Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  The Colon’s lived in an elaborate well-kept Ranch home in an elaborate well-kept neighborhood on Long Island. Arthur Conlon became a widower a few years after he’d retired his executive position with the Long Island Railroad; his only daughter, Eileen decided to follow in her brother’s footsteps, and become a nun. After spending several years in a convent, she lost the calling when she fell in love with a salesman who eventually left her for another man. Dejected and despondent, she began selling local real estate and lived an almost reclusive lifestyle, remaining unmarried and continuing to live in the same house where she and Andy grew up. I had been distantly acquainted with the Colon’s through Andy, attending several family functions over the years with Marlene, and after our divorce, bringing Sandy along to a 60th birthday party for Andy. The Colon’s were good people and didn’t deserve this tragedy, but then, where is life’s justice?

  When I got back to the bureau, I spent an hour wrapping up an unrelated case at the top of my caseload. With the events of the morning swimming in my head, I was lucky to get through it without any inaccuracies. Briggs was a stickler for accuracy. When I finished, I brought my report into Briggs’s office and laid it on his desk. When I got back to my desk, Danny Nolan was waiting for me. He was holding a clear plastic evidence bag out in front of him for me to see. There was something blue and shiny inside. I looked closer into the bag and said, “I see a screwdriver.”

  “A Craftsman Phillips screwdriver, #3 with a six-inch shaft,” Danny said. “And the blood on it matches Father Conlon’s. No prints on the handle.”

  I took the plastic bag from Danny and brought it back to my desk. I sat in my chair and looked hard into the bag. “Where was this found?”

  “Trash bin behind the rectory,” Danny said, “wrapped inside a pair of blood-soaked work overalls. Blood on the overalls is Father Conlon’s too.”

  “Who would leave incriminating evidence so close to the scene of the crime?” I said.

  “Somebody’s in a big hurry,” Danny said.

  “Or somebody who wanted this to be found,” I said.

  “There was a large brass crucifix lying on the carpet by the body,” Danny said. “It had a good amount of Father Conlon’s blood on the crosspiece. They also found Father Conlon’s prints on it, and a second set of unknown prints. We ran the unknown prints through the database but didn’t find a match.”

  I thanked Danny for the info, locked my desk and looked at my watch. It was 1:00 p.m. and I wanted to get to Marlene’s house to break the news to her about Andy before she heard it reported impersonally through the media. I knew the girls would be in school and I’d have to take the chance that she’d be home. She had taken a part-time job in a local dry cleaner, but I couldn’t remember which days she worked.

  “Get some lunch?” Danny said.

  “Can’t. I’m on my way to break the news to Marlene.”

  “Want company for the ride?”

  “Thanks, but after that, I’m going to head home and turn in early. We’ll see what turns up tomorrow,” I said.

  I made good time on the Parkway and got to Marlene’s house before three. The Volvo was parked in the driveway, which was a good indication she was home. I parked the Chevy behind it and got out. As I started up the walkway, the front door opened, and Marlene appeared behind the screen door looking solemn. She was wearing that look of impending doom, which I had seen on her face so many times in the past. Years of worry and anxiety had made her good at reading my body language, and today she knew I wasn’t there with bright news. Despite the adversity of our contentious divorce, Marlene still looked good. Her shoulder-length hair was held back behind her ears by a red headband and her smooth complexion was taut with a healthy glow, attesting to the fact that she hardly ever needed to wear make-up.

  My marriage to Marlene crumbled after nineteen years. I guess I was too busy, or too stupid to see it coming. Living with a cop was no picnic for her. There were the years of shift work and weekend work and holiday work that stretched her tolerance to the limit. And she had to endure the daily uncertainty of whether her husband would come home in one piece or come home at all. We had loved each other as much as any married couple could and had produced two beautiful daughters, Christie and Justine. But near the end, the bickering and complaining became too much, and I conceded to the divorce. I couldn’t blame her. She had the marriage, and I had the career, and sometimes it’s hard to balance both. After a contentious divorce proceeding, we decided to pursue a civil discourse for the sake of our daughters. So far, our relationship had been on an even keel and we were both working to keep it that way.

  Marlene opened the screen door, let me in, and waited.

  “Andy Conlon is dead,” I said.

  There is never an easy way to say it.

  The blood drained from her face, turning it the color of baker’s dough. When I saw her lips begin to quiver and her eyes roll up, I reached out quickly and caught her just as her legs gave out from under her. I carried her into the living room and placed her on the sofa. She stirred and came to before I could return from the kitchen with a glass of cold water. I sat on the edge of the sofa beside her.

  “Drink this,” I said.

  She sat up and sipped the drink with shaky hands. “When I saw your face,” she said, “I knew something was wrong. I thought of the girls.”

  I took the glass from her and set it on the coffee table. The color was returning to her face.

  “Was it an accident?”

  “He was murdered,” I said.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing tears out from behind the lids. She dropped her face onto my chest and began to sob. I let her. She continued sobbing for nearly a full minute before she looked up at me and said, “When did it happen?”

  “Sometime last night. He was found in his office this morning.”

  She removed a tissue from the waistband of her sweatpants and wiped it over her face.

  “How’d it happen?”

  “I think it’d be better if you didn’t know the details.”

  “But why would somebody do this?”

  “I intend to find out,” I said.

  She got up and walked into the kitchen and got herself another drink from the faucet and splashed water over her face.

  “How will I tell the girls?” she said.

  “I’ll tell them if you want,” I said, as I walked into the kitchen.

  She went to the table and sat. After a moment, she said, “It’ll be better if I do it.”

  I was relieved that she’d said that, but tried not to show it.

  “His father and sister will be devastated,” she said, “such a close family. It’s a blessing his mom’s not alive to bear this.”

  “They’re doing the best they can,” I said

  “You’ve already told them?”

  “I couldn’t let a stranger tell them, although it wasn’t any easier for them coming from me.”

  “The wake and funeral will be tough to get through,” she said, “especially for the girls.”

  “I’m sure you’ll make them understand,” I said.

  She looked up at me and said, “But who will make them understand why something like this happens to a man of God?”

  I had no answer.

  I left before the girls got home from school, feeling a bit guilty that I’d left Marlene alone to tell them the sad news, but comforted by the thought that she would do a better job with it than I would.

  It was almost 5: 00 p.m. by the time I reached central Jersey. I turned off the Parkway and drove directly to my mother’s house in Greenridge Borough, which is a small community in north-central New Jersey situated east of Route 78 and nestled comfortably in the shadows of the Watchung Mountains. My mother was still living in the same house where my brother Vinnie and I had grown up. The house was just a short drive from my apartment in Greenridge. I had been lucky enough to get the apartment after my divorce. Marlene and
I sold our home, satisfied our debts and split the profit. Having grown up in Greenridge, it felt only natural to go back there and live the single life again.

  When you turned onto Sanford Street, the old colonial-style house was the first you saw. After my father died, my mother lived in the house for a short while with my brother Vinnie. When uncle Carmine passed, my mother’s sister, my aunt Theresa, naturally went to live with my mother. That gave Vinnie the chance to move out and head to the South West. He’d always hated the climate in the North East, and when he got a job offer to sell real estate in Arizona, he jumped at it. My mother could never understand why Vinnie would want to leave her, but sometimes mothers have a hard time understanding those things.

  I parked in the driveway, turned off the car and sat for a minute. The house hadn’t changed much in fifty years other than the new paint job my mother had applied last year, changing the color from a mundane white to Sandpiper beige. It still had the wrap-around porch with the two-seater swing in front of the big windows. The silver milk can my father had placed next to the front door was still there, although now its finish had weathered to a dull gray. The ancient Oak Tree in the front yard still looked healthy and strong. I remembered the rope my father tied to a limb so my brother Vinnie and I could swing out over the front sidewalk. Even now, I could see the dark abrasions on that limb where the rope had worn away some bark.

  I got out and walked up the wooden stairs and rang the front doorbell. My stomach began to feel queasy again. I was afraid what affect this kind of news might have on my seventy-six-year-old mother.

  My mother had kept herself in pretty good shape for a woman in her seventies She was moderately overweight and still spry on her feet. Her dyed black hair was always neatly kept and looked good against her olive complexion. Although she came from tough Italian stock, news like this is never easy to accept.

  When she opened the door, her eyes were already moist. I walked in and put my arms around her. She held me tight and said, “How could this happen, Maxwell?” I walked her to the living room sofa and sat beside her. The television was on and the reporters were telling my mother everything she didn’t need to know about the killing of Andy Conlon. I picked up the remote from the coffee table and snapped off the TV. Enough wrong information had already been disseminated through that boob tube, and for my mother to hear more would only add to her grief.

  Her eyes were wet and puffy. It was obvious she’d been sobbing for some time. Maybe I should have come here before breaking the news to Marlene.

  “It’ll be okay, ma,” I said.

  She kept dabbing her eyes with her white handkerchief and rubbing the gold crucifix around her neck between her thumb and forefinger. I kept patting her back in a meager attempt to comfort her.

  “How will I tell your Aunt Theresa when she comes back from the market?” she said.

  “The TV said he was—”

  “It’s true,” I said, “We’re doing everything to find out who did this, and why.”

  She leaned her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes. “Santa Lucia, give me strength,” she said.

  I waited a full thirty seconds before I said, “Would you like me to stay until Aunt Theresa gets home?”

  No answer.

  “I’m just thinking of when your father passed,” she said, with her eyes still closed. “The hurt never goes away, and now this.”

  “Time heals all wounds,” I said, and then felt stupid for saying it.

  I stayed with my mother for more than an hour after I’d convinced her to make coffee. Over a dish of homemade anisette biscotti, we sat at the kitchen table and talked about life and death, family and friends, and joy and sorrow. The conversation bordered on melancholy at times, but she didn’t see it that way, and the memories made her feel better. She spoke of Aunts and Uncles, mostly gone now. She mentioned nieces and nephews, married with children of their own. She detailed the births of her own two sons like it happened yesterday, and her face brightened at the memory of the day her grandchildren came into the world. With that thought, she leaned forward and kissed my cheek, as if I were the only one that had anything to do with that. To keep the conversation lively, I let her continue; occasionally adding a quick comment or question, to which I’d already known the answer. The therapy was good for her, and I could see her strength coming back. I knew she would be okay and able to tell Aunt Theresa the news without breaking down again. Before I left, I took her face between my hands and kissed her on her forehead. When she smiled and assured me she’d be okay, I told her I’d call her after work.

  Sandy lived in a three-story garden apartment building, just twenty minutes from where I lived, and ten minutes from my mother’s house. As a defense attorney, I was sure she’d heard the news by now and was anxious to give me her opinion on the whole mess. In the short time we had been dating, her counsel had been invaluable to me on more than one occasion.

  I parked in front of the building and climbed the two sets of stairs to Sandy’s second-floor apartment. I walked down the long hallway, and although I had a key, I knocked. Sandy opened the door almost immediately. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt and she had nothing on her feet. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. When she saw me, she threw her arms around me, held tight and kissed me consolingly on the lips. Her display of affection told me she had already heard the news. Behind her on the living room TV, a local channel was broadcasting the events of the murder at St. Trinity Church. I fought off the urge to reach for the remote.

  “It’s terrible,” she said as she closed the door. “I’m so sorry, Lovey.”

  “It’s a shocker,” I said.

  I went to the fridge and got myself a beer and sat on the sofa to listen to what the reporters had to say. Sandy scrunched up beside me, tucking her bare feet under herself.

  Sandy and I had been together for almost a year. We kept running into each other whenever we had mutual court assignments. I was immediately attracted to her. And although our relationship had been strictly professional for a while, I finally worked up enough nerve to strike up a casual conversation with her in the hallway of the courthouse during a brief recess. I was surprised when she responded positively.

  Sandra Sullivan grew up in a well-to-do Connecticut family. Her father was a prominent judge and her mother a wealthy homemaker. As an only child, she admits she was obscenely spoiled until her father’s untimely death brought a falling out between her and her mother over the distribution of the family estate. Things had soured so badly between them that she viewed it as a blessing when she was accepted into Harvard and was able to live away from home. She was the best thing that happened in my life in a long time and I didn’t want to blow the relationship, so I was playing my cards right. I was too blind, selfish, or stupid to see my marriage to Marlene slowly crumbling, and I didn’t want anything like that to happen between Sandy and me.

  “What kind of person would do a thing like this?” Sandy said.

  I took a sip of beer. “The kind of person with a sick motive and no conscience, the world’s full of them.”

  A young woman reporter was standing on the church steps, detailing whatever information had been released to the media, which wasn’t much. She was talking fast and using lots of words but not saying anything of importance.

  Ratings are everything.

  “They don’t seem to know much,” Sandy said.

  “Not much to know right now,” I said, “case is too new. It’ll hit the fan tomorrow when I start digging. Briggs was understanding enough to give me this one exclusively. The entire department is at my disposal.”

  “Smart cop, that Briggs,” Sandy said.

  Chapter 3

  I didn’t expect to sleep well and didn’t. Sandy had made us something to eat, and I left her apartment around eight. When I got to my apartment, I took a shower and got right into bed, Images of Andy Conlon lying on the floor in his office wouldn’t leave me. I saw him wi
th my eyes open, and I saw him with my eyes closed. I wondered if that image would ever fade from my memory. When I finally fell asleep, past images rolled through my mind like an old-time movie: Sunday mass, catechism, the dreaded confessional box, my First Holy Communion, confirmation, the marriage ceremony, and the baptisms of my daughters, all with the likeness of Andy Conlon’s benevolent face in the midst of it.

  I woke up in the morning feeling crappy, started the coffee machine and took another shower. I wasn’t hungry, so I just had coffee. I put on my khaki pants, a tan dress shirt, and a pair of brown casual shoes. I didn’t feel like a tie. Although my window air conditioning unit kept my apartment comfortably cool, the morning looked sweltering and that damned unit in the Chevy blew only warm air. I kept promising myself I’d get it fixed, but life kept getting in the way.

  Before I left, I called Danny Nolan on my cell. He was already on his way to the precinct. I told him I was heading to the church rectory for interviews and asked him to dig up everything he could on David Crockett.

  “Are you kidding?” he said.

  I couldn’t help smiling. “For real,” I said. “He’s the church custodian who found Father Conlon yesterday morning. He’s currently living in the rectory. I want his history.”

  “Davy Crockett?” Danny repeated.

  “Davy Crockett,” I said, “without the coonskin cap.”

  ***

  St. Trinity Church is a monolith of stone, concrete, and marble constructed around 1890. It has stood as a symbol of Catholic strength and stability since its construction and has served its parishioners with the reaching hand of God ever since. Its gables and bell tower rises high above the streets of Manhattan and its architectural beauty stands second only to the great St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue.

  I was lucky enough to find a parking place on the street alongside the rectory, which stands at the rear of the Church and next to the church cemetery. I got out and walked in through a side entrance. Inside, the marble entrance hall was dimly lit, cold and hollow and smelled faintly of incense. I had to look closely to read the brass-plated directory on the wall to find my way to the Monsignor’s office. As I was scanning the list, I heard a voice behind me, “May I help you?” I looked to see a young woman standing in a doorway. She was perhaps, thirty and wholesomely pretty, with short dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses.