Chapter 2

The body was removed from the church on a gurney, its wheels clacking and squeaking. Harsh morning sunlight beamed through tall windows and revealed signs of St. Ambrose’s age—yellowed wood, jaundiced marble, floors scuffed to a gritty gray. A forensics team searched the church for evidence. Jackson was explaining the broken bourbon bottle to a state cop, hands gesturing, the sweet smell of spearmint gum flavoring his words.

Conley stood near Father McCarrick and the statue of the Madonna. McCarrick nodded toward the young priest at the altar.

“He’s a twit, that’s who he is.”

“I mean his name, Father. What’s his name?”

Keeping Father McCarrick focused was never easy. His mind wandered, banked and dove like a fighter jet, braked and cornered like a race car.

He sighed. “His name is Father Francesco Spinelli. I call him Frank. He hates that.”

“Why is he here? You never needed help at St. Ambrose.”

“He’s not here to help, Matt. He’s here to harm. Frank is the Archdiocese man those morons in Boston sent to close St. Ambrose.” He made a quick sign of the cross and genuflected. “He’s a bean counter, making an inventory before we lock the doors.”

Father Spinelli found the knuckle Jackson had shot off St. Michael the Archangel and held it to the saint’s hand, inspecting the fit.

“The moneychangers finally made it from the vestibule to the altar,” McCarrick said loud enough for Spinelli to turn and shake his head.

“So who made the call about the body, you or Father Spinelli?”

“I did, Matt. I did, of course. If Frank discovered someone here in the middle of the night, he’d pass the collection basket.”

“But didn’t you see the man was dead?”

“Matt, I just came into the sacristy to change a chasuble and stuck my head out to check the church. Never even put the overhead lights on. When I saw someone sitting in the dark, I called to him and he didn’t answer.”

“But he might have been sleeping.”

“Yes, but last time I tried to wake a homeless person, they were frozen as a fish stick. Fell over on my leg and gave me a nasty bruise.”

“So you called the police.”

Father Spinelli had found the wooden May Crowning ladder and climbed the main altar to check the plaster behind the statue of St. Joseph. He poked his finger into a bullet hole in the wall.

“Yes, Matt. I called 9-1-1. Asked for you, in fact. St. Ambrose’s needs one of its own sorting out this horrible tragedy. Besides, it was the only way I could think of to get you to visit your church.”

Conley pointed at the Madonna. “What do you make of this, Father? More vandalism?”

McCarrick looked up at a policewoman in a white lab coat brushing particles of the dried tears into a plastic cup.

“Miracles happen every day.”

“It’s not a miracle, Father.”

“You said that awful fast, Matt.”

Father Spinelli’s ladder teetered and he held the statue’s arm for balance.

McCarrick grinned. “Maybe St. Joe will fall on Frank. Another miracle.”

“Father McCarrick,” Spinelli called, voice shaking. “I need some help, please.”

McCarrick cupped his hand next to his mouth and called, “God helps those who help themselves, Frank. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

A policeman ran to the altar and steadied the ladder as the young priest descended.

“I’m sure this is vandalism,” Conley said, “just like the time Simon O’Neil painted chicken blood on the statue many years ago. I was young, never knew the whole story. Why’d he do it?”

“Because he’s nuts, Matt. A crazy asshole.” McCarrick stopped and crossed himself again, quick knee to the floor this time—almost to the floor. He sighed before he spoke.

“Simon did it because of me, you could say. When I took over I modernized things—guitars at mass, teenage rec center in the basement, BINGO two nights a week. O’Neil fought me every step of the way, wanted to keep the Church in the Middle Ages. An extremist. He thought he’d recruit St. Mary to his side. Gave her chicken blood tears, can you imagine?”

“What did he think that would accomplish?”

“Said he thought the tears would be a sign the Blessed Mother was saddened by a modern St. Ambrose.” The priest shook his head. “Intimidation and extortion. Terrorism, that’s what it was. Religious terrorism.”

“Do you think he did it again?”

“Who knows what that bird is capable of? I’ll tell you one thing. He hasn’t been to a Mass in twenty years at St. Ambrose. I’d know. Maybe he’s taking communion at St. Margaret’s with the rest of our traitorous parishioners.”

“I’ll have a talk with him, Father.”

“I’d say send my regards, but I make it a habit not to fib when I’m standing directly in front of the altar.”

“What about the girl, Father? Do you know her? Her name is Channary.”

“Never seen the poor thing, but I recognized the tongue. Cambodian.”

“I know. Health and Human Services is already looking for a translator.”

“She probably lives down near the Saugus River, you know, where those Asians have taken over. Buddhists, all of ’em. Temple in the house and all that, can you believe it?”

Father McCarrick held the rail for balance, his knock-knees struggling to carry his five-foot-six, two-hundred pound frame. They passed the seat where the victim had been found, the man who’d been identified as Victor Rodriguez.

“How’s Lisa, Matt? How’s that business going?”

Business? You mean my marriage, Father? If it truly were a business, we’d be declaring bankruptcy.

The thought of his failing marriage tightened his throat.

“Fine, Father. We’re working things out.”

“It’s not easy to lose a child. God’s the comfort you need.”

“Tell Him that.”

McCarrick breathed a long sigh and laid his beefy hand on Conley’s forearm. “Matt, I’d like you to be in charge of the investigation. The Church needs someone who’ll fight hard to right this desecration.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Father. The Essex County District Attorney decides.” Conley pointed at a man in a suit. “The D.A. assigned the case to the Massachusetts State Police. Captain Stefanos is in charge.”

“But it’s my church. I’m officially requesting you.”

“I’ll be on special assignment under Stefanos because I was first on the scene. That’s protocol. But don’t worry, the staties are lazy by nature. They rely on locals like me to do most of the work.”

McCarrick nodded. “Good. We need someone who respects the Church, who knows its people. That’s important.”

McCarrick stepped out onto the small porch at the top of the steps to the sacristy. A frigid wind greeted them, wrapping the bottom half of the priest’s cassock around his stubby legs.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Matt. I’m worried. Very worried.”

“About what, Father?”

“Something’s wrong with Ocean Park, Matt. A priest learns a lot about what’s going on if he keeps his ears open. My days are spent at wakes, weddings, family counseling…” McCarrick shrugged, lowered his voice—“gin mills, even. The life of the community unfolds like a Martin Scorsese movie—sometimes joyous, sometimes a glimpse of hell. Develops the instincts, teaches you to know things just by rubbing your belly.”

He looked down at his ample belly as if he’d just discovered it.

“I think you’re wrong, Father. Ocean Park is getting better. Don’t give up on it. You’re just upset because the church is closing.”

McCarrick shook his head. “I don’t think so, Matt, but I know those turkeys at the Archdiocese have made a very bad decision. Something’s wrong. I feel it. Drugs. Gangs. Prostitutes. Murder in St. Amby’s. Jerks like Father Frank poking around.”

The breeze blew the priest’s hair back and framed his round face in a fuzzy black halo, as the statue of St. Francis in the garden cast a long, dark shadow over them both.