“I need to think.”
“What?”
“I need to think…yes…I need to think.”
As if his girlfriend was invisible, he backed up, got himself together, and left the apartment all the while mumbling to himself.
She was left kneeling on the floor with her bare butt on her heels. He’d done that sort of thing before, not exactly that, but things similar. She shrugged and crawled out of the room, lest she give the neighbors an eyeful they didn’t deserve.
The thrill was oh so gone.
With a devilish smile, she put on some sweats and decided to take a nap. What did she care? She’d been good to go for ten minutes. He’d let her know when he snapped out of his funk. He always did.
4. About Town
The afternoon’s events led Lynch and Gomez to the YMCA, but not before a stop at St. Aloysius. The drive back to Potterford started with a series of irritating phone calls. The first was to Maplewood Evangelical and only made it as far as the church secretary.
“Brother Devlin’s appointment book says ‘O’Rourke two o’clock’. I don’t know what that means. Do you need his cell number?”
They didn’t. They had it. They called it. No answer. They called Father O’Rourke. Also no answer. They got through to the secretary at St. Matthews and were told that the St. Al’s boys were back in their regular digs. They called St. Al’s…no answer.
So, in hopes of tracking down Father O’Rourke, and, in turn, Pastor Devlin, they set a course for Prospect Street.
The church was nearly as they’d last seen it, except the cops were outside rather than in. The guard force was comprised mostly of uniforms that could be spared from other stations in the county. They were to remain on guard“until at least one man wearing a miter made it out of Potterford alive.” This was an order, verbatim, from Special Agent Beck.
Lynch and Gomez went in through the side door. There was music: The Dona Nobis Pacem from Bach’s Mass in b minor (not that either detective recognized it). It was faint, but followable, and drew them, familiarly, behind the sanctuary.
They found Father Leo in his office. His back was to them, and his CD player was blaring the Bach Mass. The scene was, to say the least, interesting. Leo had cleared his white board of all writing and Post-its and refilled it with a bunch of photographs. He was putting the array under intense scrutiny.
Lynch touched the priest’s shoulder, expecting to scare the man out of his rabat, but Leo’s reaction was more of embarrassment than shorts-shitting. He picked up a little remote control and paused the Bach Mass mid-nobis.
“Jim! How are you?”
Lynch nodded toward the white board.
“Not bad, actually. This is impressive.”
“This? It’s just a…it’s nothing. Just an experiment.”
The pictures were immediately recognizable as being from the confirmation. Lynch remembered Leo mentioning an appeal to his parishioners for photos and whatnot from the service.
“Shouldn’t the FBI have all this?”
“They have copies of it all on a flash drive. These came off my photo printer.”
The machine was in the office…easily fifteen years old, but, apparently, still worked. Leo continued.
“Really, this is just me playing detective. Ignore it. Did you need something?”
A dry smile came to Lynch’s lips. Leo realized he’d chosen the wrong turn of phrase.
“Well, considering how you’d probably react if you caught me playing priest, I think I’m interested.”
Gomez approached.
“Yeah, Father. Whatcha got here?”
Father Leo begrudgingly gave in.
“It’s an approximation of Cardinal Romero High School’s gym last Saturday. Most of the pictures are worthless…Bishop Ryan … kids … Ryan … kids … backs of heads … kids … kids … Bishop Ryan. That’s about it. No one, of course, got any pictures of the congregation from Bishop Ryan’s point of view while the Mass was going on.”
Leo closed his eyes and inhaled not wanting to continue. He did anyway.
“But look at this.”
He pointed to a picture of a very tall boy posing for a photo with Bishop Ryan. On the side, sneaking in some face time, was Constance Henderson. Leo sounded like a man trying to explain to his wife why he didn’t wipe his feet.
“One of the things that’s been bugging me all week is how the killer knew Ryan was staying at the Marriott. I understand he could have followed him, but if he didn’t, someone blabbed. And the biggest blab in the church is (pointing) Constance Henderson. I remember her talking the Bishop’s ears off after this picture was taken. I was standing right there, see? I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she was the only one to linger.”
He paused, hoping the detectives would stop him and leave. With no such luck, he forged ahead referencing the same photo.
“This guy here…the guy sort of in the foreground…that’s Jake Leary, and he’s in the line of people walking out, right? That means, anyone hearing the conversation would have been in line behind Jake, which means they would have been sitting somewhere behind Jake.”
He changed pictures.
“Now, here’s Jake sitting down, that’s definitely the back of his head. See where the aisles cross? That puts him maybe ten rows from the back.”
He drew the detectives’ attention to a cluster of photos on the right side of the board.
“All of these were taken from the back of the room. These three over here contain men I can’t vouch for. This guy I don’t recognize, and these two I can’t see very well because the view is blocked by other heads.”
By hound-like guidance or dumb luck, Lynch spotted Braden Reilly’s unmistakable red hair. The kid was looking down at his yellow confirmation insert, doodling no doubt.
Gomez interjected.
“There are more heads blocked than just those three.”
“Yes, but I know all the people who are sitting around the others, so I can pretty well tell who they are by association. It’s a confirmation. Just about all of the men in these pictures are family men.”
Lynch interrupted.
“You’re assuming the crime was committed by
