Make them Cry (5 page)

Father Garcia led him down the hallway toward the stairwell. “I’m the school’s unofficial vice president,” he explained. “If you want the formal title, it’s head of administration, at least, that’s what they call me now. I’ll be taking over for Monsignor Fuller next year. He’s getting up there in age. My office is just down the hall from his, and I hear everything that goes on in there through the heating vent. He was awfully hard on you, Jack. I’m sorry I didn’t come in there sooner. You didn’t deserve that tongue-lashing.”

“Maybe I had it coming,” Jack said.

“Nonsense,” Garcia said as they started down the stairs. “Considering the young man was a good friend of yours, Fuller was out of line. I heard him—trying to hold you accountable for things that have been going on at St. Bart’s for decades.” He let out a disgruntled laugh and turned down another set of stairs. “Here’s old Clyde Fuller trying to make you believe he doesn’t know anything about these moonlight swims, and you throw Julian Doyle in his face. He was running the show here when that happened three years ago. I think he’d just as soon forget about that business. But you made him remember. You and John Costello made him remember.”

Father Garcia pushed open the tall wooden door for him, and Jack stepped outside. They paused in back of the administration building, by the parking lot and Dumpsters. “Monsignor Fuller managed to sweep the whole Julian Doyle incident under the rug. I don’t think he handled it right. I wouldn’t want John Costello’s death to be swept under a rug, too.” Father Garcia turned to him. “Jack, I’d like you to help me handle this one right. Can I count on you to work with me?”

Jack nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Father Garcia patted him on the arm. “Good.” He squinted up at the sun, then checked his wristwatch. “You know, it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world. Time for a drink. I sure could use one. I’ll take you to my favorite spot, c’mon.”

They started walking. Jack peered over his shoulder at the administrative building. In the third-floor window, he could see old Monsignor Fuller staring down at them.

Father Garcia’s favorite spot was the Lakeside Inn Grill, a restaurant-tavern in Leroy’s only hotel. One side of the pub had a bleakly pastoral view of Lake Leroy and the woods. Mounted fish of various sizes decorated the walls. Somehow, the restaurant always seemed dusky—even in the middle of the day. The tables were coated with layer upon layer of dark, shiny varnish. They had a muted TV on behind the bar, and schmaltzy music piped over the speakers at a low volume. Burgers and sandwiches were served in paper-lined red plastic baskets, and the drinks were strong.

Father Garcia had a scotch and water while Jack nursed a beer. From their table by the window, Jack gazed out at an elderly man shuffling down to the lake, a fishing pole slung over his shoulder.

Garcia lit up a Merit 100. “So, you knew John Costello pretty well,” he said. “Did he ever mention having any upperclassman friends over at the college?”

Jack shook his head. “No. In fact, the idea that John might have been swimming back from some college party last night seems out of character to me. He wasn’t much of a party boy. Still, that’s the general hypothesis from most of the freshmen at St. Bart’s.”

“Could he have been meeting someone in town?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. If he had any friends on this side of the lake, he didn’t tell me about them.”

“But he had friends in the dorm, right?”

“Oh, yes. He was very well-liked.”

“Did he have a best friend?” Tom Garcia asked.

Jack pushed away his beer stein and nodded. “Yes. His name’s Peter Tobin. I haven’t seen him much today. All the freshmen were excused from classes—”

“Think this Peter Tobin could know something?”

Jack hesitated. “He might. It’s possible.”

“Talk to him, Jack.” Father Garcia stubbed out his cigarette. “Talk to as many kids as you can. Investigate every lead. If that means knocking on some dormitory doors here on the college side, fine. I’ll make sure you have no interference.”

Jack nodded. “All right.”

“The police are letting us handle the investigation—pending autopsy results. We have their full cooperation. Everyone involved would just as soon avoid a scandal. That’s why the local law enforcement is letting us handle this for now. Any kind of bad business at Our Lady of Sorrows hurts this town.”

Father Garcia took another hit of his scotch and water, draining his glass. His voice dropped to a whisper. “John Costello is survived by an older sister, who can cause quite a stink if she feels we’re covering up any details about her brother’s death. That’s why I want you working on this. As John’s friend and teacher, I know you’ll treat this investigation with the utmost intelligence and sensitivity. I’m depending on you. If there’s a scandal, this institution, this town—and your young friend’s good name—will suffer.”

Jack frowned at him. “What makes you so sure that there will be a scandal?”

“I’m prepared for the possibility,” Tom Garcia whispered. “You should be, too, Jack.”

The dinner crowd started trickling into the Lakeside Inn Grill. The local news ran muted on the TV behind the bar. Maggie sat alone at a table by the window. She watched darkness fall over the landscape. The lake in which her brother had drowned seemed to turn silver-black.

Maggie sipped her bourbon. One drink—just one—before heading back to Seattle, that was the plan.

She needed it. After the long drive up to Leroy, she’d found her only welcoming committee was that swaggering macho creep, Father Zeigler. She asked to take another look at Johnny’s room before they packed up his things. Zeigler acted as if she were trying to sneak into a movie without paying. He claimed that Father Murphy shouldn’t have taken her up there yesterday. Besides, she was too late. He’d already assigned a couple of students to pack John’s things, and they were almost finished.

Maggie asked if she could talk to Peter Tobin or Father Murphy, but the snarly little priest said they were out.

A couple of students came down in the elevator with boxes full of Johnny’s things. It took them three trips to load Maggie’s station wagon. All the while, Father Zeigler said nothing to her. When the boys finished, Zeigler followed her outside. “I’m praying for the repose of John’s soul,” he told her, his tone sickeningly self-righteous.

Maggie hesitated before climbing into her car. “Pray for your own soul,” she heard herself say. “What made an insensitive jerk like you think you’d be a good priest?”

Zeigler piously stared at her with half-closed eyes. “I’ll attribute that comment to the fact that you’re grieving.”

“No,” Maggie said. “Attribute it to the fact that you’re an insensitive jerk.”

Those were her parting words to Father Zeigler. She drove off feeling triumphant—for about fifteen seconds. Then she started crying. She pulled over to the side of the road, leaned on the wheel, and sobbed. After a few minutes, she sat back and wiped her tears.

That was when she’d decided she needed a drink before heading back to Seattle.

“How are you doing here?” the waitress asked.

Maggie turned from the window and looked up at the stocky middle-aged woman with brassy red hair. “I’m okay for now,” she said with a pale smile.

“Are you visiting a cousin or a brother at the college?” the waitress asked.

Maggie hesitated.

“The reason I ask is, I haven’t seen you around. Hardly anyone comes here unless it’s to see one of the boys at seminary. You look way too young to have a son in college.”

“My brother’s a freshman here,” Maggie said.

“Then he’s at St. Bartholomew Hall. Did you hear what happened? One of the boys drowned in the lake night before last. They managed to keep it off the news. Just like that other kid three years ago.”

“Another boy drowned?” Maggie asked.

“Yeah, and they hushed that up, too. I tell you, I’ve been working here practically since the Stone Age, and every year or two, something happens at St. Bart’s—a suicide, or an accident, or some tragedy. It’s weird. They say the place is cursed. And you know what? I believe it.”

Maggie glanced out the window at that silver-black lake.

“Oh, but listen to me go on,” she heard the waitress say. “It’s no way for me to talk when you have a brother staying there. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Maggie nodded absently, then she slid her empty glass toward the edge of the table. “Can I have another, please?”

“No, I’ve ever seen him before,” Terry Gillis said, studying the photo of John Costello. The young man had an olive complexion and close-cropped black hair. He was husky, with a slight beer gut. Jack figured Terry was a party animal. One wall of his dorm room was lined with makeshift shelf after shelf of empty beer bottles, all various brands. Standing at the threshold of the room, Jack could smell stale cigarettes.

“He doesn’t even look familiar?” Jack asked. “Why don’t you take another gander at the picture?”

Terry gave the snapshot back to him. “Sorry, I can’t help you, Father.”

Terry Gillis was one of the three sophomores who’d allegedly had sex with Johnny. Jack couldn’t repeat any of Greg’s “confession” in the grotto. The only way he could act on the information was to visit St. Clement Hall’s third floor, and go from room to room, asking each resident if he knew John Costello.

He still didn’t want to believe Greg’s story. So far, none of the sophomores he’d interviewed on this floor had heard of John Costello until news of the drowning yesterday. Like Terry, they didn’t recognize his photograph either.

Jack put the photo back in his pocket. “Listen, Terry, do you know anyone else who might have hung around with him?”

“Who? Costello?” He shrugged. “No, like I say, I’ve never even seen him before.”

Jack nodded at the beer bottle collection against the wall. “I see you’ve accrued a lot of dead soldiers there. You must know where all the parties are. Did you hear if there was something going on around here on Wednesday night? Anything at all on campus?”

Terry shook his head. “Sorry, Father. I was working on a term paper in the library on Wednesday night. I save my partying for the weekends.” He glanced past Jack, at someone else in the hallway.

Jack turned and saw a strapping, Nordic-blond man approaching them. He was good-looking with deep-set blue eyes, and an impressive physique. Obviously, he’d just been working out. He wore track shorts and a torn, sleeveless sweatshirt, stained with perspiration. “Hi, Father,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Anton Sorenson, the R.A. for this floor. Is Terry in trouble? Has he been stealing wine from the sacristy again?”

He had a sweaty, bone-crunching handshake. Jack smiled at his joke. “No, he’s okay.” He turned to Terry. “If you hear anything or suddenly remember something that might help me out, could you give me a call at St. Bartholomew Hall?”

“Sure thing, Father.” Terry gave his R.A. a narrow-eyed grin. “Wiseass,” he muttered. He stepped back into his room and shut the door.

“You’re from St. Bart’s?” Anton asked.

Jack nodded. “I’m Father Murphy. I was hoping one of your residents could shed some light on what happened with that drowning yesterday.”

Anton Sorenson wiped his shiny forehead. “Oh, boy, I’m such an ass. I’m sorry. I’m making with the jokes, and you’re here on serious business. The kid’s name was John Costello, right?”

“That’s right.” Jack pulled out the photo of Johnny. “Seems he might have been returning from a party or visiting a friend here on this side of the campus. I’m trying to track down who might have seen him last.”

Anton glanced at the picture. “Oh, yeah, I know him. He used to hang around here. But I didn’t see him Wednesday night. I wasn’t here. Hey, you know who we should ask? Rick Pettinger. He and this Costello guy used to pal around together.” Anton cocked his head to one side. “Rick’s room is just down the hall. I’m pretty sure he’s in. C’mon.”

Anton started up the hallway and knocked on the door to Room 311. “Hey, Rick?” he called.

The door opened. Despite a slightly pockmarked complexion, Rick Pettinger was a tall, good-looking kid with green eyes and wavy black hair. He wore a pressed yellow oxford shirt and jeans. Wide-eyed, he gazed at Anton, then at Jack. “What’s going on?”

“Hey, Rick-o, this is Father Murphy from St. Bart’s,” Anton started in. “He just wants to ask you some questions about your buddy who drowned, John Costello.”

“What?” Rick stepped back. “John Costello? I—I hardly knew him at all.”

Anton stepped into the room. “Oh, come on, I’ve seen you two guys hanging around together.”

“Well, you’re mistaken,” Rick replied, an edge to his voice. “I didn’t know him.”

Anton laughed. “Oh, you lie like a rug! What are you trying to pull here? You are so full of it. What’s going on? What are you hiding?”

“Anton, I’d like to talk with Rick alone,” Jack said. “Thanks for your help. You can go now.”

Anton shrugged, then he started for the door. “Okay, Father. But don’t believe a word he says.” He turned in the doorway and glared at Rick Pettinger. “You’re lying to a priest, y’know. Talk about morally bankrupt. You better come clean, mister.”

“Okay, Anton, bye,” Jack said, closing the door on him. He turned to Rick Pettinger. “‘
Morally bankrupt
.’ I’ve never heard that one before. Have you?”

Rick regarded him with visible wariness.

Jack glanced around the room for a moment. There was a print of Salvador Dalf’s
The Sacrament of the Last Supper
over the bed, and he spotted a couple of books about Marilyn Monroe on the shelf. On the desk was a half-full ashtray and a pack of Winston Lights.

Jack turned and gave the young man a reassuring smile. “Anton was way out of line. This is no formal investigation. I’m just trying to find out what John Costello was doing on Wednesday night. They think he might have been with a friend here—or at a party. They’re simply looking for an explanation, that’s all.”

Rick sat on the edge of his bed. “Well, I hardly knew him. In fact, when I heard about the drowning yesterday, I didn’t connect him to the guy who hung around the hallway from time to time. I certainly didn’t see him here on Wednesday night.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what else I can tell you, Father.”

“If he hung around here, as you say, who do you think he was seeing?”

“I have no idea,” Rick answered. “I mean, I didn’t even know Johnny Costello.”

Jack stared at him for a moment. “But you knew him well enough to call him Johnny.”

“Johnny, John, what’s the difference?”

“It’s the difference between a friend and someone you might notice in the corridor from time to time. Why would Anton be so insistent that you and John were buddies?”

“I don’t know,” Rick grunted. “He’s crazy.”

“Did you ever hear any rumors about John Costello meeting with certain guys on this floor to have sex?”

Rick took a deep breath and quickly shook his head. “I don’t associate with queers. And as for John Costello—or Johnny—or whatever you want to call him, I barely knew the kid. How many times do I have to tell you?”

With a sigh, Jack grabbed a pen from the desk. “Okay, listen,” he said. “I’m giving you my phone number at St. Bartholomew Hall.” He jotted it down on Rick’s memo pad. “If you suddenly remember something, or if you need to change your story, you know where to reach me.”

“I’m not changing my story,” Rick said. “Why would I do that?”

“Because what you’ve been telling me so far is a lie,” Jack said. He started toward the door. “You know it, Rick. I know it, and so does your R.A., Anton. When you’re ready to start telling me the truth, I’ll do everything I can to cut you a break and keep it confidential. Call me.”

Jack stepped out to the hallway and closed Rick’s door.

Anton Sorenson was waiting for him. He’d taken off his sweatshirt, and now had a towel draped over his shoulder. He seemed to like showing off his physique. “Did he tell you anything, Father?” Anton asked, hands on hips.

“No,” Jack said, figuring it was none of his business.

“I was trying the good-cop-bad-cop routine. Didn’t it help any?”

Jack managed to smile. “Oh, that’s what you were doing. Sorry, it didn’t take.”

Anton shrugged. “Well, for what it’s worth, I know he’s lying. I wish I knew the reason. Did he say where he was on Wednesday night?”

“I didn’t ask him.”

“Well, pardon me for being a big buttinski, but if I were you, Father, I’d be asking every guy on this floor where he was on Wednesday night.”

Jack considered it for a moment. “All right. You mentioned that you weren’t here. Where were you? Why weren’t you on R.A. duty?”

Anton chuckled. “This isn’t St. Bart’s, Father. They don’t have you on such a tight leash at these upperclassman dorms. I signed out for the night, borrowed a friend’s car, and drove down to Seattle.”

“What was going on in Seattle?”

“You know the Cinerama Theater, Father? The place has this huge, seventy-foot screen. They had a special ten-o’clock showing of
The Great Escape
. Have you ever seen it?”

Smiling, Jack nodded. “Only about five or six times.”

“It was awesome, and the place was packed. Anyway, I was gone from about eight until three-thirty in the morning. I blew off a philosophy class and slept all the next day. In fact, I didn’t hear about that drowning until late afternoon.” Anton nudged him. “How’s that for an alibi?”

“Well, I didn’t really ask for one,” Jack said. “I was just wondering where you were night before last. But you’re right. I’d like to talk with the other residents here. And if it’s okay with you, I’m better off interviewing them one-on-one.”

“You sure?” Anton asked. “We could try the good-cop-bad-cop routine. It almost worked with Pettinger.”

“Thanks anyway.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Anton said, leaning against the wall, “how many guys on this floor have you talked with so far?”

“Six, including Rick,” Jack said. “Seven, if I include you.”

“How many admitted they’ve seen John Costello hanging around?”

“Just you and Rick. The rest didn’t know him at all.”

Anton frowned. “John Costello was here often enough. More people should have recognized his picture. Doesn’t that seem odd? A kid’s been drowned, and all these guys suddenly don’t know him. What do you think they’re hiding?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Jack said. Then he started down the hallway to knock on some more doors.

Anton was right. None of the sophomores admitted to knowing John Costello. Of the sixteen boys Jack questioned, only two students recognized John’s photograph. But they weren’t much help beyond that.

Jack spoke to John’s other alleged sex partner, Ted Patchett. He could tell Ted was lying during the questioning. He was as nervous and agitated as Rick Pettinger. A couple of times, Jack caught him contradicting himself.

He wondered if Johnny’s trio of “boyfriends” weren’t all somehow involved in the drowning. Had the three of them been in on it together? Was it some kind of sexual hazing that had gone wrong?

Jack was about to duck out of St. Clement Hall when Anton caught him in the stairwell. Anton volunteered to “keep digging” with the investigation. Jack thanked him, but said he could handle the inquiries himself. He left the dorm at a quarter past ten.