Father McKenna opened the door, exposing his bare toes through the end of his leather slippers. He looked surprisingly dapper in an Irish-supporting green bathrobe with gold trim. “May I help you?”
“Good evening. I am sorry to disturb you at such a late hour.”
“I believe it is more early than late,” Father McKenna answered, neither perturbed nor trying to be funny.
“I guess you’re right, my apologies. My name is Detective Earl Wallace with the First District.”
“Good morning, Detective. Father Thomas McKenna. Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
Detective Wallace followed the Padre to the small living area in the rectory. The leather sofa was worn, a place where life, death, marriage, and baptism were discussed daily. Father McKenna turned on a small standing lamp near a statue of St. Joseph, and fumbled through the kitchen drawers just beyond the living area.
Detective Wallace walked around the quiet rectory and stopped to read a framed document on the wall titled “Desiderata.” Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
The words were hypnotic and therapeutic. Detective Wallace finished reading and started at the beginning again before Father McKenna interrupted the most religious experience the detective had had since a child had fallen, before his very eyes, four floors from an apartment balcony, bounced once, and landed unharmed.
“How do you take it?”
“I’m sorry?” Wallace said, his trance broken.
“How do you take your coffee, detective?”
“Black is fine, Father.”
Father McKenna joined the detective in the living area, balancing two cups of coffee that were filled to the brim.
“That is a very inspiring piece,” Detective Wallace said, nodding to the framed document on the wall.
“Yes, it is.”
“Where is it from? I don’t recognize it.”
“There’s a lot of mystery behind it. It gained notoriety under the misconception that it was penned by a saint in the eighteen hundreds. In fact, it was written much later, by a common layman. Common except for the skill to be able to write something that people put on their walls. Something that people fold up and put in their wallets.”
“It is inspirational,” Wallace said, stressing the middle word.
“Yes it is.” Father McKenna stirred his coffee and set the cup down.
“How can I help you, detective?”
“I had some questions about a possible parishioner. Do you know a Marilyn Ford?”
Father McKenna paused for a split second. “Yes, I knew her. She was not a regular, if you will, but I knew her.”
“Do you know all of your parishioners who aren’t regulars?”
“No, not all. We have a few lapsed Catholics who are on their forth or fifth relapses. I don’t know them all, but I did know Marilyn. I understand she passed away last week. Very tragic.”
“Yes, very tragic. Did you perform a ceremony for her?”
“No. I believe her brother flew her body back to Wisconsin rather hastily.”
“What do you know about the circumstances surrounding her death?”
“Just what I have heard.”
“Which is?”
“That she had an accident in a Metro station involving the escalator.”
“That’s it?”
“That is all. Yes.”
“Well, Father, we have reason to believe that you may be able to help us determine if she was a victim of foul play. On the morning of the sixteenth, I received a call from this rectory inquiring about the official filing status and the cause of death in the case of Marilyn Ford.”
“And you suspect me?”
“God no, Father,” Wallace said before catching himself. “I mean, no Father. But maybe one of your parishioners’s guilty conscience got to them. Maybe they came in for confession, cleansed their souls, and then made a call from a phone here on the premises.”
“Detective, the confessional is not a place to start an investigation. I wouldn’t tell you anything, even if I could. Those are acts of contrition between man and God.”
Wallace saw the dead-end sign in his mind and slammed on the brakes. “I understand, Father. Could I ask if you saw or heard anything suspicious last Monday morning? Any strangers around the church? Anything at all?”
“Not that I recall. But the days here blend into one another more easily than the defined lives of the masses. Services in the morning, visits to the ill during the day. Dinner and evening prayers. Sunday is really the only day where I have what most people would call a ‘normal routine.’”
Detective Wallace opened the envelope in his left hand and pulled out the photo of Chow Ying from the surveillance tape. “Father, have you ever seen this man in church?”
Father McKenna adjusted the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He took a long look at the photo. “No detective. I think I would remember him.”
Both men picked up their coffee cups. Father McKenna sipped the steaming coffee off the surface of his cup with puckered lips. Detective Wallace, with years of hot-coffee-induced asbestos on his tongue and throat, gulped down half the cup.
“Could I see the phone or phones with this number?” Detective Wallace asked, showing the priest a page from the small detective note tablet that was an extension of his right arm and constant breast-pocket companion.
“That is the number for the public phone in the back of the church.”
“Could I see it?”
“I can show it to you on the way out, if you like.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Father?”
“No detective, not at all. But it is early. Is there something else I can do for you?”
“Would it be possible to get a list of current parishioners?”
“Absolutely,” Father McKenna said standing and keeping his bathrobe closed with his left hand. “If you wait here, it should only take a minute or two.”
“Sure Father,” Wallace answered, starting to re-read the well-crafted verse on the wall.
Father McKenna came back with a simple stack of stapled white paper. Fifteen hundred names, listed alphabetically.
“Here you are, detective.”
“Thank you, Father. And if you would show me the phone, I will get out of your hair.”
