Other Men's Sins

by Lawrence Falcetano

  Briggs had answered their questions as candidly as he could. There was a certain amount of information that he could not, or would not release, and more than a few questions he could not answer honestly. When the conference was over, the press wasn’t happy. They never were.

  ***

  The next morning, Danny and I were in Chief Briggs’s office sitting in his visitor chairs.

  There were several newspapers piled on his desk. Briggs picked up the top newspaper and scanned the headline. He didn’t look happy. He picked up the second paper and perused the article on the front page…same look. The third one also failed to put a smile on his face. He held it up for us to see. The headline read: “Cops baffled by the priest’s murders.” Briggs said, “Did I give any indication to the press that we were baffled by these crimes?”

  “I didn’t hear that,” Danny said.

  “Neither did they,” Briggs said, “but they printed that bullshit, anyway.”

  He tossed the newspaper down on his desk and said, “Bastards think we’re magicians, pull a criminal out of a hat and put him in jail.”

  “That’s today’s journalism,” Danny said.

  “Nothing we say or do makes them happy,” Briggs said. “They should be working with us not against us.”

  “Crime sells newspapers,” I said. “The longer they keep a story going, the more papers they sell. It doesn’t matter to them if they’re peddling the truth or not.”

  “Let’s keep our investigation as tight as we can,” Briggs said. “I don’t want it complicated by bogus headlines.”

  He picked up the three newspapers and dropped them into the wastebasket beside his desk. “I wouldn’t wipe my ass with them,” he said.

  He leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache. “I’m getting calls from the mayor and the DA’s office almost every day,” he said. “They want answers.”

  “We’ll give them answers as soon as we get them,” I said.

  “When we get enough clues, we’ll solve this case, just like we always do,” Danny said.

  “Clues are never easy to find,” I said to Danny, “but they’re everywhere.”

  “What do you mean?” Danny said.

  “A good investigator needs to be perceptive enough to recognize a clue when he sees one,” I said. “If he misses a clue, then that clue doesn’t exist, and it’s of no value to him or his investigation.”

  “What is this, police academy 101?” Briggs said. “I need answers.”

  “We’re getting answer,” I said.

  “And when we get enough answers,” Danny said. “We’ll call a press conference and give them a headline we can shove down their throats.”

  Briggs liked what Danny said. He gave him a big smile.

  ***

  The screwdriver that was used to kill Father Faynor was similar to the one used on Father Conlon, a round shaft Phillips head. There were no prints found on it. The investigation, thus far, found nothing untoward in Father Faynor’s room. According to the coroner, Father Faynor had died from a single stab wound, which punctured his aorta. Essentially, he bled to death. Father Conlon was inflicted with multiple stab wounds to numerous organs, which resulted in his death.

  There was nothing similar between the murders of Father Conlon and Father Faynor, other than they were men of the church, and both were killed with a screwdriver.

  I was keeping, confidential, what Father Sidletski had revealed to me about the relationship between Father Conlon and Father Faynor until I could be satisfied with proof of their association. Other than Danny Nolan, no one else was aware of the information. I had to be careful. If Briggs found out I was keeping relative information from him, he’d have my ass.

  I decided to dig further into Father Faynor’s life. Perhaps he had an enemy from his past or someone that might have carried enough animus to contemplate doing him harm. There may even have been a link between the murders of Father Conlon and Father Faynor. I began by asking Monsignor Belducci for Father Faynor’s file. It would be chock full of details about his early life, personal and academic. The Monsignor was hesitant about giving up the file, but when I suggested I could obtain a subpoena, he acquiesced.

  I sat at my desk and studied the file for nearly two hours.

  Jonathan Faynor was born and raised in a rural Ohio town to Irish Catholic parents. He had one sister, Margaret. His childhood was uneventful. He attended grade school and graduated from High school where he played Basketball until his father’s job promotion necessitated a transfer to the big apple. The family moved to Queens and lived a peaceful, productive life. It was during his time at college that young Jonathan decided to devote his life to God. After attending seminary school, he entered the priesthood and was assigned to St. Trinity in New York City. He had arrived there a year after Father Conlon had. His record at St. Trinity was exemplary. He served Mass, taught catechism, and coached basketball on weekends with the CYO. There was nothing in the file that was not innocuous.

  I checked with the coroner for the address of the Faynor’s in Queens, New York, but he had none; although he was able to give me the name and address of Margaret Faynor-Blake, Father Faynor’s sister, currently married and living in Norwalk, Connecticut who had been the next of kin notification. I needed to interview Father Faynor’s sister. I was sure she could give me a better insight into her brother than what was in the file.

  Father Faynor was laid to rest that weekend in the church cemetery, which was the custom regarding all resident priests. The funeral mass was as large as Father Conlon’s. Monsignor Belducci offered the eulogy. Margaret Faynor-Blake, naturally, attended her brother’s funeral. It saved me the drive to Norwalk. It’s always a delicate situation, interviewing someone who is grieving a loss, but I had done it before and understood enough to be professional, yet, compassionate.

  ***

  Margaret Faynor had taken a room at the Roosevelt Hotel on 45th Street in Midtown. When I phoned and asked her for the interview, she was more than willing to help in any way, find her brother’s killer.

  “Sorry for your loss,” I said. I showed her my ID.

  “Thank you,” she said, without looking at it. “Please sit.”

  She was a small woman, unlike her brother. Her hair was a deep brown, pulled back into a modest bun. She wore a deep purple, almost black dress, with a white-collar. She appeared to be close in age to her brother.

  We sat on a sofa. The room was spacious and immaculately kept. On the coffee table in front of us, I couldn’t help noticing several framed photographs. The top one displayed Margaret and Father Faynor arm in arm, smiling into the camera. She saw me noticing the photos and said, “Photos we’d displayed at the wake. I need to bring them back home.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I have always been close to my brother. He was a good person.”

  “I’m sure,” I said, “and devoted to the church.”

  She sat up on the sofa, smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress, and said, “Now detective, how can I help you find my brother’s murderer?”

  “I was hoping you could give me a detailed insight into your brother’s life,” I said, “his recent history: friends, acquaintances, and activities, anything that would help formulate a motive for the crime. I read his file from St. Trinity but if you could supply any more, it would be helpful.”

  She removed a flowered handkerchief from her dress sleeve, dabbed her moist eyes once, then began. “My brother’s life was an open book,” she said. “What one saw was what one got. At the risk of sounding like I’m trying to make him a martyr, a saint even. I can only say good things about him.”

  “I understand,” I said. “And I’m sure what you say is true. But I’m more interested in the particulars of his life: people that he knew along the way, friends, relatives, employers, girlfriends.”

  She lowered her chin to her chest and removed her handkerchief again. She wiped her eyes and then looked up at me. Her eyes were sad.


  “Detective,” she said. “I afraid, under the circumstance, I must reveal a dark secret concerning my brother’s life, one that had been kept by him and by me alone. But now, if it will help find Jonathan’s killer, it can no longer remain a secret.”

  She stood and walked to the window and looked down onto 45th Street. “Since Jonathan was a teenager,” she began, “he has been struggling with sin, a personal sin within himself. Even when he gave his heart to the Lord, he carried the weight of perdition. It was a constant battle within his mind and soul, a behavior contrary to the laws of God. A sin he could not repent. He asked forgiveness many times, but the sin prevailed. In time, he accepted his burden and tried to make up for it by giving more to the Lord and his fellow man. But the effort was futile. The burden was his forever.”

  I was beginning to see a picture. The words of Father Sidletski came to mind. Margaret Faynor’s words sounded ominously familiar. I sat quietly and waited for the bombshell.

  She turned away from the window and walked back to the sofa, but did not sit. I stood up as she approached me. She looked at me with a hard face, as if trying to muster the courage to say what she knew she had to say.

  “Since a very early age,” she said. “My brother has had... homosexual tendencies.”

  She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed quietly. I stood and placed a comforting arm around her shoulder. There were no words for me to say.

  Chapter 22

  “Troy Conlon arrived on the eighteenth of August via Delta Airlines,” I said. “Father Conlon was murdered on the twenty-second.”

  “That makes your theory feasible,” Briggs said.

  “That’s not all,” I said. “I contacted LAPD about Conlon and they faxed me a rap sheet as long as your arm; mostly misdemeanors, but this guy is no choir boy, no pun intended.”

  I handed the printed rap sheet to Briggs. He looked it over, then put it in his desk drawer.

  “I want to go out there,” I said.

  “To L.A.?” Briggs said. “To what purpose?”

  “Find out what I can on this guy. That rap sheet puts him in a different perspective.”

  Briggs leaned back in his chair and began to stroke his mustache with his thumb and index finger. He was contemplating whether my proposal was viable and how he’d convince the Mayor and the council members it was essential.

  “You think this guy could be our man?”

  “Even though he’s a degenerate character, I have no valid reason to make him a killer, right now. Digging deeper might prove otherwise.”

  “When do you want to do this?”

  “The sooner the better. I’ll only need a day or two.”

  Briggs thought for a moment longer. “I’ll have to get travel expenses approved by finances,” he said.

  “If it becomes a problem,” I said, “I’ll pay for my lodgings, it’s worth the expense to me to find Andy Conlon’s killer.”

  The next morning, I was in my apartment packing an overnight bag. Sandy was helping me. I rolled up several pairs of underwear into a ball and placed them into the bag; Sandy took them out, folded each one and put them back, neatly.

  “There’s no need to fold underwear,” I said.

  “Neatness counts,” she said.

  I balled up a couple of pairs of socks and tossed them on top of the underwear. Sandy took them out, folded them, and laid them carefully side by side. I did not comment. If it made her happy, it made me happy.

  Briggs had gotten approval for the flight expense. I was to pick up my ticket at the Jet Blue ticket counter at Newark Liberty airport. He had also secured the proper permits, allowing me to carry my gun in my overnight bag. I wrapped the gun in one of my socks and slid a box of cartridges in the middle of it all. My flight to Los Angeles was scheduled to depart at 11:45 a.m. I had called on my own and booked a room at a motel not far from the Los Angeles police department, on West 1st. Street. I had parked and locked my Chevy Nova at the curb in front of my apartment. Mrs. Jankowski assured me it would be safe and that she would “keep an eye on it.”

  “If I drive you to the airport in your car,” Sandy said. “It’ll make it a lot easier.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but it’s not necessary, and safer for you. I’ll be worrying about you until you get home. I’ll take a cab.”

  Sandy called me a cab while I finished packing.

  It was almost 10:00 a.m. when the cab arrived. It would take nearly an hour to get to the airport from my apartment. I was dressed comfortably in a pair of Dockers and a short-sleeve shirt. I knew it would be warm when I arrived at L.A.

  Sandy walked downstairs with me to the waiting cab. I gave her a long kiss and hug.

  “Send me a postcard,” she said.

  “I’ll be back before you receive it,” I said.

  “I’ll be waiting,” she said.

  I tossed my bag into the back seat and slid into the front seat.

  Sandy leaned into the open window and gave me another kiss on my cheek.

  I took it to L.A. with me.

  ***

  My flight departed on time. I stuffed my overnight bag in the compartment above my head and took my seat by a window. The weather was good, visibility clear. The weatherman in L.A. was calling for a comfortable day.

  A short while into the flight, the attendants rolled the food cart out. I wasn’t sure if it was breakfast or lunch, considering the time, so I had pancakes, a cup of fruit, coffee and a bottle of beer. The guy in the seat next to me ordered a bowl of Oatmeal garnished with strawberries and a large glass of milk. He had to be over six feet tall and looked to weigh at least two-sixty. Every time he put a spoonful of Oatmeal up to his mouth, he jabbed me in my shoulder with his elbow. He responded each time by telling me he was “sorry”, but the practice continued just the same. I tried to scrunch myself closer to the window. It didn’t help.

  After I ate, I stretched out with my paperback book. I knew we’d be in the air at least five hours, which would allow me to read at least half of the novel I’d been trying to finish for the past two months.

  I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, my seat partner was asleep with his head on my shoulder. The only person that had ever slept with their head on my shoulder was Sandy. I had to use both of my hands to push his fat head over to the other side of the seat. When I did, he woke up startled, rubbed his eyes and said, “Are we there?”

  I said, “Where?”

  “I’m going to L.A.,” he said.

  “We’re all going to L.A.,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said.

  Satisfied, he leaned his head back on the seat and snored himself back to sleep. I opened my book and tried to read again.

  We landed at LAX around 5:30 p.m. I walked off the plane with the usual stiffness in my legs that I endured every time I took a flight. I carried my bag through the main terminal, following the signs and arrows, until I found the TSA checkpoint. After I showed the agents my ID, shield, and permits, I was cleared to start looking for a cab stand. My legs began to loosen up by the time I stepped through the sliding doors into the bright sunshine where there was a line of cabs waiting for fares. A yellow cab pulled up in front of me. I opened the door before anyone else could, threw my bag into the back seat and got in the front seat. The driver was a young kid wearing a Dodger’s ball cap and a sleeveless shirt. I told him where I wanted to go. He drove off without a word.

  We rode for forty minutes through the streets of L.A. Traffic was heavy and reminded me of the streets of Manhattan. My driver hadn’t said a word until I said, “This traffic reminds me of New York City; that’s where I’m from. Even with public transportation, Manhattan ranks number one in car ownership per capita.”

  He seemed uninterested in my statistic, and simply said, “It’s always like this.”

  Twenty minutes later we reached my motel. It was a low four-story building with a flat roof and lots of balconies. The grounds were meticulously landscaped and there was a pool surr
ounded by palm trees in the center of a courtyard.

  I got out of the cab, retrieved my bag and paid the driver. Although he was less than hospitable, I tipped him a ten, anyway. He didn’t thank me.

  Check-in was uneventful. My room was ready. The desk clerk handed me my key and assured me I would “enjoy the stay.” There was no elevator in the lobby, so I trekked up four flights of stairs to begin “enjoying my stay.”

  My room overlooked the center courtyard. It consisted of a king-size bed, two night tables, a large flat-screen TV mounted on a wall, one chest of drawers and an adjourning bathroom. I didn’t bother to unpack my overnight bag since I hadn’t planned on staying more than a day or two.

  I was hungry.

  I changed my shirt, which was damp and clammy from the plane ride, slid my overnight bag under the bed, clipped my gun to my right hip, and went down to the first floor where there was a small cafeteria. I ate a large dinner and went back to my room. It was still early, so I decided to call Sandy. It was one o’clock in the morning back east, but she’d insisted I call her regardless of the time. Briggs could wait until morning.

  “This is the lonely traveler,” I said when Sandy answered her phone.

  “I miss you already,” she said.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Of course,” she said. “How’d the trip go?”

  “Uneventful,” I said. “I just had dinner and I’m planning on turning in early. I’m beat.”

  “Next time I’m going with you,” she said. “I’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

  “I wish you were here now,” I said. “I’m lying here in this double bed, thinking about making love to you with the California sunshine streaming through my window.”

  “Don’t tease,” she said. “It’s dark and drizzly here right now.”

  “It’s warm and cozy where I am,” I said.

  “Call me tomorrow,” she said. “And be careful.”

  “First chance I get,” I said.

  She blew me a kiss through the phone. I blew her one back and ended the call. Then I took a cold shower and went to bed.