Chapter 23

The distinctive smell of Timothy’s coffee wakes me up. There’s an extra-large cup sitting on my night table alongside a bag containing Taylor ham and egg on a bagel. Next to the bag is a note: “You look too sweet to disturb when you’re sleeping. I went for a run and stopped at a Timothy’s for coffee and bagels. Early call. Talk to you later. Enjoy! Giles.”

I look at my disheveled bed along with the clothes on the floor and smile. Then I reach for the coffee. After a couple of sips I get up, grab the bag with the food in it, and head to the kitchen to eat. The wall clock tells me that it’s six-thirty and I hear the usual morning sounds coming from the street below. Looking out the window I see that my street has come to life.

My day is planned. I’m going to look up good old Monsignor Moore. To do that I need to look professional and respectable so after my shower I go through my closet to find the right outfit to wear. I settle on a soft deep yellow summer sweater and pair it with the crème-colored slacks I wore for my lunch with Marie. Yellow pumps complete my look. I pull my hair into a low full bun at the nape of my neck and apply minimal make-up.

On my way to my car I make two calls; one is case related. The second is to Myrtle at home to tell her I won’t be in until the afternoon.

“Okay honey. See you later. I’ll save two of Harry’s cannoli for you.”

****

The office of the archbishop is easy to find. It’s in a sprawling complex of buildings, which includes the archdiocese cathedral. Parking is a bitch though and I find myself several long blocks away from where I have to go. I’m not used to wearing pumps and wish I had on sneakers instead.

Inside the outer office I encounter a receptionist in a glass-enclosed area who asks me why I’m here and who I want to see.

“I’m here to see Monsignor Bernard Moore, if I can. I want to set up a service group for my church, for boys between the ages of eight and twelve,” I lie smoothly. “Bette, the housekeeper, from St. Matthew’s Church in Queens? She told me the monsignor would be able to help me.” I smile in the prim and proper way I’ve seen Myrtle smile when she is requesting something from a stranger.

“Oh, I’m… so sorry, the monsignor isn’t… isn’t here.” I watch her facial expression and she seems tense. She won’t make eye contact with me and her hand right clenches and unclenches a pen. Something’s not right. “I’m quite sure he would love to help you but he’s been called away on… urgent church business. We don’t know when he’ll be back. It can be…quite…a while, I’m afraid. Would you like to leave a number or email where you can be reached?”

“Yes,” I say and give her my home number. My voicemail there has a generic message. She looks at it and says, “And your name as well, please.”

“Cate, spelled with a ‘C’, last name, Harlow. Thank you so much. I’m sorry I missed him and I really hope I get to meet him soon.”

“I’ll give him the message upon his return. You have a good day.”

“You too.”

****

“Hello, is Father Richard Boyd available? This is Cate Harlow. Tell him it’s important.”

Every good P.I. has sources. Most of them come from what is known as the criminal fringes; petty thieves, druggies, hookers, and those who know enough about crimes committed on their home turf to be able to give solid leads and details. They’re like lawyers in that they get paid a retainer to keep their eyes and ears open for your purposes and when they do bring in information they get paid a bonus. Everything is completely confidential between us. I have a few very good sources from the criminal fringe on my payroll but not as many as some investigators I know.

Then there are the other sources you pick up unexpectedly. These are generally people who give you information willingly out of a sense of moral code. They’re reliable and honest the same way a person who witnesses a car accident is ready and willing to give an unbiased, accurate account of what they saw to law enforcement. Father Richard Boyd is one of my honest sources and I’m not above using his help to find out what happened to Monsignor Moore, if anything.

A few minutes pass, then I hear, “Hello? Ms. Harlow?”

“Call me Cate, please, Richard…. Listen, I need your help with something relating to another priest, a monsignor. Is your computer system only able to access your own diocese or can you link into other ones?”

“This one here only accesses our files at this diocese. Why?”

“Shit! Sorry Richard that just slipped out.”

“That’s alright. You should hear me curse when the Yankees are losing. What do you need?”

I tell him the Monsignor Moore story and explain why I want to see if he went through a process of laicization. “He could be a lead on my cold case. I just thought the systems could link up from one area to another.”

“Sorry, that they can’t do but there may be another way.”

“How?” Someone honks his horn at me to see if he can get my parking space. I roll down the window and tell him I have car trouble and am waiting for AAA. He flips me the finger and drives away disgruntled.

“If this monsignor did go through laicization I can still find out. There’s a national list of every priest who either retires from active service or leaves the church. It’s a bookkeeping system really. Even if he was asked to leave, his name would still be on that list. I have to get into the main system, but that's shouldn't be too hard to do.”

“This is short notice but, is it too much to ask you to find that out today?”

“How about a couple of hours? Let’s see, it’s almost ten now; I’m pretty sure I can get back to you with what you need by early afternoon. Will that work for you?”

“That works really well. Thanks Richard.”

That’s one of the best things about moral code sources. They’re willing to get you what you need as soon as possible. I tell Richard I’ll be back at my office by noon and I’ll wait for his call.

While I'm in the parking lot I key in an address to my car’s GPS and open my bag to take out the computer-aged picture of Joshua. Then I start the Edge and follow the audio GPS directions.

****

The building I’m looking for is just outside of the city; a faded red brick one that looks as if it was built in the nineteen twenties for immigrants who came from Ellis Island and needed a place to live. It has a defeated air about it as if it still holds the sadness and homesickness of its former inhabitants.

I park my Edge across the street from the building, grab the large manila envelope on the passenger side seat, and walk over to take a look. A sign inside the foyer listing the office tenants shows me that the place I want is located on the second floor. I walk up the two flights rather than take the elevator that sounds like metal crunching on metal. Getting stuck in that old box could become a life and death situation if no one knows a person is in there.

The second floor is less gloomy than the entry on the first floor and I find the office easily. A sign on the door reads, The Survivors Network of Those Abused by Priests. All are welcome.

I open the door to find a neat little office inside with several desks. A man is talking on the phone and two women seem to be discussing what looks like a flyer that has just been printed out. One of the women notices me and asks if she can help me.

“Yes, I’m looking for a man named Carl. I called early this morning. My name is Cate Harlow.”

“Oh yes, Cate, I’m the one who took your call. I hope you don’t mind me calling you Cate. We use first names here so it feels less formal and restrictive.”

She tells me Carl is in the back room and that she’ll take me to him. Her smile is gentle and I can see people feeling comfortable talking to her. “He’s putting together a flyer and email for our members. He’ll only be a minute.”

The back room is a combination office-lunch area. Carl is sitting at a small desk with a laptop. A screened-off corner section reveals a refrigerator, a microwave, Keurig coffee maker, and a table with a couple of chairs.

“Carl, this is Cate Harlow. She called you this morning.”

Hunched over his computer in concentration, he offers a wave and a “Hi.” After he keys in a few more words he sits back and exhales like a man who has completed a much-needed task and is at last satisfied with his work.

“Hello, Cate. Glad to meet you,” he says pushing his chair back and getting up. “Let me grab a chair for you and then see how we can help. You said on the phone that you were looking for someone?”

“I’m looking for a young man about twenty-five years old who may have come here.”

“Do you know if he was abused?” asks Carl, “Or is this someone from some religious group trying to infiltrate our organization and try to stop what we do.”

“This young man was abused by a priest from the age of nine until he was fifteen. He left home at fifteen; murder was ruled out because a body was never found and unofficially it’s believed that he was a runaway. The police file on him has become a cold case. He would be twenty-five years old now and there’s good reason to believe that he’s in this area. If he’s been here within the last year or so at any of your meetings, then I’ll know for sure he’s still close by. I’m acting on behalf of his sister who has retained me to find out what has happened to him.”

Carl looks at me levelly and says kindly. “Have you tried any of the many homeless shelters in the city? Have you checked with substance abuse clinics? Many of the adults who were sexually abused become alcoholics or drug users.A lot of abuse victims make it to the cities where no one knows them so they can hide what they consider erroneously to be their shame.”

“Those places were thoroughly checked right after I took the case. I found nothing.”

“I’m sorry Cate, I didn’t mean you hadn’t checked them as part of your job; I know you did. My God, sexual abuse and rape are terrible, unforgiveable crimes when they happen to adults. Imagine how much more traumatic it is when it happens to a child! The memories are rooted so deeply it’s hard if not impossible to be able to live a normal life. Even normal sexual relationships that most people take for granted can trigger the horror of what happened in childhood. Living in a drugged or alcoholic haze helps to dull some of the pain for a while.

“We try hard to bring solace to the victims by demanding justice from the legal authorities. It’s only in the past decade that priests were prosecuted at all.” He sighs, “I am a survivor, Cate. I make it my business to make sure the courts don’t forget us.”

“What about revenge? Are there any survivors coming here who want justice no matter how they have to get it? Take justice into their own hands so to speak? There has to be a tremendous rage at having been sexually abused and having been unable to stop it.”

Carl stands and asks me if I want anything to drink. He has iced tea in the fridge he says. When I say yes, he stands up, walks over to the refrigerator, and gets two bottles. He comes back to sit opposite me again, taking a long sip before continuing.

“Revenge? Sure. There have been people who come to meetings who we discover want nothing more than to get back at the person who damaged them and they want to do them physical harm. They’re angry and filled with pain. They don’t stay long because they soon find out that that is not what SNAP is all about. We do what we do legally. You can’t allow visions of vengeance to cloud your mind. The lawyers who work with us are incredibly good at getting the judges to understand what this terrible crime has done to countless lives. Each successful prosecution is a victory for the survivors.”

“Have you ever seen this young man here? His name is Joshua McElroy,” I ask taking the new computer-aged picture of Joshua out of the envelope.

He takes it out of my hands and looks hard at it for a few minutes shaking his head.

“Yes, yes I’ve seen him. He used to come here with another young man, a, wait I remember the other man had a lot of anger at what had happened to him. He felt our organization wasn’t doing enough. What was his name, what was…? I’m sorry I can’t remember the other man’s name; I only remember him because he had a deep scar high on his forehead. They came here about two years ago. The one man with the scar was very open in his anger; he made some of us feel uncomfortable with his rage. But this man…Joshua you said? He was very withdrawn and quiet. He just sat here and sometimes drew pictures on a pad.” He snaps his fingers. “You know what? I have a picture he left here one night. I intended to show it to one of our health volunteers who’s a clinical psychiatrist, but I get so busy that I completely forgot I had it. The artwork is worthy of a Stephen King novel.”

He goes to his desk and rummages around in a drawer. “Here it is. You tell me what you think of this.”

The picture has the same theme as all of Joshua’s drawings; a baby animal whose parents are unaware that he is being stalked by a yellow-eyed, sharp-fanged hyena.

I look at it and hand it back. “When did Joshua and his friend stop coming?”

“Oh, I think the two of them came sporadically for about six months and then they just stopped showing up. It happens; some people want and need to talk about the sexual abuse, others simply can’t. It’s too raw, too upsetting to recall. We lose too many members that way. They can’t see themselves as survivors, only as victims. And of course the vengeance driven ones see our organization as weak.”

I give him my card and ask him to call me if he does see Joshua again.

“You can call either of the numbers on the card but if you’re calling after five, call my cell phone. It doesn’t matter what time you call me. This is information that I need to know.”

“I will call if I do see him here. Good luck with your search. I hope you find him,” he says without much conviction.

As I drive away I get a feeling that someone is watching me.

****

“It's dark, Joey. Where are we? Please put on a light. Where are you? Joey? Do you hear me.’’

The only answer is a door quietly closing, then complete darkness.