“As a matter of fact, yes.” I sighed, hoping that my firm voice was enough to tell Quick that this was a subject well past the limits of our friendship. He’d nursed me through the loss of one love. I wasn’t looking forward to his doing it again. “What’s up? Lucy’s on call, not me, and so is Sadie.” Not for the first time, I recalled Sadie’s showing up on my doorstep on a lark while visiting town two months before and my hiring her, thinking I might want to ease off and enjoy life a bit. Silly me.
“I know, Doc. But you might better come down to the Center. Cops are here. There’s something you need to see.” His voice was cautious but left no room for doubt that my presence was required. I told him I’d be there soon and heard his speaking into the distance to someone as I hung up.
By three in the morning, even Telluride’s nightlife had wound down. I tightened my scarf against the wind that was beginning to pick up, and a few snowflakes stung my cheeks. I slipped on a patch of ice crossing the street and landed in a half-thawed puddle of mud at the corner of Pacific and Aspen. Swearing to no one in particular, I picked myself up, brushed the dirt from my coat, and hurried on toward the Center.
When I arrived, Quick was standing outside, bundled against the cold, talking to one of the town deputies. They fidgeted in a way that told me they’d been standing in the cold too long. As I hurried up, I saw what had prompted Quick to call me in the middle of the night. The two-plate glass doors of the front entry were a spider’s web of cracks. I mentally assessed the damage as I approached. At least three hits; the lowest of the three was probably the last. Mindful that medical examiners are not always everyone’s favorite public servant, I had made sure that all the glass in the building was sturdy, layered glass that would resist breaking outright in a situation like this. Whoever took after the doors certainly had a grudge against me — or the office.
I nodded and smiled curtly to Quick as I extended a gloved hand to the deputy and asked, “What happened?”
The deputy deferred to Quick.
“The alarm went off a little before two. I heard something over the noise, and I came downstairs.” Quick, like the others who work in the Center, lives in an apartment on the top floor, housing in Telluride being too expensive for the likes of ordinary folks.
I scowled at him. “That was stupid,” I said with no preamble. “The alarm’s there to warn of trouble. It rings into the police. You should have sat tight.”
Quick shrugged. He’d been an army medic before coming to work with me. I suspected that his tolerance for danger was higher than mine. “Probably so. Anyway, I got to the front just in time to see that Connor fellow hit the door with a baseball bat, right there.” He indicated the lowest of the blows, the one I reckoned as last. “It was something fierce, because the bat snapped. He was hollering, loud, but I didn’t understand him. He punched at the door with his hand once, and that must have hurt. He stumbled back, and I saw him tuck his hand under his arm, then he went off. Staggered. I think he was drunk.”
The deputy interrupted. “I got here just a little after. Nobody around. John and I searched up and down the streets, but no luck.” He shrugged in the direction of the wall, where a broken ball bat lay. It was a Louisville slugger. Eoin had nostalgic tastes. I wasn’t sure you could even buy wooden bats anymore. I wondered where he got it. I suspected it was old; no other reason for a bat to break. I wondered why he had it. He didn’t strike me as a baseball fan.
I sighed wearily, and the deputy continued. “I’d like to take a look at the surveillance tape, if you don’t mind. Just to make sure.”
I nodded. “Come on in.” Quick held open the mangled door, and I showed the deputy the console behind the big desk in the office foyer. I paused for a moment, unsure how to bring up the pictures he wanted. The Center is my baby, all right, but I leave technical details like this to others. At present, all that was visible of the front of the building on the black-and-white, four-panel security screen was a blurry image of the broken door, just swinging closed on its pneumatic hinge.
Quick eased me aside and quickly accessed the video from the camera over the door. At precisely 1:56 by the tracker on the tape, Eoin Connor came into view, baseball bat in hand. He seemed to be yelling something, but the video was image-only. He shook his fist at the sky, stepped back from the door, and let fly with a blow so fierce that I could see it jar him as the bat connected with the sturdy glass, and cracks emanated from the center of impact. Another, then the third — I was right, the lowest was the last. Just as Quick said, the bat dangled broken, and Eoin took a last desperate swing at the door.
I saw something Quick didn’t. When he pulled his right hand back, first grabbing it with his left, then tucking it under his arm for relief, I saw anguish, not just pain, in his bearing. He looked upward for a moment, then inside, and, presumably seeing Quick, hurried away.
I sat heavily into the receptionist’s chair, head in my hands. “Not much doubt,” I finally said. I looked up at Quick, whose glance told me he understood.
“Not that I doubted you.” He shrugged.
I sighed and looked at the deputy. “What now?”
“Can you come down with Quick to make a statement?”
Before I could answer, my cell rang. I pulled it from my jeans. Caller ID told me it was Father Matt. He didn’t even wait for me to say hello before he rushed to speak.
“They’ve arrested Eoin. I’m at the marshal’s office. Seems he took a disliking to your office door.” There was a pause; his voice was quiet and muffled as though he were trying to maintain privacy in a crowded place. “They’re fingerprinting him now. Jane, can you help? He’s in terrible shape. Showed up at my door drunk as can be. He almost broke it down, too.” Another pause. “Please?” A further hesitation, then, “I have to go. The marshal wants to talk to me. Hurry, Jane; please, hurry.”
I wanted to cry. Instead, I pinched the bridge of my nose and answered in as flat a voice as I could muster. “I’ll be right there,” I said, and gestured to the deputy. “Let’s go,” I added, as I slid the phone back in my pocket.
The wheels on the chair creaked as I slid it back to stand. “Can you make that door secure?” I asked Quick.
“No problem. I’ll run a little duct tape over the breaks just so no damn fool gets cut on the glass and decides to sue you. I’ll call about getting it fixed in the morning.” He walked with the deputy and me to the door and held it open. It was snowing harder. I heard the click of the lock when Quick pulled the door and turned the key.
Father Matt was talking to the marshal in hurried, hushed tones when I walked in. They both turned when they heard the door open, Father Matt with an expectant look on his face, and the marshal just looking tired.
I gave them both a no-nonsense look and took the advantage my unannounced entry had given me.
“No charges, Grant. Let him go.”
Weariness turned to incredulity. “Jane, we’ve got a witness. I know you and Connor are...”
“So what? I am not pressing charges. As far as I am concerned, he did nothing.”
Grant Holmes raised his chin and narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t like him to spoil for a fight, but I could give him one. “Sorry, Jane, the State is the victim here, not you. There’s enough vandalism here I can’t get a handle on. This I can. And just because this fellow is your...”
I cut him off. “He’s my nothing, Grant, other than I asked him to test out our doors to be sure they are what they say they are. I’ve had a series of threats, the last one pretty serious. I needed to know my staff is safe. I asked him to check it out.” It was a bald-faced lie, and I squared my shoulders, looking at him without blinking, keeping my hands still at my side in an effort to avoid my physical tells of fibbing.
“That wasn’t his story.”
Father Matt jumped in. “He didn’t have a story, Jane. He just came along quietly. I told him not to say anything.” Bless Father Matt; he’d been watching too much television, but his interruption worked.
Grant Holmes closed his eyes and shook his head, knowing that he’d been outmaneuvered. Then he opened them again and cocked his head to the side. “Fair enough, though I don’t believe either of you for a moment. I’ve still got him for drunk and disorderly.”
“No, you don’t.” It was Father Matt again.
“The hell, I don’t. He’s drunk. I had two calls from your neighbors complaining of the racket; it’s how we knew where to find him.” Grant rarely swore. His temper was wearing thin. Time to proceed with caution.
Father Matt drew himself up to his full six-six, looming over the marshal, which was impressive, despite the fact that he was clad in scroungy sweatpants, a tee shirt and a fleece jacket open, now against the warmth of the room. “Language, Marshal, please, language. He was trying to wake me up. I’m a sound sleeper.”
“He’s still drunk. Drunk and in public and disturbing the peace.”
My turn, and I gauged my reply carefully. “No more drunk than the average resident on a Friday night, and you don’t arrest them.” It was a gamble but not much of one. Telluride sported its fair share of inebriates once the bars closed. We are blessed that almost all of them can walk home. I avoided Father Matt’s eyes.
“Besides, we had a bit to drink together before you arrived, Marshal. If he’s drunk, how do you know it isn’t my own fault?” I noticed Father Matt carefully avoided an actual claim to have over-served Eoin. Lying is a sin. Carefully stating the facts isn’t. Father Matt seemed to be pretty close to the line. Then again, he didn’t actually say what he gave Eoin to drink.
Grant Holmes looked from me to Father Matt and back again. I struggled to keep my expression neutral, a habit perfected in years of trial work. Father Matt simply hid behind his bushy beard and looked down with placid eyes. Eventually, the marshal gave up, shaking his head.
“All right, Doc, I’ll let him go for now. But it better not happen again. And I’m going to need this in writing from you. I can’t be accused of favoritism, letting this go.”
I suppressed the urge to sigh with relief. “I’ll be happy to. Type something up, and I’ll drop by tomorrow to take care of it.”
Holmes nodded and called back to the booking room. “Turn the Irishman loose. No charges.” Then, to me, “Be here at nine sharp, or I’ll arrest him again, and you too for obstruction. And, you,” he nodded at Father Matt, “as an accessory. You be here, too. I want your statement, signed, sealed, and delivered.”
I wondered how much fine-tuning Father Matt would have to do with Holmes’ verbiage for it to be able to pass moral muster, but no matter. That was his problem. I was prepared to lie outright. I skipped over the implications of that for the moment. I’d have to find another priest to hear that particular confession.
The green metal door that led to the booking room opened, and Eoin Connor walked through, his shoulders bent, shirt dirty and disheveled and looking suddenly old. He looked around the room, blinking a bit, and raised a bruised and swollen right hand to brush a bit of his unruly gray hair out of his eyes. He stopped, motionless, when he saw me.
Before he could say a word, I pushed my way past Father Matt and back into the cold night.
***
“What in the name of all that’s right and holy were you thinking, Eoin?”
Eoin Connor passed a bruised and bloodied hand over his face and said nothing.
Father Matt pressed him as they walked through the last of the night. He was tempted to lend him the mittens Pilar had knitted for him. Made of scraps of yarn, they were as colorful as Joseph’s coat, but so warm that, once he tried them on, he promptly abandoned all other hand-wear in favor of them. He decided against it. Eoin would get them dirty, and besides, he deserved to suffer a little in penance. “Eoin, I asked you a question. What were you thinking?”
“Leave me alone, Father,” Eoin growled. “I’m in no mood to talk about it. It’s none of your affair. You can’t help.”
Father Matt stopped in his tracks. “None of my affair? After you almost break down my door and punch me out? None of my affair? Once again, Eoin — what were you thinking?”
The older man continued to plod along the street, head down, walking carefully, as though every motion hurt. Which, Father Matt reflected, it probably did. Either in his head or the rest of him. “You’re getting a little long in the tooth to be brawling, Eoin.”
“I’ve lost them both,” Eoin said. He stopped, looked up at Father Matt, and said it again. “I’ve only ever loved two women in my life. An Italian took Fiona, and that damn morgue is taking Jane away.”
Confused, Father Matt shook his head. “What are you talking about, Eoin?”
“That damn morgue. The one Jane Wallace won’t leave, not now, not ever, to be with me. The one, that one or another, Fiona will end up in, not soon enough for me. And me alone, no wife, no woman. I hate that place.”
“Well, that explains the baseball bat…I guess.” Father Matt was still trying to put the pieces together. Eoin didn’t sound drunk anymore, but he still talked like a drunk.
Eoin straightened up and extended a hand to Father Matt, who hesitated, then removed his mitten before taking it. “I should know better than to fight against anything other than another man. Church, morgue, government, I.R.A. — it doesn’t matter. They don’t fight fair. They always win.” He sighed and walked away without another word. Father Matt watched him until he turned the corner. There would be time to talk more tomorrow. The hurt was too great just now.
Father Matt looked up the street at the sound of a car door closing to see a taxi idling in front of St. Patrick’s parish hall. As he approached, he saw a figure lean into the window and hand something to the driver. Money, Father Matt assumed. He noticed the cab was from Montrose. Expensive trip. He wondered which of the houses along the street was getting a visitor at such a late — or early — hour.
Probably a delayed flight, he thought. Ah, well. If he’s visiting here, he can afford the fare. The driver’s door swung open, and the cabbie went to the trunk to remove luggage. Matt counted by habit the three lilac bushes on the side of the road before he turned the corner for the back entrance of the rectory. He had reached the small courtyard that framed the side entrance when he heard a voice behind him.
“Father Gregory!”
Father Matt turned in astonishment. He would never forget that voice, the bane of his existence in seminary. Monsignor Charles Jamais.
A short, rotund man was hurrying toward him, slipping a bit on the icy walk. “My bags are back there. Please get them for me. There’s a good man.” Monsignor Jamais covered the distance between him and the now open-mouthed Father Matt in the course of those few words. He extended a hand, gloved in soft, black leather.
What in the world? thought Father Matt. It was a night of confusion, that was for sure. He extended his hand, still clad in Pilar’s mitten. “Monsignor?” he asked cautiously. “What brings you here so late?”
The gloved hand waved dismissively. “Oh, the plane was late. Travel in America is so tedious these days. Did you know there isn’t even a first-class cabin from Denver to here?”
“It is a small airport, Monsignor.” Silently Matt added, you pompous jerk. Father Matt remembered all the arcane references Jamais had made to his time in Rome as a seminarian, then in training to be a canon lawyer. It was a severe and eternal disappointment to him that he had never been tapped for more permanent service there, or to the purple, either. Only to the honorific of monsignor. Matt remembered him as a bitter man who delighted in tormenting his students, narrow to the point of nitpicky, and never satisfied with anything or anyone. Least of all yourself, Matt thought, then sighed and smiled again, forcing himself to be pleasant. He hoped his hypocrisy didn’t show. He was about to ask what brought Monsignor Jamais to Telluride when the man himself solved the mystery, albeit by creating a larger one.
“It was so good of you to offer me a place to live,” the short man replied. “Bishop Herlihy” — F
ather Matt recognized the name of the new bishop of the diocese where the seminary was located and knew he was a good man — “offered me several options, but not one was remotely suitable. So tiresome to live with old, cranky priests, don’t you think? And none of them with a life of the mind, just peasants, all of them. You always had a good mind. I hope you haven’t let it languish in this God-forsaken part of the world.”
Father Matt closed his mouth with determination and swallowed hard. Some people think this is God’s country, he thought to himself with a bit of righteous anger and a larger measure of confusion. He had not asked this abrasive, arrogant excuse for a brother priest to come to Telluride, not unless he’d lost his mind, and he didn’t think he had. Although at this particular moment, he wasn’t sure. He considered for a moment what was going on but was brought out of his thoughts by that voice again.
Monsignor Jamais was standing by the door. “Don’t forget my bags, Matthew. Please let me in and show me to my room. It’s really rather cold out here, and I am tired. I should be up by nine, though. I like my eggs poached, if you please. And my bacon soft. Please tell your good housekeeper. I expect you’ll already be at work by then. A pastor has a lot to do, I expect, even in a backwater like this.”
I don’t have a housekeeper, he thought, gritting his teeth with increasing annoyance in an attempt to refrain from saying what he was thinking, but he opened the battered door. He saw a passing look of disapproval in Jamais’ face, but the man said nothing. He escorted Monsignor Jamais to the easy chair. “Wait here,” he directed, as he disappeared into his room to make up the bed with new sheets. Hearing a lecture on his slovenly habits would have been too much to bear, and there’d already been one visit to the hoosegow this night. He didn’t need to be the focus of another one for decking a monsignor, even for good reason. Besides, if he remembered correctly the lore from seminary, anyone who hit a priest would have a hand sticking out of the grave in eternal accusation. He was pretty sure at this moment that the tale had been invented to keep obnoxious professors out of the hospital.
Dying for Compassion (The Lady Doc Murders Book 2) Page 5
