Chapter VII

VII

On the second Wednesday, this story took a weird twist. I’m taking this from Chief Weber. The boy who waited for Father Tim after the last Youth Club meeting told his parents about his conversation. His mother brooded on it for a few days, and then drove to the Police Station. “I don’t want him around my son!”

“Why? What did he do?” Bill asked.

“It’s the things that Priest is saying. Pray to the Virgin? Excuse me, my son isn’t Catholic.”

“There’s no law against preaching your religion. Particularly inside your own church.”

“No. But there’s laws against other things.”

“Like what?”“How about child molestation?”

“Who? Father Tim?”

“Why not? He’s a Catholic priest. Don’t they all do that?”

“Can you prove it?”

“Yeah. I can prove it. And I bet you, too. If that Boyle kid was molested, it was this uncle, the priest. It’s too easy to blame parents for everything that goes wrong with kids these days. If a kid gets hurt. Never mind the real cul­prit as long as he has parents to blame.  Fall down a flight of stairs, trip over his own feet, his parents must have pushed him. Never mind the kid’s a klutz.”

That afternoon, Art Weber called me at home. “I need you to stop up here.”

“When?”

“Now would be good.”

I fed my cats and took off on foot. I was curious. By this time of the month, the decorations should have been up. I wanted to see how many peo­ple shared my initial distress about gore. And I wasn’t surprised. I saw mostly pumpkins and jack-o-lanterns sat on porch steps, and corn stalks and scarecrows leaned against railings or free standing light posts. Here and there I saw hay bales, some black cats and witches.

I saw only one house with wooden tombstones in front. I paused when I stepped on an eggshell. The tombstones were smeared with yolk and sur­rounded by broken shells.

The height of leaf coloration had passed. A few leaves clung stubbornly to branches and a few hung by threads. The wind kicked in and those threads snapped and they fell. Most of the lawns had been raked clean and piles of leaves sat on parkways, awaiting City workers with rakes and high powered vacuums. The scent, crisp and woody, tickled my nose. Someone lit a bond fire using leaves for fuel.

The police station is located in the Silk Stocking District, which is a resi­dential neigh­borhood behind the Uptown business district. It is one of the oldest sections of town, and the most affluent. The homes are huge, unusual and very well kept.

When we were young, we used to say that we lived in the Silk Stocking District. Truthfully we lived across from the Fire Station on 135th Street. Most people living south of 135th Street live in large frame homes that had been divided into apartments or in brick three and four flat buildings. My mom still owns one of those frame houses, and my brother Mark, and his family live upstairs from her.

The better portion of the Municipal Center is at least a hundred years old. City Hall, a two story, redbrick building, towers over the rest of the buildings on that block.

Next store is the police station. It is fairly new, made of yellow and brown brick, and also rises to two stories, although it is quite a bit shorter than City Hall. I passed beneath purple and black bunting when I entered the building. Bunting had also been spread above the only window on the ground floor.

 Once inside, I approached a uniformed clerk, who was seated behind bulletproof glass. She jumped to her feet before I could say hi. “She’s here,” she called about a corner as she depressed the buzzer.

Bill and Art met me at the doorway between the main police station, and the stairs leading to the upper floor and the administrative offices. “So, what’s up?” I asked, hoping that they had a break in the hunt for Ortiz.

Art cleared his throat and nodded towards the interior. He was embar­rassed, and I could actually make out pick pink patches on his very black cheeks. His eyes wandered fur­ther on, hinting at something he wasn’t sure how to accept. “Got a problem.”

“Need my help?”

“Not really sure,” he said as the pair escorted me back. “Call it a hunch.”

We passed the outer desk, sergeants’ offices, detective desks, weapon cabinets, and in­terrogation rooms. The floor is tiled with dark quarry tile, and the exterior walls are made up of the same rough brick that the outer building is made of. The acoustics stink. A man handcuffed to a bar located beneath a metal bench called out. “Hey, pig. You get off on handcuffs? How about whips and chains? Let me out of here, and I’ll get you a real piece.” In response Ed Sonchek banged his nightstick on the bench. I thought my ears would rupture. The prisoner shut up.

We walked back to an area they called the sallyport. This is a dock where squad cars and the paddy wagon unload prisoners. As we turned a corner, I noticed a dark man in dark clothing sitting on another one of those benches. He sat slumped over as his wrist was handcuffed to the bar below. When I came near enough, I stopped. The sight of that face and that collar knocked the air from my lungs as effectively as a punch in the stomach.

“Father Tim?”

Bill stepped forward and unlocked the cuffs. Father Tim stood, stretched and rubbed his wrists. Bill led him into a small interrogation cubicle. Art and I joined them. “We’ve got a com­plaint,” Bill began, “That you molested a boy by the name of Alan McElroy.”

“That name wouldn’t be familiar,” Father Tim responded.

“You don’t know him?”

“No.”

“He isn’t one of your parishioners?”

“No.”

“No idea who he is?”

Father Tim shook his head. His pallor had faded to an unnatural gray. Between questions, he focused on my hands, or my elbow, or over my shoulder. When a response was expected, he looked us straight in the eyes. He was embarrassed, of course. Horribly embarrassed. And I was, too. I didn’t know what to think at that point. It’s al­ways the ones you expect the least. The ones that you hear attract young people, and who take advantage of their youth. Could this man be a child molester?

“His mother says that he’s part of your youth group,” Bill continued.

“In the past two weeks, a few more children have joined us. They’re hurt­ing. They’re looking for closure.”

‘Would he take advantage of someone in that position?’ I asked myself.

“Did you know any of these new kids?”

“No. Their friends introduced them. But there were so many. It’s hard to keep names and faces straight.”

“Were you alone with any of them?”

“No.” Tim, his eyes focused on my watch. He shook his head. Then he made a clear cut effort to raise his eyes towards Bill. “Something I heard from one of our Boy Scout leaders. There’s so many children making accusations of abuse. I don’t take any chances. I’m trying very hard never to be alone with a child.”

“You don’t remember any time when you were alone with one child?”

He nodded as something occurred to him. “Last Saturday, there was a moment. A young man stopped me on the way out of church. We were hardly alone though. His friends were waiting.”

“How long were you together?”

“A few moments at best.”

Bill asked a few more questions, and I listened quietly. When he led Fa­ther Tim to a cell, Art asked me to accompany him. “You think as many times as I climb these stairs in a day,” he began, as we made our way to the upstairs offices, “I’d lose weight.”

His office is large. The only window I noticed looked out on his secretary. Art picked a file off his desk, and led me away again. We settled in a conference room, seated opposite each other. “You know something,” he said, setting the file before him. “Linc. I’m praying he never becomes a cop. A teacher maybe. Like Joe Spyres. From what I’ve been told, your boy­friend was one of the best science teachers that school has ever had.”

I fidgeted with my purse before setting it on the floor. I had no idea where this was headed.

“Linc is a good kid. Has a good heart. I’d hate to see this job ruin that.” He tapped the file and opened it. It held a form of some kind. “You hear from your friend, Brenna, lately?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Rose Boyle was struck in the head with a rock yesterday.”

 “I’m not surprised,” I said as I began to rock in my chair. I felt as if I had just stepped into the path of a speeding truck.

“I’m stuck,” Art heaved. “I’m caught here with a dick up my own ass, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“Excuse me?” He glanced at me. I blushed so hard it hurt. 

“I have a signed complaint here that says that priest molested this kid. Ac­cording to the woman, of course he molested her son. He’s a Catholic priest, isn’t he?”

“So, because he’s Catholic, he’s automatically a child molester?”

“In her mind.”

“What does the kid say?”

“Your boyfriend wouldn’t release him from school this afternoon. Said something about enough crap going on to disrupt these kids’ lives without us dragging one out kicking and screaming.” Art also began to rock. “Joe is right. The thing is I have a complaint. Signed and sealed, and until I can prove that this woman is nuts, there’s nothing I can do, but lock this man up, and throw away the key. This hits the news, we’ll have a lynch mob outside.”

I turned away from him, leaning down, and covering my face with my hands. “What am I supposed to do with this?” I asked after a long moment.

“We’ll pick the kid up from his home in an hour. I want you with us. Hear what he has to say. And I want you out on the street with Bill. Talk to Fla­herity’s neighbors. His pa­rishioners.”

“I’m one of them.”

“You have any kids I don’t know about?”

“No.”

“We’re taking DNA samples. It’ll take a couple of weeks. But at least we can knock that idea out now.”

“Compare his DNA to what you retrieved from Bobby?” I sat up. This, at least, sounded like a plan.

“That man is no more guilty of child molestation than I am. I let him out on the street, and we’ll be lucky if he isn’t found dead in a day or two. I press charges and move him Downtown, he’ll wind up with that dick in his ass. Literally.”

“Yes, he molested me,” Alan McElroy said in an automatic tone as he fo­cused on the wall. He turned towards Bill and glared. “You happy? I said it.”

“No, I’m not happy,” Bill growled, helping himself to a cigar. “He did molest you or he didn’t?” He stuck it in his mouth but didn’t light it.

“Mom said he did. He must have. Mom knows best, doesn’t she?”

Art leaned across the small table. “If Mom is telling to lie about this, no. Either you were molested, or you weren’t. We will require a rectal exami­nation as part of our inves­tigation. If you were molested, it’ll go to court, and Annie here will write about it. Give all the finer details of just exactly how this crime took place. Put it in the Suburban right next to the winning lottery numbers.” He smiled at me. “Isn’t that right, Annie?”

I nodded.

“On the other hand, if you’re swearing to me that Father Tim molested you and we can prove he didn’t, we have the option of filing charges against you. Either way, Annie has a story to write.”

Alan swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling. “The man answered some questions for me. That’s more than anyone else did. Mom tells me to shut up, everyone else says put it behind me.”

“Did he molest you?” Bill asked again.

“No.”

Art nodded at me and left. Bill picked up the file and followed Art. He paused at the door long enough to glance my way and nod at Alan. He left then, shutting the door be­hind him.

The kid looked at me. “You’re Mary Anne Moriarty, right?”

“That’s me.” I’m surprised he knew my name.

“Yeah, well write something for me. Would you?”

“What would that be?”

“When you think you can trust somebody to help you through something, some jackass walks into the picture and shoots it down.”

“Your mom?”

He nodded. “My mom. I’ve played football for Roosevelt for three years. She’s never been to a game. Never saw those kids that Friday night. Has no idea what that stadium looks like from any angle except 127th Street, or the bridge on Pullman when she drives over it. Says she doesn’t want to hear this. Too much said on the news.”

“I’m sure she’s doing what she thinks is right.”

“Sure.” He glanced at me. “I don’t usually read the paper. That one about the Boyles, though, we passed that between us. A lot of your others, too. That one about your friend. I know how you felt. Only I didn’t go to the memorial. Mom said no.”

Bill returned in another moment. “Alan, your mom is outside waiting for you.”

“Am I done?”

“Yeah. Go.” Bill chewed on the holder of his cigar as he waited until the boy left. “You ready for a ride in a squad?” he asked me

“Sure.”

Bill collected his uniform jacket, his cap and my coat from a closet and his holster and side arm from a locked weapons cabinet. We exited through the sally­port. Once outside, Bill lit up.

Link to Chapter VII *