Burning Man

by Alan Russell

  Barbara, the church secretary, had followed me into Father Pat’s office and stood there beaming and nodding, but the young priest didn’t know me from Adam. Or Eve.

  “This is ‘baby Michael,’” Father Pat said, “the gift left on our doorstep.”

  “Oh, that Michael,” the intern said.

  “Yes,” Father Pat said. He turned his eyes on me and said, “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “There’s a reason I’ve never invited you to my workplace.”

  “I met Michael more than thirty years ago,” he said, “back when I was svelte, handsome, and quite full of myself.”

  “It’s hard to believe the svelte and handsome part.”

  Father Pat motioned for Barbara and me to sit down. He never let anything get in the way of his telling a good story, even if everyone had heard it before.

  “In my early years at Blessed Sacrament,” he said, “I was the low man on the totem pole. Part of my duties included giving the eight o’clock Monday mass, which always seemed a bit of an anticlimax after the weekend services, at least to this wet-behind-his-ears priest. On Monday I knew that only a small number of regulars attended mass, and it was always a rare Monday when I didn’t think that my talents could be put to better use.

  “As I was getting myself ready in the sacristy, I suddenly took notice of a strange sound, but because this has always been a neighborhood of strange sounds I decided to pay it no mind. The plaintive cry only lasted for a few seconds, and I was glad of that. I tried to convince myself that it was a stray cat, but I still couldn’t shake this uneasy feeling.

  “I told myself that I had no time for any wild goose chase, what with a mass to prepare for, but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t want to be bothered. Still, I suppose I continued to listen out of one ear, for it was only a minute or two later that I again became aware of some faint crying. The sounds were weaker this time around and were gone so quickly I wondered if I had imagined them.

  “Because the homeless and transients have long been a part of this neighborhood, I suspected the cries were human, but that wasn’t enough to make me act. ‘It’s probably a maudlin drunk,’ I told myself, ‘grieving because he’s run out of liquor.’ On that self-righteous note, I tried to convince myself to not be bothered, but there was something oppressive about the silence. I didn’t hear the quiet so much as I sensed this void. When I think back to that time, I am sure I was being given a test, and had I turned my back, I believe I would have failed it to the detriment of my soul. That is why, when I tell this story from the pulpit, I suggest that all of us need to listen to what we don’t hear as well as that which we do, and cocksure priests most of all.”

  Father Pat gave a side glance to the intern and winked. “It was a cold January morning, much like the mornings we’ve been having this week, and I remember as I hurried outside my breath produced a vapor trail. I started in the direction I thought the sound had come from, making my way to the back lot, but I was stopped by a metal chain that was strung up to keep cars out. I was wearing my robes, and as I stepped over the chain I tripped on it. My fall was almost deterrent enough to send me back. As I lay sprawled on the ground, I remember bemoaning the state of my vestments and thinking how it wouldn’t do for me to officiate mass with a tear in the left knee of my pants, and how I needed to go back right away so that I would have time enough to hurriedly change into other clothing. I knew full well that the regulars would not like it if the service started late, and that these particular parishioners would be sure to give me an earful if mass did not begin on time. Just as I convinced myself that I had to turn back, I heard a sound. It wasn’t loud enough to be a wail but was more like a fading whistle. I turned my head and scanned the entire back lot but saw nothing.

  “With a few very unholy words and an aggrieved limp, I decided that I couldn’t leave without at least a cursory look of the area. It’s probably a bird, I told myself, and I am just a birdbrain on a fool’s errand, but my recriminations didn’t stop me from inspecting the blacktop. I scanned the area and was just about to give up when I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. The breeze was blowing along some leaves, pushing them to a spot in the corner where other leaves and trash were piled high by the wind. Back then my eyes were sharp, but I did not want to believe what I was seeing. I found myself staring at a small, still hand.

  “Without thinking—perhaps afraid to think—I sprinted to the little one’s side. I swept away the leaves and debris, and feared I was too late. The baby wasn’t moving, and his skin had a bluish hue. I lifted the babe up and felt how cold his body was, but even as I despaired that I had come too late, my prayers were answered, for I saw him take the slightest of breaths.

  “I tucked the naked baby into the folds of my robes and took off running as fast as I dared. On that morn it felt as if I sprouted wings, for the ground seemed to fly by under me. I rubbed the baby’s arms and legs as I ran, but he did not respond and made no sounds.

  “I raced in through the side entrance of the church, and when I appeared to the congregation I am sure that I looked every inch a madman, what with my bulging eyes, heaving chest, and torn clothing. I hurried through the sanctuary, pausing only for a moment to genuflect, and then ran through the nave. The organist stifled a scream and stopped her playing, and the congregation stood up to get a look at what I was carrying, but I didn’t take notice of any of that.

  “I made it to the front of the church and tried to remember what to do. I had only assisted in baptisms, and for a moment I froze before gathering my wits. I could not have this baby die before receiving the First Sacrament, and I was sure his young life hung in the balance.

  “I reached into the baptismal font, and my hands were trembling so much that I spilled more holy water on the ground than I did the baby’s head. Three times did I make the sign of the cross, giving unto the newborn both name and blessing: ‘I christen thee Michael in the name of the Father, in the name of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Spirit.’

  “Around me I heard a chorus of ‘Amen’ and only then noticed that the entire congregation had followed me to the baptismal font. Their presence and encouragement reassured me, and the words of the First Sacrament came a little easier: ‘I christen you that you may know the pure and holy spirit of God, your eternal source of faith.’

  “I felt a weight lifted off of me then, for I could see that the baby was still breathing. It also seemed to me that he did not look quite as blue. Because I had rushed through the administration of the First Sacrament, I decided to offer a Whispered Verse of Assurance, and for Michael’s ears alone did I murmur a verse from the Bible.

  “When I finished, I glanced around at all the curious faces. Everyone was looking at this baby with wonder and awe. I thought to conclude the baptism with an economy of words so that we could get Michael medical care as soon as possible, and so I raised him up with both my hands and offered him to God, saying, ‘We pray for the care and protection of Michael in body and soul. We surrender him to your hands. Please, Dear Heavenly Father, bind your angels to bless and attend him always. This we pray in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.’

  “I am not sure if Michael responded to the holy water dripping down his face, or the way the audience was enthusiastically calling out ‘Amen.’ Maybe he was just warming up, or maybe Michael was reacting to being lifted into the air. It’s even possible Michael was offering his own commentary on my baptismal efforts. All I know is that he was not the only one sprinkled that day. Suddenly, a stream fell down upon my head; with devastating aim Michael relieved himself upon me.

  “There might have been one or two that tried to refrain from laughing, but their good intentions were quickly lost. All of us broke down laughing, and I laughed the loudest of all. I took that little boy’s flow as a sign from God. Michael was going to live.”

  I had heard the story a hundred times but would never tire of it. Judging by the laughter around me, I wasn’t alone.


  “For years Father Pat has been threatening to immortalize that moment with a statue,” Barbara said.

  “Not a statue,” the priest said. “I was thinking more of a tasteful stained-glass window.”

  “Remind me not to give to your building fund this year,” I said.

  “Michael is the only baby that I ever baptized twice,” he said. “His parents wanted to have a more official baptism the second time around.”

  “But before Father Pat committed to a redo,” I said, “he wanted written assurance that I would be wearing a waterproof baptismal gown.”

  “It was either that or me going to the bishop and asking if I could conduct the service in a bathing suit.”

  The church had used its influence to make sure I was adopted into a Catholic family. My parents had worshipped at Blessed Sacrament until we moved to the San Fernando Valley, but even then Father Pat had stayed in touch with me. Over the years our paths had frequently crossed. After my encounter with the Strangler, Father Pat had visited me often at the hospital. He knew me well enough to recognize that this time my visit wasn’t just a social call. After the others excused themselves, Father Pat looked at me expectantly. We weren’t in the confessional booth, but it felt like it. He took a read of my tired eyes, but I wasn’t there to talk about my hellish dreams.

  “I caught a case this morning,” I said. “A newborn girl was abandoned.”

  I didn’t have to tell him there was no happy ending. He nodded his head and closed his eyes in silent prayer. My eyes stayed open. I was a throwaway kid investigating another throwaway kid. My biological mother was never found; I would find Rose’s mother.

  CHAPTER 5:

  CROSS-IMAGING

  The door opened a crack, and a solitary brown eye peered at me suspiciously from behind the safety of a door chain. Even law-abiding citizens, those without so much as a parking ticket, are wary of talking to cops. When you have a face that’s scarred like mine, people tend to be that much more suspicious. After being burned in the fire, I kept trying on friendly faces for size in the mirror, but what looked back at me were distorted grimaces and leers. It’s been easier to not smile.

  “I’m Detective Gideon,” I said, showing my badge wallet.

  The night before, I’d canvassed apartments in the area, and I had started knocking on doors again early that morning. If you want to catch people, you need to seek them out at odd hours.

  I explained the purpose of my visit to the brown eye. When I finished, the chain came down and the door opened a little wider revealing a midthirties white male. “No,” he said in answer to my questions, “I didn’t see any baby or anyone carrying a box.” He yawned and shook his head. “Isn’t it early for you guys to be coming around like this?”

  “I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said.

  I did my closing speech, the one where I handed over my card and asked to be called if something came up that might be useful to the case. Sirius and I were already walking away when the man called out, “Wait a sec. Aren’t you the cop that took down the Weatherman?”

  With my back turned to him, I offered a noncommittal wave. If he’d known anything about baby Rose, I would have lingered, but I could do without another conversation about Ellis Haines. That was a trip down memory lane I didn’t need this morning.

  The sound of music called to me from my cell, the opening notes to “Hail to the Chief.” The chief is the only person in my cell phone’s contact list to whom I’ve assigned a ringtone.

  “Gideon,” I said.

  “This is Gwen from Chief Ehrlich’s office calling, Detective. Are you available to talk to the chief?”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said. “Please hold for a moment.”

  For some reason the chief never calls me directly. I don’t know if it’s an LA thing or if it’s standard practice among the ruling class to have someone else do the dialing for them. I do know this is the town that invented the phrase “I’ll have my person call your person.”

  As I waited for the chief I asked Sirius, “Are you my person?”

  I heard the wind tunnel effect that accompanies speaker phones and then Ehrlich’s voice: “Good morning, Detective.”

  I resisted the urge to put my cell on speaker phone to return the effect. “Morning, Chief.”

  “I have a new case for you, one that I’ll want you to run point on, even though for media purposes it will be handled through Robbery-Homicide. A young man’s body was found in Runyon Canyon Park. I want you to get over there before the story breaks and the media shit storm hits.”

  Most of the city’s homicides involve young men, and usually such deaths aren’t considered very newsworthy. The chief hadn’t yet told me what was special about this case.

  “What is it that will be attracting the vultures?”

  “The young man was crucified.”

  I had seen too many forms of death on display, but this would be my first crucifixion. Ancient Rome suddenly didn’t seem so ancient. Given a choice, I could have done without this history lesson.

  “I’m on the way.”

  “Captain Brown will coordinate with you on this. He’ll be contacting you shortly.”

  Brown was the chief’s liaison. Behind his back he was called Radar, after the character made famous from M*A*S*H*. He resembled the corporal and his weapon of choice was a clipboard. His other nickname was Captain Nose, short for “brownnose.”

  “Let’s hit it,” I told Sirius.

  The two of us jogged back to the car. For now, the baby Rose case would have to be put on the back burner. Police work is nothing if not a series of interruptions.

  The morning commute had already started; it was a good thing I had a cherry topper. I flashed my light and siren and surprised commuters as I passed by on the shoulder. A lot of conversations were interrupted as cell phones were tossed aside and drivers suddenly became law abiding. I was two minutes from the park when Radar called.

  “Are you there yet?” he asked.

  “Golgotha is almost within sight.”

  “That’s the kind of comment the media better never hear.”

  “Afraid it might upset the money changers?”

  Radar decided to ignore me. “A Parks and Recreation worker discovered the body, and the park was immediately secured and closed. The media has not yet caught on to what occurred.”

  I knew that wouldn’t last more than an hour or two. Word always leaks out.

  “The chief wants you to keep him up to date on this one. He expects there will be lots of scrutiny.”

  “You think?”

  Crucifixions aren’t everyday events, even in Los Angeles.

  “I’m at the scene,” I announced.

  I clicked off in the middle of him saying “Call me when...”

  A uniform was standing at the park’s palm tree–lined southern entrance at Vista Street and Fuller Avenue. Sirius was pacing back and forth in the backseat, his tail wagging furiously. Runyon Canyon was a favorite park of his. Usually it was full of gamboling dogs.

  I offered up my ID to the uniform, and after looking at it he said, “You’ll want to park up the hill as far as you can, but even then you’ll have a walk.”

  He looked around to make sure no one was listening in and said, “The body is way up the trail at a place called Clouds Rest. You’ll see signs along the path directing you there.”

  “Thanks, I know where it is.”

  There were half a dozen cars parked in a ragged line near the trailhead, including the forensics van and the coroner’s wagon. The parking lot wasn’t far away, but something in most cops’ DNA compels them to do almost anything to avoid walking any farther than necessary. I passed by the parked cars, but not out of nobility. Most visitors to the park enter through the southern entrance at the bottom of the canyon, and from there they choose one of two walking trails. The clockwise route is the shorter and less strenuous route to the back of the canyon and the
eastern ridge, which is Clouds Rest. The counterclockwise trail is longer and harder, with more ups and downs.

  What the other cops didn’t know was that there was a third and shorter route to Clouds Rest that started from the lower fire road. Their way would have taken them half an hour of walking; my route would cut that time in half. I parked along the bend in the lower fire road, and Sirius and I began our hike. The 130-acre park is designated as “urban wilderness.” It might not be Yosemite, but you don’t have to venture far into the canyon before you feel as if you’ve escaped from LA. The park’s southern entrance is just two blocks from Hollywood Boulevard, making it a popular getaway for Angelenos.

  We followed an upward path that went along a dry riverbed. Before bulldozers and development, LA was chaparral country and the park is a natural museum to LA’s former terrain. We made our way through sagebrush, flattop buckwheat, and laurel sumac. The muted greenery was typical of most drought-resistant plants, although occasionally we passed by some red-berried toyon, which all the locals call California holly.

  The last part of the hike was the hardest, a steep rise that had me using my hands in a few spots to steady myself. All the climbs throughout Runyon Park are worth it. Depending on your vantage point and the smog, you can see everything from Catalina Island to Griffith Observatory to the Capitol Records building, but today I didn’t stop to take in the view. I was thinking about what awaited me at Clouds Rest.

  “Why would you pick this spot to crucify someone?” I asked.

  It was out of the way but not that out of the way. Lots of people walked the trails every day. For some, it was part of a regular exercise regimen. The murderer wouldn’t have been able to get in or out easily. And if you dragged a cross up a hill, someone was likely to notice. No, it wasn’t the first spot I would pick for crucifying someone.

  Sirius’s ears perked up and his body went on the alert. He sniffed the air and got a preview of what was ahead. It was another half a minute before I saw the activity. A handful of people—forensics techs and the coroner’s people—were clustered around a coast live oak. The tree was typical of its kind: it had a gnarled trunk and contorted branches and was rather compact, at least as oaks went, but it was large enough to be supporting a body.