Bryan Gruley: The Skeleton Box

Initially, Bitsy agreed to a quiet abortion of Nilus’s child and moved south, to Clare, where she stayed with a cousin who convinced her that an abortion would be a sin for which she could never atone. When she returned to Starvation Lake in the spring of 1944, she brought with her a boy-also unnamed in Nilus’s missive-who the townsfolk assumed was the son of her late husband, conceived on a leave shortly before his death at Bataan. Nilus gave Bitsy a job in the sacristy cleaning the chalices, cruets, and other furnishings used at Mass and paid her himself, in cash.

It wasn’t long before Nilus and Bitsy were trysting again. After every few assignations, Bitsy would demand that Nilus increase the amount of money he paid her. Fearing exposure, and too weak to resist her enticements, he complied. “I was remiss, dear Lord, in countenancing the presence of Satan himself, or herself, in the person of Bitsy Whistler,” Nilus wrote. “I was weak, weak unto my soul, weak in the flesh.”

I looked at Whistler. He was shaking his head in disbelief, or denial.

“It was on such an evening, with my will at its most frail, that my sins came to bear the terrible fruits to which I confess. It was six years ago, almost to this day.”

Sister Cordelia had gone to the sacristy looking for Nilus, to tell him their secret daughter had done well in a waterskiing contest. The sacristy was dark, but she heard voices inside. “She found us, O Lord, she found us,” Nilus wrote, “and my life will never be the same, God forgive me, God forgive my soul.” Cordelia, enraged, flung herself at Nilus. Bitsy stepped between them. The women struggled. Bitsy, the larger, took hold of Cordelia’s cowl and thrust her away. The nun spun backward and smacked her head on the corner of a counter, crumpling to the floor. In seconds, blood had soaked her veil.

“You must forgive Elizabeth, Lord, for what happened next, for she knew not what she was doing,” Nilus said.

Whistler came out of his chair. “No,” he said. “He’s lying.” Darlene jumped up and grabbed him by the shoulders. He tried to wrestle free, but Dingus stepped between them and slammed Whistler back down into his chair.

“Bullshit,” Whistler said.

Dingus snapped handcuffs off of his belt and said, “Judge?”

“My mother did not kill that nun.”

“Are you finished?” Gallagher said. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

“He’s lying, I’m telling you.” He looked around the room as if someone might sympathize. “Goddammit. All right, I’ll settle down. But Nilus is lying to save his own ass.”

“We’ll never know, will we?”

“I know,” Whistler said.

Gallagher resumed reading.

Bitsy went to a closet and removed a black cassock. She folded it upon itself several times and, kneeling in the spreading puddle of Cordelia’s blood, placed it tight over the nun’s face.

“I told her no, Lord, but I was too weak, too selfish, too fearful for my own welfare, to stop her,” Nilus wrote. “I thank you, dear Lord, that Cordelia did not appear to suffer.”

“Liar,” Whistler said.

Mom was doubled over now, quietly sobbing.

Nilus and Bitsy buried Cordelia in a crawl space beneath St. Valentine’s. Two years later, in 1946, Bisty and her young son moved downstate.

“With temptation removed, I redoubled my efforts to dedicate myself to you, Lord, by raising the necessary means to build a church that would give you greater glory.” Nilus wrote. “Circumstances arose, however, in which the Archdiocese of Detroit felt obliged to direct my actions. And so it is at the urging of Father Timothy Reilly that-”

“Your Honor,” Repelmaus said, “I demand that this, this, this proceeding, whatever it is, be adjourned now, before more rank speculation and unconfirmed evidence is allowed to slander the good name of my client.”

Gallagher looked at him. “You have a client named Father Timothy?”

“Actually, Your Honor-”

“Let me guess: attorney-client privilege?” Gallagher said.

“Father Timothy Reilly,” I said, “was the spokesman for the archdiocese quoted in the stories about Wayland’s murder in 1950.”

“You may leave now, Regis,” the judge said.

“Your Honor, you can’t be-”

“Bailiff?”

When the door had closed, Gallagher read the rest of the letter.

Nilus told Father Timothy about the nun buried beneath the church. Father Timothy, Nilus wrote, came to see him one night that August of 1950. He told Nilus that someone tearing down the old church might find the remains. He suggested that Nilus disinter Sister Cordelia and rebury her somewhere she would never be found.

And so, on August 21, 1950, he had.

His letter didn’t say that my mother had helped.

“Some confession,” I said. “He blames everybody and everything but himself for the murder of a nun and the subsequent cover-up.” I looked at Breck. “I’m sure you noticed there’s no mention of your grandfather.”

“I am not surprised,” Breck said.

“Mr. Whistler,” Gallagher said, “are you the son of Father Nilus Moreau?”

Whistler had turned pale. “Technically.”

“Horace,” Mom said. “I’ve had enough.”

“I can imagine,” he said. “Mr. Whistler, it would be prudent for you now to keep in mind that anything you say can and will be used against you.” He turned to Eileen Martin. “Ms. Prosecutor, do you plan to file charges against this man?”

“I need to confer with the sheriff,” she said.

“Then do so expeditiously. And what of Mr. Breck?”

“You have his plea, Your Honor.”

“And a paucity of evidence. However, I suspect Mr. Breck may have information that could be useful to your investigation. Did you hear that, Sheriff Aho?”

Dingus was whispering with Doc Joe. “Sorry?” he said.

“Sheriff, you ought to listen up,” Gallagher said. “You haven’t exactly covered yourself in glory these past few weeks.”

Dingus’s mustache twitched. “Yes, Your Honor. May I interrupt?”

“Interrupt.”

“That ring,” he said. “I’ll need it.”

Whistler grabbed his pinkie ring with the other hand. “First I want a lawyer.”

“They’ll confiscate it at the jail,” Gallagher said.

“Doc Joe, you’ve got the gloves on,” Dingus said.

The coroner held a gloved hand out. Whistler slipped the ring off and handed it over.

“So,” the judge said, “when we return to the courtroom, I will bind Mr. Breck over for trial in the hope that he might find ways to be helpful.”

“Noted, Your Honor,” Eileen said.

Gallagher placed the pouch back in the box and closed the lid.

“These items are now sealed until the court rules otherwise,” he said. “Deputy Catledge, please cuff the prisoners. Sheriff, I turn Deputy Esper back over to you for whatever you must do. But now let’s get back in court-everyone but you two.”

He meant Mom and me.

“Why?” I said.

“You can leave through my clerk’s office.”

“What are we supposed to do, Horace?” Mom said.

“As your son said, solve the case.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I trust you’ll figure it out.”

Everyone stood. Mom and I watched the others file back to the courtroom.

“Wait,” I said. “Darlene.”

I started toward her. She turned around and came to me. Dingus didn’t try to stop her. We embraced, Darlene burying her face in my chest.

“I had to go myself,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s almost over.”

We held each other for a long minute. Dingus finally took Darlene by an elbow.

“Careful, Dingus,” I said. “You don’t want to lose your best deputy.”