by Tracy Clark
“A little creepy, Pop, church or no church,” I called out as I made my way back. “And just so you know? Your crullers are as good as hockey pucks now.” I pushed the door to the vestry open, fumbling for the switch that would turn the lights on in the rest of the church. I stood in the doorway waiting as the old lights sputtered to life and the cavernous nave behind me emerged from darkness. I expected to see Pop sitting at his desk, engrossed in something, having lost all sense of time, but he wasn’t there. An old institutional clock snicked time on the wall, the tick of its second hand the only sound in the close little room. Hymnals with frayed spines sat on cluttered bookshelves, vestments hung from hangers in a closet nook, and a large pedestal fan stood idle and cobwebby in a corner. But no Pop. The worry was back, joined by a healthy dose of foreboding.
I glanced out through a wide archway at the altar table—monolithic, incorruptible—covered in a white cloth embroidered in vibrant color at the borders. On top, the altar book lay open on a golden bookstand. There it was, I thought, the center, the lodestone, the heart of Saint Brendan’s, the heart of any church. I turned to leave, but caught something out of the corner of my eye sprawled on the altar steps. I dropped the bag and drew my gun, my hands as cold as ice.
“Pop!”
I forced myself forward, my eyes, the gun, sweeping over the quiet church, my legs shaking, feeling already a growing weight crush hard against my chest. The blood trail began just shy of the altar table, droplets at first, widely spaced, perfect little circles of congealing crimson.
The dead boy lay at the foot of the steps, his black eyes half open, a bullet hole in his chest. Beneath him was a wide carpet of blood, nearly dry. . . . His arms were outstretched, Christlike, his long, tapered fingers fixed in open claws painted in the same horror. He’d reached for something before death took him. Before he ceased to be, he’d skimmed his fingers along the cool, marble floor, leaving ten perfect tracts of desperation as his final mark.
I scanned the church wildly, no longer breathing. Pop? Nothing. No one. I stared up at the figure of the crucified Christ hanging below the massive rose window, wondering where he’d been when the boy died. I stepped carefully around the blood pool. No gun. No weapon of any kind. Cop mode. I needed cop mode.
Hispanic, I noted, taking in the scene. Maybe eighteen, twenty. Where was Pop? Black hair. Black eyes. Olive complexion. Five foot eight, five foot nine maybe? Pop hadn’t been in the vestry, but the light was on. I checked around the altar, up and down the nave, over the pews, the darkened choir loft. No Pop. Back to the boy.
Gang tats, banger standard issue—baggy pants, white T-shirt, boots. He was a Scorpion, according to the faded ink etched along his neck. Way off his turf. Why? Blood had soaked through his clothing, nearly covering everything, the blood dried stiff, more brown now than red. I’d never seen him before. I backed away, searching.
“Pop, Dammit, answer me!” I reeled 360 degrees, frantic. There was a dead boy in Pop’s church. Pop was not in the rectory where I’d left him. A dead boy. In Pop’s church. I shook my head as if to clear it. It didn’t make sense. How could this make sense? How could there be a dead boy here? “Pop!”
I peddled back, away from the blood, the body, my stomach roiling, fear charging its way up my throat like a ravenous beast. I saw the shoe sticking out of the confessional box. A hard-soled shoe, like the kind Pop wore. I stumbled forward, gun still up, every neuron firing. I’d forgotten how to breathe. The shoe was attached to a leg, a leg in dark pants, like the kind Pop wore. My vision blurred, my heart pounded in my chest. My legs threatened to give way.
The body knelt slumped forward, the head pressed against the latticework in the narrow window that separated priest from penitent. I recognized the ear. It had listened to so many of my troubles over the years. Above it were the familiar flecks of gray, distinguished looking in a man of sixty some odd years. The right arm hung limp, streaks of dried blood mottling the graceful fingers. More blood had seeped between the slats of the hardwood flooring beneath. The gun just lay there. Matte black. A cheap throwaway. Discarded? Dropped?
My gun slipped out of my hand. I fell to my knees, my throat constricting, my insides on fire. The body was on its knees on the padded kneeler. I didn’t want to look, to see, but I couldn’t turn away. I could hear my own heartbeat echoing in my ears and the blood rushing through them like the crash of ocean tide. No. No. No. The word echoed in my head. Just the one; it was all I had.
I stood, or thought I did. I forced myself forward, or thought I did. I didn’t want to see more, I didn’t need to. I knew what it was before I saw it all. I could feel the stillness in my bones already, the loss in my heart. It was Pop.
I ran for the courtyard to be sick, and that’s when my legs finally gave out. I fell to my knees in the grass and buried my head in my hands, rocking, trying to force myself to process, to think.
“Cass? What’s wrong?” I looked up at someone. A woman. Someone I should know, but at the moment couldn’t place. She looked worried, frightened. Who was she? “Cass?”
Thea. It came to me in a flash. It was Thea Bey, Pop’s housekeeper. “Call 911,” I croaked.
Her eyes widened, darted around the courtyard. “Why? What’s happened?”
“Pop’s dead. The boy’s dead. Call 911, now.”
I doubled over, my forehead to the cool grass, and wailed like a wounded animal.
* * *
From the window in Pop’s office, I stood watching as a crowd gathered behind the police barricades. Ghouls, all of them, I thought, each one with a cellphone, each phone trained on the officers and paramedics milling around out in front of Pop’s church. What were they hoping to see? Why didn’t they just go home and leave him be? I eased down into his chair, ran my hands along the top of his messy desk. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten from the courtyard to here. I vaguely remembered Thea lifting me, but it all felt like a horrible dream. But I was awake now. Now I could think.
I looked around at the remnants of a vibrant life committed to service. A scuffed basketball shared a corner chair with a worn baseball mitt; Pop was the coach of both school teams. The overstuffed chairs held piles of books, all topics, and the bookshelves were filled to overflowing with more. Even along the windowsills, the book piles stacked up like wobbly towers. He read everything. He encouraged his kids to do the same. Who would get Pop’s things, I wondered. I looked around at everything and wanted it all—every scrap of paper, every pencil. I wanted this room to stay just as it was right now. I wanted no one to move a single thing in it. Who was that boy? What had happened here?
“Hey.”
I looked up to find Ben, my old partner, standing in the doorway looking grim and heart heavy. He walked in and quietly shut the door behind him. “I came to take you home. You should get some rest.”
I shook my head, stood, and turned back to the window, to the ghouls. “No.”
Ben eased in beside me and quietly drew the curtains so I couldn’t see the onlookers reveling in the street. I offered no protest. It’s what I should have done. “They’re not finished processing. It’d be better if you went home.” Our eyes locked. “You know how this works. If I were in your spot right now, you’d be hauling my ass home, too.”
“And you wouldn’t go, just like I’m not going.” I began to pace the floor. “Who’s lead on this? I need to talk to whoever it is.”
Ben avoided looking at me. “Cass, for the love of God, will you just let me take you home?”
“Who?”
He shook his head. “Farraday.”
I heard myself scream, and it felt as though my feet lifted up off the carpet. Ben rushed over, gathered me up before I fell over. “I know how you feel, but this, right now, is not going to help anybody.”
I fought against his hold, shoved him away. The thought of Farraday standing for Pop made me want to be sick all over again. To him, Pop would be just another case, just another body. I tried to step around Ben to get to th
e door, but he barred my way. “Dammit! Get out of my way!” I screeched, scrubbing my hands across my face. When he wouldn’t, I retreated to a far corner. Ben watched me burrow in, knowing I needed the space. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that,” I said.
“I know.”
We were silent for a time. I wanted Pop. I didn’t want this.
“I’m not going anywhere. You tell Farraday that.”
“I’ll come and find you when it’s done,” Ben said. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. “Or I can stay here, if you need me.”
I did need him, but I wanted him with Pop more. I didn’t want Pop to be alone with Farraday, not for a single second. I shouldn’t have left Pop here alone, not after what he’d told me. If I’d stayed, he would be alive. “I’m fine. Go.”
I could tell Ben was upset for me. We weren’t partners anymore, but he still had my back, and I had his. We were still friends. He moved for the door, turned back. “What is there to steal from a church?”
“He came to see me yesterday. He thought someone was following him, but he couldn’t tell me who.”
“Following him? Why?”
I shrugged. Even that was an effort. “I wanted him safe, so I followed him home. I locked him in. I was going to stay and keep watch, but he wouldn’t let me. I should have refused to go. If I had . . .”
“Stop it. This is not on you. We don’t know what this is yet.”
“And we won’t. Not with Farraday on it. He won’t be thorough. He won’t get it right.”
“Then we’ll do what we always do, we’ll work around him. I promise we’ll figure this out. I’ve got him for you.”
I smiled, or think I did. “Thanks, for everything.”
“What’re partners for?”
My eyes held his. “You’ve got a new partner now.”
“Doesn’t change anything for me. You?”
I shook my head slowly.
“Good. Then it’s like I said.”
Ben’s assurances gave me some solace. That was something. “I’d like to see Pop before they take him.”
“Sure thing.”
I opened the curtains again to watch the death spectators behind the barricades, their greedy eyes glued to the spectacle, as though they’d paid their nickel and now wanted to see the bearded lady in the sideshow tent. Ghouls, all of them.
Chapter 6
I was able to see Pop when they wheeled him out. I said good-bye. Then I went back to his office and waited for Farraday to find me. It had been two years since I’d last set eyes on him, and when he walked in, I could tell in an instant that he hadn’t changed. His dull face offered its usual haughty smirk, as though he smelled something foul in every room he entered, and his dark hair, cut short and heaped in product, framed a bulbous nose mapped by tiny spider veins that hinted at late nights of heavy drinking. His eyes, devoid of empathy, were as dark and as bottomless as a shark’s. It was difficult to believe that anyone anywhere could find comfort in them. He hadn’t aged well. Maybe Jimmy Pick weighed on him, too. His blazer and pants were still well tailored, and, as I remembered, his police star, hooked prominently to his designer belt, was polished so that it gleamed, as if to announce to the world: Hey, look. I’m the police. I’m the police.
“Raines,” he said, his mouth twisted in a half grin. “Long time.”
Long time? Two years, one rooftop, one dead kid. I stood to face him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of towering over me. Ben eased into the room behind him and stood quietly by the door; his new partner, Paul Helms, stood dutifully beside him. Farraday was here alone. Did he have a partner? If so, who was the unfortunate detective who’d drawn the short straw?
“I understand you knew the victim. Father, uh—” He flipped through the pages of his notepad, presumably searching for Pop’s name.
“Father Raymond Heaton.” I wanted to kill Farraday. I wanted it more than I wanted to take my next breath.
He looked up from the page as though we were discussing the latest Cubs score or the price of summer ham. “Right. Father Heaton. Mickerson says you were close. Sorry for your loss.” He sped through the perfunctory condolence as though the words were hot rocks burning his tongue. “You seem to think this might have something to do with an enemy he might have had?”
The room fell silent. I stood listening to the ticking of Pop’s old clock, breathing in the scents of his sweater slung over the back of his chair and the bowl of peppermints he kept on his desk for tongue-tied parishioners in for compassionate counsel. He’d never wear the sweater again, never enjoy the candy. I could feel tears coming, but I’d be damned if I’d cry in front of Farraday. I turned my back to him, faced Ben and Paul instead. “What can you tell me?”
Ben cleared his throat, stepped forward for the report. “Doesn’t look like anything’s missing, far as we can tell, but we haven’t let anyone else in there yet who might know for sure. No wallet on either of them. We found Father Ray’s in his room. Some kind of break-in, maybe, but that’s preliminary.”
“We’re thinking maybe he hears or sees something and goes over to check it out,” added Paul. “Things go bad after that.”
Farraday moved around to face me, his eyes ablaze. “Hey, I’m lead on this. I ask the questions. You met the vic last night, so what were you doing back here so early that you found the bodies?”
I stared at him for a time, but said nothing. The vic. It was Pop, not the vic. “I was coming for breakfast. He didn’t answer at the rectory. I saw the church door open and went to check it out.”
“Did you touch anything?”
The question was insulting. I could tell from his smug expression that he meant it to be. I turned away from him again, faced Ben. “No ID on the kid? Prints?”
“We bagged his hands, but we haven’t run them yet. Right now, he’s still unknown.”
Farraday jockeyed around again, this time inserting himself between us, so close I could smell his cheap cologne. He reeked of it. “You don’t hear so good, that it? This investigation is for stars only, and last time I checked, you don’t have one, do you?”
I was on overload, on the verge of tears, my chest heavy with grief, shock, fatigue. Pummeling him would be the wrong thing to do, but it was all I could think about. I willed myself to keep my arms at my side. Ben and Paul stepped forward, but I held up a hand to stop them from engaging. We stood there waiting for Farraday.
“The gun next to Heaton is shy two rounds,” Farraday said. “Seeing as it’s with him, it follows he fired it. Obviously, the wound to his temple is self-inflicted. He catches the kid, they wrestle for the gun, the kid gets shot. Priest then, full of remorse, can’t take the guilt and kills himself. Some kind of penance thing. Evidence should check out pretty neatly. Now I’ve got a few questions for you, since you stumbled blind into all this.”
That was as much as I could take. “You haven’t even finished processing the scene; the ME doesn’t even have the bodies on her table. Nothing’s certain, nothing’s obvious. What’s wrong with you?”
He smirked. “I know what I’m doing, and I plan on doing it without your interference. Despite what you think, I do have what it takes.”
I watched him, acid and loathing eating away at the lining of my stomach. “You don’t have what it takes to pull lead on a dog leash.” I watched as his face flushed bright red. “This one I’m going to make sure you don’t fumble. I’m on it every step of the way, star or no star. You want to get me off it, you’re going to have to lock me up.” I held up my wrists for the handcuffs. “Go on. Do it, or step off.”
Farraday drew in closer, his voice low. “It’s not my fault you blew a kid away. That’s on you. I’m not the killer cop here.” He backed away, flipped his notepad closed. “You stay out of my way.” He glanced at Ben and Paul. “And that goes for everybody.”
The dangerous smile Ben gave him was one I knew well. He took a step toward Farraday, Paul easing up beside him. Partners stuck together. Farraday
was in trouble. “One more word, Jimbo,” Ben said, “and you and me are going to have a problem your daddy can’t fix.”
Farraday grinned. “You threatening me, Mickerson? Because it sure sounds like you are.”
The quiet face-off felt interminable.
“You’re going to want to mosey on along now,” Ben said finally. Farraday hesitated, then flicked me a disdainful look and sauntered quietly out of the office. The three of us stood in silence until we heard the hallway empty of cops and the front door slam shut.
“My blood pressure’s got to be in the thousands,” Ben said. “What a dick.”
“He’s a dick with a lot of other important dicks propping him up,” Paul said.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t kick his dick ass,” Ben said.
“Or that I won’t help you,” Paul said.
I stared down at my unfettered wrists. It was all too much. Pop was gone. Farraday was in charge of his case, and I was powerless to change any of it.
Ben gripped my shoulder. “Cass?”
I pulled away, looked up at him. “He got on the wrong side of someone. He told me in as many words. He asked for my help, and he’s going to get it.”
Thea stuck her head in the door, her eyes red rimmed, exhausted. “I started water for tea. A cup would do us both good.” I shook my head no. I didn’t have the patience for tea.
“Sit tight,” Ben said. “We’ll finish up, then I’ll drive you home.”
When they slipped quietly out, I slid down onto Pop’s chair and placed my hands palms down on his desk, hoping to feel him radiating up from the wood, but the desk was cold. Someone had been following him, someone he knew. I pulled my hands away and began to rifle through his papers, looking for something, anything that would explain why he was gone.
