An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries)

by Judith Campbell

  “Still not good yet?”

  Jim shook his head. “Poor kid did a job on herself. If she hadn't thrown most of it up and a late worshipper hadn't found her, there's no doubt she would have succeeded. They still don't know the full extent of what she's done to herself. I'm going over to Police headquarters as soon as I can. Maybe if I can talk to them first, it might help.”

  Olympia shuddered as Eileen burst into the room.

  “Brigie's awake, Father. She's taken a sip of water. Mam's asking for you.”

  Jim stood and followed the girl out of the room, leaving Olympia to her thoughts and to questions she didn't dare put into words.

  Good morning, Father.” The man behind the desk at the Dorchester Police station stood when Jim entered his office. “What brings you back to our dingy surroundings on such a lovely day?”

  Hey, Jerry, how's it going? I know I'm a priest and you're a Detective Sergeant, but we grew up together in the West End before they tore it all down, so you can drop the Father stuff, okay?”

  Jim was grinning broadly as the two men broke into playful shoulder punching and childhood ethnic name calling that ended with Jerry saying, “I still can't understand how a dumb Polack like you ever made it into the priesthood. Remember, I knew you when …”

  To which Jim responded with a fake jab to the policeman's gut, “Must have been the golombkis, Jerry-me-boy. You Irish only know about beer and potatoes. And I knew you, too, so we both better shut up.”

  The two men exchanged a few more friendly insults and then Detective Sergeant Jerry O’Brien got serious and directed his friend to the more comfortable of the two chairs.

  “So what can I do for you, Jim? I know you're too busy over at St. Bartholomew's to be making house calls at the local holding pen, so what's going on?”

  “It's about that fire on Barrett Street. The O’Mara place?”

  “I heard you identified the body.”

  Jim shook his head and grimaced. “Word gets around fast, doesn't it? Not nice. He wasn't burned, but he looked awful. The ME said it was most likely smoke inhalation.”

  “I know, I read the report, but it's different when you're standing there looking at an actual body. Twenty years on the force, and I don't think I'll ever get used to it. You want a coffee or something? We got a twenty-four-hour pot going in the next room. Tastes that way, too.”

  Jim declined the offer, “I'm in touch with the family.”

  “You are? Where are they? I need to talk with them.”

  “It's a long story.”

  “I'm not surprised, Jim. Terry was a fourteen-carat sonofabitch alcoholic, and that was his one good quality. That guy was trouble and mean with it, but he put on a good face on Sunday mornings. All kinds of rumors of him being connected to the Irish underworld but nothing we could actually pin on him.”

  The detective leaned back in his chair and hiked his belt up over a rounding belly. He was warming to his story. “Rumor also had it that he beat the hell out of his wife, but of course, no one ever said anything about that either. You know what these people are like.”

  “I may be a Polish outsider in this neighborhood,” said Jim, “but I learn fast. Tell me about the arson report.”

  “Before I do, tell me what you know about the family.”

  “Terry did more than beat up his wife, Jerry. I found out that he'd been molesting the younger daughter for years.”

  “Bastard! How'd you find that out?”

  “I have a woman friend …”

  Jerry gave Jim a sideways grin. “You old devil, you, and I always thought…”

  Jim grinned and shook his head.

  “Seriously wrong assumption, buddy boy, on all counts. She's the chaplain at Meriwether College where Bridget is a student. We're both in the business, so to speak. Terry's daughter had a problem and confided in her, and that's another long story. Anyway, Bridget, that's the girl's name, attempted suicide Saturday night. She OD’d on booze and pills in a church in Cambridge. Lucky for her, she threw most of it up and somebody found her. She was a Jane Doe in a Cambridge hospital for about twenty-four hours, but my friend heard it on the news report and called me. We went over to the hospital and identified her.

  “She regained consciousness this morning. The mother and sister have been to see her, and the Cambridge police have been notified. Guess you haven't gotten the hospital report yet.”

  Jerry shook his head. “She gonna make it?”

  “It's looking better as of this morning. I administered the last rites just in case, but by the time I left, they were talking about taking her off the ventilator. She was breathing on her own as of this morning.”

  “What about the mother, where is she now?”

  “She's with her daughter at the hospital. I ducked out to say morning mass, then came over here. And I can't tell you where the mother is living,” said the priest.

  “What do you mean, you can't tell me?”

  “Can't and won't, Jerry. She's in a safe-house for battered women. She finally left home the Monday before Easter. The older daughter is with her.”

  “I have to talk to them, Jim, you know that. With a suspicious fire and a history of alcoholism and violence, we could be looking at murder, or much as I hate to think about it, murder-suicide.”

  “I know, that's why I came here. I wanted to talk to you personally before you talked to any of them. I'll bring the mother over here first. Bridget's still in the ICU. I can tell you one thing, each of them, Bridget, the mother, and the older sister, can account for where they were when the fire supposedly started.”

  “That's the point, Jim. The fire looks as though it might have been set up to happen well before that, maybe by someone who knew his habits and depended on his predictability. With everything in place, it was only a matter of time before he dropped a spark from one of his cigarettes in the right place.”

  “Ashes to ashes…” said Jim.

  Jerry nodded, “You might say that.”

  Jim shifted in his seat. “So we both know about the family situation. Can you tell me anything I don't know about the arson report?”

  “I can't say anything until they release it to the public. I will say, off the record, like in the confessional, they found a couple of empty lighter fluid cans near the body.”

  Jim nodded. There was no point telling him that one of the firefighters had already told him this. His friend might have a different take on the situation, and there was no point at all in muddying the waters any further.

  “I guess we both have our jobs to do, Jerry, but we've known each other for a long time. One hand washes the other. Tell me what you can, when you can. But between ourselves, let's just hope it really was an accident.”

  “I hear you, Jim-boy. I knew Margaret before she married Terry. She was a bright-eyed Irish beauty.”

  “You might not recognize her now, Jerry.” Jim got up and pulled on his jacket. “I'll call you and set up a time to bring her over.”

  “Thanks, Jim.”

  The priest stopped at the door turned and held up his right hand in a gesture of benediction.

  “Hey, Jerry?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We may have played stick-ball together in the West End, and you usually beat the crap out of me, but for right now, my old friend, God bless you … and God help us both.”

  “Thank you, Father,” whispered the detective.

  Twenty-Five

  Bridget was improving rapidly now and would likely be moved out of intensive care by the end of the day. With her mother and sister on either side of the bed, and Olympia standing at her feet, the waxen doll in the bed was slowly coming back to life. When he got back after saying mass and talking with Jerry O’Brien, Jim pulled Olympia aside and asked if she could take Eileen back to the shelter while he went with Margaret to the Dorchester police station.

  “When I was there this morning I said I'd be back later with Margaret. She won't worry if you're with her.”

>   “Sure, Jim.”

  “It's a good thing we're both on spring break, Olympia. Can you imagine trying to do all of this in addition to our day-jobs?”

  “My day job until the end of the semester.”

  Jim stood and held the door for Olympia.

  “You really are going through with it, retiring? Come on, walk me back up to Bridget's room.”

  “Not retiring, Jim, moving on. I've had it with academia. Teaching humanities and religion has been wonderful and rewarding, and so has being the chaplain there, but I'm an ordained minister. I think it's time I paid more attention to the ministry part of my calling.”

  “What do you mean? Being the college chaplain is ministry; look at you now, for God's sake. If you hadn't rescued Bridget when you did, who knows what might have happened.”

  “That's just it, Jim, I didn't rescue her. We damn near lost her, and I'm not all that sure she won't try again. She's convinced she's beyond salvation. You're her priest, and she's a Catholic. There must be something you or the church can do to turn her around.”

  “There is, Olympia, and I'm going to pull out all the stops, even if it means calling in the Archbishop to hear her confession. Catholics have something called Apostolic Pardon, which absolves all sins right there on the spot. It's usually done when a person is near death.”

  “Didn't you do that yesterday?”

  “She was unconscious; she couldn't make the confession herself. I need time alone with her, and I don't know if she's up to it, but the time factor is critical. So while you're taking Eileen back to Martha House, I'll make a few phone calls and see what ecclesiastical strings I can pull before I head back to Dorchester PD with Margaret.”

  As they got into Olympia's car, Eileen asked if she could go back to her apartment. She needed to make some calls and collect a few things before rejoining her mother at the shelter.

  “And if you don't mind, could we drive by the house first, Professor? I want to see it for myself. See what's left, anyway. I just thank God the downstairs was empty. We were having some work done before we rented it out again. Turn left here.”

  Olympia signaled and turned. “I hope you don't think this is a rude question under the circumstances, but somebody is going to ask it, and it might as well be me. Did your father have any life insurance?”

  “It's the second right after the light, third house on the left. And the answer to your question is, I don't know. He never talked about those kinds of things. It was like he had another life that we weren't part of. I don't ever remember him talking about work or money or anything.”

  When they reached the house, Eileen insisted on getting out and having a look for herself. Olympia waited in the car, giving the young woman some privacy and watching every move she made as the wary young woman walked along the boundary circumscribed by fluttering yellow tape.

  “When you get back to your place, don't say anything to anyone about the fire or the funeral arrangements or what's happened with your sister. I hope it doesn't happen, but you might have to fight off newspaper reporters. They can be vicious and persistent, and this could be a juicy story. If you even think you see one, hide your face and run indoors. Don't speak to anyone.” Olympia turned and looked hard at Bridget's sister. “I mean it when I say that your sister's life could depend on it.”

  Eileen gulped and nodded. “I hear you, Professor. The Irish are good at keeping secrets.”

  Too good, thought Olympia. No sooner had she said the words to Eileen than a man with a camera came around the corner and started running toward them.

  “Eileen, get in the car and lock the door.” Olympia turned the key, floored it and yelled over the screeching tires, “Cover your face.”

  This is a bad movie getting worse, thought Olympia when the dust settled. She was surprised that her ancient vehicle had responded so well and patted the dusty dashboard in gratitude. When she was sure they were not being followed, she turned to Eileen and said, “You can sit up now. There's nothing in sight.”

  By noon of that day, Olympia and Margaret were sitting alone in Sister Myra's private study. The nun had made grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches for them when they got back, and Olympia was more than ready for hers. Margaret took a few bites but pushed the rest away. She started to say something, then stopped and looked out of the window. They could hear the sounds of Sister Myra singing in the kitchen. She told them she was making spaghetti sauce for the huddled masses.

  “How'd it go this morning, Margaret? At the police station.”

  Margaret looked thoughtful for a moment. “Not bad, really. The detective is a friend of Father Sawicki. He asked me a few questions about Terry and a few more about Bridget and Eileen and where I was the day of the fire. He wasn't pushy or anything. But he did say we would have to come back again when Bridget was up to it.”

  The rich spicy smell coming from the kitchen was driving Olympia crazy. She had skipped breakfast and was trying not to stare at the rest of Margaret's sandwich.

  “You want this?” Margaret held out the plate. “Go ahead, Professor, I can't eat, there's too much going on.”

  Olympia grinned sheepishly and took the sandwich. “It's not like I need it or anything, but …”

  “Oh, get away with you,” said Margaret with a look on her face that could pass for a smile. “I know a hungry eye when I see one. Besides …”

  “My mother always reminded me of the children starving in India,” said Olympia.

  “Mine used to say Africa. But I suppose I have to start thinking about funeral arrangements. I don't know where to begin.”

  “The truth is, Margaret, you can't do anything until they release the body. When they do, Father Jim can help. So can I, for that matter. We clergy-people know what to do.”

  “How long have you known Father?”

  Olympia smiled. “I've known Jim for about five years. We met when we were both taking a course at Harvard Divinity School. It's just down the street and around the corner from Meriwether. We just sort of clicked with both of us being college chaplains and all. Then we kept bumping into each other at conferences and retreats.”

  Now was not the time to tell Bridget's mother that she and Jim had been instrumental in rescuing another Meriwether freshman from the clutches of a shadowy religious cult. One day she would, and it might help Margaret understand her concerns for victimized women.

  Maybe one day I'll even get to introduce you to my daughter. Please, God, let it happen. Olympia came back from her bittersweet longing to the situation at hand.

  “Margaret, when you go back to the police station, it's likely they are going to question you formally about where you were and what you were doing before the fire started. It might help if you sit down with Father Jim first and go over everything that happened before you left and exactly what you did when you went back for your clothes. Tell him everything, Margaret, even if you think it's really insignificant.”

  Margaret looked at Olympia in dawning horror. “Sweet Jesus in heaven, Professor, you don't think …”

  “Margaret, it's not about what I think or you think, it's about what the arson squad and the police might have thought when they found Terry. You need to tell them everything you can remember. Get it clear in your mind. I think maybe you'd better practice what you are going to say.”

  Jim and Olympia were sitting in Olympia's office in Cambridge with two take-out coffees on the desk between them. Because of spring break, the campus was deserted except for the maintenance crew. The two could speak freely without being overheard or interrupted, and it was less than ten minutes from the hospital.

  “Does Bridget know about her father yet?”

  “No, I thought it best we wait until we're sure she's going to be all right. She's just too fragile right now.”

  Olympia nodded agreement and lifted the flap on her all-season canvas shoulder bag and riffled around until she came up with something small, black, and shiny.

  “Look at this! I actual
ly have a cell phone. Mostly I keep it off except for what I consider an emergency, but I guess this qualifies, especially if you need to be in touch with me fast.”

  Jim smiled. “I know what you mean; almost all the students have them now. They drive me nuts, going off all the time, but I've actually grown quite fond of mine.”

  “What did you learn from Margaret after you got back to the shelter?” Jim was all business now.

  Olympia leaned back and parked her feet on the corner of the desk. “She told me that she went back to the house on Good Friday morning to get a few personal things. Sister Myra wanted to go with her, but Margaret insisted that she go alone.”

  Jim made a despairing grunt.

  “She said all she did was to go back for some more clothes and a few sentimental bits of china, and while she was there, she took the pictures of Bridget.”

  “That's good. If we need evidence of the sexual abuse, we have it, but I hope we don't have to use it. Nothing else?”

  There was an odd tone to Jim's voice.

  “She told me that she went into the living room and out of habit, started to clean up the clutter around Terry's chair. But she stopped and made herself walk away from it. She left it just the way it was.”

  “Is that all?”

  “What are you getting at, Jim?”

  “When she talked about the stuff around the chair, did she say anything about cans of lighter fluid?”

  “No, should she have?”

  Jim folded his hands under his chin. “I told you about the lighter fluid cans that were found near the body. Very near, like under his chair.”

  “When you identified him, uh, what did he look like?”

  “He wasn't burned, if that's what you mean, Olympia. He died of smoke inhalation, which I understand is how most people die in fires. The fire never touched him. But the empty lighter fluid cans suggest someone might have set up circumstances in which, given the right spark dropped into the right pile of papers soaked in lighter fluid, boom! On the other hand, from what Margaret told you, he just as easily might have passed out with a lighted cigarette in his hands and dropped it into the newspapers and all the crap around his chair, and it just smoldered away and did him in that way. Smoke inhalation is really carbon monoxide poisoning.”