"You're the FBI man the Monsignor mentioned this morning," she said.
"Former FBI man, I'm afraid," I said.
"Well, we're all "formerly" something, aren't we? I'm formerly a topless dancer."
Her gaze was impish as she said this. She watched Bernice's reaction. I sensed some tension between them.
Jenny went over and slipped her arm through Bernice's. "I like to shock her sometimes. She's so cute when she blushes."
There was a lot of real affection in her voice, but it was not an affection shared by Bernice. She remained embarrassed, stiff and immobile.
"I like her, but she doesn't like me."
"I just don't see why you have to keep dredging up the past is all, Jenny," Bernice said. "I don't believe in washing your dirty laundry in public."
Jenny nodded and said to me, "Seven years ago, one of the priests here got a high-school girl pregnant. With the publicity and all, a lot of parents took their kids out of school. Monsignor Gray and Bernice are always worried there'll be some new scandal."
I said, "I'm sure the situation with Father Daly isn't going to help. By the way, I'd like to talk to Father Ryan, too, if I could."
Bernice smiled. "You'll find him in his favorite place."
"Oh?"
"The bell-tower. Here, I'll show you."
Jenny put out her hand again and we shook. "I hope I'll see you again, Mr. Payne."
"Me, too."
Her hand lingered longer than it needed to and this was not lost on Bernice. She looked at our hands and then her gaze rose to rest, disapprovingly, on Jenny's face.
In the hall, Bernice said, "She's too fresh."
"Jenny?"
"Yes. In my day, young women knew their place, especially around priests. But not her. She flirts with them."
"With Father Daly?"
"Yes. And with Monsignor Gray."
We walked to a side door and then out to the sidewalk between the rectory and church.
She paused. "You know, there's something that's been bothering me since Father Daly died. As you're a former FBI man and all, maybe I should tell you about it."
"Tell me what?"
"The night before he died, Father Daly called me at home. He said that he had something he wanted me to have."
"He didn't say what?"
She looked at me and frowned. "No — no, he didn't. And now that I think about it, it's kind of mysterious, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said. "It is."
The church was empty, the altar dark, our footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
She led me to the back of the church, past the Stations of the Cross, past the confessional to a door beneath the bottom of the choir-loft.
"This is Father Ryan's favorite place," Bernice said.
"This?" I said, puzzled. All I could see was the door.
"The bell-tower."
She opened the door. I saw wooden stairs that climbed steeply and curved abruptly.
"After you," I said.
We climbed.
I remembered how high the bell-tower appeared from the outside. It seemed even taller from the inside.
The staircase was narrow and dusty.
"You pooped yet?" Bernice said.
"Just about," I said. My breath was coming harder, no doubt about it. The stairs seemed ever steeper, the dusty concrete walls ever narrower.
By the time we reached the bell-tower, a fine sweat had broken out on my back and arms, and my breath was coming in tiny gasps.
There was a square hole cut in the floor of the bell-tower.
This was where the stairs ended.
"Mr. Payne would like to talk to you, Father," Bernice said when we were all standing in the tower.
The tower gave the feeling of being wide open to the sky. There were large square cut-outs in each of the tower walls. If a person got careless, he could easily fail to his death.
"Nothing to be afraid of, Mr. Payne," Father Ryan said. Apparently he could sense my discomfort.
Bernice said, "You haven't given him the speech, Father."
Father Ryan smiled. "Bernice is of the belief that I am overly attached to this bell and this tower." He put a hand out and touched the huge bell. "This is a special bell brought from Ireland sixty years ago. Do you know anything about bells, Mr. Payne?"
"Afraid not, Father."
Bernice was right. There was a pride and passion on the priest's face that hadn't been there before.
"This is real bell metal, Mr. Payne," Father Ryan said. "A mixture of copper and tin — thirteen parts copper to four parts of tin. Bells of this type date all the way back to early Christianity. The Chinese used bronze for their bells. The Early Christians couldn't afford bronze, but ironically the copper and tin produced a better sound."
"And you ring it by pulling the rope?" I said.
He nodded. "The rope is attached to the metal clapper — and when the clapper strikes the bell, the ringing sound is produced."
He walked over to one of the large open areas and pointed to the city below. "On a beautiful day, this is like an eyrie up here, Mr. Payne. It makes me feel a little bit like God." He smiled subtly at me. "You can admire humanity from afar — and sometimes that's the best way."
While he spoke, I looked straight down to the darkness below. You could easily fall between the bell and the floor. And if you did fall, you'd never survive.
Then he said, "I take it you came to see me about Father Daly, Mr. Payne."
"Yes," I said. "I wondered if you could show me his room in the rectory?"
"His room?"
"The Monsignor's busy so I thought I'd ask you. I’ll probably have some questions for you, too."
He looked out at the sky again. Even with the overcast and mist, it did feel like an eyrie up here — safe from all the grief and sorrows of the human soul.
"He didn't care about his room," Father Ryan said.
"Oh?"
"Just dumped stuff here on the way in and out of the rectory."
"He was a counselor, you said."
"Right."
"Where was his office?"
"Over in the school behind the church."
"Why the school?"
"He said he wanted to be comfortable. Personally, I think the Monsignor intimidated him."
"Oh? In what way?"
"You know, sort of like having your parents home when you had your girlfriend with you."
The rose-colored wallpaper and the brass bed and the heavy mahogany bureau gave the room the feel of a hotel room of fifty years ago. On Father Daly's night-stand were paperbacks by Freud, Sartre, Martin Buber, and Proust.
"He read much fiction?"
"That was his dream," Father Ryan said. "To be a writer. He was real hung up on Proust and Sartre."
"No popular fiction?"
"He hated popular fiction. He was something of a snob, in fact."
He picked up a stack of CDs next to a small CD-player. "All classical music."
I watched him a long moment. "I'm trying to figure out if you liked him."
"Not much."
"Why?"
"I told you he was a bully, and he was. He didn't think so, of course." He smiled, and suddenly looked much younger. "He just thought he was a member of a superior species. I always thought he should've been a Jesuit. He didn't like being a parish priest much. I saw him in a sick room once and he was pretty callous. He looked irritated that the wife of the dying man was crying so much."
Even with the table-lamp on, the faded wallpaper and the somber woodwork made the room much darker than it should have been.
I was going through the bottom of the bureau when I found the newspaper clippings.
They'd been cut cleanly from the Cedar Rapids Gazette two stories from last year detailing two different murders. The first was the murder of Tawanna Jackson, a thirty-one-year-old black woman, and the second, the murder of Ronald Swanson, a fifty-six-year-old white man.
"Was Father Daly a true-c
rime buff?"
"Not that I know of."
"Can you make any sense of these?"
I handed the clippings over to him. While he scanned them, I opened the closet and peered inside. The stench of mothballs was overpowering. I've always imagined that if Time itself had a smell, it would be that of attics and mothballs.
Father Daly owned two black priestly suits, some sweaters, slacks, shirts, and three pairs of black boots.
"I don't know why he'd have these," Father Ryan said, handing the clippings back to me. "The only connection is they went to Mass here."
"So why would Father Daly keep them?"
"The Monsignor always says the same thing when you ask him questions like that, Mr. Payne," he answered somberly. "Oh?"
"He always says, 'Now how would I know? '"
I laughed. "Probably learned that in seminary."
"Probably."
I glanced at the clippings. "You think he actually knew these people?"
"Probably. A priest gets to know most people in his parish."
"You think he was seeing either of them as a counselor?"
He smiled. "You really are a detective, aren't you, Mr. Payne?"
"I sure try hard to be."
He shrugged. "I suppose I could find out. Whether he saw them in counseling, I mean."
"Would you? I'd be very grateful for that."
"You want to go downstairs and see how the Monsignor is doing?"
"Sure," I said. "I guess we're through up here."
I handed him the clippings. "Could I ask you to Xerox these? Then we'll put the originals back for the police."
"I'll meet you downstairs in the den," Father Ryan said. "I'll run these copies first."
"I'd appreciate it."
He stared at the clippings. "It is pretty strange he'd keep these, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said. "It is."
Father Ryan switched off the table-lamp as we left the room.
Twenty minutes later he told me that neither Jackson nor Swanson had been in counseling.
Chapter Six
She was standing outside Steve Gray's den — a tall blonde woman with an elegant face and an even more elegant sorrow in her eyes. She wore a long draped black skirt, a gray tweed jacket and a frilly white blouse. She made me think of eastern girls' schools — that sort of aloof mysterious quality that doting prairie boys always attribute to upper-class girls. But the dark eyes, the grief of the dark eyes, made her doubly intriguing.
"Ellie Wilson, this is Robert Payne," Father Ryan said.
We shook hands, her right arm encumbered by a tiny black leather purse tucked beneath it.
"You met Ellie's husband, Bob, this morning at the hotel."
I didn't want to believe it. The romantic in me cried foul. How could a woman like this settle for a beefy manipulator like Bob Wilson?
I looked into the study. Seated behind a table in the large room were Steve Gray and Bob Wilson. They were encircled by portable TV lights. Four stations had microphones set up on the table.
I spent a few minutes watching the action.
"What would a priest be doing in a hotel room, Monsignor?"
"Did you know that Father Daly had a secret life?"
"Did Father Daly ever get into any trouble before?"
"Had any parishioners ever complained about Father Daly?"
And so on.
If Bob Wilson was a master of manipulating the press, he wasn't having a good day.
He writhed, he scowled, he fumed, he stammered, he stumbled.
Finally, he said, "I think we've been very fair to you folks. But this is about all the time we've got for interviews today."
They started grumbling, the reporters, and then he cupped his hand over the closest microphone and said, "I'd like to ask you all a favor. St Mallory's is starting its fund-drive next week. If you know anything about the state of church finances today, you'll know that we really need to reach our goal. And it's not going to help us if you play up the sleazy side of all this."
A few of the reporters smiled.
A priest found half-naked and dead in a motel room is going to come out sleazy no matter how carefully you report it.
A couple reporters tried more questions but neither Steve nor Wilson were having any. They stood up and walked out of the study. The journalists and camera people stayed behind and started packing up their equipment.
"Hi, Robert," Steve Gray said when he saw me.
Bob Wilson frowned. Then he went over and possessively slid his arm around his wife and gave her a small peck on the cheek.
"I don't know about anybody else, but I could use a drink," Steve said. "Anybody care to join me?"
"I'm afraid I've got a terrible headache," Ellie Wilson said. She gave her husband's arm a squeeze. "My car's here. I'll just drive myself home."
"You sure?" Wilson said.
"You know how my headaches go," she said.
"How about you, Robert?"
"Sure. I could go for a drink."
"Good," Steve said. "There's a small study straight down the hall. Why don't we all just go in there?"
"I'll see you at home later," Ellie Wilson said, kissing her husband on the cheek.
Thunder rumbled down the sky. She flinched a little, Ellie Wilson, and looked exceedingly distraught. Most adults didn't get that upset by thunder.
"Good night, Monsignor," she said, reaching across to touch Steve's arm.
That was when her small black leather purse that had been tucked into her arm fell to the floor.
It popped open on impact, its contents spilling directly in front of my shoes.
Most of the items were about what you'd expect: gum, mascara, hand mirror, nail file, car keys.
The one item I didn't expect to see was the heart-shaped earring I'd noticed in Father Daly's motel room. Or its duplicate.
I bent over and pushed the things back into her purse. Except for the earring.
When I stood up and handed her the purse, I held the earring between my thumb and forefinger.
She was looking at it greedily, as if she wanted to snatch it from my fingers.
Her husband Bob wore another expression. He looked as if he wanted to smash my face in.
"That's a very nice earring, Mrs Wilson," I said. "I take it you have the mate."
Wilson himself ended up snatching it from my fingers.
He took it brusquely, dropped it in the open purse she held in her hands, and then clamped it shut.
"There you go," he said. "I'll see you at home a little later."
Beautiful Ellie Wilson said goodnight to each of us and then left, elegant, cool, sorrowful. She held on to her purse very tightly now.
PART TWO
POLICE DEPARTMENT
Lawrence Michael Lynnward
Age: 23
Race: Caucasian
Occupation: Unemployed
Marital Status: Single
Military Service: None
Lynnward: My dad says at least they used to sneak around about it. He said a nigger ever walked into a bar with a white gal around here; he'd get the shit kicked out of him. Not today. They're brazen about it. You see 'em walkin' down the street in broad daylight, their black arm around their white girls. My dad says it's the Jews who brought this on. He says it was the Jews who gave the niggers the idea that they were equal to white people. The coons want white girls . . . fine. My dad says when he was a little boy back in Mississippi he saw the Klan hang this Jew newspaper editor once . . . he said it was real beautiful, the way the fire looked on the white robes and the big burning cross right in front of the Jew when he was hangin' there dead . . . All my dad says about me burnin' down that synagogue is, you just be careful. They got them god-damned federals workin' undercover everywhere these days. But I'm smart . . . I drive to a town where nobody knows me . . . and find me a synagogue. Used to be I did black churches and maybe I will again someday. But right now I'm just gonna keep on concentratin' on the Jews.
>
Lawrence Lynnward
Pop always makes it their little private joke. Mom'll put the dinner on the table and Pop'll look across at Larry and say, "Guess the boy'n me'll do some huntin' tonight."
"Huntin'?" Mom'll say. "What're you huntin' this time of year?"
Pop grins. "Oh, you'd be surprised what we can find." Then he winks at Larry and twelve-year-old Larry winks back.
. . . Awhile later Larry and Pop're in the pick-up truck and driving into Cedar Rapids from the acreage where they live.
Pop's got his .45 on the seat right next to his whiskey flask. Larry can tell, the way he's hunched over the wheel and really giving the Chevy some gas, that Pop's excited. Real excited.
And so is Larry. But he's scared, too. What if he can't do it? "'How you feelin'?" Pop says, looking over at him and grinning. "You think you can handle it tonight?"
Last time, couple weeks ago, Larry didn't handle it so good. Bastard got away.
"I think I'm ready, Pop."
"You practice every afternoon like I said?"
"I sure did."
"You try them knots the way I showed you?"
"Yes, sir I did."
"Then there shouldn't be no problem, should there, Larry?"
"No, sir. I don't guess so."
Wants to pee his pants, he's so scared now, the way Pop's talking to him and everything.
What if he can't do it? He doesn't know if he can take another beating the way he did a couple of weeks ago. Mom had to look at his privates and she said they were all black and blue from Pop's belt, Pop being the sort who gets you real good back and front.
. . . and anyway he wants to do it for himself, doesn't want to fail again, seems like he's always failin' somethin' or other, school or sports or just hangin' out with the other kids, who don't really like him because he's so small for his age and he always wears them bib overalls Mom always buys . . .
. . . doesn't want to fail, no sir . . . and won't fail tonight, no sir he won't . . .
They cruise on into the city, which Larry likes. He likes the city darkness and the neon and the shiny cars and the tall buildings and the pretty ladies on the street. He daydreams about their breasts, knowing they look like the ladies in the dirty magazines Pop hides from Mom in the basement. And he likes the hot cars the teenagers drive up and down First Avenue, their radios thundering, their windows rolled down so they can yell "Hey pussy! I got somethin' for ya!" and stuff like that to the beautiful high school girls at the Dairy Queen and the A&W Root Beer stand and 7-11. Someday he'll live here, has wanted to live here since he was a little kid . . .
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