THEO
SUDDENLY SOMEONE OPENED the door, entered the other side of the confession booth, and said, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. It’s been four years since my last confession. I feel a heavy burden. Too much time in a cage plays on a man’s mind some.”
“Do you wish to confess your sins?” I asked.
“I could confess it a thousand times and never be at peace.”
“If you believe confessing again will bring you peace, then go ahead.”
“I murdered a man,” he said and then paused. “For killing my two children in a drunken rage. He came into our store and shot them, my boys, ten years old . . . confessed it a hundred times, doesn’t matter, still can’t wrap my mind around being a murderer, and you’re just gonna tell me to do some Hail Marys. He’s still dead, kids gone, wife gone, and me, unforgivable . . . condemned.”
“Exodus 20:13,” I said. “A more accurate translation would be, ‘You shall not murder.’ This commandment doesn’t forbid the taking of life under certain circumstances.”
“What?” he said.
“Do you feel remorse for your actions?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Then you are forgiven. Now the hard part begins . . . Forgive yourself.”
He sat silent for maybe three full minutes. I, too, remained silent, recalling that passage I’d read a thousand times.
“Okay,” he finally said. “You’re the first one of you guys to say something like that.”
“You should do some Hail Marys, though,” I said. “Can’t hurt.”
“Thank you . . . I will, Father.” He genuflected and left the booth.
Within a few minutes someone turned the door handle of my side of the booth.
“Other side,” I said. Then the rickety entrance on the other side of the confession booth opened. A short, thin man sat down behind the mesh screen, his breathing quick and shallow. He had his grey denim hat twisted in his hands, wringing it like a dishrag. I could make out a broad, eager smile on his bony face as he rocked back and forth.
“Ah . . . ah . . . bless, yeah, yeah, that’s it . . . bless me, Father—” he stammered, grasping for long-forgotten words. “Yeah, bless me with my sins . . . that’s it.”
“For your sins.”
“What?”
“Fine,” I said. “I absolve you from your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.” I lacked the patience to hear him list them out.
He rocked back and forth on the bench, wringing his hat, then said, “Yeah. So, Father?” He stopped rocking, leaned his face against the mesh and smiled. “Father Riley, right?”
I stared at the thick wire screen that separated us. “Yes,” I said, straining to pull his face into focus; didn’t know the guy.
“So . . . so, I’m s’posed to . . . a—”
“Supposed to what?”
“S’posed ta read ya this note.” He unfolded a piece of paper. “A . . . Ya can’t enter a strong man’s house ’less ya first bind him . . . yeah, that’s it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Dunno . . . Oh yeah, s’posed to say ya have a pretty sister . . . yeah, a real looker, man.”
I stood, hitting my head on the shelf. “What’s your name?”
He bolted from the confessional. I shoved my side of the door, but it stuck. Something was jammed against the outside. I shouted, “Who’s out there?” and jostled the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Rammed my thumb into the button to turn on the red light for the guard to come. No one came. Pounded the door again. “Is anyone out there?”
Then the guard yanked it open and said, “Something wrong in here, Father?”
“Who was that prisoner who came in a few minutes ago? Where were you?”
“I stepped down the hall for a minute. Didn’t see anyone.”
“Then how did he get in here?”
“Well, he wouldn’t have. I have a list.”
“There was a guy who came in and—”
“I think you’re finished here, Father,” he said as he reached inside the booth, grabbed my Bible, and handed it to me. “Let’s get you on your way then.”
“What? No . . . who was that?”
“Told you I didn’t see anyone, and nobody gets in or out without my say-so.” He shoved the corridor door open. “Now, you have a good day.” And then slammed it shut.
***
“Where’s Stamboli?” I asked a young sergeant who now sat behind the front desk.
“Don’t know for sure,” he said. “Think he’s gone for the day.”
He handed me my keys, rosary, and tin soldier. I shoved them in my pocket.
“I need to know the name of one of the prisoners who came into the chapel.”
He picked up the telephone, pressed a button and said, “Would you check the list for who visited the priest today?” He soon hung up. “You had one visitor today . . . big surprise.”
“There were two,” I said. “I want a name.”
“Sorry, Father, I just do as I’m told here.”
***
Somehow it was Toreck. I was sure of it. He’d gotten some lackey to deliver a message. But the guards? How could the likes of Toreck garner their alliance? How could he possibly have known I’d be there today? But then, prison walls have ears and eyes, and while prisoners often make promises and threats they can’t keep, I wasn’t willing to underestimate this one.