For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation Read online

  “Has the body been taken to city morgue?”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. You’re in luck. The body’s still at the scene and so am I. Can you make down here within twenty minutes?”

  “I’m on my way,” I say as I hang up the phone.

  ****

  The park is flooded with curiosity seekers being held back behind a yellow NYC tape that has cordoned off the area. I show my license to a rookie cop who looks at me skeptically, but an older cop knows me and waves me through.

  Giles and two assistants are crouched down by the body. Because of a brief but heavy downpour last night, the ground is soft and messy and my sneakers get mud-splattered immediately. I see Will talking to a shorthaired woman with military bearing who must be the person who found the body. There’s a magnificent black and brown dog standing patiently beside her . I walk over to them, pet the dog, and look over and see the body partially covered by a morgue blanket.

  “Want me to check the collar?” I ask Will.

  “Yes. By the way, Cate this is Master Sgt. Janet Bell who found the body. Sgt. Bell, this is Cate Harlow, a private investigator who’s consulting on the case.”

  We nod at each other and shake hands.

  Sgt. Bell tells Will that if the police need her for anything she can be reached at her parents’ apartment for another two weeks before she returns to active duty. She gives him the address and phone number. Then she gives a short command to the dog and they jog away.

  We walk over to the plastic-covered body and I squat down next to Giles who gives me a brief smile. He’s working and we respect each other’s jobs, so there’s no idle talking.

  “Can you let me see the collar?” I ask him. His assistant obliges.

  Uncovering just the head, he turns the neck and exposes the words on the collar. The writing is clear, just as it was on the last one. In Latin I read, Perdidit Innocentiae.

  “Lost innocence,” I say to Will. “That’s direct. So what do you think? I mean, lost innocence is clear. Those survivors of pedophile priests all confirm that they were robbed of their childhood innocence. Read the stories on SNAP.”

  “I have,” he says looking at Giles and his crew working, carefully checking the body. When they’re done they’ll transport it over to the morgue. We move away from the dumpsite to talk.

  “What are your thoughts on this, Will? Can we easily surmise from the messages that we have a person or persons who are killing and mutilating priests because of having been sexually abused as children?”

  “And he, she, or they are escalating,” says Will. “The first murder was less than a year ago, the second was three weeks ago, and now this one. Identifying the body as an actual priest will pretty much give credence to the theory that they’re all related murders. Any information on groups that might be going after priests?”

  “No, the groups or organizations for sexual abuse survivors that I’ve been able to check out seem to be doing everything through lawyers and the legal system. They’re being successful too it seems. The courts are taking this very seriously; they’re taking on a powerful organization by suing the Catholic Church, but it needs to be done. What about people you have working on it?”

  “Found the same thing; everything is being done legally. But I still think there’s a vigilante faction out there. Like you said, this is very personal and done with a lot of rage. This type of violence comes from personal pain and trauma. So, what about vigilantes? Your street sources know anything?”

  “No, and that’s strange. No one’s heard a thing. If it is a group dedicated to offing priests it is certainly operating off the radar.”

  “They all get caught, Cate. It’s just a matter of time and patience.”

  My cell phone vibrates but I let it go to voicemail. If it’s a client I’ll know about it soon enough. Giles walks over to Will and they talk about details and the M.E.’s report. I walk back to near where the body was found, careful not to disturb evidence for the CSAs, crime scene analysts. I stand a distance away and watch them minutely scour the ground for evidence.I feel my cell vibrate again. I let it go to voicemail a second time, but within a minute it vibrates once more. Sighing, I look at the number. It’s from my office. Three calls, so it must be important.

  “Hello Myrtle, I’ll be back in about an hour or so. They’re wrapping everything up now.”

  “You might want to try to get back here a little faster.”

  I’m trying to hear what Will is telling his officers and so I answer her flippantly.

  “What’s so important that would make me leave a crime scene? Did the cheater’s husband change his mind about using my services?”

  “No.” She sounds too serious.

  “What’s the matter, Myrtle?”

  “It’s Marie McElroy. She’s here with some information. Cate,” I hear her voice drop to a whisper, “She’s just sitting here crying and she says she’ll wait for you. She won’t tell me what happened.”

  “Put her on the phone, let me talk to her.”

  “I asked her if she wanted to speak to you over the phone but she says she has to show you something and wants to talk to you in person.”

  I glance over at Giles who gives me a quick wave goodbye as he gets into the M.E.'s truck. The body has already been loaded. I lift my hand as he drives off and then I hear Will call my name.

  “Alright, Myrtle, I have to talk to Detective Benigni for a few minutes. Tell her I’ll be on my way soon, but I have no control over traffic. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

  “She’s not going anywhere. I’ve got some chamomile tea brewing for her and I brought in some of Harry’s nice apple crumb cake today. You be careful driving.”

  “Me? I’m always careful. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Uh-huh, sure,” Myrtle sighs and hangs up.

  Will is impatiently motioning me over to his side. A young man I’ve never seen before is standing with him and looking very serious. I jam my phone back into my pocket and walk over to them. No one else is close to us but Will still speaks in a confidential tone.

  “Cate, we have a development.”

  That’s one of the things I respect the most about Will; on a professional level he never wastes time.

  “This is Max Henders, our senior tech guy. He took a call thirty minutes ago that is disturbing and he also received an Internet photo.” Now he nods to the man standing next to him and says, “Go ahead, Max. Tell her about the call and the picture.”

  “As Detective Benigni said, we received a call approximately thirty minutes ago. It was from the office of the archbishop. Someone sent a picture of the mutilated body we found here, with accompanying details, via the church email early this morning. It was marked personal and FYO to the archbishop.”

  “Worse than the last time then,” I say. “There was no picture of that body, just a typed report.”

  “It’s even more than that, Cate. Go on Max.”

  “The thing is that the picture and the details were received by the archdiocese office a short time before the body was even discovered. Then, right after the call came from the archbishop's secretary, a picture of the body came onto our police computer.”

  “Can it be traced?” I ask.

  “We’re working on it, but whoever sent it is pretty savvy about covering their tracks. There’s no online footprint that’s easy to follow. Plus their timing for sending the information before the body was discovered was impeccable.”

  “So it was well planned,” I say.

  “Oh yeah, and with precision.”

  “Anything else, Max?” Will asks.

  “That’s about it for now. I’m going back to tech to see if I can try to pinpoint where the email and picture originated. This person may be really good at hiding his or her identity and send area, but in my experience, there’s always a way in, it just takes time.”

  He tells Will he’ll see him later, and goes off towards his car.

  Will looks at me
. “I’m going back to the precinct and field the calls I know will come from the archbishop. You going back to your office?”

  “Yes, I have a client waiting there. Call me later with an update, okay?”

  “I will. If you hear anything from any of your sources, call me immediately.”

  “You know I will.”

  I half-jog back to my own car thinking about the latest murder, vigilantes, and Marie.

  ****

  Back in my office I find an exhausted Marie McElroy, her face tear-stained and haggard. Myrtle is sitting next to her, holding her hand, and talking in a gentle voice. In a crisis, Myrtle is your go-to person. That has to come from her years of comforting hormone-rattled pre-teenage girls through daily mini-crises when she was a teacher. She looks up when she sees me come in.

  “Marie,” she says, “Cate’s here now. I’m going to get you more tea while you talk to her.” She squeezes her hand and gets up.

  I walk over to my desk, grab the swivel chair with my pillow and bring it over to where Marie is sitting. “What’s happened, Marie? Tell me what has you so upset.”

  “My brother contacted me again. He’s alive, I know it. Here. See?”

  She looks at me as she pulls a folded paper out of her bag.

  “I found this in my mailbox. It’s from Joshua.”

  I take it from her and unfold it.

  “Marie, I want you to know that I love you so much. Always remember that.

  Why do swallows build in the eaves of houses? You know. Stories. My story.

  Don't forget me Marie. Pray for me, please pray for me. I want to be a good person.

  Joshua”

  I don’t say anything. I’m examining the paper but there's nothing there besides the writing. It is plain white generic paper that you would use for a printer. Thousands of reams of these are sold all over the world. I re-read the short note. The few lines are written in a boyish scrawl. The paper is empty except for those eight lines.

  “You see?” she says. “I know this is from Joshua.”

  “Pretty similar to the last letter you showed me. Tell me about the lines from Peter Pan again Marie. Is it a message? What do they mean?”

  Marie closes her eyes and a tear gathers at the corner of her right eye.

  “Do you know what swallows are? They’re those sweet little birds who have a habit of sometimes building their nests in the eaves of a house. When we were children, there was a family of swallows nesting in the eaves above my bedroom. I could hear them settling at night and during the day we would see them in that big tree in our backyard. Joshua and I loved seeing them. They were almost like family, you know?”

  I do know; the doves that live in a nest outside my office window are pretty much like family to me too.

  “In the Peter Pan book, Peter asks Wendy this question: Do you know why swallows build in the eaves of houses? and the answer is, It is to listen to the stories. See Wendy told her brothers bedtime stories so they’d get drowsy and eventually fall asleep. The stories were so good that the swallows and Peter Pan too, loved to listen. I did the same for Joshua; he’d come in my room and ask me if he could lie down on the floor because he was restless. I was good at making up little stories to help him relax so he could go to sleep. There were times that he fell asleep on the floor. Anyway, that’s why those lines meant something special to us.”

  Myrtle discreetly leaves a fresh cup of tea on the desk near Marie and hands me a bottle of cold water. Marie takes a sip of tea and continues.

  “We used that code since we were little kids; playing games, going to school, everywhere. It’s not a message, it’s just something we shared that made us feel connected. Silly I guess, but it was something that was just for us. No one else knew. But by writing those lines, Joshua is telling me the letter came from him, you see? He’s letting me know that he’s alive.”

  I feel a little skeptical. Perhaps Marie only thinks no one else knew.

  “Is it at all possible that someone else, anyone at all, knew about this childhood code, Marie? Friends, maybe your parents.”

  She shakes her head emphatically. “No. Believe me no one else knew. I would bet my life on that.”

  I think back to my own childhood for a minute. A good friend and I had a code word too. It was nothing as interesting as what Marie and Joshua had; ours was something totally ridiculous. Anything that was good or that we liked we called “beans-worthy.” I have no idea who came up with it but it was our code. Chocolate was “beans-worthy,” our art teacher was “beans-worthy”; an expression made up by two little girls who thought they’d created something cool and special. No one knew what we meant when we said the made-up word. “Beans-worthy;” I have to smile at the memory.

  I ask Marie when she found the letter and if she saw anyone around before or after.

  “I didn’t see anyone when I went to my mailbox this morning. I know it was before ten o’clock. After I found it, I was crying so much I don’t remember if anyone else was around or not. I don’t know, Cate, I just don’t remember.”

  “That’s alright. It doesn’t matter.”

  I try to soothe her by downplaying the importance of another person having been there. If she had seen someone it would have been a lead that I could follow, but she’s so distraught it isn’t worth upsetting her more.

  “But what if it was Joshua? Did I miss him if he was there? Did he want me to see him?”

  “Marie, if Joshua wanted you to see him, then he would make his presence known. He would either be standing by your mailbox when you came out to get the mail or he would have come right to your door.”

  “You believe that this is from Joshua, don’t you?” she asks hopefully.

  I have to be honest. I don’t want her thinking that I believe her brother is alive and has left a letter for her. It is certainly possible that he is alive and getting in touch with her, but it’s also equally possible that someone with a cruel sense of humor is leaving the letters.

  “I don’t know if I do believe it,” I say and watch her eyes fill with tears, “but, I’m not saying it isn’t from him. You say it’s his handwriting and that only the two of you know about the lines from Peter Pan. It is a distinct possibility that this is from Joshua.

  “I’m a private investigator and it’s my job to be thorough about all details and question the veracity of everything involved with the case. But seriously? If this is from your brother then it means that he’s close by and that’s good.”

  “Do you think he’s near our house?” Her eyes, the same sweet, sad eyes that made me take this cold case in the first place look at me with hope.

  “Marie, that’s something I want to find out. I’m coming to your house later on today to check around, see if there are any clues that might tell me who left the letter. Now let me ask you something else about what he wrote. Why did he write the words ‘my story’? Does that have any meaning for you? Is there something he wants you to know?”

  “No, but then I don’t understand why he asks me to pray for him either. Joshua is a good person, he’s never done anything bad or anything to be ashamed of; I don’t understand why he would write that. It sounds like he’s crazy or afraid that something will happen to him.”

  “We have to think about where he might be if he is nearby Marie. Any ideas? Think about places where you may have played as kids or special hiding places.”

  She shakes her head and begins to cry again. Emotionally this girl is shot. I have to let it go for now. Standing up I pat her shoulder gently, tell her to drink the tea and make eye contact with Myrtle who comes over and takes my place next to Marie. Myrtle will mother her and that’s what she needs right now.

  A private investigator has one good advantage over the police. Even though we know that getting involved emotionally with a client or a case is dangerous, we have a little more leeway. I can allow myself to feel empathy for Marie and have her sadness affect me for awhile. That advantage lets me get inside her head and pos
sibly find clues she may not even remember. But I can only do this for a short time; I can’t become so emotionally connected that it affects my handling of the case or interferes with my instincts. As hard as it may be, I have to be professionally practical and be able to deliver whatever news I have gotten, good or bad, with honesty. After about an hour of crying off and on, Marie calmed down to the point where she can talk rationally. She looks more like the young woman who first came to my office, sad-eyed and emotionally drained, than the one who held a spark of hope the day we had lunch.

  Now that she seems calmer, I leave her in the capable hands of Myrtle and tell them I have to go out on business.

  “You’ll be okay here with Myrtle,” I tell her. “I’ll see you later.”

  The truth is that I need to get out of the building and walk around to think alone. Walking helps memake decisions. That’s one of the great things about being in New York City; you can walk just about anywhere and, if you don’t get mugged or groped, no one really bothers you. You’re just one of the masses.

  My walk takes me past Enzo's trattoria. The smells coming from there are good and comforting so I decide to stop and get an early lunch. While I’m standing by the small outside piazza, I see Bo, the Homeless Guy, walking with an old windshield cleaner and a dirty bottle of some type of cleaning spray. On impulse I call him over.

  “Hey! Hey Bo! Come here for a second.”

  He walks over warily even though he knows me. He’s seen Will's unmarked detective’s car with the flasher on top when he parks outside my office building. My connection with the police makes me suspect in his eyes.

  “I’m getting some lunch, Bo. Want to join me and have a couple of slices?”

  I see him glance down at his clothes and then at the trattoria. He’s probably been chased away from places like this many times. I stop his hesitation.

  “Let’s eat out here. Fresh air and all,” I say to him just as a truck goes by belching fumes. He grins and I laugh. Then I settle him at one of the outside tables and go inside to order. I get him two large slices with mushrooms and sausage and an Italian sub for me with extra Genoa salami. Two bottles of iced tea are added to my order.