Alan Russell - Burning Man

“Without thinking-perhaps afraid to think-I sprinted to the little one’s side. I swept away the leaves and debris, and feared I was too late. The baby wasn’t moving, and his skin had a bluish hue. I lifted the babe up and felt how cold his body was, but even as I despaired that I had come too late, my prayers were answered, for I saw him take the slightest of breaths.

“I tucked the naked baby into the folds of my robes and took off running as fast as I dared. On that morn it felt as if I sprouted wings, for the ground seemed to fly by under me. I rubbed the baby’s arms and legs as I ran, but he did not respond and made no sounds.

“I raced in through the side entrance of the church, and when I appeared to the congregation I am sure that I looked every inch a madman, what with my bulging eyes, heaving chest, and torn clothing. I hurried through the sanctuary, pausing only for a moment to genuflect, and then ran through the nave. The organist stifled a scream and stopped her playing, and the congregation stood up to get a look at what I was carrying, but I didn’t take notice of any of that.

“I made it to the front of the church and tried to remember what to do. I had only assisted in baptisms, and for a moment I froze before gathering my wits. I could not have this baby die before receiving the First Sacrament, and I was sure his young life hung in the balance.

“I reached into the baptismal font, and my hands were trembling so much that I spilled more holy water on the ground than I did the baby’s head. Three times did I make the sign of the cross, giving unto the newborn both name and blessing: ‘I christen thee Michael in the name of the Father, in the name of the Son, and in the name of the Holy Spirit.’

“Around me I heard a chorus of ‘Amen’ and only then noticed that the entire congregation had followed me to the baptismal font. Their presence and encouragement reassured me, and the words of the First Sacrament came a little easier: ‘I christen you that you may know the pure and holy spirit of God, your eternal source of faith.’

“I felt a weight lifted off of me then, for I could see that the baby was still breathing. It also seemed to me that he did not look quite as blue. Because I had rushed through the administration of the First Sacrament, I decided to offer a Whispered Verse of Assurance, and for Michael’s ears alone did I murmur a verse from the Bible.

“When I finished, I glanced around at all the curious faces. Everyone was looking at this baby with wonder and awe. I thought to conclude the baptism with an economy of words so that we could get Michael medical care as soon as possible, and so I raised him up with both my hands and offered him to God, saying, ‘We pray for the care and protection of Michael in body and soul. We surrender him to your hands. Please, Dear Heavenly Father, bind your angels to bless and attend him always. This we pray in the name of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.’

“I am not sure if Michael responded to the holy water dripping down his face, or the way the audience was enthusiastically calling out ‘Amen.’ Maybe he was just warming up, or maybe Michael was reacting to being lifted into the air. It’s even possible Michael was offering his own commentary on my baptismal efforts. All I know is that he was not the only one sprinkled that day. Suddenly, a stream fell down upon my head; with devastating aim Michael relieved himself upon me.

“There might have been one or two that tried to refrain from laughing, but their good intentions were quickly lost. All of us broke down laughing, and I laughed the loudest of all. I took that little boy’s flow as a sign from God. Michael was going to live.”

I had heard the story a hundred times but would never tire of it. Judging by the laughter around me, I wasn’t alone.

“For years Father Pat has been threatening to immortalize that moment with a statue,” Barbara said.

“Not a statue,” the priest said. “I was thinking more of a tasteful stained-glass window.”

“Remind me not to give to your building fund this year,” I said.

“Michael is the only baby that I ever baptized twice,” he said. “His parents wanted to have a more official baptism the second time around.”

“But before Father Pat committed to a redo,” I said, “he wanted written assurance that I would be wearing a waterproof baptismal gown.”

“It was either that or me going to the bishop and asking if I could conduct the service in a bathing suit.”

The church had used its influence to make sure I was adopted into a Catholic family. My parents had worshipped at Blessed Sacrament until we moved to the San Fernando Valley, but even then Father Pat had stayed in touch with me. Over the years our paths had frequently crossed. After my encounter with the Strangler, Father Pat had visited me often at the hospital. He knew me well enough to recognize that this time my visit wasn’t just a social call. After the others excused themselves, Father Pat looked at me expectantly. We weren’t in the confessional booth, but it felt like it. He took a read of my tired eyes, but I wasn’t there to talk about my hellish dreams.

“I caught a case this morning,” I said. “A newborn girl was abandoned.”

I didn’t have to tell him there was no happy ending. He nodded his head and closed his eyes in silent prayer. My eyes stayed open. I was a throwaway kid investigating another throwaway kid. My biological mother was never found; I would find Rose’s mother.

The door opened a crack, and a solitary brown eye peered at me suspiciously from behind the safety of a door chain. Even law-abiding citizens, those without so much as a parking ticket, are wary of talking to cops. When you have a face that’s scarred like mine, people tend to be that much more suspicious. After being burned in the fire, I kept trying on friendly faces for size in the mirror, but what looked back at me were distorted grimaces and leers. It’s been easier to not smile.

“I’m Detective Gideon,” I said, showing my badge wallet.

The night before, I’d canvassed apartments in the area, and I had started knocking on doors again early that morning. If you want to catch people, you need to seek them out at odd hours.

I explained the purpose of my visit to the brown eye. When I finished, the chain came down and the door opened a little wider revealing a midthirties white male. “No,” he said in answer to my questions, “I didn’t see any baby or anyone carrying a box.” He yawned and shook his head. “Isn’t it early for you guys to be coming around like this?”

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said.

I did my closing speech, the one where I handed over my card and asked to be called if something came up that might be useful to the case. Sirius and I were already walking away when the man called out, “Wait a sec. Aren’t you the cop that took down the Weatherman?”

With my back turned to him, I offered a noncommittal wave. If he’d known anything about baby Rose, I would have lingered, but I could do without another conversation about Ellis Haines. That was a trip down memory lane I didn’t need this morning.

The sound of music called to me from my cell, the opening notes to “Hail to the Chief.” The chief is the only person in my cell phone’s contact list to whom I’ve assigned a ringtone.

“Gideon,” I said.

“This is Gwen from Chief Ehrlich’s office calling, Detective. Are you available to talk to the chief?”

“I’m all ears.”

“Thank you,” Gwen said. “Please hold for a moment.”

For some reason the chief never calls me directly. I don’t know if it’s an LA thing or if it’s standard practice among the ruling class to have someone else do the dialing for them. I do know this is the town that invented the phrase “I’ll have my person call your person.”