Decatur (9 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tell the Truth

The conference room in the Federal building in Springfield was cramped, lit with harsh fluorescents, and stank of stubbed-out cigarettes, but to the agents who sat around the scuffed wooden table that dated from the heydays of J. Edgar Hoover and bootlegging mobsters it was home. Agent House, standing, was speaking using a wooden pointer with the blackboard as he went through what they knew about the Decatur killings - the
Carnie Drug Murders,
as the papers luridly had dubbed them. Agent Colby was there, along with the lone Springfield black agent, Tooley; a scruffy undercover narcotics agent named Karlosky, and Inspector Danson.

“The third body, a thirty-year-old male found strangled in the log cabin playhouse, may have been making the drug buy. He had fifty dollars in cash in his wallet,” House said, pointing to a triangle with Lincoln Log Motel written inside of it.

“Fifty dollars,” scoffed Karlosky, “I thought you said this was a drug case.”

“We think he may have interrupted the killing of the first two victims in a classic case of wrong place, wrong time, and was murdered after trying to flee. So to answer your question, Agent Karlosky,” said Agent House with careful politeness, “We don’t think it’s a drug case, we think it’s a mob case and the first two deaths were executions.”

“Executions, Charlie?” asked Inspector Danson mildly as he lit another cigarette wishing that he could quit, “In my experience mob executions involve point blank gun shots, not fatal beatings.”

“Maybe it’s their signature, they use their bare hands.” Agent House cocked his left eyebrow, the one with the patch of wild hair sticking out hoping it conveyed a sense of confidence.

“They,” repeated Tooley so softly that they could have all pretended that they didn’t hear him if they didn’t want to, “You think there’s more than one killer.”

“Unless the murderer was high on angel dust, and even then three men would be hard to kill in one night with your own hands, so we think there has to be more than one murderer,” Agent Colby jumped in, not wanting to look like he was making daisy chains in front of the Inspector.

“What about prints?” asked Inspector Danson.

“We have sets of prints from all three victims but nothing from murderers. There are some indistinguishable marks but they don’t make for a print. The whorls are broken up. I can get you a slide. We think maybe they wiped down the room before they left. Pros. The third body was dragged over to the playhouse but it’s on weedy asphalt, no foot impressions either.” Agent Colby ran through everything they had for his boss.

“But here’s the interesting thing, men,” Agent House said with a glint in his eye determined to take back control of the presentation as he pointed to a circle with Professor Max Rosenbaum written in the middle of it, “Dr. Max Rosenbaum, who is a person of interest to the bureau, is now living in Decatur. Father Weston of St. Patrick’s parish hired the carnies that happened to come from Gary, Indiana. Coincidence? I don’t believe in them. I want to go back and talk to the priest some more, see if he knows the professor; with his interest in ancient religions they could have met. It’s something to consider if the professor influenced the hiring of the carnies.”

Inspector Danson stubbed out the menthol cigarette as he considered the chalkboard. “Where’s the mob in this again, Charly?” He could see a call to the bishop was in his future if House kept on this line of investigation.

House picked up a piece of chalk and began to write as he talked, putting the names Ricci and Moretti in circles and drawing arrows connecting them to the professor. “Max Rosenbaum was tainted in the LSD-influenced suicide of his graduate student Lawrence Salerno a year ago at the University of Chicago. The scholar mixes ancient religions and pharmacology in a toxic way and the kid fell for it, literally, from twenty-three floors. Lawrence Salerno was the only son of the reputed consigliere of the Ricci clan currently at war with the Morettis of Gary, Indiana for central and south turf in both states. Morettis launder money through Big Top Entertainment, employers of the carnival workers. Maybe the professor arranged the hit as a way of making nice to the Riccis.” House slapped the chalk down and grinned at Karlosky and Colby without a trace of joy. He was going to get out of the industrial prairie to Vegas, Viva Las Vegas, and this case was his ticket.

Friday afternoon confessions at St. Pat’s were mostly attended by old ladies and a few passionate youth going through confirmation and tortured by sexual fantasies and masturbation. Father Weston was in the box hearing the sins of the innocent as he thought of them. He was exhausted and mostly going through the motions handing out absolution with Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. The last two days had been miserable dealing with poor Monsignor Lowell, whose first name was Aloysius, which Father W had never used. At seventy-three Aloysius Lowell had an elderly sister in a nursing home in St. Louis and no-one else except the loving arms of the Church. The old priest was in terrible shape following the stroke and in Father’s W opinion not so lucky to be alive. He was paralyzed completely on his left side and his speech was a scramble of gibberish, sounds and words mixed together in an incomprehensible mush. He was in the geriatric ward at St. Mary’s after being brought in by ambulance. Gar had found him slumped over in his recliner with an empty glass that smelled of sherry in his hand. The poor bastard, thought Father W, at least he had one last bump. Of course, the doctors and nurses all noted that if Gar hadn’t acted so quickly calling the ambulance the Monsignor would likely have lain on the floor for who knows how long or even, as Father Troy said, died. But what was so horrible about dying, thought Father Weston, it was the living that was horrifying.

The twelve-year-old boy was mumbling about being tempted by the devil to massage his
pecker
at night, “It’s a right terrible temptation, Father and I gave in. I gave in.” Father Weston could hardly stand the trembling shamed voice whispering on the other side of the grate. He gave the boy three Hail Mary’s and told him to read the
Count of Monte Cristo
before he went to sleep to keep his mind off things, and dismissed him.

Father Weston put his head in his hands as he sat in the little chair squeezed in the priest’s side of the box. Father Troy had left for the hospital and taken Gar with him, heading towards the bus stop on Eldorado Street, leaving Father Weston to handle confession alone. They had taken shifts at the hospital, all of them including Mrs. Napoli, sitting by the Monsignor’s bedside. He was off limits to other visitors at the moment, not that Father W was sure he even knew who was there. The red velvet curtain swished and there was heavy footfall in the box but the supplicant knelt quickly so Father Weston knew it wasn’t one of the old ladies.

“Bless me Father but you’re a difficult man to find lately,” said the voice on the other side of the grate, “You haven’t been answering the phone at the parish house. Something on your mind?”

A chill ran down Father Weston’s spine. “Who is this?” he said in a stern tone. “You’re violating a sacred place.”

“You know the professor Max Rosenbaum? Is he an associate of yours?”

Father Weston paused. He knew Max had some trouble in Chicago that had hurt his career but he had never been very specific.

The voice that came through the grate was chilly. “I’ll take that as a yes. Why didn’t you tell me that when I asked you if there was anyone strange or new in your circles? You hired the carnies; you associate with suspect parties, and three small time criminals with ties to the mob get killed. I don’t think you can hide behind your roman collar on a case like this. You need to get out in front of things.”

The words
hide behind your roman collar
made the blood rush to Father Weston’s head and he stood up, bumping his head on the top of the confession box as the accusation spun in his brain. He swept the confessor’s curtain aside and came out of the box, eyes blazing as the few old biddies shrank back and dropped their heads into their rosaries. Father Weston then yanked the penitent’s curtain open and exposed Agent House to God himself.

“Get out!” Father Weston pointed his finger to the church’s enormous double set of doors. “Get out of God’s House. You who would mock God’s sacraments. Get out!”

Agent Colby scrambled into action from his position at the rear of the church. He had thought surprising the priest in confession was a terrible idea and it looked like he was right, but Agent House was an irascible stubborn son of a gun and look what happened. The old biddies were clucking and one had started shouting “Leave” at the Agent who was by then on his feet. Agent Colby came up the aisle swiftly taking House by the arm before he could argue. It was time to leave. They hustled back down the aisle and down the stone steps of St. Patrick’s with as much dignity as they could as the priest, looking like something out of the Old Testament, stood with his arm extended and finger pointing to the exit with all the stained glass windows of the saints behind him.

Bishop Quincy of the Springfield Diocese was not a patient man. A sixty-two-year-old, stocky, second-generation-over-from-Limerick Irishman, he didn’t suffer fools gladly so when Father Weston phoned up frothing at the mouth about Federal agents violating confession all because St. Pat’s innocently hired some carnies on the diocese’s recommendation, he went into action. His supercilious chief of staff phoned for the regional supervisor and in short order got Inspector Danson on the line. Now Danson was a cool head, not given to being pushed around but not wanting to pick fights either with those who had bully pulpits. The Bishop and the Inspector had a brief pause-filled telephone exchange that more closely resembled a chess match than a conversation. There was an apology from the Inspector. But, when the bishop learned that Father Weston had been pal-ing around with a disgraced ancient religion-mixed-with-alternative psychology professor with possible mob connections, he was not pleased. He phoned Father Weston back that early evening.

“The bureau apologizes for the rash action of an agent today, Father Weston, you’ll be happy to note.” You could still hear traces of the brogue in Bishop Quincy’s voice. Father Weston nodded with satisfaction. “But I have to ask you what you were doing with a suspect Jewish intellectual who may have mob connections. Father, have ye lost yer mind?” Bishop Quincy’s voice was sharp.

“Mob connections? He’s an expert scholar in ancient religions and psychology, Bishop Quincy. We have the Catholic tradition of intellectual inquiry at Loyola University where I was trained. I was merely following up on that tradition.” Father Weston was smooth but inside his gut was writhing.
What hadn’t Max told him?

“I suggest you choose your companions more closely in the future, Father Weston. Now I wouldn’t want you take this the wrong way, but Father Troy gave me the report from the hospital today and I don’t need to tell you Aloysius is in terrible shape. I don’t know that we have anyone assignable to be a third priest in your parish so the two of you are going to make do together.” There was a pause on the line.

“Together?” asked Father Weston.

“He’s a compassionate man. Young, to be sure. But I understand it was one of his flock that got poor Aloysius to the hospital. The monsignor can’t even be sent to the holy order home of St Elmo’s home in Chicago, too severe to travel, so he’ll be transferred to St. Joe’s nursing home. A mercy it’s just a couple of blocks away. We’re blessed he’s even alive. You and Father Troy will both run the parish for the foreseeable future. I know you’re senior but work together. And stay out of trouble.” The line went dead. Father Weston stared at the beige handset.
Stay out of trouble? How dare Father Troy call up and give the report to the bishop? This Gar thing was getting out of hand. And what was it that made Max so suspect? Most probably his alternative views had attracted the authorities’ attention somehow
.

He didn’t put much stock in the mob accusation, though. Everyone in Central Illinois thought everyone in Chicago was connected to the mob in some way. It was the only way to feel better about living downstate, as they called it. But if the Bishop learned that he was allowing Marilyn - a parishioner, no matter how lapsed - to dabble in past life regression with Max, he, Father Weston, would be looking at a parish in rural Mississippi. Father Weston went over and poured himself a scotch from the bar cabinet. Thanks to Max and the feds, Gar wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon, he thought as he sat down in the Monsignor’s old recliner and looked morosely down at the drink. So much for being senior.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Something More Precious

The blue-and-white buses in Decatur, Illinois were the round-nosed kind that belched and the doors opened with an asthmatic wheeze at every stop. They were half empty most of the time, as using the bus meant that you were poor or stupid or the wrong color or probably all three. It was a point of pride for Father Troy to ride the bus. He would ride them whenever he could. Still it felt like he was about to embark on some kind of adventure when he stood at the hospital stop with Gar waiting for the bus to carry them home to the parish house. The most ordinary things felt extraordinary with Gar along. That’s why he couldn’t leave.

Father Troy had called Bishop Quincy that afternoon using the pay phone in the hospital lobby and feeling both brave and a little ashamed as he dropped the quarters into the slot. Of course he should update the bishop on Monsignor Lowell’s condition and fill in a little more background about how he, Father Troy was the first to be at the hospital and had taken charge. How Gar had found the Monsignor and called the ambulance, Gar being one of Father Troy’s projects. It had been Gar’s gentle suggestion that gave Father Troy the idea to talk to Bishop Quincy directly rather than leaving it up to Father W, which is what he would have normally done. But Gar softly indicated that he, Father Troy, wasn’t letting the higher-ups know just what a caring priest he was. It had happened when they visited the hospital cafeteria where he had bought Gar a chocolate pudding in a tulip glass with cool whip on it and Gar had dazzled him with his smile as if Father Troy had presented him with a chocolate dessert made somewhere swank like Paris, France.

The bus pulled up and the glass doors opened and Gar bounded on with a big grin for the middle-aged black driver who grinned back. “Come on, big padre,” he laughingly chided Father Troy who scrambled up the steps, “Get on the bus! This driver is going places, I can tell.”

“Got that right!” said the driver, glad for once that a white man had actually looked him in the eye and made a joke not at his expense.

The blue grainy seats were mostly empty and they swayed down the rubber- runnered aisle as the bus shifted into gear and pulled away from St. Mary’s. A couple of black kids with big plastic combs stuck in their afros were goofing around in the back and one crumpled-up-looking old grandma with a collapsible wheeled cart to carry groceries home from the A&P was nervously perched on the very front seat and that was it that late Friday afternoon. The windows were half down and you could smell the processed soybeans mixed with the car exhaust and just a hint of sweet spring air slipping in between the two like the good lemon filling in the middle of a chalky mix cake. It was the sweet spring air that Father Troy smelled when he and Gar sat down together side by side in the middle of the nearly empty bus, which was better than any Cadillac as far as Father Troy was concerned. Gar’s knees were almost pressed against the back of the seat in front, he was so big, and Father Troy felt his own thighs brushing up against Gar’s khakis
. It couldn’t be helped, the bus just wasn’t sized for two men sitting together if one man was like Gar.

“Bishop Quincy said he would talk to Father W about us both running the parish house now that the poor Monsignor’s so bad off.” Father Troy confided, unable to stop the feeling that he was one big fizzy drink with Gar so close by his side, “You know what that means?”

“No, what does it mean, big padre?” said Gar looking out the window, but he had flung his arm around the back of the seat so that his large tan paw dangled carelessly near Father’s Troy’s shoulder.
It was almost as good as him putting his arm around him
, the thought escaped up into Father’s Troy brain like a champagne bubble rising to the top of a glass.

“It means you don’t have to leave St. Pat’s any time soon,” Father Troy said gently as the tender greenery washed by them. All the mean features of the dumpy little streets were disguised as the trees gave themselves over to bursting out with new life, just like he was.

“Nice,” Gar said, “But everybody goes in the end. You know that don’t you, Father Troy.”

Father Troy felt a bubble burst in his fizzy state and he wanted to hold onto the rest of the feeling before it drained away. “Sure, I know that,” he said. Maybe he had said too much and was scaring him away. Better to get off the topic. “I bet you broke a lot girls’ hearts before you went to ‘Nam.”
There, safer ground
.

“Never really thought about it.” Gar smiled though as if he was remembering someone.

“You don’t fool me, Gar. You have a way of getting into people’s hearts. And there’s nothing more precious than someone’s heart.” Father Troy couldn’t help it, he felt like he was drifting out of control as Gar’s hand patted his shoulder in such a sympathetic way, more like they were on sacred journey together rather than riding a bus in Decatur, Illinois.

“Nothing more precious, Father? No, I don’t think the human heart is the most precious thing. It’s the eternal essence,” said Gar in deep voice.

Father Troy felt the thrill of real intimacy now that Gar was talking to him about spiritual things. But he caught some glint way back in Gar’s gold-flecked eyes that reminded him of a wolf he had once seen as a boy on a logging road in northern Minnesota. The wolf had looked at young Mark Troy in a way that said
I could eat you now if I wanted to, boy
. But the moment passed as the bus stopped in front of the A&P grocery store and the glass doors wheezed opened. Before Father Troy quite knew what happened Gar was on his feet squeezing past him out into the aisle. “I’m going to run home, big padre. I’m feeling cramped from being inside.” Then he was down the aisle and out into the street helping the old lady with her little folded up cart off. Father Troy stood up holding onto the back of the seat in front of him feeling like his heart was beating too fast as the bus pulled away. Gar was running, running so easily alongside that even the kids in the back stopped swearing and poking each other to watch the man who could outrun a bus take off down the street.