Here’s the thing about proving someone guilty.
It’s troublesome.
So far the case of Father Louis didn’t involve the justice system, so I didn’t have to prove him guilty beyond reasonable doubt to a jury or judge; I just had to convince the vestry. However, I wasn’t familiar with the inner workings of Episcopalian by-laws; presuming Father Louis had a high-priced attorney on retainer, things would go better if I could prove him culpable beyond reasonable doubt. Assuming he was.
A few ways to do that. I could…
One—Get him to confess.
Two—Accumulate overwhelming evidence.
Three—Take the first-person testimony of multiple victims or eyewitnesses.
Though a brilliant and stalwart and intrepid investigator, neither flagging nor failing in the face of danger, dressed with class and a touch of irreverence, and currently the obsession of Roanoke’s most desirable blonde attorney, I preferred to not do more work than necessary. Ergo, getting testimony from alleged victims would my first choice.
But. The only alleged victim I knew about, other than Jeremy Cameron, didn’t want to speak with me. Which I took in professional stride. Maybe if he knew I was currently the obsession of Roanoke’s most desirable blonde attorney he would feel differently.
I sat at my office, sorting through spreadsheets of All Saints’s expenses. For reasons of transparency, they published a budget online. Specific individual salaries weren’t detailed, but they were included in the personnel section. I didn’t know what I was searching for. Merely hoping something jumped out, like a Louis Illicit Sex fund hidden in the back.
Stupendously banal work. I therefore withdrew my sacred bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue from the drawer and poured a finger of scotch. I preferred to cut strong liquors with ice, but I could manage neat in an emergency.
I was contemplating a taste while examining the church’s missionary expenditures when my phone rang. Jeremy Cameron on the line.
“Mr. August, sorry to bother you again. I know this isn’t part of your job. I need advice and I’m not sure where else I can turn,” he said.
“Happy to help. Is not the church’s vestry a resource available to you?”
“I called Hugh Pratt, but he said we should speak in front of an attorney to be safe. And I don’t have that much time.”
“Ugh. Attorneys. They ruin everything. Even the most desirable blonde ones,” I said, staring with deep reverence into my scotch.
“I suppose you’re right. But I think he has the best interest of the parish…err, church at heart. He still doesn’t know whether to trust me or not.”
“I get it. Calling me’s a good idea.”
Technically I didn’t know yet whether to trust him or not. But I did. More than I trusted Louis. Call it veteran intuition. And he’d been nicer to me than Louis had been.
Through the phone he said, “Father Louis just announced an unscheduled staff meeting later today. I should go. Right?”
“He’s your supervisor. So probably.”
“What if he questions us about the accusations? I don’t like lying. But…should I?”
“Use your best judgment. Lying can serve a purpose. But so can the white hot truth. It rattles people. Either way, record it.”
“This is nuts,” he said. “This is not why I went to seminary. I never fully realized the absolute power he wields.”
“Explain.”
“He’s the rector. He has full control. The staff of receptionists and grounds keepers and accountants and childcare workers and administrators and deacons…they are in awe of him. His word is law,” said Jeremy. His voice was hushed and throaty, probably in his office and he didn’t want his words leaking through the walls.
“What about the bishop? How’s it work? He’s Louis’s supervisor?”
“Bishop Glenn. Louis is far more influential and beloved than him. Sometimes I get the impression Bishop Glenn takes his direction from Louis. I asked for a meeting and he put me off. He didn’t return my recent call either. I don’t suspect collusion; I just don’t rate high enough. Soon I’ll lay on his doorstep until he deals with me.”
While he spoke, I sipped some scotch. It justified the wait, and life was worth living once more.
I said, “What about other clergy in the church?”
“There’s only three clergy here. Father Louis and us.”
“Us?” My Clue Detector beeped. “Who is us?”
A pause. “Sorry. I forgot you don’t attend All Saints. Us, me and the other clergyman: the worship leader,” he said. Even as he spoke, I was surfing to the church’s webpage. Opened up the clergy section and examined the pictures. Nicholas McBride. Good-looking guy, young, fresh out of seminary. He said, “Nicholas and I, we’re clergy but we don’t count in terms of power structure.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re young. We’re kids to Father Louis and the deacons and the vestry. I’m the eldest and I’m only thirty. Technically I’m the curate, or associate rector, but no one thinks of me that way.”
“All Saints is a big church,” I said. “Is it abnormal to have such a young group of clergy?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
I opened up Facebook, the investigatorial tool of champions, and found the page for Nicholas McBride. I celebrated with another dram of Johnnie Walker. It cost a billion dollars per bottle, approximately, so it was vital to milk the experience.
“So at this staff meeting, Father Louis is the king,” I said.
“Correct.”
“Did he invite the vestry?”
“No, he would never. Not that they would oppose him, not to his face. Remember, they hired you in secret. Besides he doesn’t…sorry I gotta go,” he said in a rush and he hung up.
The sudden silence in my ear felt loud.