“You must know the gravity of your sin, of killing someone who brought Christ’s forgiveness to you every Sunday. You stand in the shoes of Judas, Dr. Stanos. Your gun can’t change that.”
Stanos leaned forward, gazing intently at Father Fortis. “I told you already that I don’t expect to use this. You see, I’m here to offer you a chance to understand a tragic event beyond the normal issues of fault and guilt. The truth is I killed Father Spiro in self-defense.”
“Self-defense? Father Spiro was an old man, while you’re obviously still quite fit. Are you telling me he attacked you, and you were forced to strangle him?”
“Nick, Nick. Please try to transcend the surface appearance of things. If someone breaks into a home and holds a gun on that family, would anyone charge the father of murder if he managed to take the gun away and kill the intruder?”
“A ludicrous comparison. Father Spiro—”
Stanos cut him off. “Father Spiro was intent on destroying my entire life—my reputation, my position in the community, and my family’s livelihood—as surely as if he was holding that gun.”
“You make no sense.”
“Sense? What sense does this make? The old man had an appointment with the dean of my college for that Wednesday. Do you know why?”
“We’d been led to believe it concerned the icon exhibit,” Father Fortis replied. “I can see now that it was something far more serious.”
“Spiro asked to see me that Tuesday morning, and I assumed the same thing. My second guess is that he wanted to discuss his retirement. After all, that faltering in the liturgy made things pretty clear to everyone. I came, intent on assisting in any way I could. I guess you could say I came in a Christian mood.”
Father Fortis pondered the comment. Was it possible Stanos still didn’t know why Father Spiro had stopped that Sunday? “Don’t mock the dead, Dr. Stanos. You came to kill him.”
Stanos rose slightly, his hand slamming down on the edge of the desk. “No! And please have the courtesy to let me finish before you decide who was mocking whom.” He sat down again, the smile returning. “It was a beautiful January morning, cold but bracing. Perfect weather for gloves. Lucky for me, you might say.”
Father Fortis shook his head. “Instead of these rationalizations, I beg you to confess your sins and throw yourself on the mercy of God. Things could be … difficult after the police arrive.”
“Oh, my, perhaps I underestimated you, Nick. You’re sounding as obstinate as old Spiro.” Stanos paused ominously, gazing down at the handgun.
This isn’t good, Father Fortis thought. I have to keep him talking on the odd chance Christopher will come through that door. “You left a clue, you know,” he said abruptly. “That’s why we knew it was someone in the parish.”
Stanos’ eyes rose from the gun. “Don’t insult me,” he sneered. “The only clues I left pointed to a robbery gone amok.”
“Then you left the clue unconsciously, Doctor. Perhaps you wanted to be caught after all.”
“Are you stalling, Nick?”
For the first time, Father Fortis detected a break in Stanos’ confident tone. “Not at all. After killing Father Spiro, you bent down and straightened his epitrachelion.”
“What?” Stanos snorted.
“It’s right there in the police photo. Your neatness tripped you up, Doctor.”
“Not me, Nick, not me. I took a mental picture before I left and everything looked perfectly natural.”
“But murder isn’t natural. People do strange things.”
“No! It wasn’t me!” Stanos lapsed into silence for a moment. “But I believe you. Otherwise, why didn’t the police stay in the projects, leaving you and me to plan a fitting memorial for Spiro?”
Stanos gazed down again at the gun. “You see, none of this had to happen. An old man gets a crazy idea in his head, and he decides to destroy my whole life, not to mention my family’s. What could I do?”
“You mention Father Spiro’s crazy idea. Let me make a guess. A young man, an altar boy, confesses to Father Spiro that he is experiencing sexual confusion. He hints that someone close to him encouraged this, but he won’t say who.”
Stanos glared up at him.
“You see, I lied to the parish council,” Father Fortis continued. “We found that missing book.” He waited a moment for the information to sink in. “It turned out to be a confidential confessional diary. The boy’s pain is all over it.”
“But not my name, Nick, or I’d be talking to the police instead of you right now. I want to tell you something, and then I want you to tell me if you think I’m guilty. For twenty years, I’ve worked with the altar boys here. Never did I violate that trust. Do you want me to count how many have grown up and asked me to be godparent to their children? They came to me when they couldn’t even talk to their parents or old Spiro. Sometimes, I was the only one who knew about their girlfriends missing a period, their pot smoking, their brushes with the law. Does that sound like someone who ‘confuses’ boys?”
Father Fortis remained silent.
“Like I said, I came here that morning and found him by the altar. He was looking all sorrowful, big sad eyes, and I thought someone in the parish had died. He told me he wanted to give me a chance to confess my sin before he went to the dean at the college. So I sat in the front pew, my gloves and coat still on, this coldness seeping into my body. I’m sure I shivered. I thought the old guy had really lost it. I asked him to tell me what he thought I’d done that was horrible enough to cost my family everything.”
Father Fortis noticed the lack of remorse as Stanos relived that morning. It crossed his mind that revisiting those moments might be a danger to his own safety. Stanos was too bright not to be considering his options with a second priest barring his path.
“He said I had lured one of the altar boys into homosexuality,” Stanos continued. “I laughed at the charge, but he just gave me those sad eyes. That’s when I knew he really believed it! I kept asking myself, ‘Why does this man want to destroy me?’ I asked for evidence. He stood up there by the icons and asked me, like some cheap talk-show host, if I’d hugged boys on occasion or if I’d put my arm around their shoulders. Imagine if you were asked that question, Nick. Given the climate in this country, a rumor like that would drive you right out of this parish.”
“So you’re claiming the accusation was completely false?”
Stanos stared at him. “The truth is this: a certain percentage of all boys will be oriented that way. This old, senile priest, who should have retired years ago, was isolating a few minutes out of my entire life, minutes of great ambiguity. If I offered back some neutral acceptance to a few who were becoming aware of this orientation, is that damnable or commendable? Look, Nick, I’m not gay or even bisexual.”
Father Fortis considered the claim and then realized that Stanos was telling the truth. “No, I can see that you’re something quite different, someone obsessed with being adored. You crave being adored by your students, by Dr. Boras, by the altar boys, and by this troubled boy. Yes, I see it now. The boy’s physical attraction to you didn’t excite you in return; rather, it simply flattered you. You enjoyed his devotion, didn’t you?”
“Spare me the pop psychology,” Stanos replied in a hoarse whisper. “We’re talking about a few minutes … a very few, seen in a very jaundiced light. Think back over your own life, Father. Could you pass such a test?”
Father Fortis tried to imagine some plan of escape. Stanos was obviously nearing the end of his story, and then what? The man sat, gun in hand, between himself and the door. The desk prevented him from throwing his considerable weight at Stanos and praying for the best. His only hope was to keep him talking. “So why didn’t you simply threaten Father Spiro with libel?”
“Oh, come on. Every man has his enemies, especially in academia. In the jockeying for recognition, innuendoes and outright lies abound. The hint of a rumor like this would sink me.”
There was a note of w
istfulness in Stanos’ voice. “The college is all about the pursuit of truth, unless it’s about a faculty member’s personal life. When old Spiro wouldn’t see reason, I knew one of us would die that day.”
“And so you strangled him.”
Stanos studied his face. “It was an unavoidable tragedy, but it was his own fault. That’s what I saw clearly that morning and what has remained clear for me ever since. By the way, that’s where you and I differ, Nick.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Ever since we began our talk, I’ve felt your compassion for me. At times like these, Nick, you must remember that compassion clouds reason. I see you don’t yet understand. Let me put it this way. My guess is you’ve lost sleep trying to help this parish along while you help your lame friend, the cop, keep his job. Word has it he’s not doing so well there. Imagine while you’ve been tossing and turning at night that I’ve been sleeping soundly. Even that very first night. No, I’m not lying. I got up the next day, looked at myself in the mirror as I shaved and went off to work. Same captivating lectures. If anything, maybe I’m a bit wittier. Do you think that’s a good cover?”
“I think you’re describing life in hell. Is that what all this bragging is about—to convince me you have no remorse?”
“Reason it out, Nick. I was Spiro’s angel of mercy.”
Father Fortis rose from the chair. “You were his killer! Admit it.”
Stanos gave him a knowing smile. “Reason, Nick, reason. I gave him a better death than he had coming to him naturally, slipping away as he was into Alzheimer’s. I gave him a martyr’s death.” Stanos paused a moment, then continued, “I’ll tell you something no one else will ever know. He never struggled. I caught him by the vestment and started to pull. The old man just relaxed, absolutely relaxed in my grip, and then he just smiled. We did it together, Nick.”
A shiver went through Father Fortis’ frame. “Why are you telling me this if you don’t want to confess?”
“I want to give you a chance. You see, I trust you can do what I’ve done. Call it a confession, if you like, but put reason ahead of emotion. Picture what I’m telling you. See Spiro’s smile as he saw the truth too. He received a good death—quick, almost painless. See it clearly, and you’ll admit that no one will benefit from my life being destroyed. Keep what I’ve told you in the confidence of the confessional, and let us all move forward.”
“And the police? Do you honestly think they’ll give up? Do you really believe the city will let them?”
Stanos smiled. “I have always assumed the worst that could happen is the police will yank some good-for-nothings off the streets. So, you see, your silence means it’s unlikely they’ll ever solve it.”
My silence, Father Fortis thought. Yes, that was what Stanos had come for, to make sure one way or another that he remained silent. Perhaps it was time to think of dying as faithfully as Father Spiro had done. But he would not go smiling. If he was to die, he must find some way for Stanos’ identity to be known.
“So, either I damn my soul as a priest, or you kill me. Is that it?” he asked.
Stanos shrugged and lifted his gun. From down the hall came the sound of the side door opening, then closing with its characteristic bang. Stanos rose quickly, moving behind the door. Father Fortis’ brain raced, searching for a way to alert Worthy to the trap he was walking into.
But it was a woman’s voice that echoed down the hallway. “Are you there, Father?”
What is Mrs. Filis doing here? he thought.
The woman stood in the doorway, her eyes seeking his. “Oh Father, I’m so glad you’re here. I walked over to tell you something … about Father Spiro.”
From behind the door, Stanos motioned with the gun for Father Fortis to get rid of her.
This is my chance, Father Fortis thought. Stanos had been in control of matters for the last five weeks, throwing a brick through a window and directing the investigation back to the projects whenever they’d gotten too close. But he hadn’t planned on this interruption. Should he yell for Mrs. Filis to run for help? No, she’d never understand in time, and then where would they be? Better if he walked calmly toward her and suddenly lurched at the door, slamming it back onto Stanos. Yes, he would throw his weight on him and take his chances. He rose, hesitating for a second to plan his route.
But Mrs. Filis acted first and changed everything. “It was me, Father,” she said, stepping through the doorway. “When you stopped this morning in the liturgy, it all came back to me. What I told the police was wrong. I tried to tell you this morning, but you weren’t in the office. You see, when I saw him lying before the altar, I … I straightened the epitrachelion.” She reached with her hand to close it behind her.
“Oh, my Lord, John, you scared me. What are you doing?”
Father Fortis heard the splintering sound of bone as the barrel of the gun came down full force on the skull of the woman. Racing around the desk, he banged his leg on its corner, the impact of which sent him cascading to the floor. As he struggled to his feet and pushed himself forward, he saw Mrs. Filis totter for a second, losing consciousness just as the gun barrel hit the side of her head a second time.
Father Fortis dove over the crumpled body of the woman, his full weight driving into Stanos’ stomach. He heard the air go out of the man just as the gun barrel glanced off the back of his head. The room began to swim, but he was giddy with the thought that Stanos didn’t want to shoot the gun. He grabbed around Stanos’ waist and locked his hands, squeezing as he had in his wrestling days. The delicious memory of lifting an opponent off the mat came over him. It was the last thing he remembered before the bullet ripped through his shoulder and headed for his heart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Worthy pulled up beside the side door of St. Cosmas and parked behind Father Fortis’ car. One car, he thought, his heart leaping forward in the hope that there’d been a simple mistake. Maybe Nick left the wrong name in the voice message. He would find his friend safely in his office, gathering what he needed for the hospital call.
“Ally, I want you to stay here.”
Allyson folded her arms across her chest. “Why can’t I go too? Regulations, again?”
“Look, Ally, it’s probably nothing. You see, Nick’s car is the only one here. I’ll be back before you know it.”
As he exited the driver’s seat, Ally called after him. “Where’s your gun?”
He realized he’d misread her. She wasn’t being moody. She was scared. “Really, it’s just routine,” he said, forcing a smile. “Lock the doors if you want.”
The normalcy of finding the side door open added to his sense of relief. He closed the door quietly behind him and pondered calling out for Nick. But the silence of the church hushed him, and he jogged toward the office. Still no sound. Maybe Nick’s in the sanctuary, he thought.
Walking through the secretary’s office, he knocked lightly on the inner door. Nothing. He tried the handle and found it locked. He turned to head for the sanctuary, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Was that a groan? He pushed against the door and felt the frame give slightly. He heard the groan again, but why did it sound like a woman’s voice?
His chest tight, his breathing shallow, Worthy stepped back and hit the door full force with his shoulder. It flew open, and he reached in to flip the light switch. Nothing. But he could see two bodies lying on the floor in pools of blood. He raced toward Father Fortis, who was lying oddly on his stomach. Lying next to him, the woman groaned again. What has she done? he thought. What has this crazy woman done?
He fell to his knees and felt his friend’s neck for a pulse. There it is, he thought with relief, before noticing how weak it was. Worthy scanned his friend’s body, following the blood to its source—a small hole high in Nick’s shoulder. An entry wound, but no visible exit. Not good.
Next to him, the woman started mumbling. Where is her gun? he thought, realizing his own danger. He watched her rouse herself slightly,
wondering how and then why Nick had done so much damage to her head. Blood flowed freely from wounds buried in her white hair down onto her cheek.
He recognized her face from the photos of the morning and from the parish council meeting. She had sat in the GESP section of the photo. She was the one who’d sat next to the cardiologist. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he ordered.
“He shot Father,” she mumbled, pulling herself up on her elbows.
“Where’s the gun. Just tell me where your gun is.”
“He did it,” she insisted, her voice weakening. “He’s gone.”
Worthy stared at the woman. “He? Who did? Who’s gone?” Oh, my God, he thought. It was someone else.
The woman’s eyes fluttered, then rolled up into her head. He took her hands and felt the life go out of them. Who is she talking about? he thought, as he ran to the phone and dialed 911. As he gave the information, the woman’s body slumped sideways and fell back to the floor. The pool of blood on the carpet beneath Nick’s body was growing larger.
He ran to the side door and called out to Allyson. She can’t hear me, he thought, as he saw her bouncing in the seat to music on the radio. He ran out to his side of the car and knocked on the window.
Allyson jumped, looking at him with relief for a brief moment before her eyes grew wide. His window eased down.
“Daddy, you’re bleeding,” she gasped.
He nearly buckled with emotion, first seeing Nick lying in a pool of blood, now hearing his daughter address him in a way she hadn’t for so many years. “It’s not me, honey. Nick’s been shot, and there’s a woman not doing too well. Ally, I’m going to need your help.”
Tears streamed down Allyson’s face as she sat motionless in the car. Slowly, her door opened, and then she was running around the car to her father.
“Oh, my God, Daddy. Is he going to live?”
“Sure, sure he is. It’s not that bad,” he lied. “But I need you to apply some pressure to the wound while I check out some things.” As they ran together toward the church, he pulled out his handkerchief. “You can use this. It’s just until the paramedics come.”
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 24
