Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“But surely, now, Tom,” Father protested, “you can’t be imagining that Charley Abbott had a hand in that killing? Why, you know as well as I that, for all his peculiar ways, Charley’s gentle as a lamb.”

“All I know,” Madigan replied harshly, “is that when we tried to ask him a few questions, he bolted.” He ran a hand over his crisp, curly brown hair. “And I know that innocent men don’t run.”

“Innocent or guilty,” Father Crumlish said, “the man’s in trouble. Take me to him, Tom.”

When Father Crumlish entered the priesthood more than forty years before, he never imagined that he was destined to spend most of those years in St. Brigid’s parish-that weary bedraggled section of Lake City’s waterfront where destitution and despair, avarice and evil, walked hand in hand. And although, on the occasions when he lost a battle with the Devil, he too sometimes teetered on the brink of despair, he unfailingly rearmed himself with his intimate, hard-won knowledge of his people.

But now, as the old priest leaned out the window and caught sight of the man seated on the building’s ledge, his confidence was momentarily shaken. Charley Abbott had the appearance and demeanor of a stranger. The man’s usually slumped, flaccid shoulders were rigid with purpose; his slack mouth and chin were set in taut, hard lines; and in place of his normal attitude of wavering indecision, there was an aura about him of implacable determination.

There was not a doubt in Father Crumlish’s mind that Abbott intended to take the fatal plunge into eternity. The priest took a deep breath and silently said a prayer.

“Charley,” he then called out mildly, “it’s Father Crumlish. I’m right here close to you, lad. At the window.”

Abbott gave no indication that he’d heard his pastor’s voice.

“Can you hear me, Charley?”

No response.

“I came up here to remind you that we have been through a lot of bad times together,” Father continued conversationally. “And together we’ll get through whatever it is that’s troubling you now.”

The priest waited for a moment, hoping to elicit some indication that Abbott was aware of his presence. But the man remained silent and motionless, staring into space. Father decided to try another approach.

“I’ve always been proud of you, Charley,” Father said. “And never more so than when you were just a tyke and ran in the fifty-yard dash at our Annual Field Day Festival.” He sighed audibly. “Ah, but that’s so many years ago, and my memory plays leprechaun’s tricks. I can’t recall for the life of me, lad-did you come in second or third?”

Again Father waited, holding his breath. Actually he remembered the occasion clearly. The outcome had been a major triumph in his attempts to bring a small spark of reality into his young parishioner’s dreamy, listless life.

Suddenly Abbott’s long legs, which were dangling aimlessly over the perilous ledge, stiffened, twitched. Slowly he turned his head and focused his bleak eyes on the priest.

“I-I won!” he said, in the reproachful, defensive voice of a small child.

“I can’t hear you, Charley,” Father said untruthfully, striving to keep the tremor of relief from his voice. “Could you speak a little louder? Or come a bit closer?”

To Father Crumlish it seemed an eternity before Abbott’s shoulders relaxed a trifle, before his deathlike grip on the narrow slab of concrete and steel diminished, before slowly, ever so slowly, the man began to inch his way along the ledge until he came within an arm’s reach of the window and the priest. Then he paused and leaned tiredly against the building’s brick wall.

“I won,” he repeated, this time in a louder and firmer tone.

“I remember now,” Father said, never taking his dark blue eyes from his parishioner’s pale, distraught face. “So can you tell me why a fellow like yourself, with a fine pair of racing legs, would be hanging them out there in the breeze?”

The knuckles of Charley’s hands grasping the ledge whitened. “The cops are going to say I murdered Mr. Everett-” He broke off in agitation.

“Go on, Charley.”

“They’re going to arrest me. Put me away.” Abbott’s voice rose hysterically. “And this time it’ll be forever. I can’t stand that, Father.” Abruptly he turned his head away from the priest and made a move as if to rise to his feet. “I’ll kill myself first.”

“Stay where you are!” Father Crumlish commanded. “You’ll not take your life in the sight of God, with me standing by to have it on my conscience that I wasn’t able to save you.”

Cowed by Father’s forcefulness, Abbott subsided and once more turned his stricken gaze on the pastor’s face.

“I want you to look me straight in the eye, Charley,” Father said, “and answer my question: as God is your Judge, did you kill the man?”

“No, Father. No!” The man’s slight form swayed dangerously. “But nobody will believe me.”

Father Crumlish stared fixedly into Abbott’s pale blue eyes, which were dazed now and dark with desperation. But the pastor also saw in them his parishioner’s inherent bewilderment, fear-and his childlike innocence. Poor lad, he thought compassionately. Poor befuddled lad.

“I believe you, Charley,” he said in a strong voice. “And I give you my word that you’ll not be punished for a crime you didn’t commit.” With an effort the priest leaned further out the window and extended his hand. “Now come with me.”

Hesitatingly Abbott glanced down at the priest’s outstretched, gnarled fingers.

“My word, Charley.”

Abbott sat motionless, doubt and indecision etched on his thin face.

“Give me your hand, lad,” Father said gently.

Once again the man raised his eyes until they met the priest’s.

“Give me your hand!”

It was a long excruciating moment before Charley released his grip on the ledge, extended a nail-bitten, trembling hand, and permitted the pastor’s firm warm clasp to lead him to safety.

It was Father Crumlish’s custom to read the Lake City Times sports page while consuming his usual breakfast of coddled egg, dry toast, and tea. But this morning he delayed learning how his beloved Giants, and in particular Willie Mays, were faring until he’d read every word of the running story on John Everett’s murder.

Considerable space had been devoted to the newest angle on the case-Charley Abbott’s threatened suicide after the police had received an anonymous telephone tip and had sought to question him. Abbott, according to the story, had been taken to Lake City Hospital for observation. Meanwhile, the police were continuing their investigation, based on the few facts at their disposal.

To date, John Everett still remained a “mystery man.” With the exception of his lawyer, banker, and the representative of a large real-estate management concern-and his dealings with all three had been largely conducted by mail or telephone-apparently only a handful of people in Lake City were even aware of the man’s existence. As a result, his murder might not have come to light for some time, had it not been for two youngsters playing in the wooded area which surrounded Everett’s isolated farmhouse. Prankishly peering in a window, they saw his body sprawled on the sparsely furnished living-room floor and notified the police. According to the Medical Examiner, Everett had been dead less than twenty-four hours. Death was the result of a bullet wound from a.25 automatic.

Although from all appearances Everett was a man of modest means, the story continued, investigation showed that in fact he was extremely wealthy-the “hidden owner” of an impressive amount of real estate in Lake City. Included in his holdings was the Liberty Office Building where Charley Abbott had almost committed suicide.