Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

All the parking spots in front of the building were taken, so I drove up ten yards and nosed into a space behind a Winnebago with MOBILE MEDICAL painted on the back. A larger and more energetic group of derelicts hovered nearby- at least two dozen men and three or four women, yapping and shuffling and rubbing their arms. As I turned off the ignition I noticed it wasn’t health care they were after. A loose line had formed in front of an accordion-grated storefront. Another neon sign, these tubes flashing: $$ FOR PLASMA.

Milo removed a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it in the Seville’s front window. A 10 by 12 card reading LAPD VEHICLE: IN SERVICE.

“Be sure to lock,” he said, slamming his door.

“Next time we take yours,” I said, watching a bald, eye-patched man engage in an angry conversation with a dead elm tree. “You did it!” the man kept repeating, slapping the trunk of the tree every third or fourth utterance. The palms of his hands were bloody but there was a smile on his face.

“No way- they’d eat mine,” said Milo. “C’mon.”

The men hanging out in front of the mission noticed us long before we got to the front door, and stepped aside. Their shadows and their stench lingered. Several of them looked hungrily at my shoes- brown loafers, purchased a month ago, that still looked new. I thought how far $120,000 would go in this neighborhood.

Inside, the building was overheated and brightly lit. The front room was large, aqua, crowded with men sitting and lying across randomly placed green plastic chairs. The floors were black-and-gray linoleum, the plaster bare except for a single wooden crucifix tacked high to the welcoming wall.

More body odor, mixed with disinfectant, the bilious reek of stale vomit, and the suety smell of something simmering in broth. A young black man in a white polo shirt and tan slacks circulated among the men, carrying a clipboard and chained pen and a handful of brochures. A name tag above the tiger embroidered on his chest said GILBERT JOHNSON, STUDENT VOLUNTEER. He made his way among the men, consulting the board from time to time. Stopping and bending to talk to someone. Handing out a leaflet. Once in a while he got a response.

None of the men moved much. No conversation that I could see. But there was still noise from afar. Metallic rattles and machine pulses and a rhythmic baritone drone that had to be prayer.

I thought of a depot filled with travelers who’d lost their way.

Milo caught the young black man’s eye. The man frowned and came over.

“Can I help you?” On the clipboard was a list of names, some of them followed by check marks.

“I’m looking for Joel McCloskey.”

Johnson sighed. He was in his early twenties, had broad features, Asian eyes, a cleft chin, and skin not that much darker than Glenn Anger’s tan.

“Again?”

“Is he here?”

“You’ll have to speak to Father Tim first. One second.”

He disappeared down a hallway to the right of the crucifix and came back almost immediately with a thin white man in his early thirties wearing a black shirt, clerical collar, and white jeans over high-top black-and-white basketball shoes. The priest had jug ears, short light-brown hair, a wispy drooping mustache, and skinny hairless arms.

“Tim Andrus,” he said in a soft voice. “I thought it was all cleared up with Joel.”

“Just a few more questions,” said Milo.

Andrus turned to Johnson. “Why don’t you get back to bed-count, Gilbert? It’s going to be tight tonight- we’ll need to be really accurate.”

“Sure thing, Father.” Johnson shot a quick look at Milo and me, then returned to the men. Several of them had turned around and were staring at us.

The priest gave them a smile that wasn’t reciprocated. Turning to us, he said, “The police were here quite a while last night and I was assured everything had been taken care of.”

“Like I said, Father, just a few more questions.”

“This kind of thing is very disruptive. Not so much for Joel. He’s patient. But the rest of the men- most of them have had experiences with the police. Lots of them are mentally disturbed. The upset in routine…”

“Patient,” said Milo. “Good of him.”

Andrus gave a short, hard laugh. His ears had turned scarlet. “I know what you’re thinking, Officer. Another bleeding-heart liberal do-gooder- and maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m unaware of Joel’s history. When he came here six months ago he was totally forthright- he hasn’t forgiven himself for what he did all those years ago. And it was a terrible thing, so of course I had my reservations about allowing him to serve. But if I stand for anything it’s the power of forgiveness. The right to be forgiven. So I knew I couldn’t turn him away. And over the past six months he’s proved me right. No one’s served more selflessly. He’s not the same man he was twenty years ago.”

“Good for him,” said Milo. “But we’d still like to talk to him.”

“She still hasn’t shown up? The woman he…”

“Burned? Not yet.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m sure Joel is, too.”

“Why? He express his regrets, Father?”

“He still bears the burden of what he did- never stops blaming himself. Talking to the police brought it all back. He didn’t sleep at all last night- was in the chapel, on his knees. I found him and we knelt there together. But he couldn’t have had anything to do with her disappearance. He’s been here all week, never left the building. Working double shifts. I can attest to that.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“Anything we need. For the past week it’s been kitchen and latrine duty. He requests latrine duty- would do it full time.”

“He have any friends?”

Andrus hesitated before answering. “Friends he’d hire to do wrong?”

“That’s not what I asked, Father, but now that you mention it, yeah.”

Andrus shook his head. “Joel knew that’s exactly the way the police would think. He hired someone to sin once before; therefore it was inevitable that he’d do it again.”

“Best predictor of the future’s the past,” said Milo.

Andrus touched his clerical collar and nodded. “It’s an incredibly difficult job you do, Officer. A vital job- God bless all honest policemen. But one of the side effects can be fatalism. A belief that nothing ever changes for the better.”

Milo looked around at the men on the plastic chairs. The few who were still staring turned away.

“You get to see much change around here, Father?”

Andrus twisted one end of his mustache. “Enough,” he said, “to maintain my faith.”

“McCloskey one of those who’s maintained your faith?”

The flush spread from the priest’s ears to his neck. “I’ve been here five years, Officer. Believe me, I’m not naäive. I don’t take convicted felons off the street and expect them to turn into someone like Gilbert. But Gilbert’s had a good home, nurturance, education. He’s starting from a different baseline. Someone like Joel has to earn my trust- earn a higher trust. It did help that he brought references.”

“From where, Father?”

“Other missions.”

“Here in town?”

“No. Arizona and New Mexico. He worked with the Indians, put six years of his life into helping others. Paying his legal debt and enlarging himself as a human being. Those he worked with had only good things to say about him.”

Milo said nothing.

The priest smiled. “And yes, that did help him obtain parole. But he came here as a free man, Officer. In a legal sense. He works here because he chooses to, not because he has to. And in answer to your question about friends, he has none- sticks to himself, denies himself worldly pleasures. A very tough cycle of work and prayer constitutes his entire life.”