Worthy had taken up Rabbi Milkin’s invitation to meet early that Friday afternoon before Sabbath services began at sunset. With Father Fortis in tow, he exited I-696 and drove northwest out of downtown toward Bloomfield Hills. With each block, the lawns were greener, the sidewalks newer, straighter, whiter. KFCs and Popeyes yielded to ethnic and health food options. Leaving the actual city limits, Worthy took note of the glaring contrasts as he had a thousand times before. Drugstores with actual windows stood beside gas stations with attendants who no longer hid in bullet-proof bubbles. Delis with white wrought-iron furniture and sun umbrellas snuggled up next to wine bars and florists, while women nonchalantly pushed strollers, unaware they were no more than two miles from crack houses.
Volvoland, Worthy thought. In Detroit, the drive from third world to first world was shorter than the time it took to finish a Big Mac and fries.
“Christopher,” Father Fortis said, interrupting his thoughts, “I appreciate that you’re letting me come along to meet this rabbi. But what did you mean on the phone when you said not to get my hopes up?”
Worthy fished out the last few french fries from the bag sitting between them. “I’ve met his type all too often. They want so badly to do something to catch their friend’s killer that they begin to think of ways that they can. He’s going to have a lot to say, but statistically his type is hardly ever that helpful.”
“Statistically? Since when did that matter to you, Christopher? I mean, a rabbi and an Orthodox priest. Let me tell you, that’s not a very common friendship.”
“Two old guys. Who knows, maybe they met in a coffee shop.”
“Ah,” Father Fortis added, fingering his pectoral cross, “but don’t forget this particular ‘old guy’ gave Father Spiro some very unexpected reading material.”
They found the synagogue, a new building set low and unobtrusively within the residential neighborhood. On the façade, a stone-relief bush with copper flames bore the name CONGREGATION BETH ISRAEL in English below Hebrew lettering.
The two walked through the front doors and followed the sign down a hallway to the rabbi’s offices. There, a man in his seventies with bushy white hair stood watering a fern. After introductions, the three went down the sunny hallway to an office.
The rabbi offered chairs to both visitors and then nodded in Worthy’s direction. “I see you brought my book back,” he said. “I’ve been wondering all day how to explain that. But just before you came, I realized something. How can you make sense of the book if you don’t know how Spiro and I became friends?”
Rabbi Milkin paced the office, moving from his desk to the windows overlooking the snow-covered lawn outside. Before speaking, he took out a handkerchief and blew noisily into it. “Imagine,” he said, pointing to the trees outside, “bare trees, and I’m still allergic. Spiro would have said it was penance for something.”
“Leah, Leah!” he called loudly to the open door. “Make us some coffee, please.” He turned to Father Fortis. “You’re his replacement?”
“Temporary replacement, just until the metropolitan—the bishop—makes a decision.”
“I’m glad you came along. You will maybe appreciate that our friendship was rare, yes?”
“I have wondered about that,” Father Fortis replied.
“By chance, strictly by chance. It was at one of those Jewish-Christian conferences, over at Allgemein College.” A look of disgust crossed the old man’s face. “Two or three years ago, who can remember? We both found a way to leave the same session and found ourselves drinking coffee. We felt the same way about the conference. A few intellectuals agreeing that your Jesus was a simple rabbi. As if that would solve everything. Spiro told me he found the whole thing silly. I said he was right.”
Father Fortis leaned back in his chair, realizing how right Worthy had been. Out of this man’s respect for his dead friend, the rabbi would spare no detail.
“We started to meet every two or three weeks for lunch and to commiserate about the pressures of our line of work. Sometimes we’d talk theology, but Spiro’s brand was too mystical for my blood. He was as bad as our Hasidic brothers and sisters,” Rabbi Milkin said with a laugh.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Worthy asked.
“If I answer that, what will you know? Nothing.”
The secretary came in with the three cups and a tray of cookies.
“Almond crescents,” Rabbi Milkin said. “Spiro’s favorite, right, Leah?”
“Bless his memory,” the secretary added as she left the room.
The rabbi slowly munched a cookie while continuing to gaze at Father Fortis. “My family emigrated from Russia to Palestine, then here. We were driven out by Russian Orthodox Christians, so you will understand that it was a miracle for Spiro and me to find friendship. But even miracles are fragile.”
He took a long sip from his cup as he stood by the window. “One night I couldn’t sleep. I turned on the TV and heard one of those late night preachers. I thought he was funny, but then he said God didn’t listen to the prayers of Jews. He said we weren’t saved. And in that moment I was a boy back in Russia, waiting for someone to knock on my door in the middle of the night. I didn’t sleep at all.”
After a moment’s pause, he continued. “The next day, I called Spiro and asked him to come here. He did. I told him what had happened. Then I demanded that he say the preacher had blasphemed. Do you know what he did, what my friend did?”
Father Fortis shook his head.
“He laughed and told me not to take the fundamentalists so seriously. I exploded and said something horrible. I said I knew what his liturgy—what your liturgy—calls us during your Holy Week.”
Father Fortis looked down at his cup of coffee but didn’t respond.
“You call us ‘the synagogue of Satan.’ Then I said it was people like him, like you, too,” he added, nodding toward Father Fortis, “who’d killed my grandfather.”
“When did you have this argument?” Worthy asked.
“Does it matter? Maybe a year ago, maybe a month or two more or less. The important thing is that four weeks ago, Spiro walked back into this office and asked for a cup of coffee. We embraced, I asked him to forgive me, and he asked me to forgive his people. We had some almond crescents and agreed to start meeting again. Like old times. But then someone killed him.”
“How did he seem that last time? Mentally, I mean?” Worthy asked.
“He’d lost more hair, and he was a man very proud of his hair,” the rabbi said. “I was surprised. I asked if he’d been ill. He said no. I told him to retire.”
Father Fortis and Worthy waited patiently while the rabbi continued to stare out the window. “What did he say to that?” Worthy asked.
“Something strange. He asked if offering forgiveness could ever be wrong, if there were times when absolution gave evil too many chances.”
Father Fortis remembered the underlined section of the book. “Did Father Spiro say why he wanted to know that?” he asked.
The rabbi shook his head. “May I show you something in the book, please?” After Worthy handed it to him, he opened it to a page before looking up. “This chapter discusses the limits of kindness, especially when faced with unrepentant evil.” The rabbi took out his handkerchief again and blew into it. “I told him to read it and we’d talk about it the next time we met. But—”
Father Fortis struggled to understand the odd concept of a limit to kindness. And did that mean Father Spiro had done something he was ashamed of? Or was he concerned about someone else, someone in the parish?
Worthy rose from his chair. “Rabbi Milkin, your friend Father Spiro faltered during the service on his final Sunday. He stopped midway in one of the processions. And from what we can tell, he never explained why that happened.”
Rabbit Milkin shrugged, looked out at the trees, and then laughed. “Maybe he had one of his mystical moments of illumination. What my Hasidic brothers call ‘the veil of the visible world being pulled back.’ I used to tell Father Spiro that he was too much like the Baal Shem Tov. Ah, I see you don’t know that name. The Baal Shem Tov was the founder of modern Hasidism, the most mystical form of Judaism.”
The rabbi took a pamphlet from off the desk and came around to hand it to Father Fortis. “This I want you to read. Maybe it is Spiro’s legacy, something he wrote during your Lent for his church newsletter. He explains the ancient origins of the anti-Jewish language of your Holy Week liturgy, which didn’t interest me at all, but then he writes something extraordinary. He tells his people the language of the liturgy must be changed. He laments how the language could promote anti-Semitism. Can you imagine?” The rabbi grabbed Father Fortis’ arm, and tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. “Your church is as tied to tradition as we are, yet Spiro was asking for this change. I will always cherish his memory, not just for friendship, but for his open heart.”
As the three said goodbye at the door, Worthy asked a final question. “You said on the phone you thought you knew who killed Father Spiro. Who is that?”
“Why, I thought I made that plain. On his last visit, Spiro gave me the impression—not in exact words, but there are other words, are there not?—that he was searching for the courage to face someone, someone who he’d come to believe was evil. I believe he did that, and that person killed him. Yes, of this I am sure. Someone in his church killed Spiro.”
Worthy sat in his tiny kitchen Friday night and all Saturday morning, the file of Sherrod’s three suspects open in front of him. But his attention was only moderately given to the fairly standard arrest sheets of Allen Lashad, Luther Rimes, and Carl Bales. Rather, he kept looking at the phone that never rang. His daughter Allyson and he wouldn’t be going to the cabin this weekend. Was I a fool to think she’d ever agree? he wondered.
In the years since the divorce, each had become an expert at keeping the other off balance. They seemed to be forever circling each other, but with different goals in mind. Worthy wanted nothing more than to find some grip that would offer hope of a future relationship. Allyson seemed intent on staying clear of her father, yet always close enough to train her sharp tongue on him. Allyson was an equal opportunity abuser, lashing out at her mother as well as her younger sister Amy, who shared the same household. They too had received the clear message that Allyson wanted a bubble of privacy around her. But with her father, Allyson expressed through her therapist her desire that he stay away entirely. When he did, she chastised him for caring so little about his family. Worthy had hoped that a weekend at the family cabin, just the two of them, would allow him to figure out what she really wanted from him in this last year before college.
“Not this weekend, maybe never,” he said to his empty kitchen as the clock struck eleven.
He’d been unable to concentrate on the Suffolk file, finding more relief in replaying the rabbi’s conviction from the afternoon before. “Someone in his church killed Spiro.” He’d like to think Rabbi Milkin was right. That would account for the straightened vestment piece and perhaps be confirmed by the missing book, once found. If found, he corrected himself.
But there was a way of considering the rabbi’s accusation that led him to totally dismiss it. What he’d hoped to gain from Rabbi Milkin was some sense of Father Spiro’s state of mind in the weeks before he was killed. But all he’d really discovered was something of the rabbi’s state of mind as he ruminated on his friend’s murder. The man had leapt from Father Spiro’s odd taste in theological reading to a certainty that the killer was a parishioner. The fact that this man was himself a clergyman—no doubt with a trunk full of his own stories of run-ins with members of his synagogue—made his accusation all the more suspect.
He closed the Suffolk file in frustration and did what he usually did when he couldn’t see the way forward. He cleaned his apartment and watched TV until he was tired enough to go to bed.
He fell asleep sooner than usual, and so awoke the next morning with two hours to spare before the morning service at St. Cosmas, the Service of Divine Liturgy. Making himself scrambled eggs and toast, he sat down at his tiny kitchen table and retrieved the folder on the suspects.
Let’s get this over with, he told himself. The first two, Allen Lashad and Luther Rimes, were exactly the types who would draw Sherrod’s attention. Both had been in and out of jail since they were juveniles. Now in their mid-twenties, both had been picked up only weeks before for questioning on break-ins in the neighborhood. Worthy found that suspicion logical. He could even see them being in the car of a gang drive-by. But strangling a priest? That seemed like something else, a jump to the big leagues.
The third, Carl Bales, was Sherrod and Henderson’s favorite, and Worthy had to admit he was more interesting. Bales was twenty-two, with previous arrests for auto theft, possession of a controlled substance—crack cocaine—breaking and entering and aggravated assault, as well as a stint in a hardcore juvenile psychiatric facility for “impulse control issues.” In two other important ways Bales was different from Lashad and Rimes. He was white and also a skinhead. He was connected with the White Crowns, a gang that had instigated a racial brawl during a concert at the fairgrounds two years before.
Worthy studied the vacant face in the photo and noted the SS tattoo on the side of Bales’ neck. So why would a skinhead hang out in Suffolk? That should have gotten him dead a long time ago.
Worthy turned to the second page in Bales’ file and noticed what must have caught Sherrod’s attention. Bales had been involved in a prior incident over at the church when he was twenty. “Arrested for public disturbance at St. Cosmas Greek Festival, September, 2002,” the record read. “Two months in juvenile detention.”
Worthy closed the file. Bales had a previous beef with the church, sometimes hung out in Suffolk, and probably was robbing for drug money. Yes, a nut job like Bales might be capable of anything. But would he have straightened the priest’s vestment after strangling him? Worthy closed the file and went into his bedroom for a sports coat. Just as he was heading out the door for St. Cosmas, the phone rang. For a moment, his heart leapt at the thought that Allyson had called to explain.
“Lieutenant Worthy? This is Kenna McCarthy,” the voice on the line said.
His heart sank.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” the voice asked.
“Yes, I’m here. But I’m on my way out.”
“Hmm, working on a Sunday morning. Very impressive, Lieutenant. But I only need two minutes of your time.” Her voice was slippery, with a bit of laughter just below the surface, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t help trying to picture her.
“Two minutes, then. Shoot.”
“Someone told me you didn’t enjoy my article. I don’t get it.”
Worthy thought back to all the people with whom he’d shared his complaint. He’d emailed Captain Betts and Henderson to ask what they knew about it, and he’d also vented a bit to Father Fortis. Had he said something about it to Sherrod when he’d barged into his office? “Let’s just say I don’t like your style of journalism,” he said.
McKenna’s laugh sounded metallic, forced. “Really. May I ask why?”
“If you want to waste one of the two minutes, sure. In one paragraph, you manage to single me out, ignore my partner, and crap on another officer. Why don’t you stick with charity balls and fashion shows?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “My column always singles someone out. That’s why people read it, and why most people I flatter call to thank me. But not you. Are you honestly telling me you don’t want the limelight?”
“What I want is for you, and everyone else at your newspaper who has nothing better to write about, to remember something: a priest was strangled in his own church, right in front of the altar. My partner—whose name is Sergeant Carnell Henderson, by the way—and I would appreciate working this case without inane interference.”
“In his own church in front of the altar,” she repeated slowly. “That’s well put, Lieutenant.” Before Worthy could respond, she added, “Look, Lieutenant, I don’t think we’ve gotten off to a very good start. How about letting me buy you lunch. Say tomorrow? I have something I think you’ll find interesting.”
Hadn’t she heard him? “We have nothing to offer each other, ma’am,” he said.
“Oh, Lieutenant, how wrong you are! And ‘ma’am’? How old you do you think I am?”
She’s not going to let go, he thought. Probably her first real story outside those describing who wore what to what party. “Okay. I can meet you for thirty minutes at noon tomorrow at Denny’s on the south side, right off of I-75.”
“Denny’s? My, how elegant. But I’ll be there.”
Worthy arrived at St. Cosmas at nine fifty-five, frustrated that the reporter had made him cut it so close. He’d wanted to observe people as they came in. Now it would be the congregation who would be watching him. He was consequently surprised to find only about fifteen mainly older people sitting silently in the sanctuary. Had he misunderstood Nick’s instructions about the time? He walked heavily up to the balcony and sat in the front row.
But at ten o’clock precisely, bells rang outside and Father Fortis appeared in the doors in front of the altar. Worthy looked down on those below, remembering his childhood in other church balconies, when he’d hoped his father’s sermon wouldn’t be long, hoped his buddies would keep him company, and hoped his funny faces could force a smile from his mother in the choir loft. Now he was in a church balcony again, wondering if a killer could be sitting down below.
By fifteen minutes into this service, sixty people were present as Father Fortis started to process a silver-covered Bible down the side aisle. Worthy watched intently, aware that it was during one of these processions that Father Spiro had frozen up. Altar boys bearing candles and large circular golden medallions on staffs escorted Father Fortis toward the rear of the sanctuary, where the entire group disappeared from Worthy’s view.
But Worthy could still hear his friend’s baritone voice ringing in his ears. And he could clearly recall the reaction of those standing in their places below him, many of them closing their eyes as the melody continued. To his surprise, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, even though the words were in Greek. And to his surprise, he asked himself something he should have wondered about a long time ago. How was it that Father Fortis—with such a voice and all his gifts with people—wasn’t a parish priest? What had ever led his friend to become a monk?
The procession moved up the center aisle toward the altar, Father Fortis trailing with the silver book in hand. Once Father Fortis returned at the altar again, his actions were more understandable to Worthy. A laywoman read a passage from one of the epistles before Father Fortis opened the silver-bound book and read the gospel story of Zacchaeus. The homily was short and well-crafted, though Worthy wondered if his friend’s concluding moral, “just as Zacchaeus, we need to come early to meet our Lord,” was meant as a gentle reprimand to the fifty or so parishioners who trickled into the pews before the homily.
The guy is a natural, he thought, once again wondering what had led him to hide himself away in a monastery. Shortly after the homily had ended, the altar boys followed Father Fortis as he marched the same slow route around the sanctuary, this time holding aloft what Worthy assumed to be two communion chalices. A second procession, Worthy realized. Was this the point when Father Spiro had faltered? Of course, with Father Fortis there was no hitch. His massive friend, robed in the tent of his vestments, chanted in both Greek and English, and again Worthy felt a shiver pass through him.
The service ended with parishioners coming up the center aisle for communion. The congregation, now filling St. Cosmas, was hushed and seemed keenly alert as they stood to wait their turn. Worthy watched as Father Fortis smiled radiantly, spooning the contents of the chalice into the open mouths of all who came forward.
After the service, Worthy rose from his seat. A man behind him in the balcony tapped Worthy on the shoulder, and obviously assuming him to be a visitor, invited him to meet the priest and receive a piece of blessed bread.
Worthy joined the line and accepted the piece of bread from his friend. “Good of you to make it to the whole service, Christopher,” Father Fortis said with a smile. Moving closer, he whispered, “Looking for suspects or trying to make sense of our service?”
“A bit of both,” Worthy replied. “How come you never told me about your singing voice?”
“Yes, isn’t it beautiful?” a woman next to him said.
Worthy noticed a catch at the corner of his friend’s mouth, then a couple of rapid blinks. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. He’d never seen his friend at a loss for words. Nick was positively embarrassed by the compliment.
“Listen, Christopher,” Father Fortis added quietly. “The parish council is having a brief meeting in a few minutes. Would you like to meet them?”
“Might be good. You’ll be there?”
“Of course. They meet in the library, right next to my office. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
Five members of the parish council were mingling in the room when Worthy entered and introduced himself. Another six straggled in over the next five. As Worthy expected, most offered Greek names, though he noted that two were as blond as he. Mr. Margolis, the council president, offered him a seat and passed the plate of donuts his way. From behind him, an older woman who introduced herself as Mrs. Filis brought him a cup of coffee.
Mrs. Filis. Right, he thought. She was the one who discovered Father Spiro’s body. She looked about the old priest’s age and spoke, unlike most of the others in the room, with an accent.
Worthy found it interesting that Mr. Margolis introduced the others by name and then by occupation. He learned that three of the members were lawyers, while another, Dr. Pappas, was a cardiologist. Would he be able to tell him about the old man’s mental condition? Another member, David Sanderson—one of the blond men—worked at the city’s blood bank, while several others were introduced as restaurant owners. Two worked at Allgemein College: a professor of literature named Dr. Stanos and a younger woman, Dr. Boras, a classics professor. Nearly all professionals, Worthy noted. None seemed particularly surprised to have a policeman among them.
Mr. Margolis tapped Worthy on the arm. “We understand you already know Father Fortis.” His comment brought silence to the entire room.
“Yes, I’ve known Nick—Father Fortis—for a couple of years. We spent some time out in New Mexico about a year and a half ago.”
“From the newspaper accounts, that must have been exciting,” Mr. Sanderson said from across the table. Others around the table murmured their agreement.
“Police work is mainly desk detail, filling out papers and answering phones. But yes, that one had some excitement toward the end.”
“And is it true that Father Fortis helped you in—”
Hello, everyone,” Father Fortis said, bursting through the door. “I see you’ve met Lieutenant Worthy. And I see he already has a donut. Is there a chocolate éclair left? Ah, good.”
The group laughed easily and joined with Mr. Margolis in expressing their appreciation for the Divine Liturgy. “Especially the beautiful chanting,” Dr. Stanos added.
Father Fortis put his hands up. “I’m just happy we all got through it. My first time in quite a while, not counting when it’s my turn at the altar at the monastery. But a crowd of twenty monks, half of them hard-of-hearing, is far different than several hundred customers.”
Everyone looked toward Father Fortis, as if waiting for something. Finally, Mr. Margolis said in a stage whisper, “Father, we can’t start until you offer an invocation.”
Father Fortis put the half-eaten éclair down on a paper plate and rose from his chair. The rest of the room followed suit. “You’ll have to forgive me for not knowing the ropes,” he said. He offered a brief prayer, which ended with everyone crossing themselves before sitting down.
“I asked Lieutenant Worthy to attend our meeting for several reasons,” Father Fortis began. “As most of you know, he has been put in charge of the case.”
“What about the other lieutenant?” Dr. Boras asked.
“Lieutenant Sherrod,” Dr. Pappas said. “Not what I would call a courteous man.”
Again, murmurs of assent circulated around the table.
“George Bagios made a point of telling me this morning that we’re in much better hands,” Mr. Margolis said, sending a broad smile Worthy’s way.
“You do understand that Lieutenant Sherrod wasn’t removed from the case,” Worthy quickly interjected. “He was needed on a federal matter.”
“But can we be assured he won’t be back?” Dr. Stanos asked.
“I think you can assume that, although Sergeant Henderson is still working on the case.”
“The Black?” Mrs. Filis asked.
“Yes, yes, Irene,” Dr. Pappas said hurriedly.
“Let’s begin the meeting, then,” Father Fortis said. “Mr. Margolis mentioned before liturgy that the council wants to begin planning for Father Spiro’s forty-day memorial. Because of a conflict in Metropolitan Iakovos’ schedule, he has asked that we have the memorial in two weeks, so that pushes things up a bit. We all know that the memorial must be handled with great care and dignity.”
Mr. Margolis cleared his throat. “Something else has come up in the past few days, Father. A few members of the council and some in the parish itself are wondering about a more permanent memorial for Father Spiro. A plaque, perhaps.”
“No, more than a plaque,” Dr. Pappas objected.
“Perhaps a room dedicated to him, or some new icons,” Mr. Sanderson offered.
“How soon are you talking about?” Father Fortis asked. “I don’t think that’s possible before the memorial service.”
“Oh, no, Father,” Mr. Margolis assured him. “We merely want to take a vote on it today and set up a subcommittee.”
“Go right ahead, Mr. Margolis,” Father Fortis said. “I view this as your meeting.”
“Fine, Father. And we welcome your friend, Lieutenant Worthy. Let’s start with the memorial.”
Dr. Stanos cleared his throat. “I want to make a motion that Father Daniel Prendergast be invited this time.”
“Hear, hear,” Dr. Boras added. “It was shameful that he sat in one of the pews at the funeral. He should have been invited up to the altar.”
“Why?” Mrs. Filis asked. “St. Cosmas has had many seminarians. Why is Deacon Daniel special?”
“Now, Irene, let’s not be contrary,” Dr. Pappas said with a weak laugh. “He’s Father Daniel, not Deacon. For crying out loud, St. Cosmas ordained him.”
Almost under her breath, Mrs. Filis said, “I must have missed that.”
“And Father Daniel brought a lot of new people into the parish,” Dr. Stanos added.
“Including me,” Mr. Sanderson said, staring down at the table.
“I take it Father Daniel was also a convert?” Father Fortis asked.
“Oh, yes, Father,” Mr. Margolis said. “He was here for nearly three years, right after seminary. Very progressive.”
“In those two years, St. Cosmas moved ahead more than it had in the last fifteen to open our doors,” said Dr. Boras.
“I assume you’re talking about more English in the liturgy?” Father Fortis asked.
“Too fast. Much too fast, Father,” Mrs. Filis said in a louder voice.
“He also started a class on Orthodoxy for those interested,” Mr. Sanderson said, just as loudly. “That’s how a number of us became interested in the faith.”
“How did Father Spiro deal with all of this?” Father Fortis asked.
A few members of the parish council laughed.
“He spoke out for change, but only sometimes,” Dr. Boras said.
“But for tradition, too,” Mr. Margolis countered.
“In other words, Father Spiro was a bit hard to read on such matters. Especially toward the end,” Dr. Pappas, the cardiologist, said.
“Such matters? Were there others?” Father Fortis asked the doctor.
“Let’s be candid. We all loved Father Spiro, but he had his weaknesses, just like anyone else. Whether you agreed with Father Daniel or not, at least he offered a clear position. With Father Spiro, who could tell? One week he chanted the liturgy almost entirely in English, and a person thought, okay, here’s the change we need. But the next week, it was nearly all in Greek.”
“And that was when Father Daniel’s face would turn bright red,” Dr. Boras added.
“Yes, yes, I understand about the English. But what else?”
From the other end of the table, one of the lawyers spoke up. “There was the issue of whether the parish should move. Many of the parish said ‘yes’ very clearly. They want to get out before the value of the property goes down even further.”
“Not to mention the safety issues,” Mr. Sanderson said.
“Father Spiro couldn’t stay focused on it, at least over the last couple months,” the lawyer finished off.
Worthy listened quietly, aware that he was learning more about the victim’s state of mind in five minutes that he had in the half hour with Rabbi Milkin.
“Where did this Father Daniel stand on the issue of moving?” Father Fortis asked.
“He definitely wanted St. Cosmas to stay right here,” Dr. Boras said. “And even though I didn’t agree with him, he made a strong case. He said we’d be abandoning the neighborhood just when her needs are greatest.”
“We should be ‘the church in the midst of the pain of the world,’ ” Dr. Stanos said. “Wasn’t that how he put it?”
A few agreed, though Worthy could feel a new tension in the air.
“And when was it Father Daniel left St. Cosmas?” Father Fortis asked.
Mr. Margolis answered. “About a year ago. It was his choice, I should add. He was given permission by the archdiocese to start a new parish in East Lansing.”
“A wise decision on the archbishop’s part,” Dr. Boras said. “Father Daniel was beating his head against a wall here, and he’s certainly doing well with the university set over there.”
Worthy could sense all eyes on him as he brought out a notepad and wrote down the young priest’s name. The meeting moved to the matter of the more permanent memorial for Father Spiro, with the cardiologist, the two university professors, one of the restaurateurs, and two of the lawyers agreeing to serve on a planning committee.
That business finished, Father Fortis asked for the floor. “Before we leave, I want to give Lieutenant Worthy a chance to ask any questions he might have for this group.”
Worthy cast his eyes around the table. “First, I’ll ask a very typical police question. Lieutenant Sherrod probably asked it already, but I don’t see it in the file.”
If these people are as bright as they seem, they’ll see through that in a minute, Worthy thought. Sherrod had never asked the question he was going to ask, because he’d believed from the moment he heard the altarpiece was missing that he knew motive. “Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Father Spiro, someone who’d maybe argued with him over the last few weeks.”
The reaction in the room caught Worthy by surprise. First, one parish council laughed, then several more, until finally everyone in the room, including Mrs. Filis and even Father Fortis, were laughing.
Mr. Margolis tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re laughing at ourselves, Lieutenant, not you. You see, we Greeks tend to argue. We argue at home, at work, but even more at church. We haven’t done much today because we’ve been on our best behavior with Father Fortis and you.”
“So you’re saying Father Fortis may have argued with many people in the last month or so?”
“Oh, yes, including nearly all of us,” Dr. Pappas confessed with a smile.
“I think what Lieutenant Worthy would like to know is whether there’s anyone in the parish whose problems with Father Spiro had gotten out of hand,” Father Fortis clarified.
“In the parish? Why are we talking about the parish?” Mr. Sanderson asked.
“That’s the way I always begin a case,” Worthy explained. “In an investigation such as this, my approach is to take the life of the victim very seriously. I want to know as much about Father Spiro as I can. Ever since I was assigned, I’ve been trying to understand what had Father Spiro worried or preoccupied. So, if anyone stands out as a person who might have been a particular concern to him, I need to know.”
“But what does that have to do with the robbery?” another of the lawyers asked.
“The thief was from the projects, which is precisely why St. Cosmas needs to move,” a restaurateur said.
“We’re still pursuing that line of questioning,” Worthy assured them. “To be more exact, Sergeant Henderson is doing that. He believes it will prove the most hopeful direction.”
“And you don’t agree?” Dr. Boras asked.
“Give me a few more days before I answer that. At least give me until we complete some interviews.”
“Now I’m a bit confused,” Dr. Stanos said. “Are there two separate investigations going on all of a sudden?”
Yes, these people do indeed like to argue, Worthy thought. They had met him only thirty minutes ago and had already taken off the gloves. How hard would they have been on the old priest? “There is only one investigation, and I’m in charge,” he stated, looking around the room.
“But you just said that you’re not looking into the projects,” Mr. Sanderson added.
“I intend to look into everything. But I’m also trying not to narrow the investigation too early.”
“That seems fair enough,” Dr. Pappas said.
“So, back to Lieutenant Worthy’s question,” Father Fortis said. “Can you think of anyone who posed more than the usual challenge for Father Spiro?”
“Please understand that I’m not accusing anyone, but wouldn’t you agree,” Dr. Boras began, looking around the room sheepishly, “that Lloyd Hartunian might have been someone who troubled Father Spiro?”
“Lloyd Hartunian?” Dr. Stanos said. “Do you honestly consider him dangerous?”
The female professor shrugged and looked down.
“Now, now,” Dr. Pappas said, “I think Lydia has a good point. I saw Hartunian corner Father after liturgy on more than one occasion. I’d say you should talk with him. Again, we’re not accusing anyone, of course.”
“You can find his address in the church directory,” Mr. Margolis added, “though I’m not sure Mr. Hartunian’s picture—and that of the woman he sometimes comes with—is in there. By the way, was he in church this morning?”
The restaurateur who’d advocated for the parish to move shook his head. “I was working the candle stand in the narthex, Lieutenant, and he didn’t come through.”
“Hartunian,” Worthy repeated, jotting down the name. “There’s just one more thing. Father Fortis brought it to my attention.” He passed out the first of the photos, the one of Father Spiro caught off guard by the church photographer. “Mr. Bagios took this a few days before your priest’s death.”
Worthy studied the faces in the room as the photo was passed around the table. He caught a few grimaces, while others quickly looked away.
“You might have noticed a book on Father Spiro’s desk in that photo. We’d like to find that book. Here’s a close-up.” He passed the enlargement around the room and watched as each person on the council studied the photo and shook his or her head.
“It looks like one of those old accounting books, but Father Spiro, bless his memory, was not a man who understood figures. Why is it so important?” Mr. Angelo, the oldest man in the room, asked.
“It may not be important at all,” Worthy said, “but in the other photos taken by Mr. Bagios that day, the book is missing. We find that interesting.”
“I guess we can assume the case isn’t as close to being solved as we thought,” Dr. Pappas said.
“It’s somebody from the projects,” Mr. Angelo muttered. Others began to talk with those next to them.
“One at a time, please,” Dr. Pappas said. “The parish isn’t going to want to hear that the investigation is starting over, Lieutenant.”
“So don’t tell them that,” Worthy replied. “We’re not starting over, just looking into everything. The book in the photo may mean nothing, but as I said, I don’t want to narrow the investigation at this point. Father Fortis and I are just starting to get to know Father Spiro.”
“God bless both of you on that front, Lieutenant,” Mr. Margolis said. “Your task won’t be easy. I don’t believe I’m breaking any confidences when I say that many of us in this room were worried about dear Spiro. We’d tried for some months to have a candid discussion with him about retirement.”
“Tried?” Father Fortis asked.
“Yes, tried. I went to see him privately only two weeks ago to broach the subject. He put me off, just as he had so many times before.”
“He didn’t want to retire?”
“That’s what’s so odd,” Mr. Margolis said. “Six months ago, he approached me to talk about it. But when I brought it up recently, he changed the subject. Two weeks ago, he said he had some matters to settle. But then he had that embarrassing lapse during liturgy. How could we put it off any longer?”
“And he never offered an explanation for what happened that Sunday?” Father Fortis asked.
“I talked to him right after the liturgy,” Dr. Stanos said. “He acted like nothing had happened.”
Mr. Margolis, the parish council president, reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his brow. His voice was clouded with emotion when he spoke. “I just remembered what he said the last time we talked. He said he’d explain everything to the parish council at our next meeting. He said he would tell us in confidence. That would have been today.”
“So, what do you think of the council?” Father Fortis asked, taking a bite out of his hamburger.
“The parish council? Very bright, I’d say, and lots of people used to getting their way.”
“Amen to that, my friend.”
“I don’t envy you, Nick. No wonder Father Spiro had bags under his eyes.”
“We Greeks are fond of saying we treat everyone like family. The problem is we don’t treat our families very well. Love, yes, but not respect.”
“Which makes it all the more interesting that Father Spiro was holding off retirement,” Worthy commented. “Mr. Margolis said the old man was waiting to finish something, but nobody in that room seemed to know what it was.”
“And if the parish council doesn’t know,” Father Fortis mused, “who does?”