“Are you here to arrest him?”
“Not yet. But just being around small children could be seen as a violation of his parole. There are restrictions on where he can go and what he can do.”
The reverend removed his glasses and leaned forward, folding his hands on the desk. “Let me explain something to you, Detective. Do I look like I’m stupid? Do you think I’d let a man who might harm children, or harm anyone, around my congregation?”
“Why is he working here?” Stynes asked.
“Detective, I’m sure you can imagine what it would be like for a middle-aged black man, three years out of prison, with no education and not much in the way of smarts to begin with, to try to get a job? Don’t you think a church like mine has a role to play in making a brother’s life a little more tolerable? I counseled Dante when he was in prison, and then I continued that work after he got out. About a year ago, I gave him the chance to work at the church part-time, and he never, ever works with or around children. Now, I didn’t make a big deal out of him working here. I didn’t exactly tell any members of my congregation he was doing it. I figured if he wasn’t working with the congregation, then no one needed to know.”
“You might want to reconsider that stand,” Stynes said. “You’re just going to get more complaints. I know you’re not a for-profit operation here, but how are you going to keep the donations flowing in with someone like Dante around?”
“I have a higher calling to answer to.” The reverend raised his right index finger and scooted back.
“Is he here?”
“
“I mean Dante. And keep in mind his parole officer already told me he’s working here today.”
The reverend shrugged. “Then I guess this humble servant of the Lord has no choice but to let you by. Dante is back in our literature room right now, stuffing envelopes. When he’s finished, I’m going to treat the brother to lunch and a little Bible study. If you or Sister Myers object, I can’t change that.”
“I would like to talk to him,” Stynes said.
“Two doors down on the left,” the reverend said, pointing. “And go easy, Detective. Dante is a little skittish.”
Stynes stood up. “Dante remembers me,” he said. “And don’t I look like a gentle man?”
“Do you want to investigate a real crime, Detective?” the reverend said. He pointed to his computer. “Three hundred dollars missing.”
“From where?”
“From my accounts,” he said. “We’re a small church here, and we can ill afford to lose even a small amount of money.”
“Sounds like you need better bookkeeping software,” Stynes said.
Stynes found Dante hunched over a stack of envelopes and paper. Two large folding tables filled the center of the room, both of them covered with church flyers and literature, but Dante worked alone. The room smelled musty, like a long-closed closet. Dante didn’t look up when Stynes came to the door.
Stynes had seen the photos of Dante in the paper, but they didn’t convey completely the toll the years had taken on him. At the time of his arrest, Dante’s body had possessed a leanness. He looked like someone who ran track or cross-country. But there was nowhere to run in prison. Even though he was only forty-two, his face bore enough lines to make him appear ten years older, and a puffy double chin hung beneath his gray stubble. His shoulders were slumped. He seemed to be concentrating with great force on each individual task he performed in the “literature room.” Fold. Stuff. Seal. Dull work, but Dante made it look particularly arduous, like each piece of paper weighed fifty pounds.
“Dante?”
He stopped what he was doing and slowly turned his head toward the door. His eyes had always been big, but they looked sad and pathetic after the prison time. A whipped dog’s eyes.
“Do you know who I am?” Stynes asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me. Who am I?”
“Cop.”
“You know why I’m here?” Stynes asked.
“Checking up on me.”
Stynes came into the room and sat down across the two tables from Dante. Dante followed Stynes’s movement with a slow turn of his head and a wary tracking of his big eyes. Stynes pointed to the piles of paper.
“You like doing this?” Stynes asked.
Dante shrugged. “It’s okay, sir.”
“Reverend Fred treat you okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You messing around with any little kids?”
Dante’s head jerked higher. His eyes widened. “Oh, no, sir. No, sir. Not at all.”
“Lot of little kids in this neighborhood,” Stynes said. “I saw them when I came in. A lot of little kids come to the church. Sunday school. Bible study. Youth groups. This seems like a nice hunting ground for a guy like you.”
“Reverend Fred doesn’t let me around the children,” Dante said. “I don’t want to be around them.”
“Oh, come on, Dante. I’m not an idiot. I know what you did in prison all those years. You didn’t sit around working through your problems and developing coping mechanisms, did you? You sat around fantasizing about getting out again and getting to where you’d see more little kids. You built up twenty-two years of frustration in there, and now you need to let it out.”
“No, sir. I became a Christian in there. I studied the Bible. I learned to deal with my problems.”
“You admit you have a problem?”
“Had, sir,” Dante said. “Had.”
For the first time, Stynes saw some life flash in Dante’s eyes, a hint that more brewed beneath the surface than was immediately apparent. His answer possessed a sharpness that his other speech lacked.
“You don’t want to relive the past?” Stynes asked.
“No, sir.”
“You talked to that reporter. Katie What’s-Her-Face.”
“My PO wanted me to do that,” Dante said. “And I thought I could give my testimony in there. Did you read it? I testified. I spoke about how God has helped me.”
“You said you’re innocent.”
“We’re all guilty of something. Only God can judge.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Dante,” Stynes said. “You said in that story you didn’t kill Justin Manning. Is that part of your testimony? Not taking responsibility for what you’ve done?”
A long pause. Dante considered Stynes from behind the sad eyes. He still held an envelope in his right hand. “I didn’t kill that boy,” he finally said. “But I’ve done other wicked things. My interview in the paper was about that.”
“You mean the little kid you diddled before you killed Justin Manning?”
Dante held the envelope in the air between them. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to get back to work.”
“Do you really know why I’m here? Do you know what prompted this visit? Some biddy from this church came to me and complained about you. She said she didn’t like the idea of a kid killer and a pervert working in a church. Now what do you think about that?”
“Like I said, only God can sit in judgment.”
“Don’t you just want to admit it now?” Stynes asked. “They can’t do anything else to you. You’ve already done your time. But don’t you want to give that family some peace? The Mannings? I saw them just yesterday, and they still wonder about what really happened in that park. They have questions. Wouldn’t God want you to just step to the plate and come clean? Wouldn’t he want you to say, ‘Yeah, I did it, and I’m sorry.’ Couldn’t that be part of your testimony?”
Dante put the envelope down. He used his hands-the fingers long and thin-to straighten some of the stacks
