Cemetery Lake (30 page)

Satisfied I’m alone, at least in the cemetery, I start to make my

way to the church. I stay in the trees, getting close enough finally to see a patrol car parked outside with a sole officer inside. He’s probably got the heater running to stay warm, and got a thermos of coffee as well. It’s standard protocol to protect a crime scene this early on. I bet he’s as bored as hell. I stay in the same position, low to the ground, the cold making my knees and fingers hurt, and I spend ten minutes just watching. The rain beats on my jacket loudly, but not as loudly as it beats against the car. Occasionally a light comes on in the car from what I think might be a cellphone opening and closing. The guy’s probably sending text messages

to his wife or girlfriend, or both. Probably complaining about what a waste of time it is out here.

I need to return to the car, grab the shovel and dig Alderman

up. But now that I’m this close to the church, suddenly I have another, even stronger need — I have to know what’s inside. I need to know if there are answers in there. And anyway, Alderman won’t mind waiting another half an hour for the feel of the

shovel.

I pass behind the trees and some graves, and circumnavigate

my way to the back of the church. I hide for another five minutes, just watching and waiting to see if there is anybody else around.

There isn’t. The rain stays heavy and I’m pretty sure it’s the reason the cop keeping an eye on the church is staying in his car and not patrolling around the perimeter every few minutes like he’s been instructed to do.

The church is darker and colder-looking than normal, as

though God has moved out and some malevolent presence has

moved in. There are no lights on inside. The man who devoted

his life to this place is lying on a slab in the morgue, maybe with his God, maybe alone.

I quickly make my way to the side door and I pause, waiting

for either Schroder or Landry to step out of the darkness, or

even Casey Horwell with her cameraman. Nobody does. There

is police tape hanging in the lifeless air between poles that have been weighted on the ground. Police tape has been sealed along the framework. I try to pull it away without damaging it.

Among the keys that Schroder brought back to me is the one

Bruce Alderman left me. I look at the key and I look at the lock, and even though they don’t look like they’re going to match up, I still try jamming them together. It’s useless. It could be for one of the other doors. I pull a lock-pick set from my pocket, hold a Maglite in my mouth, and go about working at the lock, nervous that the guy parked out front is going to pick this exact moment to come looking around. It turns out to be a simple enough

pin-and-tumbler mechanism made more complicated than it ought

to be by the cold and my nerves. It takes me almost ten minutes to make my way inside. The air is cold, the black void ahead of me unwelcoming, and when I close the door behind me all I have is my Maglite to keep whatever demons are in here at bay

Before taking a step, I remove my jacket and shoes to avoid

contaminating the scene with mud and water. I’ve entered the

church in the corridor: to the left is the chapel and to the right Father Julian’s office. There is a basin of what I assume is holy water standing waist high next to me. The torch cuts a small arc through the inky darkness but is swallowed up when I point it at the far wall of the chapel — I’m sure it’s all but impossible to see it from outside. I run my hand along the top of the front pew where I sat last time I was here talking to Father Julian. It was when I was looking for Bruce Alderman. The following day I came back

and we sat in his office and I was looking for Sidney Alderman.

I turn off the torch and stand in the darkness. There is something here, I’m sure of it. Something dark. Perhaps the church itself is angry. Bad things have happened here. Sins have been confessed — have sins also been committed? The bricks and the mortar and the stained glassed windows have every right to be angry. They’ve absorbed a lot of what’s been said and seen over the years, and now that the keeper of secrets has gone all that sorrow and pain is starting to seep out.

I turn the torch back on and start looking around the chapel,

not searching for anything in particular. The only eyes watching me are those of the icons pinned on or hanging from the walls, created in coloured glass and woven fabrics and tapestries. Jesus feeding the poor. Jesus turning water into wine. Jesus dying for our sins. Did Father Julian die for his sins? For mine?

There are a few evidence markers placed variously around the

floor. Whatever they indicated has been photographed, picked up and gone. There are no blood splatters. No muddy footprints.

The other night, did Father Julian’s killer make his way into the church using the same means? Did he come through the front

door, allowed entrance by the priest? Through a side door? Did he come at night, or had he been here all day?

Did they know each other?

I rest my jacket and shoes behind the first pew and head down

to Father Julian’s office. It’s a tangle of books and papers and clutter strewn around the room — not from any type of struggle, but as though he was trying to find something in a hurry. Or

perhaps the police were, and this is the aftermath of their search.

This is the kind of thing I miss most about being in the force: losing the opportunity to see the crime scene in its original form.

There are more evidence markers, yellow plastic discs with black numbers printed on them. Fingerprint powder, small plastic bags, plastic vials, cotton swabs. Somebody must be figuring the maid will take care of it all.

I roll Father Julian’s chair away from his desk and sit down

behind it, then splay my hands on the table. I can’t feel the grain of the wood because I’m wearing latex gloves, but the desk feels solid, cold, as though it could last a thousand years. A sudden memory of my family comes to me. I’m at the beach with Bridget and Emily. We’re building a sand castle; my daughter’s face is full of smiles and freckles, her blonde hair shoved out at sharp angles by the Elmo cap pulled down over her head. The edges of the

ocean are moving forward, the water reaching the moat we have

dug, the walls of the castle only minutes away from falling into the sea.

‘It’s okay, Daddy’ my daughter says, and she stops digging,

understanding the futile nature of what she is trying to save. ‘We can always come back next weekend. We got forever more days to build another one.’

I take my hands away from the desk, and the memory

disappears. I don’t try chasing it.

I open the desk drawers one at a time, but all of them are

empty I pull them out completely and check underneath them S— again, there’s nothing there. I put them back and start flicking through the books on Father Julian’s desk, hoping something

might fall out from between the pages. Nothing does. No doubt

somebody else has done this already. I search under the desk, but there’s nothing.

I make my way around the room, unsure of what I’m looking

for. I open Bibles and books, novels and how-to guides, flicking through them but finding nothing. It doesn’t look like Father

Julian was the one who made this mess. The Father Julian I

knew never would have allowed his office to get like this. There are holes in the plaster walls obviously formed by fists. There are other holes down lower, kick marks made by somebody becoming

increasingly frustrated. Draughts of cold air come through them.

The books pulled from the shelves have been torn down and

tossed on the ground, discarded into piles. Some of the pages

and covers have been ripped away. Did whoever did this find what he was looking for?

I step out of the office, and carry on through to the rectory.

The beam on my torch is getting weaker, and I have the feeling that if the torch goes out completely the demons surrounding me will get a firm hold. Jesus looks down, probably in judgement, maybe wondering what in the hell a guy like me is doing in a

place like this. Well, Jesus, I’m trying to make compensation. “I’m trying to repent. That’s what you want, right?

I stop the torch on the floor where the dead priest lay while

I stood outside two nights ago worrying about being caught.

I crouch down by the edge of the chalk outline that shows the

Position in which he was found. The carpet beneath the chalk

head is almost black with dried blood. I close my eyes and think about the series of photographs that Schroder and Landry showed ne. Father Julian was lying on his back, his head twisted to the side. Closer photos showed gashes in the back of his head from the impact of the hammer. I don’t know how many times he was

hit, but it was more than once. Perhaps the first blow killed him.

At the very least it would have dropped him to his knees. I figure he ended up dead face down, but was rolled onto his back. I try to imagine the thirty seconds before that. Did Julian know his killer was there — if so, why would he turn his back on him?

The tongue had to have been cut out after he was dead. It’s

not the kind of thing you can do to a man unless you’ve got

him bound, and even then it’d be a struggle. The photographs

didn’t show any evidence of that, nor of any defensive wounds on Julian’s hands. I look up and point the torch at the ceiling. There are lines of blood up there, cast off from the swinging hammer.

I stand up. Father Julian’s tongue wasn’t cut out to frame me: that’s why it wasn’t dumped in my house with the hammer. It was cut out not as a message but from anger. Father Julian wouldn’t tell his killer something he needed to know. That made him angry.

That’s why there are holes in the walls even in the lounge of the rectory. What was he looking for?

The entire death scene is horrible under the focused beam of

a halogen bulb: it looks yellowish, like a faded newspaper article.

Everything in here looks old too, like it all came out of a 1960s catalogue. My immediate thought is that it can’t be a fun lifestyle being a priest. Everything you own has to be old and outdated.

It’s a lifestyle that doesn’t rely on monetary possessions, but on scripture and love and peace. In Father Julian’s case, perhaps a little too much love if it turns out he is Bruce Alderman’s

father.

The rectory is as messy as the office. Papers and books

everywhere. Furniture has been tipped up, the sofa and cushions torn open. The bedroom isn’t any better. The mattress has been pulled from the bed and sliced up, every drawer pulled out

and tipped over, a clutter of clothes and toiletries spewed across the floor. In the bathroom the medicine cabinet is empty. So is the space beneath the sink. I head back into the bedroom. There are framed photographs on the drawers — some have been tipped down, some have cracked glass. I don’t recognise anyone in them except Father Julian and Bruce Alderman. Most of the others in the pictures are wearing cassocks.

I pull up the corner of the carpet in the bedroom then, and

it’s a case of like Father like son. There is an envelope beneath it. I wonder who came up with the idea first — Bruce or Father Julian — and then I make room for the possibility it was a genetic link.

The envelope is full of photographs, fifteen, maybe twenty of

them. Most are of babies; there are a few of young children and a couple in their teenage years. I recognise Bruce Alderman. The photos were taken when he wasn’t looking at the camera, as if he didn’t know the photographer was there. In most of the shots

he is isolated, alone. But these images are out of context. They don’t mean anything by themselves.

It’s hard to know how many children I’m looking at here; the

ages and faces seem to change to a point where I can’t tell if a six-month-old baby is the same six-year-old or sixteen-year-old.

There are sixteen photos in total, but not necessarily sixteen kids.

It’s obvious the age of the photographs changes by the quality and condition of the paper they’ve been printed on, and by the clothes the kids are wearing. Some pictures look thirty years old, some look like they may only be a few. It’s impossible to know whether Father Julian took them or was sent them. Other than

the photos of Bruce, all the others are taken closer up — indoor shots of Christmas presents being opened, of birthdays, happy

moments caught in time.

I pull the carpet up further, then start lifting it in other areas of the rectory before returning to the office and doing the same thing there. Nothing. These photographs, these children — is this the secret Father Julian died for?

I head back down the corridor. I’ve been here over an hour

and Alderman is still waiting for me. I pass Father Julian’s office.

When I was here a month ago he apologised for the mess. He’d

obviously been looking for something. I squeeze my eyes shut

and try to focus. Something here is falling into place. I can see the edges of it, forming, forming … and I think of the key that Bruce Alderman gave me. No numbers, no markings. Did this

key belong to Father Julian? Is that what he was looking for?

Suddenly the door I used to enter the church opens up, then

closes. The muffled sound of a voice drifts down the corridor

towards me, followed by high squawking radio chatter. I duck

down behind Father Julian’s desk and turn off my torch. There

is more radio chatter; I hear the word ‘backup’; and I know the officer parked outside has asked for it because for some reason he’s decided to do his job and walk around the building and he’s found the security tape over the door has been tampered with.

I move to the side of the desk so I can see into the corridor.

The beam of a torch is bouncing from the floor to the walls. It’s getting brighter. I pull back just as the officer reaches the office.