Mea Culpa

By Nelson Ancalmo

In the tranquil city of Padova, Italia, an old priest hears a hurried confession. An American tourist tells Padre Jacobo the horrible secret that she has just killed her best friend, claiming it was an accident.
So begins the search for the killer of Elaine Clark, a desperate search that will stretch between the two continents, America and Europe, and will involve her friends, the Italian Police and the Catholic priest.
But what they discover goes beyond anything they were suspecting.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nelson Ancalmo
• Release date: Aug 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310699078

Nelson Ancalmo

Nelson Ancalmo M.D. was born in San Salvador, El Salvador, Central America. After finishing his Medical School, he traveled to the United States to complete his training in Cardio-Vascular Surgery. Presently he is retired and lives in Austin, Texas where he devotes his free time to writing, graphic design, astronomy and music. e-mail: [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

Padova, Italia, Sunday evening.

"Nel nome del Padre, del Figlio e dello Spirito Santo"

"Amen"

"Ave Maria puro."

"Concepita senza peccato."

"Mi benedica padre, perché ho peccato."

The words were spoken in an almost perfect Italian, but the unmistakable American accent couldn’t be concealed. Padre Jacobo payed no attention to that minor detail. He was used to these impromptu confessions made by tourists who seized the opportunity they were in the Basilica Pontificia di Sant Antonio di Padova to unload their sins. For some unknown reason the old and majestic church awoke in them the desire to cleanse their souls before returning home.

Besides his native language, the old Italian priest spoke a fairly good English, Spanish, French and German, something that was very useful with the variety of tourists that visited the church. Almost in a half-sleep mode, he prepared himself to hear another laundry list of miss-behaviors and wickedness in which humans engage themselves with the assurance that by the end of the day, all their sins will be forgiven. He was convinced that very few people were really repentant of their actions, the majority had no intention of changing their wicked ways. But he was a priest and his obligation was to hear their sins and to forgive them, he was not there to pass judgement, that was in the hands of a higher authority.

"Quando è stata l'ultima volta che hai avuto la confessione?"

Oh, Father, it has been a long time. I’m sorry, really sorry, I didn’t mean to do it, you have to believe me, please…

Padre Jacobo realized that the woman on the other side of the confessionary had exhausted her supply of Italian words, so he decided to continue with the confession in her English language.

"Please, calm down, just tell me what you have done wrong, make sure you repent and make un sincero atto di contrizione, God in his infinite mercy will for…"

She cut him short in the middle of the sentence, she was visibly agitated.

Listen to me, listen! I have done something bad, really bad, but I don’t want to go to jail, not away from home…

The old priest sensed this wasn’t an ordinary confession. He was about to become privy to a serious offense and he knew that the Seal of Confession would compel him to keep silent regardless of the seriousness of the transgression he was about to hear. He forced himself to look through the small window of the confessionary, this was something that through the years of being a priest, he had learned to avoid. Connecting the sin with a face was always a bad idea, it was easier to absolve a sinner with no face.

The window was covered with a lacework curtain, so the image he saw was not very clear. He caught a glimpse of an attractive woman with blond hair, almost whitish, short and well groomed. She was wearing some type of sun-glasses, not the common kind, but the expensive designer ones. Was she was hiding her face behind them? She appeared to be in her late fifties, definitely white, a round face adorned with make-up. Quietly he sat back into his chair, he didn’t want to be caught spying, he felt uneasy doing that.

"Signora, per favore, you listen carefully to me. If you have committed a crime, you need to go to the polizia. It is my duty to hear your confession, and if you are truly repentant I will forgive your sins, but it’s also my obligation to advise you that criminal matters have to be notified to the authorities, I will be glad to assist you in any way I can."

There was silence on the other side, and Padre Jacobo thought that the lady had left. He was about to come out of the booth to check, when she spoke again, this time she was crying.

I didn’t mean to kill her, Father, I swear to you, it was an accident. I was only trying to make her go away, to leave me alone, please you have to believe me!

Padre Jacobo was taken by surprise, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Somebody had been killed and the murderer was kneeling next to him. His first thought was that he had to call the polizia, but then he remembered he was in the middle of a confession.

"Signora, what you are saying is really serious, If you have killed another person, we must go to the polizia, I will go with you and I will make sure that the Consulate of your country is notified. Are you willing to do that?"

Silence, just the background noise of other visitors wandering somewhere around his beautiful church. The priest didn’t want to come out of the confessionary and confront the lady, but he realized how important it was to make her understand the gravity of the offense, death was a serious matter. In any case, he hadn’t given her the absolution yet.

"Signora, sei ancora lì? A you there? Can you hear me? Rispondi per favore! "

Nothing, not a sound, Padre Jacobo stood up and came out of the booth. The lady was gone, there was nobody in the confessionary. He knew this was going to happen, he should’ve reacted quicker. The confession booths were located on one side of the church next to the massive walls, and very few people venture this far unless they were looking for a confessor. He saw an old Italian lady dressed in black passing by.

"Mi scusi, ti ho visto una signora americana che era qui?"

The old lady looked at him and just shrugged her shoulders, she was not aware of what was happening around her.

Padre Jacobo walked as fast as his aging knees allowed him and began looking around in the main nave of the church. Hundreds of people were there, visitors and local parishioners, and since the evening service was about to begin, the Basilica was becoming full.

He saw lots of women, Americans, Spaniards and Germans, and plenty of Italians, he could recognize the different languages as he was moving around them.

How can I find her? I have only a vague idea how she looks like. She could be any one of these signoras! What should I do?

He reached the main entrance of the church and kept looking around. The evening was cool and a little breezy, just as he would have expected in early May, and he wished he had his overcoat, but there was no time to go back to get it.

More tourists walking around, men, women and children, browsing around the ever present stalls of vendors of religious souvenirs. Others, were taking pictures, laughing, enjoying a beautiful evening in Padova, Italia. The small plaza in front of the Basilica was full of people, more people, hundreds of signoras. What could he do?

He was scanning the crowds, when he saw a woman boarding one of the tourist buses parked around the church. She had blond and short hair, wearing sun glasses, she could be the one he saw through the small window of the confessionary, was it possible? As she was boarding, the lady looked back and locked eyes with the old priest for just a second. That was all he needed, now he was sure he had the right person!

He started walking towards the bus, when to his dismay the vehicle began to move. It was turning into La Via Beato Luca Belludi in the direction of La Piazza Prato della Valle. Padre Jacobo did his best to chase after it. He wanted to stop the bus and talk to this lady, she was in desperate need of help and he was the one that could assist her. He started to run, but his old legs gave up after a few steps. He stumbled on a rock in the middle of the street and hit the cobble-stones face down. He was feeling very tired, struggling for breath, he felt dizzy, and realized he was about to pass out. He saw in a haze that people were gathering around him trying to be of some help, somebody was shouting.

"Per favore, qualcuno chiami un’ambulanza! Il Padre è malato!"

Chapter 2

Amanda Taylor took her seat in the bus and sank as low as she could. She wished she could just vanish, disappear. She was still trembling, on the verge of tears, but she knew that loosing her self control now could be disastrous. What she had done was totally irrational!

Stupid, stupid! How can I be so stupid? There is no way to justify what I just did. I must be going crazy. I should’ve had kept my big mouth shut. There was no need to tell the priest, who ever he was in the Basilica, about Elaine. In any case, I know it was an accident, I wasn’t trying to hurt her, much less, kill her, so why do I feel this deep remorse? She was my friend, and since her husband passed away, she has been close to us. Even George had become fun of her. Oh, George, my poor husband, how can I explain to him what happened?

She began to cry very softly, and since she had no body sitting next to her, she turned her face towards the window and pretended to be asleep.

Honorato Bertucci, the tour guide saw her when she boarded the bus. He noticed immediately that something was wrong, he wasn’t sure, but he could’ve swear that the lady was crying. He remembered that Mrs. Taylor had joined the tour in Napoly and she was traveling with a female friend, as a matter of fact, they were staying together in the same room.

What was her name? I can see her face clearly, very pretty and pleasant…

He checked his list of passengers.

Yes, her name was Elaine, Elaine Clark…

Mrs. Taylor had explained to him, that her husband George had a business meeting in Milan, and he was flying there after dropping her and Elaine at the hotel to join the group. According to his notes, he was supposed to be waiting for them at the Sheraton Diana Majestic Hotel in Milan, at the end of the tour. But now she was alone, and obviously disturbed. He figured she needed some help, so he came to her side.

Excuse me, Mrs. Taylor, is something wrong? Can I be any assistance? Where is Mrs. Clark? Should we wait for her?

Amanda made the gestures of somebody who was sleeping and rubbing her eyes she wiped off the tears.

Oh, I’m sorry Honorato, I must have been asleep. Did you say something?

I was just asking if you were OK, if I can help you. Didn’t mean to wake you up. Please accept my apologies. Where is Mrs. Clark?

I’m just tired, I need to get some sleep, thank you anyway. Elaine wanted to stay for the church service, she will call a taxi and meet us at the hotel, is the Hotel Methis, isn’t it?

Yes, it is, and we will be there in just a few minutes. I can have dinner brought up to your room if you want to stay there and rest.

Thank you, that would be very kind of you, maybe something light. Thank you.

Mr. Bertucci went back to the front of the bus, he knew she was lying. Something was bothering her, and for some reason he sensed that it was serious. He sat down and picked up the microphone

Ladies and gentleman, can I have your attention please. We are on our way to our hotel, is not far away from here, so will be there in just a few minutes. Dinner will be served in the main restaurant, from 8 to 10 pm. I some of you don’t feel like coming down to the restaurant, please let me know and I’ll have something brought up to your room. Thank you.

Amanda felt the urge to be alone. She needed to be out of the country before the body of her friend was found, otherwise she was going to jail, and Italian justice was well known to be very slow. It could be months before an investigation was done, in any case, she was the prime suspect.

I just can’t see myself in prison for a long time, away from my family, away from George. I think I would rather die…

But how could she leave this tour bus and fly to Milan where her husband was waiting? And how long could she lie about the absence of Elaine? The tour guide was going to be inquiring for her, it was his duty to look out for the members of his group. She was in desperate need of having a plan, of inventing a credible story, a story that she could repeat every time that somebody would question her. But at the moment, her mind was a whirl of confusing thoughts.

She was afraid that the Italian police was not going to take very kindly the murder of an American tourist, that was the worst kind of publicity. She had already made a mistake, another person knew about her crime, the priest at the Basilica, and even when she was sure that he was not going to say something revealed during confession, Italians could behave differently. What if the priest was forced by the police to tell them what he knew, that was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.

The image of her friend Elaine falling in the waters of the Canale Piovego was still fresh in her mind. She just disappeared under the murky waters, never to come out for air, not once, it was so strange, but everything happened in just a few seconds, it all felt like a bad dream!

How could this ever happened? I just push her away from me, maybe she tripped on something and fell in the water. But why was she following me? Was she trying to tell me something? Was she drunk or drugged? But Elaine didn’t use any drugs, of that I’m absolutely sure, she has been my friend for years, I would’ve noticed. No, Elaine was trying to say something to me, may be I should’ve listened to her. Now she is dead, and I’m responsible for her death! Oh my Lord!

The bus continued on the Via Pasquale Paoli and crossed the bridge over the Canale Piovego. Amanda felt her heart breaking apart. Her eyes were fixed on the water expecting to see at any moment the body of her friend Elaine floating in the canal, demanding justice, and she was the one that deserved to be punished. She closed her eyes and began to pray, she had been so confused, so scared that she had forgotten to ask God for guidance and forgiveness.

A few minutes later they arrived at the Hotel Methis, a modern four star hotel located in front of the canal. Amanda approached the tour director.

Mr. Bertucci, you think we could have a room facing away from the street? I need to rest and the noise from the traffic is going to disturb me. I’m sure Elaine will agree.

The truth was that looking at the water in the canal, was something she was not going to handle very well.

Chapter 3

Sun City, Maricopa County, Arizona, USA. Six months ago, mid summer.

George Taylor was enjoying his second martini the way he always ordered them: shaken, not stirred. As a great admirer of James Bond, the British Secret Service agent, he saw himself as some kind of super-hero, and he had plenty of reasons to feel that way. He was considered by many of his friends to be a carbon copy of George Clooney, handsome, debonaire and very rich. His imposing figure, with a tall, muscular and perfectly built body, made most women fell in love with him the moment they laid eyes on him, something he took advantage of every time he could.

His fortune estimated to be in the billions of dollars, came from extensive developments of communities for retired people in the Phoenix, Arizona area. Although he never finished his undergraduate college studies, he was smart enough to figure how to develop and manage a business, and this opportunity came when he inherited from his father thousands of acres of undeveloped land.

Now, sitting in his private office he was watching the sunset, a mixture of beautiful colors painted over the canvas of scattered clouds stretched over the horizon. At 54, married for the third time, and with no children, he had everything that money can buy, expensive cars, houses, jewelry, and the most beautiful women. But he also had a secret passion and a more mundane hobby. His secret passion was collecting antique items with religious motifs. He had built next to his house a fortified structure, from the outside it looked like an ordinary dwelling, one that followed the design of the main house, but inside, the structure had been constructed like a small museum. It was equipped with state of the art temperature and humidity control systems, with modern lighting arrangements and all the security equipment that his consultants advised him to have. Inside, he stored his most treasured possessions: a large collection of paintings, sculptures, icons, books, parchments, and anything that he came across during his extensive travels around he world, as long as they had some religious meaning and as long as they were authentic. Some of his most valuable pieces had been obtained illegally, smuggled across the border of some foreign country, bribing authorities and avoiding the police that was trying to stop the burglary. He was never involved in the actual smuggling, that was done by one of his suppliers, but he was the one that paid all the expenses, so in a way he felt responsible. But the knowledge that he was in possession of such articles that were so unique, so original and with such spiritual value, made him feel very proud. Sometimes we would spend entire nights in his private museum wandering around, observing the colors and the shadows of the magnificent paintings, feeling the intricate grooves chiseled so masterfully on the sculptures, glancing over the writings on books and parchments, always wondering what was the meaning of the strange symbols, absorbing all the spiritual energy that came from these incredible religious treasures, an energy that in his mind was transforming him into an infinitely powerful and almost invincible man.

His worldly hobby was guns, since he was a child he had been attracted to them. He had a collection of all kinds of weapons, from hand guns to assault rifles. He had constructed an in-doors fire-range where he practiced every time he had a chance, he was proud to say that he was an excellent marksman, and as complement of this hobby, he loved to go hunting, anything and anywhere in the world he could.

But he always wondered why he had this obsession with religion, at least with religious antiques. As the only child, he was born and raised in a Catholic family, with