Fiddlers

Sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows.

And all he could think of was taking off Patricia’s panties.

Three or four religious fanatics were sitting in the pews, praying. A guy in his fifties was polishing the big brass candlesticks behind the altar railing. Ollie walked down the center aisle like a bishop, approached the man.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ he asked, same as he would at a crime scene.

The guy looked up, polishing rag in his right hand.

Ollie showed his detective’s shield.

‘Is there a head priest or something?’ he asked.

The man seemed bewildered. Sparrow of a man with narrow shoulders and thin arms, blue eyes darting from the shield in Ollie’s hand, to Ollie’s face, and then back to the shield again. Ollie figured he wasn’t playing with a full deck.

‘Are you looking for Father Nealy?’ the man asked.

‘Sure,’ Ollie said. ‘Where do I find him?’

* * * *

Father James Nealy was preparing next Sunday morning’s sermon when Ollie walked into his rectory at eleven thirty that Monday morning. Ollie knew right off the man would be of no earthly help to him; he was in his early thirties, and couldn’t possibly have been here at Our Lady of Grace when Father Michael was. He asked his questions, anyway.

‘Did you know Father Michael personally?’

‘Never met the man,’ Father Nealy said. ‘But I’ve heard only good things about him.’

‘Never heard anyone say he wished the old man was dead, right?’

Father Nealy smiled. He was wearing black trousers and a black shirt, looked like some kind of tunic. White collar. Black, highly polished shoes. Ollie figured he had to be some kind of fag.

‘No, I’ve never heard anyone say he wished Father Michael was dead.’

‘Everybody loved him, right?’

‘I don’t know about that. But I’ve heard nothing but praise from our parishioners.’

‘Some of them still remember him, is that it?’

‘Oh yes. He was a beloved leader.’

‘Like I said. Everybody loved him.’

‘Am I detecting a mocking tone here?’ Father Nealy asked. He was no longer smiling.

‘No, you’re detecting a detective investigating the murder of somebody everybody loved.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Father Nealy said. ‘Obviously, someone didn’t love him.’

‘Ah yes,’ Ollie said. ‘But you wouldn’t know of any friction back then when he was a priest here.’

‘As I said, I haven’t heard of any.’

‘Why’d he leave here for St. Ignatius, anyway?’

‘Priests are moved from one parish to another all the time,’ Father Nealy said. ‘The diocese sends us wherever we’re needed to do the Lord’s work.’

‘Of course,’ Ollie said, thinking, The Lord’s work, what total bullshit. ‘Well, thanks for your time, Father,’ he said. ‘If you can think of anyone who might’ve had mischief on his mind, give me a call, okay? Meanwhile, may God bless you and keep you,’ he said, and shook hands with the priest and walked out.

He came down the long corridor that led through the sacristy, lined with clear leaded windows streaming morning sunlight, and then back to the church proper. Inside the church, the same holy lunatics were scattered in the pews, mumbling their prayers, the same guy was behind the altar, polishing brass. He spotted Ollie the moment he came through the door into the church, almost as if he’d been waiting for him to come back.

‘Detective?’ he said.

Ollie turned, went to him.

‘Are you investigating?’ the man whispered.

Eyes wide and frightened.

‘Why?’ Ollie asked. “What do you know?’

‘Jerry!’

A woman’s voice.

Ollie turned to where a redhead going ugly gray was striding down the side aisle of the church like a witch who’d lost her broomstick.

‘Leave my brother alone!’ she shouted, startling the holy at prayer, and took Jerry by the hand, and dragged him away from the altar.

But this was Oliver Wendell Weeks she was dealing with here.

As brother and sister came out of the church, Ollie was right behind them.

* * * *

Kling was beginning to sound to Brown like one of those tormented private eyes or rogue cops he read about in seven-dollar paperbacks that used to be dime novels that used to be penny dreadfuls. White guys mostly who went around moaning and groaning and tearing out their hair about everything but what was supposed to be their work. Their work here was supposed to be finding out who had put two bullets in Professor Christine Langston’s face, plus some other faces as well.

Instead, he was telling Brown that he’d been to bed with a girl named Sadie Harris this past Friday night - another black girl, no less - whom he hadn’t yet called back, but he hadn’t called Sharyn again, either, and now he was asking Brown his advice on what he should do because he thought he might already be in love with this Sadie Harris, who was a librarian in Riverhead. Tell the truth, Brown didn’t care whether he called Sadie or Sharyn, or went to bed with either or both of them, or even with Britney Spears in the window of Harrods department store in London, England. Kling’s troubles with women - black women, no less - were of minor consequence to the real issue at hand, which happened to be murder. Murders. Plural. Five of them so far, and maybe still counting.

Of major consequence and immediate concern was Warren G. Harding High School, where a twenty-three- year-old teacher named Christine Langston had long ago given an eighteen-year-old boy a C when he’d desperately needed an A to keep him out of the Army.

What they wanted to know was the name of that boy.

But all of this was all so very long ago and very far away.

What they were talking about here was more than forty years ago. Guy would have to be in his late fifties by now. This whole damn case was buried in ancient history.

What they learned at Harding High at twelve noon that Monday was that no one currently teaching there - no one - had been teaching there back then when Christine was promising ‘A’s and handing out ‘C’s instead. Nor had anyone employed in the Clerical Office today been working at the school back then.

So…

Either they had to admit they’d reached a dead end on the professor’s murder…

Or else they could try some other means - God knew what - of tracking down each and every member of the graduating class back then, and all of the teachers who’d been at Harding when Christine was but a mere twenty-three, in her green and salad days, and learning how to trade grades for apparently scarce sex.

Fat Chance Department, both cops thought.

They headed back to the squadroom to discuss it with the Loot, who wasn’t in such a good mood himself just then.

* * * *

What goes in must come out.

What goes up must come down.

These are things you learn after years of dedicated police work.

Jerry and his sister, the graying redheaded witch, had gone into the building at 831 Barber Street at twelve-oh-seven this afternoon, and it was now twenty to one, and neither one of them had yet come out. Ollie felt certain of three things.