David A. Schwinghammer
Sitemap
My Blog
Contact Author
Message Board
Read
Reviews
Books
· Soldier's Gap
· Soldier's Gap
· Soldier's Gap
· Soldier's Gap
Short Stories
· Mengele's Double, Chapter 12
· Mengele's Double, Chapter 11
· Honest Thief, Tender Murderer, Chapter 11.
· Mengele's Double, Chapter 10
· Honest Thief, Tender Murderer, Chapter 10
· Fisher of Men, Chapter 10
· Mengele's Double, Chapter 9
· Seminary Boy, a memoir
· Fisher of Men, Chapter Nine
· Soldier's Gap, Chapter Three
Articles
· The Jerk
· Bone-headed Supreme Court Decisions
· Republicans Work Hard at Creating Divisive Issues
· Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, book review
· Auschwitz (Always Remember Your Name), book review
· Fahrenheit 2021-22
· Biden's Approval Rate Plummeting
· Mr. Trump, have you no sense of decency?
· Critical Race Theory
· Clueless Judge Compares AR-15's to Swiss Army Knives
Poetry
· Should I Take Ballet?
· Caboose
· The Girl Next Door
· Llama, Llama (dedicated to William Blake)
· The Terminal Booger
· Fashion
· Widow's Peak
· Myth
· Alumni Game
· Stradivarius
More poetry...
|
|
David A. Schwinghammer, click here
to update your web pages on AuthorsDen.
|
|
|
|
Father Dewey implicates his friend Gordy Culp in the kidnapping and murder of the Leyk girl.
Chapter 11
Pious Frauds of Friendship
‟He stared at ruin. Ruin stared straight back.
He thought they were old friends.”
--John Berryman
An Old Dutch Potato Chip truck splashed through the puddles left from the recent rains and parked in two of the customer slots next to the convenience store part of the Amoco. The driver got out and opened the double doors at the back of the truck. He noticed Dewey in the telephone booth and waved. Dewey waved back, then dropped a quarter in the slot. As he dialed the number, he held his handkerchief over the mouthpiece. ‟Sheriff’s office,” Mrs. Weaver said.
‟May I speak to Sheriff Weaver?” Dewey said, trying to make his voice sound lower.
‟One minute,” she said.
‟Sheriff Weaver. How can I help you?”
“I have some information regarding the Leyk case,” Dewey said. A man drove up to the tanks, got out and began to pump gas into his brand-new emerald-green bug. As he pumped, he stared at Dewey accusingly.
‟Yes, sir,” Weaver said. ‟Go ahead.”
“I understand the police found some paint chips at the scene of the Leyk murder. It’s also common knowledge that a witness has identified a suspicious man who harassed Andy Leyk, and that he was driving a sports car.”
‟And who told you this?”
A woman and her young daughter, a first or a second grader Dewey would guess, came out of the station and stood waiting to use the phone. They scowled at him as though he were drinking the last cup of water on a lifeboat lost at sea. “Ah, I heard it at the barbershop.”
‟The barbershop? You can’t believe anything you hear in Hendriksons. You know, of course, that Bob and Kenny have been arrested?”
‟Yes, I heard. May I continue?”
“Be my guest.”
“I think I know whose car it was hit the Leyk girl. If you check with the DMV, you’ll find that a 1999 silver Porsche was registered to Gordy Culp before he sold it, and I’m pretty sure that if you trace the car, you’ll find that it has a dented front right fender or that it has been recently repaired.”
Weaver whistled. ‟Gordy Culp, Mrs. Culp’s grandson? You’ve got to be kidding. Who is this anyway? Is this one of the Hendriksons?”
‟No, it’s not one of the Hendriksons, but I can assure you that if you check, you’ll find my information to be accurate. Gordy Culp was here in St. Gervais the night that Andrea Leyk was kidnapped.”
‟Would you stay on the line please? I need to get the file.”
Dewey hung up. Just call me Judas, he told himself. When the police showed up to arrest Gordy, he’d kiss him on the cheek. They’d name a goat after him, the one who led the sheep to the slaughterhouse. He checked his watch. His appointment with Father Albers and Reverend Sykes wasn’t until one o’clock. Plenty of time.
When he pushed open the door to the booth, the woman muscled past him as if he were a mirage and the little girl stuck out her tongue at him. Dewey jammed his hands into his pockets and began the jaunt back to the rectory, remembering the first time he and Gordy had met. Fifth graders they’d been, and it was during the fall. Dewey had been warring with Frank Turcotte and his two older brothers for the last couple of weeks. The Turcottes lived only a few blocks from his house, and each morning he would try to outflank them on his way to Anoka Middle. If he didn’t, he’d risk another beating and the Turcottes had no compunctions about piling on. The three Turcottes could have been cloned; red-headed with dishbowl haircuts, a smattering of rust-colored freckles. Badly in need of braces. And to think his mom said there was no such thing as a troll. Dewey figured they hated him so much because Frank had wanted to pitch for Little League and Dewey had beat him out. The Turcottes were convinced that Uncle Mike, the coach, was playing favorites, despite the fact that Frank couldn’t find the plate with a metal detector. Anyway, although they were stupid-looking, the Turcottes weren’t dumb. There weren’t that many different routes to school and there were three Turcottes to cover all of them. Donny Turcotte was punching Dewey’s lights out when Gordy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, banged him up against a tree, and kneed him in the family jewels. Donny’s squawling soon brought the other Turcottes, one of whom had a jackknife. Dewey held off Frank while Gordy took on the knife-wielding Fred with his bookbag. Gordy clubbed the knife out of his hand, put the boy in a hammerlock and held him until a cop cruiser pulled up to the curb.
Dewey hated himself. Needed to get a backbone. A real friend would have confronted Gordy himself, instead of sneaking around behind the man’s back, whispering into a pay phone. Laid all the cards on the table: Cookie, the paint chips, Erin Reese, Gordy’s supposed inability to handle rejection.
When Dewey got back to the rectory, the black MG was parked in the driveway, and Gordy was just getting out of the driver’s seat. He was sporting a black blazer with a yachting insignia on one of the lapels and grey flannel slacks with a crease that could cut paper. ‟Hey, Goombah, where yah been?”
‟Just out for a walk,” Dewey lied.
‟Wish I could just take off for a stroll anytime I felt like it.”
Dewey shoved him, feinted at his head with a jab and followed with a roundhouse hook that just missed his chin. “I don’t see why you can’t; you don’t seem to work at your practice. It’s Thursday, you know.”
“I’m on vacation. Say, where’s that beautiful housekeeper of yours?”
‟Should’ve known you didn’t come here to see me. Any word on that tire track yet?”
Gordy looked nonplussed for a moment, as if he didn’t know what Dewey was talking about. ‟Oh, right, the one at the gravel pit. Haven’t been able to get my hands on that yet, but I’ve got some info on a possible suspect. Bob Hendrikson has a rather kinky background.”
Dewey leaned on the hood of the MG. ‟What did he do?”
‟A family reunion at Sullivan Lake. Hendrikson is Andy Leyk’s third cousin. They were skinnydipping, and he tried to feel her up. The cops want to talk to him about it.”
‟Interesting. You up for a game of catch? I’ve got something I want to talk over with you.”
Gordy doffed his sportscoat, flung it in the backseat of the MG. ‟If you promise not to throw that stupid knuckleball.”
“I’ll go get the ball and gloves,” Dewey said.
Gordy tried to trip him on the way by, settled for an ineffectual punch on the forearm when Dewey danced away, doing the Ali shuffle.
‟Count off sixty feet six inches now,” Gordy said, as they began to toss the ball back and forth. “I want to see if I’ve still got the good control.” Gordy put a little more mustard on the next throw, stinging Dewey’s hand. ‟What did you want to talk about?”
‟Nothing much. I just wanted you to be the first to know I was thinking of leaving the priesthood.”
Gordy held the ball. ‟What brought this on? You’d think that now you’re the boss things would be a little easier.”
“I’m afraid it’s Viktorija.”
Dewey put a little extra on his next toss and the ball got away from Mr. All-state pitcher. ‟Viktorija? What’s she got to do with anything?” Then the lights seemed to go on. ‟No. You’re not telling me that you and her . . . that her and you--”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
Gordy dropped the glove, and the ball rolled toward the sidewalk, where Mutt retrieved it and brought it to Dewey. He took it, patted the dog on the head. ‟Good boy,” he said.
‟Gee, kid. I don’t know what to say.”
“I think I love her, Gordy.”
Gordy walked over, took the ball from Dewey, slammed the ball into his mitt, once, twice, a third time. ‟God will strike you dead for this, you know.”
“I know, but it was worth it.”
‟Well, you best watch yourself. Like you said, the woman needs to find a husband in order to stay in America, and she isn’t about to turn down any likely candidate, especially a sex-starved little mutant like you. How’d you let this happen?”
‟She came on to me while we were counting the collection receipts. I managed to control myself that time, but when we . . . did it, it was almost as if she drugged me. I don’t suppose it matters, though; she turned in her resignation.”
Gordy showed the ball to Mutt, who sniffed at it, then threw it toward the shrubs bordering the driveway. Mutt took off after it as if pursuing a choice rabbit. ‟Women are temperamental. Believe me, I know.”
“I suppose you mean Erica.”
Mutt finally found the ball and brought it to Gordy, who whiped the droll off on Mutt’s coat. ‟They don’t know what they want. Tomorrow your Viktorija could run off with the groundskeeper. There was this one girl. She was an athlete. A . . . ah . . . gymnast. We would have had superstar kids. And you know why she wouldn’t go out with me?”
Dewey’s skin felt clammy and he wanted to run inside and call 911. ‟No, what?” he said, his voice breaking like Michael J. Fox’s.
‟She was going with this . . . this asshole. You know what his big ambition was? Wanted to be a long-haul trucker. I tried to tell her he wasn’t good enough for her, but she wouldn’t listen.”
‟This girl, Gordo. Was she from town?”
His nose was bleeding again; like a windshield wiper, his tongue flicked out and swept his upper lip clean. ‟Nah, some wench I met in the Cities when I was in law school.” He paused for a moment as if a thought had just struck him. ‟What . . . did you think I meant Andy Leyk?”
“It’s just that one of the girls at the Dairy Queen says that Andy was flirting with this guy who drove a fancy sports car, and I was thinking that maybe there was some kind of explanation.”
“I don’t eat Dairy Queen. See this stomach?” He lifted his shirt to show off his muscular abs. ‟Washboard. You don’t get abdominal muscles like that eating Dairy Queen.”
‟This was a silver Porsche. You ever own one of those?”
‟Don’t I wish. What the hell is this about?”
‟There’s more . . . I got this card from Carolyn, for my
. . . ah . . . ordination, and she asked about you.”
“Bitch never liked me, ever since she put the make on me and I ran her off.”
‟She’s says you hit her, Gordy.”
“I might’ve shoved her,you know, to get her off me, but I never hit her. As God is my witness.”
‟As God is your witness?”
‟You think I killed Andy Leyk, don’t you?”
A car door slammed shut, footsteps crunched through the fallen leaves, and Jim Miller stepped out from behind the shrubs shielding the rectory from the road. ‟Father Fischer,” he said. ‟Sheriff Weaver would like to talk to you.”
‟Want me to come along?” Gordy said.
‟Nah, I’m sure it’s nothing.”
#
The interrogation room had to have been a former storeroom. The walls were grey, made of cement blocks; a bare high-wattage light bulb, brighter than movie set lighting, scalded Dewey’s eyes when he looked up. A rickety card table and two straight-backed chairs were the only furniture. On the card table, the sheriff had placed a tape recorder, which was plugged into the light socket.
A bead of sweat trickled down Dewey’s spine and lodged in his butt crack.
Weaver sat with his arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t smoking his usual cigar. Dewey was reminded of a Russian interrogator in one of those Cold War movies. Weaver was dressed in khakis with his sleeves rolled up, the kinky black hairs on his arms matching the ringlets on his head. The man could have been a stand-in for Claude Akins, the actor who’d played a truck driver in that old series. ‟Movin’ On,” Dewey thought it was called.
‟What’s this about?” Dewey said.
“I won’t pussyfoot around, Father. If you want a lawyer you better make a phone call.”
Dewey dug his fingernails into his chair, gulped, tried to gain control of his voice. ‟This is a formal interrogation, then?”
‟You might say that.”
Dewey wondered why there was no camera this time. Was Weaver running a con?
“I have nothing to hide.” Dewey’s voice sounded awfully high to him.
Weaver stood, placed his bear paw of a hand on Dewey’s shoulder, his obsidian eyes boring into the depths of Dewey’s being. He was so close Dewey could smell the hard-boiled egg the man had for dinner. ‟Why is it a priest is so interested in serial killers?” he said. ‟Can you tell me that?”
‟We priests are interested in the human condition, and murder’s been around since Cain and Abel.”
Dewey noticed that Weaver’s shoes, laced-up boots actually, were shined to a high gloss. Steel-tipped boots, they looked like.
This guy was acting out some bad TV show.
‟You knew Andy Leyk been run over. My forensics people tell me the break is consistent with a car bumper.”
This time Dewey heard the shuffling theme song from Alfred Hitchcock’s old TV show, the one where there was always a twist ending, like the episode where this woman killed her husband by bonking him over the head with a frozen potroast, then fed it to the detective who investigated the crime. This Weaver person was almost as clueless; the man had obviously been been reading about the sex abuse cases, which logically meant that priests would be capable of much worse. All priests were weirdos who went without sex, weren’t they? He breathed heavily. Get hold of yourself, he told himself.
Weaver turned, paced back to the table, where he punched a button. The tape player began to whirr, occasional sounds, a drawer opening and closing, what could have been Mrs. Weaver squawking on the intercom, something bumping into the metal desk. Then Dewey’s muffled voice from the phone booth at the Amoco. “I’m sure that if we do a voice analysis that voice will turn out to be yours,” Weaver said.
‟You can do that?”
‟We can do that. Why don’t you come clean, Father. You’ll feel better.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
‟Gordy Culp doesn’t own a Porsche, silver or any other color. He drives a black MG. Why don’t you tell me what you were doing on that bridge the day Andy disappeared. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? You watching the river, and those skates being tossed in the same spot. Your sermon was ironic, almost funny. Applauding those boys for finding the skates, when you knew they’d implicate you.”
Dewey shuddered; his hands and feet were numb. He really felt as though he was about to faint. “I-I think I saw those skates when I was out there on the bridge. I didn’t know at the time Andy had been kidnapped, so I thought nothing of it at the time.”
‟Sure. Ah, there’s also the little matter of the stopwatch. Did you really expect us to believe that a retard like Roman Platz would have the wherewithal to bury Andrea Leyk in that gravel pit?”
Dewey’s mind raced; he felt an adrenalin surge. ‟Okay, okay. If I planted that stuff at the Platz farm, where did I get the picture of Andrea, and the little statue, and that other items Roman had?”
Weaver stood there with his arms folded, glaring down at Dewey, like a father who’d caught his small son stealing from his wallet. ‟Didn’t say Andrea didn’t know Roman.”
‟Look, Sheriff, I have an alibi. I was in Anoka at eleven o’clock. I didn’t get to St. Gervais until around one. Deputy Miller will testify I was on the bridge around quarter after. How did I kill Andrea Leyk, bury her twenty miles north of town, and make it back to town by quarter after? I drive an ancient Renault that won’t do over fifty m.p.h. There’s no way.”
Weaver just smiled.
“I just wanted someone to check the car. I called DMV myself; they told me Gordon Culp owned a silver Porsche at one time; they even gave me the name of the new owner. I don’t really believe Gordy did this; he’s my best friend, for Pete’s sake. I just want to know why you can’t check it out.”
Weaver scratched his nose, gave his rolled-up sleeves another turn. ‟Any other reason you suspect Culp? You seem like the loyal type to me. You must have had another reason for making that phone call.”
Dewey’s back hurt from leaning foreward, and he was drenched in sweat. “I don’t know if I should tell you this. A person’s past mistakes aren’t admissable in court, are they?”
‟Sometimes they are. Depends on the judge. He must’ve done something awfully nasty or you wouldn’t be thinking of telling me.”
“I feel like a rat.”
‟If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”
Dewey mopped his brow with his sleeve. How many watts did that light have? ‟Okay, I guess there’s probably a medical record of what happened, so it’s not just some woman with an ax to grind. He cleared his throat. ‟Why don’t you talk to Carolyn Kane; she’s Gordy’s ex-fiancee’s sister. She says Gordy beat her up once, blackened her eyes, chipped her teeth. All because she belittled his love-making. She thinks he killed her sister, too, spooked her horse.”
The Sheriff scribbled in a little book.
‟Will you tell me something, Sheriff?”
‟Depends.”
‟Those clothes the boys hooked at the railroad bridge. Has anyone checked them for forensic evidence?”
‟Can’t tell you that.”
‟What about the other girls at the Dairy Queen? Any of them see a silver Porsche?”
Weaver sighed. ‟What’s this Carolyn person’s last name?”
#
Sheriff Weaver’s charade had seriously deflated Dewey’s self-esteem. He didn’t even know for sure if there was a medical record of the abuse Cookie had endured. She’d thought Gordy had killed her sister, for Pete’s sake. She could’ve made up the lousy lover episode. What had Andy’s Leyk’s diary said? Friendship was loyalty at the expense of self-regard. Something like that. Well, he’d flunked that test, that was for sure. And Viktorija? Did he really love her, or was it simply unbridled lust? He’d have to think on it some before he flushed his vocation down the toilet over a woman. Besides, she’d beat it out of here pretty quick when he told her he was ashamed. He examined himself in the mirror. Thought he was a dead ringer for that Quisling guy, not that he’d recognize the Norwegian traitor if he saw him in a line-up.
#
‟You look ill,” Father Albers said.
They were seated in Father Albers office at Sacred Heart rectory, along with the Reverend Sykes, the Lutheran minister. The room was decorated in varnished wainscoting with mural wallpaper of a forest scene. A tree-like plant cast its shadow on Father Albers’s bald pate. He’d given up on the hair battle and had shaved his head entirely in the Jesse Ventura mode. Reverend Sykes was a bespectacled little fellow who could have passed for a computer nerd.
‟Took a shot in the groin during a racquetball game,” Dewey said.
“That’ll do it,” Father Albers said, rubbing the top of his head. ‟I’ve always hated that game.” Dewey wondered if Albers knew the other priests in the diocese called him Father Chromedome. Behind his back, of course.
‟What’s this about a foodshelf, Father Fischer?” Sykes said. ‟Shouldn’t that be the concern of social services or the city council?”
‟Maybe,” Dewey said. ‟But they’re not doing it. I just think that--”
“I don’t see why not,” Father Albers said. “I like the idea. We can get all of the churches in the city working together on this, something truly ecumenical, and derail some of the petty nonsense I hear from the parishioners. We might even be able to make inroads with the Jehovahs. I don’t know about you fellows, but they’re killing me. This is what we do. We send our school kids around collecting unwanted canned goods.”
‟You know how many kids I’ve already got coming to my door selling magazine subscriptions? ” Reverend Sykes said.
‟Let’s not be defeatist,” Father Albers said.
Dewey poured a glass of water from a pitcher of icewater on Albers’s desk. The ice hurt his teeth. ‟Do you think we could pool our money and hire a coordinator?” he said.
“I think we can scare up a volunteer,” Father Albers said. ‟Just until social services hears about this and gets their poor widdle fweelings aw hurt.”
‟Why couldn’t we have two food shelves?” Dewey said. ‟Food stores have been known to run out.”
Father Albers took an address book from his inside coat pocket, paged through it. “I’ll find the coordinator,” he said. “I’ve got ladies clamoring to volunteer.”
‟That was easy,” Dewey said. ‟Let’s meet again next month to compare notes.”
‟Will you be here next month?” Father Albers said.
‟Why wouldn’t I be?”
‟Oh, nothing. I just heard you’d be temporary until they found someone more experienced. You two hear about the arrest?”
Reverend Sykes eyes shifted from Albers to Dewey and back to Albers. ‟What arrest is that?” he said. “Nobody ever tells me anything.”
‟Gordy Culp, scion of the Culp family fortune. They say he’s got something to do with the Leyk murder.”
‟Ahh, no, that’s not true,” Dewey said. ‟He owns a sports car that was seen near the Dairy Queen where Andrea worked. Dewey’s gut felt as though an appendicitis attack were imminent. Could he be developing an ulcer? ‟You see, Gordy and I have been best friends ever since fifth grade in Anoka. That’s where I’m from originally. Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with it.”
Father Albers put his fingers to his mouth like a matron who’d heard an offensive word. ‟He’s a big boy, isn’t he? I understand he plays professional football when he’s not lawyering.”
‟Too slow, I’m afraid. And he’s got lead feet.”
‟Lead feet?” Reverend Sykes said, adjusting his glasses.
‟He can’t move around in the pocket. He’s a sitting duck for a blitz.”
#
Just before dinner that night, Dewey and Uncle Mike were working on a teaching schedule for the elementary school and St. Teresa’s. They sat in front of the fire in Father Czech’s den. Mutt was asleep on his rug. The fire crackled and spit, reminding Dewey of the toil and pain of hell, his most likely destination if he didn’t atone for his slipup with Viktorija. And what if Gordy was innocent?
“I love little kids,” Uncle Mike said. ‟Let me take them.”
Dewey massaged his heated forehead. His nerves were still shot from the ordeal with Weaver. ‟They’re a bigger handful these days than they used to be. Parents don’t seem to be too adept at discipline these days.”
‟Yes, and those that try are afraid of being hauled into court for child abuse.”
Dewey penciled in Uncle Mike on his yellow legal pad he’d been using to prepare the rough draft for the teaching schedule. ‟That leaves the junior and the seniors at St. Teresa’s. Who’ll cover them?”
‟Don’t look at me,” Uncle Mike said. “I’m old and there’s only so much of me to spread around.”
“I’m worried about that as well. Are you sure you’re physically capable dealing with children?”
“If I encounter any problems I can’t handle, I can press the button on the intercom. Besides, kids still like candy, don’t they?” Father Mike was known for the lemon drops he carried around in his cavernous pockets.
“That should work. I guess I’ll have to try that Holdingford priest who used to help Father Czech, if I can find his phone number. Father Czech was notorious for his creative filing system. What about CCD parents, or the classroom teachers?”
Uncle Mike took out his pipe, bit down on the stem, but didn’t light it. ‟The kids eat CCD teachers alive, especially if they try to play it straight, and some of the classroom teachers aren’t even Catholic.”
‟Why do we even try?”
‟Gluttons for punishment I guess. How are you dealing with your other little problem?”
Dewey tossed the yellow legal pad on the coffee table. ‟You mean Viktorija or Gordy?”
‟Why don’t we start with Viktorija?”
“I’m trying to keep my head on straight. As long as I’m still a priest, I know I have an obligation higher than just my own selfish personal life.”
Uncle took out a crumpled handkerchief and wiped his hawk-like nose. ‟Big of you. So when are you going to tell the Bishop?”
“I think he already knows. The man has spies everywhere. He wants to see me this evening.”
‟Well, if he’s too tough on you, you just whistle. I’ve dealt with his kind before. Nobody’s going to bully my boy if I can help it.”
Dewey clicked and unclicked the Papermate he’d been writing with. “I don’t know what to do about Gordy. What if he finds out I told Sheriff Weaver I thought he was involved? I doubt they can hold him on the evidence they have so far.”
‟Do you really think he’s the one who killed Andy Leyk?”
‟My mind is so muddled I don’t know what to think, but I believe Erin Reese did see Andy’s killer and Gordy’s car fits the bill. And he’s been violent before. He may even have spooked his fiancee’s horse.”
A spasm of pain showed on Uncle Mike’s forehead and he covered his right hand with his left. His medication needed to be adjusted again. ‟If I were you, I’d go see him and try to bury the hatchet. You two boys were friends for, what is it, fifteen, sixteen years?”
‟You want me to reconcile with a murder suspect?”
“I want you to think about yourself a little bit. If Gordy is the murderer, he’s insane. All murderers are crazy. Be a little devious. Haven’t you learned anything from the Bishop?”
Dewey combed his hair with his fingers. Greasy already and he’d just showered. ‟You know me, Uncle Mike. Every time I try to tell a lie it shows on my face.”
‟That’s true. It’s your most endearing quality.”
‟Maybe if I come clean with Gordy. I tried out there in the parking lot, but it only made him mad.”
‟What did you tell him?”
‟That a witness had put Andy with a man in a sports car similar to his.”
‟This is too dangerous, Duane. You should ask for police protection.”
‟Jim Miller and Sheriff Weaver have enough on their hands without worrying about me, don’t you think?”
‟If they know what’s good for them, they’ll find a way to cover you; if someone else is killed, especially the parish priest, their chances of getting elected would be about as good as my chance of being chosen Mr. Universe.” He did a muscle builder pose.
‟Would you believe the sheriff lied to me?”
‟In what way?”
“He said Gordy didn’t own any silver Porsche. I called DMV myself. I thought some dreadful mistake had been made, some kind of bureaucratic snafu. They’re famous for that, you know.”
‟That must have curled the hairs on your chest.”
‟As if I had any. Almost swallowed my tongue. The man isn’t as vacuous as he looks.”
#
Dewey was sitting down to another Swanson’s meatloaf dinner--Father Mike had gone to see a friend of his in St. Cloud--when the doorbell rang. He put the dinner back in the oven to keep it warm, then strolled to the door, first checking the peephole in the event Gordy was on the loose. The Bishop gawked back at him, all goggle-eyed from the glass distortion.
‟Bishop!” he said as he flung open the door. “I was just about to call you about that replacement you promised me.”
The Bishop removed his coat, handed it to Dewey, who hung it on the coatrack by the door. ‟Sarcasm does not become you, my boy. Lead me to the liquor.”
“I thought you had an ulcer.”
‟Your memory is too good.”
When they got to Father Czech’s sitting room, Mutt awoke and let out a low growl. “Is that animal safe?” the Bishop said.
“I’ve never seen him do that before.”
“Animals and I have never gotten along well.” He sat in Father Czech’s Lazy-Boy while Dewey got him a Scotch on the rocks.
‟So, what’s up, Bishop?”
The Bishop knocked back a third of his drink. ‟Ahhh, that hits the spot. Thought I owed you the courtesy of a little
visit, considering the hell I’ve put you through. I really have been trying to scare up a replacement for you, but there just aren’t any. I’ll get to the point, then. I like to find out what my priests are thinking about the . . . issues. You see this?” The Bishop pulled a clipping from his breast pocket, handed it to Dewey.
The headline read: Rector Questions Priestly Sexuality.
‟It’s a review of a book written by Father Don Cozzens, rector of St. Mary Seminary in Cleveland. Among other things, he says that there’s a perception that the priesthood is becoming a gay profession. One of his sources states that 48.5 percent of priests and 55.1 percent of seminarins are gay. And that was in 1989. He says this may be scaring off some straight candidates. What do you think?”
Dewey thought the Bishop was pulling another flanking movement, but he didn’t say that. ‟Ah, when I was in the seminary, I knew a few guys who were definitely gay, but hasn’t that always been the case?”
‟That’s what Cozzens implies, that gays might be better suited to the priesthood. They’re nurturing, intelligent, talented and sensitive.”
“I think that percentage is a bit high,” Dewey said. ‟Like I said, I only knew a couple. And I wasn’t bothered by the ones I knew.”
The Bishop removed his fedora and began to worry the brim. ‟Awful damn tough for gays to handle the church’s position on homosexuality, don’t you think?”
‟What’s this really about, Bishop?” Dewey said, refilling the Bishop’s glass.
‟Thought I was better at subterfuge than that.”
‟You usually are; it’s just that you called just after my interrogation.”
The Bishop gave him a blue-green leer. The green one rolled toward the blue one like a cue ball rotating toward an eight ball. ‟Hadn’t heard about any interrogation, but a little bird did tell me about a certain incident involving a housekeeper.”
‟Viktorija?”
‟She the Kosovan girl?”
‟That’s the one.”
The Bishop crossed his legs, sat the fedora on one knee. ‟You see what I was going to do was get to this part where Cozzens says: ‛Celibacy is dangerous, like all good things. It requires exceptional maturity, strong, honest friendship and a deep, real spiritual life. If one of these elements is not present, a priest can become strange, squirrelly.’ Now, what’s this about an interrogation? I hope you don’t mean the police.”
“Coincidentally it involves a friend of mine. Gordy Culp.”
‟Not Mrs. Culp’s grandson, the lawyer? What’s he got to do with this?”
“I had some information I thought the sheriff ought to know about.”
‟But you were cleared of any wrong doing?”
“I’m as clean as the driven snow.”
‟Sooo, what do you want to do about this?”
‟About what?”
The Bishop gulped down his drink. ‟That’s my limit or you’ll have to drive me home. Where’s the bathroom? When you get to be my age, any libation over a thimbleful and you’re in the loo all day.
But . . . it’s worth it.” When he returned, he said, ‟You didn’t answer my question, what do you want to do about this?”
‟You’re leaving it up to me?”
‟Maybe you didn’t hear me too well. Read my lips. The . . . priesthood . . . is . . . becoming . . . a . . . gay . . . profession.”
“I was thinking that it may not have been love. More like lust. Viktorija has two suitors, and she’s admitted she’s been after a husband so’s she can stay in America.”
‟Where is this seductress?”
‟She quit. She’s working for the local veterinarian, one of her boyfriends.”
‟Well, then this isn’t so bad . . . is it? Everybody has a right to slip up once. You were just a little early is all. How about this Culp person, you two work that out?”
‟Oh, no. I think he may want revenge if he finds out about what I told the police.”
‟Revenge?”
‟It’s a long story, Bishop. I can’t tell you much about it; let it suffice to say that Gordy may be involved in the Leyk killing.”
‟Maybe we should have sent you to Yugoslavia, rather than Father Czech.”
‟Maybe so.”
|
|
Web Site:
Mystery Writer
|
|
|
|
|
|
Sandie