Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“I suppose you’ve come about Charley,” she said sulkily.

“Ain’t nothing you can do for him this time, Father,” Steve said with a smirk. “This time they got him for good-and good riddance.”

“Shut up,” Annie snapped, shooting her husband a baleful glance.

“First time the crazy fool ever had a decent-paying job,” Steve continued, ignoring her. “And what does he do?” He cocked his thumb and forefinger. “Gets a gun and-”

“Shut up, I said!” Annie’s face flamed angrily.

“Hiya, Father,” a jovial voice interrupted from the doorway. “You here to referee?”

Father turned and saw that the tall burly man entering the kitchen was one of the stray lambs in his flock-George Floss. Murmuring a greeting, the priest noticed that Floss was attired in a bathrobe and slippers.

“It’s my day off,” George volunteered, aware of Father’s scrutiny. He yawned widely before his heavy-jowled face settled into a grin. “So I went out on the town last night.”

“That explains your high color,” Father remarked dryly. He turned back to the table, where Annie and Steve sat glowering at each other. “Now, if you can spare a moment from your bickering,” he suggested, “maybe you can tell me what happened to set Charley off again.”

Steve pointed a finger at Floss. “He’ll tell you.”

“Charley was doing fine,” George said as he poured a cup of coffee from a pot on the stove. “Didn’t even seem to take it too hard-at least, not at first-when I told him he was going to be out of a job.”

“You told him?” the priest said sharply.

“Why, sure,” Floss replied with an important air. “I’m the super at the Liberty Building. Soon as I knew the old dump was going to be torn down, I told everybody on the maintenance crew that they’d be getting the ax. Me too.” He scowled and his face darkened. “A stinking break. There aren’t too many good super jobs around town.”

He gulped some coffee and then brightened. “Of course it won’t be for some time yet. That’s what I kept telling Charley. But I guess it didn’t sink in. He started worrying and acting funny-” He broke off with a shrug.

“You haven’t heard the latest, George,” Steve said. “That cop-Casey-was here nosing around Charley’s room. Found a gun and the Everett guy’s wallet.”

“No kidding!” Floss’s eyes widened in surprise. He shook his head and whistled.

“Gun, wallet, no matter what that cop found,” Annie shrilled, waving the paring knife in her hand for emphasis, “I don’t believe it. Charley may be a little feebleminded, but he’s no murderer-”

The air was suddenly pierced by a loud and penetrating wail. In an upstairs bedroom a child was crying.

“Now see what you’ve done,” Steve said disgustedly. “Started the brat bawling.”

Annie gave a potato a vicious stab with her knife. “Go on up and quiet her.”

“Not me,” Steve retorted with a defiant shake of his balding head. “That’s your job.”

“I’ve got enough jobs, cooking and cleaning around here. It won’t kill you to take care of the kid once in a while.”

Father Crumlish had stood in shocked silence during the stormy scene. But now he found his tongue.

“It’s ashamed you should be,” he said harshly, turning his indignant dark blue eyes first on Annie, then on Steve. “When I baptized our little Mary Ann, four years ago, I told both of you that you were blessed to have a child at your age and after so many years. Is this disgraceful behavior the way you give thanks to the good Lord? And is this home life the best you can offer the poor innocent babe?”

He took a deep breath to cool his temper. Annie and Steve sat sullen and wordless. The only sound in the silence was the child’s crying.

“I’ll go and see what’s eating her,” George offered, obviously glad to escape from the scene.

“I’ve an errand to do,” Father told the Swansons. “But mind you-he held up a warning finger-“I’ll be back before long to have another word or two with you.”

Turning on his heel, he crossed the kitchen floor, walked down the hallway, and let himself out the door. But before he was halfway down the steps to the street, he heard Annie’s and Steve’s strident voices raised in anger again. And above the din he was painfully aware of the plaintive, persistent sound of the crying child.

Lieutenant Madigan was seated at his desk, engrossed in a sheaf of papers, when Father Crumlish walked into headquarters.

“Sit down, Father,” Big Tom said sympathetically. “You look tired. And worried.”

Irritated, the pastor clicked his tongue against his upper plate. He disliked being told that he looked tired and worried; he knew very well that he was tired and worried, and that was trouble enough. He considered remaining on his feet, stating his business succinctly, and then being on his way. But the chair next to Madigan’s desk looked too inviting. He eased himself into it, suppressing a sigh of relief.

“I know all this is rough on you, Father,” Madigan continued in a kind tone. “But facts are facts.” He paused, extracted one of the papers in front of him, and handed it to the priest.

Father Crumlish read it slowly. It was a report on the bullet which had killed John Everett; the bullet definitely had been fired from the gun found in Charley Abbott’s room. Silently the pastor placed the report on Big Tom’s desk.

“This is one of those cases that are cut and dried,” the policeman said. “One obvious suspect, one obvious motive.” He shifted his gaze away from the bleak look on Father’s face. “But you know that with his mental record Charley will never go to prison.”

Abruptly Father Crumlish got to his feet.

“Can you tell me where I’ll find Detective Dennis Casey?” he asked.

Madigan stared in astonishment. “Third door down the hall. But why-?”

Father Crumlish had already slipped out the door, closed it behind him, and a moment later he was seated beside Detective Casey’s desk. Then, in response to the priest’s request, Casey selected a manila folder from his files.

“Here’s my report on the anonymous phone call, Father,” he said obligingly. “Not much to it, as you can see.”

A glance at the typed form confirmed that the report contained little information that Father didn’t already have.

“I was hoping there might be more,” the pastor said disappointedly. “I know you’ve been on this case since the beginning and I thought to myself that maybe there was something that might have struck you about the phone call. Something odd in the man’s words, perhaps.” Father paused and sighed. “Well, then, maybe you can tell me about your talk with Charley. Exactly what you said to him-”

“Wait a minute, Father,” Casey interrupted. He ran a hand through his carrot-hued hair. “Now that you mention it, I do remember something odd about that call. I remember hearing a funny sound. Just before the guy hung up.”

“Yes?” Father waited hopefully for the detective to continue.

Casey’s brows drew together as he tried to recall.

“It was a sort of whining. A cry, maybe.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Yeah, that’s it! It sounded like a baby-a kid-crying.”

As Father Crumlish wearily started up the steps to the rectory door, his left foot brushed against a small patch of ice buried beneath the new-fallen snow. He felt himself slipping, sliding, and he stretched out a hand to grasp the old wrought-iron railing and steady himself. As he did, the package of statuettes, which he’d been carrying all these long hours, fell from under his arm and tumbled to the sidewalk.

“Hellfire!”

Gingerly Father bent down to retrieve the package. At that moment St. Brigid’s chimes ran out. Six o’clock! Only two hours before Evening Devotions, the priest realized in dismay as he straightened and stood erect. And in even less time his parishioners would be arriving at church to kneel down at the crib, light their candles, and say their prayers.