21
Monday, September 8, 10:00 A.M.
The man dressed as a mailman worked Saturdays, giving him Mondays off. This was the only reason why he had chosen the second day of the week to kidnap, torture and kill Mary O’Keefe. It simply fit into his schedule.
Mary spent a few hours in adoration at a small chapel outside Brookline every Monday morning. How had the mailman found out? After Saturday’s Mass, he walked out of St. Paul’s and shook Deacon O’Keefe’s hand. Congratulated him on such a “powerful and heartfelt” homily. “Your daughter,” the mailman said, “what a wonderful young woman she is. So devout. The reverence in her eyes. My, my, are you a lucky father to have such a wonderful child of God.”
The mailman disagreed with the Vatican’s decision to allow deacons to marry and raise families. But who was he to question the magisterium’s teaching?
Regardless, he now felt, in the scope of revenge, it had all worked out. Karma, he once heard—or, “the universe,” what a joke—was like that, wasn’t it?
O’Keefe smiled as though Mary had won a beauty contest. “Oh, thank you, my son. Are you ever so right.” As they shook hands, the deacon placed his soft left hand over the top of the mailman’s and tapped him gingerly in a comforting way. “She is blessed with such a grace and, I should add,” he couldn’t just leave it there, “going to adoration every Monday in Brookline, let me tell you,” O’Keefe winked, “sure doesn’t hurt.”
File that one away
. The mailman smiled.
He left St. Paul’s, went to the library, did a quick Google search for adoration chapels in Brookline. And, wouldn’t you know, there was only one on Mondays:
The Blessed Sacrament Chapel
Adoration of Our Lord Jesus Christ, 6:00 A.M. to Noon.
It was that easy.
10:15 A.M.
The mailman sat behind Mary O’Keefe inside the Blessed Sacrament Chapel and prayed to a Lord he did not believe in. As Mary recited the rosary in a whisper in front of the gold monstrance containing the consecrated, sacred host, the mailman could feel the palms of his hands salivate.
There were candles flickering on each side of the Body of Christ. The flame was soft and manila in color. He got lost in the gentle grace of the fire and black smoke billowing in swirls upward. The sight of this brought him back.
The furnace … his nose pressed up against the grate. “No, Teacher. Please. Please do not do this. It burns. You’re hurting me.”
There were two additional devotees in the chapel. It was quiet, only the hum of a fan somewhere hidden in the drop ceiling buzzing to the soft breath of prayers.
At times, Mary folded her arms. She had gotten down on the carpet in front of the host earlier that morning, and prostrated her body on the floor like a novice taking her final vows. The mailman took careful note of this. He recalled once having to do the same for punishment at the Bainbridge orphanage. But not for bad behavior on his part. As he lay there, face down, listening to the nun scold the child who had stolen food from the kitchen, he realized the punishment wasn’t so bad. It had given him a chance to consider that no, there was no life for him in the Church. His calling was not to serve God. He had grown bitter by then toward a God who took everything from him. Southie, with its people lined up for block cheese handouts and gangs and drugs and welfare, wasn’t Palm Beach, but it was home.
After an hour of adoration, he sat in a minivan outside the chapel in the parking lot, waiting for Mary O’Keefe to emerge. She lived a few blocks south. Whether she drove or walked made no difference to his plan.
He was impatient. It took intense concentration to ignore the pain. Thinking about it, he could cut himself now without thinking twice and treat one form of hurt with another. Emotional salvation, he liked to call it. Readdress existing objection. If Mary was there with him, inside the van, he could cut her open and get to the same place. Feel the same pleasure. There was rage inside him toward the Teacher. He could not express it alone. The man—the “powerful figure”—needed to be drowned out.
You will do what I tell you to …
He dragged the sharp edge of the knife blade across his forearm slowly, closing his eyes.
Opening them, looking down, he watched as the warm fluid drizzled down the contour of his arm, clinging to its shape.
Ecstasy. He was swept away.
The blood of the innocent …
“You will thank me,” the Teacher had said, zipping up.
Instant relief.
He was drawn out of his trance memory by the sight of Mary opening the glass door. The blood still dripping down his arm, he tied a bandana around the small incision while watching Mary put a set of rosary beads into a little pouch, zip it closed. She held the door for the woman behind her. Mary had a happy-go-lucky look about her. There was something fake about it, he felt.
He had put on his hoodie, a fake mustache he picked up at Party City, along with a standard, no-name security guard’s uniform he bought online. That get-up, plus the sunglasses, made him look ridiculous and contrived, which was exactly the appearance he was after. Any bystander who saw him would soon say something like, “This security guard who looked like the Unabomber grabbed the girl and took off.”
He pulled up alongside Mary, slid the door of the rental minivan open, then grabbed Mary by the hair. Pulling her down, he disabled her senses with a handful of gauze soaked in chloroform, then stuffed her in the back of the van, sliding the door shut. Driving over the curb, chirping the tires, the back end of the van bounced onto the street.
The young girl behind Mary screamed.
The minivan’s license plate was covered with cardboard.
He drove out onto Route 9, into traffic, disrobing the disguise with one hand, the other on the wheel, placing everything inside a black plastic garbage bag. Doing this, he realized he probably looked like some villain from an episode of
Barnaby Jones or Hawaii Five-O,
and laughed at the image. Still, the important thing was that Mary O’Keefe was on her way to be sacrificed. He had just the right place in mind. For now she needed that chemically induced sleep she was getting. The next twenty-four hours were going to be the worst of Mary O’Keefe’s life. The path from this world into the next would involve every level of hell she had ever envisioned in her mind as she knelt and prayed day after day, night after night.
That and, of course, a power tool and a pair of pliers.
“Don’t worry, Mary,” the mailman said aloud, looking at her limp body in the rearview mirror as it rolled around in the back, “you’ll make it to heaven.”
22
Monday, September 8, 2:11 P.M.
Father John was in the confessional, waiting for a customer, the green light above the small room on. Jake made his way into the church through the double doors. Stopped, dipped in the font by the entrance to the nave, made the sign of the cross, and then questioned why, finally blaming it on habit. Father John heard him, came out, and patted the wooden pew in front of them.
“Sit down. Thanks for finding the time to come by, Jake. Can I offer you absolution today, I’m running a special?”
They laughed. “I’ll pass, Father. Listen, about our conversation a few weeks ago—”
“Forget it. Faith is something we all need to keep working on.”
“You know me. I question everything.” Jake wanted off the subject. “Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well, as I said, it’s Patrick O’Keefe. I’m worried about him.”
They whispered as loud as they could. Being quiet in a Roman Catholic Church, Father John had instilled in Jake years ago, was a form of prayer in itself. The stained-glass window over Jake’s back cast a starburst glow down the seat portion of the pew. Brightened up the tile floor. Jake appreciated the rainbow of colors. How they melded together. The room smelled of frankincense incense, bringing back too many memories for Jake to unravel.
“In what way, Father?”
“Threats. I’m getting these calls. You’ve been involved with this evil murder case.”
“Yep.”
The priest sensed despair on Jake’s face, in his voice. Jake needed to catch this nut. It was beginning to fester inside him.
“Let’s walk.” Father John stood.
Jake dropped his head. It was hard to hide things from Father. Always had been.
“Unhappy, Jake? You have this aura about you, I don’t know—an ambiguity.”
“Who’s happy, Father? Everyone is thinking about living another life, right.”
“Indeed. Very few live in the moment.”
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Right. I understand how much you have on your plate.” Father John knew this was Jake’s first murder case since that little girl. “How’s your father?”
“Dad is fine, Father. Now,
what
am I doing here? Did my mother call you?”
“Jake, try not to allow the past to write your future. The little girl is in heaven. Forgive yourself. You’ll drown in all that self-pity. It’ll smother you.”
There was more to this, Jake now understood. He had been conned into a talk with his parish priest. Jake’s father, drunk from Alzheimer’s, had wandered off from his Arizona home in the old people’s community and disappeared the day before. Mrs. Cooper had called Father John and told him not to bother Jake with it. He was too busy. But Father knew better, so he let Dawn know.
Desert Winds Police eventually found Mr. Cooper strolling through the aisles of the local Publix supermarket. He was standing near the shelves of soda, mumbling facts and figures about Sprite, Fanta Grape and Orange Crush, which he had spent his life selling.
Jake was upset with his mother for not including him.
“She meant well, I know.”
“She’s human, Jake. Human beings will let you down. Your father lost a child. He didn’t know how to face that. He found healing—in some strange way—in numbing that unbearable pain. I see it everyday in this neighborhood. You know that.”
“I need to catch this psycho, Father. For more reasons than you know. It’s not about my father.”
“Don’t lose faith in yourself—dare I say it, Jake, the way you did in your father.”
Jake shook his head. Could he argue with the priest?
“I had you come here for several reasons. I need to show you something.” Father John knew it would cheer Jake up. “Been working on this for a while.”
“How are things here? What about those threats, Father?”
“Okay. Always in need of more help and money, of course, but we’re surviving. More than I can say for some of my fellow priests.”
“And those calls? The deacon?”
“Ah, a few calls here and there. Idle threats all the parishes receive. I will say, though, this week I’ve gotten more than the usual. They seem to be centered on Deacon O’Keefe for some reason.”
Jake followed the priest, who moved quite sluggishly. They walked down into the basement hall where the church held its post-mass socials and dances. There was a stage. Folding chairs and craft tables. A coat room. Men’s and women’s restrooms. The salt-and-pepper checkerboard tile on the floor was sixty years old and looked it. Along the wall were dozens of what appeared to be class photos. Some in color. Others black and white.
Jake didn’t recall seeing them before. But then, it had been three years since he’d stepped foot in this part of the church.
“You ought to come for coffee after Mass more often, Jake.”
They reached the north wall of the room.
When they stopped, Father John, one hand in the front pocket of his black pants, the other holding the right ear piece of his glasses in his mouth, pointed with a wink at the wall. “That’s every class we’ve ever had here.” There was sense of appreciation in his voice. It was as if the hundreds of kids were his own children. “Just finished gathering all of the photos. Took me forever.”
Jake scanned the images. What memories. Here was an eclectic mix of Irish-Catholic kids from Southie. Many were dead. Suicides. Overdoses. Drive-bys. Stabbings. More were in prison. The boys wore the Roman-style cassocks with the white surplice. As the years passed, the Church introduced a white linen collar with a large black satin bow. The type Jake had worn.
“All of you added your own bit of grace to this parish over the years. You should feel good about that, Jake.”
There were fourteen boys in Jake’s class. The photo was of their final year as servers. They stood on a stage, lined up from shortest in front, tallest in back. Most smiled, their crooked teeth from being on Welfare clear. The two boys bookending the rest of the class held beautiful bouquets of vanilla-colored flowers with purple diamond-shaped petals.
“I don’t even remember taking this.” Jake had a tough time taking his eyes off the photo. He perused the names. “Haven’t thought about most of these kids in years.” He laughed under his breath, more to himself. “I’ve actually arrested a few of them.”
Like Jake, many of these kids chose being an altar server over getting beat up everyday in the projects they came from. It was a way to stay off the street. The Coopers were not poor by any means, but that just made life worse for Casey and Jake.
Father John said, “I think about how much I wanted Casey to be in one of these photos. But I searched and searched and could not find one.”
They both went silent. Whenever someone mentioned his brother’s name, Jake got those butterflies in his gut.
Jake was fixated on his class photo, probably running through a host of recollections. Some good, others not so good. There he was—the little Catholic soldier, standing tall, proud to be a part of God’s army.
“Boy, Father, I was a nerdy kid.”
Father John was in his own world. “Evil has insinuated itself into our lives
and
the Church,” he finally said. “I think people forget that. The press certainly does. I don’t need to tell you this. You see it every day.”
Jake looked at the priest.
Here we go, he told himself, Father John stepping up on his soapbox.
Then focused on one boy who caught his attention. Black hair. Braces. Large, mousy buck teeth. Skinny and gaunt as a scarecrow. Something about the kid rubbed Jake the wrong way.
Who the hell is that
?
“We’re involved in a cursed period of humanity, Jake”—Jake studied the boy, not really listening to Father—“and babies still come out of the womb sinless, their pink little bodies and cherub nature inherently established by God. Faultless, Jake. But give them a few years, and they’re assaulting His name. Why? Because we’ve taught ’em to.”
“Society stirs up the flames, Father. We all make choices. You know the old argument—not every child that’s abused abuses.”
Who is that kid
? Jake knew him.
“Sociology is supposed to solve all our problems, or so we’re told. But in the end we realize that’s nothing but wretched ignorance on our part. The realism here is, we are sinners. We breed sinners. And all of us—including you and me, Jake—need to grow in moral goodness every day of our lives.”
The overhead air duct fan kicked on. It made a loud intake sound, as if a fire had found an oxygen source in the form of an open door.
Whoosh!
Jake turned to Father John. “You’ve been reading. Sounds like a Harvard way of saying we have free will.” As he said it, Jake thought of Mo—that little “favor” Mo had asked Jake to do. Mo wasn’t going to let up. There was a conversation he had with Mo earlier that morning in the squad room. Every talk was now an argument. “I pulled you out of the ghetto, Jake,” Mo shouted. “
You seem to forget that so easily. I made you. You were a junkie. A numbers runner. Afraid of your own shadow. Always looking at the worst of things.”
Most of it was untrue, Mo hoping the boys in the squad room would hear him. “
Why don’t you go run to your priest friend. You’re still a punk. You let some stupid case, one little dead girl, destroy you. And you thought you could run with those Southie boys? Shit. You’re lucky I plucked you out of there—they would have eaten you. You’re a cop because I allowed you to become a cop.”
That face. The kid. His dark eyes stared back at Jake.
“I’ve been praying, Jake. We don’t trust a priest because he’s a priest. We trust a priest because he’s holy.”
“Kids see a uniform—cop, fireman, security guard, soldier—and they trust what the uniform represents. A priest in vestments is about the most sacred uniform a human being can wear. Come over here, Father. I need you to look at something.”
“I’m not making excuses here, Jake.” Father walked toward the row of photographs. “Don’t get me wrong. If we do everything naturally, we become barbarian perverts—all of us. Cruelty, lies, injustice. All that comes ‘naturally’ to many of us. Don’t forget that.”
“Like this animal I’m looking for, you mean? And those Satanic priests touching kids.” Jake had left the Church during the sex abuse scandal. He couldn’t investigate priests and then take Communion from their friends.
“Exactly. But he is a child of God, too. As are those fractured clergy.”
Jake laughed. “Please. He is a child of Satan—same as those priests.” Jake tapped on the face of the boy in the picture. “Who is that, Father?”
“To resist evil inclinations of nature takes discipline, Jake. You know that.” Father John leaned in to get a closer look. “It takes fervent prayer. We need a Divine Presence in our lives. This man you’re looking for didn’t have that. I’m sure of it. I’ll have to go to my list about the photo—I don’t recognize the boy.