I dropped Kix off at his sitter’s—a neighbor named Roxanne, mother to a little girl Kix’s age—and I drove to the McDonalds off Interstate 81, exit 145. Far enough away from Roanoke City and All Saints that we could talk without prying eyes or eavesdropping ears.
A lesser detective would’ve been dismayed to see that Father Louis Lindsey smiled on our rendezvous from a wide billboard inviting passersby to attend a service at his church. But not me; I was merely unsettled.
Jeremy Cameron looked young. Technically not far from my age but I felt like I could be his grandfather in terms of world experience. Stylish tortoiseshell glasses, tight jeans, leather boots, and a knit cardigan. He had freckles and blonde hair that would be floppy if he didn’t cut it soon.
I got coffee. McDonalds had upped their java game but primarily through the use of corn syrup. Or so Manny told me. I didn’t used to care about corn syrup but now I understood that it was pernicious and to be avoided at all costs. Or so Manny told me. So I got the coffee black and I suffered.
Jeremy Cameron got a breakfast platter but didn’t touch it.
“You sleep?” I asked.
“A little, thanks to a couple drams of bourbon. Sorry to drag you all the way up here.”
“No problem.”
“I didn’t want to risk an encounter with Father Louis until you and I spoke and I had some idea what to do.”
“Are you afraid of him?” I asked.
“A little. I’ve seen him angry and he doesn’t control his rage well.”
“I saw that too. When I wouldn’t reveal his accuser.”
Jeremy Cameron paled. “Yeah.”
We were sitting in the corner booth, removed from other patrons.
“You’re single,” I said.
“Correct. I’m not anti-marriage. It just hasn’t happened yet.”
“You went to Vanderbilt Divinity. Graduated when you were twenty-eight? And immediately started working at All Saints.”
“Right.”
“Tell me about him, including the harassment,” I said.
“I’ll start with the positive. He does a lot of good. He’s generous with his money. He’s a very engaging speaker and teacher. He’s well-liked and respected. A tireless worker. Doesn’t drink, smoke, curse, gossip, none of that. Of course, he’s brilliant. Far more intelligent than I am.”
“Do you know the definition of onanism or acedia?” I asked.
“No. Should I?”
“No,” I replied, with no sign of the inward smugness that I felt. Just me and Father Louis knew those words. Maybe I was brilliant too. “Only curious. Carry on.”
“I’ve been with All Saints for three years. I caught signs of his anger issues during the first year, but hey, nobody’s perfect. Plus he’s my church supervisor and spiritual mentor, so I wasn’t about to correct him. Then last year he started calling me into his office for closed sessions. Counseling, you could say. He wanted to know more about my past, my future plans, those kind of things. Then he started to probe deeper. My fears. My sins. My dreams. Sexual experiences growing up. Really intimate stuff.”
“You told him everything?”
“I did. Confessed it all. In my late twenties, being mentored by this larger-than-life and celebrated figure, of course I did. I felt honored. Soon afterwards he asked me to accompany him on trips. Again, I was thrilled.
“The first trip, we went to celebrate the sacraments at a church south of Richmond, stayed overnight, came home. Nothing happened.
“The second trip was to an overnight conference in northern Virginia. We get to the hotel. I park the car. Father Louis checks in at reception. I get the luggage. In the elevator he says, ‘You’ll never believe it, Jeremy. The hotel botched our reservations. We have to share a room. But at least there are two queen beds.’ And I don’t think twice about it.”
“The third trip was to the same hotel in northern Virginia,” I guessed. “And they’d mismanaged the reservation again?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy.
“But there was only one bed this time.”
“That’s right. He offered to take the floor, but I refused. That was crazy. No reason two grown men can’t share a bed.”
“You still didn’t suspect anything.”
“Not until later that night. Going to bed, he said we should pray. Sure, I thought. I mean, that’s what we do. Father Louis wanted to hold hands. So we do, we hold hands. When we finish praying, he says, ‘Amen,’ and he kisses my fingers. Which I was not okay with. Suddenly the moment goes from being holy to alien. And he must’ve known it was too much too soon because he immediately said ‘Good night’ and got into bed and fell asleep. But I was…I was weirded out.”
“You were being groomed,” I said.
“Yes. There are different definitions for that word, not all of them evil, but in retrospect I see he was trying to soften me. Making inroads and inquiries about a potential sexual relationship; I didn’t fully realize it at the time. He arrived at my home weeks later. In the late evening. He asked to come in and I let him. Big mistake. I had more or less dismissed the kissing by then, because he’d returned to normal. But that night, he said he and his wife hadn’t been intimate for years. He looked awful. He asked if he could sleep over. Asked if I was lonely. Asked to hold hands and pray.”
“Inappropriate behavior for one’s supervisor.”
Jeremy’s eyebrows went up. “Very. I kept asking Father Louis to leave. He wouldn’t. He told me I was lonely too. We were both lonely. I sensed disaster. So I stood up and went into the kitchen. Maybe he thought I was getting a drink, but I grabbed my keys and left. Went to the church and spent the night on the floor. The next day he emailed me a note, saying he appreciated my support and my counsel and that he was feeling much better now.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three months. Since then he’s been normal. Every now and then he jokes about it, when we’re alone. Like he thinks he’s teasing me.”
“That night, at your house, you realized he was gay.”
“I decided…” He looked up at the ceiling. His fists were clenched. This was difficult. “I decided he was bisexual. Or, I mean to say, he was willing to experiment with being a bisexual. Or…I don’t know. Let’s not give it a name. How about, that night I realized he was trying to seduce me.”
“Yes. Well said. Why wait three months to speak with the vestry?”
“Because I’m a coward. Because I was shaken to the core and scared. I was mad at him. At God.”
“And at yourself,” I said.
“Yes. Isn’t that stupid?”
“Not at all. He didn’t get what he wanted, but you were still violated on some level. And with that comes a lot of baggage. And much of the baggage isn’t rational or reasonable, including blaming yourself.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. His eyes pooled and he pushed up his glasses to rub them. “Yeah. I know. I’ve told others that in the past. But internalizing is easier said than done.”
I gave him a minute. Finished my God-awful coffee. Stood and went for more. Decided to add in some cream and sugar because I’d rather die early than do that again. Somehow black coffee was better at home.
I came back. “Why’d you decide to speak with vestry?”
“Because I realized he was grooming others.” A sudden fire to his voice. He learned toward me. “He’s running through the same routine he did with me but with others. I know of one man, at least. I checked his schedule and talked with him. It’s not just me. And I…I can’t just watch.”
“But that man won’t come forward.”
“When I talked with him, he admitted it. Kind of. But he doesn’t want to go public.”
“The public is not always kind to…whistle-blowers, for lack of a better word.”
“Exactly,” said Jeremy Cameron. “I don’t know why that is. But it’s true. We think worse of the victim sometimes than of the accused. I have an awful feeling Father Louis might be getting more of what he wants from the other man than he got from me.”
“And you won’t tell me who he is,” I said.
“No. Not yet.”
“Then it’s only your word versus Father Louis’s.”
“I know. And no one will believe me, I’m aware. But…” He raised his hands, palms up, like, What am I supposed to do? His eyes teared again. “I fully expect to be fired. And to never be hired by another church.”
“A heavy burden you’re carrying.”
“I hate him. I despise Father Louis now. He makes me sick. I’d rather fight this and be fired, over letting him continue. Did you know most presbyters or priests don’t like being called Father? It’s a term we don’t use much anymore. But he demands it. Use it enough and you start to think of him as a father, like he’s trustworthy. It churns my stomach now.”
“Did you alert the other man that Louis might be on the warpath?”
He nodded and said, “I did. Were you hired by vestry? Hugh Pratt?”
“Him and Robert Wallace.”
He said, “Robert Wallace doesn’t believe me, I know.”
“Rob Wallace is interested in preserving the church. Right now he’s worried about collateral damage. Which is not an entirely ignoble position to take. Though,” I said, “it’s mostly ignoble.”
“And Hugh Pratt?”
“He doesn’t know what to believe. Which is why I was hired. He wants the truth.”
Jeremy leaned forward. Strained with the words. “Believe me, Mr. August. I’m telling the truth.”
“It would help, Jeremy, if I could talk to the other man.”
“No,” he said.
“What if I find out who he is? Through methods other than you?”
“How would you do that?”
I shrugged. “Chicanery and a plucky amount of derring-do.”
“Do all private detectives talk like this?”
“Only the greats. Does Louis ever email you?”
“Sure, all the time. But it’s never incriminating. He’s too smart to leave evidence lying around,” said Jeremy.
“What about texts?”
“Same thing. Professional or friendly notes only.”
“Be nice to look at Louis’s phone and the history of texts. And yours too. Does the church provide staff with cellphone plans?” I said.
“No but we get an allowance to help pay our own. Why?”
“If the phones were owned by the church, it’d be easy to procure the devices and records.”
“You’re welcome to look at mine anytime. I know our emails are technically owned by the church. But I’m telling you, Father Louis is brilliant. He wouldn’t produce hard evidence that incriminates himself.”
“You’re probably right. But even lucid men can let sexual obsessions suborn them into criminal stupidity,” I said.
He watched me a moment and smiled. It reminded me that Jeremy was a good-looking guy. “You’re just showing off now, with the vocabulary,” he said.
“I was on a roll. I apologize.”
“What should I do, in the meantime? Excuse the expression, but it appears shit is hitting the fan.”
“I got a feeling Louis might play this cool. If he’s guilty, he’s been in disguise for a long time. He can be patient. So you play it cool too. Any encounter with him, record it. Either audibly or with a camera. If you ever feel threatened, call me,” I said.
“What would you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“If I’m being threatened, how would you help?”
“I would stop him. Or them,” I said. “Obviously.”
“Them?”
“Maybe. Probably not. But I would stop them.”
“You can do that? How?”
“Because I’m wearing a spring jacket, you cannot tell that I am ferocious and tough. Trust me. I could stop them.”
“Do you carry a gun?”
“Yes. Though I don’t need one. Again, it’s the jacket throwing you off.” I stood.
“What will you do now?”
“Research. Investigate,” I said. Added defensively, “And maybe do some one-handed pushups.”