke the next morning with two hours to spare before the morning service at St. Cosmas, the Service of Divine Liturgy. Making himself scrambled eggs and toast, he sat down at his tiny kitchen table and retrieved the folder on the suspects.
Let’s get this over with, he told himself. The first two, Allen Lashad and Luther Rimes, were exactly the types who would draw Sherrod’s attention. Both had been in and out of jail since they were juveniles. Now in their mid-twenties, both had been picked up only weeks before for questioning on break-ins in the neighborhood. Worthy found that suspicion logical. He could even see them being in the car of a gang drive-by. But strangling a priest? That seemed like something else, a jump to the big leagues.
The third, Carl Bales, was Sherrod and Henderson’s favorite, and Worthy had to admit he was more interesting. Bales was twenty-two, with previous arrests for auto theft, possession of a controlled substance—crack cocaine—breaking and entering and aggravated assault, as well as a stint in a hardcore juvenile psychiatric facility for “impulse control issues.” In two other important ways Bales was different from Lashad and Rimes. He was white and also a skinhead. He was connected with the White Crowns, a gang that had instigated a racial brawl during a concert at the fairgrounds two years before.
Worthy studied the vacant face in the photo and noted the SS tattoo on the side of Bales’ neck. So why would a skinhead hang out in Suffolk? That should have gotten him dead a long time ago.
Worthy turned to the second page in Bales’ file and noticed what must have caught Sherrod’s attention. Bales had been involved in a prior incident over at the church when he was twenty. “Arrested for public disturbance at St. Cosmas Greek Festival, September, 2002,” the record read. “Two months in juvenile detention.”
Worthy closed the file. Bales had a previous beef with the church, sometimes hung out in Suffolk, and probably was robbing for drug money. Yes, a nut job like Bales might be capable of anything. But would he have straightened the priest’s vestment after strangling him? Worthy closed the file and went into his bedroom for a sports coat. Just as he was heading out the door for St. Cosmas, the phone rang. For a moment, his heart leapt at the thought that Allyson had called to explain.
“Lieutenant Worthy? This is Kenna McCarthy,” the voice on the line said.
His heart sank.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” the voice asked.
“Yes, I’m here. But I’m on my way out.”
“Hmm, working on a Sunday morning. Very impressive, Lieutenant. But I only need two minutes of your time.” Her voice was slippery, with a bit of laughter just below the surface, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t help trying to picture her.
“Two minutes, then. Shoot.”
“Someone told me you didn’t enjoy my article. I don’t get it.”
Worthy thought back to all the people with whom he’d shared his complaint. He’d emailed Captain Betts and Henderson to ask what they knew about it, and he’d also vented a bit to Father Fortis. Had he said something about it to Sherrod when he’d barged into his office? “Let’s just say I don’t like your style of journalism,” he said.
McKenna’s laugh sounded metallic, forced. “Really. May I ask why?”
“If you want to waste one of the two minutes, sure. In one paragraph, you manage to single me out, ignore my partner, and crap on another officer. Why don’t you stick with charity balls and fashion shows?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “My column always singles someone out. That’s why people read it, and why most people I flatter call to thank me. But not you. Are you honestly telling me you don’t want the limelight?”
“What I want is for you, and everyone else at your newspaper who has nothing better to write about, to remember something: a priest was strangled in his own church, right in front of the altar. My partner—whose name is Sergeant Carnell Henderson, by the way—and I would appreciate working this case without inane interference.”
“In his own church in front of the altar,” she repeated slowly. “That’s well put, Lieutenant.” Before Worthy could respond, she added, “Look, Lieutenant, I don’t think we’ve gotten off to a very good start. How about letting me buy you lunch. Say tomorrow? I have something I think you’ll find interesting.”
Hadn’t she heard him? “We have nothing to offer each other, ma’am,” he said.
“Oh, Lieutenant, how wrong you are! And ‘ma’am’? How old you do you think I am?”
She’s not going to let go, he thought. Probably her first real story outside those describing who wore what to what party. “Okay. I can meet you for thirty minutes at noon tomorrow at Denny’s on the south side, right off of I-75.”
“Denny’s? My, how elegant. But I’ll be there.”
Worthy arrived at St. Cosmas at nine fifty-five, frustrated that the reporter had made him cut it so close. He’d wanted to observe people as they came in. Now it would be the congregation who would be watching him. He was consequently surprised to find only about fifteen mainly older people sitting silently in the sanctuary. Had he misunderstood Nick’s instructions about the time? He walked heavily up to the balcony and sat in the front row.
But at ten o’clock precisely, bells rang outside and Father Fortis appeared in the doors in front of the altar. Worthy looked down on those below, remembering his childhood in other church balconies, when he’d hoped his father’s sermon wouldn’t be long, hoped his buddies would keep him company, and hoped his funny faces could force a smile from his mother in the choir loft. Now he was in a church balcony again, wondering if a killer could be sitting down below.
By fifteen minutes into this service, sixty people were present as Father Fortis started to process a silver-covered Bible down the side aisle. Worthy watched intently, aware that it was during one of these processions that Father Spiro had frozen up. Altar boys bearing candles and large circular golden medallions on staffs escorted Father Fortis toward the rear of the sanctuary, where the entire group disappeared from Worthy’s view.
But Worthy could still hear his friend’s baritone voice ringing in his ears. And he could clearly recall the reaction of those standing in their places below him, many of them closing their eyes as the melody continued. To his surprise, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, even though the words were in Greek. And to his surprise, he asked himself something he should have wondered about a long time ago. How was it that Father Fortis—with such a voice and all his gifts with people—wasn’t a parish priest? What had ever led his friend to become a monk?
The procession moved up the center aisle toward the altar, Father Fortis trailing with the silver book in hand. Once Father Fortis returned at the altar again, his actions were more understandable to Worthy. A laywoman read a passage from one of the epistles before Father Fortis opened the silver-bound book and read the gospel story of Zacchaeus. The homily was short and well-crafted, though Worthy wondered if his friend’s concluding moral, “just as Zacchaeus, we need to come early to meet our Lord,” was meant as a gentle reprimand to the fifty or so parishioners who trickled into the pews before the homily.
The guy is a natural, he thought, once again wondering what had led him to hide himself away in a monastery. Shortly after the homily had ended, the altar boys followed Father Fortis as he marched the same slow route around the sanctuary, this time holding aloft what Worthy assumed to be two communion chalices. A second procession, Worthy realized. Was this the point when Father Spiro had faltered? Of course, with Father Fortis there was no hitch. His massive friend, robed in the tent of his vestments, chanted in both Greek and English, and again Worthy felt a shiver pass through him.
The service ended with parishioners coming up the center aisle for communion. The congregation, no
w filling St. Cosmas, was hushed and seemed keenly alert as they stood to wait their turn. Worthy watched as Father Fortis smiled radiantly, spooning the contents of the chalice into the open mouths of all who came forward.
After the service, Worthy rose from his seat. A man behind him in the balcony tapped Worthy on the shoulder, and obviously assuming him to be a visitor, invited him to meet the priest and receive a piece of blessed bread.
Worthy joined the line and accepted the piece of bread from his friend. “Good of you to make it to the whole service, Christopher,” Father Fortis said with a smile. Moving closer, he whispered, “Looking for suspects or trying to make sense of our service?”
“A bit of both,” Worthy replied. “How come you never told me about your singing voice?”
“Yes, isn’t it beautiful?” a woman next to him said.
Worthy noticed a catch at the corner of his friend’s mouth, then a couple of rapid blinks. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. He’d never seen his friend at a loss for words. Nick was positively embarrassed by the compliment.
“Listen, Christopher,” Father Fortis added quietly. “The parish council is having a brief meeting in a few minutes. Would you like to meet them?”
“Might be good. You’ll be there?”
“Of course. They meet in the library, right next to my office. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
Five members of the parish council were mingling in the room when Worthy entered and introduced himself. Another six straggled in over the next five. As Worthy expected, most offered Greek names, though he noted that two were as blond as he. Mr. Margolis, the council president, offered him a seat and passed the plate of donuts his way. From behind him, an older woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Filis brought him a cup of coffee.
Mrs. Filis. Right, he thought. She was the one who discovered Father Spiro’s body. She looked about the old priest’s age and spoke, unlike most of the others in the room, with an accent.
Worthy found it interesting that Mr. Margolis introduced the others by name and then by occupation. He learned that three of the members were lawyers, while another, Dr. Pappas, was a cardiologist. Would he be able to tell him about the old man’s mental condition? Another member, David Sanderson—one of the blond men—worked at the city’s blood bank, while several others were introduced as restaurant owners. Two worked at Allgemein College: a professor of literature named Dr. Stanos and a younger woman, Dr. Boras, a classics professor. Nearly all professionals, Worthy noted. None seemed particularly surprised to have a policeman among them.
Mr. Margolis tapped Worthy on the arm. “We understand you already know Father Fortis.” His comment brought silence to the entire room.
“Yes, I’ve known Nick—Father Fortis—for a couple of years. We spent some time out in New Mexico about a year and a half ago.”
“From the newspaper accounts, that must have been exciting,” Mr. Sanderson said from across the table. Others around the table murmured their agreement.
“Police work is mainly desk detail, filling out papers and answering phones. But yes, that one had some excitement toward the end.”
“And is it true that Father Fortis helped you in—”
Hello, everyone,” Father Fortis said, bursting through the door. “I see you’ve met Lieutenant Worthy. And I see he already has a donut. Is there a chocolate éclair left? Ah, good.”
The group laughed easily and joined with Mr. Margolis in expressing their appreciation for the Divine Liturgy. “Especially the beautiful chanting,” Dr. Stanos added.
Father Fortis put his hands up. “I’m just happy we all got through it. My first time in quite a while, not counting when it’s my turn at the altar at the monastery. But a crowd of twenty monks, half of them hard-of-hearing, is far different than several hundred customers.”
Everyone looked toward Father Fortis, as if waiting for something. Finally, Mr. Margolis said in a stage whisper, “Father, we can’t start until you offer an invocation.”
Father Fortis put the half-eaten éclair down on a paper plate and rose from his chair. The rest of the room followed suit. “You’ll have to forgive me for not knowing the ropes,” he said. He offered a brief prayer, which ended with everyone crossing themselves before sitting down.
“I asked Lieutenant Worthy to attend our meeting for several reasons,” Father Fortis began. “As most of you know, he has been put in charge of the case.”
“What about the other lieutenant?” Dr. Boras asked.
“Lieutenant Sherrod,” Dr. Pappas said. “Not what I would call a courteous man.”
Again, murmurs of assent circulated around the table.
“George Bagios made a point of telling me this morning that we’re in much better hands,” Mr. Margolis said, sending a broad smile Worthy’s way.
“You do understand that Lieutenant Sherrod wasn’t removed from the case,” Worthy quickly interjected. “He was needed on a federal matter.”
“But can we be assured he won’t be back?” Dr. Stanos asked.
“I think you can assume that, although Sergeant Henderson is still working on the case.”
“The Black?” Mrs. Filis asked.
“Yes, yes, Irene,” Dr. Pappas said hurriedly.
“Let’s begin the meeting, then,” Father Fortis said. “Mr. Margolis mentioned before liturgy that the council wants to begin planning for Father Spiro’s forty-day memorial. Because of a conflict in Metropolitan Iakovos’ schedule, he has asked that we have the memorial in two weeks, so that pushes things up a bit. We all know that the memorial must be handled with great care and dignity.”
Mr. Margolis cleared his throat. “Something else has come up in the past few days, Father. A few members of the council and some in the parish itself are wondering about a more permanent memorial for Father Spiro. A plaque, perhaps.”
“No, more than a plaque,” Dr. Pappas objected.
“Perhaps a room dedicated to him, or some new icons,” Mr. Sanderson offered.
“How soon are you talking about?” Father Fortis asked. “I don’t think that’s possible before the memorial service.”
“Oh, no, Father,” Mr. Margolis assured him. “We merely want to take a vote on it today and set up a subcommittee.”
“Go right ahead, Mr. Margolis,” Father Fortis said. “I view this as your meeting.”
“Fine, Father. And we welcome your friend, Lieutenant Worthy. Let’s start with the memorial.”
Dr. Stanos cleared his throat. “I want to make a motion that Father Daniel Prendergast be invited this time.”
“Hear, hear,” Dr. Boras added. “It was shameful that he sat in one of the pews at the funeral. He should have been invited up to the altar.”
“Why?” Mrs. Filis asked. “St. Cosmas has had many seminarians. Why is Deacon Daniel special?”
“Now, Irene, let’s not be contrary,” Dr. Pappas said with a weak laugh. “He’s Father Daniel, not Deacon. For crying out loud, St. Cosmas ordained him.”
Almost under her breath, Mrs. Filis said, “I must have missed that.”
“And Father Daniel brought a lot of new people into the parish,” Dr. Stanos added.
“Including me,” Mr. Sanderson said, staring down at the table.
“I take it Father Daniel was also a convert?” Father Fortis asked.
“Oh, yes, Father,” Mr. Margolis said. “He was here for nearly three years, right after seminary. Very progressive.”
“In those two years, St. Cosmas moved ahead more than it had in the last fifteen to open our doors,” said Dr. Boras.
“I assume you’re talking about more English in the liturgy?” Father Fortis asked.
“Too fast. Much too fast, Father,” Mrs. Filis said in a louder voice.
“He also started a class on Orthodoxy for those interested,” Mr. Sanderson said, just as loudly. “That’s how a number of us became interested in the faith.”
“How did Father Spiro deal with all of this?” Father For
tis asked.
A few members of the parish council laughed.
“He spoke out for change, but only sometimes,” Dr. Boras said.
“But for tradition, too,” Mr. Margolis countered.
“In other words, Father Spiro was a bit hard to read on such matters. Especially toward the end,” Dr. Pappas, the cardiologist, said.
“Such matters? Were there others?” Father Fortis asked the doctor.
“Let’s be candid. We all loved Father Spiro, but he had his weaknesses, just like anyone else. Whether you agreed with Father Daniel or not, at least he offered a clear position. With Father Spiro, who could tell? One week he chanted the liturgy almost entirely in English, and a person thought, okay, here’s the change we need. But the next week, it was nearly all in Greek.”
“And that was when Father Daniel’s face would turn bright red,” Dr. Boras added.
“Yes, yes, I understand about the English. But what else?”
From the other end of the table, one of the lawyers spoke up. “There was the issue of whether the parish should move. Many of the parish said ‘yes’ very clearly. They want to get out before the value of the property goes down even further.”
“Not to mention the safety issues,” Mr. Sanderson said.
“Father Spiro couldn’t stay focused on it, at least over the last couple months,” the lawyer finished off.
Worthy listened quietly, aware that he was learning more about the victim’s state of mind in five minutes that he had in the half hour with Rabbi Milkin.
“Where did this Father Daniel stand on the issue of moving?” Father Fortis asked.
“He definitely wanted St. Cosmas to stay right here,” Dr. Boras said. “And even though I didn’t agree with him, he made a strong case. He said we’d be abandoning the neighborhood just when her needs are greatest.”
“We should be ‘the church in the midst of the pain of the world,’ ” Dr. Stanos said. “Wasn’t that how he put it?”
A few agreed, though Worthy could feel a new tension in the air.
“And when was it Father Daniel left St. Cosmas?” Father Fortis asked.
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 7
