Then he rolled up the windows, cranked up the air-conditioning, stepped on the gas, and fishtailed toward the exit, leaving Sally Erbeck in a patch of burned rubber.
Chapter Twenty-two
As Broker drove west on Interstate 94, a bright migraine blue sky burned through the haze while, up ahead, the skyline of St. Paul levitated in a heat island bonfire. Crouched over the wheel in his air-conditioned bubble, he exited the freeway and drove into the downtown loop.
Holy Redeemer was just off Kellogg Boulevard, overlooking the river bluff, in the shadow of the Landmark Center. In keeping with Minnesota’s basic law of nature-there are two seasons: winter and road construction- Kellogg was torn up for blocks in either direction. A maze of chain-link barriers and yellow tape blocked the adjacent streets. Broker had to park in a ramp and circle back through the west end of the downtown loop.
So he found himself on foot in the new St. Paul walking across snug, newly laid cobblestone streets. He passed by Hmong women in traditional embroidered tunics and Somali women wearing the hijab who had laid out vegetables and fresh flowers in outdoor stalls. He walked past caffeine addicts bent over their laptops outside cafes.
He tried to count the rings pierced into the ears of a youth on a scooter with orange buzzed hair. And he stared at slices of tanned bare midriffs decorated with navel rings as they swung by. Tattoos were on parade; they circled arms, they climbed bare calves like clinging vines.
As he walked across Rice Park, he discovered that the tarnished bronze statue of St. Paul icon F. Scott Fitzgerald had been surrounded by a lynch mob of bulbous, vacantly grinning cartoon sculptures: Charlie Brown, Lucy, and Snoopy. Charles Shultz was being celebrated as St. Paul’s new favorite son. Charlie Brown was in; Nick Carraway was out.
But some things never change.
Up ahead, past the silly cartoon characters, Holy Redeemer’s gray stone shoulders hunkered down between the face-lifted building and the commercial finery like a Roman linebacker-strictly playing defense these days.
Broker walked past the church and up the steps to the rectory, rang the bell, and introduced himself to the secretary who answered the door. The interior of the rectory was low lit, gray, and musty. Crossing the threshold, Broker felt like he was entering an American catacomb. When the door closed behind him, he was standing in 1956, and God was in his heaven, and the cars were still made out of steel.
“Father Malloy will be with you in a moment,” said the secretary, a middle-aged woman whose dress and demeanor matched the quiet decor.
Broker sat on a hardwood chair flanked by large amber glass ashtrays set in metal pedestals. The carpets, walls, furniture yielded an underscent of cigar smoke.
“Hello, Broker,” said Jack Malloy, coming into the vestibule, right hand outstretched. Broker rose, and they shook hands. In his youth, Malloy had evaded his calling to the ministry by hiding in the St. Paul Police Department. He and Broker had met in the patrol division.
Malloy’s golf shirt stretched taut over his flat stomach. His grip was strong, his blue eyes direct. “You want some coffee?”
“Sure.”
Malloy walked back into the rectory kitchen and returned with two mismatched coffee cups. He handed one to Broker.
“Do you really think the Saint has reappeared?” Malloy asked as he led Broker up a flight of carpeted stairs, down a hall, and into a study.
“We don’t know. So we’re taking it real quiet until John gets back in town. He had to go to Seattle. Death in the family,” Broker said.
“I’m sorry to hear it; give him my regards.” Malloy pointed to a pair of stuffed leather chairs. They sat and sipped their coffee for a moment.
Malloy’s eyes became a little tight, the muscles working in his cheeks. “So the hysteria has arrived in Minnesota and killed a priest,” he said.
Along with the 1950s decor and the tincture of tobacco, the rectory had sluggish, ancient air-conditioning. Malloy’s words were floaters in the sodden air.
“You tell me. Did you know Moros?” Broker said.
Malloy shook his head. “No. But it’s obvious that St. Martin’s was not an ideal post. There was bound to be talk about any priest moved quickly into an obscure cranny of the Church these days.”
“Right now WashCo is totally stalling the press on this,” Broker said. “When they have to give up some information, they’ll feather their way into it-tell them we’re handling it as a burglary gone bad. Which is true up to a point since they’re investigating along that track.”
“So you think someone might call in to take credit?”
Broker shook his head. “I don’t know. That wasn’t the Saint’s style.”
“No, it wasn’t. The Saint didn’t leave a trace, as I recall,” Malloy said.
“So, you can see. .,” Broker said.
“Exactly. The imagery is irresistible: Saint returns to clean house when the bishops won’t. Once you add the medallion to the mix, an entire scenario falls into place. High carnival on the archdiocese,” Malloy said.
Broker put down his coffee cup. “Jack, somebody from Moros’s parish in Albuquerque called in an anonymous tip. They told the secretary at St. Martin’s he’d assaulted a girl.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You knew?” Broker leaned forward.
Malloy held up his hand. “Slow down. I did some checking last night. I have a buddy in the archbishop’s office. We were classmates together in Rome, so we’re pretty tight. He expedited Moros’s transfer from Albuquerque. If the Saint is active again, he got the wrong guy. Moros comes up clean.”
“Tell me.”
Malloy nodded. “I don’t have documentation. But I can get it. And so can you. This is what happened. Moros dabbled in painting. Murals mainly, but he was competent enough in other mediums to teach classes, which he did on a regular basis at his parish in New Mexico.
“Last April there was an incident in one of his classes. The students were junior high kids, and this particular day they were working in pastel chalk. At the end of class, they were putting their sketches away.” Malloy paused. “You know anything about pastels?”
Broker shrugged. He thought vaguely of sherbet colors.
“Well,” Malloy said, “they’re real powdery. Unless you zap them good with fixative, they get all over everything. One of the students, who happened to be a teenage girl very mature in the physical department, tipped her sketch as she was putting it on a shelf. The chalk dusted down the front of her blouse and jeans. So Moros was standing there, and without thinking he goes-‘Oops, look out.’”
Malloy pantomimed sweeping his hand across Broker’s chest. “Moros goes like this, to wipe away the chalk. There were witnesses who said it was pure reflex, like shooing a fly.”
Broker winced, seeing it coming.
“Exactly,” Malloy said. “The girl blushes, sobs, and runs from the room.”
“Oh boy,” Broker said.
Malloy nodded. “The next morning, the parents and their lawyer come banging on the bishop’s door and it’s, ‘What’s this Mexican Rasputin doing molesting my lily-white daughter?’”
Broker felt a wrinkle of sadness. He remembered the tape outline of the shape Victor Moros’s body left on the carpet in the confessional. He had not even seen the crime scene photos yet. He did not know what Moros looked like. He could not put a face to the name.
Malloy continued. “So we have this great window into the current state of our culture-we have issues of hair- trigger litigiousness, of parental hysteria. And there’s a robust serpent of racism slithering through the whole business.”
“How’d he move out so fast?”
