The engine is a work in progress that has been cobbled together using parts from a Honda Civic, a moped, and even a lawnmower. I credit my father for teaching me how to keep the engine running and make the most of duct tape. If I had the money, I could restore the heck out of it.
With a turn of a key, the engine sputters to life, and I embark on the half-hour journey through the Arroyo Seco watershed to Father Ramon. Five years ago, I read an article in Vanity Fair about a priest in Los Angeles, Father Ramon Castillo, who was making a name for himself as one of the most accomplished exorcists in America. Since his ordination, he’d conducted over twenty exorcisms throughout Southern California. The Vatican had even summoned him to lead a training session from around the world at a yearly conference for other exorcists. I like to pretend they call the event Ex-Con.
I was living in New Orleans at the time, searching for help from the priests and faith healers in the area. Since that had turned up nothing, and because I was still desperate for answers, I packed my things and moved to Los Angeles. I spent a few weeks stalking him outside the church until one day I caught him walking alone. I accosted him in the park, and I explained my situation. Since the article had been published, he’d received many inquiries from people who were convinced they were possessed, so he was naturally skeptical about my situation. I encouraged him to get in touch with the Vatican—they had a whole file on me. After confirming my story, and with permission from the Los Angeles bishop, he agreed to help me in any way he could. We’ve been friends ever since.
Our search to uncover Dudley’s real name began in the libraries throughout Los Angeles and in every special collection resource we could find. We have spent countless hours digging through volumes of books. Father Ramon leveraged every connection he had to get us into museums and personal collections to study artifacts and materials not available to the general public. The Vatican had even sent him some rare and valuable texts as additional resources. For five years, we have been searching for the name of the demonic entity inside me.
Despite our best efforts, we’re not any closer than we were on day one of our search. There are a lot of demon names. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever figure it out.
Father Ramon was quick to notice I had a talent for research, an eye for detail, and an exceptional memory. I credit this to the years of research I had already conducted on my own. He used his connections to help me land work with a private investigation agency. We mostly handled workers’ compensation claims for insurance companies, and I would perform sub-rosa investigations—secret surveillance of individuals, such as filming a forklift operator waterskiing a week after he’d filed a claim for a back injury.
I was good at my job. Damn good. In no time, I was the number-one surveillance investigator on the team.
When I considered starting my own business, it was Father Ramon who encouraged me. After completing my required field hours and acquiring the finest online bachelor’s degree in criminology that money could buy, I became a certified, licensed private investigator and started my own business. Father Ramon connected me with my first client, and he continues to send work my way. He has a good relationship with his flock, and they have no reservations about going to him with their troubles, both in the confession booth and outside of it.
* * *
Once I’ve parked in Old Town Pasadena, I send Father Ramon a text letting him know I have arrived then stand across the street from the church. The sun sits low on the horizon, backlighting the old Romanesque church with its hundred-forty-foot campanile overlooking all of Pasadena. The redbrick structure is modeled after the bell tower at the Santa Maria Church in Trastevere and looks like something right out of medieval Italy. This tour of Los Angeles history is courtesy of my experience working in the Central Library.
Father Ramon emerges from the church. It’s probably blasphemous to say, but Ramon is a good-looking man. He keeps fit, not just for the health benefits but also to keep himself ready for the next marathon exorcism. He’s not yet forty, but his thick black hair is already showing signs of gray.
This evening, he’s wearing his civvies—blue jeans and a gray polo shirt—and not his usual clerical shirt and collar. He crosses the street and smiles as he approaches. “Hello, Darcy. It’s good to see you.”
He knows better than to hug me or even to venture a handshake. That’s another result of demonic possession—I can’t have physical contact with religious leaders. Instead, he raises his hand in greeting, and I wave back.
“Hello, Father Ramon,” I say.
I’ve met a lot of priests in my time, and there’s no consistent convention for how they wish to be addressed. Ramon Castillo is probably the friendliest priest I’ve ever met. He likes people to call him Father Ramon.
We walk into Old Town and find our little coffee shop down a redbrick pedestrian alley. He’s friendly with everyone in the neighborhood, saying hello to shop owners and locals by name. The café sits deep in the alley, with an external counter under a red-and-white awning. He orders in Spanish, pays for my coffee as well as his, and tips generously.
We find a small table and enjoy our coffee over some casual chitchat. He asks about my life and work at the library. I update him
