The Man Who Murdered God (16 page)

“How old was Bobby when this happened?” McGuire asked.

“Six. He was six years old.”

“It must have upset him a great deal.”

“It changed him,” she answered, looking at the men again. “He worshipped his father. His father was next to God himself. And when I told him how his father had died, and that his father was a great hero who would have wanted Bobby to follow in his footsteps, Bobby became more intense. Oh, he was still lovable and sweet and tender.” The mask dropped, and the eyes lit up again. “My Bobby couldn't be anything else. But it was as though everything that had made my husband such a leader of men, so brave and so dedicated, all of it was suddenly transferred to my Bobby.”

The mask appeared a second time when McGuire asked if she had any photographs of her son they might see.

“I have no pictures,” she replied briskly.

McGuire said he was surprised that a parent so proud of her son would have no photographs of him.

“I had,” she said solemnly. “But Bobby destroyed them . . . in his bad times.”

“His bad times?”

She nodded. “About four years ago. Just before our doctor suggested we send Bobby to the hospital for treatment because . . . because of his problems.”

“What problems, Mrs. Griffin?” McGuire asked softly.

She lifted her chin and bit her bottom lip. The mask remained in place. “Bobby was struck dumb by the sight of God,” she said defiantly.

“He told you that?”

“No. How could he tell me if he was struck dumb? I know. I just know. Everything pointed to it, and Brother Halloran agreed.”

“Who is Brother Halloran?”

Muriel Griffin stood quickly and smoothed the front of her skirt. “I really would like some more coffee, gentlemen,” she said sweetly. “Could I get you some? Or more cookies perhaps?”

McGuire withdrew the poetry book from his pocket. “Mrs. Griffin,” he asked. “Do you recognize this book?” He stood and handed it to her. She studied its cover and shook her head. “No. No, I don't think I've ever seen this book before.” She opened its pages. “Oh, poetry. I never read poetry, Lieutenant. Between the Bible and my work at the church and reading all my magazines, there just isn't any time for poetry.”

“Would you mind looking through it for a moment?” McGuire asked her. “Near the end there is a page with markings on it in red ink. Can you find it?”

She turned the pages carefully, one by one, frowning periodically. Finally she stopped and read aloud: “The death of one god is the death of all.” She looked at the two men over the book. “Why this is gibberish, isn't it? There's only one God, and He doesn't die.” Smiling nervously, she added, “Bobby would call this nonsense. I know he would.”

“Does the next section mean anything?” McGuire asked.

She read aloud again: “The monastic man is an artist. The philosopher . . . appoints man's place in music, say, today, But the. . . .” She stumbled, then read the rest of the lines silently, her lips moving with the words. When she had finished, she handed the book back to McGuire and smiled at him. “I have no idea what it means,” she said. “But then, I was never very good at literature. I enjoyed mathematics in high school, and I graduated at the top of my class in household sciences.” She sat down again, folding her arms in front of her. “Do you like quilts, Lieutenant? I loved quilting. When I was a teenager, I made a copy of a colonial quilt that was accepted for showing at an art fair in Boston Common one year. My parents drove me there to see it. Back then it was a real treat to go to Boston, not like it is now, with some people commuting—”

“Mrs. Griffin,” McGuire said, interrupting her. “Who is Brother Halloran?”

She watched him for a moment, as though deciding whether to answer. Then, “Brother Halloran has gone to his reward, Lieutenant. He's been gathered in the bosom of the Lord.” She lowered her eyelids and crossed herself.

“Who was he, Mrs. Griffin?”

She opened her eyes to look back at him. Her hands flew together, and she sat twisting her wedding ring nervously. “He was the man who . . . who told me Bobby had been struck dumb by . . . by the sight of God.”

“How did he know?”

“Because he was a man of God himself. He knew these things.”

“He was a priest?”

“He was a monk.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, noisily, and leaned back, her slim, freckled arms hanging over the edge of the chair. “After his father died, Bobby decided he wanted to be a priest. He wanted to serve, to be useful while he was on this earth, like his father had been. When Bobby graduated from high school, we went to visit St. John's Seminary in Boston.” Her eyes closed in memory. “It was beautiful! Such lovely buildings, so much open space and grounds and shrines everywhere.” Her eyes opened. “But it wasn't right for Bobby. ‘It's too easy, Mother,' he said to me. He thought it would be almost like going to Harvard. The beds were too soft in the dormitory, too many things would be catered for him.”

She lowered her voice and looked directly at the men. “That was Bobby, you see. No one was more intense about serving God than Bobby. No one expected more of himself than Bobby. So Bobby was prepared to experience life as a monk to test and strengthen his spirit before he would live the softer life of a priest.”

The door chimes sounded, and her hand flew to her throat. “More visitors?” she said with a smile, rising from the chair. Her heels clicked-clicked their way to the door.

A uniformed officer was waiting on the stoop. He touched his cap, called her ma'am and told McGuire that a priest had arrived, name of Deeley. “Send him in,” McGuire instructed as Muriel Griffin looked back and forth between the two men, her rose-bud mouth held open in surprise.

Deeley was wearing his black suit and collar. Muriel Griffin seized his right hand and squeezed it, looking up into his eyes and smiling like a schoolgirl with a crush on the high-school quarterback. They introduced themselves to each other, and the woman scrambled ahead of Deeley to offer the chair she had been sitting in, then quickly poured him a cup of coffee and walked briskly into the kitchen, chattering all the while about what an exciting day it had turned out to be and how much her Bobby would have loved to be here to meet this nice, young priest.

“What is this?” Deeley finally asked McGuire and Lipson, his voice lowered.

“It's her son,” McGuire whispered. “We're sure of it.”

Deeley lowered his eyelids. “Why?”

“That's what we're trying to find out.”

Muriel Griffin placed the plate of cookies reverently in front of Deeley, then edged her way onto the corner of the sofa, beaming at him. McGuire and Lipson, momentarily upstaged, slid along the sofa to make room.

“Do you like the cookies, Father?” she gushed after Deeley had nibbled at one.

Deeley told her they were excellent.

“They're Bobby's favourite.” She reached out and touched Deeley's knee gently. “Are you here about Bobby?”

“I invited Father Deeley here,” McGuire explained. “I thought he might help us understand Bobby.”

Muriel Griffin kept her hand on Deeley's knee. “Oh, I wish my son were here now. He would love to talk to you about the priesthood. You know, you remind me of him. I mean, just seeing you here makes me think of Bobby and the times when he and I talked about him becoming a priest.”

“Bobby went to a monastery,” McGuire interrupted, speaking to Deeley. “Wanted to be a monk. Why don't you tell us all about it, Mrs. Griffin?”

Bobby's mother ignored the suggestion. “Have you met the new bishop?” she asked. “Tell me, what do you think of him?”

“Mrs. Griffin—” McGuire began.

Muriel Griffin turned on McGuire, fury lighting her small eyes. “Please, Lieutenant! You come into my home making silly suggestions about my son, unbelievable things you think he might have done. The least you can do is allow the father and I to discuss matters of the church!”

It was Kevin Deeley's turn to reach out. He took her hand, and when she looked back at him, he said, “Mrs. Griffin, I would be delighted to share some stories with you about things at the archdiocese. Even a little gossip perhaps. But right now why don't you tell me and these two gentlemen about this monastery your son visited?”

She's practically wetting her pants, McGuire mused, watching Muriel Griffin melt under Deeley's gaze. He could pick her up and cart her off to a bedroom right now if we weren't here.

Muriel Griffin finally wrenched her eyes away from Deeley's and looked down at her lap. She toyed with her wedding ring as she spoke.

“Bobby had heard about an order in Brookline, over near Hancock Village—”

“The Order of Cesena?” Deeley interrupted.

She looked up and smiled at him. “Why, that's right, Father.”

“Monks?” Bernie Lipson asked, looking up from his note pad. “We've got monks in Boston?”

“All the major orders are here,” Deeley nodded. “Plus Greek Orthodox, Coptics and spin-offs like the Cesenas.”

“Bobby said they were small and not very wealthy but trying to do good things. Like the Jesuits, he said. They're trying to be a bridge of knowledge between the people and the Church, like the Jesuits.”

“You know something about these guys?” McGuire asked Deeley, who nodded in reply. Turning to Muriel Griffin, he said “You told us Bobby graduated from high school when he was sixteen. He was eighteen when he entered Lynwood. Where was he for those two years? At this monastery?”

Muriel Griffin continued twisting her wedding ring as she spoke. “Yes. He was learning the life of the ascetics. Studying scriptures and trying to find himself through simple work.”

“What happened when he came home?” McGuire asked softly. “Did he come back from the monastery catatonic? Unable to speak?”

She didn't reply, not until Deeley reached across and touched her hand again. “Please answer him, Mrs. Griffin,” he said. “Please tell him what happened to Bobby at the monastery.”

“Bobby had seen God,” she answered boldly. “Brother Halloran told me that's what happened to him. He had laid eyes on the glory of God and the Blessed Virgin.”

“You know where this place is?” McGuire asked Deeley, who nodded. “Let's go,” McGuire said.

Muriel Griffin rose with them, distressed. “Father, you'll stay, won't you?”

Deeley begged off, saying he would return perhaps the next day, when he would be pleased to discuss her son and his ambitions for the priesthood. The promise seemed enough for Muriel Griffin. “Take comfort,” Deeley said as they stood at the open door.

“Comfort?” she asked, confused. “I have my comfort and my peace of mind, Father.” She smiled, smoothing her dress and patting her hair.

“About your son, I mean.”

The smile didn't fade. “My son is fine, Father,” she said. “We stay in touch. He phones me often. In fact, he called me just last evening.”

McGuire and Lipson froze in place. “He did?” McGuire asked. “Where was he? What did he say?”

“I don't know,” she replied defiantly. “Bobby never speaks. He never has to. He just calls and I hear . . . I hear him there, I can
feel
him there. Sometimes he's so caught up in the grace of God that he just cries quietly like he did for so long after his father died. And I hear him crying, and I tell him I love him. He doesn't say a word. But I know it's Bobby. I know it's my Bobby.”

Mattie received the telephone call at four thirty-five in the afternoon. By four-forty she had announced the news to everyone at Jenkins Real Estate, including the president, Izzie Jenkins, who smiled broadly and told her he always knew she could do it, managing to pat her on the ass all the while. It was something he frequently tried to do with Mattie. This time she let him succeed.

By five o'clock Mattie was driving east along the highway, watching the early commuters from Boston shielding their eyes against the steeply slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. A rock and roll revival station played loudly on the car radio, and she tapped her hands on the steering wheel and sang along with Buddy Holly on the choruses of “That'll Be the Day.”

Pulling into the driveway of her home, she left the car almost before it was stopped, and bounded inside and up the stairs. In the midst of her excitement she was halted by the rich aroma drifting from the kitchen and by the sight of Bobby wearing her oversized oven mitts.

“Hi,” he said as shyly as ever. “The soufflé.” He nodded at her oven. “It's almost ready. Another ten minutes or so.”

Her head swung in the direction of the rich cheese and egg aroma that filled the house, then back to Bobby. “Guess what?”

Bobby shrugged his shoulders. “What?”

Her voice, which had been a hoarse whisper until now, exploded in its full throaty range. “I sold the Delisle estate! Can you believe it?”

Bobby glanced nervously towards the oven, bending slightly at the waist to see if her outburst had deflated the soufflé. “Is that good?” he asked nervously.

“Good? It means I just earned Jenkins Real Estate about a hundred and twenty grand. And my share of it will be fifty thousand bucks. Isn't that great?”

Bobby smiled back at her and nodded. “That's wonderful, Mattie.”

She reached out and hugged him. “Fifty thousand! That's the biggest commission I've ever made. It's the biggest commission
anybody's
ever made at that office.” She pulled away from Bobby and held him at arm's length. “Gee, kid,” she said in mock seriousness, “you get any more hysterical about this, you're gonna fall asleep.”

Bobby shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “I think it's very nice that you've been—”

“What the hell is
that
?”
Mattie squealed, looking over his shoulder.

Bobby followed her eyes to the window of her wall-mounted oven. “The cheese and onion soufflé,” he said. They both moved reverently over to the oven. “It's looking good, isn't it?”

Mattie turned her head slowly to look into his eyes, her mouth open in disbelief. “You're . . . I can't believe you,” she said. “Will it taste as good as it looks?”

“I hope so,” Bobby answered, watching the soufflé turn golden brown in the heat of the oven. He straightened up and walked to the breakfast table, where some washed and peeled vegetables lay waiting. “I'd better get started on the salad.”

“Hey.” Bobby turned to see Mattie standing near the oven with her arms extended.

“C'mere,” she ordered.

He walked uncertainly back to her, and she hugged him again, squeezing him to her and rocking him slightly. The gesture caused him to place his arms tentatively around her, and she buried her face in his neck. “You're a treasure,” she said into his ear. “An absolute treasure. And I'm glad you're here to help me celebrate.”

She pulled herself away to look at him. “And I've got just the thing to celebrate with.” She turned to the refrigerator, knelt down to reach the lower shelf and withdrew a bottle of Mumm's champagne.

“Been keeping this sucker cold for months,” she said, holding it up triumphantly for Bobby to see. “Real French stuff. A guy I know, he's a bartender, gave it to me one morning.”

“One morning?” Bobby asked.

“For the night before,” Mattie replied, reading the label as she spoke. “Said I deserved it for an award-winning performance. Hell, with all the faking I did, he should have nominated me for an Oscar.” Setting the champagne on the table, she looked back at him and batted her eyelids in mock exaggeration. “I do believe, dahling, it's time for me to dress for dinner,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Bobby grinned foolishly as she struck a pose, one hand behind her head, the other on her hip.

“Do have the servants prepare the table for us, there's a good chap.” Prancing by him, she leaned over to peck him on the cheek, and he watched her swivel-hip her way to the bedroom, his shoulders shaking in quiet laughter at her.

“So then I get the call, just an hour ago, and he's at the airport.”

Mattie gestured with her fork as she spoke. She had chosen a red silk blouse, cut deeply in front, to wear with her tight black skirt. Her hair was pinned in an upswept style, and small ringlets bobbed and swung as she spoke. Two candles, rescued from the remains of a small buffet dinner she had held the previous Christmas, flickered in the evening light.

“Just as calm as could be,” she explained. “He said he'd thought it over and decided to take it. Two million four, and he's talking like he's picking out new underwear.” She pointed to the soufflé on her plate. “God, this is good. Where'd you learn to cook like this?”

Bobby shrugged. “Out of books. And practice.”

Mattie sliced another fork full of soufflé and held it in front of her as she spoke. “So I asked him what about his bimbo girlfriend. Except I didn't put it that way, of course. I said, ‘Gee, how does your fiancée feel about the decision?'” She slid the fork into her mouth. “He said she would come around eventually, and if she didn't, he'd buy her off with a new Corvette. Can you believe it? This guy's got money like you and I've got dirty laundry. He just can't seem to get rid of it.”

“Money isn't everything,” Bobby said softly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It can't buy happiness. But it can sure as hell make a good down payment on it.” Mattie filled her mouth with more soufflé, tucked it into her cheek, and asked, “By the way, how's your leg? The one the drunk hit last night?” She giggled.

“It's better. The bruise is still there, but it's not as stiff as it was this morning.”

Mattie smiled a wicked smile. “Anything else getting stiff?”

Bobby looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Listen, Bobby, I still don't know a damn thing about you. I mean, here I am on the biggest night of my real estate career, having dinner with a good-looking young guy, who can even
cook
. I mean, it's all wonderful, but the part about not knowing anything about my date is a little too familiar. If you know what I mean.”

It was clear from Bobby's expression that he didn't.

“Okay, so tell me. You're a gourmet cook, a natural artist and a sweetheart guy. So where've you been all my life? You go to school, you got a job, you're just drifting, what?”

“I guess I'm just drifting,” Bobby replied.

“When I was your age, it was called finding yourself. You trying to figure out who you are?”

Bobby quietly placed his fork back on his plate. “No,” he said softly, his head down. “I'm just looking for peace.”

Deeley sent his driver back to the bishop's office and rode with McGuire and Lipson through the late afternoon sun towards Brookline. On the way he explained to the detectives about the Cesenas, a sect of monks who had broken away from the Capurnians to establish their own order. A purely local phenomenon, the Cesenas sprung up in New England during the nineteenth century. They called themselves Brothers of the Order of Cesena, choosing the name of a town in Italy, whose citizens had been brutally massacred in the fourteenth century by Robert of Geneva, a ruthless cardinal appointed by Pope Gregory the Eleventh.

“The Cesenas chose that name to prove they were more closely allied with the citizenry, the common people, than with the Mother Church,” Deeley explained. “But over the years, they've moved at least under the umbrella of the Church, if not within it.”

“Why the hell would anybody want to become a Catholic monk in this day and age?” McGuire asked.

“I suppose I could come up with an answer,” Deeley said coolly. “But I'm not sure you'd fully appreciate it, McGuire. Anyway, the Cesenas have acquired a reputation for being quiet fanatics. They believe the best way to serve the Church is by training small numbers of dedicated priests who earn moral standing and respect through self-discipline and study, then taking their message to the world outside through normal Church channels.”

“A few good men,” Lipson, who was driving, said. “The marines, that's what it sounds like.”

“That's not a bad analogy,” Deeley commented. “In fact, more than one marine commander has spent time with the Cesenas learning how to be totally self-sufficient while giving himself up to a higher authority.” He leaned back in the seat of the car, crossed his legs and folded his hands loosely in his lap. “Now tell me why you think that woman's son is mixed up in these terrible killings.”

By the time they reached Brookline, McGuire had provided all the details linking Bobby Griffin with the killings of the three priests and Alvin Chadwick.

“It's not what I expected,” Deeley said when McGuire had finished. “Not an intelligent young man. Not someone of the Church, who has lived within its glories and shelter.”

“What
were
you expecting? McGuire demanded. “A Russian Commie with horns and a tail, drooling at the mouth?”

“It would have been closer. A lot closer.”

McGuire seized the radio microphone and called headquarters. The dispatcher connected him with Janet Parsons, who told him that Kavander had been trying to reach him all day. “I'm not talking to Kavander,” McGuire said brusquely. “Just give me the important stuff.”

“Okay,” her voice crackled over the radio. “Anne Murison, the lady from the aquarium, called us today. She admitted that the young blond guy hadn't caught a cab like she said he had. She watched him walk directly to the subway station and enter it—”

“What time?” McGuire interrupted.

“Five-fifteen. It fits, Joe.”

Lipson whistled softly.

“Anything else?”

“You got a couple of phone messages here—”

“Leave 'em,” McGuire interrupted again. He looked up to see Lipson steering them through an open gate in a high brick wall. Straggling ivy clung to the bricks, some of which were crumbling away. Ahead of them the roadway sunk into a low ravine before rising again towards a large brick structure whose intricate Victorian lines and detail were hidden beneath layers of grime and more untamed, rampant ivy.

“Tell Kavander we're close to wrapping things up here. Then make sure we've got an APB with an armed and dangerous warning on the kid.”

He switched off the microphone and snapped it back in its holder, watching open-mouthed as the car wound its way into the ravine and closer to the monastery building that loomed above them, dark and defiant.