“Does this crew have a name?”
“I once heard them refer to themselves as ‘The Unjudged,’ but I don’t know if that’s what they call themselves or how they describe themselves. Both maybe?”
Lynch jotted “Unjudged” in his note pad with a snort of disgust. The word wasn’t even grammatically correct.
The priest was skirting the truth. St. Al’s last encounter with the “Unjudged” was more specific and complicated than he let on. As much as he wanted to help, it was important that he not be stuck at the hotel all night answering a hundred follow-up questions.
Lynch spoke.
“We’ve got one more…”
Henry cued up a second recording. It showed Philip entering the property from the street and walking across the parking lot. The shadow from the hoodie and the woeful quality of the recording left only the tip of his nose visible to the naked eye.
“We’re going to do our best to scrub it out, but quite frankly, this gear is older than the building …”
Everyone was thinking the same thing.
At least the rates are reasonable.
Lynch asked his next question almost apologetically.
“Does anything look familiar to you? His gait? The shape of his head? Anything?”
The priest gave the image honest scrutiny before giving his defeated reply.
“No, not a thing.”
Lynch stopped the tape with a satisfied nod.
“Thank you, Father. Here’s my card. Give me a call if you remember anything else. I will probably be in touch over the next couple of days. Is it okay to phone the church?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Well, again, thanks. And Father…please, for the sake of the investigation, don’t discuss anything you’ve seen tonight with anyone. If you want me to elaborate…”
“No. That’s okay. I completely understand.”
Father Pascucci would never take the Lord’s name in vain, but old habits die hard. He came from a family of South Philly butchers. He also believed that God tells us what’s offensive; not the other way around. Hence his muttering as he backed his car out of the hotel parking spot.
“Don’t discuss this with any one? Are you fucking kidding me?”
3. Potterford Police Station
“Back off will ya Reilly! You know the smell of your tea makes me sick.”
“Whatcha lookin’ at, Jim?”
“Just some stuff on Bishop Ryan.”
Top priority was tracking down the Unjudged. Step one was finding a legible version of the symbol on the killer’s trench coat. The capture from the video tape wasn’t clear enough to flash around the St. Al’s neighborhood. This left Lynch and Gomez at their computers browsing pages and pages of Satanist rhetoric. Lynch had also opened a magazine article about the victim. He knew next to nothing about the man.
Sergeant Kevin Reilly leaned over Lynch’s shoulder purposely positioning his cup by his fellow detective’s face.
“Don’t even tell me another cocksucker is coming after the diocese with this molestation bullshit! I’ve had it up to my…”
“No, Reilly. No one is accusing him of anything. He was killed tonight.”
“He…he what?”
Lynch realized what he just said and, more importantly, to whom. If anyone in the squad was going to be affected by the night’s events, it was Kevin Reilly. Lynch turned around and quickly tried to backpedal.
“I’m sorry, Kevin. I shouldn’t have just blurted it out like that. Where have you been, man? The call came in two hours ago.”
Reilly squeezed the handle of his cup and stared at an invisible spot on Lynch’s desk as his face turned a few shades pinker. There was no mistaking when his Irish blood was boiling.
“I’ve been down in records since five o ‘clock trying to close the goddam Del Rey case. Sons of bitches! Are the Feds in on this?”
“I think the Chief has been on the phone with them, but we haven’t heard anything yet…”
Lynch looked toward his boss’s office.
“…I dunno. It’s weird”
“You keep me in the loop on this, Jim!”
Reilly put his cup down, muttered something about “lost time”, and headed for the foyer. He needed some air.
“You hear me? In the loop!”
The previous two years had been rough ones for the Philadelphia Archdiocese. Three priests in their parishes were accused of child molestation. None were prosecuted, but there was plenty of damage done. Everyone with any kind of authority in the Archdiocese was replaced. Archbishop Fellini was brought in to spearhead the effort to get things back in order. Sitting at his right hand was his pit bull, Bishop Ryan. The two of them were revered in the community with movie star status. Whatever they were doing, it seemed to be working. The centerpiece of the morale-building portion of the effort was the construction of the new St. Aloysius Church in Potterford. It aptly represented how the Catholic community in that part of the state had blossomed and thusly outgrown the old parish on Prospect Street. It was to be a beautiful building in every aspect with a comfortable seating capacity of 900. On Christmas and Easter, 1500.
“Ha! Jaime, I found it. Come take a look.”
Lynch moved Reilly’s cup off of his desk, and took a look at Gomez’s monitor. He felt lousy about his accidental terseness, but there was no way he was spending the rest of his tour smelling mint tea.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Look!”
Ernie dragged the digital capture from the Marriott’s security camera next to the graphic he found on line. It looked more like a cake decoration than a Satanic Symbol.
“Good eye, Ernie. How did he put that thing on his jacket?”
“Looks like paint.”
“Did he use his feet?”
“That’s what happens when you cut a school’s arts program.”
It would have saved them a few minutes later in the evening had they taken a look at the origin of the symbol. As it was, they were both in linear mode and were only interested in getting the jacket ID’d.
“Okay. Print out both, and let’s take a ride.”
It was only 10 o’clock. The chances of finding at least one group of teens huddled under a street lamp were better than good. They drove past the church on
