True Believers (31 page)
Authors: Jane Haddam
Father Robert Healy had had a very hard time sleeping the night before, so hard a time he thought he might not have slept at all. What he remembered clearly was getting up in the dark and the silence to look at his clock. It was three in the morning, and so deathly still he might have been waking in his own grave. It was also deathly cold. He found himself wishing that he had chosen one of those old-fashioned windup clocks that ticked to put on his bedside table. It seemed less important to him, then, that he not be woken by the sound of ticking than that he not feel so thickly encased in isolation when he did wake. He tried closing his eyes and praying silently. He tried opening them and lighting the candle in front of his small statute of the Virgin, as if it might be possible for him to will her to speak. Under ordinary circumstances, he considered most of the traditional prayers to Maryâexcept, of course, for the Aveâto be embarrassingly overwrought and sentimental. In his room with the candle lit, with his narrow bed and its black horsehair blanket, they seemed to be only reportage, a documentary description of the apocalypse.
To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears
. He could remember himself in third or fourth grade, squirming and impatient under the eyes of old Sister Benedicta, while his confirmation class recited the Salve in unison. If he'd been born twenty years earlier, he would have learned that prayer. He would have been happier.
To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve. To you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this vale of tears
. He could remember himself in third or fourth grade, squirming and impatient under the eyes of old Sister Benedicta, while his confirmation class recited the Salve in unison. If he'd been born twenty years earlier, he would have learned that prayer. He would have been happier.
Now, watching Gregor Demarkian come up the rectory walk with the two police detectives he recognized from the
night before, Robert was mostly worried that he would fall asleep in the middle of a question and embarrass himself even more than he had already been embarrassed by events. The Cardinal Archbishop had been clear as a bell. He was the chief suspect in three murders, including the murder of Sister Harriet Garrity, which had almost certainly happened by arsenic, like the two others. He had bought the arsenic. He knew all three victims. He was known to be on rocky terms with Sister Harrietâbut really, Robert thought, it was hard to take that seriously.
Everybody
was known to be on rocky terms with Sister Harriet. The woman made a vocation out of being on rocky terms. It disturbed him more that anyone thought he might be responsible for the death of that poor young man across the street, whom he had hardly known except to say hello to once or twice. Only a crazy person killed somebody he didn't know, or, worse, killed to bring the wrath of God down on the people he thought God ought to condemn. Robert was sure he had never suggested, or even thought, that the wrath of God should come down on the gay men at St. Stephen's. He had only wanted to be clear in his support of the Magisterium. He had only wanted his position to be impossible to misconstrue.
night before, Robert was mostly worried that he would fall asleep in the middle of a question and embarrass himself even more than he had already been embarrassed by events. The Cardinal Archbishop had been clear as a bell. He was the chief suspect in three murders, including the murder of Sister Harriet Garrity, which had almost certainly happened by arsenic, like the two others. He had bought the arsenic. He knew all three victims. He was known to be on rocky terms with Sister Harrietâbut really, Robert thought, it was hard to take that seriously.
Everybody
was known to be on rocky terms with Sister Harriet. The woman made a vocation out of being on rocky terms. It disturbed him more that anyone thought he might be responsible for the death of that poor young man across the street, whom he had hardly known except to say hello to once or twice. Only a crazy person killed somebody he didn't know, or, worse, killed to bring the wrath of God down on the people he thought God ought to condemn. Robert was sure he had never suggested, or even thought, that the wrath of God should come down on the gay men at St. Stephen's. He had only wanted to be clear in his support of the Magisterium. He had only wanted his position to be impossible to misconstrue.
The detectives all had their coats open, even though it had to be below zero outside. They all had their heads down, but Robert thought that might have been the wind. He looked around the rectory foyer and realized with a certain amount of resignation that it, like the rectory living room, was full of bad art. There was a painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus that might as well have been done by numbers on a velvet field. There was another of the Virgin and Child that made the Virgin look like a saccharine sheep and the Child look like a stuffed toy. He never noticed those things when he was in the rectory by himselfâif he had, he would have gotten rid of themâbut they always impressed themselves on his consciousness as soon as he had company.
He opened the door before they had a chance to knock and stepped back to let them in. “Mr. Demarkian,” he said. “And Detective Mansfield. And DetectiveâEmilio, isn't it?”
“Emiliani,” Emiliani said.
“Emiliani,. I'm very sorry.” He took the coats they were shrugging offâall but Demarkian; Demarkian seemed determined
to keep his coatâand put them over the banister at the bottom of the stairs. There was a closet, but it was full of junk that nobody knew what to do with. He gestured them in the direction of the living room, and they went. Mansfield and Emiliani went directly. Gregor Demarkian stopped at every piece of art.
to keep his coatâand put them over the banister at the bottom of the stairs. There was a closet, but it was full of junk that nobody knew what to do with. He gestured them in the direction of the living room, and they went. Mansfield and Emiliani went directly. Gregor Demarkian stopped at every piece of art.
“It's really very bad stuff,” Robert found himself saying. “I ought to replace it with prints of decent work. The Church has such a wealth of truly fine art. But I never get around to it.”
“It was here when you came in?” Demarkian said.
“Oh, yes. It was here when my predecessor came in, too. Father Corrigan put it up. Which is funny, actually.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Robert said carefully, “because Father Corrigan was one of the priests who later, uh, well, was caught up in the pedophilia thing. He admitted to ⦠interfering ⦠with two altar boys who were underage at the time of the contacts.”
“How underaged?”
“One of them was eight,” Robert said. “The other was ten. They're grown men, now, of course. But I'm surprised you don't know. All this was in the papers for weeks a few years ago. I thought everybody in Philadelphia knew.”
“I knew about the scandal,” Gregor Demarkian said. “I didn't know a lot of the details. It's not the kind of thing I follow closely. Do you think it should have been less likely for Father Corrigan to commit child abuse if he liked bad art?”
“What? Oh, no. No, that wasn't what I meant. It's devotional art, you see. That's the Sacred Heart you were looking at it. There are special novenas to the Sacred Heart, and a special devotion called the First Fridays, where you make a point of going to Confession and saying special prayers on the first Friday of the month for nine months running, and receiving Communion. The people who have this kind of art in their houses are the kind who are committed to those sorts of devotions, very traditional, very conservative people, really.”
“And you thought people like that would be less likely to commit child abuse?”
“I don't know what I thought,” Robert said. “Maybe I was just stunned by the hypocrisy of it. All the sweetness-and-light piety. It's funny the way it works, isn't it? When there's trouble
like that, it's never the holy terrors like the Cardinal Archbishop who commit it. Didn't you want to have a seat in the living room?”
like that, it's never the holy terrors like the Cardinal Archbishop who commit it. Didn't you want to have a seat in the living room?”
The detectives already had seats in the living room, on opposite sides of the couch, facing the big, garish painting of the Last Supper. Da Vinci might have painted the original, but whoever had copied it for this print had had the artistic version of a tin ear. Robert sighed slightly and then, because it had become obvious that Gregor Demarkian did not intend to sit down, sat down himself in the wing chair.
“Well,” he said. “You wanted to ask me about Sister Harriet.”
“Not right away,” Gregor Demarkian said. “I wanted to ask you about Bernadette and Marty Kelly. You knew both Bernadette and Marty Kelly, didn't you?”
“Oh, yes,” Robert said. “Well, I did in a way. With Marty, it was only in passing. But with Bernadette, I knew her rather well. She did a lot of volunteer work at the church. And she was nearly a daily communicant, until the last few months at the end. Diabetes, you know.”
“Yes,” Gregor Demarkian said. “I do know. When you say she volunteered in the church, do you mean she had some semiofficial position? Did she work here on a regular basis?”
“Oh, no,” Robert said. “There was nothing like that. She just pitched in with our projects, with the soup kitchen and the homeless shelter and that kind of thing. She had her own job to go to, after all.”
“Bernadette Kelly didn't have a job,” Detective Mansfield said confidently. “That's in the record. She was unemployed.”
“When she died she was, yes,” Robert said, “but that was because of her medical problems. They became so severe those last six months or so, she wasn't able to work. But she had a job before then, for years. She was a receptionist at Brady, Marquis and Holden.”
“What's Brady, Marquis and Holden?” Demarkian asked.
“It's a law firm,” Detective Emiliani said. “A big one. Weren't they the one that handled the, uhâ”
“The pedophilia scandal, yes,” Robert said. “Or rather, they handled part of it. They represented several of the individual parishes. There was another firm that represented the archdiocese as a whole. It was very complicated. But yes, you see,
that's how Bernadette got the job. My predecessor got it for her. Father Dunedin. He tried to get her a job as a secretary, but of course that didn't work out.”
that's how Bernadette got the job. My predecessor got it for her. Father Dunedin. He tried to get her a job as a secretary, but of course that didn't work out.”
“Why didn't it work out?” Demarkian asked.
Robert shrugged. “Well, you know, Bernadette was a remarkable person. She had very good sense, and she was very devout. She had great practical intelligence. She knew what was wrong with the lottery. She and Marty owned that trailer of theirs. She decided they would, and six months later she did it. She was aiming for a house. If she hadn't gotten sick, she would have made it. She could calculate the interest on a credit card in her head. But it was like watching an idiot savant. Other than moneyâeven with numbers, if it didn't have to do with money, she was dead. She just wasn't very bright.”
“And Marty Kelly? What about him?”
“Well,” Robert said, “it's one of those things. He dropped out of school at sixteen. He was always in trouble. He was always doing drugs. He probably did some stealing. He was lucky not to get caught, and he was lucky to fall in love with Bernadette. She refused to go out with him if he didn't go back and get his high-school diploma, and then she refused to marry him if he didn't register at the community college. She brought him to church. She got him off all drugs except two beers with the game on the weekends. She turned him around. When it first happened, you know, I wasn't really very surprised. I could see that Marty might not be able to face his life with her gone. She made a different person of him.”
“You don't think she might have been ready to leave him?” Demarkian asked.
“No,” Robert said. “Bernadette was the most committed Catholic I've ever known. If Marty was beating her up, she might have left him. If he was acting up, she might have left him. But it would have taken the marital equivalent of thermonuclear war. I know she died from arsenic, but if you're thinking Marty killed her, you're wrong. Marty could no more kill Bernadette than I could fly.”
Demarkian nodded, and Robert found himself thinking that he liked this man. That surprised him. He had expected to feel tense and under pressure, but instead he felt the way he always did when he gave interviews, like when the press came to ask questions about the outreach programs that Mary McAllister
and the nuns had made such an important part of parish life. He stretched out his legs and sat back. If he wasn't careful, he really would go to sleep.
and the nuns had made such an important part of parish life. He stretched out his legs and sat back. If he wasn't careful, he really would go to sleep.
“Let's talk about Sister Harriet for a minute,” Demarkian said. “She was the parish coordinator. What does the parish coordinator do?”
“She coordinates the parish,” Robert said, and smiled. “She keeps the schedules straight. Mass linens sent out to the laundry. First Communion breakfast not in conflict with the Senior Citizens' Celebration. Rosaries and scapulars ordered for First Communion. Bibles ordered for Confirmation. Mass schedules made out so that both I and the parochial vicar say Mass every day and all the Masses that are supposed to be celebrated are celebrated. That kind of thing.”
“What about money?” Gregor asked. “Did she have anything to do with the money?”
“I'm not really sure what you mean,” Robert said. “She had something to do with money, of course, because she had to make sure there was enough money in the budget to buy the rosaries and that sort of thing. But she didn't deal directly with the parish finances. That's Sister Thomasetta's job. She's the comptroller.”
Demarkian paused in his pacingâhe was all over the room, from one wall to the other, from one painting to the other, from the windows to the couch and back againâand said, “What about her background? Did she come from a wealthy family?”
“I have no idea,” Father Healy said. “I never asked her. I'm sorry, but at least in the old days the nuns weren't supposed to tell you about their backgrounds. Not that I was around in the old days, of course, but most of the Sisters here are very traditional, and I try to be sensitive to, well, you knowâ”
“Yes, I do know. What about Bernadette Kelly? Did she come from a wealthy family?”
“Oh, no,” Robert said. “I know Bernadette's familyâwell, her father, anyway. Her mother died when she was eight. Diabetes, too. Her father worked in a factory most of his life. Then he got laid off in the early eighties and clerked in a liquor store for a while. Her brother is a mechanic somewhere
in Delaware. They're very good people, very solid people, but they've never had much money.”
in Delaware. They're very good people, very solid people, but they've never had much money.”
“Hmm,” Demarkian said.
On the couch, the detectives stirred. “You're barking up the wrong tree here, Mr. Demarkian,” Detective Mansfield said. “There isn't this kind of connection.”
“We ought to check, anyway,” Demarkian said. “The books on both churchesâhas anybody bothered to ask if there were any irregularities in those books?”
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