“Oh yes, Bobby,” she murmured. “Oh yes, my sweet boy. My sweet, precious little boy!”
After Lipson parked the car, he, McGuire and Kevin Deeley approached the monastery entrance. The building stood four stories high, its sharply peaked gables trimmed with carved, red sandstone. The heavily-leaded windows were dirty, and the gardens and shrubbery around the building grew thick and undisciplined. Behind them the driveway wound down the shallow ravine and through the twilight to the residential street.
“How long have these guys been here?” McGuire asked Deeley as they walked along a brick pathway.
“About fifty years or more,” Deeley replied. “Originally it was a manor house built for some industrialist in the eighteen-eighties. The family willed it to the Cesenas when one of the errant grandsons spent some time with the brothers and got himself straightened out.”
“Can you imagine how much it’s worth now, this property?” Lipson asked, looking around them. “Gotta be in the millions. Easy.”
Two heavy oak doors stood at the Gothic entrance. Deeley opened them, stepping ahead of the others into a small foyer floored with quarry tile. A plaster statue of the Virgin Mary was mounted against the wall to their left. Small candles flickered around it, the cast-iron holders layered in multi-coloured wax. Deeley brought his hands together, touched his fingertips to his lips, and lowered his head to speak a few words quietly. He made the sign of the cross and turned towards the inner doors.
McGuire looked down to see if the statute’s toes were painted red with nail polish.
Deeley turned a small brass crank on the door in front of him, and a bell echoed within. After a number of bolts and locks had been slid aside with the grating sound of rusty iron, the heavy inner doors opened wide enough for a wizened face to look out at them, its two red-rimmed eyes leaping from the priest to the detectives and back again.
The eyes finally fixed on Deeley, and a high-pitched voice said “Yes?”
“We would like to see the abbot,” Deeley said with authority. He retrieved a calling-card from his jacket pocket and handed it through the opening. “Reverend Kevin Deeley, here on official business of the archdiocese.”
The hand that retrieved the card was red and scaly with eczema; the eyes flickered from the engraved lettering back to Deeley and the two detectives. “Come in, come in,” the voice muttered, and the door opened wider.
A long hall, floored with the same rough grey quarry tile as the foyer, stretched ahead of them. Dark wainscotting reached up the walls, ending at a roughened plaster surface. The ceiling was high above them. At intervals, unlit iron chandeliers hung on heavy black chains, each chandelier marking the location of two dark oak doors beneath it. There were no pictures on the walls, no relief from the expanse of stucco except for heavy cobwebs, which, even in the dim light reflected from the open door, could be seen hanging like dusty trimmings here and there.
The three men turned to look at the small figure who had admitted them. He appeared to be no more than five feet tall, his slight figure wrapped in a long grey tunic fixed at his waist with a leather thong. On his feet he wore slippers of grey felt. His eyes still studied Deeley’s card, clutched in the same rough raw hand. Then, looking up and seeing the three men watching him, he tucked the card hastily in an outer pocket of his tunic and nodded to a bench placed against the wall.
The three men sat as the monk padded off in quick, short steps, his felt slippers making a snick-snick sound across the tile floor.
“Good place for a horror movie,” McGuire said, crossing his legs and folding his arms.
“Do you know anything about monks?” Deeley asked.
“As much as I need to know,” McGuire told him. “They’re like hermits, except they get other people to pay their way. Or they pay it by making honey, bread or wine, right? Let’s face it, Deeley, monks are just hippies with a crucifix.”
Deeley smiled at him. A tight smile, one he might give to a rebellious child.
Bernie Lipson sat studying the gloomy interior. “The kid spent two years here?” he asked.
McGuire grunted.
“He’s a bright sixteen-year-old kid, and he comes in here for two years?” Lipson shook his head, not believing it. “I mean, he should be out riding his motorcycle or hanging out at drive-ins. Two years in here would screw up any kid.”
“Except one looking for God,” Deeley added quietly.
“Shit,” McGuire sneered.
“Some people believe you don’t necessarily find God in brightly lit cathedrals or in sunny meadows,” Deeley added, ignoring McGuire’s outburst. “To them, God is found in profound meditation, study and simple living. We have to understand that and tolerate it.”
The sound of footsteps, heavy and staccato compared with the soft treading of the felt slippers, echoed down the hall. The three looked up to see a medium-sized man round the corner and approach them. He appeared to be in his early forties, with hair, thick and silvery, reaching over his collar. He was wearing a short grey tunic tucked into oversized denim pants and secured at the waist by a leather thong. Instead of felt slippers, he wore heavy brown sandals.
“Father Deeley?” the voice boomed as Deeley and the two detectives stood up.
“Yes, Abbot,” Deeley replied. “Kevin Deeley, from the archdiocese. And these men are with the Boston Police Department. Lieutenant McGuire and Lieutenant Lipson.”
The abbot’s pace slowed noticeably at the names of the detectives, and although he stretched his hand towards Deeley, his eyes remained on McGuire and Lipson. “I’m Brother Farrell,” he said, shaking Deeley’s hand first, then the hands of McGuire and Lipson in turn. He looked back at Deeley. “We are honoured to have a representative from the diocese here, of course. But this appears to be more than a social occasion.” He attempted a smile as he nodded to each of the detectives.
Brother Farrell had a soft spongy face, a face with no hard angles. His full cheeks rounded down to a cleft chin. His nose was bulbous and round, his lips full and red.
“I’m afraid it’s not social at all,” McGuire said. “It has something to do with the recent murders of the three priests. We think we can find some answers here.”
Brother Farrell’s hand flew to his mouth. “I don’t understand,” he replied. He began to smile unconvincingly. “Why . . . how could our small body of brothers be associated with those diabolical events?”
“Could we sit somewhere and discuss this, Brother?” Deeley asked. “Your office perhaps? Somewhere private?”
The monk nodded and said “Of course,” and led them down the darkened corridor, under the chandeliers and further into the building’s interior.
Mattie was above him, supporting her upper body on her arms and looking down at Bobby, who was stroking her breasts, moving his cheek back and forth against them. His eyes were closed, and he shook visibly beneath her.
She leaned down to kiss him gently on the forehead. Lowering herself, she felt Bobby’s mouth search for her nipple again. When he found it, she raised her head and moaned softly.
Another gentle kiss and she pulled herself away and rested her head on his chest. She raised his T-shirt, seeing the muscles of his stomach tighten and his own small nipples erect and excited. Then, kissing his navel gently, her hands began searching for the button of his jeans.
He moaned, forming the word “No,” but she had found the button and disengaged it, and now she was pulling the small brass zipper down.
Mattie frowned and withdrew her hand. It was warm and sticky, with a familiar sour aroma.
“Jesus, Bobby,” she said. “You’ve already come, haven’t you? Just playing with my boobs was enough?”
She looked up to see Bobby’s eyes squeezed tightly shut. Mattie crawled back to him and took his head in her hands. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” she asked.
Bobby nodded his head, his
eyes still closed. “Please don’t,” he whispered urgently.
“How could a nice good-looking kid like you still be a virgin at your age?” Mattie asked.
“Please let me go.” Bobby whispered the words painfully. “Please.” He made no motion to rise, but his expression had begun to alter—the innocence faded, replaced by a look of fear and anger, the look of a frightened, cornered animal.
“Let me show you something,” Mattie said, not noticing the change. “Let me show you a special talent I’ve got.” She slid herself slowly down him again, her tongue flicking out to tease his navel as she passed it, her hand returning to find him and pull him free, feeling him jerk spasmodically beneath her, sensing him on the brink of explosion.
Brother Farrell led his guests down the central hallway of the building and into a large sitting room furnished with worn and mismatched upholstered chairs. A blackened stone fireplace dominated one wall; heavy draperies covered the high windows facing the door. Along the third wall, opposite the fireplace, ran a continuous length of rough-hewn desks, slanted for writing. Several mismatched stools of varying heights stood in front of the desks. On one of the stools was perched the small wizened figure who had greeted Deeley and the two detectives minutes earlier. The little man turned to watch as the others entered.
“We would like some privacy, Brother Schur,” the abbot said with a wave of his hand. “Please return to your room or some other activity.” The small man nodded and left, his head bowed, his strange felt slippers making the same snick-snick sound on the hardwood floors.
“Let’s sit here,” Brother Farrell suggested, indicating a grouping of four chairs near the fireplace. “Trust me. We will not be disturbed.”
The men sank deeply into the chairs, and each crossed his legs. Bernie Lipson retrieved his notebook from his jacket and rested it on his knee.
“Now.” Brother Farrell pulled himself upright, nodding and smiling at Kevin Deeley. “To what do we owe the honour of this visit from such distinguished gentlemen?”
Deeley was about to answer, but McGuire was unable to contain himself. “Do you know a Robert Kennedy Griffin, twenty-two years old, former address, Lexington, Massachusetts?”
The effect on the monk was immediate. He sank back in the chair and brought his hands together, prayer-like, resting them in his lap. His face sagged. He blinked several times, then spoke slowly.
“Bobby. Yes, somehow I knew Bobby would return. In one way or another.”
“Who was Brother Halloran?” McGuire barked.
Brother Farrell turned to look directly at McGuire as though deciding whether to answer. “The abbot who preceded me,” he answered finally. “He has gone to his reward. And while it may have been God who took him, it was what happened to Bobby that sent him.” The monk’s hands were trembling and his face was ashen. He turned to Deeley with an expression of hope. “We are a dying order, Father Deeley,” he pleaded. “You know that. The brothers and I, we want only to live out our lives here on earth within this monastery. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“Of course I can, Brother Farrell,” Deeley replied. He reached out to touch the monk’s arm gently. “But we must co-operate with these gentlemen. We are dealing here with horrible, heinous crimes against man and against God, and they must be addressed.”
The monk nodded wearily. He sat upright again and began to speak in a toneless, droning voice, his eyes, unfocused and unwavering, staring at the dingy walls of the room.
She was trying to scream, to plead, to wrench herself away from him, but he was too powerful, too determined. They rolled from the sofa onto the floor, and his hands were tightening, tightening on her neck as she arched her back and kicked and sought his eyes with her fingernails to claw, to scratch, to stop this demon she had unleashed with love.
With no effect. Weakening, she knew what was about to happen, and she cried within her while her body fought heroically. Cried for the young and trusting girl who had once held Manhattan in her hand. Cried for the young and sweet-faced boy who loomed above her, squeezing her life away with red-hot rage.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I believe it was his priest who suggested Bobby consider spending a period with us. To strengthen himself spiritually.”
As Farrell spoke, his eyes avoided the three men watching him.
“Brother Halloran promoted the idea of the diocese of the monastery as a retreat. It seemed a way to help revive our order. He believed we could attract some younger men with a novice program. The novices would be with us for two years, living the life of a spiritual man, to help them determine if they indeed wanted to enter the embrace of the Mother Church. Brother Halloran said it would be a way of tempering them, like fine steel.
“And so he spoke to friends at the diocese and to priests he was acquainted with. Soon we had a few young men visit us, but most were unsuitable for one reason or another. Some were obviously sent by their parents as a form of discipline, as though we were a poor alternative to a good military school. Others clearly didn’t have the strength of character to live the demanding life of a brother.”
Farrell smiled to himself. “But Bobby, we knew, was special. You could sense something in him that was rare in anyone. At any age. He was only sixteen years old, still a boy physically of course. But his perceptions, his grasp of the significance of spirituality, were simply first rate.”
“So you admitted him?” Deeley asked.
“Yes. Of course we did.” Farrell drew himself upright. “For the first few weeks, he was assigned to a room by himself. The room was comfortable, certainly more comfortable than those of the other brothers, save the abbot’s himself. He was given a cloak and slippers to wear and a course of readings to study and ponder.”
The monk’s eyes brightened. “Bobby responded so beautifully. He rose with us at matins—”
“At what?” McGuire interrupted.
“Matins,” Deeley explained. “Morning prayer. Which is at what time, Brother Farrell?”
“Four a.m.,” the monk replied. “We would gather in the chapel for prayers and readings before breakfast. Then Bobby would retire to his room for study during the morning. We would meet again for sext. The noon meal,” Farrell explained to McGuire, anticipating his question. “In the afternoon Bobby would help in the cataloguing of our book collection or in the leather-work and weaving chambers downstairs. He would join us at vespers, the evening prayer service, and retire to his room at sunset.”
“What happened after he became accustomed to the routine?” Deeley enquired.
“Brother Halloran . . .” The monk stopped and stared at the floor for a moment, his hands resting on his knees. He breathed deeply and raised his eyes to stare blankly at the wall ahead of him. “Brother Halloran felt that small groups of monks could work together with the novice, providing him with a small family core group.” Farrell became more agitated, and his voice grew defensive and urgent in tone. “The idea was that a novice could benefit from multiple viewpoints and a closer . . .a closer working, study and spiritual relationship with . . . with a cell group.”
He paused, waiting for questions from the men. When there were none, he shifted his weight and brought his hands together, resting his chin on them. He stared at the floor as he spoke, stumbling over his words.
“Brother Halloran asked for volunteers to assist the novice in his training. A group of . . . of three of the brothers, led by Brother Larkin, came forward. And so Bobby was placed in their care and assigned to a group of rooms in the far wing of the building. Brother Larkin led the text repair and cataloguing activity. We have . . . we have thousands of spiritual texts within the monastery, many of them very old. And others arrive monthly as bequests or from the diocese.
“The group was autonomous in its work. Brother Larkin had the abbot’s trust. Larkin was a stern man, very severe in his discipline. The other two brothers in
his group, Brother Charles and Brother Higgins, were clearly dominated by him.” The monk shook his head quickly in short spastic motions as though attempting to shake the memory from his mind. “I never cared for either of those two. At least . . . at least Brother Larkin could boast intelligence and strength of spirit.
“In any case, within a few days Bobby was no longer appearing at matins or vespers. His food was brought to him in his room by the others in his cell group. When the abbot made enquiries about Bobby, he was told by Brother Larkin that Bobby was ill or was in deep study or was being subjected to discipline for not achieving the performance expected of him. And so we didn’t see Bobby for a very long time.”
“How long?” McGuire demanded.
“For the first period, three to four months perhaps,” Farrell responded. “Which was not unusual,” he added hastily. “There was much to do and a great sense of spirituality among the few novices we had. And discipline under Brother Halloran was not . . . not what it should have been, perhaps.
“When we saw Bobby that first time again at vespers, he looked changed. He was silent and withdrawn. I remember Brother Halloran spoke to him, and he withdrew physically and began to cry. I was concerned, personally. I could tell something was wrong, but Brother Larkin stated gruffly that Bobby was his responsibility, and that his spiritual development was proceeding apace. And so we would see Bobby perhaps once monthly after that.”
“What of his mother?” Deeley asked. “Didn’t his mother demand to see him?”
Farrell sighed. “She stopped by once or twice and was told Bobby was in retreat, and that she must bow to the wishes of the abbot for the two-year novice period.” He frowned briefly. “Mrs. Griffin is a very obedient daughter of the Church.”
“Jesus,” McGuire muttered.
“What was going on?” Deeley asked softly.
The monk looked up and found the priest’s eyes. “You can guess what was going on, Father,” he answered.
The Man Who Murdered God Page 19
