Boy Crucified (18 page)

When Daniel and I went to the meeting room, Jensen was already there, as was Georgina Durmount and Mac Harris. Lt. Edwards, from the tech division, came in just behind us. Harlock showed up last of all.

“Tommy,” he said, turning his big head in my direction, “please tell me you’re making progress. Please tell me that we don’t have to wait for someone else to get crucified before you figure out what’s going on. You’re killing me here.”

Harlock could be a pain in the ass when he wanted to be—of that there was little doubt. And he seemed to believe that excessive impatience would somehow speed things up, as if his detectives
wanted
more dead bodies to pile up while they dilly-dallied and ate donuts and picked their noses and did all they could to stretch out their murder investigations and pad their expense accounts.

“So what have you got?” he asked.

The eyes in the room turned to me.

“At this point, not much,” I said. “I might point out that it’s only been a few days and we’re not talking about some schmuck popping his girlfriend here.”

“Well, what are we talking about?” Harlock asked.

I explained, as best I could, about Bishop James and St. Konrad’s, the crucifixions, about Frankie, Eli, the child abuse investigation being conducted by the Chillicothe authorities—everything we had learned up to that point.

“So you think these kids are being whacked to keep them quiet?” Harlock asked.

“It would appear that way, yes,” I said. “And it’s certainly effective.”

“So we’re not talking about kids being chosen at random, are we?”

“No.”

He looked at Mac Harris, who seemed almost disappointed at this news. It wouldn’t be a whole lot of fun to go out in front of the cameras and say there was no reason to panic, that only a few select individuals were really at risk.

Georgina spoke up. “I’ve looked at the autopsy results for Eli Smalley, and they compare very similarly with Frankie Peters. It’s almost the same crime. I also did the autopsy for Whitehead, and, as we suspected, the cause of death was that blow to the back of his head.”

“Do we know what day he died?”

“Friday night, early Saturday morning, same as Frankie Peters,” she said. “We also found fingerprints on the murder weapon. We ran them through the system, but they turned up nothing. If you’ve got a suspect, though, we can try to do a match.”

I thought of Brother Leo. If we could match his fingerprints to that piece of two-by-four, we could close this case and be done with it.

Next it was the turn of Lt. Edwards.

“We’ve analyzed the materials that were sent over from Chillicothe—the barbed wire, the nails, and such—and they all match. They all came from the same source. So we’re talking about the same killer, using the same materials, from the same sources. If you could find some of this material—from this St. Konrad’s place, maybe—it might narrow down the list of suspects.”

Grubbs’s men had already searched for barbed wire and nails at St. Konrad’s and had taken some samples. I explained that none had matched up exactly.

“Then the source has to be elsewhere,” he said, shrugging.

Elsewhere, yes. But where?

“We’ve verified that the statue of St. Francis we found came from the gift shop at St. Konrad’s,” I pointed out.

“We’re still looking at that bag of clothes you sent over,” Edwards added. “Looking for fingerprints, anything we can find. So far, nothing. Some pubic hairs, but those belonged to the victim. McCallin took some prints from the bag itself, but none of those pulled up any hits in the database. I think you need to fingerprint all the people at St. Konrad’s so we can do some comparisons.”

That was on my list of things to do, and I said so.

“Any thoughts on the ‘11-10’ that was carved into Eli’s chest?” Georgina asked.

“I did a search this morning,” I replied. “It could stand for November 10, which is the feast day for St. Leo. Perhaps Brother Leo thought he was being clever, signing his work, as it were.”

“What about the third boy, this Charlie Hopewell?” Harlock asked.

“Chief Grubbs has been to see him, has a man posted to keep a lookout,” I said. “Apparently the kid is fine. He was questioned, said he didn’t know anything, and was tired of people asking. The family was not very happy, didn’t want a patrol car sitting in their driveway, told them to park it somewhere else if they wanted to stay. So there’s a patrol car stationed down the road a bit.”

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” Harlock asked, looking at me.

“Finding Brother Leo,” I said.

III

J
ENSEN
assigned four of his men to accompany Daniel and me to the Mattling house on Charlotte Ave in downtown Kansas City. If we could, we would pick up Brother Leo—Andrew Mattling—for questioning. Otherwise, we would talk to the parents and see if anything could be learned. The extra officers were there to make sure Brother Leo didn’t make a run for it. Two went around to the back of the house, and two stood on the porch.

The neighborhood was poor, and the neighbors had a large dog in their fenced-off front yard that was barking like someone had stuck dynamite up its ass and lit the fuse.

I knocked on the door. Daniel, at my side, was visibly apprehensive.

A woman answered. She wore a full-length dress and had a rosary around her neck. She wore no makeup, no jewelry of any kind. She seemed plain, purposefully so.

“Yes?” she asked, looking up at us in confusion.

“We’re looking for your son, Andrew Mattling. Is he here?”

“Andy?”

I nodded.

“Oh no,” she said. “Andy’s not here. He’s a religious brother, you know. He ain’t been here for years. Why are you looking for him?”

“May we come in?” I asked.

“You got ID?” she countered.

I showed her my ID.

She opened the door.

The front room of the Mattling house was more like a church than a front room. A large altar dominated one wall, decorated with more statues than St. Peter’s Basilica. There were life-size statues of the Blessed Mother and the Sacred Heart standing on either side of the altar. Then, in another corner, was a shrine to the Infant of Prague. Another wall sported bookcases packed with old Catholic books—
The Glories of Mary, True Devotion to Mary
, old missals in Latin, lives of the saints.

In the midst of this piousness was an old couch, covered in plastic, that we were invited to sit on. Next to it was an arm chair which Mrs. Mattling claimed.

“When was the last time you saw your son?” I asked.

“Christmas, it was,” she answered. “I always go to St. Konrad’s for Christmas.”

“That’s in Chillicothe?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

“I’ve been there myself,” I said. “Apparently your son was kicked out of St. Konrad’s. Did you know that?”

She seemed confused by this piece of information.

“Kicked out?”

“Yes. By Bishop James.”

She frowned, lowered her eyes, and stared at her lap.

“Were you aware of that, Mrs. Mattling?” I asked.

“Well, no, I wasn’t. I can’t imagine why they would kick him out. He’s the bishop’s right-hand man.”

In more ways than one
, I thought.

“Has he been here recently?” I asked.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Last Christmas was the last time I saw him, like I said. What would he come here for?”

“Do you mind if we have a look around?” Daniel asked. He had his pad in hand, had made more notes while we talked.

She glanced at him with a small sort of grimace, as if offended that we didn’t believe her and wanted to check for ourselves.

“If you must,” she said.

Daniel and two of the police officers began a search of the house. I remained behind.

“What is this about?” she asked.

“Your son is wanted in connection with a murder investigation,” I said.

“Murder?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s ridiculous.”

“We have reason to believe he might have been involved.”

She said nothing.

“Do you have a husband, Mrs. Mattling?”

“He died,” she said, waving her hand. “Long time ago. Andy was fifteen. His father loved ice fishing, you know.”

“He did?”

“Oh, yes. We moved here from Michigan, you know. He always used to drive out onto Lake Michigan and go ice fishing—lots of men did that. When we moved here, he thought he’d try it. Truck went through the ice.”

Oh.

“I told him not to be stupid,” she said, “but he wouldn’t listen. Told him the ice wasn’t strong enough here. He said folks was too chicken to try it, didn’t know what they was missing, and he was going to show them. Well, he certainly did, didn’t he?”

That was one way to look at it.

“So your husband went through the ice?”

“He was a damned fool,” she said. “And we moved here to get away from all that ice and snow. Isn’t that something?”

“I’m very sorry,” I said.

“A long time ago,” she replied. “Nothing to be sorry about now.”

“Has your son called you lately?”

“No. He never calls. They don’t allow that.”

“And he hasn’t visited?”

“You got wax in your ears or something?”

“Just double-checking.”

“No. He ain’t been here. Ain’t seen him.”

Daniel and the two police officers returned from the upstairs area. They had not found him.

I gave Mrs. Mattling my card and asked her to call if she heard from her son.

IV

T
HE
funeral for Eli Smalley was being held at 2:00 p.m. that day, so we made the two-hour drive to Chillicothe once more.

The folks at St. Konrad’s did not prevent us from attending the funeral Mass. Dozens of mourners milled about, outside the chapel doors, more inside. The students strode by in a long line, proceeding into the chapel and straight up to the front. They had a military look to them, dressed as they were in black and white.

The men sat on the right; the women on the left. Girls, dressed in school uniforms which included veils, sat in front, opposite the boys. Behind them were more nuns than I’d seen in a long time. Behind the boys were row upon row of priests and religious brothers. Behind all of these, on both sides, were the lay people, most kneeling in the pews, fumbling with rosary beads.

Eli Smalley himself was in a plain wooden casket that had been wheeled up the center aisle and was now just in front of the communion rail. His casket was draped with purple, and large black candles were lit on either side.

Daniel and I found places in the back. We felt very much out of place.

Brother Francis came over to us. “Do you gentlemen need assistance?” he whispered.

“Is it all right if we attend?” I asked.

“Of course, Lieutenant. Why wouldn’t it be? I will bring you a missal so you can follow along. I just wanted to point out that only members of the community are allowed to receive Communion, just to avoid any potential embarrassment.”

He hurried off. Daniel and I, it seemed, were not good enough for Communion at St. Konrad’s. Brother Francis returned with a missal and a brief explanation of how to follow along, then the choir started up—the haunting, beautiful music came from above and behind us in the choir loft.

A Solemn High Mass got underway. It started with an introduction known as
Asperges Me
, a sprinkling rite that includes the lyrics “wash
me and I shall be whiter than snow,” a quote from the Hebrew Bible.

It was a beautiful song. The celebrant, Father Alexius, appeared in the sanctuary with about a dozen servers, all their movements precise, well rehearsed. The servers were dressed in black cassocks with white surplices. Father Alexius was dressed in black vestments. I had seen some of those at St. Joseph’s, but we had never used them, preferring white. His two main assistants, the subdeacon and deacon, were also dressed in black vestments, though they were slightly different, as if to signify their differing statuses.

The Mass was conducted in Latin, and the congregation seemed to know when to stand, when to sit, when to kneel, when to bow their heads. The choir sang; the mourners did not. The servers in the sanctuary responded to Father Alexius; the mourners did not. It seemed our role was simply to watch and be dazzled.

And we were.

Father Alexius’s voice filled the large chapel by way of a small mic on his lapel, his Latin crisp and assured. He was answered by his many assistants, in Latin, perfectly timed, the sound of it almost thunderous. Not one of his servers—most high school boys, from the look of it—put a foot wrong. There was no nose scratching, no fiddling with the cassock, no tripping, no flubbed lines. It was a very stylized ritual, and the players knew their parts. The epistle and gospel readings were chanted to us, not read. There was no sermon. The funeral service part of the Mass was also conducted in Latin, and I was clueless as to what was being said on Eli Smalley’s behalf. There was no eulogy. No one got up to offer their remembrances of the boy.

Instead, as was made clear by the missal, we were supposed to be praying and beseeching God to be merciful, to spare Eli Smalley the pains of hell, and perhaps even the pains of purgatory. There was no assurance that Eli Smalley was now in heaven. There was every fear that he might have died in mortal sin and was thus eternally damned. So we prayed: for his soul, for God to have mercy, for the Blessed Mother to remember Eli Smalley’s devotion to her (if he’d had any, I thought). We were reminded that God is stern, just, that nothing is certain, that salvation is not a given, that we must approach the throne of God in fear and trembling. We were to pray for the repose of his young, tender soul.

There were no tears, no grieving relatives. Indeed, I looked around and could not even find Mrs. Smalley or Mr. Smalley, nor any of Eli’s brothers and sisters. At their son’s funeral, they were apparently not allowed to sit together.

It was all rather disturbing.

By the time it was over, I was heartily depressed.