All the Dead Fathers

by David J. Walker

  The incidents with Father Immel were said to have occurred on two nights during a week when he was visiting his sister’s family at a summer cottage they owned near Brainerd, Minnesota. He’d offered to babysit, to give Louise and her husband some well-earned respite from the two girls.

  On the second occasion, the couple had gone out to a movie, and Father Immel sat on the sofa with the girls and read to them, which they seemed to like. But when he told them it was bedtime all hell broke loose. Maggie went out of control and threatened to run away. He was scared and finally locked the girls in their room. The moment Louise and her husband got back, Maggie started screaming uncontrollably. She accused the priest of molesting her and her sister on both nights. “According to Stan,” Michael said, “Maggie kept saying, ‘He picked us up and made us sit on his penis and wiggle around.’ He said she used those exact words and never varied from them. Like she had memorized them.”

  Torn between her faith in her brother and her belief that little children could never lie about such things, Louise took the girls home to Chicago the following morning. She reported the matter to the social worker, who reported it to the archdiocese. Father Immel was called in and interviewed by a priest from the cardinal’s sex abuse task force, and a lawyer.

  “Did he bring his own lawyer with him?” Kirsten asked.

  “Of course not,” Michael said. “To him it was just a conversation, to explain what really happened.”

  What Father Immel explained was that Maggie had become enraged and threatened to “get him good” when he insisted the kids had to go to bed. In addition, however, while he denied any sexual contact or sexual interest in the girls, he did admit under questioning that there were some “embraces and caresses” that occurred as he cuddled the two girls and read to them, and that these were “probably imprudent.” He agreed that he “should have known better” and “should have avoided that.”

  When criminal charges were filed Father Immel did get a lawyer. Later, the state’s attorney dropped the charges and the priest entered the archdiocesan sex abuse program. He was removed from his parish and went through the required course of evaluation and treatment. He was eventually certified as “not a danger” to children. Still, when he was returned to priestly work, it was at the Catholic Center at the University of Illinois, the Chicago Circle Campus, where he wouldn’t come into contact with young children.

  “Stan worked as chaplain there for almost four years without incident,” Michael said. “Then, suddenly these new policies were put in place and, like me, he was removed at once from his position.”

  “And later, like you, his name got into the paper,” Kirsten said.

  “Right.”

  “It sounds like he suggested to you,” she said, “that what got him in trouble was his not being more careful answering questions, and that they interpreted his answers in a way to make him look guilty, when he wasn’t.”

  “Exactly,” Michael said. “Those girls lied. They’d done it before and—”

  “But you know, don’t you, that he might have been the one lying? That maybe he did abuse those girls?”

  “I … well … I don’t think so. Not at all. The psychologists said he was okay, and there was never any other incident.”

  “No other incident that you know of.” His eyes widened and he was about to object, but she raised her palm to stop him. “Look, I’m not saying he did it. I’m only saying…” She let it go. “Anyway, he wasn’t appealing to Rome about his removal from the priesthood, like you are?”

  “No. Stanley was angry that they would send him back to square one after he’d already done everything they asked him to do. Basically, he told the cardinal the hell with it, and walked away. I heard he bought a rundown summer cottage near his sister’s place in Minnesota for next to nothing and was trying to fix it so he could live there year-round.”

  * * *

  The rundown cottage was on tiny Two Skunk Lake, and that was where Stanley Immel’s body was discovered. Kirsten had already read a very sketchy report from a Brainerd newspaper’s Web site. The report didn’t identify the victim as a priest or an ex-priest but did say that according to the coroner, he’d been dead about a week when he was found by a woman who delivered propane gas in the area. “I wondered where he was, because he always comes out when I drive up, and the dog’s usually barking and all,” she was quoted as saying. “So I peeked in the kitchen window. Gosh, it was a mess in there. Blood all over everything.”

  The paper said the Crow Wing County Sheriff’s office had classified the incident as a homicide. There were no suspects.

  8.

  “Jesus, are you totally out of your mind?” Dugan got up and walked to his office window and looked out, as though to study the rain streaming down, or the gray building hardly visible across the street.

  Kirsten was sitting in one of his client’s chairs and wasn’t surprised at his reaction. She’d left her raincoat with Michael in the reception area and gone alone into Dugan’s office and closed the door. “No,” she said, “I wouldn’t say totally.” She crossed her legs and wondered how much these new wool pants—soaked through up to the knees—would shrink. “Anyway, I’m thinking about it. Michael’s, you know, in serious trouble.”

  “Uh-huh, and why is that?” Dugan turned to face her. “Oh, I remember. Because he’s a so-called man of God, and when a mixed-up teenager comes to him for help … his solution is to fuck her. And … gosh … now he’s in trouble.”

  “I didn’t say he didn’t do something bad. It was the worst thing he could have done.”

  “You say it’s bad, but you sugarcoat—”

  “I’m not sugarcoating anything. I’m saying it’s possible—not certain, but possible—that someone intends to kill him in a brutal way for something terrible he did thirty years ago. He was a priest, yes. But he was a drunk, too, with his stupid friends covering for him when they should have gotten him into a recovery program. And you? You never did anything in your past you were ashamed of?”

  “I never got into the pants of a sixteen-year-old client.”

  “She was seventeen, almost eighteen. It happened just once.”

  “Right. If you believe what he says.”

  “That’s what her family said. He never denied anything they said.”

  “So what? So it’s okay because he fucked her ‘just once’?”

  “Of course not, but—” Why the hell was she defending Michael’s indefensible conduct, anyway? That wasn’t the point. “You know what, Dugan?” She stood up. “You’re starting to really piss me off.”

  “I’m just trying to keep you from wasting a lot of time and money. For no good reason. Why don’t you save your pissed-offness for that uncle of yours who couldn’t keep his goddamn pants zipped up?”

  She was about to leave before she said something she’d regret, when she suddenly realized the problem was hers, not Dugan’s. She’d come to him to talk it over, when she knew damn well what his opinion would be. Now she needed to turn this conversation around. “Okay,” she said, “you’ve raised a good objection. Let’s both relax and think this through.” She sat down, and gave him her best I-love-you-more-than-anything-in-the-world smile. It was 100 percent genuine, too, but it still took a while to work.

  He stared at her. “Is this the part where you try to talk me into something?” he finally said, but he sat down and she could see him softening.

  “Who in the world ever talked you into anything? Uh-uh, I’m just running an idea past you, and you think it’s a bad idea because it could get quite expensive.”

  “That’s not my main object—”

  “No, but you brought it up and it’s an important consideration. I know Wild Onion’s net each year has barely been half what I made as a cop, but this year—mostly because of the Willoughby divorce—I should double last year’s income.”

  “I don’t care what your income is. Jesus, I don’t care if you work at all. Maybe when you get preg—”r />
  “Let’s not go there, okay? Not until there’s something to talk about.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d go nuts if you didn’t work. I understand that.”

  “Right,” she said. “And you also understand I’d go just as nuts if my business had to be supported by you as though it were my hobby. So I have to make enough so I could support myself even if you and your law practice weren’t around.”

  “Don’t talk that way. I am around. And I will be.”

  “Of course. But that’s how I have to think about it. For my own sake.”

  “Okay … so?”

  “So, if I decide to help Michael and the others, maybe they’ll be able to pay a fee. Or at least expenses.”

  “Michael’s in no position to pay anything near what it would cost.”

  “But he’ll pay something. And probably most of the others will join in. I mean, they’re all scared. And reasonable or not, I’d be scared, too, in their position. Some of them must have some money, from their families or whatever. So…” She shrugged and spread her hands out, palms up.

  “So you’re gonna do it, whatever I think.”

  “I said I’m considering doing something to help.”

  “And so you got me twisted into talking about money,” he said, “instead of about the kind of creeps those guys are.”

  “You give me way too much credit.”

  “Yeah, right.” He picked up a pen and tapped one end of it on his left palm.

  She stood up and went around the desk and rested a hand on his shoulder, but he just sat there tapping his pen and playing tough guy. She put her other hand on the back of his neck and leaned and kissed him on the left ear … and felt the shiver that went through his body. She knew it would. Both ears were hot-wired, but the left one? Dynamite. “Gotta go,” she said. “Michael’s out there waiting. Um … I don’t suppose you wanted to say hello to—”

  “Anything I have to say to that guy, you don’t wanna—”

  “Great. So, anyway, thanks for helping me sort this out.” She headed for the door.

  “I give up,” he said. “He’s your uncle, damn him, and you’re gonna get mixed up in this whether you get paid or not, aren’t you?”

  She turned at the door. “Not relevant, counselor, because I will get paid.” At least she hoped so.

  “So now it’s ‘will get paid’? I thought you were only considering getting involved.”

  “I was,” she said. “But talking to you has helped me decide. That’s one of the things I love about—”

  “So you’re gonna run around from state to state and investigate two murders?”

  “Two we know of so far,” she said. “But catching killers is what cops get paid for. Me, I’ll concentrate on protection.”

  “Protection for a bunch of damn—” He didn’t finish. “So how many are left? Sixteen? You’re gonna bodyguard sixteen people?”

  “Just the ten who are living at Villa St. George,” she said. “But even so, I’ll need … some help.”

  His eyes widened. “You don’t think you’re gonna get me involved with those—”

  “Of course not,” she said. “You’re much too busy squeezing dollars out of innocent, helpless insurance adjusters. I’ll get … oh … someone.”

  Understanding spread slowly across his face. “You’re gonna get Cuffs Radovich, aren’t you?”

  “If he’s available.”

  “Jesus.” Dugan shrugged. “Well … creeps like those guys, I guess they deserve a babysitter like Cuffs.”

  9.

  “Hey, Doogie pal. ¿Qué pasa?”

  Dugan, startled, looked up from his desk. Kirsten had left two hours ago and he was deep into a client’s tax returns. “Jesus, Larry. Try knocking, huh?” He’d long ago given up trying to get Larry Candle to can the “Doogie” crap.

  “What’s to knock on? Door’s wide open, partner.”

  “We’re not partners.” He’d never give up on that. “You work for me.”

  “Figure of speech, pal. Figure of speech.”

  Larry was incorrigible. He was also short and round, with a head the shape of a bowling ball and covered with lots of curly black hair—certainly permed, probably dyed. He had a bottle of beer in each hand.

  “It’s not six o’clock yet, Larry. We made a—”

  “Think fast!” Larry yelled, and tossed one of the bottles across the office. Dugan caught it with two hands before it hit him in the face.

  Larry balanced himself on the edge of one of the client’s chairs—probably so he could see what was on Dugan’s desk—and twisted the top off his beer. A Berghoff Dark. Larry loved microbrews, and he had taken over the beer buying from Mollie, Dugan’s office manager, whom Larry liked to call “the Enforcer.” Mollie always bought Miller’s or Bud, whichever was on sale.

  “I’d watch out for that,” Larry said, pointing at Dugan’s beer.

  Dugan swiveled away from his desk, held the bottle away from him, and twisted the cap just enough to let a little beer fizz out and drizzle down over his hand and into the wastebasket. He swiveled back and lifted the bottle and drank. You couldn’t fault Larry’s taste in beer, anyway. “I’m, uh, kinda busy here, Larry. What’s up?”

  “Whatcha got there? Myron Tarkington’s tax returns?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can see the defendant’s lawyer now. ‘Well, Mr. Tarkington, you testified that you lost seventy thousand dollars because you couldn’t run your car repair business for a year. So tell the jury, are you lying now? Or have you been lying to the government, since you’ve never reported more than thirty-five thou in your life?’”

  “Don’t worry,” Dugan said. “This’ll never get to trial.” Dugan handled only injury cases, lots of them, and his goal was to settle and never go to trial. But he also never lowballed a client. If he couldn’t get a fair offer from an insurance company he referred the case to another law firm to take it to trial, and they split the fee. Saved Dugan a lot of headaches. And if a court appearance was required before he could send the case out, he had Larry handle it. Larry loved arguing with lawyers and judges, and he never got headaches. He gave them.

  “Not to change the subject,” Larry said, “I saw Kirsten here a while ago.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But she got away before I could talk to her.”

  “Uh-huh.” Larry irritated the hell out of Kirsten, so she avoided him.

  “She gonna try to help those priests?” Larry asked.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Hey, don’t forget. I’m the one called her on the phone that morning after the first guy got it. Y’know, on I-90? Kanooski, Kanowski, whatever. Anyway, then there’s this one in Minnesota. Guy messed with some little girls, they say. Now he’s dead. And I’m thinking Kirsten might get involved, you know, because her uncle was on the same list in the paper along with those two, and—”

  “How do you know all this stuff, Larry?”

  “Hell, I pay attention, read the papers, ask around. Do that for twenty-five years and you get to know things … and people. I told Kirsten I knew someone who could give her some facts on that I-90 murder, but she blew me off.”

  “Who do you know?”

  “Just the detective in charge of the goddamn case, that’s all. Winnebago County Sheriff’s Office. Ex-client of mine. Years ago I got him off on a police brutality rap when he was with the Cicero Police Department. He owes me, y’know? ’Cause to get him off I hadda—”

  “Wait.” Dugan raised his hand. “Don’t tell me.”

  “Anyway, his name’s Danny Wardell. He’s a sergeant now, I think. She can use my name. He owes me.”

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll see if she’s interested.”

  “She sure as hell wants this guy caught before he gets down the list as far as her uncle.”

  “No one even knows if those two killings are related. It could be a coincidence.”

  “Could be, I guess. But it’s a hell of a coinci
dence, Doogie pal.” Larry drained what was left of his beer. “Because this afternoon? It was on the news. They found priest number three. As dead as the first two.”

  * * *

  Five minutes later Dugan had managed to get Larry out of his office. He wished Larry hadn’t told him anything at all. He didn’t want any part of helping Kirsten get more deeply involved in a series of homicides, or in helping a bunch of creeps who … Damn! He punched out her cell phone number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” he said. “You in the car?”

  “Yes. Taking Michael home. What’s up?”

  “You have the radio on?”

  “I did,” she said, “but Jesus, it’s all Iraq, Iraq, Iraq. I put in a CD. Why?”

  “Larry Candle heard on the news that a third priest got murdered. Or ex-priest, I guess. The guy was on the list.”

  “You mean they said that?”

  “No, but Larry’s got a copy of it.”

  “Why would—”

  “Says he likes to stay on top of things. Anyway, it happened sometime early this morning. In the victim’s apartment, somewhere on the northwest side. Name’s Emmett Regan. That’s all I know.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Right.”

  “Okay, then. I guess I…” There was a pause, and then she said, “Larry told me two weeks ago he knew someone with information about … you know…” She obviously didn’t want to talk with her uncle there in the car with her.

  “About the first murder, yeah. He told me that today, too. A detective with the Winnebago County Sheriff. A sergeant. Name’s Danny Wardell. Larry says you can use his name.”

  “I give the guy Larry’s name, he’ll throw me out the door.”

  “I don’t know. Larry says Wardell owes him.” Dugan wondered why he was encouraging her, for God’s sake. “Anyway, why would you need to talk to some police investigator? You’ll just be providing security, right?”

  “Uh … yeah. Right.”

  “Plus, you don’t want to get so wrapped up in this that you forget that other problem. You know, that ‘Here I come’ note?”