For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation Page 20

  When everyone is ready to go I call Enzo’s and ask for an outside table for four people. Then it’s down the stairs and out into the evening for pizza.

  ****

  “Where are we? I don't believe I know this area.”

  “Come out of the car with me, Father. I have a surprise for you.”

  Chapter 22

  For a weeknight Enzo’s is as crowded. Honoring my request the owner has put a reserved sign on a table away from the sidewalk and near the side of his trattoria. When the server comes over to take drink orders, Giles tells him to also bring two large antipasto salads and an order of mozzarella sticks to start off the meal. Bo and his friend look happy and settle on one pepperoni pizza and one covered with chicken parmigiana.

  There’s not a lot of talking when the food arrives except for Giles and me. The others quickly begin eating in that same way I saw Bo devour the pizza last week; heads down, food held close to their bodies, afraid of having someone steal it. I notice that Bo seems to be the one who is in charge making sure that his friend gets a big portion and pushing a can of soda over to him.

  Giles grabs my hand under the table and shakes his head slightly acknowledging the survival skills of life on the streets. There are a few curious people who glance at our table but most of the crowd there is involved in their own end of the day meal. The city may be indifferent to our problems but it is accepting of all its inhabitants.

  I hear Bo whisper something to his friend who looks from me to Giles and back again. He shakes his head no but Bo seems trying to convince him to talk to me. I hear, “You didn’t want to come see Father Pat for doughnuts. You told me you hate priests but Father Pat is a good guy. Maybe a priest smashed you once, huh? Why don’t you like priests? Tell her why. Come on, she’s a good lady even though she smashed you. I said you would talk to her if she bought you pizza.”

  Giles leans over the table and says to Bo’s friend, “You know you can tell me anything, right? Well, you can tell Cate anything too. Believe me I wouldn’t lie to you. I made sure you didn’t have to go to the hospital, didn’t I? So, I think you can trust me. And I trust her.”

  Looking at Giles he says simply, “I don’t like priests. They’re bad people.”

  “Why are they bad?” I ask. I keep my voice calm and low. I don’t want him to be afraid to answer. “Has any priest ever hurt you?”

  “They’re bad people. They do… bad things.”

  Here it is. Pushing him to list what they do will not elicit details. All he’s willing to share is that bad things have been done.

  “They do bad things? That’s why you hate them?” asks Bo looking at his friend all hunched up over his food. “No they don’t! They’re good, they help people, they…”

  Bo’s friend shakes his head no and hunches farther down in his seat.

  “I like priests. I was an altar boy,” says Bo with a hint of pride. “Remember the priest you met who gave us coffee and something to eat? He was dressed like him,” he points to Giles, “so you didn’t know he was a priest. He’s a good man that priest. I think all priests are good.”

  Another headshake and a whispered No. Bo, however, is insistent.

  “You got to tell me why though. What bad thing did they do? Why don’t you like priests? You’re a Catholic, you said so. Why don’t you like priests? You got smacked hard or somethin’?”

  Bo’s friend looks like he wants to cry. Giles leans towards Bo and cautions him to stop asking his friend about priests but Bo is relentless in a childlike way.

  “Why don’t you like priests? I like priests, they’re good to me Father Pat, he…”

  Suddenly Bo's friend says a little too loudly, “A priest touched my body in a private place when I was a little kid, and he made me touch him! I hope he dies! Another priest at school did bad things to me, too. He did it after school when nobody was around. I want him dead too.”

  Our fellow diners at the next table turn to look and Bo’s friend hunches deeper into the chair. He’s silent for a few minutes and they turn away and continue with their meals.

  The foggy-minded necessity that allows Bo’s friend to survive on the street lifts and his next words, though low, are strong. He looks at Bo with clarity and says, “The man who was in the van? The man who gave me the coat? He said that priests should die. A lot of people think they should die. He was with some group that had a van. One guy would talk to the street people like me. He asked us if the priests ever come by. I told him I hated priests and he stopped to talk to me. He said that it was okay to hate priests; he hated them too. I said I wanted to kill the priests who did things to me and he said they deserved to be killed. He said that we had to punish them because God wouldn’t do it.”

  Bo looks at his friend completely stunned and says, “Don’t tell me that!”

  “It’s true, Bo, they should all die. I hate priests. You don’t know about what they do.”

  The written images described by Joshua McElroy’s journal come back to me in a flash. The man sitting in front of me, the one who is Bo's friend is older by at least twenty years than Joshua yet they share that common horror of sexual abuse. Centuries of it going on and no one stopped it.

  Then I think, Is it possible that Bo’s friend might have met someone who is in one of the vigilante groups that may have been involved in the priests’ murders? If he has then I have to proceed slowly. The clarity that came over Bo’s friend can easily fade and he can revert back to the person who stays hidden within himself. Victims of abuse sometimes bury the horror deep inside their minds in order to survive. I quietly ask him, “Are you sure that you heard this person say that priests deserved to be killed?”

  So low that I can hardly hear him, he mumbles, “Yeah. It’s a group who brings us clothes and stuff, but they hate priests too.”

  “Where are they?” I lean closer so I can hear him. “Can you find them again?”

  “I don’t know. Downtown somewhere is where I got a coat and a blanket from a man. But I don’t see him ever now.”

  “What did the van look like?” I ask. “Any signs or any words on it would be helpful.”

  “White, it was white and dirty, really dirty. I didn’t see words. And it was real old.”

  Giles interjects, “Did this group have a name? They must have called themselves something.”

  Bo’s friend looks up and I see his eyes look clear and cold. “I think that the other guy, the one driving the van said the group was called memory, only it wasn’t memory, it sounded like that word but it was different. Like in a church, like some prayer, a memory, you know; a memory. I forgot the real word because it isn’t English. A church word….I hate church.”

  “Memory,” I say the word aloud.

  A prayer, a group named after a word said in church, maybe a prayer. A prayer not said in English so it has to be in Latin, the original language of the Church. Instinctively, I run Latin words for memory through my mind; memoria, memento, memoriis.

  “A novena,” says Bo suddenly. “Church words. I don’t understand them. My mama took me every Monday night to a novena. I know the memory prayer, a prayer you say to God’s mother to remember you.”

  “To remember!” I say. “In Latin that would be 'memorare'. Is it memorare?”

  “Maybe.” Bo's friend has begun to withdraw again.

  “The memory prayer everyone says at the novena,” Bo says smiling triumphantly.

  Memorare.

  A group named after a prayer that is a plea for help.

  “When was the last time you saw this man?”

  “Maybe last month, maybe, I don’t know.”

  “At the same place?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I go to different places. Downtown though.”

  “You better call Will,” Giles tells me. “He can start having the police canvas the downtown areas right away.”

  I’m way ahead of him. I already hit speed dial for Will’s cell number.

  Will has taken down all the info I ha
ve given him and lets me know that he’s getting it to the detectives who deal with the crimes against the homeless downtown. I also tell him about the incident that occurred last night between Bo’s friend and me as well as Giles’s part in helping me out.

  “Cate, I need to talk directly with the guy who told you about the group, Memorare. Maybe he can give a description of the man who gave him the coat to one of our sketch artists. I can show him pictures of vans that might help us also. Can you get him to the station tonight?”

  “I can try but I don’t think so. He’s leery of cops.”

  “Call me back in thirty minutes. If he won’t budge, I’ll have to come get him.”

  “Is there any chance you can talk to him at my office and not bring him to a station? You can bring one of the sketch artists here too. Believe me you’d be better off doing this. You’ll get more out of him in a familiar place. I already told you he knows my office.”

  “Right, the M.E.’s make-shift emergency room for Harlow crime victims.”

  “Very funny. I knew he wouldn’t go to the hospital and I had to call Giles to check him out. I thought I broke his ribs. We had to take him somewhere indoors and my office was the logical place.”

  “Alright.” Big sigh. “I’ll call one of the sketchers to meet me at your office. I’m leaving now so I'll see you in a few.” He adds, “Look, if this guy trusts Giles, tell the M.E. to stay put for me. Your victim might feel more comfortable with someone he knows has already helped him.”

  “He’ll stay; no problem there.”

  ****

  Detective Will Benigni has the foresight to change to jeans and a sweater so as to not appear too official looking and he doesn’t even flash his badge when he comes to my office. He uses his considerable charm on Bo and his friend, and even though Bo knows Will’s a cop, he seems to relax when Will engages him in a conversation about pepperoni vs. sausage pizza. Good call there. The detective does know how to relax people when he wants to do so; I should know.

  Arriving a few minutes after him is a young woman who is one of the best sketch artists around. I don’t know her, but Will has told me about her. She has a nose ring and several tats and Bo immediately takes a liking to her. To get Bo’s friend to relax, she starts out sketching me, then Giles, and finally Bo. Even though he has gone back into his shell for awhile, between Giles, Will, the sketch artist, and me, we’re able to get a considerable amount of info about the man from him. He looks through pictures of vans that Will has had sent from the precinct to my office PC, but none of them seem to be the one he saw.

  After a couple of hours we’re done. The sketch artist has the picture of a pleasant-looking man whose sole distinguishing feature is a zagged scar high up on the left side of his forehead near the hairline; an average height white male in his early thirties with black hair. Except for the scar there’s not much to go on; it could be anyone. The face does look vaguely familiar to me but I don't remember seeing anybody with that distinctive scar.

  Bo and his friend leave after the artist is finished; Bo has to catch the crowd of cars taking people home late from work. Once they stop at a light, Bo goes to work cleaning or trying to clean their windshields. Will has as much information as he’s likely to get and he wants to stop off at his precinct office to talk with his team. He waves a quick goodbye and heads down the stairs.

  The sketch artist is packing up her things and watching her I get an idea. Going to my file cabinet I pull out the picture of Joshua that Marie gave me and walk over to her just as she’s snapping close her portfolio.

  “Can you age this face about ten years?” I ask her. “I used old computer software to do it myself but I know you can do a much better job.”

  “Sure. That's simple enough. When do you need it?”

  “Tonight? I'll pay you for your time.”

  “No, this is easy to do on a computer. Got a scanner? Good.”

  She takes out her notebook from its case and puts in near my scanner. “I need to scan the pic into my notebook and make a few adjustments with the computer-generated ageing program. This program I use is top-of-the-line brand new. It’s amazing what it can do. You said ten years, right? That’s not hard at all.”

  Within thirty minutes she shows me the original picture alongside the computer-aged one. Joshua has progressed from a fifteen-year-old boy to a twenty five year old man. They look the same as pictures you might have of yourself at different ages; you’re the same person but with a face that has lived a little more. From her notebook she emails the face to my PC and I color print it. I hand her a twenty which she refuses graciously.

  “Take it. You're doing me a huge favor, you don’t even know.”

  “Give it to that guy who was here, the one who gave me the details for the picture of that man he met. He needs it more. That’ll be payment enough for me.”

  She and Giles wait in the hall while I lock up and then the three of us go down the stairs together and walk her to her car. We wave to her as she drives off.

  “Buy you a drink?” I say turning to Giles who smiles tiredly and nods yes.

  “It has been one hell of a night, Catherine. We could both use a drink.”

  “Good, let's walk the three blocks to The Rose. I need the exercise.”

  And in the unseasonably warm April evening with the smell of the city mingling with the scent of the early arrival of lilac bushes somewhere nearby, that's exactly what we do.

  Chapter 23

  The distinctive smell of Timothy’s coffee wakes me up. There’s an extra-large cup sitting on my night table alongside a bag containing Taylor ham and egg on a bagel. Next to the bag is a note: “You look too sweet to disturb when you’re sleeping. I went for a run and stopped at a Timothy’s for coffee and bagels. Early call. Talk to you later. Enjoy! Giles.”

  I look at my disheveled bed along with the clothes on the floor and smile. Then I reach for the coffee. After a couple of sips I get up, grab the bag with the food in it, and head to the kitchen to eat. The wall clock tells me that it’s six-thirty and I hear the usual morning sounds coming from the street below. Looking out the window I see that my street has come to life.

  My day is planned. I’m going to look up good old Monsignor Moore. To do that I need to look professional and respectable so after my shower I go through my closet to find the right outfit to wear. I settle on a soft deep yellow summer sweater and pair it with the crème-colored slacks I wore for my lunch with Marie. Yellow pumps complete my look. I pull my hair into a low full bun at the nape of my neck and apply minimal make-up.

  On my way to my car I make two calls; one is case related. The second is to Myrtle at home to tell her I won’t be in until the afternoon.

  “Okay honey. See you later. I’ll save two of Harry’s cannoli for you.”

  ****

  The office of the archbishop is easy to find. It’s in a sprawling complex of buildings, which includes the archdiocese cathedral. Parking is a bitch though and I find myself several long blocks away from where I have to go. I’m not used to wearing pumps and wish I had on sneakers instead.

  Inside the outer office I encounter a receptionist in a glass-enclosed area who asks me why I’m here and who I want to see.

  “I’m here to see Monsignor Bernard Moore, if I can. I want to set up a service group for my church, for boys between the ages of eight and twelve,” I lie smoothly. “Bette, the housekeeper, from St. Matthew’s Church in Queens? She told me the monsignor would be able to help me.” I smile in the prim and proper way I’ve seen Myrtle smile when she is requesting something from a stranger.

  “Oh, I’m… so sorry, the monsignor isn’t… isn’t here.” I watch her facial expression and she seems tense. She won’t make eye contact with me and her hand right clenches and unclenches a pen. Something’s not right. “I’m quite sure he would love to help you but he’s been called away on… urgent church business. We don’t know when he’ll be back. It can be…quite…a while, I’m afraid. Would you
like to leave a number or email where you can be reached?”

  “Yes,” I say and give her my home number. My voicemail there has a generic message. She looks at it and says, “And your name as well, please.”

  “Cate, spelled with a ‘C’, last name, Harlow. Thank you so much. I’m sorry I missed him and I really hope I get to meet him soon.”

  “I’ll give him the message upon his return. You have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  ****

  “Hello, is Father Richard Boyd available? This is Cate Harlow. Tell him it’s important.”

  Every good P.I. has sources. Most of them come from what is known as the criminal fringes; petty thieves, druggies, hookers, and those who know enough about crimes committed on their home turf to be able to give solid leads and details. They’re like lawyers in that they get paid a retainer to keep their eyes and ears open for your purposes and when they do bring in information they get paid a bonus. Everything is completely confidential between us. I have a few very good sources from the criminal fringe on my payroll but not as many as some investigators I know.

  Then there are the other sources you pick up unexpectedly. These are generally people who give you information willingly out of a sense of moral code. They’re reliable and honest the same way a person who witnesses a car accident is ready and willing to give an unbiased, accurate account of what they saw to law enforcement. Father Richard Boyd is one of my honest sources and I’m not above using his help to find out what happened to Monsignor Moore, if anything.

  A few minutes pass, then I hear, “Hello? Ms. Harlow?”

  “Call me Cate, please, Richard…. Listen, I need your help with something relating to another priest, a monsignor. Is your computer system only able to access your own diocese or can you link into other ones?”

  “This one here only accesses our files at this diocese. Why?”

  “Shit! Sorry Richard that just slipped out.”

  “That’s alright. You should hear me curse when the Yankees are losing. What do you need?”