I was getting the same answers I had gotten from all the other interviews I had taken. I was glad everybody loved AndyConlon, but it wasn’t helping me find his killer.
I thanked the Greyson kid and slipped him a five before I left. He took it without hesitation and thanked me. He seemed like a decent kid. I hoped the streets wouldn’t change that.
I left the playground and drove to the Church Rectory. I was hoping to persuade Monsignor Belducci to let me take a second look at Crockett’s room. The condition of his room might give me a clue as to why he ran. If he had been planning it all along, he would have taken time to pack his essentials for a quick getaway when the time was right.
The Monsignor shook his head and did not comment on Crockett when he handed me the key. I thanked him and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The room looked untouched from the first time I’d seen it. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for; maybe something I overlooked. Crockett’s dirty clothes were still piled on the floor, and the bed was still unmade. I went immediately to the closet and opened the door. The red flannel shirt was hanging on the hook on the back of the door as it had been, and the down jacket was still on the wooden hanger. The work boots, dress shoes, and high-top sneakers hadn’t been disturbed. I pulled back the dresser drawers, giving each a cursory look. Before I closed the top drawer, I instinctively flipped back the top tee shirt from the pile where I had earlier found Crockett’s gun.
The gun wasn’t there!
Chapter 19
I was in Father Sidletski’s office by eight the next morning. The father had called me the night before, insisting that I come by to see him. He claimed he had important information pertinent to the Father Conlon case.
Sidledski looked older than the other priests who lived in the rectory. I guessed he was pushing eighty. He was short and weighed more than he should for his height. His hair was peppered gray and neatly parted to one side. The thick rimless glasses he wore sat comfortably on his wide nose.
His office was much like Father Conlon’s but smaller and less ornate. A large desk, a pair of visitor chairs, and a metal file cabinet completed the furnishings. Two double-hung windows let in plenty of light from the street side of the building where the sound of children playing filtered in from the outside.
“Please, sit,” the Father said, gesturing for me to take a chair.
As I sat, he lowered himself into a high-back chair behind his desk.
“Thank you for coming,” he said.
He pulled a tissue from the box on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and took his time wiping his face and forehead. When he was through, he carefully placed the tissue in a nearby wastebasket, squared his blotter evenly on his desktop, and slid three pencils back into the top drawer of his desk. His senseless fidgeting told me he was not comfortable with what he was about to tell me and was searching hard to find a place to begin. I thought I’d help him alone.
“On the phone, you said you had information pertinent to Father Conlon’s case.”
I waited...
When he was ready, he sat back in his chair, laced his fingers together across his ample belly and looked directly at me. “I’ve been struggling lately with the laws of the church and the laws of man,” he said. “An exercise that has cost me more than a few night’s sleep.”
A silence fell between us while I let him arrange his thoughts.
“In all my years of divine service, I have never been burdened with a situation such as I have been presented. I have always been mindful to keep a person’s relationship with the Lord a private and personal matter. Confession is between God and his brethren.”
He took another tissue from the box, wiped his face again and continued. “But occasionally—in the interest of spiritual and social justice—man’s laws can supersede the laws of the church. I have, therefore, with guidance from the Lord, summoned you here today to tell you what I know.”
I sat quietly and let him continue.
“This has not been easy for me, detective,” he said. “But I have assuaged all guilt and believe I am doing the right thing. However, before I continue, you must assure me that the information I am about to disclose will not be passed to anyone other than those who need to know.”
“If it’s important to the case,” I said, “I assure you it will be kept confidential and used with discretion.”
He took a few seconds to think about that, and then moved forward in his chair, put his elbows on his desk and leaned closer to me. “I have information,” he said, “the contents of which I will impart to you. I only hope it is relative enough to help find Father Conlon’s killer.”
He made the sign of the cross, took a deep breath and continued. “There had been a relationship between Father Conlon and Father Faynor, which is, let us say, contrary to the laws of God. A vile behavior which is against what the bible teaches us.”
Was I hearing him, right? Was he saying what I thought he was saying? Was this something I could believe and accept about Andy Conlon? My mind struggled with incredulity and denial.
“Father,” I said. I stood up and took a deep breath. “I want to be sure I understand you.”
“I’m telling you exactly what you heard me say,” the Father said.
No way. I wasn’t buying it. I’d known Andy Conlon for a long time.
I turned and walked to the window. I was visibly shaken and hoped the Father couldn’t tell, but he probably could. I looked out the window trying to digest what I had just heard, letting the unexpectedness of the idea seep into my brain for processing.
On a patch of blacktop below the window, several boys were shooting hoops into a basket rim, missing a net. They looked to be fifteen or sixteen, but their ability on the court was impressive just the same. They dribbled and took foul line shots with the same admirable skill as I had seen in the Grayson kid. I wondered if Andy Conlon had been a part of polishing their skills as well.
Behind me, the father was silent.
I walked back to my chair and sat. It was my turn to use a tissue. I blotted my forehead a couple of times, then tossed the tissue into the wastebasket.
“I can understand how difficult it must be for you to accept what I’ve told you.”
“I’ve known Father Conlon for most of my life,” I said. “He was almost like a second father to me.”
“‘Hate the sin, not the sinner’,” the father said.
“How do you believe this information will help the investigation?” I said.
“I thought it might provide another perspective, somewhere else to look. My conscience told me the right thing to do was to inform you of what I’d learned.”
“We need to be sure,” I said. “An allegation like this can be explosive if it can’t be substantiated.”
“It is the truth, detective,” the Father said. “Last week, I heard Father Faynor’s confession. The revelation was in his own words.”
I sat there not knowing what to say, listening to the rhythm of the basketball bouncing outside the window.
***
“A priest can’t come out of the closet,” Danny said. “Not if he wants to remain a priest.”
I was sitting at my desk. Danny was sitting at his, with his chair turned to face me. I lowered my head into my hands and rubbed my temples.
“I can’t believe it,” I said. “I won’t until I can prove it.”
“And how would you do that,” Danny said, “Confront Faynor?”
Danny was right. The situation was awkward.
“It’s a hard pill to swallow,” Danny said. “But if you accept it and work on that premise as the Father said, it might put a new perspective on the case.”
“Let’s keep this revelation between us,” I said, “until we can corroborate it.”
“Sure,” Danny said.
“This opens a whole new can of worms,” I said. “If Father Conlon and Father Faynor were a couple, what other things might we find about Andy Conlon by digging dee
per? What about all those young boys he associated himself with?”
Danny got up from his chair and came over and sat in my visitor chair.
“You’re creating a scenario that may not exist,” he said.
“It’s a habit I need to break.”
“Let’s concentrate on finding a motive,” he said, “looking for the person who had a reason to kill the Father.”
“What about unrequited love? What about a jealous lover? They’re possible motives, heterosexual or not, those emotions exist just the same.”
“True,” Danny said. “And if they are motive, we’ll eventually find out.”
He walked back to his desk, came back with a single sheet of paper and handed it to me. “The serial number on Crockett’s gun tells us it was purchased legally in Ohio four years ago, but not by Crockett. It was later reported stolen but never recovered.”
“How’d it get into Crockett’s possession?” I said.
“With no history trail, it’s of no value to us.” Danny said; “unless Crockett can shed some light on it.”
“Troy Conlon called me this morning,” I said. “He hasn’t seen his sister in two days and nights. He seemed to be concerned.”
“You think she’s with Crockett?”
“Maybe,” I said.
He picked up the photographs of Crockett and Eileen Conlon that had been lying on my desk and studied them.
“We know she’s been less than truthful with us,” I said. “We know she’s had some kind of relation with Crockett in the past. The photo attests to that. She may believe he killed her brother.”
“Why would she run with him?” Danny said. “She knows Crockett is the one that found her brother’s body. But why would she think he killed him?”
“She knows he was killed with a screwdriver and she’s aware that the overalls were found in the nearby dumpster. It was all in the papers in detail.”
“What would she think was his motive?”
“Don’t know. Maybe she thinks she’s in love with him. Even though she may believe he killed her brother, she remains with him out of some kind of morbid affection. It’s twisted logic, but love does strange things to people.”
“Sorta like a Bonnie & Clyde scenario,” Danny said. “In that respect, it makes sense, but he’s her brother. How could she justify being with that guy?”
“Maybe she’s got her own idea. Maybe she’s playing Crockett until the time is right when she can get her revenge for what he did.”
“A remote possibility,” Danny said, “but that’s a lot of maybes.”
“We need to locate him, or her, or both of them, if they’re together. We don’t have anything substantial to charge either of them, but if we can get something out of them, we may have our answers. Crockett’s not running for nothing.”
Danny walked back to his desk with one of the photographs and took out a small magnifying glass from his top drawer. He studied the photo through the glass for several minutes, then walked back to my desk. He handed me the photo and the glass. “Look in the background,” he said. “It’s fuzzy and small but you can make out a number on the mailbox on the post by the front walk.”
I put the glass to the photo and squinted my eyes to focus on a closer look. Danny was right. On the mailbox, I could make out three black numbers which looked like “728”. Just below the letters there appeared what looked like a street name. The first four letters, B-e-r-m were visible, but the remaining ones had been obliterated. Below the letters was the pay-off; clear and crisp were the zip code numbers.
Chapter 20
Danny matched the zip code with the letters we had and came up with the street name we needed. The next morning we were on the parkway heading south toward Ocean Grove, a resort community at the Jersey shore. It was a beautiful day, crisp and clear, with a warm temperature and low humidity, perfect beach weather. I let Danny drive while I took in the scenery. He liked driving those big unmarked Chevy Impalas that were a part of the squad motor pool.
We took exit 100B, then headed east on route 33, which took us into Ocean Grove. We drove beautiful tree-lined streets surrounded by elegant Victorian homes until we came to the shore area. The house we were looking for was a seasonal rental. Records showed the Crockett’s had rented the house in previous years until they purchased it as a summer retreat. It’s a place Crockett, no doubt, spent a lot of summers. It made sense that he would seek refuge there.
We were looking for the number, 728 Bermuda Drive. While Danny drove, I looked at the photograph to help identify the house when we came upon it. The houses in this area were a bit smaller than what we had seen, with the ocean and a stretch of sandy beach at the rear of each house. We turned onto Bermuda Drive, which was a narrow two-lane road. The houses here were further apart, separated by empty sandlots and parcels of high grass. We continued for a mile or so, taking several turns in the road. At the last turn, the house appears on our right. I recognized it by the photo and the mailbox out front. We were about a block away.
“There it is,” I said.
Danny pulled the Impala to the curb and cut the engine.
“How do you want to work this?”
“Not sure,” I said. “We can’t rush the house.”
“We can ring the front doorbell,” Danny said. “Maybe he’ll invite us in.”
Danny can be resourceful and clever at times. I gave him a look. He smiled at me. I didn’t smile back.
I got out of the Impala and stood on the sidewalk. Danny got out on his side and came around and stood next to me. We looked down the block at the house. It wasn’t much larger than a bungalow, almost rustic with lots of wood siding. There was a white SUV parked in the driveway beside a four-foot-high stockade fence, which ran down both sides of the house toward the rear. The ocean met a private beach at the rear of the house.
“Follow my lead,” I said to Danny.
We began to walk down the sidewalk toward the house. The neighborhood was quiet, deserted. When we approached the house, I crouched low along the stockade fence and followed it along the side of the house. Danny was close behind. As we got closer to the rear of the house, we could hear muted music and lapping waves on the shoreline. There was a wooden gate that partitioned the rear yard from the rest of the grounds. We looked over it, cautiously. On the beach was a round table with an umbrella stuck in the middle of it. A charcoal grill, several lounge chairs, a stand-alone hammock, and a portable well-stocked bar. Crockett was at the grill cleaning the cooking grates with a long handle wire brush while listening to a portable radio that was balanced in the sand at his feet. He was wearing shorts, a tee-shirt and white sneakers. Eileen Conlon was sitting beside him in a lounge chair, looking like a Hollywood starlet in her one-piece bathing suit, wide brim straw hat, and sunglasses. She was reading a book.
I opened the gate. Danny and I stepped in.
Crockett spotted us quickly. I wasn’t sure how he would react, but I didn’t have to wait long. He threw the long handle brush at us and dashed across the sand around the side of the house. “Don’t make things worse for yourself, Crockett,” I shouted.
Danny moved to Eileen Conlon and made sure she stayed where she was. I hurried after Crockett, slipping a few times on the loose sand. As I turned the rear corner of the house, I saw Crockett enter the house through the side screen door. I wasn’t sure what he was up to, so I removed my gun from its holster and released the safety. I moved along the house toward the screen door. I listened, but heard nothing. When I looked through the screen, I could see only dim light and shadows.
I pulled the door open slowly. I swore silently to myself as the springs in the hinges squealed and moaned, announcing my presence. I stepped into a small entranceway. Several steps were leading up to a kitchen. I climbed them carefully, pushed back a second door and walked into the kitchen. The house smelled of stale smoke, beer, and a general uncleanness. The house was silent. Outside, I could hear the ocean waves and the portable radio playing a coun
try song.
I walked into the kitchen and looked out a small window into the rear yard. Danny was standing beside Eileen Conlon. She seemed undisturbed by our presence as she sat in her lounge chair casually drawing on a cigarette.
I moved out of the kitchen and stepped into a larger living room. I didn’t see or hear Crockett anywhere. I hoped he wasn’t dumb enough to try to jump me, forcing me into a struggle or forcing me to use my gun.
As I moved toward the front door, I heard the sudden rumbling of an engine from the front of the house. I opened the door in time to see Crockett straddling a motorcycle. The bike spewed dust and smoke as it bounced and fishtailed while Crockett tried to maneuver it onto the open road. I holstered my gun and ran down the front stairs. Crockett was about to make good his getaway, until I kicked hard at the rear wheel of the bike, knocking it and him to the ground. With its gears still engaged; the bike spun in circles beside him, its rear-wheel spitting dust and dirt in every direction. Crockett scampered to his feet, but I steamrollered him and knocked him back down. I was able to put my knee down on his chest. The bike was idling and spewing blue smoke in our faces. It was tough to breathe. I coughed a few times and squeezed my burning eyes shut. Crockett saw his chance, pushed me off and jumped back on the bike. He revved the engine, popped a small “wheelie” and jumped the curb into the street. I sat on the ground mad and defeated, rubbing my burning eyes and watching him disappear down the street in a trail of blue smoke.
Danny came running around the house, gun drawn.
“Take it easy,” I said. “He’s gone.”
“What happened?”
“He disappeared in a cloud of smoke and a mighty, ‘Hi Ho Silver’,” I said.
Danny looked down the street in time to see Crockett disappear around a corner.
I got up and dusted myself off. We walked back to the side of the house, where I stopped at a garden hose. I soaked my handkerchief and wiped my eyes and face to alleviate the burning.
At the rear of the house, Eileen Conlon was still sitting in the lounge chair where we had left her. The portable radio was playing a classic country tune. I stood in front of her, reached down and clicked it off. I wanted answers. Now that she was out of her pious element, I’d push her hard to see want I could come up with. I was sure she knew more than she was willing to reveal.
Other Men's Sins Page 13
