Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

Gonzales nodded. “Claire, any hint of cult, our humansacrifice?”

Inspector Claire Ward an expert on cults, had beentaking notes.

“Too soon to say, Lieutenant, I’d like to look at theevidence from the Donner case again.”

“Walt will help you there,” Gonzales said. “All right.We are going to chew up every shred we’ve got on this, understand?Every-fucking-thing. The heat on this one is intense.” Gonzales stood up,looked at his watch, then ended the meeting. “You’ve got your assignments. Youall know the words to the song. This is a green light. All overtime isapproved. We go hard into the backgrounds. We re-create the day. We check andrecheck every tip.” He tucked his unlit cigar in his inside breast pocket.“Questions?”

None.

“Turgeon, please see me in my office,” Gonzales said.

Papers and reports were collected as the investigatorsfiled out of the room. Turgeon followed Gonzales to his office several doorsaway, where he fished through a top desk drawer, then placed her newidentification in her hand.

“Sorry, Linda. I should’ve gotten this to you lastweek.”

Turgeon looked at the laminated photo ID which read: Inspector Linda A. Turgeon. San Francisco Police Department. Homicide Detail.She ran her finger over the shield bearing the city’s seal. It depicted asailor, miner, and a ship passing under the Golden Gate. Above it, a phoenixrose from flames. Below was the city’s Spanish motto. Oro en paz, fierro enGuerra .

“You know the jingle,” Gonzales said.

“Gold in peace. Iron in war.”

Turgeon’s heart swelled. Her father’s gold shield washome in a jewelry box, with her favorite picture of him smiling in uniform ather. She was eight, wearing his cap, smiling up at him. She blinked severaltimes. I did it, Dad. I did it, she thought.

“Welcome to the dark ride,” Gonzales said”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Gonzales cleared his throat. “I knew Don in the earlydays.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, we walked the Mission together. For a spell.”

Turgeon nodded.

“Linda?”

“Yes.”

“You done him proud, real proud.”

Vassie Laptak , the choirmaster for Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows RomanCatholic Church, tapped his baton crisply on the podium’s edge, halting “TheLord is Risen.” He pushed aside his wild, maestrolike strands of ivory hair andstudied his sheet music.

The North American Choir finals in San Diego werethree months off. Our Lady was a contender and with God’s help they could win.Victory would mean an audience with The Holy Father in Rome. Vassie lay awakenights imagining how it would be. Our Lady’s singers were spiritually dedicated,but today his number-three contralto, the dwarfish spinster who cleaned thechurch, was off.

“Florence, dear, you are not feeling well today.” Hereviewed his sheet music on the dais.

Florence Schafer flushed. “Why I’m fine, Vassie.Really.”

Agnes Crawford, the choir’s star soprano, put her handon Florence’s shoulder. “Are you sure, Flo? You look pale. Would like somewater? Margaret, fetch some water for little Flo.”

Florence loathed that name. Standing at four feet, sixinches, she was, in the clinical sense, a dwarf.

“Please don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Vassie regarded her sternly through his fallen locks.

“I wasn’t concentrating, I’m sorry.”

“Very well.” Vassie sighed, nodding for the organistto resume. Pipes and voices resounded through the stone church, but Florence’sattention wandered again.

She admired the statue of the Blessed Virgin in thealcove behind Vassie. The Queen of Heaven, in the white gown with a golden hem,arms open to embrace the suffering. She was beautiful, mourning the death ofher child. As she sang, Florence recalled her own grief and the part that diedso many years ago. Philip, the young man she was going to marry, was killed ina house fire. She had wanted to die too. The night of his death, she visitedher parish priest. He helped her find the strength to live, she never loveanother man. For years, she considered becoming a nun, but instead devotedherself to her church and her job as a city hall clerk before retiring afterforty years.

Florence lived alone, but was not lonely. She hadBuster, her budgie. And there was her hobby, true crime, mystery, and detectivestories. She walked in Hammett’s footsteps, Pronzini’s, and others. Onvacations, she took famous murder-scene tours, visiting police museums. She devourednovels and textbooks. She clipped articles, filing them meticulously. To whatend, she didn’t know, For each day of her life was marked by the three chinaand three sterling silver spoons she used for tea, which she took in themorning, afternoon, and evening as she read, Three times daily, as a steamplume rose from the kettle, she pondered the meaning of her life, wonderingwhat God’s purpose was for her. It had become her eternal question.

She now knew the answer.

And this afternoon she would act on it.

After choir rehearsal, Florence prepared to clean thepews. She went to the utility room at the rear of the church and tugged on thechain of a bare bulb. The room smelled of disinfectant. It had a largejanitor’s sink, bottles of furniture polish, wax, rags, pails, all neatlyorganized. Florence closed the door, and checked inside her bag. Everything wasset. If it happened again today, she was ready. She slipped on her apron,collected a rag, some polish in a pail, and went to work cleaning pews.

“And how are you this blessed afternoon, Flo? I heardthe choir from the rectory. The gang sounds wonderful.” Farther McCreeny smiledas she gathered old church bulletins from the first pew.

“Very well thank you, Father. And you.”

“Tip top, Flo. Tip top.”

You may say so, Father, but I know you’re bearing aheavy cross.

Father William Melbourne McCreeny had been with OurLady for years. A fine-looking man standing six feet, five inches tall, who atsixty-two, still maintained the litheness of his seminary days as a basketballplayer. With the exception of crack dealers and pimps, he was love by everyone.McCreeny was instrumental in establishing a new soup kitchen in Our Lady’sbasement, using bingo proceeds to provide hot meals for the homeless. McCreenychecked his watch, then surveyed his empty church. ”Five minutes beforeafternoon confessions. I’d better get ready.” He stopped near the altar on hisway to the sacristy and turned to her. “By the way, Flo. I almost forgot. Thisweekend I’ll be asking for help at the shelter. We’re getting more clients asthe word on the street goes ‘around. I know you already do so much, but pleaseconsider it.”

“I will Father.”

He smiled his handsome smile.

Later McCreeny emerged carrying a Bible, wearing a cassock,surplice, and purple stole. He genuflected, crossed himself before the altar.He seemed taller. Florence’s heart fluttered. Seeing him like this emphasizedthat he was a Godly man, a human tower of strength. McCreeny lit some vigilcandles at the alcove of the Virgin then proceeded to one of the confessionalbooths, the rustling of his vestments echoing softly as he walked.

Overcome with fear, Florence wanted to cry out to himand gripped a pew to steady herself. Father, help me! The words wouldn’t come.What was happening? She had arrived at the church that morning confident shewould do what was right. Now she was consumed by doubt. McCreeny entered theconfessional. She needed his guidance. Father, please turn around! The latchclicked. The small red ornate light above the confessional went on. McCreenywas ready to perform the sacrament, ready to hear the confession of sins.

Florence went back to cleaning, touching her eyes withthe back of her hand. For the next hour, she concentrated on her work. Duringthat time nearly two dozen people trickled in and out of the church. Florencesmiled at those she knew. The children held their tiny hands firmly together attheir lips, prayer-like. Adults were less formal, clasping theirs loosely,letting them fall below their waists. One by one they entered the curtainedside of the booth, knelt, and whispered their confessions to Farther McCreeny.As she worked, Florence heard the shuffle of old tired feet, the smart snap ofheels, and the squeak of sneakers as each person left the booth for anunoccupied pew where they could say their penance, some to the muted clickingof rosary beads.