Let the Dead Bury the Dead

by David Carlson

  “But you’d have thought he’d split town, right?”

  “If he wasn’t such a crazy fuck, yeah. But who knows what he was thinking?”

  “Maybe beneath all that bizarre stuff Bales is pretty smart. After all, he knew how to rattle your cage.”

  Henderson’s head shot up, and for a moment Worthy thought he was going to jump him. “Leave that be,” he whispered.

  “Okay … for now, at least. The review board won’t let it go, however. But then you already know that.”

  Henderson’s hands were tightly clasped, his attention back on the carpet. “You said we’re going to work together. What do I get to do?”

  “I had Father Fortis put a message in the church newsletter. That should reach people today. It asks anyone who came to see the victim in the two weeks prior to call the parish office.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think the killer is going to call,” Henderson said.

  “I’d settle for people telling us what the old man was like toward the end. Right now, I’m trying to decide between two different pictures. There’s a senile old man and then there’s a faithful priest working to solve some problem.”

  “So, like I said, what’s my part in all that?”

  “You’re going to follow up on every response we get. And while you’re waiting for the phone to ring, I want you to look in every nook and cranny for a missing book.”

  “A missing book?”

  “Something the old priest hid two or three days before he died. I’ll show you a picture of it.”

  Henderson sat silently for a moment before nodding. “Okay. I’m ready when you are.”

  A knock on the door was followed by the woman looking in. Henderson stood and walked toward her.

  “Worthy, you met my wife, Sulla? Sulla, this is Worthy, my partner. He tells me I still got a job, at least for a while.”

  She threw her arms around her husband. “Oh, baby,” she murmured, choking back a sob.

  Henderson patted her on the back. “Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. What’d you need, babe?”

  “Can you watch Jamie? I have to get to the pharmacy.”

  “Now?”

  “I think I better. Can you do it? I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

  Worthy felt a cloud in the room as Henderson’s wife pulled away, and the two looked at each other.

  As soon as his wife left, Henderson walked to the window and turned his back on Worthy. “I got to take care of some things here. I’ll meet you at the church at nine tomorrow morning. No, tomorrow’s Saturday. I’ll be there on Monday. That is, if that’s okay with you.”

  The guy has some nerve, Worthy thought, as he studied the large shoulders of his partner. He’d come within an inch of losing his job and his wife had said she only needed an hour, but he was going to take the rest of the weekend off. The cooperative partner of only minutes before was gone. The other Henderson—the guy who’d tried to bash in Bales’ head—was back.

  Thursday morning found Worthy scratching his head and trying to believe what he was hearing over the phone. “This weekend?” he asked.

  “I had some plans that just fell through,” Allyson said, a defensive edge to her voice. “Do you want to go to the cabin or not?”

  He thought of Sherrod horning in on the case, of Henderson’s meltdown. Then he thought of all the things that he should be doing over the next two days, beginning with interviewing Lloyd Hartunian, the name that had surfaced in the parish council meeting. There was also the unfinished interview with Carl Bales as well as any responses to the plea in the church newsletter.

  He started to tell Allyson the trip was simply not possible, but then he stopped. Given Bales’ nasty head wounds, how likely was it that the skinhead would be released from the hospital before Monday? And hadn’t Mrs. Hazelton assured him the church mailing wouldn’t reach most people until early next week? That left the interview with Lloyd Hartunian as well as the need to alert the robbery division to be on the lookout for altarpieces.

  Most crucial of all, hadn’t Henderson’s mess created a kind of calm after the storm? Captain Betts had asked them to work together on everything, and Henderson had made it clear he wasn’t coming in until Monday.

  “This weekend it is, then,” he said.

  “Jeez, it took you long enough to decide,” Allyson said. “You know, we don’t have to do this.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “this weekend is fine, perfect in fact. When can we leave?”

  “I’m out of school by four o’clock tomorrow. So, I’ll be ready by five. Okay?”

  She’d only need an hour to get ready? This from the girl who could make him wait a half hour just to go out for pizza?

  “Like I said. It’s perfect.”

  He called Father Fortis to explain why he wouldn’t be in church on Sunday.

  “Blessings on you, Christopher. Yes, by all means, don’t worry about Sunday. I can’t tell you how glad your news makes me.”

  “Hard to figure, isn’t it? But it’s not the best time to leave town.”

  “It probably never will be. There’s just one problem from this end. Can you do something with me Friday afternoon before you leave?”

  Worthy paused. There was no way that he’d risk being late to pick up Allyson. “Yeah. Maybe, I mean. What is it?”

  “I got a call from Lloyd Hartunian about an hour ago. He asked me to stop by and see him after three thirty today. He claims he has something he wants to tell me as a priest.”

  “Maybe he’ll confess to killing Father Spiro,” Worthy joked.

  “Oh, if only it could be so easy. Anyway, I know you were planning to interview him and thought we might do it together.”

  “Actually, that was the one thing on my list I felt guilty about leaving undone, Nick. But now I’m thinking his seeing only you might work out even better. What’s Hartunian going to think if he’s expecting you to call and a cop comes along?”

  “I suppose you’re right. I just hope I don’t foul things up.”

  “You’ll be fine, Nick, but before I leave town, I wanted to ask you if you heard about the break-in at St. Michael’s.”

  “The Catholic Church? Both Mr. Margolis and Dr. Pappas called me about it this morning. They want to know if that proves ours was a robbery after all.”

  “Nick, ever think the timing on that break-in is a bit convenient?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m probably simply frustrated, but here we are just starting to figure some things out on Father Spiro—like maybe he wasn’t a nutcase after all—and this happens. If I didn’t know better, I’d accuse Sherrod.”

  “Sherrod? Oh yes, your predecessor.”

  “Who wants to be my successor,” Worthy added.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You sound tired, my friend.”

  “Well, between my partner beating up on a witness two hours ago and now Ally giving me my first real chance to spend time with her in nearly four years, I guess I am.”

  “Good Lord! Henderson beat up on somebody?”

  “Long story, Nick. I’ll tell you Monday.”

  “I know this won’t be easy, my friend, but try to let the case go this weekend. You have more important things to attend to.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. You don’t take weekends off when you’re in charge of a homicide investigation. And based on past experience, the time with Ally might be a bust.”

  He had an urge to ask his friend to keep him in his prayers, but that he could no longer do. Yet he had to admit that Father Fortis was right. With Hartunian thinking he was simply talking with the new priest, Worthy would find out more than if he did the interview himself. So, yes, he could devote his attention to Allyson. What did a father say to a daughter he’d been estranged from for nearly four years?

  “And Christopher,” Father Fortis said, “please don’t feel you need to respond to this, but I want you to know you’ll
both be in my prayers.”

  The following afternoon, an obese woman opened the door and squinted at Father Fortis. At the same moment, Father Fortis found himself overpowered by the fetid smells of decay and cats.

  The woman turned and called back into the dimly lit house. “Lloyd, dear, the new priest is here. Shall I let him in?”

  Before Father Fortis could puzzle over the odd question, a voice called back, “Well, of course, Sylvia. Bring him into the parlor.”

  Father Fortis followed the woman down a hallway lined with stacks of newspapers, yellowish brown at the bottom shading toward white at the top. The parlor itself was dark except for an island of light from two old floor lamps positioned next to each other. A similarly obese man stood in front of an overstuffed chair, his hands first in his pockets, then reaching to smooth back his oily hair. Lloyd Hartunian wore a flannel shirt with a string tie cinched to the top. His outfit was completed by black, wide-framed glasses precariously perched on his nose. Father Fortis had the feeling he’d walked into a New Yorker cartoon.

  “It’s so nice of you to come right over, Father,” Hartunian said, giggling as he rocked back and forth on his feet.

  “Not a problem,” Father Fortis replied. “I want to meet as many parishioners as I can.”

  Hartunian plopped down in the chair and motioned Father Fortis toward a couch. Father Fortis looked down on three cats who clearly had no intention of moving.

  “Sylvie, be a dear and move Franny and Zooey.”

  The woman did as she was told, then sat on the armrest of Hartunian’s chair. As Father Fortis sat down on the couch, he noticed a newspaper on the side table. The headline read GREEK ORTHODOX PRIEST FOUND STRANGLED. Why did he have the odd feeling the paper had been put there intentionally?

  Hartunian’s eyes were trained on the floor as he offered his visitor a cup of coffee. Father Fortis declined, not wanting to even imagine the taste of coffee brewed around so many cats and bowls of cat food.

  “And how do you like St. Cosmas, Father? I understand you’re a monk. My, my, what a big change that must be for you.”

  The woman stroked Hartunian’s hair. Who was she? Wife, probably, but she looked enough like Hartunian to be a sister. Her skin, like his, was so bloated by obesity that age was impossible to estimate.

  “Yes, St. Cosmas is a big change for me,” Father Fortis replied. “And a big challenge, especially when we consider what a tremendous ordeal everyone has been through.”

  Hartunian nodded, his eyes still on the floor. “But your voice is so lovely. Such a waste to hide that away in a monastery.”

  “So you were in church last Sunday?”

  “Just at the end. Problems with my teeth, don’t you know. Bleeding gums.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Diabetes, you see. Sylvie and I both have it.” Again, an odd smile beamed on Hartunian’s face. “But I wanted to comment on what you just said, Father, about St. Cosmas’ ordeal. You may not know this, but the parish has been going through an ordeal for some time. Very disconcerting over the past few months, what with deacons being transferred and then Father Spiro becoming so … ill, I guess one must say.”

  That’s one thing to be thankful for, Father Fortis thought. For some reason, Hartunian wanted to talk about Father Spiro as much as Father Fortis wanted him to.

  “I take it from your comment that you knew Father Spiro well, Mr. Hartunian.”

  The smile continued to play at the corner of Hartunian’s mouth. Sylvia sighed deeply.

  “I have no desire to speak ill of the dead, especially when I parted with him in a state of disagreement.” Hartunian reached up and took Sylvia’s hand. “And I think you’re being a bit coy with me, Father Fortis. That busybody, Mrs. Hazelton, must have told you your predecessor and I had a disagreement two weeks before he died. And then three weeks before that. I don’t make a secret of any of it.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Hazelton never mentioned it.”

  Hartunian looked disappointed. “I’m surprised.”

  “Could I ask what you spoke about?”

  “Well, Father, I believe that’s protected by confidential privilege,” Hartunian said with the same smile. He tilted his head back to push up his sagging glasses, causing Sylvia to shift her weight on the armrest.

  Why this teasing game? Father Fortis wondered. “No, of course you don’t have to tell me. It’s just that people have described Father Spiro so differently, and it would help if I understood him.”

  “Differently? How so?”

  “Some saw him as burdened with parish cares, I guess you might say. Others saw him as perhaps losing touch with reality.”

  Hartunian burst out in an overzealous laugh, causing two of the cats to slink farther away. “Sylvie, shall I tell our visitor what I thought of Father Spiro?”

  “Oh, Lloyd,” Sylvia giggled as she stroked his neck.

  “Well, to put it succinctly, the parish was near a veritable rupturing, and I blame Father Spiro. Crisis was imminent. My word, there was this embarrassing article in the paper, and Father Spiro was in geriatric la-la land. The same thing happened to my dear grandfather, didn’t it, Sylvie? So I know what I’m talking about. Classic symptoms, Father.”

  “Such as?”

  “There was that terrible display his last Sunday. Surely, you heard about that.”

  “Of course.”

  “But even before that. Well, what can I say? The parish was flying in all directions, and what did Father Spiro do with his time? He had confabs with rabbis and maybe imams for all we know.”

  Sylvia’s swollen hand moved to her mouth to cover a giggle.

  How did Hartunian know about that? “Was that what you disagreed about?” Father Fortis asked.

  Hartunian removed his glasses and began cleaning them on his shirt. “We disagreed about a whole variety of things. Where should I start? Perhaps I should begin when I came into the Orthodox Church three years ago. That was when Deacon Daniel was on staff as well.”

  “Isn’t he Father Daniel?” Father Fortis asked.

  “Technically true, Father. Yes, all ordained, and so they sent him on his way. With my blessing, I might add.”

  “You didn’t like Father Daniel?”

  Hartunian moved his attention to the ceiling. “I’d say on his behalf that he did his best to cover up Father Spiro’s missteps. But Father Daniel had too much of an agenda. He thought he was St. Paul bringing in the Gentiles, if you take my meaning.”

  “Converts, I assume,” Father Fortis said. “But aren’t you a convert, Mr. Hartunian?”

  Hartunian sat up straight in the chair. “My grandfather was half-Greek, and the rest of my family is Armenian. Deacon Daniel’s crowd is an entirely different breed. Some are quite devout, but others are simply embarrassing. They can’t even follow the liturgy, Father.”

  “And Father Daniel?”

  “He pushed for English all the time, even though his Greek was passable.”

  “And you raised your objections with Father Spiro?” Father Fortis asked.

  One of the cats jumped back up in Hartunian’s lap. Hartunian stroked her neck in time with how Sylvia was stroking his. “Naturally, I did. I wasn’t going to stand by and see Orthodoxy divorced from her Hellenic base, was I, Sylvie?”

  The woman shook her head adamantly.

  “There must have been something else, though,” Father Fortis said. “Father Daniel left St. Cosmas long before your last conversation with Father Spiro.”

  “Of course, and I’m happy to tell you about that, Father. In fact,” he said, fingering the bow of his glasses, “you may be able to help me. You see, I asked Father Spiro for the smallest of favors. I work at a church supply store downtown, Blitzen’s. You may have heard of it. Ask that busybody Mrs. Hazelton. Anyway, I’ve been there for, oh, so many years. I asked Father Spiro to speak with the owner about a promotion, one I richly deserve. I have seniority, you know. Well, it didn’t seem Father Spiro did anything, even after
I repeatedly spoke with him about it. As I said, his mind was slipping badly.”

  So, is this the real reason Hartunian called me out here? Father Fortis wondered. To help him get a promotion? No, that wouldn’t explain the cat and mouse game he was playing. Hartunian had invited him to his house to find out how much he and the police knew about his relationship with Father Spiro.

  “About your promotion, Mr. Hartunian,” he protested, “you must realize I know few in this city—outside the parish, I mean.”

  “Does that mean you refuse my request?”

  There was an edge to Hartunian’s voice, and Father Fortis saw the odd man before him in a new light. Could Hartunian be the killer? It would be the question Worthy would ask him. And what would he say? Two answers came to mind at the same time. Yes, indeed, a man this bizarre could do anything. And no, this guy wasn’t capable of planning such a crime, much less carrying it out. So it took Father Fortis a few seconds to see the request from another angle. Wouldn’t Worthy want to talk with Hartunian’s boss, if for no other reason than to find out if Hartunian had been at work that fateful Tuesday morning?

  Father Fortis rose from the couch, longing to return to sunshine and clean air. His movement caused the cat on Hartunian’s lap to fly off in alarm. “Mr. Hartunian, the promotion isn’t in my hands, but I can promise you that I’ll personally speak with your boss as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Ten

  All morning Friday at the precinct, Worthy tried to stay as busy with minutiae as possible. Yet, there was no way he could avoid thinking of the weekend ahead at the cabin with Allyson. With so much that could go wrong, he chastised himself for not settling for a less risky situation. But he knew that there were no amount of movies to watch or pizzas to eat that would salvage their relationship before Allyson went away to college. A weekend at the cabin, just the two of them, was a risk. Time, however, was running out.