“I’m sure I told you, Nick. He has this habit of slugging people. First another cop, and then a suspect. The guy’s got a career death wish.”
“Perhaps he’s in the wrong profession.”
Worthy shook his head. “That’s the odd thing. When he’s working at it, he’s really very good. Remember, he’s the one who found the diary. And he’s worried about hurting his family, that’s for sure. Hell, Nick, how do I know what makes a person do that kind of thing?”
“But you do, my friend. It’s exactly what you do with your victims. You study their lives and get to know them. It seems a bit odd that when you saw Father Spiro’s look of anger in that photo, you became instantly focused on figuring out why he was so angry.”
Worthy nodded slowly. “But with Henderson it’s different. That does frustrate the hell out me—to see somebody screwing up his life.”
“And with your victims?”
Worthy shook his head. “With them, I get this weird feeling that they want me to do what I do. I trace their lives, and it’s like I can feel them encouraging me to understand them. That’s how I find who killed them. I find out who crossed their paths.”
“I remember what you said last week. You said victims unknowingly head toward an encounter. I think you also said that murder is like falling in love.”
“Imagine how much worse Mrs. Nichols would feel if I told her that her husband let it happen.”
“Maybe he did, Christopher. He’s an untenured professor hoping to keep his job, right? He has the wife of a senior faculty member in his class. Why wouldn’t he try to make a good impression, offer her extra help when she began hanging around? He just misunderstood the cues.”
Worthy sighed. “So if I’m so good at understanding dead people, why am I so bad with the living?”
“I wonder how Allyson would answer that question.”
“I can tell you. She says I’m a glory hound, that I do it for the commendations.”
Father Fortis patted Worthy on the arm. “We both know that’s not it, my friend. How about turning the question around? Why do you care so much about the dead?”
“I don’t think I care about them any more than you do. A half hour ago, weren’t you the one saying how much work Father Spiro’s memorial service is getting to be? How is that different? Can’t people see that caring about the dead is what we’re both paid to do?”
“People? Now it’s plural?”
“My new captain has been more than a bit disappointed in me. I mean, as a partner. No, as Henderson’s mentor.”
Father Fortis wondered if Worthy needed him to point out that it was two women who noticed the same thing about him. “You said you don’t care for the dead any more than I do as a priest. What was your father like?”
Worthy’s brow furrowed. “You mean as a minister?”
“Yes. What happened when someone in your father’s church was close to death?”
Worthy was silent for a moment. “I don’t remember. I don’t think we saw him much then. He would be at the hospital and then planning the funeral.”
“You say you didn’t see him much?”
Worthy’s next words came out slowly, as if he was recalling something from a long time ago. “I remember my mom keeping his plate warm in the oven. And I remember her telling us to be quiet, that Dad needed to rest when he came home. But that’s just normal. I mean, the dead ….”
Father Fortis gazed up at the altar. “What about the dead, my friend?”
Worthy squinted down at his hands. “I remember that he once said that the dying feel so alone. That they’re on the last part of their earthly journey. That they needed our help.”
Father Fortis smiled. “Pretty good theology for a Baptist, but maybe not so good for a father. Do you mind telling me what it was like when your father died?”
Worthy grimaced. “He got lung cancer. He was so ashamed. Here he was a Baptist minister who’d never smoked a cigarette in his life, and he got lung cancer.”
“Was his passing easy?”
“It was awful. He seemed so … so scared.”
“So alone?”
Worthy nodded.
Father Fortis patted Worthy’s arm again. “I think this time you should listen to Allyson.”
“And do what? Forget that we lost our only lead on this case?”
Father Fortis rose. “Yes, my friend, that’s exactly what I’m saying. For the rest of today, forget about the case. I’m serious, Christopher. For the rest of today, let the dead bury the dead.”
Chapter Fifteen
After Worthy left, Father Fortis thumbed through the stack of materials Mrs. Hazelton had deposited on his desk. There was a packet of photos from Mr. Bagios of Father Spiro’s funeral, with a note: “Thought you might want to see these.”
I will look at them, I will, he thought, but first things first. He found the phone number of Father Daniel, the seminarian who’d served at St. Cosmas. It was only two days before Father Spiro’s memorial service, and contrary to his advice to Worthy, he’d spend every moment of the next two days thinking about the dead.
But even as Father Fortis dialed Father Daniel’s number in East Lansing, he found it hard to let the disappointment of the morning go. What would Worthy do now? Peggy Hagarty wasn’t out of the picture, but was she any more a suspect now than someone like Lloyd Hartunian?
He had to admit that his concerns went beyond Worthy’s feelings. His friend’s certainty about Mrs. Hagarty had led him to hope that the case could be resolved in time for Father Spiro’s memorial. He had already thought fondly of returning to the monastery and leaving the computer, copy machines, and stresses of St. Cosmas behind. Parish ministry was for a juggler, someone who wouldn’t drop the twenty duties when one or two more were tossed his way.
He dialed the number for St. Demetrius in East Lansing and was put through to Father Daniel by a cheery secretary. After introducing himself, Father Fortis explained the main purpose of his call. “I understand the parish council already invited you to attend Father Spiro’s memorial. I want you to know that you’re invited to serve with the other clergy at the altar.”
“Very kind of you to call, Father. I’ve already asked another priest from the diocese to fill in for me. Let me put you on hold and see if he has it on his calendar.” Father Fortis could hear music in the background and was pleased to note that it was jazz. He had seen a number of converts who’d gone into the priesthood and generally found himself uncomfortable in their presence. Many converts were so intent on leaving no doubt about their devotion to Orthodoxy that they went overboard. Some dressed as if they’d taken monastic orders, and from what he’d heard, ran their parishes the same way. He’d heard of one who encouraged his parishioners to adopt the sparse diet of monks and nuns until the metropolitan had put a stop to it. That was the kind who played CDs of Byzantine chant as if it were the twelfth century, not the twenty-first. But jazz was a good sign.
Father Daniel’s voice broke in again. “Yes, everything is covered here. And I’d be honored to serve at the altar.”
“How’s the new parish going?” Father Fortis inquired.
“It’s a challenge. We had thirty in Divine Liturgy last Sunday. That’s a high number for us, by the way.”
“University folk, I suppose?”
“So far it’s a mix, really. A few faculty from Greece and Russia. Some Serbian students who are pretty regular. And some converts like me.”
“Blessings on you for taking up the challenge.”
“I think that I should be saying that to you. When I heard about Father Spiro’s death, I felt terrible, of course, but what made it worse was the thought that the metropolitan might ask me to go back to St. Cosmas. Then somebody on the parish council—I think it was Dr. Boras—emailed me about your coming. No, I wouldn’t trade with you, Father.”
“That rough, huh?”
“You should know by now. St. Cosmas is a typical parish, no worse, I suppose, than most.
Are they still pulling in five different directions?”
“You mean about moving?”
“That and the whole issue of language in the liturgy. That’s what I like about East Lansing. The liturgy here is ninety-nine percent English, and best of all, no one complains.”
“The English has to happen,” Father Fortis said. “You’re just ahead of the rest of us.” He liked the no-nonsense nature of the young man, but he could see how Mrs. Filis and some of the old-timers would have resented him. “Father Daniel, do you have time for a few questions?”
“Fire away.”
“How long were you here at St. Cosmas?”
“Let’s see. I came right after my course work at the seminary. St. Cosmas started as my field experience; then I stayed on a bit. I was there three long years, but I should also say that I made some great friends there.”
“Why did they send you all the way out to Detroit, and especially to St. Cosmas? From what I’ve been told, Father Spiro wasn’t an educated man.”
“A few on the parish council, the college types there, said I shouldn’t expect to learn much. They thought that I’d been sent to bail Father Spiro out. And at first, it did seem that way. Father Spiro was getting pretty old and set in his ways. But I can see now that I learned a lot from him. Like how a priest has to have broad shoulders and a thick skin.”
“The thick skin I understand, but explain the broad shoulders.”
“To deal with everything people tell you, and I’m not just talking about confession. In his own way, he really knew those people, and good Lord, did he love them. I’m not sure they realized that.”
Father Fortis considered the point. “Did he ever tell you what those burdens were?”
“Some of them, but I could tell he kept a lot to himself.”
Father Fortis decided to overrule Worthy’s warning. “I’d like to tell you something in strictest confidence, Father.”
Father John hesitated for a moment before asking a question of his own. “I’m okay with that, but I’m wondering if Dr. Boras was right when she said you investigate murders.”
“I wouldn’t put it that way. It’s fairer to say that a good friend of mine is heading up the investigation. A very good detective. I help him out when and where I can.”
“I don’t know that I have anything helpful to add,” Father Daniel said, “but please go ahead.”
“Thank you, Father. The police have discovered that Father Spiro kept a secret diary of some of the tougher issues. Only Mrs. Hazelton knows that we found it, and we’d like to keep it that way for the present.”
“That doesn’t sound good. Of course, with Father’s memory problems, I suppose what you’re saying makes sense. He never told me about it, if that’s what you’re asking. But to keep it from the parish? Hmm.”
“Don’t read too much into that,” Father Fortis tried to reassure him. He could see now his request for confidentiality would only make Father Daniel more curious. “You talked about Father Spiro’s memory problems. Did you see that getting worse while you were here?”
“Parishioners warned me about it, of course, but Bernice—Mrs. Hazelton, I mean—would keep him on track. I’d forgotten about Bernice. I suppose she’s taking all this pretty hard.”
“She told me the very morning I arrived how guilty she felt.”
“Guilty?” Father Daniel repeated.
“Yes, for not being at St. Cosmas that morning,”
“That’s so much like Bernice. But then I admit that I felt the same when I first heard. Would he have died if I’d stayed on staff there? Guilt catches you coming and going, doesn’t it? But about your other question. Father Spiro’s memory did get worse, and quite suddenly over my last months there. It was like someone threw a switch. He missed appointments, couldn’t be reached by phone, that sort of thing. He left me in the lurch more than once. That’s when the parish council started pushing him to consider retirement.”
Father Fortis asked, “All of a sudden? When was that?”
“I’d say sometime in early fall. I asked him if he was okay. He just shrugged.”
“Mr. Margolis told me Father Spiro had talked about retirement but then didn’t want to consider it for some reason.”
“Same with me. I asked him about it when I knew I’d be leaving St. Cosmas. I didn’t want him to think that I was trying to push him aside. He told me he had some things he needed to get straightened out. Then he’d retire.”
“Were those things at St. Cosmas?” Father Fortis asked.
“That’s what I assumed. I suppose it could have been something else. Like I said, he never said what he was so worried about. But then he always saw me as a seminarian, someone sent by the metropolitan. I’m not saying he resented me, but sometimes I got the feeling I was in his way.”
Father Fortis would have gladly welcomed some help from a young priest like Father Daniel. He sounded like a juggler, someone who enjoyed the challenges being thrown his way. Funny that an old priest like Father Spiro hadn’t appreciated it. “Did anyone ever tell you what happened on Father Spiro’s last Sunday, Father?” he asked.
“Someone from the parish council—was it Dr. Boras? No, I don’t think so. Anyway, someone told me at the funeral about some fit he had.”
“No one really knows what happened,” Father Fortis said, “but he did stop right in the middle of one of the processions. You knew the man in a way maybe no one else did. After all, you served in the altar area with him. I’d be interested in your theory as to what happened.”
“My theory? Well, I heard he just lost it—blanked out, I guess you could say. What else could it have been?”
“Someone else said she saw him staring at the side wall when he stopped. He could have been looking at the icons in the windows.”
“Really?” Father Daniel asked. “I used to do that at St. Cosmas.”
Father Fortis sat up. “Oh?”
“Not when I first got there. No, I was too worried about messing up my lines during the procession. But one Sunday, I turned the corner in the back and looked over to the window and read the letters on this one icon. It turned out to be St. Barbara, the martyr, who is my wife’s patron saint, and I thought for a moment that she was looking at me. It sounds stupid, but I always noticed her after that. I liked to believe she was smiling, although from the stories we know about her, I’m not sure she was the smiling type.”
A fragment of a thought, out of focus and ablur, flitted through Father Fortis’ mind, departing as quickly as it had come. He remembered looking up at the stars with his brother when he was a kid. His brother had this unerring ability to see shooting stars, and would call out, “There, Nicky!” But his own luck was always bad. He’d spin around in the yard and stare up, only to hear his brother say that he’d just missed it.
Worthy pulled up in the driveway and left the motor running. He jogged up to the door and knocked. Susan came to the door.
“Chris, what is it?” she asked, giving him a wary look.
“Is Allyson here?”
“She’s upstairs, doing homework.”
“Can I borrow her … take her somewhere for about an hour?”
Susan hadn’t yet opened the door to let him in. “Where? What’s going on, Chris?”
“It’s hard to explain. Can you just tell her I’d like her to go with me to Henderson’s house?”
“Henderson? Who’s he?”
“He’s my partner. She knows about him. Tell her I need her.”
Susan gave Worthy a puzzled look. “You’re going to have to ask her that yourself.”
“Fine, fine. Just tell her I want her to go to Henderson’s with me.”
Susan disappeared. He waited, hoping Amy wouldn’t try to pull him into the house. Minutes passed, and he expected to see Susan’s face again through the screen. What sense would Allyson make of his request? She probably thinks I’m trying to prove my point, to rub it in, he thought, acknowledging with a grimace that’s exactly wha
t he had wanted that morning.
To his surprise, Allyson came out with her coat on. Without a word, the two walked to the car and drove off.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Whatever. Anything to get me away from that chem report,” she said, but he noticed she sat erect in the seat, her eyes glued forward.
They drove in near silence across town, as if both were ready for what was about to happen. Worthy, however, knew only how things would start. From there, it was up to Henderson.
He knocked on the door, with Allyson standing next to him. Henderson’s wife answered and gave Worthy the same kind of wary look Susan had. It must be written all over my face, he thought.
“Carnell isn’t here,” she said.
“Mrs. Henderson, this is my daughter, Allyson. Will your husband be back soon?”
She looked from one of them to the other for a moment. “Please come in,” she said.
Worthy followed Allyson into the house. On the couch, Henderson’s boy Jamie sat ramrod straight, watching TV as he had the last time. “Do you mind if we wait in here with your son?” he asked.
Mrs. Henderson started to respond, but stopped and only nodded. “I’ll make some coffee. What would you like, Hon?” she asked Allyson.
Allyson pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “Coffee’s fine.”
Worthy sat down on the couch next to Jamie, while Allyson took a seat in a chair. Without looking their way, the boy reached for an open bag of potato chips and drew it next to him.
“Hi, Jamie, remember me?”
The boy didn’t look away from the TV.
“What’s on?” Worthy asked.
This time the boy glanced at Worthy before returning to a cartoon show. “Who’re you?”
“My name is Chris. I work with your Dad. And this is my daughter, Allyson.” He waited, but the boy’s attention was solely on the TV, his hand rummaging in the snack bag.
“Do you know the name of this show, Ally?”
Before she could respond, the boy rose from the couch and walked stiffly toward the kitchen. His pants seemed too high, his belt too tight. At one point, Jamie steadied himself on the corner of Allyson’s chair before leaving the room.
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 19
