Read from the beginning
Read Part 12
Cardinal Armando Mara sat at the small desk in the room he had been given for his use and studied the paperwork officer Gilbert had faxed to his friend Father Martin Miller. He had asked that a copy be made before releasing the originals to Fr. Miller. He instructed the younger priest not to respond to his friend until he had chance to study the material himself. Fr. Miller didn’t look like he understood the request, but he understood chain of command. That was something Mara knew well, also.
Even after being a priest for more than 25 years, Mara still didn’t consider himself a priest first. He was a soldier who happened to preach the Gospel of Christ. Not a soldier for Christ, for Jesus could never condone the work he did for the Church. Rather, Mara was a trained killer. He took the body and blood of Christ in Communion each day, and the blood of those who opposed his Lord whenever possible.
He held the page with the Seal of God up to the light of the small lamp. It was not the real seal, he realized. It was altered, making it something else. Something Mara recognized. He had half expected this when the Monsignor had asked him what it all meant. Miller had left the room, presumably to return to his office and the work of investigating Church finances, leaving Mara alone with Monsignor Copani.
“What does this all mean?” Copani had asked, his right hand was clenched into a fat fist on the desk while his left played idly with the silver crucifix that hung by a chain around his neck. Mara couldn’t help but notice that the Monsignor didn’t know how to make a proper fist. He would dislocate his thumb if he ever hit anyone with that hand, not that Mara could imagine the older man doing such a thing. He wasn’t a fighter. His first wasn’t a sign of aggression; he was clinging to something, something he hoped would save him. Cardinal Mara rose from his chair and paced to the other side of the room.
When he turned back to face the Monsignor, he was no longer the friendly Italian clergyman who had arrived, unannounced, the previous evening.
“We are under attack,” he said, closing on the Monsignor’s desk and leaning over it. Copani leaded back in his chair, his eyes wide. He started to mouth a response, but Mara wasn’t done. “What we do next may well decide the fate of the Holy Catholic Church in America.”
Mara saw the shock and fear in the older man’s face and sighed internally. It was as he feared. He would get no help from this office. He stepped back away from the desk and lowered himself into the seat that Fr. Miller had previously occupied. He resisted the urge to shake his head. These American priests were so soft. They were completed disconnected from the epic struggle the Church was intended to win for Christ on Earth. He couldn’t possibly explain to this man what was really going on. Fortunately, thanks to his rank in the Church, he didn’t have to.
“This is not something that truly concerns you, Monsignor Cobani. My apologies. I must travel to meet with this police officer and find out how this involves the Church precisely,” he said.
“Oh, of course,” Copani whispered the words. The relief on his face was unmistakable and his hand opened on the desk, still trembling slightly. “I’ll ask Fr. Carlson to make any arrangements you need.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Mara said, rising. “I have my own transportation. I’ll be leaving as soon as I’m packed.” He turned toward the door, taking the file with him. Copani seemed pleased to see the information leaving his office.
Mara opened the door and stepped into the hall, but before he closed it, he turned back to Copani. “I’ll be taking Fr. Miller with me, as a translator. I’ll return him when we’re finished.” He stepped into the hall and closed the door.
Now, back in his small room, his small suitcase packed and sitting on the made bed, Cardinal Mara glanced through the paperwork one last time. He resisted the urge to break out his satellite phone and place another call to his team. At last contact, they were headed to La Paz to deal with something that could not be ignored. He knew they were unavailable. He was on his own.
There was a knock at the door. Well, not completely, he thought. He opened the door to find Fr. Miller standing in the hallway.
“Are you packed?” Mara asked.
“I’m ready,” Miller replied, but said nothing more. Mara smiled for the first time that day.
Read Part 14
Thursday, November 5, 2015
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
12. A Friendship Questioned
Read from the beginning
Read Part 11
Fr. Carlson led Fr. Miller down the long hallway that ran the length of the main building and when he reached his destination, turned abruptly to face the door to Monsignor Copani’s office. There was no marking on the door, just a wooden portal similar in all respects to the others they had passed. Carlson knocked twice and opened the door, leading Fr. Miller into a richly appointed office. The Monsignor sat behind his very large desk, where a second chair had been pulled around for a man that Fr. Miller had not yet met.
“Fr. Miller, as requested,” Fr. Carlson said and then stepped smartly to the side to allow Fr. Miller to step up. When he failed to do so, Fr. Carlson cast him a disapproving glance.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.”
This clearly caught the smaller priest by surprise, but he recovered quickly and stepped from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Thank you for coming straight away, Martin,” the Monsignor said. Copani had been a Catholic priest for over 30 years. Now, at the midpoint of his 50s, he appeared much older. There was a tiredness hanging under his eyes that made him look melancholy even when he smiled, which was rare. He was not smiling now. “Please meet Cardinal Armando Mara.”
The Cardinal stood and Fr. Miller let out a small gasp. He hadn’t been paying attention. The clerical clothing worn by the clergy in Italy differed from that worn in America. He had assumed that Copani was the highest ranking priest in the building. A thoughtless mistake! Mara saw the younger priest’s embarrassment clearly on his face and extended his hand with a smile. Smaller of frame and darker of hair and eye than Copani, Mara seemed younger than the Monsignor, and quite fit.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father Miller.” His English was excellent, but the Italian accent made it twist and curl like a true romance language. “Please have a seat.”
Fr. Miller sat down in a high backed chair that faced the desk squarely. Behind and on both sides of the large desk were framed paintings, that could have come from an Italian museum for all he knew, not being an expert. The dark wood of the frames went well with the dark paneling. It all conspired to make the room feel like it was home to more power than a similar 12-foot by 12-foot office elsewhere in the building. However, Fr. Miller thought, with both the Monsignor and the Cardinal tucked behind the large wooden desk, it probably was the epicenter of power at the moment.
“You haven’t been to your office yet,” the Monsignor said. It wasn’t a question so Fr. Miller merely nodded. “When you get there, you’ll find that you have received a message from an old friend of yours, a police officer by the name of Rob Gilbert. Do you remember this person?”
Fr. Miller was momentarily taken aback. First, how did the Monsignor know about his message before he did? And what form did this message take? Was it a voice mail message? E-mail? And Rob Gilbert. He hadn’t heard that name since he was an undergraduate at the University, almost a decade ago now. These thoughts, though moving quickly, gave him pause and he realized that he had been silent a moment and that both priests were now watching him very closely. He suddenly felt like he was being examined.
“I do remember, Rob. He was my roommate when I was in college many years ago,” he replied. “Is there some problem that I should be aware of? Has something happened?”
“Have you been in touch with Officer Gilbert recently?” the Cardinal asked. His accent made the question sound less like an accusation, but something in his eyes was giving Fr. Miller an uncomfortable feeling.
“No, I have not,” he replied. “What is this about, please? What is this message and why, if I may ask, did it come to your attention before my own?”
The Cardinal started to lean further across the desk, his face darkening, but the Monsignor spoke first.
“Martin, your message came to my desk because a keyword filter directed it to me. We set that system up during the crisis that almost bankrupted our diocese some years ago. The fact that the message came from a law enforcement organization caused it to be re-routed to me.”
Fr. Miller had just become a priest when the child abuse scandal rocked the Church to its core. By the time it was over (if one could ever call it over, given the ongoing suffering of those involved), hundreds of millions of dollars had been paid out by the Church in legal settlements, leaving a number of diocese across the nation bankrupt. The Archdiocese of Boston was particularly hard hit, but survived, financially, in large part due to the measures taken by the Monsignor’s office.
“I didn’t know such a system existed,” Fr. Miller said. He felt a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. He personally knew priests, men he had known for years and respected, who were accused during the scandal. He felt certain then that they were innocent of any crimes and continued to be convinced to this day, but during the crisis, even the suggestion of wrongdoing put enormous pressure on the Church to settle. Had someone accused him? “But I see why one is necessary. Of course, this could not be related to…”
The Monsignor stopped him with a raised hand. “Of course not, Martin. That has not been suggested.”
“But we are very interested in what this is related to,” the Cardinal added.
Fr. Miller looked from one priest to another and then shook his head. “I haven’t even seen the message.”
Monsignor Copani explained that Gilbert was asking for help on a case and had promised to send over materials that he would like Fr. Miller to examine. Those materials were expected to be faxed to his office as soon as the staff at his parish in Texas arrived at the church office. Instructions had been sent that would reroute those materials to the Monsignor’s office.
Fr. Miller’s confusion showed clearly on his face. “I have no idea what this could be about,” he said.
“It could be nothing,” Monsignor Copani said. “Just an old friend seeking some spiritual support.”
“Or,” added the Cardinal, “it could have to do with the government’s investigation of our financial records, in which case we must take great care in how we respond.”
Now, Fr. Miller was really confused. He recalled Rob Gilbert as a serious young man who’s only goal was to get into law enforcement and investigate crimes, specifically those against what he called defenseless victims. He was not involved in financial crimes and, in any event, Fr. Miller had found no evidence that there was any crime to be found in the Church’s financial records -- aside from the possible crime of losing too much money. He was about to point this out when they were interrupted by two quick knocks on the door, which was then opened to admit Fr. Carlson. He held a stack of papers.
He placed them carefully on the desk, each page stacked perfectly above the one below it, and then stood at attention near the corner of the desk. The monsignor pulled the stack of papers over, messing them up in the process and causing Fr. Carlson to grimace.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.” The small priest’s grimace began to trend toward a scowl. He spun on his heel and left the room.
The Monsignor and the Cardinal studied the printouts for a moment and then both sat back in their chairs. Neither man looked happy. Fr. Miller waited. Finally, the Cardinal took one sheet from the stack and pushed it slowly across the desk. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Fr. Miller studied the page for a moment. It was a copy of a drawing of the Sigillum Dei, the Seal of God. “Yes,” he replied.
“Is it possible that your friend is investigating the Church?” the Monsignor asked him directly.
Fr. Miller shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t even spoken to him yet. Besides,” he said, lifting the sheet with the medieval symbol and holding it up to the light, “what can the Church’s finances possibly have to do with this?”
Monsignor Copani sat back in his chair but Cardinal Mara leaned forward. “Everything,” he said.
Read Part 13
Read Part 11
Fr. Carlson led Fr. Miller down the long hallway that ran the length of the main building and when he reached his destination, turned abruptly to face the door to Monsignor Copani’s office. There was no marking on the door, just a wooden portal similar in all respects to the others they had passed. Carlson knocked twice and opened the door, leading Fr. Miller into a richly appointed office. The Monsignor sat behind his very large desk, where a second chair had been pulled around for a man that Fr. Miller had not yet met.
“Fr. Miller, as requested,” Fr. Carlson said and then stepped smartly to the side to allow Fr. Miller to step up. When he failed to do so, Fr. Carlson cast him a disapproving glance.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.”
This clearly caught the smaller priest by surprise, but he recovered quickly and stepped from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
“Thank you for coming straight away, Martin,” the Monsignor said. Copani had been a Catholic priest for over 30 years. Now, at the midpoint of his 50s, he appeared much older. There was a tiredness hanging under his eyes that made him look melancholy even when he smiled, which was rare. He was not smiling now. “Please meet Cardinal Armando Mara.”
The Cardinal stood and Fr. Miller let out a small gasp. He hadn’t been paying attention. The clerical clothing worn by the clergy in Italy differed from that worn in America. He had assumed that Copani was the highest ranking priest in the building. A thoughtless mistake! Mara saw the younger priest’s embarrassment clearly on his face and extended his hand with a smile. Smaller of frame and darker of hair and eye than Copani, Mara seemed younger than the Monsignor, and quite fit.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father Miller.” His English was excellent, but the Italian accent made it twist and curl like a true romance language. “Please have a seat.”
Fr. Miller sat down in a high backed chair that faced the desk squarely. Behind and on both sides of the large desk were framed paintings, that could have come from an Italian museum for all he knew, not being an expert. The dark wood of the frames went well with the dark paneling. It all conspired to make the room feel like it was home to more power than a similar 12-foot by 12-foot office elsewhere in the building. However, Fr. Miller thought, with both the Monsignor and the Cardinal tucked behind the large wooden desk, it probably was the epicenter of power at the moment.
“You haven’t been to your office yet,” the Monsignor said. It wasn’t a question so Fr. Miller merely nodded. “When you get there, you’ll find that you have received a message from an old friend of yours, a police officer by the name of Rob Gilbert. Do you remember this person?”
Fr. Miller was momentarily taken aback. First, how did the Monsignor know about his message before he did? And what form did this message take? Was it a voice mail message? E-mail? And Rob Gilbert. He hadn’t heard that name since he was an undergraduate at the University, almost a decade ago now. These thoughts, though moving quickly, gave him pause and he realized that he had been silent a moment and that both priests were now watching him very closely. He suddenly felt like he was being examined.
“I do remember, Rob. He was my roommate when I was in college many years ago,” he replied. “Is there some problem that I should be aware of? Has something happened?”
“Have you been in touch with Officer Gilbert recently?” the Cardinal asked. His accent made the question sound less like an accusation, but something in his eyes was giving Fr. Miller an uncomfortable feeling.
“No, I have not,” he replied. “What is this about, please? What is this message and why, if I may ask, did it come to your attention before my own?”
The Cardinal started to lean further across the desk, his face darkening, but the Monsignor spoke first.
“Martin, your message came to my desk because a keyword filter directed it to me. We set that system up during the crisis that almost bankrupted our diocese some years ago. The fact that the message came from a law enforcement organization caused it to be re-routed to me.”
Fr. Miller had just become a priest when the child abuse scandal rocked the Church to its core. By the time it was over (if one could ever call it over, given the ongoing suffering of those involved), hundreds of millions of dollars had been paid out by the Church in legal settlements, leaving a number of diocese across the nation bankrupt. The Archdiocese of Boston was particularly hard hit, but survived, financially, in large part due to the measures taken by the Monsignor’s office.
“I didn’t know such a system existed,” Fr. Miller said. He felt a cold weight in the pit of his stomach. He personally knew priests, men he had known for years and respected, who were accused during the scandal. He felt certain then that they were innocent of any crimes and continued to be convinced to this day, but during the crisis, even the suggestion of wrongdoing put enormous pressure on the Church to settle. Had someone accused him? “But I see why one is necessary. Of course, this could not be related to…”
The Monsignor stopped him with a raised hand. “Of course not, Martin. That has not been suggested.”
“But we are very interested in what this is related to,” the Cardinal added.
Fr. Miller looked from one priest to another and then shook his head. “I haven’t even seen the message.”
Monsignor Copani explained that Gilbert was asking for help on a case and had promised to send over materials that he would like Fr. Miller to examine. Those materials were expected to be faxed to his office as soon as the staff at his parish in Texas arrived at the church office. Instructions had been sent that would reroute those materials to the Monsignor’s office.
Fr. Miller’s confusion showed clearly on his face. “I have no idea what this could be about,” he said.
“It could be nothing,” Monsignor Copani said. “Just an old friend seeking some spiritual support.”
“Or,” added the Cardinal, “it could have to do with the government’s investigation of our financial records, in which case we must take great care in how we respond.”
Now, Fr. Miller was really confused. He recalled Rob Gilbert as a serious young man who’s only goal was to get into law enforcement and investigate crimes, specifically those against what he called defenseless victims. He was not involved in financial crimes and, in any event, Fr. Miller had found no evidence that there was any crime to be found in the Church’s financial records -- aside from the possible crime of losing too much money. He was about to point this out when they were interrupted by two quick knocks on the door, which was then opened to admit Fr. Carlson. He held a stack of papers.
He placed them carefully on the desk, each page stacked perfectly above the one below it, and then stood at attention near the corner of the desk. The monsignor pulled the stack of papers over, messing them up in the process and causing Fr. Carlson to grimace.
“Thank you, Fr. Carlson,” the Monsignor said. “That will be all.” The small priest’s grimace began to trend toward a scowl. He spun on his heel and left the room.
The Monsignor and the Cardinal studied the printouts for a moment and then both sat back in their chairs. Neither man looked happy. Fr. Miller waited. Finally, the Cardinal took one sheet from the stack and pushed it slowly across the desk. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Fr. Miller studied the page for a moment. It was a copy of a drawing of the Sigillum Dei, the Seal of God. “Yes,” he replied.
“Is it possible that your friend is investigating the Church?” the Monsignor asked him directly.
Fr. Miller shook his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t even spoken to him yet. Besides,” he said, lifting the sheet with the medieval symbol and holding it up to the light, “what can the Church’s finances possibly have to do with this?”
Monsignor Copani sat back in his chair but Cardinal Mara leaned forward. “Everything,” he said.
Read Part 13
Saturday, March 14, 2015
11. An Urgent Mission
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 10
Gilbert’s telephone voicemail message to Fr. Martin Miller remained unheard for most of the following day. He wouldn’t find it until about the time that Gilbert was waking up and checking in with his partner about the failed DNA test. Fr. Miller would hear of the accompanying e-mail message from his old friend much sooner, as it had already come to the attention of his superiors by the time he arrived at his temporary office in Boston that morning.
As Fr. Miller was making his way carefully across the snow and ice covered parking lot of the Archdiocesan Pastoral Council building in Braintree, Monsignor Copani, the head of financial affairs for the Archdiocese, and Cardinal Armando Mara, the Vatican’s director of Financial Forensics were studying Gilbert’s e-mail message. A keyword had been detected by scanning software used by the Archdiocese and caused the message to be diverted to land on the Monsignor’s desk.
The message referred to an open case his friend -- a US law enforcement officer -- was working on. Gilbert’s e-mail said he had tracked Fr. Miller down to St. Bartholomew's Catholic Church in Pawchuck, Texas, where he had been assigned until very recently. He got this e-mail address from one of the nuns working in the church there, but was unable to get a fax number that he could be sure would reach his friend. So, he had faxed some documents to the church in Texas that he hoped Fr. Miller could examine at his earliest convenience. He did not provide any details regarding the documents, but said that Sister Katie promised to forward it to Fr. Miller in his weekly package.
The two read through the brief e-mail and then sat back in their chairs. They frowned, but did not speak to each other. Cardinal Mara placed a call to the church in Texas, but it was early there and no one was in the office. He left a terse message. The Monsignor dispatched his assistant to fetch Fr. Miller as soon as he arrived.
It had been many years since Fr. Miller had heard from his college roommate and he would be very surprised to learn that he had received a message from him. In truth, he hadn’t thought of his old friend in a long time. During the two semesters they had shared a dorm they had became like brothers. Miller had enjoyed similar relationships after he left school and went to the seminary, but he had never met anyone else like Gilbert. Since then, their relationship had faded into the back of his mind, displaced by the work of running his church and ministering to his parishioners.
The two had enjoyed many long theological discussions in those days, even before Miller had confided in Gilbert his desire to leave school to join the priesthood. Gilbert was in pre-law. Miller was studying forensic accounting. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had attracted him to it. If asked, he would reply, “God’s will” for it was his training in that discipline that had quickly elevated him from priest of a small parish in southwest Texas to the role of important advisor to the Archbishop and, by extension, to the Vatican.
Fr. Miller had recently been flown to Boston and asked to take on a special project. Of course, being asked by an Archbishop is rather like being asked to send a check by the Internal Revenue Service. Refusal is frowned upon. In this case, Fr. Miller had been excited by the prospect. This seemed like important work and while he wasn’t sure what he could bring to the project, he was proud, despite his best efforts to be humble, that he had been called from so far away to serve in this capacity.
The Bank of the Vatican had run afoul of American bank regulators when a Catholic priest working for the bank was found carrying a large amount of cash, U.S. dollars, by train from Italy to Switzerland. The United States wanted to know that the dollars were not on their way to a country that was currently under sanction. The Vatican had stalled for as long as possible, but when it became apparent that it would have to share information with the American government, the Vatican had requested a trusted expert look over the records before they were released. Fr. Miller was called to Boston.
As he understood it, the project required him to investigate the records just like the U.S. government would and reveal to the Archbishop anything that the records would reveal to the government’s investigators. When he asked what he was supposed to find, he was simply told, “whatever is there to find.”
And so for the past three weeks, Fr. Miller had been poring through bank records involving hundreds of international transactions, originating at the Bank of the Vatican but moving through institutions around the world, involving many parties and multiple currencies. Sure enough in his faith to know that the transactions represented God’s work, he was still finding reason to feel troubled.
First, there were a great many transactions that went to third parties that were either impossible to identify or described in such general terms that it was impossible to tell what they were. Secondly, the Vatican seemed to switch currencies on a whim, sending first dollars, then British pounds, and even using Bitcoin for some transactions. Finally, and perhaps most troubling, the Church as consistently losing money on the currency swaps. A lot of money was being lost in what appeared to be highly inefficient fiscal practices. He wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but it was there for him to find and so he planned to get to the bottom of it, in service to the Archbishop and the Holy Catholic Church.
Fr. Miller entered the building and shook the snow off of the heavy coat he had been loaned and ran a hand through his short blonde hair. It came away wet and cold. His ears were burning, not because at that very moment Robert Gilbert was mentioning him to his partner over a greasy breakfast, but rather because he hadn’t been loaned a hat. Something he planned to ask for shortly. He rubbed his hands together and then clapped them over his ears. He was standing like that, exactly like the hear no evil monkey, when Farther Carlson stepped around in front of him.
Fr. Carlson was a short man. He wore the traditional garb of the Catholic priest with the addition of a clipboard. Fr. Miller had never seen him without it, nor the worried expression he always wore along with his wire-framed glasses. From the moment he’d met him, Fr. Carlson gave the impression that he was late for something, or thought you were.
In truth, it wasn’t time that worried Fr. Carlson, it was entropy. He lived in fear of nature’s tendency to march forever toward disorder. Maintaining order was his true calling, one he secretly held even higher than his mandate to preach the living Gospel. There were a great many priests who were capable of delivering a decent sermon. There were few that could keep an operation like the financial center for the archdiocese on track. Maybe one. His prayer each night was that he continue to be that one.
For now, helping Monsignor Copani keep his department orderly was his role, but he dreamed -- and prayed -- that one day he would be called to a higher purpose. Some said that the Devil was in the details. Fr. Carlson knew that was wrong. The Devil was hiding just beyond those details and waiting for the opportunity to reveal himself should they be mishandled, as they too often were.
Fr. Carlson always got a small thrill from urgent missions because he knew that crisis was the battlefield where entropy clashed swords with order. He could hear the call to battle in the Monsignor’s order to fetch Fr. Miller. He wasn’t sure the reason, but he was quite sure that disorder would follow in the wake of failure to fulfill this mission. He opened his mouth to address his charge when he was interrupted.
“Good morning, Father Carlson. Do we have any hats in the chancery?”
The shorter man was caught by surprise at the question. He sputtered for a moment and then admitted that he did not know, but would ask someone who might at a more appropriate time.
“We’ll see to that later,” Fr. Carlson said. “You are summoned by the Monsignor. He would have words with you.”
“Very good. I’ll just drop my coat in my office,” Fr. Miller began.
“Actually, we should go now,” Fr. Carlson said. His light blue eyes, made slightly larger by his glasses and his will to see order maintained, stared at the other priest and did not blink.
Fr. Miller managed a half-hearted smile. “Very good. Lead on.”
Fr. Carlson stepped out ahead of him and marched down the narrow corridor toward the Monsignor’s office. Fr. Miller shook his head and followed
Read Part 12
Read Part 10
Gilbert’s telephone voicemail message to Fr. Martin Miller remained unheard for most of the following day. He wouldn’t find it until about the time that Gilbert was waking up and checking in with his partner about the failed DNA test. Fr. Miller would hear of the accompanying e-mail message from his old friend much sooner, as it had already come to the attention of his superiors by the time he arrived at his temporary office in Boston that morning.
As Fr. Miller was making his way carefully across the snow and ice covered parking lot of the Archdiocesan Pastoral Council building in Braintree, Monsignor Copani, the head of financial affairs for the Archdiocese, and Cardinal Armando Mara, the Vatican’s director of Financial Forensics were studying Gilbert’s e-mail message. A keyword had been detected by scanning software used by the Archdiocese and caused the message to be diverted to land on the Monsignor’s desk.
The message referred to an open case his friend -- a US law enforcement officer -- was working on. Gilbert’s e-mail said he had tracked Fr. Miller down to St. Bartholomew's Catholic Church in Pawchuck, Texas, where he had been assigned until very recently. He got this e-mail address from one of the nuns working in the church there, but was unable to get a fax number that he could be sure would reach his friend. So, he had faxed some documents to the church in Texas that he hoped Fr. Miller could examine at his earliest convenience. He did not provide any details regarding the documents, but said that Sister Katie promised to forward it to Fr. Miller in his weekly package.
The two read through the brief e-mail and then sat back in their chairs. They frowned, but did not speak to each other. Cardinal Mara placed a call to the church in Texas, but it was early there and no one was in the office. He left a terse message. The Monsignor dispatched his assistant to fetch Fr. Miller as soon as he arrived.
It had been many years since Fr. Miller had heard from his college roommate and he would be very surprised to learn that he had received a message from him. In truth, he hadn’t thought of his old friend in a long time. During the two semesters they had shared a dorm they had became like brothers. Miller had enjoyed similar relationships after he left school and went to the seminary, but he had never met anyone else like Gilbert. Since then, their relationship had faded into the back of his mind, displaced by the work of running his church and ministering to his parishioners.
The two had enjoyed many long theological discussions in those days, even before Miller had confided in Gilbert his desire to leave school to join the priesthood. Gilbert was in pre-law. Miller was studying forensic accounting. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had attracted him to it. If asked, he would reply, “God’s will” for it was his training in that discipline that had quickly elevated him from priest of a small parish in southwest Texas to the role of important advisor to the Archbishop and, by extension, to the Vatican.
Fr. Miller had recently been flown to Boston and asked to take on a special project. Of course, being asked by an Archbishop is rather like being asked to send a check by the Internal Revenue Service. Refusal is frowned upon. In this case, Fr. Miller had been excited by the prospect. This seemed like important work and while he wasn’t sure what he could bring to the project, he was proud, despite his best efforts to be humble, that he had been called from so far away to serve in this capacity.
The Bank of the Vatican had run afoul of American bank regulators when a Catholic priest working for the bank was found carrying a large amount of cash, U.S. dollars, by train from Italy to Switzerland. The United States wanted to know that the dollars were not on their way to a country that was currently under sanction. The Vatican had stalled for as long as possible, but when it became apparent that it would have to share information with the American government, the Vatican had requested a trusted expert look over the records before they were released. Fr. Miller was called to Boston.
As he understood it, the project required him to investigate the records just like the U.S. government would and reveal to the Archbishop anything that the records would reveal to the government’s investigators. When he asked what he was supposed to find, he was simply told, “whatever is there to find.”
And so for the past three weeks, Fr. Miller had been poring through bank records involving hundreds of international transactions, originating at the Bank of the Vatican but moving through institutions around the world, involving many parties and multiple currencies. Sure enough in his faith to know that the transactions represented God’s work, he was still finding reason to feel troubled.
First, there were a great many transactions that went to third parties that were either impossible to identify or described in such general terms that it was impossible to tell what they were. Secondly, the Vatican seemed to switch currencies on a whim, sending first dollars, then British pounds, and even using Bitcoin for some transactions. Finally, and perhaps most troubling, the Church as consistently losing money on the currency swaps. A lot of money was being lost in what appeared to be highly inefficient fiscal practices. He wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but it was there for him to find and so he planned to get to the bottom of it, in service to the Archbishop and the Holy Catholic Church.
Fr. Miller entered the building and shook the snow off of the heavy coat he had been loaned and ran a hand through his short blonde hair. It came away wet and cold. His ears were burning, not because at that very moment Robert Gilbert was mentioning him to his partner over a greasy breakfast, but rather because he hadn’t been loaned a hat. Something he planned to ask for shortly. He rubbed his hands together and then clapped them over his ears. He was standing like that, exactly like the hear no evil monkey, when Farther Carlson stepped around in front of him.
Fr. Carlson was a short man. He wore the traditional garb of the Catholic priest with the addition of a clipboard. Fr. Miller had never seen him without it, nor the worried expression he always wore along with his wire-framed glasses. From the moment he’d met him, Fr. Carlson gave the impression that he was late for something, or thought you were.
In truth, it wasn’t time that worried Fr. Carlson, it was entropy. He lived in fear of nature’s tendency to march forever toward disorder. Maintaining order was his true calling, one he secretly held even higher than his mandate to preach the living Gospel. There were a great many priests who were capable of delivering a decent sermon. There were few that could keep an operation like the financial center for the archdiocese on track. Maybe one. His prayer each night was that he continue to be that one.
For now, helping Monsignor Copani keep his department orderly was his role, but he dreamed -- and prayed -- that one day he would be called to a higher purpose. Some said that the Devil was in the details. Fr. Carlson knew that was wrong. The Devil was hiding just beyond those details and waiting for the opportunity to reveal himself should they be mishandled, as they too often were.
Fr. Carlson always got a small thrill from urgent missions because he knew that crisis was the battlefield where entropy clashed swords with order. He could hear the call to battle in the Monsignor’s order to fetch Fr. Miller. He wasn’t sure the reason, but he was quite sure that disorder would follow in the wake of failure to fulfill this mission. He opened his mouth to address his charge when he was interrupted.
“Good morning, Father Carlson. Do we have any hats in the chancery?”
The shorter man was caught by surprise at the question. He sputtered for a moment and then admitted that he did not know, but would ask someone who might at a more appropriate time.
“We’ll see to that later,” Fr. Carlson said. “You are summoned by the Monsignor. He would have words with you.”
“Very good. I’ll just drop my coat in my office,” Fr. Miller began.
“Actually, we should go now,” Fr. Carlson said. His light blue eyes, made slightly larger by his glasses and his will to see order maintained, stared at the other priest and did not blink.
Fr. Miller managed a half-hearted smile. “Very good. Lead on.”
Fr. Carlson stepped out ahead of him and marched down the narrow corridor toward the Monsignor’s office. Fr. Miller shook his head and followed
Read Part 12
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
10. A Dead End
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 9
It was nearly 5:00 pm when Gilbert finally awoke in his apartment. The sun was already setting on what appeared to have been a cold winter day. He couldn’t remember any details about the weather, only that they were finally making some progress on their murder case. He rolled over and grabbed the phone.
Parme picked up his cell phone on the second ring. “What?”
“Did the lab call? About the DNA.”
“Yeah,” his partner growled on the other end of the line.
Gilbert rolled out of bed, sitting up on the edge and letting his bare feet touch the cold hardwood floor. “Well, are you going to tell me?” He could hear Parme spit on the other end of the line. He must be outside or in his car. Now that he listened, Gilbert could hear street traffic. Not much of a rush hour in this town, it seemed.
“It’s not him. We cut the little bastard loose this afternoon.”
Gilbert blinked. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, he never really believed the little man was capable of the brutal murder he was investigating. On the other hand, he was really looking forward to cracking his first case. He didn’t have to guess how Parme felt about it. He decided not to rub it in.
“So…,” Gilbert started.
“So, we keep working the case. I’ll see you at the diner first thing in the morning. And Rob, don’t be late.” There was an edge to his voice that made tardiness sound like a very bad idea.
“Yeah, right. Good night.” Gilbert hung up the phone. The sun was just falling below the horizon. Darkness was coming. He thought about Eagan. If he hadn’t committed the crime he tried to confess to, he must be crazy. Crazy and alone. And heading home in the dark. Whatever he was afraid of would be waiting for him there.
Gilbert thought briefly of going over to Eagan’s apartment, but the thought withered when his mind went back to the case. You don’t waste time on dead ends. That just creates cold case files. Better to focus on the investigation, continue to run it to ground. Anything else was a waste of his time.
He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
Across town, his partner shut his cell phone and dropped it unceremoniously into the cup holder next to his seat. He couldn’t believe that little shit wasn’t the perp they were looking for, but he’d learned long ago not to question the lab results. That’s a battle the detectives never won.
He had toyed with the idea of pressing charges against him for popping him in the nose, but had decided it wasn’t worth the crap the other detectives would give him. He was too old to chase down punks like Eagan and give them the beating they deserved, so he let it go.
Letting go of things was something Parme had become good at over the years. Everything was a lot easier that way. It was a lesson he wished he had learned on his first ex-wife. He hadn’t. It had taken a second divorce to get the lesson through his thick skull, but now it was one he wouldn’t forget. He was practicing with his current girlfriend. They were close, but he knew that he could drop the whole thing in a heartbeat if he needed to.
He watched her from the car as she left the diner and headed to the curb, making a beeline for his car. She looked as pretty as she had when she’d served him breakfast that morning. She always did. She leaned against the passenger door and put her head in the window.
“Hey, sailor. Give a girl a ride?”
Parme smiled in spite of himself. He knew he looked like a dork when he smiled, but she brought it out of him. He looked down at her blouse, stained from a long day of moving food from counter to table and back again. She still wore “Barb” on her name tag because it was the same old pin her mother had worn. Not good at letting go, this girl.
“Sure,” he said. “Get in.”
As Pat was slamming the door of Parme’s car, Arlington Eagon was opening the door of his apartment building. He had been released earlier in the afternoon and took a cab from the precinct house back to his apartment, but at the last minute he had asked the driver to pull over and let him out a few blocks away from his building. He had been wandering around the neighborhood since then, afraid to go home. Now, he was almost frozen and had chosen to enter the building instead of risk hypothermia.
Eagan new he was sick. Crazy, actually. Which might be the same thing, but he wasn’t sure. He had been to doctors and therapists and psychic healers and they’d all told him pretty much the same thing. He had a victim complex and people who had that were going to get victimized. That’s just how it worked.
He had hoped that by simplifying his life, he could avoid much of the confrontation that led to his eventual victimization and it had worked, for a while. But now that he knew he was not in control of his own body when he fell asleep, his fears had taken on a whole new dimension.
He had thought about what he could do about his situation for hours, as he walked the streets of his neighborhood. He kept coming back to the same solution. The only solution. He would have to run. Fast and far. And he would have to start this very night.
Deep down, he knew he hadn’t killed that girl. He was pretty sure he had never hurt anyone in his life. He figured he was probably incapable of it. He froze up during conflict of any kind. The whole confession thing was just a desperate attempt to run away from his apartment. It was a strategy that was woven out of panic and, predictably, it had failed.
This time, he would plan his run to freedom better. He would not panic. He would simply pack up the few things he needed and call a cab. He would meet the cab at the curb and then take it to the nearest hotel, where he would spend the night. Tomorrow, he would check himself into the nearest psychiatric facility, telling them that he was having visions of murder and that he was afraid he would hurt someone. They would have to take him.
They would put him in a room he could not escape, probably give him medication to help him sleep and make sure that he was never lured away into the darkness again. He would finally be safe.
He went over this plan again as he walked up the four flights of stairs to his floor and then down the hallway to his apartment. He was feeling much better when he inserted the key and opened his door. He stepped into his apartment and his plan was immediately forgotten.
There was a man standing in his living room. A large, hairy man. He squinted up at him for a moment and then recognized him as the factory worker who lived down the hall, Mike or Mitch or something, he couldn't remember now. The man was holding a crowbar and staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
The girl on his couch caught his eye when she moved, bringing a lit cigarette to her lips in a smooth motion. She was small and blonde. Eagan couldn’t remember ever having seen her before. She wasn’t wearing much clothing. She had the same half-asleep looking eyes. Were they both on drugs?
“What is this,” Eagan stammered. “I don’t have any drugs...or much money.”
“Do it, Mark,” the girl said calmly. “Do it now.”
The big man took a step toward Eagan and swung the crowbar at his head.
Read Part 11
Read Part 9
It was nearly 5:00 pm when Gilbert finally awoke in his apartment. The sun was already setting on what appeared to have been a cold winter day. He couldn’t remember any details about the weather, only that they were finally making some progress on their murder case. He rolled over and grabbed the phone.
Parme picked up his cell phone on the second ring. “What?”
“Did the lab call? About the DNA.”
“Yeah,” his partner growled on the other end of the line.
Gilbert rolled out of bed, sitting up on the edge and letting his bare feet touch the cold hardwood floor. “Well, are you going to tell me?” He could hear Parme spit on the other end of the line. He must be outside or in his car. Now that he listened, Gilbert could hear street traffic. Not much of a rush hour in this town, it seemed.
“It’s not him. We cut the little bastard loose this afternoon.”
Gilbert blinked. He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. On the one hand, he never really believed the little man was capable of the brutal murder he was investigating. On the other hand, he was really looking forward to cracking his first case. He didn’t have to guess how Parme felt about it. He decided not to rub it in.
“So…,” Gilbert started.
“So, we keep working the case. I’ll see you at the diner first thing in the morning. And Rob, don’t be late.” There was an edge to his voice that made tardiness sound like a very bad idea.
“Yeah, right. Good night.” Gilbert hung up the phone. The sun was just falling below the horizon. Darkness was coming. He thought about Eagan. If he hadn’t committed the crime he tried to confess to, he must be crazy. Crazy and alone. And heading home in the dark. Whatever he was afraid of would be waiting for him there.
Gilbert thought briefly of going over to Eagan’s apartment, but the thought withered when his mind went back to the case. You don’t waste time on dead ends. That just creates cold case files. Better to focus on the investigation, continue to run it to ground. Anything else was a waste of his time.
He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.
Across town, his partner shut his cell phone and dropped it unceremoniously into the cup holder next to his seat. He couldn’t believe that little shit wasn’t the perp they were looking for, but he’d learned long ago not to question the lab results. That’s a battle the detectives never won.
He had toyed with the idea of pressing charges against him for popping him in the nose, but had decided it wasn’t worth the crap the other detectives would give him. He was too old to chase down punks like Eagan and give them the beating they deserved, so he let it go.
Letting go of things was something Parme had become good at over the years. Everything was a lot easier that way. It was a lesson he wished he had learned on his first ex-wife. He hadn’t. It had taken a second divorce to get the lesson through his thick skull, but now it was one he wouldn’t forget. He was practicing with his current girlfriend. They were close, but he knew that he could drop the whole thing in a heartbeat if he needed to.
He watched her from the car as she left the diner and headed to the curb, making a beeline for his car. She looked as pretty as she had when she’d served him breakfast that morning. She always did. She leaned against the passenger door and put her head in the window.
“Hey, sailor. Give a girl a ride?”
Parme smiled in spite of himself. He knew he looked like a dork when he smiled, but she brought it out of him. He looked down at her blouse, stained from a long day of moving food from counter to table and back again. She still wore “Barb” on her name tag because it was the same old pin her mother had worn. Not good at letting go, this girl.
“Sure,” he said. “Get in.”
As Pat was slamming the door of Parme’s car, Arlington Eagon was opening the door of his apartment building. He had been released earlier in the afternoon and took a cab from the precinct house back to his apartment, but at the last minute he had asked the driver to pull over and let him out a few blocks away from his building. He had been wandering around the neighborhood since then, afraid to go home. Now, he was almost frozen and had chosen to enter the building instead of risk hypothermia.
Eagan new he was sick. Crazy, actually. Which might be the same thing, but he wasn’t sure. He had been to doctors and therapists and psychic healers and they’d all told him pretty much the same thing. He had a victim complex and people who had that were going to get victimized. That’s just how it worked.
He had hoped that by simplifying his life, he could avoid much of the confrontation that led to his eventual victimization and it had worked, for a while. But now that he knew he was not in control of his own body when he fell asleep, his fears had taken on a whole new dimension.
He had thought about what he could do about his situation for hours, as he walked the streets of his neighborhood. He kept coming back to the same solution. The only solution. He would have to run. Fast and far. And he would have to start this very night.
Deep down, he knew he hadn’t killed that girl. He was pretty sure he had never hurt anyone in his life. He figured he was probably incapable of it. He froze up during conflict of any kind. The whole confession thing was just a desperate attempt to run away from his apartment. It was a strategy that was woven out of panic and, predictably, it had failed.
This time, he would plan his run to freedom better. He would not panic. He would simply pack up the few things he needed and call a cab. He would meet the cab at the curb and then take it to the nearest hotel, where he would spend the night. Tomorrow, he would check himself into the nearest psychiatric facility, telling them that he was having visions of murder and that he was afraid he would hurt someone. They would have to take him.
They would put him in a room he could not escape, probably give him medication to help him sleep and make sure that he was never lured away into the darkness again. He would finally be safe.
He went over this plan again as he walked up the four flights of stairs to his floor and then down the hallway to his apartment. He was feeling much better when he inserted the key and opened his door. He stepped into his apartment and his plan was immediately forgotten.
There was a man standing in his living room. A large, hairy man. He squinted up at him for a moment and then recognized him as the factory worker who lived down the hall, Mike or Mitch or something, he couldn't remember now. The man was holding a crowbar and staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
The girl on his couch caught his eye when she moved, bringing a lit cigarette to her lips in a smooth motion. She was small and blonde. Eagan couldn’t remember ever having seen her before. She wasn’t wearing much clothing. She had the same half-asleep looking eyes. Were they both on drugs?
“What is this,” Eagan stammered. “I don’t have any drugs...or much money.”
“Do it, Mark,” the girl said calmly. “Do it now.”
The big man took a step toward Eagan and swung the crowbar at his head.
Read Part 11
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
9. A New Relationship
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 8
Gilbert headed home and fell into bed. He had been asleep for about an hour when Mark Boyle started to wake up across town in apartment 407 in Arlington Eagan’s apartment building.
It was just before noon when Boyle's alarm clock jarred him out of a dreamless sleep. He groaned and sat up on the couch in the small apartment that had become his entire world. The layout was exactly the same as Eagan’s apartment and every other in the building.
Boyle never slept in the small bedroom. It had another purpose. Most of his time, when he was not at work, was spent in the apartment’s main room. A comfortable leather couch that doubled as a bed shared the space with a big screen television, a gaming console, a couple of cheap shelves filled with video games and an end table for his beer.
There was a nearly empty bottle sitting on the end table. Boyle reached for it and drank the warm beer. He grimaced as it went down and then tossed the empty bottle into a plastic recycling container, half filled with last night’s empty glass beer bottles. At least I recycle, he thought. He used to be proud of that fact. Now, he felt nothing.
He sat back on the couch for a moment, briefly considered going back to sleep and then headed for the shower.
It took awhile for the hot water to make its way to his shower, as it always did. When it was warm, Boyle stepped under the spray and let it bring him back to life. If you could call what he was living a life. He let his head fall forward onto the tiled wall and wondered for the millionth time how he had come to this.
When Boyle left high school, his ambition had been to become a video game programmer. He’d attended technical school where they taught him to program computers that were decades out of date. It should have come as no surprise that when he emerged he was only qualified to work on machines that were as old as he was, which almost no one used anymore.
He found work in a small manufacturing facility that specialized in creating prototypes. He programmed the old CNC equipment to create whatever the engineers wanted and when that was done he programmed it to create something else.
But Boyle didn’t give up on his dream. He set aside the small bedroom in his apartment for his office, bought some used office furniture and started educating himself. He saved up for a cheap computer and an internet connection and then used those to learn how to build a faster machine. Once he had a serviceable computer, he set out to learn the new technologies that powered the latest video games.
He knew what he wanted to create. He had been an avid gamer for as long as he could remember. Instead of cable television, he spent his entertainment budget on a subscription to a gaming network, giving him access to a world of other players and a window out of his crappy apartment and into the world he really wanted to live in.
For a while, he had been learning, a little more each day. But lately, he had been beset by a lingering depression, a feeling that he would never reach his goal, never escape this dreary life. His bedroom/office had fallen into disuse and he spent more time playing old games and drinking beer and less time working on his future. Well, no time, lately. He had fallen into a routine. A rut, to be more accurate.
To add some stress to his depression, there were rumors at the company of another round of layoffs. The older systems were giving way to newer technologies. Instead of relying on programmers to tell them what to do, the new machines had access to a near limitless list of pre-programmed jobs. Untrained workers could tell the machines what to do by pressing a few buttons. The only good news what that the new tools were expensive and it wasn’t clear whether his firm would invest. But the threat of it filled him with dread.
The hot water started to run out and he hadn’t washed his hair yet. Quickly, he lathered up and rinsed before the warm water was completely gone. He threw on his clothes, briefly considered shaving but abandoned the idea. He grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter on his way out of the apartment.
His apartment was at the front of the building so he didn’t have to walk far to get to the stairwell. He started down and was surprised to see the door to the 3rd floor hallway open and Sandy Gallagher leaning against it.
“Hi, Mark,” she purred at him. He stopped short.
Mark had spoken to her once, about a year ago or so at one of the ill-fated building holiday parties that the new manager had thrown in an attempt to create a sense of community. It was an awful little affair held on the small square of lawn behind the building. No one had anything in common with each other, so they sipped free bottles of beer and waited together for the delivery pizza to arrive.
Sandy had been (and remained) the only other person in the building who seemed to be near his age, so he had introduced himself. There were maybe a couple dozen words shared and then it was over, all but the pizza eating anyway.
She had never looked at him again, though he sometimes pretended it was because he came and went on an odd schedule. And now she smiled at him from the doorway to the third floor, in her nightgown. A question about why she was home at this hour was playing in the back of his mind, but it couldn’t get to the front because he was wondering why she was nearly naked. He realized he could see through the thin, white material to her small nipples.
“Um, hi,” he replied when his attention made it back up to her eyes and he realized she was waiting.
“Can you help me with something?” she asked.
“I was on my way to work.”
“It will only take a second.” She smiled at him and led him across the hallway to her apartment, which was situated directly beneath his.
She led him through the living room and into the kitchen, pulling a light bulb, still in its box, off the shelf as the went. “Can you help me put this in,” she asked sweetly. “I can’t reach it. See?” She stretched up toward the light socket, she was a few inches too short. Boyle didn’t notice that as he was caught up in the movement of her short top rising up her legs until he could see the white strap of a thong, high on her hip.
His eyes slid off her exposed legs to the kitchen chair behind her, a steady enough platform to allow a person much heavier than her reach the light. What was going on?
Boyle was not the kind of guy that girls came on to. He had been, when he was younger, but the more dedicated he became to pursuing his dream of becoming a game designer, the more ridiculous he began to look in the eyes of potential dates. He became accustomed to the confused look a date would get when he finally told her that he hoped to make a living making video games one day. It usually put a serious road block between him and a second date, to say nothing of sex.
“Well, are you going to do me...this favor or aren’t you,” she teased.
“Yeah...sure.” He took the bulb, reached up to the fixture and threaded it into the socket. The light, which was already on, came to life in his hand. He flinched and she reacted immediately by throwing her arms around him.
“Wow! That was a little scary,” she smiled up at him.
Certain that she was making fun of him, he untangled himself from her and backed away. “Well, there you go. Nice to see you, Sandy.”
She moved quickly by him and beat him to the front door, closing it securely and turning the deadbolt. “You’re not going to leave without letting me thank you, are you?”
“I’m going to be late for work. I really should go.” He felt like he said these words with some authority, but in reality his mind was spinning and it came out weakly. Logically, he knew that what he desperately hoped was happening couldn’t actually be happening. Even if it was, it would all end as soon as she found out who he really was. She was all smiles, playing with her blonde hair and batting her blue eyes. He really did not want to see her change when she learned what he was all about. That was never pretty.
“I should go,” he started, but she pressed her little hands to his chest, which he noticed had the effect of pushing her breasts together nicely, and pushed him backward to the couch. He fell into it and was surprised by how comfortable it was, but only for as long as it took for Sandy to climb on top of him. Then he forgot everything but her. She put her elbows on his shoulders and looked down into his eyes.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “and I plan to.”
Her eyes had seemed blue before, but for the life of him, Boyle couldn’t tell what color they were now, they were just beautiful. So beautiful. Her lips parted and she kissed him, deeply. He lost his breath and felt the fear start to loosen its grip on him. Maybe she would understand. He opened his eyes and looked into hers again. Yes, he was sure she would understand.
She pulled back and smiled. He realized something was happening to his body that hadn’t happened in the presence of a girl in a long time. She realized it, too, and settled herself onto him more securely.
“I’m going to thank you properly for helping me,” she said. “And then you’re going to do one more favor for me.”
He may have said yes. Later, he would swear that he could not remember anything that had happened after the time he first saw Ms. Gallagher in the stairwell.
Read Part 10
Read Part 8
Gilbert headed home and fell into bed. He had been asleep for about an hour when Mark Boyle started to wake up across town in apartment 407 in Arlington Eagan’s apartment building.
It was just before noon when Boyle's alarm clock jarred him out of a dreamless sleep. He groaned and sat up on the couch in the small apartment that had become his entire world. The layout was exactly the same as Eagan’s apartment and every other in the building.
Boyle never slept in the small bedroom. It had another purpose. Most of his time, when he was not at work, was spent in the apartment’s main room. A comfortable leather couch that doubled as a bed shared the space with a big screen television, a gaming console, a couple of cheap shelves filled with video games and an end table for his beer.
There was a nearly empty bottle sitting on the end table. Boyle reached for it and drank the warm beer. He grimaced as it went down and then tossed the empty bottle into a plastic recycling container, half filled with last night’s empty glass beer bottles. At least I recycle, he thought. He used to be proud of that fact. Now, he felt nothing.
He sat back on the couch for a moment, briefly considered going back to sleep and then headed for the shower.
It took awhile for the hot water to make its way to his shower, as it always did. When it was warm, Boyle stepped under the spray and let it bring him back to life. If you could call what he was living a life. He let his head fall forward onto the tiled wall and wondered for the millionth time how he had come to this.
When Boyle left high school, his ambition had been to become a video game programmer. He’d attended technical school where they taught him to program computers that were decades out of date. It should have come as no surprise that when he emerged he was only qualified to work on machines that were as old as he was, which almost no one used anymore.
He found work in a small manufacturing facility that specialized in creating prototypes. He programmed the old CNC equipment to create whatever the engineers wanted and when that was done he programmed it to create something else.
But Boyle didn’t give up on his dream. He set aside the small bedroom in his apartment for his office, bought some used office furniture and started educating himself. He saved up for a cheap computer and an internet connection and then used those to learn how to build a faster machine. Once he had a serviceable computer, he set out to learn the new technologies that powered the latest video games.
He knew what he wanted to create. He had been an avid gamer for as long as he could remember. Instead of cable television, he spent his entertainment budget on a subscription to a gaming network, giving him access to a world of other players and a window out of his crappy apartment and into the world he really wanted to live in.
For a while, he had been learning, a little more each day. But lately, he had been beset by a lingering depression, a feeling that he would never reach his goal, never escape this dreary life. His bedroom/office had fallen into disuse and he spent more time playing old games and drinking beer and less time working on his future. Well, no time, lately. He had fallen into a routine. A rut, to be more accurate.
To add some stress to his depression, there were rumors at the company of another round of layoffs. The older systems were giving way to newer technologies. Instead of relying on programmers to tell them what to do, the new machines had access to a near limitless list of pre-programmed jobs. Untrained workers could tell the machines what to do by pressing a few buttons. The only good news what that the new tools were expensive and it wasn’t clear whether his firm would invest. But the threat of it filled him with dread.
The hot water started to run out and he hadn’t washed his hair yet. Quickly, he lathered up and rinsed before the warm water was completely gone. He threw on his clothes, briefly considered shaving but abandoned the idea. He grabbed his car keys off the kitchen counter on his way out of the apartment.
His apartment was at the front of the building so he didn’t have to walk far to get to the stairwell. He started down and was surprised to see the door to the 3rd floor hallway open and Sandy Gallagher leaning against it.
“Hi, Mark,” she purred at him. He stopped short.
Mark had spoken to her once, about a year ago or so at one of the ill-fated building holiday parties that the new manager had thrown in an attempt to create a sense of community. It was an awful little affair held on the small square of lawn behind the building. No one had anything in common with each other, so they sipped free bottles of beer and waited together for the delivery pizza to arrive.
Sandy had been (and remained) the only other person in the building who seemed to be near his age, so he had introduced himself. There were maybe a couple dozen words shared and then it was over, all but the pizza eating anyway.
She had never looked at him again, though he sometimes pretended it was because he came and went on an odd schedule. And now she smiled at him from the doorway to the third floor, in her nightgown. A question about why she was home at this hour was playing in the back of his mind, but it couldn’t get to the front because he was wondering why she was nearly naked. He realized he could see through the thin, white material to her small nipples.
“Um, hi,” he replied when his attention made it back up to her eyes and he realized she was waiting.
“Can you help me with something?” she asked.
“I was on my way to work.”
“It will only take a second.” She smiled at him and led him across the hallway to her apartment, which was situated directly beneath his.
She led him through the living room and into the kitchen, pulling a light bulb, still in its box, off the shelf as the went. “Can you help me put this in,” she asked sweetly. “I can’t reach it. See?” She stretched up toward the light socket, she was a few inches too short. Boyle didn’t notice that as he was caught up in the movement of her short top rising up her legs until he could see the white strap of a thong, high on her hip.
His eyes slid off her exposed legs to the kitchen chair behind her, a steady enough platform to allow a person much heavier than her reach the light. What was going on?
Boyle was not the kind of guy that girls came on to. He had been, when he was younger, but the more dedicated he became to pursuing his dream of becoming a game designer, the more ridiculous he began to look in the eyes of potential dates. He became accustomed to the confused look a date would get when he finally told her that he hoped to make a living making video games one day. It usually put a serious road block between him and a second date, to say nothing of sex.
“Well, are you going to do me...this favor or aren’t you,” she teased.
“Yeah...sure.” He took the bulb, reached up to the fixture and threaded it into the socket. The light, which was already on, came to life in his hand. He flinched and she reacted immediately by throwing her arms around him.
“Wow! That was a little scary,” she smiled up at him.
Certain that she was making fun of him, he untangled himself from her and backed away. “Well, there you go. Nice to see you, Sandy.”
She moved quickly by him and beat him to the front door, closing it securely and turning the deadbolt. “You’re not going to leave without letting me thank you, are you?”
“I’m going to be late for work. I really should go.” He felt like he said these words with some authority, but in reality his mind was spinning and it came out weakly. Logically, he knew that what he desperately hoped was happening couldn’t actually be happening. Even if it was, it would all end as soon as she found out who he really was. She was all smiles, playing with her blonde hair and batting her blue eyes. He really did not want to see her change when she learned what he was all about. That was never pretty.
“I should go,” he started, but she pressed her little hands to his chest, which he noticed had the effect of pushing her breasts together nicely, and pushed him backward to the couch. He fell into it and was surprised by how comfortable it was, but only for as long as it took for Sandy to climb on top of him. Then he forgot everything but her. She put her elbows on his shoulders and looked down into his eyes.
“I want to thank you,” she said, “and I plan to.”
Her eyes had seemed blue before, but for the life of him, Boyle couldn’t tell what color they were now, they were just beautiful. So beautiful. Her lips parted and she kissed him, deeply. He lost his breath and felt the fear start to loosen its grip on him. Maybe she would understand. He opened his eyes and looked into hers again. Yes, he was sure she would understand.
She pulled back and smiled. He realized something was happening to his body that hadn’t happened in the presence of a girl in a long time. She realized it, too, and settled herself onto him more securely.
“I’m going to thank you properly for helping me,” she said. “And then you’re going to do one more favor for me.”
He may have said yes. Later, he would swear that he could not remember anything that had happened after the time he first saw Ms. Gallagher in the stairwell.
Read Part 10
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
8. Waiting on the Lab Results
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 7
When Gilbert made it back to the office that he and Parme shared with Tremayne White and his partner, the other three were already there. White’s partner was a rail-thin man sporting a 1970s mustache and an outfit from roughly the same era by the name of Paul Nauscott. He and White were smiling and talking about the last time one of them was smacked in the nose by a suspect.
About the time Gilbert walked in, Parme had just drawn his service revolver and was setting it on the desk in front of him. White and Nauscott abruptly folded up their humor and left the office. The speed of their exit made Gilbert wonder if what White had told him earlier about Parme shooting someone had some truth in it. Would his new partner really shoot him if the mood struck him? Gilbert didn’t wonder on it long as he had more pressing questions to ask.
“What was that all about?” he asked Parme.
His partner dabbed his nose with a tissue and looked up at him under heavy brows. He made no reply.
“I thought you liked Eagan for the murder,” Gilbert said.
“I do.”
“Then why did you tell me to uncuff him?” Gilbert sat down in the chair across from his partner and suddenly realized how tired he was. Television crime fighters might do the job for 24 hours straight, but Gilbert had now worked longer than that without sleep and he felt like shit.
Parme eyed him for a long moment, with a look that told Gilbert he was trying to decide whether to explain something he thought was quite simple about effective suspect interrogation or just shoot him.
Finally, he said, “Look, the guy is clearly trying to set up an insanity plea. He knows we have him and now he has only two choices, he can flee, in which case we’ll catch him because we’ll have him under surveillance, or he’ll go ape shit crazy in an attempt to convince the court that he’s not competent to stand trial. Now, which do you think taking a swing at me qualifies as?”
Gilbert rubbed his eyes. His college professors hadn’t taught him any of this. He wondered whether he should have paid more for his education or whether he just needed some sleep.
“He may be crazy,” Gilbert started.
“Hell yeah, he’s crazy! He’s lucky I didn’t pound the dogshit out of him in there.”
“But he’s also afraid.”
“He’d damn well better be afraid,” Parme said.
“No, he’s afraid of going home. There’s something in that apartment building that has him scared,” Gilbert said. “I don’t think he was faking that.”
“I don’t know,” Parme said. “And I don’t care. In a day or so, we’ll have the DNA results back from the lab and we’ll be able to link that little shit to the murder scene and we’ll wrap this all up.”
“I think I should go back out to that apartment,” Gilbert said.
“No, you’re going home and getting some sleep,” his partner said. “You look like shit. I’ll continue to work down the list of known offenders in the area just to kill time while the lab gives us some evidence. I’ll see you at the cafe, first thing in the morning.”
Gilbert started to protest but he yawned instead. He said good-bye and headed home.
Read Part 9.
Read Part 7
When Gilbert made it back to the office that he and Parme shared with Tremayne White and his partner, the other three were already there. White’s partner was a rail-thin man sporting a 1970s mustache and an outfit from roughly the same era by the name of Paul Nauscott. He and White were smiling and talking about the last time one of them was smacked in the nose by a suspect.
About the time Gilbert walked in, Parme had just drawn his service revolver and was setting it on the desk in front of him. White and Nauscott abruptly folded up their humor and left the office. The speed of their exit made Gilbert wonder if what White had told him earlier about Parme shooting someone had some truth in it. Would his new partner really shoot him if the mood struck him? Gilbert didn’t wonder on it long as he had more pressing questions to ask.
“What was that all about?” he asked Parme.
His partner dabbed his nose with a tissue and looked up at him under heavy brows. He made no reply.
“I thought you liked Eagan for the murder,” Gilbert said.
“I do.”
“Then why did you tell me to uncuff him?” Gilbert sat down in the chair across from his partner and suddenly realized how tired he was. Television crime fighters might do the job for 24 hours straight, but Gilbert had now worked longer than that without sleep and he felt like shit.
Parme eyed him for a long moment, with a look that told Gilbert he was trying to decide whether to explain something he thought was quite simple about effective suspect interrogation or just shoot him.
Finally, he said, “Look, the guy is clearly trying to set up an insanity plea. He knows we have him and now he has only two choices, he can flee, in which case we’ll catch him because we’ll have him under surveillance, or he’ll go ape shit crazy in an attempt to convince the court that he’s not competent to stand trial. Now, which do you think taking a swing at me qualifies as?”
Gilbert rubbed his eyes. His college professors hadn’t taught him any of this. He wondered whether he should have paid more for his education or whether he just needed some sleep.
“He may be crazy,” Gilbert started.
“Hell yeah, he’s crazy! He’s lucky I didn’t pound the dogshit out of him in there.”
“But he’s also afraid.”
“He’d damn well better be afraid,” Parme said.
“No, he’s afraid of going home. There’s something in that apartment building that has him scared,” Gilbert said. “I don’t think he was faking that.”
“I don’t know,” Parme said. “And I don’t care. In a day or so, we’ll have the DNA results back from the lab and we’ll be able to link that little shit to the murder scene and we’ll wrap this all up.”
“I think I should go back out to that apartment,” Gilbert said.
“No, you’re going home and getting some sleep,” his partner said. “You look like shit. I’ll continue to work down the list of known offenders in the area just to kill time while the lab gives us some evidence. I’ll see you at the cafe, first thing in the morning.”
Gilbert started to protest but he yawned instead. He said good-bye and headed home.
Read Part 9.
Friday, March 28, 2014
7. Just a few questions, please
Read from the Beginning
Read Part 6
It took 45 minutes for the staff to get Eagan cleaned up and dressed in a new jumpsuit. They brought him into the small interrogation room where Parme and Gilbert were waiting and chained him to a metal desk. He sat in a metal chair looking miserable, refusing to make eye contact with either detective. Gilbert sat down across from him and took out his notebook. Parme stood, leaning against the wall behind him.
“What’s your name, sir?” Gilbert began.
Eagan told them who he was, where he lived and certain other details of his miserable life. Gilbert took careful notes. When the preliminaries were over, Parme stepped up to the table.
“Why did you turn yourself in?”
“Because I did something,” Eagan said softly. “Something terrible.”
“What did you do?” Parme asked, sounding like he couldn’t care less.
“I killed that poor girl, the one they found by the high school,” he said. He dropped his head until his chin touched his bony chest and appeared to be weeping.
“Do you mean Paula Kelly?” Gilbert asked. Eagan nodded. A tear rolled down the side of his nose and fell, hitting the metal table.
“Jesus,” Parme rolled his eyes and went back to the wall.
“Tell us how it happened,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up. He tried to rub his nose but the chain wasn’t long enough. It made a noise loud enough to make him jump when it reached its limit. He leaned forward and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his borrowed jumpsuit. “How what happened?”
The two detectives just stared at him. “You mean how I killed her?”
“Yeah,” Parme drawled. “Why don’t you start with that.”
“Well,” Egan fiddled with his chain for a bit and cleared his throat. “Well, I took her out to that building by the school, that little outbuilding they found her in and then I killed her.”
“How?” Parme asked.
“I hit her in the head with a heavy piece of wood that was in the shed.”
“And then what?”
“That’s it. I killed her and then I ran away.”
Gilbert looked over his shoulder at Parme and closed his notebook.
“Why are you lying to us, Arlington?” Parme said, approaching the table again with his big hands balled into fists. “Do you think this is some kind of game?”
Eagan cringed away from the table as far as his chains would allow, trying in vain to cover his face with his hands. “No! I’m telling you. I killed that poor girl. And I might do it again. You can’t let me go!”
Parme stared down at the small man with a look of disgust on his face. “Unchain him.”
Gilbert pulled a key from his pocket and moved around the table. Eagan acted more threatened than before and cried out that he was dangerous and that they couldn’t send him home.
“I’m afraid of what will happen!” he cried.
“Shut up!” Parme roared. Eagan deflated and sat in the chair weeping silently as Gilbert unchained him. “You’re lying about your involvement in a murder case. That’s obstruction of justice. You play that game with us again and I swear to God I’ll shoot you myself.”
Gilbert shot his partner a warning glance as he moved back around the table and pocketed his notebook. “You don’t have any information about the murder of Paula Kelly, do you Mr. Eagan?” he asked.
Eagan just sat in the chair and wept, his frail body swaying back and forth. “I can’t go back there. I’m afraid,” he said softly.
“Jesus Christ,” Parme swore and shook his head.
“What are you afraid of, Mr. Eagan?” Gilbert asked.
Eagan looked from Gilbert, where he sat in the chair opposite him, to Parme, who was leaning forward on his fists, staring at him with undisguised malice. Eagan’s eyes, rimmed with red, dripping tears narrowed and he bolted out of the chair and flew at Parme, his small fist hitting the larger man squarely on the nose and forcing him two steps back. Gilbert jumped out of his chair and caught Eagan by the wrist but was forced to release him in order to stop Parme from flying over the table at the smaller man.
“You sonuva bitch!” Parme roared. Gilbert struggled to hold his partner back as Eagan sat back down in the chair.
When Gilbert was fairly certain Parme wasn’t going to beat anyone to death, he stepped back away from his partner and turned on Eagan. Before he could speak, Eagan said, “That’s assaulting an officer. I know the law. Now you have to keep me here.”
Parme wiped his nose to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t, but his eyes were both watering.
“We’re not keeping you here, you little shit. We’re sending you downtown where you can spend the night with some boys that will beat your little ass good.” He turned for the door, still fuming. “See how you like that, you little bastard.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Gilbert was left standing over Eagan, who looked calm for the first time during the interview. “That wasn’t very smart.”
“You can’t send me home now,” Eagan said softly.
“Where you’re going will be worse,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up at him and the tears started to well up again. “No it won’t,” he whispered
Read Part 8
Read Part 6
It took 45 minutes for the staff to get Eagan cleaned up and dressed in a new jumpsuit. They brought him into the small interrogation room where Parme and Gilbert were waiting and chained him to a metal desk. He sat in a metal chair looking miserable, refusing to make eye contact with either detective. Gilbert sat down across from him and took out his notebook. Parme stood, leaning against the wall behind him.
“What’s your name, sir?” Gilbert began.
Eagan told them who he was, where he lived and certain other details of his miserable life. Gilbert took careful notes. When the preliminaries were over, Parme stepped up to the table.
“Why did you turn yourself in?”
“Because I did something,” Eagan said softly. “Something terrible.”
“What did you do?” Parme asked, sounding like he couldn’t care less.
“I killed that poor girl, the one they found by the high school,” he said. He dropped his head until his chin touched his bony chest and appeared to be weeping.
“Do you mean Paula Kelly?” Gilbert asked. Eagan nodded. A tear rolled down the side of his nose and fell, hitting the metal table.
“Jesus,” Parme rolled his eyes and went back to the wall.
“Tell us how it happened,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up. He tried to rub his nose but the chain wasn’t long enough. It made a noise loud enough to make him jump when it reached its limit. He leaned forward and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his borrowed jumpsuit. “How what happened?”
The two detectives just stared at him. “You mean how I killed her?”
“Yeah,” Parme drawled. “Why don’t you start with that.”
“Well,” Egan fiddled with his chain for a bit and cleared his throat. “Well, I took her out to that building by the school, that little outbuilding they found her in and then I killed her.”
“How?” Parme asked.
“I hit her in the head with a heavy piece of wood that was in the shed.”
“And then what?”
“That’s it. I killed her and then I ran away.”
Gilbert looked over his shoulder at Parme and closed his notebook.
“Why are you lying to us, Arlington?” Parme said, approaching the table again with his big hands balled into fists. “Do you think this is some kind of game?”
Eagan cringed away from the table as far as his chains would allow, trying in vain to cover his face with his hands. “No! I’m telling you. I killed that poor girl. And I might do it again. You can’t let me go!”
Parme stared down at the small man with a look of disgust on his face. “Unchain him.”
Gilbert pulled a key from his pocket and moved around the table. Eagan acted more threatened than before and cried out that he was dangerous and that they couldn’t send him home.
“I’m afraid of what will happen!” he cried.
“Shut up!” Parme roared. Eagan deflated and sat in the chair weeping silently as Gilbert unchained him. “You’re lying about your involvement in a murder case. That’s obstruction of justice. You play that game with us again and I swear to God I’ll shoot you myself.”
Gilbert shot his partner a warning glance as he moved back around the table and pocketed his notebook. “You don’t have any information about the murder of Paula Kelly, do you Mr. Eagan?” he asked.
Eagan just sat in the chair and wept, his frail body swaying back and forth. “I can’t go back there. I’m afraid,” he said softly.
“Jesus Christ,” Parme swore and shook his head.
“What are you afraid of, Mr. Eagan?” Gilbert asked.
Eagan looked from Gilbert, where he sat in the chair opposite him, to Parme, who was leaning forward on his fists, staring at him with undisguised malice. Eagan’s eyes, rimmed with red, dripping tears narrowed and he bolted out of the chair and flew at Parme, his small fist hitting the larger man squarely on the nose and forcing him two steps back. Gilbert jumped out of his chair and caught Eagan by the wrist but was forced to release him in order to stop Parme from flying over the table at the smaller man.
“You sonuva bitch!” Parme roared. Gilbert struggled to hold his partner back as Eagan sat back down in the chair.
When Gilbert was fairly certain Parme wasn’t going to beat anyone to death, he stepped back away from his partner and turned on Eagan. Before he could speak, Eagan said, “That’s assaulting an officer. I know the law. Now you have to keep me here.”
Parme wiped his nose to make sure it wasn’t bleeding. It wasn’t, but his eyes were both watering.
“We’re not keeping you here, you little shit. We’re sending you downtown where you can spend the night with some boys that will beat your little ass good.” He turned for the door, still fuming. “See how you like that, you little bastard.” He left the room, slamming the door behind him.
Gilbert was left standing over Eagan, who looked calm for the first time during the interview. “That wasn’t very smart.”
“You can’t send me home now,” Eagan said softly.
“Where you’re going will be worse,” Gilbert said.
Eagan looked up at him and the tears started to well up again. “No it won’t,” he whispered
Read Part 8
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