by Susan Hunter
I felt tears stinging my eyes and blinked hard to keep them from falling. I was so angry my voice shook.
“Just stop it. I came here to try and make things right between us. But you won’t even listen. I don’t know if somebody got to you or what—obviously, you’ve been talking about me to half the town. I may not have it all right, but I know in my gut I’m damn close. Don’t worry. This is the last time I’ll bother you with my obsession.” I stood up and headed for the door.
“Leah! Stop. I’m just trying to help you see—”
“Don’t bother. I can see just fine.”
Darmody was in the front talking to Melanie.
“Hey, Leah, where’s the fire? Should I call 911?” His laugh filled my ears as I pushed through the double doors and ran to my car. I pulled the door open and tumbled into the front seat. For a full minute, I pounded my fist on the dashboard, waiting for the sick feeling in my stomach to subside. Finally, it did.
Nineteen
All right, fine. I couldn’t count on Coop, but he was right. I shouldn’t be dragging Miguel into this. I had an idea of what I wanted to look into next, but first I had to do some “day job” work.
I stopped by the fire hall to take a picture of the chief with the department’s new truck, then went to the County Extension office to talk to the agricultural agent, Jerry Grosskopf, about the potato crop outlook. It was good. Unless the weather didn’t hold. Then it was bad. I could feel another cutting edge story in the works. It was 4 p.m. when I finished and called in to tell Courtnee I wouldn’t be back.
“Must be nice to be a reporter. You can, like, just come in when you want and you don’t even have to stay until 5.”
“That’s right, Courtnee, reporters have it easy. I mean after all, it’s so much fun to go to a county commission meeting that doesn’t end until 10 p.m., then come back to the office, write up the story, and then get called out to a fire that lasts until 4 a.m. Then go home to sleep for two hours so you can be on time at the Rotary Pancake breakfast. All said, it’s really a cushy job.”
“Whatever. I just know I have to be here, like, from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. It would be nice if I had some flexibility.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Despite Courtnee’s efforts, I didn’t feel guilty at all. It was a rare week at the Times when we didn’t put in 50-60 hours, and weekends didn’t really exist. Neither did evenings off, if it was your turn to take home the scanner and monitor police and fire calls.
When I got home my mother was still at work. She didn’t have a “cushy” job like me either. I sat down at the kitchen table and scrolled through my phone for the number of Sister Mattea’s brother. I had met Scott when I stopped by the rosary for Sister Mattea, and I got his business card. I always save contact information, because as a reporter, you just never know. Scott worked in San Francisco, so it would be around 2 p.m. there. I tapped in his number, and on the second ring, a woman answered.
“Riordan Software Development, Miss Adams speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Hi, Miss Adams, this is Leah Nash. May I speak to Scott Riordan please?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Nash, Mr. Riordan is away from the office. Can someone else help you?”
“Not really. Actually, this is a personal call. I need to speak to Scott.”
“I see,” she said, in a voice that conveyed she did not approve of this personal intrusion during business hours. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. As I said, Mr. Riordan is away. Perhaps you’d like to try his cell phone?”
“That would be great. Can you give me his cell phone number?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. We’re not allowed to give out personal cell phone numbers. When you said personal business, I naturally assumed you were a personal acquaintance and would have Mr. Riordan’s non-work number.”
“Right.” Self-important flunky, I thought but realized it was a good time to use my filter. “Well, can you tell me if he’ll be in later?”
“Oh, I hardly think so. Mr. Riordan is in China on a business trip. He has an open-ended return date.”
“Could you give him a message?”
“That’s my job,” she said noncommittally.
I spelled my name, gave my number, and asked that Scott call me on a matter related to his sister. I’d been hoping to get some insights into Sister Mattea—anything that would help me find the elusive link between her and Lacey. That plan would have to wait.
I had better luck following up with Miguel’s information on Father Hegl. If I hadn’t been a reporter, I definitely would have been a librarian. I love the research. I love trying first one tactic then another, searching out unexpected connections, going at the problem from all angles. Once I’m on the Internet trail, I can’t let go.
I opened my computer and typed “Sean Hegl” into Google. Multiple pages popped up, but the first listing that caught my eye was the obituary for Noreen Holcomb Ramsey of Naples, Florida, whose survivors included a son, the Most Rev. Joseph Ramsey of Braxton, Florida, a daughter, Rita Ramsey Hegl of Jacksonville, Florida, a granddaughter, Claudia Hegl Patterson, and a grandson, the Rev. Sean Hegl. Neither grandchild’s address was given. But Hegl’s uncle was a “most reverend,” which translated to bishop in Catholic speak.
Next, I bounced around between several aggregating sites that compile public information and can provide you with a person’s age, address, phone number, relatives, and sometimes even roommate names.
Hegl didn’t have a Facebook page that I could find, which was too bad because you can find a lot of stuff there. It’s amazing how many people don’t restrict access to their photos or their list of friends. Between the two of those and professional sites like LinkedIn, you can collect a lot of intel.
But I did pretty well even without Facebook. I found Sean Hegl, age 38, with possible relations Rita Hegl and Noreen Patterson, and several addresses in Florida, though nothing in Wisconsin. The first address was the same as that listed for Rita Ramsey Hegl, so that was probably the family home. The second one I checked turned out to be a Catholic seminary in Boca Raton. The third was what I was looking for—when I typed the address into Google, I got a nice little map with an arrow pointing to San Carlos Catholic Church.
I went to the church website which listed all of the pastors and the years they served under the “Our History” tab. The welcome page identified San Carlos as part of the Leesville Diocese and its bishop as the Most Reverend Joseph Ramsey. Well, well, well, Father Hegl had worked for his uncle.
I could call the diocesan office, but my gut told me it wasn’t a good idea for Uncle Bishop to know someone was tracking his nephew.
I switched gears for the moment and looked for a number for Carla Perez, the sister of Hegl’s teenage “protégé” Olivia Perez Morgan. No luck. I found some info on Carla—the school she graduated from, a couple of jobs she’d had, but no phone number. That’s one of the current obstacles to tracking people online—the lack of a decent cell phone directory to take the place of the old-fashioned phone book.
But, fortunately, the elder Perezes, Carlos and Laura, had not cut the cord, and they still had a landline. I called their number as I mentally readied my story. The phone was answered by a woman with a soft, pleasant voice.
“Mrs. Perez?”
“Yes?” she said, in the tone of someone ready to give a thanks but no thanks as soon as I identified myself as a telemarketer. I started talking fast, a slight uptick at the end of each sentence.
“My name is Andrea Lawson, I’m on the All Class Reunion Committee at St. Francis High School? We’re trying to get a database of everyone’s email and phone numbers? It’s driving me a little crazy?”
Pause for a slightly airheady giggle.
“Could I get Carla’s cell phone number from you?” I put all I had into sounding like a cheerful, school spirit-filled alumna.
“Oh, that sounds like a good way for all of you to keep in touch. I’m sure Carla will want to
be included. What was your name again?”
“Andrea Lawson?”
“Were you a friend of Carla’s in school?”
“More of an acquaintance? How’s she doing?”
“Very well. She’s in the RN program at the community college, and she’ll graduate next year. What about you Andrea, what are you doing?”
“I just got a new job in Orlando? I start next week at Sea World as a dolphin trainer?” When I’m making up a back story I won’t need again, I like to fill in with jobs I think would be really cool, and for which I am not remotely qualified or suited.
“Oh, that sounds so interesting. Well, I’m sure Carla will be glad to hear from you. Hold on just a second. I have to scroll through the menu here. I have her on speed dial, so I can never remember her number.”
She was quiet for a second and there were several beeps, and then she came back on the line with Carla’s cell phone number.
“Thanks so much for your help, Mrs. Perez? You have a great evening now?”
“You’re welcome, Andrea, you too.”
For my conversation with Carla, I opted for the truth, partly because I couldn’t use the same lie, but mostly because it would be easier and cleaner.
“Hello?”
“Carla? Hi. My name is Leah Nash, I’m from Himmel, Wisconsin, and if you have just a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions about Father Sean Hegl.”
The line went so quiet, I checked to see if we were still connected.
“Hello? Hello? Are you there, Carla?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m still here.”
“Carla, this might sound weird, but please hear me out. My younger sister Lacey died five years ago. She was 17. I know your sister Olivia died when she was very young as well. And I know that she was connected to Father Hegl. I’d like to hear anything you can tell me about Father Hegl and your sister.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath, then, “Why?”
“Because I think there’s more to the story of how my sister died. I’m trying to find out if Father Hegl had any link to it. And I’m wondering if you think he had any connection to Olivia’s death. She died in a car accident, right?”
“Yeah. They said she was drinking, and driving too fast. She hit the shoulder and rolled her car. She got thrown out, hit her head. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt.”
She paused, and I waited, trying not to signal how badly I wanted the information I knew she was about to give.
“She was meeting him that night. Father Hegl. She took her car, because he didn’t want to take the chance that someone would recognize his where it shouldn’t be. But he always drove. He liked to be in charge, Livy said. She thought it was romantic.”
“Always? She was in a relationship with Hegl?”
“Yes, for months. I knew it; her husband Vince suspected there was someone, but my parents were clueless. They always were with Olivia. She was my father’s little princess.”
“Was the affair serious?”
“Olivia thought it was, but she thought Lifetime movies were real. I mean, even a 15-year-old like me could tell he wasn’t that into her. She was always talking about how they were going to get married and move to New York. You know, daydream stuff.”
“What happened the night your sister died?”
“Olivia said she was going to tell Hegl she wanted to go public—you know, tell her husband Vince and Hegl tell his bishop, and then they’d be together forever. She never thought things through.”
“So, that night…”
“Olivia did her hair, make-up, put on this sexy new dress, gave me a cover story to give to Vince in case he called to check on her.”
“But the police report said she was alone in the car.”
“Maybe. Maybe Hegl just let her drive off drunk after he dumped her, but I don’t think so. I think he was right behind the wheel driving drunk himself. Tell me this—what was she doing on that dark country road in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night? Alone?”
“Who found her?”
“An anonymous 911 call reported the accident. She might not have been found for days otherwise. It was way out in the country.”
“The 911 call was anonymous? How do you know?”
“A deputy told my parents the call came from a pay phone at a gas station on the main road a mile away. He said one of the local weed growers probably spotted the car, but didn’t want to risk getting busted.
“What I want to know is, why did Hegl leave town right after the accident? He didn’t even go to her funeral. And why did Olivia’s husband Vince all-of-the-sudden have enough money to buy a boat and move to the Keys? That perezoso deadbeat couldn’t get enough money together to buy a fishing pole, let alone a fishing boat.”
“Carla, did you tell anyone you suspected Hegl might have been involved?”
“I was 15 years old, nobody cared what I said. I told the cop who came to the house to tell us Olivia was dead, but he didn’t listen. My mother was hysterical, and my father slapped me when I said Olivia was going to meet Father Hegl that night. They’re old-fashioned, and they couldn’t think a priest or their little princess would do anything like that. My parents were grieving, but they were embarrassed, too, ashamed about Livy drinking. They thought it was their fault. They told me to pray and quit talking about it.”
“But, Carla, the crime scene reconstruction that must have been done, it would have shown if anyone else was in the car.”
“Would it?” she asked in a tone that told me, if I were there, I’d see a sardonic sneer on her face. “Could they really tell? The sheriff’s department isn’t exactly CSI Miami. And they started out thinking they knew what happened. Drunk girl, drunk accident, dead drunk girl. End of story.”
“So, you think someone helped Hegl cover-up the fact that he was involved with Olivia, and maybe even that he was driving the car that night?”
“That’s right. And somebody must have been a little worried about my ‘hysteria,’ because Father Herrera, my mother’s cousin, who works in the diocese office, came to visit. When my mother left to make coffee, he talked to me. Told me that it was a sin to spread rumors. Said that I would only hurt my sister’s memory and my parents. Said making up stories wasn’t the way to get attention.
“He told me Father Hegl couldn’t have been with her, because he was at dinner with the bishop and a very important donor the night Olivia died. The bishop told Father Herrera so himself. After that, I knew it wasn’t any use, so I did shut up. It made my parents happy, and it made my life easier.”
“But you’ve never been convinced.”
“No. My sister was a naïve kid with too many telenovela plots running in her head. She always fell for the good looking guy—whether he was riding a motorcycle like Vince, or wearing a priest collar like Hegl. She could spin a fairy tale for any situation. With her as the heroine. Only this time, she was the victim. What I can’t forget is that she was still alive when the EMTs got there. It was just too late. She didn’t have to die.”
“But you don’t have any proof?”
“If I did, maybe the cops would’ve done something. But maybe not even then. This is like little Vatican here. The priests are like saints to people like my mom and dad. It was just easier for everyone if drunk Olivia had a terrible accident and crazy Carla—who doesn’t even go to Mass!—just lied for attention.”
“Did your priest happen to mention the name of the bishop’s friend, the donor he and Hegl supposedly had dinner with that night?”
“I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK.”
“It’s been so long. Why are you calling now?”
“Because of my sister. Her story is a lot like Olivia’s. It’s possible Hegl was involved, but no one wants to hear it.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure.”
So now, although Miller was still the odds on favorite, Hegl had just moved up a length.
Twenty
On Saturday, the last thing I wanted to do was go to the Cinco de Mayo party, where, according to Coop, half the guests thought I was unbalanced, and the other half thought I was a malicious character assassin. But I had promised Miguel I’d be there, so I had to show up at least for a little while.
The May night was unseasonably warm. Cars lined both sides of the street, and I could hear laughter and music when I parked and turned off my engine a few houses away. The party had spilled into the backyard where the fence was strung with white lights and a large piñata hung from the branch of an oak tree. I rang the front bell. The door was opened by a guy around my age that I hadn’t seen before.
“Hi, come on in. I’m Ben Kalek. You’re Leah, right?” he said in the kind of husky voice I find quite appealing. He smiled and revealed well aligned and very white teeth. His blonde hair was short and a little messy, and his eyes reminded me of the periwinkle blue in a box of crayons. Miguel’s latest conquest?
“How did you know?”
“Miguel’s talked about you. You look just the way he described you.”
“So you were expecting an Amish lawyer?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that?” he said, tilting his head down toward me.
“Nothing. Never mind. So, how do you know Miguel?” I asked as we stood in the front hall.
“We met at the gym a while ago.”
“Ah,” I nodded. “So, you haven’t been together long?” I fished, wondering why Miguel hadn’t told me about his crush. He usually can’t contain himself when he meets someone new, which is about every other week.
“What?” Ben said, looking confused. “No, no I’m not gay—”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” we both said at the same time and laughed.
“No, we just hang out sometimes. A bunch of us play pick-up basketball on the weekends.”
Hmm. I didn’t get why he was playing host/doorman for Miguel. But he was very pleasant to look at. Nice enough that I wished I’d worn something besides jeans and a white oxford shirt with rolled up sleeves. But I had gotten a haircut that day, so there was that.
