Boy Crucified

by Jerome Wilde

  Eli Smalley himself was in a plain wooden casket that had been wheeled up the center aisle and was now just in front of the communion rail. His casket was draped with purple, and large black candles were lit on either side.

  Daniel and I found places in the back. We felt very much out of place.

  Brother Francis came over to us. “Do you gentlemen need assistance?” he whispered.

  “Is it all right if we attend?” I asked.

  “Of course, Lieutenant. Why wouldn’t it be? I will bring you a missal so you can follow along. I just wanted to point out that only members of the community are allowed to receive Communion, just to avoid any potential embarrassment.”

  He hurried off. Daniel and I, it seemed, were not good enough for Communion at St. Konrad’s. Brother Francis returned with a missal and a brief explanation of how to follow along, then the choir started up—the haunting, beautiful music came from above and behind us in the choir loft.

  A Solemn High Mass got underway. It started with an introduction known as Asperges Me, a sprinkling rite that includes the lyrics “wash me and I shall be whiter than snow,” a quote from the Hebrew Bible.

  It was a beautiful song. The celebrant, Father Alexius, appeared in the sanctuary with about a dozen servers, all their movements precise, well rehearsed. The servers were dressed in black cassocks with white surplices. Father Alexius was dressed in black vestments. I had seen some of those at St. Joseph’s, but we had never used them, preferring white. His two main assistants, the subdeacon and deacon, were also dressed in black vestments, though they were slightly different, as if to signify their differing statuses.

  The Mass was conducted in Latin, and the congregation seemed to know when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel, when to bow their heads. The choir sang; the mourners did not. The servers in the sanctuary responded to Father Alexius; the mourners did not. It seemed our role was simply to watch and be dazzled.

  And we were.

  Father Alexius’s voice filled the large chapel by way of a small mic on his lapel, his Latin crisp and assured. He was answered by his many assistants, in Latin, perfectly timed, the sound of it almost thunderous. Not one of his servers—most high school boys, from the look of it—put a foot wrong. There was no nose scratching, no fiddling with the cassock, no tripping, no flubbed lines. It was a very stylized ritual, and the players knew their parts. The epistle and gospel readings were chanted to us, not read. There was no sermon. The funeral service part of the Mass was also conducted in Latin, and I was clueless as to what was being said on Eli Smalley’s behalf. There was no eulogy. No one got up to offer their remembrances of the boy.

  Instead, as was made clear by the missal, we were supposed to be praying and beseeching God to be merciful, to spare Eli Smalley the pains of hell, and perhaps even the pains of purgatory. There was no assurance that Eli Smalley was now in heaven. There was every fear that he might have died in mortal sin and was thus eternally damned. So we prayed: for his soul, for God to have mercy, for the Blessed Mother to remember Eli Smalley’s devotion to her (if he’d had any, I thought). We were reminded that God is stern, just, that nothing is certain, that salvation is not a given, that we must approach the throne of God in fear and trembling. We were to pray for the repose of his young, tender soul.

  There were no tears, no grieving relatives. Indeed, I looked around and could not even find Mrs. Smalley or Mr. Smalley, nor any of Eli’s brothers and sisters. At their son’s funeral, they were apparently not allowed to sit together.

  It was all rather disturbing.

  By the time it was over, I was heartily depressed.

  We followed the mourners as Eli Smalley’s casket was taken outside, round to the back of the monastery, and interred. Now I did see the Smalleys, standing together, their kids at hand. Mrs. Smalley was crying. Mr. Smalley was staring at his son’s casket with a stony expression. Father Alexius again droned on and on, in Latin, about God only knew what. Holy Water was sprinkled on the casket. Eli Smalley was eventually put in the ground.

  Only family and friends had come to this part of the funeral.

  After it was over, Mr. Smalley brought his large frame over to where Daniel and I stood by ourselves—we were outsiders in this world. No one would talk to us. Instead, we received suspicious glances, unfriendly looks.

  “There’s to be a reception at the house, officer,” he said to me.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” I replied.

  He waved his hand.

  “You’re welcome to come,” he said. “Appreciate your attending Eli’s service. Have you eaten yet? Got more food than we know what to do with.”

  He said this sadly, softly. He rubbed at his face.

  “Be grateful if you came,” he said, glancing at me. “Have you found out who did this to my boy?”

  I shook my head.

  His lower lip trembled, and he put a hand to it.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said again. “Of course we’ll come. Thank you for inviting us.”

  The funeral party broke up. Daniel and I followed a line of cars heading for the Smalley farm.

  “Well, that was a happy funeral,” Daniel said, clutching the steering wheel tightly, looking just as depressed as I felt.

  “No, that was one of the main reasons why the Catholic Church changed and got rid of all this over-the-top bullshit,” I replied.

  “I wouldn’t know, man.”

  “Count yourself lucky.”

  “Why are we going to the Smalley farm?”

  “I want to look around,” I said.

  “And I thought you felt sorry for them.”

  “I do. But I want to look around. You never know what might turn up. Call it a hunch.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “A hunch. If you think about it, you’ll see that we’re closer to finishing this case than you might think.”

  “And?”

  “Think about it,” I said. Let Mr. PhD stew on that for a while, I thought.

  “You suspect something?”

  “Oh, indeed I do. It’s quite obvious, actually.”

  “Tell me.”

  “That would spoil the fun, wouldn’t it? If you put the pieces together, we’re being led to only one possible conclusion.”

  “Which is?”

  I smiled and looked out the window.

  “Oh, come on, man!” he exclaimed.

  “We’ve been remarkably lucky,” I said.

  “Lucky?”

  “Yes. We’ve come a long way rather quickly. Perhaps you should review your notes. We found St. Konrad’s, which has a thing about crucifixion. We know the principal players are all involved in St. Konrad’s. We’ve got three boys who may be involved in sexual abuse. We’ve got the missing Brother Leo, who’s not at home. He must be somewhere. Think it through, Mr. Qo. He’s been living at this monastery for years. He’s been forced out. Where is he going to go? Home? You’d think that was the natural thing to do, because where else can he go? But he’s not at home. What does that tell you?”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “True. But that tells me you don’t know much about people. One thing you should learn right away is that people are creatures of habit. They get comfortable in their surroundings. It’s hard to just pick up and leave for the unknown.”

  “So you think he’s still around here somewhere?”

  “I think it’s highly likely, yes.”

  “Why aren’t we looking for him?”

  “We are,” I pointed out. “In our own way.”

  “A manhunt, I mean—why aren’t we organizing a manhunt?”

  “We will, if we have to. It may not be necessary.”

  “Which means what?”

  “Work it out, Mr. Qo.”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Charlie Hopewell. Why is he still alive?”

  “Because Brother Leo hasn’t got to him yet.”

  “Or has he?”

  “Meaning wha
t?”

  I said no more, despite his pleas.

  At the Smalley farm, we waited for the others to go inside and get settled before we approached the house ourselves. As soon as we did, Mrs. Smalley spotted us and singled us out.

  “Officers,” she said, a bit too loudly. “Please, come eat. Forgive my manners.”

  She led us to a table laden with pot luck dishes of anything and everything and thrust plates in our hands, as if determined to be of service, determined that we would eat whether we were hungry or not.

  I told her how sorry I was for her loss. I sounded like a broken record. She did not reply to this, merely bit her lower lip and paused. Then she was in motion again, getting us silverware, glasses, showing us to the lemonade cooler.

  “It’s nice of you to come,” she said.

  “Mrs. Smalley, I know it’s not a good time, but can I ask you a few things?”

  “Of course,” she said, as if expecting this. She was in a much better frame of mind than she was when I had first talked to her.

  “Do you have any idea who did this to your son?” I asked.

  We were huddled in a corner, and I kept my voice quiet, not wanting to be overheard. She did the same.

  “No, officer, I don’t.”

  “The other day you said you thought it had to be someone at St. Konrad’s,” I pointed out.

  “Well, yes,” she replied. “But someone in the community, I mean. Someone who knew about the… punishments.”

  “So that could be anyone?” I asked. “A layperson, for example?”

  She nodded.

  “Would it be too much trouble for my partner and I to have a look at Eli’s room? At his things?”

  “You go right ahead,” she said. “It’s upstairs. Very last bedroom on the left side. He’s got a Jayhawk poster on the door. I’m keeping my kids home now, you know. Until you figure out what’s going on.”

  I said I thought that was a good idea.

  She excused herself, and Daniel and I slowly made our way to the stairs, taking our food with us, trying to be as unobtrusive as we could about going to Eli’s bedroom.

  We found a boy lying on the bed. He looked up at us, guiltily. He had been crying.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He said nothing.

  He looked to be about twelve or thirteen. “Are you Eli’s brother?”

  He nodded.

  “We were just going to have a look around at Eli’s things. Is that all right with you?”

  He shrugged.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Jacob.”

  He hurried off, as if he did not want to talk to us, and probably he did not.

  “Boss, I’m a little lost,” Daniel said, sitting on the bed and putting his plate of food on his knees.

  “How’s that?”

  “The bishop might have been abusing some of these kids. Okay. But who killed them?”

  “Every murder needs two things,” I said.

  “Motive and opportunity,” he replied automatically.

  “So we’ve got motive, don’t we?”

  “Fair enough. Somebody is afraid they’re going to get into trouble, that these kids are going to spill the beans.”

  “That leaves the mechanics of it.”

  “Why they were killed. And by who.”

  “Whom.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You’ve got a PhD and you don’t know that?”

  “Whatever, boss. So whom are the suspects?”

  “Who.”

  “I know. Man, you’re an easy target. Suspects?”

  “Brother Boniface, for starters, but now apparently not. That leaves the conveniently missing Brother Leo.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “Social worker poking around. Boys talking. Shall I go on?”

  “Something tells me you could go on and on and on if you wanted to.”

  “Cute,” I said. “But there’s something missing here.”

  “Missing?”

  “Something’s not adding up. Brother Boniface and Frankie Peters were killed in Kansas City in what seems like a very deliberately chosen location—that road on the northeast side is not heavily trafficked, not by any means. But Eli—”

  “Was killed close to home.”

  “Which tells you….”

  “I don’t know. You’re the boss.”

  “You’re the whiz-bang PhD.”

  “I’m a work in progress, boss. What does it mean?”

  “If Brother Leo killed both of them, he had to have been in Kansas City last Friday, and back in Chillicothe soon afterward. Which means he’s still around here somewhere.”

  “Logical.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

  “Neither was I. Question: how does a religious brother hide in a small community like Chillicothe? Where would he hide? How could he hide unless someone was helping him?”

  “Someone at St. Konrad’s?”

  “Or one of the lay families….”

  “I see.”

  “Do you?”

  “It’s only logical.”

  “And the most logical place for Brother Leo to hide?”

  Daniel pursed his lips.

  “St. Konrad’s is a huge place,” I reminded him.

  “It’s been searched.”

  “That doesn’t mean much. In a place like that, there’s a lot of places to hide.”

  “So we organize a manhunt?”

  “We’re getting to that. But first… I have an idea.”

  Unless I was very much mistaken, it was obvious who had killed Frankie Peters, Brother Boniface, and Eli Smalley.

  But how to prove it?

  V

  IT was close to 5:00 p.m. and already getting dark by the time we began the return trip to Kansas City.

  The air had taken on a chilliness that reminded me winter was close to setting in, that Halloween was next week, Thanksgiving just around the corner, the rest of the dreadful “holidays” shortly after that. Christmas had been one of Billy’s favorite times of the year—not the day itself, but the days leading up to it, the Twelve Days of Christmas after it, the whole shebang. He even had an Advent calendar from his childhood that he used to mark the days until Christmas arrived, which was now sitting in a box in my basement.

  “You okay, boss?” Daniel asked.

  I shrugged. I was not okay, hadn’t been for a long time. I missed Billy. I missed my life. When I thought about what waited for me when I returned home, my stomach got cold and scared. I was tempted to ask Daniel if I could just go to his house and spend the night, as if I was still a kid and sleepovers were perfectly normal. Besides, nothing could lift the spirits like a good fucking.

  That was not the answer.

  Why had I allowed my mother to stay with me? Did I owe her that? Did I owe her anything at all, for that matter?

  As if guessing the train of my thoughts, Daniel asked, “So when you gonna tell me about your mother? What’s up with that, man?”

  I looked over at him, at his handsome face illumined by the dashboard lights. “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “Well, it’s not like we don’t have time to spare,” he replied, offering a hint of a smile. When I didn’t respond, he added, “I take it she wasn’t very nice.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” I replied.

  We drove in silence. I did not feel like discussing my mother.

  “That’s cool,” he said. “I thought we were friends, but that’s cool. You don’t have to tell me. It can be a big secret. Or maybe I should go dig up some of your past interviews with the media to get the scoop or something. Or maybe I should just wait until they put you on the Oprah show. God forbid you should have to tell me yourself. Anyway, I guess it’s pretty nosy of me to want to pry into your life. I mean, I’m just your partner. That’s all. It’s not like we have to be friends or anything. Shit no! Wouldn’t want to be friends with your
partner—just suck his dick once in a while. Maybe that’s why they call you the Mad Fag.”

  “Do you mind?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” he said agreeably. “You can just go right on back to your pouting and feeling sorry for yourself. I don’t mind if you’re a moody bastard. Doesn’t bother me at all.”

  I stared out the window.

  “No, I’ll just drive. Don’t need to tell me squat. Just think of me as your chauffeur, boss-man. You just go ahead and think your secret thoughts and don’t mind me. I’s just the driver! See? I can talk like a wetback. Or maybe you prefer a chink? Ah so! Where you go? Confucius say, ah so! We got us a redneck with a white asshole!”

  “Would you shut up?” I asked.

  “Yes, massa!” he exclaimed, imitating a Negro slave. “I’s just shut up now, yessir!”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said.

  “Is there anything wrong with the fact that somebody might care about you, might be concerned about what goes on in your life? Is that a terrible crime or something?” He was speaking normally now, earnestly, as if he really did care about me, was indeed worried.

  “She’s mentally ill,” I said.

  “I gathered as much.”

  Did we really have to have this conversation?

  “She’s not really responsible for her actions. Doesn’t know what she’s doing half the time, and the other half of the time she’s on drugs or drinking or whatever she can find.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Well, when did this start happening?”

  “When?”

  He nodded.

  Fact was, she had been this way since long before I came onto the scene. Somehow or other she had managed to give birth to me and spend fourteen years torturing me before the world at large began to cotton to the reality of the situation.

  “She’s always been this way,” I said.

  “Always? What does that mean?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “She was like this when you were a kid?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Oh man.”

  Oh man, indeed.