Justifiable (16 page)

Margo ignored the bite in his voice and moved forward to initiate damage control. “What did this reporter want?”

“What they all want. A story. He gave me the ‘I’m concerned about this missing child’ bit, but that’s nothing more than an opening to sensationalize Sally’s death.”  Monsignor lifted his hands, palms together and touched his fingers to his lips in thought. “We’re going to have heavy media focus on St. Catherine’s and Philomena House the minute news of the pope’s visit goes public. The last thing I want is this guy turning an unfortunate death and a missing child into an abuse story.” 

“Some people judge the mentally challenged with an unkind eye.”  Margo couldn’t abide an unfair accounting of anyone’s life. The first time she’d met Sally she made sure Monsignor took the woman’s confession so that Sally received advice wrapped with compassion.

He raised a piercing gaze to Margo. “The media is capable of much more than being unkind. Do we know for sure Enrique is missing? What details are circulating about the disappearance?”

She brushed off the feeling of once again being back in school where she’d handled pop quizzes with as much calm as a live hand grenade. Expecting to have her world blown to bits if she gave the wrong answer and failed the test.

Silly reaction. Monsignor always wanted as much information as possible when dealing with a potential problem.

Lifting her hand, she counted off things she knew on each finger. “Miss Betty took Sally and Enrique to the hospital last night after Sally fell on Enrique. Sally was supposed to call Miss Betty to pick them up after the doctor saw Enrique, but Sally never called. When Miss Betty heard the news about Sally this morning she called the hospital. They said Enrique’s rib was either bruised badly or cracked, but he was released to Sally with pain medication. They don’t know where she and Enrique went after that.”

“Poor child and Sally.”  Monsignor massaged his forehead with two long fingers. “Sally had her problems.”

“Sally didn’t abuse her son, but the hospital visit and Enrique’s injury has been foremost in the news reports.”  Margo shook her head to herself. “Of course, WNUZ trotted out their new expert on child abuse.”

“Dr. Ziegler.”  Monsignor nodded. “That’s actually a good thing. She’s one of the best, who can identify whether a child is suffering from abuse or some other emotional issue. I’ve referred families to her since I arrived in Philadelphia.”

That Monsignor referred troubled souls to Dr. Ziegler said a lot about the doctor in Margo’s opinion.  Monsignor was a savvy judge of people.

Monsignor stared out his window and murmured, “Even when abuse happens we must remember to hate the sin and love the sinner.”

Margo longed to have his capacity for love and compassion, the reason he hadn’t chewed her out over getting caught unprepared by the media. “What can I do to help with the media?”

“I need some uninterrupted time. I’ve got to write a press release right now.”

“I thought you wanted me doing press releases.”

“This one’s too important.” 

That stung, but Margo had told him a long time ago to always give her the truth. She couldn’t fault him if he failed to sugar coat his words to spare her ego. He considered her on the same side of the line as him when it came to taking a stand, that she’d take her licks and not complain.

“Don’t let me walk out of here uninformed again, Margo.”

The good thing about an honest relationship was, she didn’t pull punches either. “Fine. You want to be kept informed? Sally is dead, Enrique is missing and Bruno beat his wife into submission again. Lisa’s in the hospital and Bruno is here for his usual confession.” 
Usual
because Bruno was about as redeemable as a hyena.

Monsignor’s frown pulsed with impatience. “Bruno normally sees Father Ickerson.”

“Ickerson isn’t here.”  Her tone said truth-can-be-a-bitch.

“Bruno will have to wait until I get this press release written. I told the reporter we’d have one ready and I expect him to call soon.”

Margo wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she enjoyed a certain relief at not dealing with writing that release. Not that she couldn’t write one, but her expertise fell more along the lines of presenting program issues for community awareness and positive publicity releases. Death was personal to every family, something she’d never consider writing about publicly.

Wasn’t it just like some heartless reporter to use another person’s misery for a stupid news story? Those people should get a life.

“You’re needed in the chapel, Father.”

Margo spun around at Baylor’s deep voice. How long had he been standing there? His feet were planted in the hallway to the side of her office door that was a straight shot to Monsignor’s office.

She answered for Monsignor. “Please tell Bruno that Father Ickerson isn’t back yet.”

“I told him.”  Baylor didn’t come in or leave, just kept eyeing the interior of Margo’s office as though he would see something new after working on buildings like this one since Noah got into the boat business. They were fortunate he’d been around this old structure prior to its being turned into St. Catherine’s. Baylor seemed to be the only one who could coax the heat to work or keep water flowing through pipes that should have been replaced years ago.

He had hands capable of doing a simple repair, or restoring the fine detail in the architectural carvings scattered throughout the church.

Baylor’s gaze swept back to her. “Bruno ain’t acting patient.”

“I’ll only be a few minutes.”  Monsignor sighed and sat down, lifting his pen to write.

“Bruno’s getting agitated. He kicked the confession booth wall when I told him Father Ickerson wasn’t here. Valdez was in the chapel and got onto Bruno about how he should act right inside a church. They’re...having words.”

Monsignor rose to his feet. “I will
not
have fighting on these premises.”  His words were low, rather than loud, a sure sign of his agitation.

Baylor lifted his shoulders and looked away as if giving words to his thoughts might get him in trouble.

“Fine.”  Monsignor ran his fingers across his hair, ruffling the neat layers. “Tell Bruno I’m coming.”

Baylor nodded and left.

Monsignor turned to Margo. “Write the press release.”

What?

He continued, “Keep it brief. Make sure to express our concern for Sally and Enrique. Ask for everyone to participate in a prayer vigil for finding Enrique.”

Shoot. So much for dodging the sensitive press release. Now it was back in her lap and she had no idea where to start. But if she backed away from this, Monsignor might start looking at her differently for shirking a simple task.

One that a director should be capable of and he believed she was. She’d write the press release and make it the best he’d ever seen, even if it took the rest of the day.

He crossed the room to where his stole, the white scarf priests wore, sat folded on a wrought iron and marble side table.  With the stole looped across his shoulders, he walked toward the door, slowing long enough to tell her quietly,  “Be very careful. I’ve heard about this guy before. Riley Walker is a barracuda. Do
not
give him anything he can sink his teeth into. Shut this guy down.”

She felt her future slipping into quicksand. “Maybe we could – ”

Monsignor released a stream of air so tense it sounded like a pressure cooker ready to blow. “The last thing I need is the police called in to break up a fight in the chapel. I told Walker we’d have a statement by 4:00 PM. Get it done and get rid of him. I trust you to do this.” 

Monsignor strode away like a general heading into battle.

Consulting her watch, Margo felt the first shiver of a panic attack. She didn’t have a prayer of pulling this off in twelve minutes.

Chapter 17

“Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been three weeks since my last confession,” Bruno said without sincerity.

That would be three weeks since your wife got out of the hospital the last time, you son of Satan’s whore
. His heart raced, pumping angry blood through his body. The air he breathed reeked of all the souls that had passed through St. Catherine’s begging for forgiveness, spewing lies upon lies until the very wood stank with the deceptive words.

The dull thrum of hammers working on the outreach center reached even here, where all should be peaceful, contemplative. The way a holy place was meant to be.

Clean, well ordered, an oasis in a world gone mad.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, Father,” Bruno continued in his slow, plodding way. He’d drag on, complaining until he broke down in tears, then calm down and go back to life as usual for a bully. “I didn’t. But she kept pushing at me, and pushing. I get off the job site after a long, hard day. All I want is a cold beer. Want to sit down. Not that much to ask. But what does she do? She’s yammering at me about the plumbing and the kids and her stupid sister.”

What’s a good penance for a man who uses his fists on the person he’s vowed, before God, to honor and protect
?

Bruno Parrick was a thirty-one-year-old ironworker built like a bull who could probably lift a bus and throw it. Lisa needed a protector. Talking to Bruno was a waste of oxygen.

Maybe punish his hands?
Make it hard to slam Lisa across a room.

Or Bruno’s mouth...to stop the spew of lies and self-pity.

“I just want some peace and quiet, Father. I’m a good father. A good provider.”  Bruno’s whine deepened. “I come to church every week. All I want is what’s coming to me. Is that too much to ask?”

No, my son, it’s not
.

Chapter 18

Why would a monsignor be in a place like this?

Two blocks north of Race Street and the Ben Franklin Bridge overpass, Riley pulled to the curb in front of a Catholic church, once ornate and crafted with loving hands, now dowdy and faded. This was a far cry from the type of place a bishop of the monsignor’s caliber normally hung out.

Jack Dornan’s name surfaced in the news, often connected to Philly’s prominent citizens.

A monsignor was the most exalted of priests, Dornan rumored to be among the top of even
that
heap based on what Riley had learned in the past hour.

Why wasn’t Dornan in a power location like New York or even in the Cathedral of Saints Peter and Paul, the most distinguished parish in Philly’s Catholic Archdiocese?

Why here?

The three-story brick structure to the right of the chapel looked like it might have once been a school. Riley had never followed any religion, but even he knew a lot of inner city schools had closed down when families fled to suburbia. But this building appeared to be undergoing a transformation if the action behind the upstairs windows was a clue.

Riley gave his truck engine a little gas and turned onto the narrow drive that ran alongside the church. When the potholed thoroughfare funneled him into a parking lot, he spied a restored Mercedes sedan, the full-size one like they made in the 90s. Same one he’d seen at the shooting range. The sedan and four unremarkable vehicles sat in the paved lot. Two late-model white pickup trucks, a rusted-out green beater step-side Chevy, and on an adjacent weed-covered lot, a utility trailer carrying a load of 2 x 4’s covered with a blue tarp.

Someone in coveralls, with the hood of his coat shielding his head and face, walked out of the back door of the church and over to the truck. He lifted something small like a cell phone from the cab then hurried back to the church.

Riley circled the vehicles and stopped when his cell phone rang. He kept the truck idling for warmth, noting the time at almost four. Temperatures were dropping with the light sleet falling. No point in sitting in the cold while he talked.

He got “Walker” out of his mouth and Biddy started in.

“Got something for ya on Monsignor Jack Dornan.”

“I met the guy. A slick number.”

“He’s a badass.”

Riley sat back and scratched his chin. “I keep hearing that. He’s a priest.” 
Who shoots like a pro.
“Where’d he get that reputation?”

“Here’s what I heard. The bishop over St. Catherine’s  brought Dornan in from San Francisco to clean up after the embezzlement mess in Philly and to spearhead their outreach program.”

“What mess?”

“That’s right. Happened before you got here. St. Catherine’s had a deacon handling the books and incoming donations. The city partnered with the bishop to set up Philomena House. Everything was moving along fine until the bottom fell out of the stock market.”

“Were city funds tied to the market?” Riley asked.

“Nah. The deacon was tradin’ stocks on the side, playing the market big time when it crashed. He got in serious money trouble and cooked up a scam with a bunch of guys he found to bid on the remodeling materials for Philomena. The president of a supply company that got knocked out of the bids heard from the contractors doing the remodeling that supplies were substandard and coming in missing materials. That ran up a red flag. By the time the bishop heard from a city councilman about the rumors and investigated it, word had already spread that the church was running a scam.”