“That is true…wishful thinking, I guess.”
Lynch and Gomez looked at each other, silently acknowledging that they’d just witnessed some damned fine detective work. Lynch put his finger on the white board next to the three pictures containing mystery men.
“May I take these?”
Father Leo folded his arms with an expression of relief and confusion.
“Be my guest. This makes sense, then?”
The detectives beamed.
“Si Padre.”
“This is good, Leo, really good.”
The priest, caught off-guard, indulged in a moment of pride for which he would later ask forgiveness.
“My old man had a saying. He said it in Italian, but it translates into English roughly as ‘know your stuff.’ I know my congregation.”
Lynch dug out his pad and pencil and asked for a quick rundown of all the people sitting immediately next to the men in question. Leo obliged, while Gomez bagged the pictures for protection. Lynch finished up his scribbling, thanked Father Leo, and started to exit.
Gomez cleared his throat. Lynch spun back. Once again, he’d gotten off track and forgot to ask question number one.
“Any idea where Father O’Rourke might be?”
“He left with his racquet ball gear maybe a half an hour ago, so the YMCA’s a strong possibility. He keeps his appointments in plain view on his desk. Take a look there.”
There was, indeed, a Star Wars Day-at-a-Time calendar on the corner of Aiden’s ink blotter. The entry upon it read ‘Devlin two o’clock,’ so both he and Devlin knew that they were getting together that day, but the specific plans weren’t made ahead of time.
“Check this out.”
Tucked into the corner of the blotter was a long, narrow piece of paper containing a list:
First Baptist
Torah
Xavier Lutheran (?)
Maplewood Evangelical
First Pres
Potterford United Methodist
Masjid Aljamia
SJ Episcopal
Etc.
Something about it, or rather, the way it was written, rang a faint bell somewhere in Lynch’s recent memory. It nagged at him for about an hour.
5. The “Y”
The racquetball courts at the YMCA were installed to tournament standards. The floors were hardwood and heavily varnished. The front and side walls were made form a resilient, single-purpose material called FiBERESiN™. The rear walls were all paneled glass with spectator seating beyond.
The match was Aiden’s idea, racquetball being the only common ground between him and Devlin. They held their conversation between the slaps and pops of rubber against wood and fibrous plastic.
“Aiden, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I’m here against my boss’s advice, you know. He told me it was a waste of time talking to you.”
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I don’t have a problem with you, Pascucci, or even Karney. I feel the same about Catholics as Jesus felt about the Jews. Jesus didn’t speak out against the Jews. He was a Jew. He spoke out against the pharoses. I don’t speak out against the Catholics; I speak out against Catholic leadership.”
“We’re busting at the seams. You get that, right?”
“Yeah, you guys are all about the numbers. That’s why you hate homosexuals, birth control, and abortions. They stunt the production of little Catholics.”
“You’re contradicting yourself now.”
“Cheap shot, sorry.”
“What I mean is…(grunt)…we need more room. That’s the only reason we’re building the new church.”
“Interesting how your parish spent the biggest chunk of change it ever collected on itself.”
“You want to talk money?”
“Okay, point made. Look, if you want me to back off, I’ll stop looking for trouble until you break ground on the new church…son of a …!”
Devlin missed his shot, putting things even at a game apiece. They took a water break while he completed his thought.
“…but you know what happens if another kid gets felt up, or anyone does, or says anything that resembles defiling Eddie Williams’ character.”
“Who?”
“Just remember the name. You may hear it again. If you do, leave it alone.”
“This conversation just got awfully mafia-like.”
“Well, you would know. Serve it.”
There was a knock on the glass. Brother Devlin reacted with mute confusion while Father O’Rourke walked over to the door and gave the handle a yank.
“Hi, fellas. Pardon the interruption.”
The young priest, fazed by nothing after the week’s events, bade his visitors enter. Devlin remained perplexed…more so as the casually-dressed detectives made their way intimidatingly toward him. He pointed at their feet.
“It’s a good thing you’ve got on regulation footwear. The YMCA folks are sticklers about scuff marks. Is this your day off?”
Lynch spoke over his shoulder.
“We need to talk to Brother Devlin alone, Father. Can you occupy yourself for a few minutes?”
Aiden grabbed his towel and stepped out. Lynch lubed his gears for a long, teeth-pulling interview. He would not get one. Devlin spoke.
“Mind if I smack the ball around a little while we talk?”
“I don’t have a problem with that. Do you, Ernie?”
“No, I’m cool. Go ahead.”
”Thwack – pop!”
“So, what’s this about, detective?”
“Oh, some new stuff has come to light. I didn’t know you and Father O’Rourke were friends.”
”Thwack – pop!”
“We’re friend-ly. I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. He’s working all of us over.”
“Who’s ‘all of us?’”
”Thwack – pop!”
“All of the religious figures in Potterford. He’s…”
”Thwack – pop!”
“…looking to get all us non-Catholic organizations on the side of St. Al’s …”
”Thwack – pop!”
“…Someone over there has it in their head that support of that kind will…”
”Thwack – pop!”
“…push back on negative press.”
“Do you agree?”
”Thwack – pop!”
“I don’t care enough to agree or disagree.”
“Do you know who else he’s spoken to?”
”Thwack – pop!”
“Rabbi Sager at the synagogue, Pastor Seymour at First Baptist…”
”Thwack – pop!”
“...Reverend Beech over at Extra Large.”
“Excuse me? Over at where?”
”Thwack – pop!”
“Xavier Lutheran. Everyone calls it Extra Large: XL, get it?”
Like an approaching locomotive, the distant bell rung by the cryptic list on O’Rourke’s desk blotter grew louder. Lynch closed his eyes and dug. Dribs and drabs of the past six days came forth as though his brain’s [shuffle] button had been pushed.
“Yeah ,Jim. Sorry. I’m afraid the ‘how’ is going to be easier than the ‘why’ on this one.”
“You might call them a gang. They don’t really call themselves anything.”
“We all passed out in the loft like we always do. Next morning, he was
