He didn’t know how long the FBI had been there. They’d requested anything that the church could provide pertaining to Ryan’s last Mass, including the yellow confirmation inserts that were distributed before the service and collected afterwards. The building was overrun. All Leo could do was sit in Pastor Karney’s office away from the crime scene and await his interview.
The Special Agent’s name was Marjorie Beck from the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group. The line between compassion and condescension was a thin one, and Special Agent Beck walked it well. She entered the office with sympathetic eyes and an apologetic handshake.
The delicate silver chain around her neck adorned with a small crucifix did not escape Leo’s notice.
She asked him for his version of the past 4 days. He spoke without self-awareness, as if listening to a recording of his own voice. He recalled the fouled up hotel arrangements, the dinner at Sullivan’s, the voicemail message from the hotel security guard, the viewing of the security video, the meeting in the chapel, the press conference, the protest, the plan to send Father O’Rourke unto Potterford’s non-Catholic communities, the masturbator’s confession, the chase afterwards, Father O’Rourke’s near breakdown, the visit to the police station, Archbishop’s Fellini’s offer to help, the confrontation with Lynch, and the rest.
They took a short break. Then she asked him to go through it all again, focusing on details and anything that struck him as odd.
Leo’s eyes turned vacant. The vapor that was serving as his consciousness held nearly every recent memory at bay…nearly every memory.
“Pruning the roses.”
“What’s that?”
He wasn’t sure what to call her.
“Ma’am, is Pastor Karney here yet?”
“He’s en route.”
Leo gave his jowls a vigorous shake and slapped himself on both cheeks.
“May I call him?”
“It’s better if I do.”
Between the three of them, and Ernie’s digital recorder, they’d figure out how Leo’s sister-lusting confessor got away, but that would be all. They were about to be interrupted with another crisis.
11. The Sanctuary at St. Aloysius
Carrie Warner’s words rang in Lynch’s ears. She was absolutely right. They weren’t NYPD. He woke up that morning (feeling, at least, like) an above-average detective. Now he was just an ineffectual little turd acting as a facilitator for the investigators who actually knew what they were doing.
Everyone was brought back for second interviews, starting with the two women who entered the confessional before and after the incestuous jerkoff. Lynch observed but, by request of the questioning agent, did not participate. He was to listen for inconsistencies, nothing else. He heard none, although the timbre of every word made him want to ram a spike in his own eye. The abrasively pious woman remembered nothing. The non-sequiturial one didn’t see the man’s face but described him as medium-built with dark clothing, and shoulder-length blond hair under a black wool cap.
“Thank you, ma’am. We may be in touch.”
The acting church secretary was next. Lynch didn’t conduct her initial interview, so he was off the hook until his assistance was specifically requested.
They should have brought in the feds right away.
He took a seat in a pew and, head in hands, recalled Sunday morning’s one-sided phone conversation with his boss.
“Listen, Lynch, as silly as it sounds, the Philly diocese wants to keep the investigation local.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“The excuse is that the evidence points towards a local pagan whacko and therefore best followed up by cops who know the area. The reason is they don’t want the FBI and the Sherriff’s Department putting more eyes on this thing than necessary. They think it’ll stir up the shit from the past two years.”
Yeah yeah yeah, blah blah blah. Great call. What did it get them?
“Thanks to me, a dead Archbishop, that’s what.”
He wanted to nail a picture of himself to a wall, piss on it, and spend the rest of his life flipping it off.
Special Agent Beck appeared in the distance. She was walking toward him with purpose.
“This can’t be good”
Earlier, he told her about Samuel and how he went from prime suspect to being eliminated from the inquiries. Apart from a thoughtful chew of her pen cap, she barely reacted. Either she was satisfied with Lynch’s work or saving the ass-handing for later.
And it was later.
He clenched his buttocks as she took a seat next to him. With a facial expression that was impossible to read, she dug into her jacket pocket and produced Ernie’s hand-held digital recorder. Lynch sensed that his injury was about to get a helping of insult.
“We just got off the phone with the landscaping company that services the church. There were only three workers here Monday, and none of them were allowed near the rose bushes. Only Pastor Karney does the rose bushes. That’s a rule, and the landscapers know it. That makes one man too many in the courtyard. Now, check this out.”
She pressed the recorder’s PLAY button. Lynch heard the same portion of the same interview that Gomez played for him on Monday.
Dee man come to da door. Den vee vork. Den man ask if vee see a man running. Vee tell him no.
As if Lynch didn’t feel like enough of an idiot…
“You see, detective? He’s talking about two different men. One of them come to da door; the other ask if vee see a man running. Gomez assumed it was the same guy, so he didn’t pay it any mind.”
“So did I for that matter.”
“Of course, you did. I would have too. That’s not the point. Father Pascucci can’t remember a thing about the perp, but the other guy…the guy legitimately from the landscapers…he got a short but close look at him. We’ve got a shot at a sketch here.”
Lynch forced an enthusiastic smile as the dial that adjusted his feelings of
