*

We pulled into the parking lot at St. Michael the Archangel as the teachers left the building to go to their cars. Again, there were news people with cameras, stopping anyone they thought would talk.

Ed Sonchek pulled himself up straight, spread his legs and tugged on the top of each glove, wiggling the fingers of that hand. From what Bill told me, when Devers’ locker exploded, Ed’s gloves saved his hand from a worse injury. The guys are still teasing him because he bought a larger pair to ac­commodate the swelling in that hand.

His movements, swaggering, his cap tilted to the side just enough, and his jacket smelling strongly of starch and him of strong cologne, made me bite my lips. I just wanted to laugh. “We interviewed each teacher,” he said with bravado and a shake of his head. “They’re angry. And well they should be. Had no idea this was going on.”

Bill looked at the man sideways, and puffed. I could see it. Bill wasn’t going to let himself laugh. “Oh?”

“Interviewed one of the neighbors.” Ed nodded at a home at the back of the parking lot that shared a property line with the rectory. We followed him.

A woman with a microphone raced after us. “Can you tell us what’s going on?” she de­manded. “Has Father Flaherity been charged?”

Ed began to turn about, and raise his hands to a dramatic level. Bill cleared his throat. “Keep going,” Bill said, “I’ve got it.” He stopped to tell the re­porter that any questions should be addressed to Chief Weber. She waved away a cloud of smoke and persisted. “No com­ment,” he called as he spun away.

An African American man in overalls met us at the fence of his backyard. “You know what? I got two sons. Talked to both of them. Nothing. I mean we aren’t Catholic, but the way these kids flock to that priest.”

“Has Father Flaherity ever been alone with your sons?” Bill asked, drop­ping the burned out butt onto the blacktop.

The man shook his head. “As far as I know, no. I mean he always has candy or some­thing for the kids, but once they got it, he’s sending them on their way. No, never touched my kids. Unless he doesn’t like blacks. That’s all I can see.”

Ed smiled. “We aren’t investigating whether he’s prejudice.”

“Never said that,” the man said, rubbing his chin. “Fact is he doesn’t seem to have a preference who his friends are.” He waved at his house. “Hell, last summer I needed help replacing my roof. Didn’t see my pastor out here. And here he is, climbing the ladder and nailing down shingles. Did a damned fine job, too. Cut my work load in half.”

After three hours of similar stories, we returned to the squad. “What do you think?” Bill asked me.

“I think you arrested a saint.”

Bill hurrumphed. “Sounds like it. So tell me something. You guys get married, here? Or Our Lady on Hill?”

“I’ll let you know if he asks me.”

“Damn, he’s slow.”

I went home that night and wrote about Alan and about the others we in­terviewed. I made sure that Alan’s comments went into my copy, and prayed they’d make it into print, as well. It was a damned good article.

After I e-mailed it, I walked to Joe’s place. I really needed his company. He let me in, kissed me hello, and sniffed at me. “I know who you were with all day.” he said, sniffing again. “He keeps this up and I’ll be smoking again.” Joe was right. I could smell cigar smoke, too. It penetrated my sweater, my coat, and even my gloves. Joe shrugged and moved further into the room. “Out saving a Catholic priest?”

“Tell me you believe he molested anyone.”

He shook his head and picked up the early edition of tomorrow’s Tribune. We sat on the sofa, and he spread the newspaper between us. A picture showed Father Tim being led away in handcuffs. Behind him were Ed Sonchek and Bill Ramos, cigar and all. “Tim Flaherity is guilty of a lot of things. Includ­ing defending his low life brother. I’m not sure that he’s ca­pable of child molestation,” Joe said, flipping on the TV by remote.

“Really?”

He nodded. “A couple of the kids from his youth group work in the office. They think a lot of him.”

“It almost sounds like you’re ready to forgive and forget.”

He harrumphed and feigned interest in the paper. After a moment, he set it aside. “The only thing I’ve ever had against Tim is the fact that Brian is a jackass.” He was right. Tim’s brother, Brian, has a mean streak wide enough to make a bed on.

Brian is a year older than Joe and my brother, Mark, and Tim is a year younger. When they were young, Brian tricked the other three into sneaking into the basement of an abandoned home. It was due to be torn down the next day. Once down there, Brian locked them in. They were stuck there all night. I remember how frantic my Mom was, and how she, Joe’s Mom and Tim’s Mom searched all over for them. The next morning demolition work­ers found them. Mom cried. Joe’s Mom cried. Tim’s Mom cried. Brian laughed and Tim lied to protect him.

I asked Art how Father Tim made it through the night. He said per stan­dard operating procedure, the night shift took Tim’s rosary along with his belt, shoelaces and keys. “Felt like crap taking it away,” Art said referring to the rosary. Without it Father Tim lowered himself to his knees, and prayed using his fingers to count off his prayers. “According to the night shift, he prayed most of the night. When I came in this morning, he was still praying.”

Okay, this comes from Lisa. The morning after Father Tim was arrested, she waited at the corner outside her apartment building for a school bus. Her father pulled his pick-up truck up to the curb and called her over. “It’s Greg,” Jimmy McCafferty said, referring to her stepbrother.

“What? What about Greg?” she asked immediately concerned that her fa­ther hurt the boy.

“Get in.”

She did as she was told, and Jimmy drove off. “So what happened?”

He didn’t answer. A couple of blocks later, he pulled up next to a van and got out. Lisa heard voices, and was tempted to leave. But then she heard what she assumed was a slap. A moment later her stepmother climbed into the driver’s side. The woman, a small blonde, had one red cheek.

“There’s nothing wrong with Greg, is there?” Lisa asked.

“No. Lisa, I’m sorry. I know you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” Lisa pulled her government book from her backpack, and pretended to study as her stepmother entered the ramp onto I-57.

I am not a morning person. I usually work evenings, whether it is attend­ing a meeting or another event, and then I write. After I e-mail, it takes me a good while to wind down. Most everyone I know, knows my schedule and allows me to sleep in. Early Thursday morning, though, Ed Sonchek knocked at my door, demanding that I get dressed and come with him. Bring my camera.

A crowd waited in the lobby of the police station. When we squeezed through the front door, several turned on me. “What the hell is this?” one woman demanded, holding up the Suburban Daily News. “You and that family. You sleeping with that priest?”

Ed spread his legs, like he had the day before at St. Michael the Archan­gel, and raised his hands. As he opened his mouth, Art let him­self into the lobby. “You charging him or not?” a woman demanded as they turned on Art. I dug my camera from its case.

“Why haven’t you moved him Downtown yet?” Several people yelled out at Art, asking questions, demanding answers and pointing their fingers. I began snapping pictures.

“Hold on,” Art ordered. I moved in across from him and took his picture. “You people have questions, we’ll take them one at a time. Otherwise you can stand here until hell freezes.” The noise began again, and Art turned away. He had his hand on the doorknob, and waited for the buzzer to sound.

“Chief. One at a time,” a woman said, stepping forward. She shushed the others about her. “Why hasn’t Father Flaherity been moved yet?”

Art turned about, facing the crowd again. “I haven’t got any evidence to charge him with anything yet.”

“Have you looked?” A man stepped from the midst of the crowd. He was short and muscular, and as soon as I saw him, my stomach knotted. “Have you bothered getting off your fat ass and ask around?” Jimmy McCafferty demanded. I snapped his picture.

Art’s eyes hardened. “Yes, we’ve looked around.”

“Not very hard. You want evidence, I can get it for you.” He stepped for­ward yet, pushing back his quilted flannel, and bracing his fists on his belt.

“Fine, McCafferty, show it to me.”

“I will. I’ll get you evidence. You fat... Have to do your job for you.” Brenna had him arrested at least once for spousal abuse, and I have no doubt that his current wife should.

“Uh huh. One more disturbance at Pinkie’s and you’ll find out how fast my fat ass is at put­ting together evidence.” Art glanced at the others. “You people want to insult me, or do you have questions you want answers to?”

Another woman stepped out of the crowd and away from Jimmy McCaf­ferty. I took her picture, too. “I want to know what it is you have done,” she said civilly.

Art stepped forward, taking the newspaper from the other woman. “Right here,” he said, opening the front page. “Read it. It’s a good description of our investigation. We’ve had officers out last night taking statements from neighbors, and we’ve contacted parish­ioners by phone. At this point we ha­ven’t come up with anything concrete.”

“Why is he still in jail then?”

“People are scared. His nephew committed murder, and they want to blame someone for that.”

“Is it possible that he sodomized the nephew?”

“We’re checking on it.” Art glanced about, taking in the group. His eyes moved to Jimmy McCafferty, waiting for him to say something. Jimmy placed his cap with its snap down bill on his head, smiled and left.

“Annie,” Art called, waving me on. I squeezed through the crowd and through the door. Once the inner door closed behind us, Art nodded. “Good story.”

“Is this what you wanted to happen?”

“Call it a hunch.”

“How long before you have to cut him loose?”

“Father Tim? Legally, forty eight hours. I’ll keep him as long as I have to. I just hope I don’t get sued.”

“Me, too.”

Very early that morning I had seen Bill. We spoke briefly, but only long enough to pass him a packet of photos that he had asked me for. I had taken them the day after the shootings when Joe and I were locked inside. Joe had court that morning for the accident outside of T.R. Bill planned to accompany Joe, act as a witness and pass the photos on to the judge. 

I spent most of the morning with Detective Keith Hubbley. He’s short and brawny like Jimmy McCafferty is. I like his smile though. “Okay,” Keith began, “Chief wants me to update you on where we are with the investiga­tion at the moment. This isn’t for publica­tion though. I’ll let you know when you can release any of it.” We moved to a desk with a live computer. Keith pulled up a tattoo web site. “Did anyone tell you that some of these kids were heavy duty into body art?”

“No. I know the one kid. Bankencrest? Had something around his neck.”

“Right. Bankencrest. Had a spiked dog collar around his neck. Few others, too.” He showed me the back of his hand. “Had a trident here. On his back he had an upside down cross.”

“All right, now you’re scaring a good Catholic girl.”

“Hump.” The man rolled up his own sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a light­ning bolt. “That scare you?”

“Are you into devil worship?”

“No, I’m into lightning bolts and tribal designs.” He scrolled down, stop­ping at an im­age of a red devil with horns and pitchfork. “Had this one on his shoulder blade.”

I studied it closely. At first I wondered about Bankencrest’s beliefs in Sa­tanism. Then I thought about my conversation with the psychologist, and I wondered if this was really a cry for help that went unheard.

“Devers.” Keith tapped his right wrist. “Right here. A six inch blue smurf.”

“That’s not quite what I’d expect.”

“Uh huh. You’d expect this kid would prefer something a little more demonic as well?”

“I don’t know. My one and only meeting with this kid would have me expecting that his tattoo would be doing something really wierd. He was wierd.”

“Okay,” the detective nodded. He continued to scroll. “These aren’t cheap. Not to mention that in this State you have to be eighteen, or have a parent sign for you.Devers was sixteen, and Bankencrest was seventeen. Tells you something about their parents if they went along with this.” Next he pulled up a web page advertising ammunition.

“Is that the one?” I asked him.

“Yep. Ammunition only. No weapons. As much as saying they’re legit just because they don’t sell guns. FBI is looking for a physical location. Last thing I heard, they were close.” He nodded at this, and then exited. “Chief wants you to see a few other sites. This kid was heavy into hate groups. Checked out all kinds of white power groups, militias, militant Arab or Black groups, you name it. Even churches that preach separation of races. I don’t think this kid was looking for a white power group, or anything like that. I think he was honing into hate vives, period. It surprises me that kid, Boyle, protected his cousin like he did.” He snorted. “Arms dealers, K.K.K., and little blue smurfs.”

“You wanted what?” I asked. “The perfect psychopath?”

“Uh huh,” the detective laughed. “Good one.”

He ended his Internet session, and returned his full attention to me. “Okay, you ever hear of the South Cook County Major Crimes Task Force?”

“Isn’t that where the suburban police departments are pooling their detec­tives?”

Keith nodded. “I’m not from Portland. I’m out of Brescham. Portland has what? Thirty cops? Brescham has twenty seven. Brice has ten, and Sand­burg has fifteen. Makes sense we pool our resources.”

“Sure it does.”

“Anyway, right now we have two people down in Peoria interviewing an arms retailer. About three year’s back, someone high jacked a shipment of high tech handguns headed that way. A couple of those same weapons showed up during an armed robbery at a Loop liquor store. That was some two years ago? Friends of this Ortiz are serving time in Dixon for that,” he said, referring to Don Bankencrest’s mother’s boyfriend.

“Okay,” I said. “But can you place any of the missing weapons here in Portland?”

Keith nodded. He pushed away from the desk, crossed his arms. “Three of the handguns we retrieved had the registration numbers filed off. We were able to raise some of the digits chemically, and bingo.” He rubbed his nose. “Same makes, same models. If nothing else, we have circumstantial evi­dence connecting Ortiz with these weapons. And thanks to the F.B.I. we know that Ortiz is an alias. Has an existing warrant out on him for assault of a police officer. Couple of other things will come up, I’m sure.”

“What about the other weapons?” I asked, trying desperately to keep the excitement from my voice. That night was going to be very hard. I wanted so desperately to write this all down and e-mail it off. No, I would wait. To see Ortiz serving time for his part in this and more, will be a thrill, just knowing I had a small part in his capture, not to mention that I would have an exclusive when it came to pass.

“Saturday night specials. Doubt we’ll ever be able to trace them. Right now we have someone watching the Bankencrest house. As soon as we know for sure that Ortiz is there, and hopefully we can find weapons or contraband, we’ll move in. Like I said. We have at least one arrest warrant to work with.”

Keith opened a large brown envelope next, and poured a stack of photos onto the desk. “Not quite sure what we should do with these,” he com­mented, spreading them out. “It surprises the hell out of me now, simply because I would have been trying to secure the crime scene and nothing else. But before it started raining that night, someone had the where with all to pick up the cameras those animals were carrying.” The first was a picture of Lisa in clown white, smiling and waving at the camera. It was a good picture. The next was of Perry Armstrong, Joe and me in the announcer’s booth. Perry’s mouth was open, obviously singing, and we held our right hands over our hearts. There were pictures of audience members in Halloween costumes or street clothes, in­cluding my friend, Regina.

Kelly Raye and the other drum major smiled and held their batons up. There were pic­tures of other band members and of football players. One shot showed Tony LoBianco at the precise moment he had broken through the papered hoop.

There were six shots of the cheerleader sneering at Bobby Boyle. That made me wonder if Hannah Schreoder had a good side. Lisa de­scribed her as innocent as Megan was when it came to boys, wanting to be­lieve anything they say.

“Your buddy, O’Malley,” Keith said.

“Not my buddy, but go on.”

“Apparently he’s with that scandal rag now. The one that ran the pictures of those kids getting beat up on. Says they’d be willing to pay us big money for these.” He nodded at the table. “We talked about it. If no one has a problem with it, we could sell them. Con­tribute the money to the scholar­ship fund the kids have started. Or we can give these back to the school. Let them make the decisions.”

I helped myself to a tissue from a box on another desk. “Give them back to the school,” I said, wiping a tear from my cheek. “The kids are putting to­gether a display case in re­membrance of Homecoming.”

How do I put this? I remember that night so clearly. I remember the faces, the smiles and the tears. And I remember the taste of garlic in my mouth and the smell of sulfur wafting up from the field. Sometimes even now when I see a squad car lit up, I’ll flash back to the point when the shooting ended and the sight of red and blue lights reflected on the back wall of the booth. And I remember how angry I felt that day in the grocery store when my neighbor took me to task about the pictures that made it into ‘Proof’. I un­der­stood where Keith was coming from, but these pictures came at too high a price. Damn it, I couldn’t deal with that again.

Keith picked them up, stacking them, and dropping them into the enve­lope. “A thought, anyway.”

Link to Chapter VIII