As soon as Father Fortis stepped into his office, something made him instinctively step backward.
“Come in, Father,” the voice said. “I was hoping you’d hear my confession.”
Father Fortis turned on the light but nothing happened.
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Father.”
From the candle burning below the icon of St. George, Father Fortis saw something glistening in the visitor’s lap. The voice sounded familiar, but his brain was lagging behind.
“I don’t know how you got in here, but I’m needed at the hospital. An emergency.”
“Mrs. Portis with her stroke,” the person said, waving the gun at him. “Why don’t you sit down, Father?”
Father Fortis came into the office and walked around his desk. He slumped into his chair, where he could see clearly the person who had tricked him on the phone. Of all the possible suspects in Father Spiro’s murder, this man had never been on Father Fortis’ mental list.
“Relax, Father,” the man said. “I don’t think I’ll need this,” he said, lifting a gun, “but I wanted to make sure we’d have our little chat.”
“Dr. Stanos, right?”
“Call me John. And you, as I remember, are Nick. Right?”
Father Fortis didn’t say anything, his brain racing. Why would Stanos, a history professor, want to kill his priest? He thought of the icon exhibit coming up at Allgemein. No, that couldn’t be it. What else was there? Something Father Daniel had told him came back. He’d been assigned by old Father Spiro to work with Stanos in training the altar boys. The altar boys … the altar boys. Suddenly, Father Fortis made the connection. The boy who came to Father Spiro about his sexual identity fears must have been an altar boy.
“I found your performance this morning spellbinding. At first, I thought you were play-acting, trying to see if I’d bolt for the door. But then, I thought, ‘Our new priest isn’t that good an actor.’ No, I think you figured out something this morning. Something about Father Spiro’s untimely, and may I add unnecessary, death.”
“You mean his murder, don’t you?”
“Patience, Nick, patience. Now, what could you have figured out this morning? That’s what I’ve been wondering all day. What does this monk know, or think he knows? Here I am, thoroughly enjoying your chanting when you stop a few rows past me, exactly where Father Spiro stopped. Did I say how much I was enjoying your voice? Your Greek is flawless, so well-cadenced, so effortless. Really, Nick, don’t you think it a sin to hide your gifts in a monastery?”
Father Fortis didn’t respond.
“Then I watched you as you took up the chant again. Will you look back at me? No, you’re too interested in your policeman friend, who’s nearly falling out of the balcony.”
“Perhaps I should warn you that Lieutenant Worthy is due here any moment.”
“Nick, really. How are we going to have an honest confession if you persist in lying? I believe he thinks you’re at the hospital.”
“I will hear your confession, Dr. Stanos. If I’m right about Lieutenant Worthy, we don’t have much time for you to unburden your soul of this terrible sin.”
Stanos laughed uproariously. “Terrible sin? Unburden my soul? Do I sound like someone drowning in guilt?”
Father Fortis studied the man before him. How proficient would a history professor be with a handgun? Yet the man was clearly calm, his tone playful. Too dangerous in his present state to find out. Maybe he could ruffle his confidence at bit.
“You must know the gravity of your sin, of killing someone who brought Christ’s forgiveness to you every Sunday. You stand in the shoes of Judas, Dr. Stanos. Your gun can’t change that.”
Stanos leaned forward, gazing intently at Father Fortis. “I told you already that I don’t expect to use this. You see, I’m here to offer you a chance to understand a tragic event beyond the normal issues of fault and guilt. The truth is I killed Father Spiro in self-defense.”
“Self-defense? Father Spiro was an old man, while you’re obviously still quite fit. Are you telling me he attacked you, and you were forced to strangle him?”
“Nick, Nick. Please try to transcend the surface appearance of things. If someone breaks into a home and holds a gun on that family, would anyone charge the father of murder if he managed to take the gun away and kill the intruder?”
“A ludicrous comparison. Father Spiro—”
Stanos cut him off. “Father Spiro was intent on destroying my entire life—my reputation, my position in the community, and my family’s livelihood—as surely as if he was holding that gun.”
“You make no sense.”
“Sense? What sense does this make? The old man had an appointment with the dean of my college for that Wednesday. Do you know why?”
“We’d been led to believe it concerned the icon exhibit,” Father Fortis replied. “I can see now that it was something far more serious.”
“Spiro asked to see me that Tuesday morning, and I assumed the same thing. My second guess is that he wanted to discuss his retirement. After all, that faltering in the liturgy made things pretty clear to everyone. I came, intent on assisting in any way I could. I guess you could say I came in a Christian mood.”
Father Fortis pondered the comment. Was it possible Stanos still didn’t know why Father Spiro had stopped that Sunday? “Don’t mock the dead, Dr. Stanos. You came to kill him.”
Stanos rose slightly, his hand slamming down on the edge of the desk. “No! And please have the courtesy to let me finish before you decide who was mocking whom.” He sat down again, the smile returning. “It was a beautiful January morning, cold but bracing. Perfect weather for gloves. Lucky for me, you might say.”
Father Fortis shook his head. “Instead of these rationalizations, I beg you to confess your sins and throw yourself on the mercy of God. Things could be … difficult after the police arrive.”
“Oh, my, perhaps I underestimated you, Nick. You’re sounding as obstinate as old Spiro.” Stanos paused ominously, gazing down at the handgun.
This isn’t good, Father Fortis thought. I have to keep him talking on the odd chance Christopher will come through that door. “You left a clue, you know,” he said abruptly. “That’s why we knew it was someone in the parish.”
Stanos’ eyes rose from the gun. “Don’t insult me,” he sneered. “The only clues I left pointed to a robbery gone amok.”
“Then you left the clue unconsciously, Doctor. Perhaps you wanted to be caught after all.”
“Are you stalling, Nick?”
For the first time, Father Fortis detected a break in Stanos’ confident tone. “Not at all. After killing Father Spiro, you bent down and straightened his epitrachelion.”
“What?” Stanos snorted.
“It’s right there in the police photo. Your neatness tripped you up, Doctor.”
“Not me, Nick, not me. I took a mental picture before I left and everything looked perfectly natural.”
“But murder isn’t natural. People do strange things.”
“No! It wasn’t me!” Stanos lapsed into silence for a moment. “But I believe you. Otherwise, why didn’t the police stay in the projects, leaving you and me to plan a fitting memorial for Spiro?”
Stanos gazed down again at the gun. “You see, none of this had to happen. An old man gets a crazy idea in his head, and he decides to destroy my whole life, not to mention my family’s. What could I do?”
“You mention Father Spiro’s crazy idea. Let me make a guess. A young man, an altar boy, confesses to Father Spiro that he is experiencing sexual confusion. He hints that someone close to him encouraged this, but he won’t say who.”
Stanos glared up at him.
“You see, I lied to the parish council,” Father Fortis continued. “We found that missing book.” He waited a moment for the information to sink in. “It turned out to be a confidential confessional diary. The boy’s pain is all over it.”
“But not my name, Nick, or I’d be talking to the police instead of you right now. I want to tell you something, and then I want you to tell me if you think I’m guilty. For twenty years, I’ve worked with the altar boys here. Never did I violate that trust. Do you want me to count how many have grown up and asked me to be godparent to their children? They came to me when they couldn’t even talk to their parents or old Spiro. Sometimes, I was the only one who knew about their girlfriends missing a period, their pot smoking, their brushes with the law. Does that sound like someone who ‘confuses’ boys?”
Father Fortis remained silent.
“Like I said, I came here that morning and found him by the altar. He was looking all sorrowful, big sad eyes, and I thought someone in the parish had died. He told me he wanted to give me a chance to confess my sin before he went to the dean at the college. So I sat in the front pew, my gloves and coat still on, this coldness seeping into my body. I’m sure I shivered. I thought the old guy had really lost it. I asked him to tell me what he thought I’d done that was horrible enough to cost my family everything.”
Father Fortis noticed the lack of remorse as Stanos relived that morning. It crossed his mind that revisiting those moments might be a danger to his own safety. Stanos was too bright not to be considering his options with a second priest barring his path.
“He said I had lured one of the altar boys into homosexuality,” Stanos continued. “I laughed at the charge, but he just gave me those sad eyes. That’s when I knew he really believed it! I kept asking myself, ‘Why does this man want to destroy me?’ I asked for evidence. He stood up there by the icons and asked me, like some cheap talk-show host, if I’d hugged boys on occasion or if I’d put my arm around their shoulders. Imagine if you were asked that question, Nick. Given the climate in this country, a rumor like that would drive you right out of this parish.”
“So you’re claiming the accusation was completely false?”
Stanos stared at him. “The truth is this: a certain percentage of all boys will be oriented that way. This old, senile priest, who should have retired years ago, was isolating a few minutes out of my entire life, minutes of great ambiguity. If I offered back some neutral acceptance to a few who were becoming aware of this orientation, is that damnable or commendable? Look, Nick, I’m not gay or even bisexual.”
Father Fortis considered the claim and then realized that Stanos was telling the truth. “No, I can see that you’re something quite different, someone obsessed with being adored. You crave being adored by your students, by Dr. Boras, by the altar boys, and by this troubled boy. Yes, I see it now. The boy’s physical attraction to you didn’t excite you in return; rather, it simply flattered you. You enjoyed his devotion, didn’t you?”
“Spare me the pop psychology,” Stanos replied in a hoarse whisper. “We’re talking about a few minutes … a very few, seen in a very jaundiced light. Think back over your own life, Father. Could you pass such a test?”
Father Fortis tried to imagine some plan of escape. Stanos was obviously nearing the end of his story, and then what? The man sat, gun in hand, between himself and the door. The desk prevented him from throwing his considerable weight at Stanos and praying for the best. His only hope was to keep him talking. “So why didn’t you simply threaten Father Spiro with libel?”
“Oh, come on. Every man has his enemies, especially in academia. In the jockeying for recognition, innuendoes and outright lies abound. The hint of a rumor like this would sink me.”
There was a note of wistfulness in Stanos’ voice. “The college is all about the pursuit of truth, unless it’s about a faculty member’s personal life. When old Spiro wouldn’t see reason, I knew one of us would die that day.”
“And so you strangled him.”
Stanos studied his face. “It was an unavoidable tragedy, but it was his own fault. That’s what I saw clearly that morning and what has remained clear for me ever since. By the way, that’s where you and I differ, Nick.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Ever since we began our talk, I’ve felt your compassion for me. At times like these, Nick, you must remember that compassion clouds reason. I see you don’t yet understand. Let me put it this way. My guess is you’ve lost sleep trying to help this parish along while you help your lame friend, the cop, keep his job. Word has it he’s not doing so well there. Imagine while you’ve been tossing and turning at night that I’ve been sleeping soundly. Even that very first night. No, I’m not lying. I got up the next day, looked at myself in the mirror as I shaved and went off to work. Same captivating lectures. If anything, maybe I’m a bit wittier. Do you think that’s a good cover?”
“I think you’re describing life in hell. Is that what all this bragging is about—to convince me you have no remorse?”
“Reason it out, Nick. I was Spiro’s angel of mercy.”
Father Fortis rose from the chair. “You were his killer! Admit it.”
Stanos gave him a knowing smile. “Reason, Nick, reason. I gave him a better death than he had coming to him naturally, slipping away as he was into Alzheimer’s. I gave him a martyr’s death.” Stanos paused a moment, then continued, “I’ll tell you something no one else will ever know. He never struggled. I caught him by the vestment and started to pull. The old man just relaxed, absolutely relaxed in my grip, and then he just smiled. We did it together, Nick.”
A shiver went through Father Fortis’ frame. “Why are you telling me this if you don’t want to confess?”
“I want to give you a chance. You see, I trust you can do what I’ve done. Call it a confession, if you like, but put reason ahead of emotion. Picture what I’m telling you. See Spiro’s smile as he saw the truth too. He received a good death—quick, almost painless. See it clearly, and you’ll admit that no one will benefit from my life being destroyed. Keep what I’ve told you in the confidence of the confessional, and let us all move forward.”
“And the police? Do you honestly think they’ll give up? Do you really believe the city will let them?”
Stanos smiled. “I have always assumed the worst that could happen is the police will yank some good-for-nothings off the streets. So, you see, your silence means it’s unlikely they’ll ever solve it.”
My silence, Father Fortis thought. Yes, that was what Stanos had come for, to make sure one way or another that he remained silent. Perhaps it was time to think of dying as faithfully as Father Spiro had done. But he would not go smiling. If he was to die, he must find some way for Stanos’ identity to be known.
“So, either I damn my soul as a priest, or you kill me. Is that it?” he asked.
Stanos shrugged and lifted his gun. From down the hall came the sound of the side door opening, then closing with its characteristic bang. Stanos rose quickly, moving behind the door. Father Fortis’ brain raced, searching for a way to alert Worthy to the trap he was walking into.
But it was a woman’s voice that echoed down the hallway. “Are you there, Father?”
What is Mrs. Filis doing here? he thought.
The woman stood in the doorway, her eyes seeking his. “Oh Father, I’m so glad you’re here. I walked over to tell you something … about Father Spiro.”
From behind the door, Stanos motioned with the gun for Father Fortis to get rid of her.
This is my chance, Father Fortis thought. Stanos had been in control of matters for the last five weeks, throwing a brick through a window and directing the investigation back to the projects whenever they’d gotten too close. But he hadn’t planned on this interruption. Should he yell for Mrs. Filis to run for help? No, she’d never understand in time, and then where would they be? Better if he walked calmly toward her and suddenly lurched at the door, slamming it back onto Stanos. Yes, he would throw his weight on him and take his chances. He rose, hesitating for a second to plan his route.
But Mrs. Filis acted first and changed everything. “It was me, Father,” she said, stepping through the doorway. “When you stopped this morning in the liturgy, it all came back to me. What I told the police was wrong. I tried to tell you this morning, but you weren’t in the office. You see, when I saw him lying before the altar, I … I straightened the epitrachelion.” She reached with her hand to close it behind her.
“Oh, my Lord, John, you scared me. What are you doing?”
Father Fortis heard the splintering sound of bone as the barrel of the gun came down full force on the skull of the woman. Racing around the desk, he banged his leg on its corner, the impact of which sent him cascading to the floor. As he struggled to his feet and pushed himself forward, he saw Mrs. Filis totter for a second, losing consciousness just as the gun barrel hit the side of her head a second time.
Father Fortis dove over the crumpled body of the woman, his full weight driving into Stanos’ stomach. He heard the air go out of the man just as the gun barrel glanced off the back of his head. The room began to swim, but he was giddy with the thought that Stanos didn’t want to shoot the gun. He grabbed around Stanos’ waist and locked his hands, squeezing as he had in his wrestling days. The delicious memory of lifting an opponent off the mat came over him. It was the last thing he remembered before the bullet ripped through his shoulder and headed for his heart.