Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  He looked perplexed when he said, “Oh yeah…insight.”

  I had an image of this guy working on Crockett, or Crockett working on him.

  He put the paper back into his pocket, stood and extended his hand. When I took it, my hand disappeared inside his. His grip was weak, but his hand was rough. I couldn’t help noticing his knuckle were red and there was dirt beneath his fingernails. Not what one would expect from a PI in a three-piece suit.

  “Well, I’ll go to work,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  Something about this guy didn’t smell right. I hadn’t asked to see his PI credentials, because I didn’t want to blow his cover. I knew he was a phony baloney. What I didn’t know was why. I’d have Danny check him out.

  The following afternoon, I was in Monsignor Belducci’s office watching him eat his lunch. He was seated behind his desk, ostensibly enjoying a cheeseburger, fries and a Coke and making a mess of himself in the process. The yellow napkin he had tucked between his collar and double chin was grease-stained and mottled with specks of lettuce and bits of onion.

  “Sit, my son,” he said, through a mouthful.

  I remained standing and said, “I didn’t mean to drop in on you uninvited and disturb your lunch.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I grab a bite whenever I can.”

  When he wiped his fingertips on the end of his napkin bib, it fell out of his collar. He lowered his chins quickly and caught it before it fell to the desk. Reaching up with his clean hand, he attempted to tuck it back under the fleshy folds of his neck. Having a hard time of it, he yanked it away in frustration and tossed it onto his desk.

  “What can I do for you, detective?” he said.

  “I thought you might supply me with a list of the youth organizations Father Conlon was involved with,” I said.

  “List? As far as I know, there is no list,” he said after emitting a muffled belch, then wiping his mouth with a fresh napkin. “There are just three that I’m aware of.”

  He leaned back in his chair, took another napkin from the pile on his desk and wiped his mouth again before he spoke.

  “Let me see…there’s the Youth Rec Center here in midtown, and the Boy’s Club in Queens, and there’s the CYO in Brooklyn.”

  “Is that all?”

  “To my knowledge,” he said.

  “Could there be others you don’t know about?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “Father Conlon had his hands full and there are only so many hours in the day, or night, for that matter.”

  “Father Conlon found time in the evenings for these organizations?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “There were always special meetings and award programs. Andy was committed to the kids.”

  “What are the age requirements for the boys?”

  “Eight to eighteen, no other requirements other than a willingness to grow and become a well-rounded, responsible adult. There are no monetary donations requested of the families. Of course, the church contribute annually to their sustainment.”

  “Admirable,” I said.

  I made a mental note of the organizations and thanked the Father. He smiled, leaned over his desk and returned eagerly to his cheeseburger. Before I walked out, he attempted to tuck a fresh napkin under his chins and when he had a hard time of it, he gave up and went to work on the cheeseburger without it.

  The Father would benefit from eating a Caesar Salad and maybe lose a chin—or two.

  Chapter 12

  I took two aspirin in an attempt to alleviate the pain from the sledgehammer inside my head, pounding my temples. It had been a long day, and I was looking forward to my dinner, a tall glass of red wine, and a good night’s sleep.

  My desk phone rang. I hesitated. The last thing I wanted was something more to complicate an already hectic day.

  I picked it up.

  “Homicide,” I said, “Detective, Graham.”

  “This is Sister Mary Margaret,” a low voice said.

  Five seconds passed before I was able to bring to mind that I had met Sister Mary Margaret at St. Trinity outside of Monsignor Belducci’s office. I recalled a charming young lady with short black hair and wire-rim glasses.

  “Hello, sister,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need to talk to you about something I think is important,” she said.

  Her voice was soft and low and somewhat reticent.

  “This is about what?” I said.

  “Father Conlon,” she said.

  I had no idea what Sister Mary Margaret felt she needed to tell me about Andy Conlon, but I was eager to find out. She was an intricate part of the church and had contact with all the priests daily. Her insight might prove invaluable.

  “Would you like to come and see me tomorrow,” I said. “Any time in the afternoon would be okay?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Can you come to the rectory tonight? I don’t think it should wait.”

  I looked at the wall clock; It was 5:05 p.m. The aspirin had not yet gone to work on my headache, but headache or not, I needed to accommodate this lady for my benefit, and Andy’s.

  “I can come over straight away,” I said.

  “Use the side entrance by Monsignor Belducci’s office,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”

  The sun was below the horizon by the time I got to St. Trinity. The church was brightly lit with a warm yellow glow. The rectory was dark but for a few lighted windows on the second floor, and an overhead light at the main entrance. I parked the Chevy in front of the rectory and walked around to the side entrance. I opened the mahogany door and stepped inside. Sister Mary Margaret was waiting for me in the marble hallway.

  She was wearing a pair of inordinately loose jeans, a flowered blouse, and a pair of white canvas sneakers, which made her look all the more attractive than when I saw her last…in a wholesome way, of course. She put her index finger to her lips, indicating for me to be quiet and then used the same finger to direct me to a door across the hall.

  When she closed the door behind us, I found myself in a small library. There was a sofa and several leather armchairs arranged in front of a stone fireplace and three walls of shelves packed with books.

  “Please sit,” she said. She sat in a leather chair. I sat in one opposite her.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I hope I haven’t bothered you for no good reason, but I feel what I have to say is important.”

  “If you think it’s important,” I said “it probably is.”

  She smiled and was glad I’d said that.

  “What do you wanna tell me?” I said. “And take your time.”

  She sat up in her chair and laced her fingers together on her lap. “I had come from the cafeteria after having had my lunch and stopped in this very room to fill the rest of my free time reading.”

  “When was this?” I said.

  “This past Saturday,” she said.

  “Was there anyone else with you?”

  “No. I was the only one here.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I was quietly reading a periodical when I heard, what sounded like a commotion, in the hall outside this door. I stopped reading and listened again. This time I distinctly heard voices being raised, one over the other.”

  “What kind of voices?”

  “Two men, quarreling. It is very unusual to hear any disorder here in the rectory, so I walked to the door so I could hear better. As I listened, the voices became louder and more boisterous.”

  “Could you hear what was being said?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “There was name-calling and even swear words.” She crossed herself and continued. “My curiosity got the best of me and I dared to open the door ever so much.” She indicated how much she had opened the door by using her thumb and index finger and peering through them with one squinted eye. I got the idea.

  “And what did you see?” I said.

  “I was as
tonished when I saw Father Faynor, engaged in a verbal altercation with the custodian, Mr. Crockett.”

  “Did you hear anything specific?” I said. “Why they were arguing?”

  “Father Faynor said Mr. Crockett was a worthless bum and didn’t deserve to work here, that he couldn’t be trusted to mind his own business.”

  “Why do you think he said that?”

  “I don’t know, but Mr. Crockett said that Father Faynor should try minding his own business. They called each other names, and the confrontation continued until Mr. Crockett raised the broom he was carrying in the air in front of Father Faynor’s face like he was about to strike him.”

  “Did he hit Father Faynor?”

  “No, Father Faynor reached up and grabbed the broom handle and pulled it away from Mr. Crockett and threw it out of his reach.”

  “Then, what happened?”

  “Father Faynor and Mr. Crockett looked at each other, their faces close. I could see the anger in both of them. I thought they were about to engage in a physical altercation, until Mr. Crockett walked over to the broom lying on the floor, picked it up and walked away.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I closed the door.”

  When I’d interview Crockett, he’d admitted that he and Faynor hadn’t gotten along but didn’t mention they had nearly engaged in a street brawl. I had taken Crockett’s admission as mere animus, but this revelation could upgrade animus to deep hatred.

  “Why did you wait until now to tell me this?” I said.

  “I didn’t think it any of my business since I had come upon it unwittingly. I know Mr. Crockett is involved, somehow, with the police. I thought what I saw and heard might be helpful.”

  She sat quietly; her fingers still laced together on her lap. I wasn’t sure if she was waiting for my response, or if she had more to say. To abate the awkwardness, I got up from the chair and said, “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  She stood and said, “I thought it was important.”

  As we walked out of the library, I said, “It is, and I thank you for your courage.”

  Before I opened the side door, I said. “I’m sure Mr. Crockett and Father Faynor will settle their differences. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?”

  “I’ve been keeping it inside me, but now I’m glad I’ve told someone.”

  “Let’s keep this between us,” I said.

  “And the Lord,” she said.

  It was dark by the time I got back to my apartment. I skipped dinner and my glass of wine, took two more aspirin and went to bed. I’d think about Crockett and Faynor tomorrow.

  Chapter 13

  “No Martin Denman in any PI directory in the Tristate area,” Danny said.

  “Didn’t think so,” I said.

  “Who is this guy?”

  “A phony PI hired by Eileen Conlon. Miss. Conlon wants to keep close tabs on my progress.”

  “Why hire a phony?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Make a left.”

  We were in an unmarked heading for the Boy’s Club in Queens. Danny drove. I had phoned the chapter director, Roger Shortman, and set up an interview. When we spoke he sounded hesitant and reluctant to get involved, but I gave him no choice. He agreed to meet us at two o’clock.

  The building that housed the Boy’s Club was once a warehouse that had been converted into a recreational center with a set of offices on the second floor. I’d called Shortman from my cell and told him we were outside the building. He told me to come right up. Danny and I went in through the double doors of the main entrance and took the elevator at the rear of the building to Shortman’s office. When the elevator doors opened, Shortman was waiting for us.

  Shortman wasn’t short. He was easily over six feet, probably played basketball. He had the right body for it. His head had been shaved shiny, and his dark skin contrasted with the light gray goatee that adorned his chin. He was wearing dark blue sweatpants and a white tee shirt and high top basketball shoes.

  “Detectives, Graham and Nolan,” I said.

  “I have a busy day,” Shortman said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  We followed him into his office across the hall, which was simple but functional: a large metal desk, a couple of visitor chairs, a file cabinet and two large windows that looked out onto a small grassy playing field. Shortman sat behind his desk. Danny and I sat in the chairs.

  “Whatta you guys wanna know?” he said.

  “Whatever you can tell us about Father Conlon’s relationship here at the club,” I said.

  “He was the kinda guy that worked well with young people.”

  “How long has he been involved with the club?” Danny said.

  “He was here when I got here three years ago.”

  “So it’d be safe to say he got along with everyone here?” I said.

  “Far as I know, everybody loved the guy.”

  “Did he work with the girls as well as the boys?” Danny said.

  “Mostly with the older guys.”

  “By his own choice?” I said.

  “We didn’t put restrictions on him. He was a Priest.”

  “I know,” I said, “unselfishly devoted.”

  Shortman paused while he thought if he wanted to say what he was thinking. When he decided he would, he said, “Maybe too devoted.”

  This was the first time I had heard anyone say anything remotely negative about Andy Conlon.

  “How do you mean?” I said.

  Shortman leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head.

  “It’s just my opinion, of course, but it’s the way he dealt with the young guys, kinda overzealous, the way he did things.”

  “You said he was devoted,” Danny reminded.

  Shortman leaned over his desk and folded his arms in front of him.

  “Sure, but he acted like he was their personal friend. A mentor should keep himself above the herd. You know, like a good parent. Give love and guidance but stay on a different plane.”

  “Guess it worked for him,” Danny said.

  “I guess,” Shortman said.

  “Course this is all just your opinion,” Danny said. “You don’t see a real problem here?”

  Shortman hesitated a moment, then said, “There were a few boys I thought he was too friendly with.”

  There was an awkward silence in the room while Danny and I tried to digest just what Shortman was getting at.

  “I would’ve handled things differently,” Shortman finally said.

  We left Shortman and took the ride to the CYO in Brooklyn. It was almost 4:30 by the time we reached Hargrove Street, which is where the CYO building was located. The building was a low-level modern structure surrounded by a newly paved parking lot. A large brass crucifix was situated on the lawn by the front entrance, and the base of the building was meticulously decorated with an abundance of bright flowers and scrubs. The organization’s director was Father Marcus. We’d been unable to reach him by phone and were hoping we could catch him this afternoon for an interview.

  Danny parked in a visitor space by the front door and we went inside. We found ourselves in a small reception area where there were chairs for waiting and a horseshoe-shaped desk where a pretty young receptionist sat pecking a computer keyboard.

  When we approached, she looked up quickly. Her blond hair cascaded softly over her shoulders, and her blue eyes sparkled under the fluorescent lights. Danny spoke first. I knew he would.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  Danny showed her his bright smile and showed her his bright shield.

  “Detective Nolan,” he said, “NYPD.”

  She looked at Danny’s smile, then at his shield, and then looked at me.

  “I’m with him,” I said.

  “We’d like to speak with Father Marcus,” Danny said.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Danny said. Big smile again.

  The g
irl gave him a half-smile and then picked up a phone. She spoke into it softly and then hung up.

  “Follow me,” she said as she came out from behind the desk. She was wearing a black dress that stopped several inches above her knees, and black patent leather heels. Her legs were excellent. Danny was unwilling, or unable, to relinquish his vantage point as he followed her with his eyes until I nudged him from his reverie with my elbow.

  We followed her across the lobby and down a long corridor until we came to a door at the far end. The girl held up her index finger to indicate, “Just a minute” then went inside. In a few seconds, she was back. She held the door open for us and said, “Father Marcus will see you.”

  We thanked her and started through the door. Danny gave her another big smile, and she smiled back. I smiled at Father Marcus as we went in.

  “Thank you for seeing us, father,” I said. “I’m Detective Graham, and this is Detective Nolan.”

  “I assume this is about Father Conlon,” Marcus said as he indicated for us to sit.

  We sat in the green leather visitor chairs that faced his desk.

  “How may I help?”

  “We’re trying to get a profile of Father Conlon’s relationship here,” I said.

  “By ‘here’ you mean here at the center?”

  “Yes. How, exactly, was he involved here?”

  “The Father was very popular,” Marcus said. “He worked mostly with older boys, the ones on the sports teams. Basketball primarily.”

  “Was there anyone in particular that he was exceptionally close to?” I said.

  “You mean like someone he might’ve had a special interest in?”

  I nodded.

  Father Marcus thought for a moment before he said, “Maybe, Russell Grayson.”

  “Tell us about Russell Grayson,” Danny said.

  “He lives in Brooklyn with his mother. Father died several years ago. He’s been a CYO member for about a year. Mother drives him and picks him up, every Tuesday.”

  “How old is Russell?” I said.

  “Sixteen or seventeen,” Marcus answered. “Shoots a mean hoop.”

  “What kind of—”

  “Why all the questions about Russell?” Marcus interrupted. “Russell’s a good boy. He never gets into trouble.”