Ed McBain - Fiddlers

‘Helen and I used to walk a lot together,’ she said. “We were friends for a long time.’

‘How long would that have been?’ Hawes asked.

‘She moved into the neighborhood, must’ve been three years ago. She was a lovely woman.’

‘Where’d she live before this, would you know?’

‘In Calm’s Point. She was a recent widow when she moved here.’

‘Oh?’ Hawes said.

‘Yes. Her husband was killed in a drive-by shooting.’

‘Oh?’ he said again.

‘Gang stuff. He was coming home from work, just coming down to the street from the train station, when these teenagers drove by shooting at someone from another gang. Martin was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the right time.’

‘Would you know his last name?’

‘It was a gang thing,’ Paula said.

I’d like to check it, anyway.’

‘Martin Reilly. Well, Reilly . He was her husband, you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Hawes said, but he wrote down the name, anyway.

‘They were very happily married, too. Unlike the first time around.’

‘When was that, would you know?’

‘Had to’ve been at least fifty years ago. Her first marriage. Two kids. She finally walked out after twelve years of misery.’

‘Walked out?’

‘So long, it’s been good to know you.’

‘Were they ever divorced?’

‘Oh, I’m sure. Well, she remarried, right?’

‘Right. What was her first husband’s name, would you know?’

‘No, I’m sorry. Luke Something?’

‘Ever meet him?’

‘No.’

‘He wouldn’t have tried to contact her ever, would he?’

‘I don’t think so. No. I’m sure she would’ve told me. It was strictly good riddance to bad rubbish.’

‘The children? Would you know their names?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘Were they boys or girls?’

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’

‘Well, thank you, Ms. Wellington, I appreciate your time.’

‘You wouldn’t care for a cup of tea, would you?’ she said. ‘It’s about that time of day, you know.’

Hawes hesitated a moment.

Then he said, ‘I have to get back.. Maybe some other time.’

Paula nodded.

* * * *

Fat Ollie Weeks did not like religion in general and priests in particular, but he hoped no one would write him letters on the subject because he simply would not answer them. He could not say he particularly disliked Father Joseph Santoro, except that the man appeared to be in his late seventies, and Ollie had no particular fondness for old people, either.

Why a man at such an advanced age hadn’t yet tipped to the fact that wearing a long black dress and a gold necklace and cross might be considered somewhat effeminate was beyond Ollie. But he was not here to discuss sexual proclivities or the peculiar dress habits of the Catholic priesthood. He was here to learn what Father Joseph Santoro had seen or heard on the night Father Michael Hopwell was shot twice in the face, he being the last person to have seen his dead colleague alive, ah yes, except for the killer.

The retirement center at six P.M. that Saturday was just serving dinner to its fifty or so resident retired priests and nuns. Ollie knew these religious people had all taken vows of chastity and poverty, which he surmised included not eating too terribly much, or screwing around at all after hours, wherever it was they slept. Hence the somewhat gaunt and hungry appearance of many of the men and women seated around long wooden tables in the center’s dining room. He was not expecting any kind of decent dinner, and was surprised to find the food both plentiful and quite delicious.

Sitting opposite Father Joseph, grateful that Patricia Gomez was not present to scold him about breaking his diet, Ollie dug into a roast beef cooked a little too well for his taste, string beans steamed to crispy perfection, and small roasted potatoes browned on the outside and flaky white on the inside. It was several moments before he remembered why he was here.

‘So tell me what you and Father Michael talked about that night,’ he said.

‘Mostly about his coming retirement,’ Father Joseph said.

He was eating like a bird, had to watch his girlish figure, Ollie supposed, the old faggoty fart.

‘How’d he feel about that?’ Ollie asked.

‘Not too happy.’

‘Tell you about anything- else that might be troubling him? Quarrels with his parishioners? Disputes within the Church hierarchy? Anything that might have presaged his murder?’

Good word, Ollie thought, presaged. He doubted Father Joseph here had ever heard such a word in his life, presaged. The curse of being a literary man, ah yes.

‘He was very well liked by everyone,’ Father Joseph said.

‘How long have you known him?’

‘We go back to our first ministry together.’

‘At St. Ignatius?’

‘No. Our Lady of Grace. In Riverhead.’

‘When was that?’

‘Fifty-some odd years ago.’

‘Everybody love him to death back then, too?’

Father Joseph looked at him.

‘Do I detect a touch of sarcasm there?’ he asked.

‘None at all. Just repeating what you told me earlier.’

‘I never said he was loved to death.’

‘You said he was very well liked by everyone.’

‘Yes. But I did not say he was loved to death.’

‘Wasn’t he?’

‘There were naturally disagreements. There are disagreements in any ministry.’

‘Like about what? Molly wants an abortion, Father Michael says, “Nay, that’s against Church Law”?’

‘Sometimes. Yes. Abortion can become an issue, even among the faithful.’

‘How about sex before marriage?’

‘That can be another issue, yes.’

‘Or marrying outside the faith?’

‘All issues that could possibly come up between a priest and his congregation, yes. That’s why we’re there, Detective Weeks. To offer guidance and direction.’

‘Think any of these issues might have come up during Father Michael’s time in the priesthood?’

‘I feel certain they would have.’

“He mention any threats he may have received…”

‘None.’

‘… regarding one or another of these issues that may have come up…”

‘No.’

‘… at any time during his long priesthood?’

‘Nothing. He was worried about retiring. He thought he’d have nothing to do once he retired.’

‘No more issues to deal with, right?’

Father Joseph said nothing.

‘What time did you leave Father Michael the other night?’ Ollie asked.

‘It must’ve been around ten o’clock.’

‘To go where?’

‘The bus stop on Powell and Moore. I catch the L-16 bus there. It’s a limited-stop bus, gets me back here in half an hour.’

‘Hear anything while you were waiting for the bus? Any shots? Any loud voices? Anything like that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So you got back here at around ten thirty, is that right?’

‘I didn’t look at a clock.’

‘You said it was a half-hour ride…”

‘Yes, but…”

‘Or didn’t you come directly here, Father Joseph?’

‘I came directly here.’

‘So you must’ve got here around ten thirty, quarter to eleven, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Closer to eleven.’

‘When did you learn of Father Michael’s death?’

‘Later that night. Sister Margaret called to inform me.’

‘You don’t think she could’ve shot him, do you?’

‘Of course not!’

‘Who do you think might have shot him, Father?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘No one specific parishioner who might have disagreed violently with Father Michael’s guidance or direction… ?’