Boy Crucified (12 page)

“But to call yourselves the only true Catholics in the entire world? Surely people can see through that.”

“Apparently not. Not if it suits their needs.”

“How does it suit their needs?” he asked.

“When it comes to religion, we have a funny habit of believing things that make us feel better about ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“Heaven,” I said, “is a good example. When someone dies, we want to believe they went to a better place. We want to deny their death, deny its finality. We want to pretend that life goes on, in some other way, in some nice place like heaven. It’s very self-serving.”

“So what’s the payoff for believing you’re the only true Catholics?”

“That’s the oldest sin of all. Pride. Spiritual pride. Believing that you’re better than others. Believing that you’re enlightened, you’re smart, you’re in the know, and everyone else is stumbling about blindly in the darkness. The old us-versus-them. My group is better than your group. My people, my nation, my country, my religion, my gender, my sexual orientation. Old as sin. And it’s a Big Lie. The bigger the lie, the easier it is to believe it.”

“But what does it mean to be a true Catholic? As opposed to what? A false Catholic?”

“Exactly. They’re true, everyone else is false. They’re saved, everyone else is damned. They’re right, everyone else is wrong. They’re special, they’re privileged, they’re in the know—everyone else has been deceived. Waco, Jamestown—it’s all the same story.”

“That’s why they assigned this case to you, isn’t it? Because it’s about religion.”

“You’re sharp as a tack, Mr. Qo.”

We arrived at the gates to St. Konrad’s and parked behind the Chillicothe police cruisers.

The gates were rather large, and there was a guardhouse next to them. A monk sat inside. He eyed us suspiciously.

Grubbs showed him the search warrant for Earl Whitehead, aka Brother Boniface.

“You want to arrest one of our brothers?” the monk asked, incredulous.

“He’s wanted in connection with the murder of a seventeen-year-old boy in Kansas City,” I said. “Could you open the gates, please?”

He looked from me to Daniel Qo to Chief Grubbs and his gaggle of deputies as if trying to judge whether or not this was a joke. It was not. Reluctantly, he unlocked the gates and let us in.

St. Konrad’s was set on a hill, reminding me of the biblical metaphor of a city set on a hill—“let your light shine before men.” St. Konrad’s was not shining, though; it was dark and somber, a huge four-story building with several smaller buildings scattered on the periphery. It looked more like an ancient fortress than a monastery, and seemed far quieter than it ought to be, as if only ghosts walked its halls. If it housed a hundred monks and priests, not to mention a boy’s school with hundreds of pupils, it gave no sign of it.

The main building had a large, white cross on top of it, thrusting itself proudly into the sky. The building was made of dark red brick and had two large wings stretching to the left and the right. The numerous windows seemed like eyes looking back at us, full of questions. In the silence, our feet sounded heavy and clumsy on the sidewalk that snaked through lawns littered with dead leaves and dying flower beds.

It was certainly a peaceful environment, and if one wanted to escape the world, this would be the perfect place to do it.

The monk we followed had not introduced himself. He led us, in complete silence, to the main entrance and gestured that we should show ourselves inside. He hurried off back to his post, his black cassock flapping around his ankles.

We climbed a set of stone stairs and went inside. I was struck by the austerity of the atmosphere: the walls were dark, drab. Aside from a large statue of the Virgin Mary, there were no other decorations in the small lobby, and nowhere to sit, either. It was not a place designed with comfort in mind. Off the lobby were several offices, and we caught glimpses of monks sitting at desks, talking quietly on phones, typing documents, giving us furtive glances.

“This is a cheerful place,” Daniel said.

“Just keep your wits about you.”

There was a commotion in the porter’s office: doors opening, sudden voices. The porter appeared with another man behind him, a priest wearing a black cassock, a Roman collar, and black plastic glasses, who introduced himself as Father Alexius.

“We have a search warrant for Earl Whitehead, also known as Brother Boniface, who’s wanted in connection with the murder of a seventeen-year-old boy in Kansas City,” Grubbs said rather gruffly. “I’d appreciate it if you would produce this brother immediately. If you can’t produce him, we have a search warrant that gives us the right to look over the property.”

“I’d like to help you, but I’m afraid I can’t,” Father Alexius replied. He adjusted his glasses nervously. He looked like something out of the 1950s.

Grubbs glanced at me as if to ask what he should do next.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“Brother Boniface took a student to Kansas City on Friday and hasn’t returned.”

“Was that student Frankie Peters, by any chance?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

“Because he’s the boy whose murder we’re investigating.”

Father Alexius frowned at this bit of information. “There must be some sort of mistake.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t.”

“You’re investigating his murder?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t understand.”

He was either very good at acting, or was genuinely, unpleasantly, surprised.

“You’re not aware of the death of Frankie Peters?”

He shook his head.

Of course, they didn’t watch television, didn’t read newspapers, wouldn’t know what was going on in the world.

“If you can’t produce the suspect, then we will start our search,” I said.

“You are free to search wherever you like,” he said. “We have nothing to hide.”

“Then we’ll get started.”

Grubbs summoned the other officers.

Father Alexius began to walk away, but I took hold of his arm. “I’d like you to conduct a tour for our benefit. We’d like to see the cloister area first.”

“Of course,” he said. “Whatever you need.”

“You seem rather upset,” I said.

“Frankie was a student at our school,” he replied, not looking at me.

“
Was
being the operative word,” I pointed out, perhaps a bit cruelly.

“But surely there’s some mistake.”

“We found fingerprints at the scene, evidence that Brother Boniface may have participated in the boy’s killing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t strike me as a stupid man,” I said.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “I don’t understand.”

“We’d like to conduct our search.”

“You’re saying he killed Frankie?”

“You’re as sharp as a tack,” I said.

“But this is very serious.”

“Oh, indeed it is, Father. Now would you show us to the cloister, please?”

He wiped at his face, seeming to have trouble remembering where he was or what he was doing. He was completely flustered. He took us into the porter’s office, then led us through the cloister door and into their inner sanctum.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked.

“We’ll start with this floor,” I said.

The cloister area, where the brothers and priests lived, was off-limits to lay people, which I knew since I had spent many years in one.

I nodded to Daniel and Grubbs, urging them to get started. They split up, each leading a group of deputies, Daniel going to the left side of the hall to look into the rooms on that side, Grubbs going to the right. I walked with Father Alexius, keeping an eye on all of them and on our own backs.

There was a string of rooms that appeared to be cells where the brothers and priests lived. There were two beds in each. All the doors were open in a way that suggested they were rarely closed. We walked down the hall, passed occasionally by brothers in their cassocks, who gave us odd looks but did not ask what we were doing.

At the end of the hall, we came to a set of double doors.

“Lead the way,” I suggested, motioning Father Alexius ahead.

He pushed through the doors, and we found a small infirmary and chapel, and two more rooms that housed elderly brothers or priests, who looked up at us from their beds and chairs in surprise. There were double doors farther down, leading outside. Daniel went through them, had a look around, and came back inside.

“I told you, he’s not here,” Father Alexius said, his voice shaky.

“We’d like to establish that fact for ourselves, if you don’t mind,” I said.

We walked back down the hall, then up the marble staircase to the second floor, where we found a similar set of cells, and down at the end, another set of double doors leading into a large chapel on one side, and a library and recreation room on the other.

Grubbs, who had his service weapon in hand, went through the doors to the chapel.

“Please don’t take your gun in there,” Father Alexius said, alarmed. He turned to me, his eyes wide.

“We have to look everywhere,” I said.

Daniel followed Grubbs into the chapel. There were places to hide in there, like in the confessional or behind the altar up in front or even beneath one of the pews.

We waited outside until they returned.

We checked the library together.

Nothing.

I couldn’t help but remember other cloisters, other monasteries, other recreation rooms, and what it was like to live with a group of men. It was not an altogether unpleasant experience. It had made me feel safe. It had made me feel part of something, as if there was point and purpose to my life, and while I liked that feeling, I certainly paid a price for it.

We went up to the third floor, then the fourth, but there was no sign of Earl Whitehead. Instead, there was a military sort of cleanliness and order everywhere we looked, from beds with the sheets pulled so tight you could bounce a quarter off them to bathrooms that were ancient and yet immaculately clean, as if no one dared use them. St. Konrad’s was certainly running a tight ship.

We went back down to the ground floor and met up with the rest of the officers, who had searched the other wing housing the boy’s school, classrooms, and dormitory, as well as the main chapel and the refectory, kitchen, the showers, and the janitor’s closet. They had come up empty-handed.

Earl Whitehead was not to be found.

VI

F
OR
about two hours, Daniel and I conducted interviews with the brothers, not one of whom seemed to know anything about anything. An altogether amazing display of collective ignorance.

“It’s a start,” Daniel said as we drove back to Kansas City. It was getting dark and it had been a long day.

“All we’ve got is a fingerprint on a statue,” I reminded him.

“We’ve also got Alan Dobsen,” he pointed out. “The kid who was crucified and then hung himself in the choir loft. The crucifixion thing—just too much of a coincidence.”

“True,” I replied. “But that doesn’t mean Whitehead is our killer. They sell statues of saints—Whitehead could have touched one. That’s all. Whitehead may have given it to the kid, for all we know.”

“But he also went to Kansas City on Friday,” Qo pointed out, “which puts him at the scene of the crime during the time frame of the murder.”

“That may be,” I said, “but Whitehead is gone now.”

“He’s a fugitive.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s your point? I don’t get it.”

“With Whitehead having gone to ground, St. Konrad’s is off the hook.”

Qo made a plane motion over his head and said, “Whoosh.”

“Who’s ultimately responsible?” I asked.

“I don’t get you.”

“I’ve seen it before,” I said rather angrily. “Right-wing nutters, militia types, spewing their rhetoric, protected by freedom of speech. And when one of their followers goes a bit too far… well, what then? They’re off the hook. Freedom of speech. They have the right to say what they want, but they’re not about to be held responsible for the consequences.”

“And that bothers you.”

“Of course it does. I get tired of treating the symptoms rather than the disease.”

“Disease?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“Waco,” I said. “Think about it. It’ll come to you eventually.”

“That crucifixion punishment thing,” Daniel said, “wasn’t exactly a big deal. They didn’t actually nail the kid to the cross.”

“I know,” I said.

They had tied the boy to the cross after putting a crown of thorns on his head and giving him a good lashing. Then they had raised the cross in the sanctuary of the church and left him to hang for an hour as punishment for breaking the rules. The boy had willingly submitted; failure to do so would have resulted in his expulsion from the school.

“It’s still child abuse,” Daniel said.

“Perhaps.”

“But it is.”

“There’s a thin line between religious practices and child abuse. Christian Scientists don’t believe in medical treatment. If their child shares their religious beliefs and doesn’t get medical treatment, well, the child hasn’t committed a crime.”

“Some of those parents have been sued.”

“Yes. But it’s tricky. Freedom of religion gives you a broad scope to do a lot of things that might be considered abusive. Catholics go to Jerusalem and do the Way of the Cross on their knees—they walk the whole distance down on their knees, which must be horribly painful. If their kids want to do it too….”

“That’s a lot of hooey.”

“That’s freedom of religion.”

We drove in silence for long minutes.

Darkness had fallen completely now. The headlights made a swath of bright light on the interstate.

It was hard to sit in the same vehicle with Daniel Qo and not glance at him from time to time, wishing he would take his shirt off, wishing we could get naked and do the hokey pokey.

Juvenile thoughts. But he had roused something in me I had thought was long dead. Lust? Perhaps. Or was it just the need to be close to someone, to touch someone, to be loved, to kiss, to feel the warmth of human skin, to give in to attraction and desire and wistful abandonment?