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Authors: Mark Richard Zubro

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BOOK: The Only Good Priest
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Captivated, Bartholomew let himself be led off. “I'll call you tonight,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Before we left, we phoned ahead to the Twenty-third District police station, trying to get hold of the Chicago cop Frank had mentioned. He was in. We drove up Halsted to the station. They could have used this place for the run-down precinct station of any urban TV cop show. The cops readily recognized Scott. He signed autographs and chatted happily. The commander came down and greeted him. We got the Cooks tour. When done, he asked if there was anything specific he could do for us. We asked for the man Frank had named, Paul Turner.
With a minimum of curiosity, satisfied by our bland replies and his desire to call everybody he knew to tell about meeting Scott, he led us to a small room on the second floor.
The door stood wide open to reveal a room cluttered with six desks, bookcases, chairs, and barely enough room to walk between all of them. Heaps of paper covered the tops of each desk with only a tiny square open where its occupant could lean an elbow. One man sat in the room, maybe thirty, nice-looking, in a shambling, rugged way. He was the only cop who hadn't clustered eagerly around Scott. The commander introduced him as Detective Paul Turner, the guy we wanted. He told Turner to treat us well. With a final handshake for Scott, he left us. Turner smiled, shook hands, said it was nice to meet both of us. He wore a dull blue tie and a white shirt and nonregulation blue pants; flung over the back of his chair was a herringbone-gray coat that sort of matched his outfit. He wore his shoulder holster and gun. He removed files from two chairs and placed them carefully in order on the floor. I guessed that after we vacated these seats, he would replace the materials exactly as he had found them.
Turner had thick black wiry hair, a quarter inch longer than a brush cut, and at two-thirty in the afternoon he had a five
o'clock shadow. He rested his elbows on the table, cupped his chin in his hands, and let his brown eyes gaze at us. If he used that innocent look on me and I was guilty, I'd confess immediately.
I explained our problem from the beginning, leaving out innuendo, sticking to the facts as much as possible. I talked for ten minutes. His attention never wavered.
When I finished he said, “If I hadn't talked to Frank Murphy, I'd toss you both out of here on your asses. I assume you only got this far because nobody in this town would dare question Scott Carpenter or anybody with him. Shitty police procedure, but not hard to understand.” At times I had to lean forward to catch his words, spoken in a soft baritone.
“I prefer rules and regulations. You get a dead body. The blues arrive, secure the crime scene. Lab folks show up, take pictures, file reports; detectives ask questions, interview people. Nice, neat, orderly. You two guys are not in the regular order. I think you've found some interesting stuff, but I'm off the case. I'm not supposed to care.”
I described Frank's comments on those in charge.
“He shouldn't have told you, no matter how much he trusts you. I like Frank. Maybe it's easier to trust people in the suburbs.”
“You don't believe us?” Scott asked.
He smiled briefly at Scott. “Belief isn't my problem at this point. Power and the lack of it are. I'm off the case. I ask why? I'm told to go to work on my other cases. I press the commander. He presses back harder. So I shut up and wonder who's got the clout to push him. Frank tells me documents have disappeared. My sources confirm this. I tried to get official access to the files. No dice. I tried people I know. Nothing. Nobody connected with this case will say word one, not my best contacts. I've been a detective five years. I don't need a road map to see where this is going.” He shrugged. “Now you guys show up, outside of regulations and orders. Normally I'd be real interested. But now I've got no questions to ask. It's not
my job or my problem. What you've told me adds up to official zip. I could pull in these people, some of whom could squawk real loud. Then I'm in deep shit. For what? A famous baseball player, a concerned schoolteacher, and a dead priest. You guys are out of your league. I'm out of my league. My best advice is, Forget it, boys. If the case has this kind of pull behind it, my guess is people could get very nasty about you poking around.”
He twined his hands together, placed them behind his head, and slouched back. No dampness under
his
armpits.
“Do I agree with you? Doesn't matter. Can I do anything for you? Nope, sorry. Would what you say hold up in court? No. Is somebody covering up? Obviously. Should you keep your noses out of it? You bet.”
He put his arms down and placed his hands on the table, palms up. “What else can I do for you?”
“What kind of cop are you?” Scott demanded. “Don't you know we're telling the truth?”
The cop smiled. “I think everything you told me was the truth.”
“Then what the fuck?” Scott vented his frustration.
The cop never took his eyes away from Scott's face, listening as if he heard your deepest secrets in everything you said. When Scott ran down the cop said, “I'm more frustrated about this than you are.”
I believed him.
“I deal in real things. Those I can change. This is one I can't. I'm sorry.”
Simple honesty in clear brown eyes.
“If I were on the case, I'd tell you to fuck off as nosy busybodies even if your best friend was the chief of police.” He wasn't threatening or being cruel, just expressing his method of working and dealing with amateurs. “Do me one favor?”
I nodded.
“If you find anything out, let me know. If they find you dead, I'll have a start on an investigation.”
“If you think we're in danger, why won't you help us?” I asked.
“I don't know if you're in danger. But I don't like the smell of this whole business. Warning you to be careful is all I can do.” He shrugged. His shoulders were broad and well muscled.
We got up to leave. Police business over, he said, “My sons would never forgive me if I didn't get Scott Carpenter's autograph. You better sign one for me too.” That was refreshing. Usually an adult wouldn't admit it was for him.
He walked us to the door. He took out his wallet, pulled out a card, and gave it to me. “This has my home number, too. I hope you won't need to use it.”
We thanked him and left.
We drove back to River's Edge for negotiations with the board of education.
I expected the meeting to last until all hours of the morning. I wanted to confront Clarence the creep, but it would have to wait.
The lawyer for their side took fifteen minutes to deliver the message to the lawyer for our side. The board's basic response to our last offer: Fuck you, go to hell. The mediator, part of the process required in all Illinois school district labor disputes, wrung her hands and requested more meetings. We said bullshit. In fifteen more minutes we acted on the authorization of our members and our vote of Saturday and told them we were ready to strike. I was home by nine. I ranted about asshole administrators for fifteen minutes. Scott's heard the drill several thousand times before. He let me run on, then suggested we confront Clarence.
We didn't call. We drove straight to the rectory. Nobody home. We sat in the car while I fumed. Scott suggested we visit the Manhattan woman friend. Even though it was nearly ten I decided to try it. This wasn't a social call, and maybe a late-evening confrontation with possible exposure of this relationship might shake loose some information.
Half an hour later we strode up the walk. The almost springlike forty-degree temperatures had continued. The woman who met us at the door wore blue jeans and a heavy
black sweater. She carried a sleeping baby. We caught a glimpse of Father Clarence in faded jeans and gray sweater lounging on the couch, feet up, gazing at a TV program. He looked in our direction and abruptly sat up straight. We told the woman we wanted to talk to Father Clarence.
“Let them in,” he called.
Inside, the woman began to demand to know who we were and what we wanted. Clarence calmed her down. He asked us all to sit. Our voices had waked the baby. Its cries rose quickly to a full bellow. I presumed the woman to be the mother. Probably around twenty-five, she seemed accustomed to the baby, but for whatever reason, her attention torn and her home threatened, her mothering attempts were for nought. The baby squalled louder. Clarence took the kid. Comfortable as he seemed with the child the crying didn't stop. “She's teething,” the mother explained, “and your presence doesn't help. It took me an hour to get her quiet.” While she directed her anger at me, Scott took the baby from Clarence. The kid stopped crying almost instantly. The man's a wizard.
“How—” The woman reached for her kid, then stopped. The lack of noise eased everybody's tension. Clarence turned off the TV and invited us to sit. He looked like the young executive at home for the evening, in pre-faded designer jeans cut to fit his slender figure. He might work out a day or two a week at a health club. Short hair cut fashionably correct. The apartment had white walls with a few framed posters. All pictured cats in varying stages of cuteness. Burning them would be my first act if it were my place. I can live without cats. The furniture felt comfortable in an overstuffed K-mart way.
We pushed Clarence for answers and information. For fifteen minutes he fended us off.
Finally, frustrated and feeling rotten about doing it, I used the threat of telling about his liaison with the woman and child to get him to talk to us.
At that he rose and stomped about the room, raging at us. I felt guilt, but I wanted information.
He finally sat down, red and puffing. I waited a few minutes and began again. “You're a priest.”
His shoulders slumped. He spoke in a dull monotone. “We're married,” he said.
“Huh?” I managed.
The woman took his hand and held it gently. “We're in love,” she said.
“Who are you?” I said.
“Mrs. Clarence Rogers.”
I saw doubt and worry in his look.
“I always wondered what I'd do if this ever happened,” he said, more to himself than to us. He looked from Scott to me. “I'm not ashamed of what I've done.”
Clarence told us they'd been married five years. She had been a parishioner in his first parish. He didn't feel bound by the outdated precepts of dried-up old men in Rome. “I do a great deal of good as a priest. I won't give it up. I won't give up my sexuality either.”
“How does this work?” Scott asked.
“I stay at the rectory only when necessary. I leave after working hours and get back before early Mass. We're very discreet here.”
I found the hypocrisy of his lifestyle fascinating.
“Father Sebastian knew all about it. Covered for me numerous times with the chancery. A good guy, but very out of step with the times. When I learned he performed fag masses—”
I interrupted. “Don't say fag.”
“You don't like it, complain to the Vatican,” he snapped.
“I don't like it, and I'll beat the living shit out of you and mail you to the Vatican if you say it again,” Scott said.
Clarence opened his mouth, I thought to make a smart comeback. He stared from one to the other of us. His wife patted his arm and said, “Clare, please.”
“What if you're caught?” Scott said.
“They don't burn people at the stake anymore,” Clarence said, “as I'm sure you two appreciate. A gay couple or a priest
led astray by a woman a few centuries ago might have caused executions. Today, who cares?”
Figuring out we're a gay couple after our comments was not a major trick. We spent fifteen minutes arguing the merits of what my nephew overheard. He continued to insist that Jerry had misunderstood. His wife wanted to know why we wouldn't believe him.
I let it go and switched to asking if he knew anything about Sebastian's private life. “Especially if he had a lover. Any hints at all. Maybe odd phone calls.”
“I never paid much attention to the old guy. You get odd phone calls in a rectory all the time,” he said.
I thought our presence would be a threat enough to Clarence's lifestyle to get him to open up. Not a chance. After the initial worry he remained as cool and arrogant as if the pope had performed his marriage. I asked if he'd at least let us look around Sebastian's room. He refused, saying the diocese took care of that. He told us nothing helpful.
“Arrogant snot,” Scott said in the car.
As we walked to my house from the garage I heard the phone ringing. I hurried in, expecting it to be Bartholomew. Instead, Neil announced that the Faith building had burned to the ground. Worse, they couldn't find Bartholomew. He'd told several people he needed to stop by the Faith offices. He'd borrowed the key from Neil.
BOOK: The Only Good Priest
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