Boy Crucified

by Jerome Wilde

  IX

  DANIEL and I parted ways, and it was close to ten by the time I got home, only to discover my mother sitting on my sofa, watching my television, the volume too high for my liking. The sight of her made the pit of my stomach cold and small.

  She stared at the idiot box, her face haggard, old. She said nothing and did not seem to be aware of my presence. She was lost again, lost in her own world, in her own thoughts, lost in a place I could not follow—a place where none of us could follow.

  I preferred her this way, always had.

  “Did you take your meds?” I asked.

  She did not turn to look at me, did not acknowledge me, her attention fixated on the flickering screen, looking at things only she could see.

  I went up the stairs, tuning her out. I spent a long time in the shower, thinking about Eli and Frankie and feeling that I wanted to cry. I knew what sexual abuse could do, and I hated to see it happening to kids who couldn’t defend themselves, couldn’t make it stop, who didn’t know how. It was such an ugly, horrible thing to get caught up in. It was an invasion of your deepest, most private parts, in more ways than one. It did damage psychologists could only guess at but never really comprehend. It struck at the core, at who you thought you were as a person, at how you perceived and understood yourself. The ramifications went on and on.

  It was not possible for my mother to be around and for me to not think about it, to not remember what she had done. After a long time in the shower, I put a towel around my waist and went to my bedroom and crawled into bed. I thought about Daniel Qo and what I wouldn’t give to have him lying in the bed next to me, naked, horny, ready to take me to much sweeter, comforting places. I wanted to lay my head down on his belly and nurse at his cock like a child sucking a pacifier. I wanted to nurse myself to sleep with that flesh in my mouth. Or we could lay curled up, as Billy and I had once done, his hardness inside my ass, his warm arms holding me as we fell asleep, locked together as one body—“the two shall become as one.”

  It made me horny, thinking about it, but I resisted the urge to roll back the covers and help myself. Far better, I thought, to wait for Daniel Qo, to wait for the next time his warm lips were wrapped around my cock.

  The thought of it was soothing.

  Better yet, I could hold Daniel in my arms and make love to him, pushing my hardness deep into his insides, making it last as long as humanly possible. We could spice it up with poppers, make a night of it. What would it be like, fucking Daniel Qo, making those lovely muscles tense with the initial pain, having him completely at my mercy, spread-eagled on the bed while I hovered over him, pile-driving my way to a massive orgasm?

  Billy had taught me exactly what that would be like. I hadn’t been much of a fan of anal sex until Billy showed me the possibilities. With Billy, it was a quick first fuck, a little siesta, then a long-haul fuck that got better and better the more I got into it. He knew how to make it last. By the time he was finished, we were both sweating and exhausted and utterly spent.

  What would a night like that be with Daniel Qo?

  Thinking about it made me so horny I couldn’t help myself. I pushed back the covers and took hold of my cock and started stroking it, feeling a little foolish but desperate and needy and heedless. I wanted Daniel Qo to be sitting on my cock, humping me, pumping his slender hips up and down, getting me off while I stared up at his lovely muscles, his brownness, his maleness, his dark nipples, the curve of his jaw, those flashing white teeth. I wanted to stare up at him and know that he was mine—all mine—and that he would keep fucking me until I was satisfied and spent.

  I was gripped by a frenzy of lust; I hadn’t experienced such lust in a long, long time. It made me feel young, powerful, desirable. It made me feel complete, somehow, like a real person, not the shell of a person I’d been since Billy had died. I wanted to live again. I wanted to fuck again. I wanted to fuck and be fucked, risking my heart, my soul, my privacy, opening the doors, letting someone in, letting myself be swept away by their beauty and charm.

  The semen spilled out on my belly with a bit more vigor than usual. Instead of getting up to clean myself off, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dies irae

  I

  DANIEL was in the office when I arrived the following morning.

  “Hey, boss,” he said, flashing those white teeth.

  “Hey,” I replied, sitting down at my desk.

  He was beautiful, sitting there like he owned the place, like he knew how much I liked seeing him there. Bastard. He smiled at me as if he knew my secret thoughts.

  Just you wait, I thought.

  “Got plans for this weekend?” he asked innocently.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s about time I fucked somebody’s brains out. I might head over to 38th Street.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there,” he said.

  “If you do, your ass is grass.”

  “And you’re the lawnmower?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Dirty old man.”

  “Or maybe I’ll just stop by your place.”

  “Maybe I’ll cook you some Chinese food.”

  “Maybe I’ll bring lots of K-Y.”

  “Maybe I want you to.”

  I paused, looking over to him.

  “We could get into trouble, talking like this,” I said.

  “So why don’t you just ask me out and be done with it so we can get on with the day’s work?”

  “Inter-office romance is frowned upon.”

  “What they don’t know can’t hurt them.”

  “I don’t want it to get awkward.”

  “Neither do I. It’s just, you’ve got this older-man thing going on. I’m having a hard time thinking about anything else except you. It’s kinda crazy. So what do you say?”

  “About what?”

  “You were going to ask me out.”

  “I was?”

  “You know you were.”

  I find confidence attractive. I like a man who knows what he wants and is not afraid to go after it. Still, the warning bells were going off. Sleeping with your partner? Not a good idea. Not impossible, of course, and Daniel and I wouldn’t be the first to go down that path, but still, not always such a good idea.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  I gave him a long stare.

  “It’s not a lifelong commitment,” he said with a smile.

  “Perhaps I need something a bit more substantial than a one night stand,” I countered.

  “And you’re the only one? What, am I just a slut?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Daniel laughed. His eyes were filled with merriment.

  “What?” I asked, indignant.

  “You’re so cute. Old fuddy-duddy. That’s what I like about you.”

  “We’ll see how old I am.”

  “I hope so. So. Is it a date, then?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Can we get on with the job now?”

  II

  I CHECKED my e-mail to see which companies wanted to help me increase my breast size, or which ones were advising me that “she needs at least eight inches”—who, precisely?—not to mention the refinancing and debt consolidation messages. After plowing through all of those, there wasn’t much left.

  Jensen had sent a message informing me of a meeting this morning at seven thirty, and I looked at my watch. I had about fifteen minutes to spare. We were scheduled to discuss the case and compare notes, given the “intense media interest”—and, speaking of, there were numerous interview requests from all sorts of people, all of which I ignored.

  When Daniel and I went to the meeting room, Jensen was already there, as was Georgina Durmount and Mac Harris. Lt. Edwards, from the tech division, came in just behind us. Harlock showed up last of all.

  “Tommy,” he said, turning his big head in my direction, “please tell me you’re making progress. Please tell me that we don’t have to wait for someone
else to get crucified before you figure out what’s going on. You’re killing me here.”

  Harlock could be a pain in the ass when he wanted to be—of that there was little doubt. And he seemed to believe that excessive impatience would somehow speed things up, as if his detectives wanted more dead bodies to pile up while they dilly-dallied and ate donuts and picked their noses and did all they could to stretch out their murder investigations and pad their expense accounts.

  “So what have you got?” he asked.

  The eyes in the room turned to me.

  “At this point, not much,” I said. “I might point out that it’s only been a few days and we’re not talking about some schmuck popping his girlfriend here.”

  “Well, what are we talking about?” Harlock asked.

  I explained, as best I could, about Bishop James and St. Konrad’s, the crucifixions, about Frankie, Eli, the child abuse investigation being conducted by the Chillicothe authorities—everything we had learned up to that point.

  “So you think these kids are being whacked to keep them quiet?” Harlock asked.

  “It would appear that way, yes,” I said. “And it’s certainly effective.”

  “So we’re not talking about kids being chosen at random, are we?”

  “No.”

  He looked at Mac Harris, who seemed almost disappointed at this news. It wouldn’t be a whole lot of fun to go out in front of the cameras and say there was no reason to panic, that only a few select individuals were really at risk.

  Georgina spoke up. “I’ve looked at the autopsy results for Eli Smalley, and they compare very similarly with Frankie Peters. It’s almost the same crime. I also did the autopsy for Whitehead, and, as we suspected, the cause of death was that blow to the back of his head.”

  “Do we know what day he died?”

  “Friday night, early Saturday morning, same as Frankie Peters,” she said. “We also found fingerprints on the murder weapon. We ran them through the system, but they turned up nothing. If you’ve got a suspect, though, we can try to do a match.”

  I thought of Brother Leo. If we could match his fingerprints to that piece of two-by-four, we could close this case and be done with it.

  Next it was the turn of Lt. Edwards.

  “We’ve analyzed the materials that were sent over from Chillicothe—the barbed wire, the nails, and such—and they all match. They all came from the same source. So we’re talking about the same killer, using the same materials, from the same sources. If you could find some of this material—from this St. Konrad’s place, maybe—it might narrow down the list of suspects.”

  Grubbs’s men had already searched for barbed wire and nails at St. Konrad’s and had taken some samples. I explained that none had matched up exactly.

  “Then the source has to be elsewhere,” he said, shrugging.

  Elsewhere, yes. But where?

  “We’ve verified that the statue of St. Francis we found came from the gift shop at St. Konrad’s,” I pointed out.

  “We’re still looking at that bag of clothes you sent over,” Edwards added. “Looking for fingerprints, anything we can find. So far, nothing. Some pubic hairs, but those belonged to the victim. McCallin took some prints from the bag itself, but none of those pulled up any hits in the database. I think you need to fingerprint all the people at St. Konrad’s so we can do some comparisons.”

  That was on my list of things to do, and I said so.

  “Any thoughts on the ‘11-10’ that was carved into Eli’s chest?” Georgina asked.

  “I did a search this morning,” I replied. “It could stand for November 10, which is the feast day for St. Leo. Perhaps Brother Leo thought he was being clever, signing his work, as it were.”

  “What about the third boy, this Charlie Hopewell?” Harlock asked.

  “Chief Grubbs has been to see him, has a man posted to keep a lookout,” I said. “Apparently the kid is fine. He was questioned, said he didn’t know anything, and was tired of people asking. The family was not very happy, didn’t want a patrol car sitting in their driveway, told them to park it somewhere else if they wanted to stay. So there’s a patrol car stationed down the road a bit.”

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” Harlock asked, looking at me.

  “Finding Brother Leo,” I said.

  III

  JENSEN assigned four of his men to accompany Daniel and me to the Mattling house on Charlotte Ave in downtown Kansas City. If we could, we would pick up Brother Leo—Andrew Mattling—for questioning. Otherwise, we would talk to the parents and see if anything could be learned. The extra officers were there to make sure Brother Leo didn’t make a run for it. Two went around to the back of the house, and two stood on the porch.

  The neighborhood was poor, and the neighbors had a large dog in their fenced-off front yard that was barking like someone had stuck dynamite up its ass and lit the fuse.

  I knocked on the door. Daniel, at my side, was visibly apprehensive.

  A woman answered. She wore a full-length dress and had a rosary around her neck. She wore no makeup, no jewelry of any kind. She seemed plain, purposefully so.

  “Yes?” she asked, looking up at us in confusion.

  “We’re looking for your son, Andrew Mattling. Is he here?”

  “Andy?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh no,” she said. “Andy’s not here. He’s a religious brother, you know. He ain’t been here for years. Why are you looking for him?”

  “May we come in?” I asked.

  “You got ID?” she countered.

  I showed her my ID.

  She opened the door.

  The front room of the Mattling house was more like a church than a front room. A large altar dominated one wall, decorated with more statues than St. Peter’s Basilica. There were life-size statues of the Blessed Mother and the Sacred Heart standing on either side of the altar. Then, in another corner, was a shrine to the Infant of Prague. Another wall sported bookcases packed with old Catholic books—The Glories of Mary, True Devotion to Mary, old missals in Latin, lives of the saints.

  In the midst of this piousness was an old couch, covered in plastic, that we were invited to sit on. Next to it was an arm chair which Mrs. Mattling claimed.

  “When was the last time you saw your son?” I asked.

  “Christmas, it was,” she answered. “I always go to St. Konrad’s for Christmas.”

  “That’s in Chillicothe?”

  “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “I’ve been there myself,” I said. “Apparently your son was kicked out of St. Konrad’s. Did you know that?”

  She seemed confused by this piece of information.

  “Kicked out?”

  “Yes. By Bishop James.”

  She frowned, lowered her eyes, and stared at her lap.

  “Were you aware of that, Mrs. Mattling?” I asked.

  “Well, no, I wasn’t. I can’t imagine why they would kick him out. He’s the bishop’s right-hand man.”

  In more ways than one, I thought.

  “Has he been here recently?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Last Christmas was the last time I saw him, like I said. What would he come here for?”

  “Do you mind if we have a look around?” Daniel asked. He had his pad in hand, had made more notes while we talked.

  She glanced at him with a small sort of grimace, as if offended that we didn’t believe her and wanted to check for ourselves.

  “If you must,” she said.

  Daniel and two of the police officers began a search of the house. I remained behind.

  “What is this about?” she asked.

  “Your son is wanted in connection with a murder investigation,” I said.

  “Murder?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that’s ridiculous.”

  “We have reason to believe he might have been involved.”

  She said nothing.

  �
��Do you have a husband, Mrs. Mattling?”

  “He died,” she said, waving her hand. “Long time ago. Andy was fifteen. His father loved ice fishing, you know.”

  “He did?”

  “Oh, yes. We moved here from Michigan, you know. He always used to drive out onto Lake Michigan and go ice fishing—lots of men did that. When we moved here, he thought he’d try it. Truck went through the ice.”

  Oh.

  “I told him not to be stupid,” she said, “but he wouldn’t listen. Told him the ice wasn’t strong enough here. He said folks was too chicken to try it, didn’t know what they was missing, and he was going to show them. Well, he certainly did, didn’t he?”

  That was one way to look at it.

  “So your husband went through the ice?”

  “He was a damned fool,” she said. “And we moved here to get away from all that ice and snow. Isn’t that something?”

  “I’m very sorry,” I said.

  “A long time ago,” she replied. “Nothing to be sorry about now.”

  “Has your son called you lately?”

  “No. He never calls. They don’t allow that.”

  “And he hasn’t visited?”

  “You got wax in your ears or something?”

  “Just double-checking.”

  “No. He ain’t been here. Ain’t seen him.”

  Daniel and the two police officers returned from the upstairs area. They had not found him.

  I gave Mrs. Mattling my card and asked her to call if she heard from her son.

  IV

  THE funeral for Eli Smalley was being held at 2:00 p.m. that day, so we made the two-hour drive to Chillicothe once more.

  The folks at St. Konrad’s did not prevent us from attending the funeral Mass. Dozens of mourners milled about, outside the chapel doors, more inside. The students strode by in a long line, proceeding into the chapel and straight up to the front. They had a military look to them, dressed as they were in black and white.

  The men sat on the right; the women on the left. Girls, dressed in school uniforms which included veils, sat in front, opposite the boys. Behind them were more nuns than I’d seen in a long time. Behind the boys were row upon row of priests and religious brothers. Behind all of these, on both sides, were the lay people, most kneeling in the pews, fumbling with rosary beads.