Let the Dead Bury the Dead

by David Carlson

  “Maybe this is what mentoring feels like,” he said to his reflection in the mirror as he tied his tie. The phone rang.

  “Worthy?”

  He recognized the voice of Hubert, the precinct desk sergeant. “Yeah, Hubie. What’s up?”

  “Thought you’d like to know. I just got the paperwork on an assault and break-in last night at St. Michael’s.”

  “How’s that my business … wait a minute. Is that the Catholic church a couple of blocks from St. Cosmas?”

  “Three blocks down the street. Somebody hit a nun over the head with a brick. She’s okay. But guess what they stole?”

  “Don’t tell me … something off the altar.”

  “You got it. The report in front of me makes it look like the same damn kind of thing. Hell, what’s the market for something like that? Fifty bucks?”

  Shit, Worthy thought. What’s this supposed to mean? “Hubie, make sure Henderson knows about this. In fact, if you see him, tell him I’m on my way.”

  “I already saw him. Not in the conversing mood. The prick blew me off on his way to the interview tank. The guy’s got one big problem.”

  “Listen, Hubie. Keep that bit about Henderson to yourself, okay? I’ll talk to him later.”

  Worthy crawled through morning traffic toward the Catholic church. A second break-in, three blocks away, with a similar object taken. Henderson should be thrilled. Hell, he thought, Sherrod will throw a party.

  All his certainty from just a half hour before was gone. If Father Spiro had been killed in a botched robbery, then the photo, the missing book, and the faltering in the liturgy meant nothing. Had he simply been fooled by a senile old man?

  He pulled up to St. Michael’s thirty minutes later. The church couldn’t have been more different from St. Cosmas. The mahogany wood and wall surrounding St. Cosmas, along with its glass icons in the side windows, had been designed to isolate worshipers from the outside world. St. Michael’s was futuristic by comparison. The Catholic facility was new, built with just enough pale brick to support the massive windows on three sides. Drivers passing by had full view of the narthex, and through the glass doors, the golden Franciscan cross suspended above the altar.

  Walking to the side door, Worthy noticed the construction trailers with their piles of building materials. St. Michael’s couldn’t be more than ten years old, yet the church was obviously adding on. And, Worthy thought, staying in the neighborhood.

  As soon as he came into the sunny hallway, Worthy found his path blocked by a nun who introduced herself as Sister Margaret. Her habit was the modern sort, the knee-length skirt and plain blouse suggesting a life of practical duties. Over her one ear was a thick bandage.

  Offering his ID, Worthy added his condolences for the attack.

  “Sweet Mother of God,” she said, pushing his comment away. “Don’t you go telling me to head back to the rectory. It was only a bump! A couple of stitches. It’s not as if it’s the first time we’ve been robbed, you know.”

  “But I bet you don’t often get hit on the head with a brick.”

  The nun gripped the crucifix around her neck as she assessed Worthy. With a shrug, she turned and headed down a hallway. “I’ll show you where they got in. It’s the third broken window this year, but an old lady gets hit on the noggin and you’d have thought we’d been attacked by the Irish Protestant militia.”

  “What did they take before?” Worthy asked.

  “Until this time, always the petty cash.”

  Rounding a corner, they came to an area lit by construction safety lamps. “I thought the other cops were all we’d see, so I’ve let the boys do some sweeping up. The window people are coming any minute to replace the glass.”

  Worthy looked at the empty frame near the door handle and saw the dusting powder on the handle. No prints there, he thought. Same use of gloves. But this time it had been an evening break-in.

  “How’d you happen to be here, Sister?” he asked, still bent down to look at the floor.

  “I came over to say the rosary, like I do every night. Some kids did it, that’s all. That’s what I figure.”

  Worthy straightened up. “You don’t think it could be connected with what happened at the Greek church?”

  “Mind if I sit down?” Sister Margaret asked. “I feel like a tour guide.” She drew up a folding chair. “The last cop said the same thing. He said the newspapers were sure going to see it that way. I’ll tell you just what I told him. Look, I’m not strangled. It was just boys.” The nun leaned forward in the chair, punctuating her words with the crucifix, the silver feet of Christ thrusting at Worthy.

  The one unavoidable point—the fact that an altar object had been stolen in each case—pounded in Worthy’s head like a hammer. But if both break-ins had been done by the same guys, why was the nun barely wounded while Father Spiro had been brutally strangled?

  “Let me tell you,” the nun continued, “that other cop didn’t want to hear my opinion. He said he was working the other case and knew they were connected. No doubt in his mind, he said. And Lord, was his face beet-red.”

  So Hubie, the precinct desk sergeant, had been wrong. Henderson had already been here by the time he got to the station. Good work, he thought.

  “The poor guy was just itching to cuss me out,” the nun continued. “I told him he’d better watch his Irish temper.”

  Irish? Face beet-red? Worthy felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at the nun. “Sister, what was this guy’s name?”

  Sister Margaret shrugged. “I can’t remember, but it started with an S, I think. It’s not like he went by the book, you know. He didn’t even bother to stop by the office first. One of the pre-school teachers said there was someone crawling around by the broken window. So I came down to sort things out, and he was right where you are, measuring angles and writing notes.”

  “Was he a short guy, balding, with a little mustache?” Worthy asked, feeling light-headed.

  “That’s the guy! Sherman or Sherwood.”

  “Sherrod.”

  “That’s it. Oh, he gave me a time. Questions, questions, questions. Everything I’d already told the other officers. But no, that wasn’t good enough for this one.”

  Worthy felt himself swaying on his feet. “No, I bet not.” He saw stars begin to dance in the corner of his eyes as he leaned back on the door.

  “I finally had to get back to the office,” the nun said. “But he went out to his car and came back in. And guess what he wanted to know?”

  “What?”

  “He showed me a brick and asked if it was like the one that hit me. Can you imagine? As if I noticed that! He said he bet it was like the one the first cops had found. I suppose he was right in the end.”

  “What was he getting at?” Worthy asked, more to himself than the nun.

  “Ack! He finally told me it was about our construction stuff out back. For the school addition, you see.”

  “And …?”

  “He showed me the brick, said it was a different color entirely. Said it was even a different kind of brick. He said it came from somewhere else, and he thought he knew where.” The nun threw up her hands. “That’s when I gave up. I told him to come back if he had a question I could answer.”

  Worthy looked out toward the construction site, to the stack of bricks not more than thirty yards away.

  He felt Sister Margaret’s hand on his arm. “You okay, son?”

  From the corner of his eye, Worthy saw Hubie’s slight wave but walked right on by toward Captain Betts’ office. Later, Worthy thought. He paused before the captain’s door to catch his breath. He wanted to be calm, but determined, with his new superior. There was no way he had to put up with Sherrod doing a back-door on this case.

  He knocked and heard his captain invite him in.

  “News gets around quickly, I see,” Captain Betts said, looking up from her desk.

  “So he’s already been in. The guy’s got a lot of nerve.”


  “Nerve? That’s one way to put it. I’d say stupidity in your partner’s case.”

  Worthy stopped in the middle of the room. “Henderson? What are we talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the stupid-ass thing that happened this morning. And where were you, by the way?”

  Exactly where was I expected to be? Worthy thought. “I was over at St. Michael’s to look into the break-in. It’s down the street from St. Cosmas.”

  She curtly waved him to a seat. “You honestly haven’t heard? I don’t know whether that’s supposed to make me feel better or worse. Your partner had a meltdown, Lieutenant.”

  “What? Are you saying he slugged somebody again?”

  “Did he ever! He tore into his witness right in the middle of an interview. Some guy named Bales, must be all of a hundred and thirty pounds. He’s over at the county hospital now. We got it all on tape.”

  Worthy sat down heavily in the chair. “Just when I thought I understood him.”

  “I don’t think the guy understands himself, but why am I wasting my time telling you? From what I hear, you two hardly know each other.”

  Should he tell her he’d tried? Should he explain how he’d invited Henderson over to the church, but had been rebuffed? And how well could two cops get to know each other when one insists on working his own hours?

  “You were here, Captain, when we divided the two angles on this case,” he explained. “Henderson stayed with the robbery theory, connected with the projects. I had the church angle. I didn’t know there was a problem with that.”

  “Well, guess again, Lieutenant,” she said. “Ever thought about you two working together on both angles?”

  I did, he thought, but about a day too late. “Where’s Henderson now?”

  “I sent him home, since he had absolutely no desire to explain himself. I have to find out what the procedure is in Detroit in a case like this. Not exactly something I had to deal with before.”

  He rose to leave.

  “Not just yet, Lieutenant,” she said. “I want you to see the damage. Let’s go down to the interview room.”

  They entered the room where Henderson had been with Bales less than an hour before. On the floor and also on the table there were pools of the blood. He sat down heavily next to his new captain.

  As the tape of Henderson’s interview with Bales rolled, Worthy tried to connect the pale face staring into the camera with the photo in the case file. Bales had shaved his head even closer since last year. The kid sat with his head bobbing and both hands drumming on the table as if he were listening to music. Henderson had to repeat most of his questions before Bales would focus, and even then, the skinhead’s responses where barely audible over the banging on the table.

  “It doesn’t take a genius to see the interview isn’t going well,” the captain commented. “But if you can pick out Henderson’s voice, you can tell there’s no clue he’s losing control at this point.” Captain Betts paused. “Until just about here,” she said, turning up the volume.

  The skinhead had stopped hitting the table and was staring across at Henderson. In a rush, Bales leapt to his feet and yelled, “Morning’s darkness is coming for real niggers!” An even louder drum roll on the table followed, accompanied by his leaning across the table to sneer at Henderson.

  Worthy waited for the explosion. But Henderson stayed seated, calmly writing down Bales’ response before moving to the next question.

  Bales seemed confused by Henderson’s even response as he remained leaning over the table. Slowly, like a bird, he lowered his head and whispered something in Henderson’s ear. Henderson reared back as if he’d been spit on, then shot up to grab the kid’s neck, catching Bales’ momentum and yanking him completely over the table. The camera caught only bits of the next ten seconds, with Henderson’s words, “you fucking cocksucker” and “I’m going to kill you, you fucking prick” coming through loud and clear. After what seemed interminable minutes of flying bodies, the tape showed someone rushing into the field of vision and pulling Henderson off. But the viewer—any lawyer, any jury—had clearly witnessed Bales’ head being slammed on the table by Henderson, over and over again.

  Captain Betts turned off the machine. “I’ll say this. It isn’t any better the third time.”

  “What did Bales say right before all hell broke loose?” Worthy asked.

  “That’s what Henderson won’t tell us. And the kid is in no shape to talk.”

  Worthy looked down at the blood on the table as he waited for his new captain to release him.

  “So you and I have a decision to make, Lieutenant Worthy,” Captain Betts said, squaring to face him. “I have another cop itching to get back onto this case and—”

  “Look, Sherrod has no business—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, Lieutenant. Yes, Sherrod says he wants back on the case. He’s almost done with the feds, but I gave the job to you and Henderson. So do I pull you both, or stick my neck out and stay with you?”

  “Wait a minute, Captain. Why do I go down with Henderson? You knew when you put me on this case that the guy’s got problems.”

  “I put you with him to help with that, but you haven’t done a damn thing. I thought you’d at least try, but Sherrod could have done what you’ve done. I meant you two to be a team. I meant you to work together.”

  No, Worthy thought, you meant me to babysit. And the little kid you gave me to watch threw a tantrum.

  “So, Lieutenant Worthy, you decide. Are you going to work this case with Henderson, or do I send it back to Sherrod?”

  Worthy nodded up toward the blank screen. “You don’t think the review board is going to recommend charges?”

  “They’ll take their time, unless the media gets ahold of the story. So I recommend the two of you solving this case as quickly as you can. And that means you work with each other, do you understand me? You both work the projects, and you both work the church.”

  “And if Henderson won’t?”

  “He will if he isn’t completely crazy.”

  Worthy shrugged. “This is a mistake, Captain.”

  “Then it’s mine to make. It may be my first here, but it won’t be my last.”

  “And Bales? What do we do with him?”

  Captain Betts gazed back down at the table. “Right, right. I don’t want him seeing Henderson. I guess that means you and I will do the interview—when Bales gets out of the hospital, that is. Now, I suggest you go visit Henderson and see if he’ll talk to you. And by the way, I’m going to need better updates. I know my predecessor was obsessed with them, but don’t paint me with the same brush. I don’t need them every day, but I think it’s in your best interest to keep me informed.”

  Worthy looked down, but nodded.

  Captain Betts got to her feet. “Not a very good day, Lieutenant, for either of us. Another break-in and assault at a nearby church, and now your partner has done his best to throw his career away. You get to try to talk some sense into him, and I get to explain my decision to Sherrod. Want to trade?”

  Chapter Nine

  To Worthy’s surprise, Henderson lived in one of Detroit’s newly gentrified and racially mixed neighborhoods. A tall woman, who would have been striking if she hadn’t been crying, let him in. A boy of about ten sat on a couch staring at a cartoon show.

  After the awkward introduction, the woman led Worthy down a hallway to a study where Henderson was stretched out in a La-Z-Boy, an arm over his face. The woman stood helplessly for a moment before closing the door behind her.

  Henderson looked out from under his arm and pinned Worthy with a stare. “Am I fired?”

  “Who knows? You might be arrested before the day is out,” Worthy answered. “Can I sit down?” When Henderson covered his eyes again without answering, Worthy sat down anyway in the desk chair. Glancing around the room, he noted photos of athletes, mainly basketball players, along with two diplomas.

  “I saw the tape. So, what did he say that set yo
u off?” Worthy asked.

  “Not important now.”

  “The captain thinks it is. She also thinks it was partially my fault for not being there.”

  Henderson peeked out at him. “What’d you say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hell, I was already pulling away when that other guy came in. The tape should show that.”

  “You must be thinking of another tape. The one I saw had you about ready to kill him. Was it the racist shit?”

  “Fine, sure, why not.”

  Worthy waited for something more, an explanation perhaps. “So, that’s all you’re going to tell me?”

  “What’s it matter? They’ll fire my black ass, and then you can work the case by yourself.”

  “That’s not what the captain wants,” Worthy said.

  “But it’s what you want.”

  “It’s not my call. The captain demands we work it together from here on out. That is, if you still want your job.”

  Henderson took his arm away and looked up at the ceiling. “I got a son and a wife who’s between jobs. Sure, I want the job.”

  “Then you have to come with me to the church as well as the projects. Agreed?”

  Henderson exhaled slowly, still focusing on the ceiling. “Not a problem.”

  Worthy didn’t find the comment convincing. “How about telling me what you got from the other two Suffolk guys.”

  Henderson leaned forward and stared at the floor. For a moment, Worthy thought he was going to tell him to forget it, to have him tell the new captain he was through.

  “Their alibis check out, but they both cut Bales loose,” Henderson began slowly. “They won’t say more than they know the guy, and I got the feeling there’s no love lost. So when Bales came in loaded, I wasn’t surprised. All I got out of him in between all that banging on the table was that he’d seen his probation officer the afternoon of the murder. I already knew about that. Then he claimed that he’d slept late that entire morning. So if he killed the old guy, he showed up on schedule with his probation officer that afternoon. It’s possible.”