Authors: Erica Spindler
“Yes. I took over when Bea retired.”
“In your position, we’re guessing you know pretty much everyone who worships at Sisters of Mercy.”
“It’s a huge parish,” she said. “But yes, if they’re regular worshippers, I know their name.”
“And likewise, you’re probably plugged in to everything that goes on.”
She nodded. “Absolutely. It’s part of my job. Now, that doesn’t include what’s going on at the school. They have their own Ms. Vicky.”
“That’s her name, too?”
She blushed. “No, her name’s Anna Hebert. I meant someone like me.”
“Gotcha.” He smiled. “You probably also know when people are unhappy or grumbling. And why they are. Am I right?”
She suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I do. But I’m not nosy. I’m just the one who’s always here.”
“Exactly. That’s why Detective Bayle and I have come to you. Here’s what we’re thinking. This crime wasn’t random.” She looked confused and he explained. “That means whoever did this specifically chose Sisters of Mercy to vandalize.”
Bayle stepped in. “We feel strongly the perpetrator may be someone who feels like they have an axe to grind with the church or Father Girod. Can you think of anyone?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “There are always people who have issues with the way things are being done. It’s the nature of the community.”
“What kind of issues?”
“You know, like how money is being spent. That’s a big one. Complaints about who’s on the various committees, what ministries are being promoted. Even who Father is praying for or how long it took him to make a home visit. It can get pretty silly.”
“Let’s start with the money, then. Did anyone have a problem with the stained-glass windows being restored after the storm?”
She thought a moment. “Insurance paid the lion’s share, then we had a benefactor put up the rest. Seems to me there might have been a few on the pastoral council urging Father to use the insurance money for other upgrades, but they were shot down. There were some hard feelings over it.”
“How hard? Do you think they might have been angry enough to retaliate by vandalizing the windows?”
“I don’t want to gossip. It’s a sin, you know.”
“Telling the truth isn’t gossip,” Malone said. “And I can’t speak for God, but sharing what you know so we can catch a killer hardly seems like a sin.”
She looked relieved. “There were two parishioners who were particularly vehement about it. One left the parish over it. But I can’t see either of them doing anything like this.”
“How long ago was this?”
“At least three years.”
“Could we have their names and a way to contact them?”
“Sure. Hold on.”
She accessed the information and wrote down the names and addresses. She slid it across the desk. “Paul Snyder’s the gentleman who left Sisters of Mercy. That’s the last address we had on him.”
Malone thanked her, then went on. “Let’s think generally now. Any recent blowups between the church or Father Girod and parishioners? Any misunderstandings, hurt feelings or other drama? Anything that might lead you to think it could be connected to the vandalism and murder?”
She thought a moment. “There was a situation recently. It involved a long-standing and faithful parishioner. He was furious with Father Girod, said he didn’t do enough to help his son.”
“What happened?” Bayle asked.
“His son died in a car wreck. He was only twenty-one.” She crossed herself. “It was a terrible tragedy and we were all brokenhearted.”
“Why would he blame Father Girod for an accident?”
“Tim, that was the boy’s name, had struggled with alcohol and drug addiction for years. One afternoon, his dad called here, asked for Father Girod. Said it was an emergency. He was frightened. Timmy had taken some sort of drug and was swinging between wildly emotional and aggressive.
“Father Girod could always reach Tim.” Her tears started again. “That’s the way he was. There was this peace that flowed out of him and surrounded whoever was near.”
She cleared her throat. “Father Girod didn’t get there fast enough. Tim took off in his car, lost control and ran headlong into a tree. He was killed on impact.”
Malone exchanged a glance with Bayle. She inclined her head ever so slightly in silent agreement. This was definitely someone they wanted to speak with, the sooner the better.
“How long ago was this?” Malone asked.
“A few months is all. Let me see … the funeral was the same weekend as the high school graduation. It made it all the sadder, young people starting a new life, moving on … And poor Tim Thibault, his life ended.”
“We’ll need the father’s and mother’s names. The names of siblings, if any. Their address.”
“Earl and Joy. Tim was an only child.” Her face puckered with regret. “Do I have to? They’re still grieving and it seems wrong to do anything to add to their distress.”
“Yes, Vicky, you have to. But we’ll be gentle, I promise.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thursday, August 11
10:10
A.M.
Before leaving the Sisters of Mercy campus, they paid a visit to Vicky’s counterpart at the school. Anna Hebert was just as forthcoming as Vicky had been and handed them names of several disgruntled parents, as well as those of a half dozen of the students who seemed to stay in trouble.
Of all the leads, Earl Thibault seemed the most compelling. They agreed to pay him and his wife a visit first.
The family lived on Carrollton Avenue near City Park. In the style of the area, the home was a raised bungalow with arched windows and a wide front porch. There was nothing grand or ostentatious about the structure, but it was solid—and solidly middle class.
They slowly climbed the stairs, Malone using the moments to prepare himself. Facing a grieving parent was one of the most difficult things he had to do. He wasn’t a father himself, but he could imagine how incredibly deep the pain of losing a child must be. And in this case, bitter as well.
They reached the porch and he glanced at Bayle. “You or me?”
“You,” she said tersely.
He nodded and rang the bell. A woman answered. She wore paint-splattered shorts and a T-shirt and gardening clogs.
“Mrs. Joy Thibault?”
“Yes?”
“Detectives Malone and Bayle, NOPD.” He held up his shield, Bayle did the same. “We need to ask you and your husband a few questions.”
She moved her gaze between the two of them. “What about?”
“The murder of Father Girod.”
“Come in. It’s too hot out there.” She stepped aside so they could enter, then shut the door behind them.
The smell of fresh paint nearly knocked him over. Malone smiled at the woman. “Doing some updating?”
“Needing to keep busy. Both of us.” She motioned them to follow her.
They did and landed in a large, light kitchen. “Have a seat. Can I get either of you a glass of iced tea or water?”
They both declined. She poured herself iced tea and faced them. “Poor Father Girod. He was a sweet, loving man. Truly a man of faith.” She fell silent a moment. “Your showing up here isn’t a surprise.”
“And why’s that, Mrs. Thibault?”
“You’re looking for someone who might have been angry with the church or Father Girod. My husband surely fits that description.”
“What about you, Mrs. Thibault? Don’t you fit it as well?”
“No. I made peace with the direction our son had decided to take some time ago. I didn’t condone or accept it, but I had to let go.” Her voice thickened and she excused herself and went for a tissue. “That doesn’t mean I gave up on him or stopped loving him. I didn’t. I just gave it over to God.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” She brought the tissue to her nose. “But Earl wasn’t able to do that. He never could surrender. And he still blames himself.”
“Is your husband here?”
“Yes.” She took a sip of her tea, the ice clinking as she tilted the glass. “He was laid off recently. A part of me is angry about that. He worked for that company for sixteen years. And after all that service, after losing his only son, they lay him off?” She shook her head. “But God has a plan, doesn’t he? And I have to trust that plan will take us somewhere good.”
She laughed self-consciously. “I see by your expressions you think I’m either addled by grief or terribly naïve.”
Malone shook his head. “Hardly, Mrs. Thibault. Truth is, I wish I could believe like that.”
She smiled slightly. “I wish you could as well, it’s a wonderful feeling. I’ll pray for you, Detective.”
Malone glanced at Bayle and found her looking at the woman both with longing and as if she were some strange, mythical creature. Totally foreign yet intriguing. He wondered what Bayle clung to that she desperately wished she could let go of.
“Your husband,” Malone reminded her. “We need to ask him a few questions.”
“Of course. I’ll get him.”
She returned after a couple minutes—without her husband. She waved them over. “Follow me.”
Her husband sat in a computer chair in what had obviously been his son’s room. All the furniture had been moved away from the walls, toward the center. Drop cloths covered the floor and some of the furniture. On the walls was a fresh coat of a buttery lemon color.
“She’s painted his room,” he said. “It doesn’t smell like him anymore.”
“Mr. Thibault. I’m Detective Malone and this is Detective Bayle, NOPD.”
“I know who you are. Joy told me.”
“We need to ask you a few questions.”
The man didn’t respond, so he went on. “Are you aware that early Tuesday morning someone vandalized the Sisters of Mercy sanctuary windows? And that person also murdered Father Girod?”
“I heard about it.”
“Where were you Tuesday night, Mr. Thibault?”
“Here.”
“Home?”
“No,” he corrected. “Here. In Timmy’s room.”
“May I see your hands, Mr. Thibault?”
He held them out. They shook slightly. That amount of spray painting would have left quite a bit of residue on the fingers, under the nails and nail beds. It would have been near impossible to remove all traces, even with solvent.
Malone inspected them carefully. They were clean.
“I didn’t do it. I wish I had. Maybe I’d feel better.”
“You don’t mean that, Earl.”
He looked at his wife, expression naked with pain. “Don’t tell me what I mean, you don’t know.”
Malone glanced at her wounded expression. She did know, he thought. And was living in her own private hell.
“We understand that you blamed Father Girod for your son’s death.”
Earl let out a deep, shuddering sigh. “Sometimes it helps to blame someone else.”
“Why’s that, Mr. Thibault?”
“Because for those moments, you stop blaming yourself.” He started to cry, silently, his shoulders shaking.
Malone looked at Bayle and shook his head. There was no rage here, only grief.
“Thank you, Mr. Thibault. We’re sorry to have bothered you.”
He didn’t respond and Joy Thibault walked them out. When they reached the door, Malone turned to her. “I hate to ask you, but could I see your hands?”
Silently, she held them out. Lemony flecks dotted her hands, wrists and forearms. Otherwise, they were clean.
“Would you and your husband agree to being fingerprinted? We would be able to officially eliminate you both as suspects.”
She looked surprised but nodded. “Anything that would help.”
He thanked her and they headed to the car, not speaking again until they were buckled in. Bayle shifted into Drive and pulled away from the curb.
She glanced at him. “You and Stacy plan on having kids?”
“After that, I’m leaning toward not.”
“The world is so effing screwed up.”
“Little Miss Sunshine.”
“You disagree?”
“I prefer to remain hopeful.”
“Like Mrs. Thibault back there.”
He looked at Bayle, surprised by the anger in her voice. “It works for her. And frankly, if I had to choose between his attitude and hers, hers wins. Hands down.”
She changed the subject. “Where to?”
“Next name on the list.”
CHAPTER NINE
Thursday, August 11
11:50
P.M.
Mira stood gazing at the Sister of Mercy windows. She and Deni, aided by Deni’s boyfriend, Chris, had worked on them nearly nonstop for the past thirty-six hours. Now, the only evidence of the vandalism that remained was the lingering smell of the acetone they’d used to clean them.
“We did it,” she said softly, looking at Deni, standing beside her. “I feel like I just fought a battle with the devil and won.”
Her friend met her eyes and smiled. “It’s a great feeling, isn’t it?”
“It is. And if every part of my body wasn’t screaming protest, I might even do a happy dance.”
“Too tired for the Corner Bar?”
The cleaning process had been grueling, both a physical and mental workout. The respirators were unnatural and cumbersome to wear, her upper body ached from the repetitive motion used in the cleaning process, her back and feet hurt from balancing on a ladder for a day and a half, and her eyes burned from straining not to miss a single fleck of the spray paint.
Even so, Mira knew there was no way she’d be able to sleep. “Are you kidding? A drink at this point is a must.”
“My God, they’re beautiful,” Chris said, coming up beside them. “Father Girod would be pleased.”
Mira smiled at him. “I prefer to think that he
is
pleased.”
Deni tucked her arm through Chris’s. “We’re thinking alcohol.”
“Good by me,” he said. “The Corner Bar?”
“Is there anywhere else?”
“The truck’s loaded,” he said. “Everything but your coveralls.”
“Let’s go then,” Mira said.
The two exited before her. She set the alarm, then made certain the door was locked and met them at the truck. After removing and stowing their coveralls, they climbed into the vehicle, Chris driving and Deni in the middle. The Corner Bar, appropriately named because it sat on the corner of Willow and Dublin streets, was a true neighborhood joint. All the regulars lived or worked within walking distance of it. And that included Mira and her crew—the studio was located just a couple blocks over.