Stevan Mena - Transience

It was too late for him. But there was still time left to do something good for someone else. It was that noble idea that flexed the muscles in his hand. Jack opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.

He flipped up his collar and headed for the entrance, stepping over a deep puddle that barred his path along the sidewalk. He crept around it onto the mushy grass, which sounded like squished applesauce beneath his shoes. A few drops penetrated his collar and dripped down his bare neck, through his undershirt, down his back. He shuddered, vibrating his lips like a sputtering motor, brbrbrbrbr .

He climbed the steps and pressed the door — only to collapse into wood, face first. He leaned back and pulled it open like you’re supposed to, hoping no one saw his gaffe.

Inside, the church vestibule was quiet. He gently eased the door closed behind him, muting the sound of the driving rain. It was so quiet, Jack could hear his own breathing. He wasn’t a regular churchgoer. Though baptized and put through the motions growing up, it never took. He respected all religions — he’d never take either side of the argument — but he never found a place for it. And his profession only served to drive the notion of a benevolent God from his beliefs. Still, he respected a person’s right to worship.

He stepped gingerly, not remembering all the protocols for being inside a house of worship. Especially one in session — which it was, judging by the serene music emanating from the congregation area.

He opened the door to the nave quietly, not wanting to call attention to himself. No one turned around. A funeral was being held, a priest performed a sermon. Most of the mourners were Latino. Jack took a seat in the back and waited.

He looked around at the proceedings with a dour expression . How long before he would be here? Would anyone show up? Sure, he’d get the classic policeman’s sendoff. But not the lavish kind reserved for those taken in the line of duty. His immediate station would probably attend, if only out of respect.

What about loved ones? Family and friends? Jack could be quite the chore to be around. Any family he stayed in touch with merely tolerated him. He understood why. So his passing would simply be a procedure, a chore that had to get done, like cleaning up the dishes after a meal. That last thought amused him in a macabre way.

He envisioned his casket filled with ice and beer. They could pay their respects and grab a cold one on their way out. At least everyone would have a good time.

Mourners slowly walked past the closed casket, paying their respects. Jack knew who was in there. That was the reason he came. He searched the crowd for her — and there she was – Hester Muniz; draped in black, head down, sobbing on the shoulder of the man sitting next to her. This was Carmen’s funeral, 10 years belated. Jack listened to the priest’s sermon:

“In our terrible grief, we thank you Lord for bringing closure to Carmen’s family. We take comfort in knowing that Carmen now sits beside your only son Jesus in Heaven. Jesus cradles her in his arms and she feels no more pain.”

The priest stepped down from the pulpit and placed his hand on Hester’s shoulder. She looked up at him reverently, kissing the side of his hand. He whispered some words of comfort to her, then turned to acknowledge the man she was holding on to. Jack could see now he was a young man, 22 maybe. Dressed in full military uniform.

As the mourners exited quietly, a few noticed Jack sitting there, a puzzled look on their faces as they passed him by.

Hester leaned over Carmen’s casket, placed a kiss on the lacquered wood, then knelt and did the sign of the cross. She erupted in a fit of tears; the young man had to help her up to her feet. He walked her back towards the exit.

Jack swallowed, maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk with her. But she noticed him right away.

“Detective?”

Jack stood up and nodded. “Mrs. Muniz. I was wondering if I might speak with you some more.”

“What’s this about?” the young man said, his tone adversarial. Hester placed her hands on his to silence him.

“This is my son, Francisco.” Francisco and Jack exchanged glances. “Jack is the one who found Carmen.” Hester’s tone demanded he respect the detective. Francisco softened immediately and extended his hand. Jack took it.

“Not all the credit is mine,” Jack said — no intention of divulging the other deserving party. “I realize this isn’t a good time, but maybe if I could stop by your home? When it’s convenient.”

“Of course, anything.”

“We should go, they’re waiting,” Francisco said, giving her wrist a gentle tug.

“Si, okay.” She turned to Jack. “Goodbye. God bless you.”

Hester and Francisco exited, leaving Jack alone with the priest. His name was Father Carlos Gonzales, he had a stocky build, and thin black hair with graying along his temples. His face was gentle and disarming. Jack could see how someone like him was just the right person to deliver a message of peace during sorrow, or blessings during joy. In a way, they were both public servants, but for his own reasoning, Jack saw himself as the dark one in the room. Even though Jack fought on the side of good, he was constantly immersed in the dark side of his fellow man, whereas this servant of God saw only the goodness in people.

The priest collected bibles from the pews. Jack approached him.

“Father, my name’s Jack Ridge, I’m a detective—”

“I know who you are,” he said with a warm smile catching Jack off guard, “Thanks to you, Carmen’s spirit can at last rest in peace.”

Jack tilted his head, not necessarily agreeing with his assessment. “Then you don’t mind speaking for a moment?”

“How can I be of help?”

“How long have you been with this church?”

The priest looked up at the ceiling, calculating in his head. “Eh, I’m 58 now. So, 26 years, I think.”

“Carmen was a member of this church?”

“I know her family a long time.” The priest continued to collect prayer books as they spoke. He motioned with his head for Jack to step aside so he could collect the ones behind him. He continued to the next aisle.

“Do you remember anything unusual about her before she disappeared?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Maybe she confessed to something? Was anything bothering her? Trouble at home, maybe?”

The priest turned to Jack, the casual demeanor in his expression gone, replaced with a sudden formality.

“She was a devout member of this church. Her mother still is.”

“I’m sure of that. You didn’t answer my question.”

“Dead or alive, there is a sanctity of confession I will not violate. But I can tell you she never gave her mother a day’s trouble. And I know she always wanted the best for Carmen. It was not easy after her husband passed. The sadness became too great for him, the Lord called him home.”

“Carmen’s murder is part of a larger investigation now. Another girl is missing. Her name’s Angelina Rosa.”

“We are all well aware of it in this community. I know Mr. Rosa, he’s a good man. We both emigrated from Ecuador. I lit a candle with him to pray for Angelina’s safe return.” The priest motioned towards several burning candles near the entrance. He picked up two more prayer books, the stack almost up to his chin.

“Can I help you with those?” Jack asked.

“Gracias.” Jack took half of the books into his arms. The priest walked over and opened a storage drawer by the side of the stage. He bent over and placed the stack inside. Jack did the same.

“You think these cases are connected.”

“I know they are.”

“You will catch this devil before he takes another beautiful child?”