Chapter 10
One week after Victor Rodriguez’s murder, Conley pulled into the rectory driveway and parked behind Father McCarrick’s Buick. Mrs. Blodgett was already at the door. Somehow she seemed to know when visitors were coming.
“Prescient,” McCarrick always said about his loyal housekeeper, proud that he’d found a word that made him sound smart and his housekeeper appear gifted. He’d even spell the word.
“Father, she’s nosey,” Conley always corrected. “N-O-S-E-Y.”
She held the door open and her eyes brightened when she saw his damaged face.
“Matt, what in God’s name happened to you?”
“When you fight crime, Mrs. Blodgett, sometimes crime fights back.”
He walked past her into the rectory, into the Sunday-afternoon smell of a roast in the oven.
Father McCarrick sat at the dining room table reading the Catholic newspaper The Pilot, his finger running down the list of morally objectionable movies.
“Where’s Father Francesco?” Conley asked.
“Boston. He and the Cardinal are busy counting pieces of silver. Who beat you up?”
“Bikers at Morgan’s Tap.”
Father grunted. “Morgan’s. Only thing missing in that place is brimstone.”
“Father,” Conley said, sliding into a chair and folding his hands on the linen tablecloth. McCarrick looked at him over the top of his reading glasses. “Victor Rodriguez. He was a parishioner, wasn’t he?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Just part of the investigation. Captain Stefanos never asked you that question. Rodriguez belonged to St. Ambrose parish.”
“Yes. He did.” Back to the newspaper.
“Why didn’t you tell us that?”
“Don’t offer anything you’re not asked. Isn’t that what they tell defendants, Matt? Yes or no answers?”
“Father, you’re a material witness, not a defendant. You can say anything you think is relevant to solving the case.”
“Fine. I found it irrelevant. Happy? I’m not a blabbermouth, you know.”
McCarrick turned pages until he found The Pilot’s morally objectionable book list and put his finger back to work.
“So, he must have come to confession here,” Conley said.
Mrs. Blodgett pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen and placed a cup of tea in front of Father as he answered.
“Yes, he came to confession here. So what?”
The housekeeper laid the spoon next to the teacup, then decided it looked better on the other side. She cupped one hand near the edge of the table and used the other to meticulously sweep the clean tablecloth. Conley waited for her to finish. And waited. Finally, she left.
Asking Father to break a sacred vow would be an awful thing—reprehensible—unethical—downright immoral.
“Tell me what he confessed.”
“Matt!”
“Sorry, but I thought we were playing the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ game.”
“You damn well know I can’t divulge what’s said in the confessional.”
“That didn’t seem the case last New Year’s Eve, Father. Lisa and I heard you tell everyone about Mrs. O’Donnell’s adventures at the church party.ˮ
“I did not.”
“You probably don’t remember. Let’s just hope Father Francesco doesn’t find out.”
McCarrick looked over the top of his newspaper.
“Is that blackmail or extortion, Matt? I get the two confused. Of course, I do remember a confession from a young man who had a stash of nudie books he stole from the pharmacyˮ—he jerked his thumb toward the window—“the one right across the street.”
“That was a very long time ago. Tell anyone you want.”
He dropped the paper on the table.
“Well, let’s bring things up to date if that’s your aim, Matt. Mrs. O’Donnell’s still at it, finds a new friend every time her husband travels to Chicago on business—and guess what? They aren’t always man friends.”
“Father, don’t.”
“And how about Peter Mullen? He skims a bit every week at his bank job. Has a system, says he can’t stop. No one knows except him and me. And now you. Satisfied? Is that what your job is now? Gossip? Salacious enough for you, Detective?
“Arthur McDonough has a girlfriend, but she’s a transvestite, David Manning keeps a collection of child pornography, and Stella Neary, wait until you hear this one, Matt—ˮ
The swinging door moved. Conley pushed his seat back, stepped quietly, and nudged the heavy door an inch. A dull knock sounded, wood against bone, followed by a groan and the slow shuffle of shoes.
He returned to the table. Father McCarrick was still spouting others’ confessions like a sportscaster. His face was flush and perspiration beaded his forehead. Breath came fast.
“Father, stop. Please.”
“Why, Matt? I thought you were enjoying it?”
“Tell me about Victor Rodriguez. He went to sex parties?”
McCarrick sat back and rolled his shoulders as if he were trying to scratch an itch against the chair.
“So? He’s one of many.”
“What did he say about them?”
“Confessors don’t elaborate on their sins. ‘I did it and here it is, Father. Make it right with a few prayers so I can sin again’.”
“What did Victor Rodriguez tell you?” Conley asked.
McCarrick rolled his eyes. “Let’s see, he said there was fornication, sodomy, a little S&M, but only on the last week of every month—ˮ
“He actually said those words? Fornication? Sodomy?”
“Matt, I don’t take notes on these things. It’s too dark in there to write anyway. I’m giving you the gist.”
Mrs. Blodgett pushed through the door with a plate of steaming roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, and two crescent rolls. McCarrick moved the newspaper to create an opening in front of him.
The housekeeper turned slightly, looking straight down as if checking her shoes. “Will you be having a plate, Mr. Conley?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Blodgett. Looks like a nasty bump on your forehead. Might want to be more careful. Kitchen can be a dangerous place.”
The housekeeper lifted her chin and left faster than he thought possible.
“I visited Simon O’Neil,” Conley said when she’d left.
Father McCarrick held up a fork full of mashed potatoes, gravy dripping. “You are determined to spoil my supper, Matt.”
He shrugged. “Sorry. Simon hasn’t changed much.”
“At least we know it wasn’t him painting the statue.”
“How do we know that, Father?”
“Because the miracle’s real.”
Conley peered at him. “You know something.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What will it be now? More blackmail? Headlock maybe? Waterboard?”
“Okay. Tell me one thing. Do you know who did this? Is it related to Victor Rodriguez’s murder?”
“That’s two things, but I’ll give you an opinion anyway, my arithmetic-challenged friend. The miracle is real. The Matt Conley I used to know would have realized that.”
He finished the last bite and tore a piece off the roll. He swept the plate with the gravy mop and popped it into his mouth. More pieces, and a dozen swipes later, the plate shone.
Conley stood. He was wasting his time here.
“Going to Morgan’s Tap again?” Father McCarrick asked around the last bite.
Conley touched his tender cheek and winced. “Not anytime soon.”
Father mumbled, still chewing.
“Too bad.”