The Last Good Christian

By Russ Pennington

The year is 1968

In a gritty New England city, two days before Christmas, a priest is discovered hung up on rocks in a river, murdered. The killer is never found and the case goes cold.

Twenty-eight years later, the perpetrator resurfaces

Obsessed by the Medieval I

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell W. Pennington
• Release date: Aug 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781947703025

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The Last Good Christian

Russ Pennington

The Last Good Christian

Copyright © 2017 by Russell Pennington

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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DEDICATION

To Perseverance

December 23, 1968

Woonsocket, R.I.

The crowded city of textile mills and tenements straddling the Blackstone River didn’t see the year’s first murder until the day that the spy ship Pueblo’s crew was released by the North Koreans, one day before Apollo 8 was to enter Moon orbit. Like the rest of the country, Woonsocket had otherwise seen a tumultuous year, from the shock of the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, through the assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert F. Kennedy and the riots at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, to the election of Richard M. Nixon on a law and order platform. It had been a bloody year for the United States, for the world for that matter, but strangely, not for a city with a violent crime rate that generally hovered above average.

A riverine place, it had several bridges, the longest and highest of which was that on Court Street. Opened in 1895, it was held together by a hundred thousand rivets and forty thousand bolts. The season now had a grip on the span. Frozen slush and snow blanketed the sidewalks and capped the peeling paint of its high railings. The structural girders were ice-encrusted, latticework straps of rusted iron, trusses for an open grated roadbed worn to a dull sheen by countless thousands of gritty tires. The bridge loomed eighty feet above a body snagged on rocks in the frigid river. Pallid winter sun filtered through the aged grating and projected shadowed diamonds downward to the corpse and to fire trucks, squad cars, and spectators lining the snow-covered riverbanks.

Spurred on by the urgency of the rescue vehicles’ flashing red bubble lights, two firemen cinched themselves to a taut line that stretched across the river. They stepped off the snow onto up swellings of thin white river ice and broke through. They fell. The water beneath was shallow and slow. No harm done. They rose, stumbled, and dropped to their knees as the ice gave way a second time. Swearing, they recovered and smashed their way to open water. Gloved hands gripped the guide rope and the basket stretcher suspended between them. They sidled along, inching hand over hand through the inky water and its indiscriminately sown, ice sheathed rocks. Within their impermeable rubberized suits, perspiration drenched them. Their feet swam inside their boots as they plodded ahead to mid-river and clambered onto a jagged granite shelf.

The men attempted to stand but slipped on the frozen rock and ended up on their rumps. Anchoring themselves by chipping into the ice sheet with marlinspikes, they sat and rested. Short, staccato breaths frosted their upper lips. The sweat ran into their eyes and froze. They started to feel the cold. The older of the two rescuers looked overhead to the hulking bridge and its diluted sunlight. No warmth there. Sighing, he reached up and unhooked the stretcher. Kneeling, sitting and sliding, he dragged it to the corpse.

The body of a priest was sprawled on its back, hooked by the legs to a jagged rock on the downstream side of the outcrop. The dead man’s head and outstretched arms were submerged and covered by a heavy black cloak that moved lazily to the current. A belted white tunic, undisturbed, as though starched and ironed, was frozen over the skewed legs.

The fireman nodded at his partner for a hand. The frozen cadaver was hauled up onto the ledge and the stiffened, sodden robe pulled down into place. Battered from the fall, the lifeless head lolled backward, exposing an obscene, purple-lipped slash from ear to ear.

The older man grimaced and swore. Dammit Rick. Don’t look like this one was a jumper.

One

Twenty-Eight Years Later

Spring 1996-Providence, R.I.

At her desk at work, Georgie was close to fuming, angry with her ex-husband Ray and her daughter Barbara for doing an end around and scamming her the way they had. More than that, she was ticked with herself for allowing them to manipulate her. Damn! She should have seen it coming. She’d been a cop for twenty-two years and a detective for twelve of them for crissakes.

She gritted her teeth thinking of the last few weeks. She’d refused to allow her eighteen-year-old daughter to spend her spring break from college in Florida, eventually agreeing, under a lot of arm-twisting, to let her visit her father in Vermont instead. Her ex had said that he’d keep an eye on her, that a little spring skiing with the old man would do her good. What bull. After a single day in the Green Mountains, Daddy had paid her way to the Sunshine State. The whole thing had been planned and she hadn’t seen it coming. She had been conned.

Chewing on her anger was not making things better, so she forced the worry about Barbs from her mind as her junior partner Adam tapped her on a shoulder.

Georgie, he said. I’m getting a coffee. Want one?

Adam Coulton was a hefty six foot two with a thick mustache and a Jheri curl do. He’d been promoted from patrol two years earlier just as the film Pulp Fiction was released. His resemblance to the hit man Jules, played by Samuel L. Jackson, was uncanny. The murderer’s moniker was starting to be stuck to him by other cops. Even though he admired the actor, he wasn’t sure that he liked the nickname.

Shaking her head, Georgie lifted her eyes to his, coyly smiled and answered. I’m good, Jules. Thanks, anyway. She and Adam were a unique pair, he, one of only two black detectives on the Providence police force. She, the only female investigator.

As he shrugged and walked off, she glanced over the low partitions within the Missing Persons Bureau and looked about. She was now alone in the four-person cubicle. Adam was closing in on the coffee mess outside the lieutenant’s office and everyone else in sight was busy at one thing or another.

Whisking a tousle or two of chestnut hair from an unwrinkled forehead, she took the opportunity to peer into a compact mirror. She smiled at her reflection. Not bad for a forty-five-year-old broad carrying the baggage of a rebellious daughter, a failed marriage, and a couple of blown, ill-advised quickie relationships, she thought. Even through contact lenses, the green eyes staring back at her were lively and youthful. At five foot five and a hundred and thirty fit pounds, she didn’t feel her age.

She snapped the compact shut as her phone rang. Time to get back to work. Clearing her throat, she picked up and answered. Missing Persons. Sergeant Georgette Duby speaking.

Without hesitation, the caller started barking. Sergeant. Listen. This is Chancellor Bloch. Father Marc Bloch at Jacobin College. We’ve met. Remember? Regarding our missing brother, Father Blais.

Her lips tightened. How could she forget, she thought, groaning silently. The elderly priest assaulting her eardrum was tall, thin, straight as a steel pipe and acted as if he actually were one, bludgeoning people with steely glares and unbending attitude. She’d only spoken to him twice, but twice was enough to know that he was a disagreeable man. Not a Friar Tuck, by any means.

Georgie could give as good as she got, but swallowed her dislike and remained businesslike. She said, Of course I remember you, Chancellor. I’d give you an update, but I’m sorry to say that there’s nothing new to report. When there is, you of course, will be the first to know. Leads and tips have …

The chancellor abruptly cut her off. As though anything she had to say would be inconsequential, he declared, I didn’t ask for a status report, Sergeant. There was ice to the words. There’s been a new development. A development I’d rather not discuss over the phone. One that you should know about. I need to see you in my office now, within the hour.

Being ordered around as though she were an undergraduate or an acolyte grated on her. She glanced at her watch and deadpanned. Do you? Well, I’ll try my best, Father. Tell you what. Pray that the traffic is light.

Adam was driving. The car purred along Atwells Avenue, through Federal Hill, Little Italy. It was a beautiful spring afternoon. A heavy rain shower had just ended, and the emerging sun was wafting steaming vapor into the air from street and sidewalk. Earthy, pleasant smells of clean, wet asphalt and concrete intermingled with scents from citrus, herbs, and cheeses.

She leaned into the open window and reflected on the missing friar, a priest, as were most of the religious community at Jacobin College, a one-hundred-year-old co-ed Catholic institution run by the Dominican order, also known as the Order of Preachers. Robert Blais, O.P., had been at the college twelve years and had been missing for three months. All she knew was that he was unassuming, competent, and well-liked. He’d disappeared without a trace, without a shred of evidence indicating foul play. Just upped and gone. She flashed a wry smile. She’d seen this kind of thing before. More than once. The guy would be found when he decided to show up. As simple as that.

There was nothing notable about the whole deal except that the mayor, Vincent Cianci, a confirmed meddler who thought he was everyone’s buddy, and indeed, liked to be called that, was a Jacobin College alumnus wannabe. Once again, he had involved himself in police business. He’d offered his office’s assistance to the college and had been a royal pain in the ass ever since. Just that morning, her lieutenant had received an inquiring call from him. She suspected that it would be the last. Buddy would soon be backing off. Her gut told her that the priest was back.

The unmarked car continued through Federal Hill, across a few blocks of Olneyville into the time-worn Silver Lake neighborhood, an area of the city with little shine and no lake. Its namesake body of glittering water had been drained and filled a century earlier. She closed the window and turned the air conditioner to low, sanitizing the still air pulled from between two and three decker tenements and uneven rows of nondescript cottages and capes. Before long, the car left the blue-collar neighborhood, passed through the college gates and entered an inviting arboretum of manicured lawns, quadrangles, and ivied, stone buildings.

The chancellor’s office was as she remembered. The floor was mottled, aged hardwood. Old. Turn of the century old. Several plain, straight backed chairs stood along three gray, wainscoted walls, each unadorned save a single framed print of a haloed St. Dominic. A utilitarian metal desk, its surface sporting nothing more than a desk pad, a telephone/intercom, and wire in-out baskets, was faced by two more chairs and centered on the north wall beneath a thin wooden crucifix. Bare windows flanked the tall cross. The dirty and dull glass defeated much of the sunlight. If there was such a thing as American Catholic gothic, this was it.

The chancellor, spare, somber, not a hint on his abstemious face that he’d ever smiled, fit right into the picture. He was wearing conventional black clerical garb and a Roman collar. Thin-lipped, he sat ramrod straight at the desk. At his left stood a ruddy-faced, stocky priest wearing the long, white, belted tunic of a Dominican friar. A Friar Tuck type, this one. A Friar Tuck type who appeared extremely uncomfortable.

Without rising and with a flick of the wrist, the chancellor motioned the two policemen to the desk-front chairs. Stonily, he said, Glad you were so prompt, Detectives. Georgie threw a glance Adam’s way and grinned. Even though the traffic had been light, she’d made sure that the two-mile trip door to door had taken them an hour and a quarter, including a stop at Newport Creamery for an early afternoon coffee cabinet called an Awful-Awful.

A flick of the wrist in the standing friar’s direction and the chancellor added, With me is our Provost, Father Henry Lea. Father Lea supervises the college staff and faculty. He’s also an attorney, qualified at the Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Connecticut bars.

The friar nodded at the introduction. He didn’t stir or offer a handshake. Georgie and Adam nodded back.

Georgie pulled a notebook from her shoulder bag, clicked a pen open and got right to the point. What’s the new development, Chancellor?

The priest’s words were measured. Without inflection and staring straight into her eyes, he said, Father Blais is no longer missing. He returned to the brotherhood two weeks ago.

She’d figured that the friar had returned, but not that he’d been back for two friggin’ weeks. She lowered her pen and tried to keep the animus from her voice. Two weeks ago? He’s been back for two weeks and you’re just informing us now? Why haven’t you told us before this? Her voice was rising. Why …?

The chancellor held up a palm. Don’t raise your voice, he ordered, glancing over a shoulder at the crucifix on the wall.

She pursed her lips and said nothing. Not her turf.

Be patient, Sergeant, the chancellor added. All your questions will be answered and then some, but know this. If it were up to me, you and your partner would simply be dismissed and thanked for your trouble. Father Blais is back and your services are no longer required. The whys and wherefores are Church business, no one else’s.

Showing emotion for the first time, he dropped his hand and scowled. Regrettably, he said, I’m not the last word here in all matters. My brothers in chapter have overruled me on this. Their opinion is that the right thing to do in God’s eyes is to tell you the full story, especially since your assistance was requested, then freely and willingly given. The brotherhood trusts in your discretion. I don’t, but I’m bound by their decision.

He pushed a button on the intercom, leaned into it and said, Father. Bring in the equipment. Now.

The door opened and a young, cassocked priest rolled a cart containing a TV-VCR up to the desk. Without looking at the detectives, he plugged the equipment into a wall receptacle and scurried away.

The provost spoke up. Gazing alternately at both Georgie and Adam like the good lawyer he probably was, he rested a hand atop the television and said, Officers. What you’re about to see and hear is an intensely sad, even humiliating story. A tale of an ill priest who thinks his life is ruined, a priest convinced that he’s failed both God and the Dominican brotherhood. It’s the story of a man who believes that his life and soul are not worth saving. For reasons that will shortly be made obvious, we’re praying that you and the mayor will treat this matter confidentially. Going public with what you’re about to learn will benefit no one.

Georgie leaned forward and asked, Just what is the TV for, Provost?

The provost pulled a small manila envelope from a sleeve of his tunic and plopped it onto the desk. He said, It’s for a video deposition given by Father Robert Blais after he’d composed himself, more or less composed himself, that is. Witnessed documents in this envelope attest to the fact that the statement was not coerced from him or influenced by us in any way.

Shaking her head, Georgie said, A video deposition is fine and we’ll look at it, but the friar’s been back for two weeks. You should have notified us and we should have spoken to him then, still, it’s better late than never. We need to interview him now. That you say he’s ill, that he’s failed God and his brotherhood is all well and good. However, this is a missing persons case and we have to assure that no crime’s been committed.

The chancellor answered before the provost could. He spoke through a smug smile on his thin lips. Father Blais is no longer here. At noon today, he was admitted to a private sanatorium in New Mexico.

She and Adam exchanged glances. Her gorge rose. The word COVER-UP in capital letters shot through her mind like a camera flash. She was being manipulated again, much as she had by Barbara and the a-hole in Vermont. Damned if she’d stand for it.

The provost began to insert the cartridge. Just watch the tape, he said. It’ll clarify everything.

Controlling her rising anger, she nevertheless took a page from the chancellor’s book and barked. Hold on! she commanded. We’ll watch the tape in due time, but there are questions you’re going to have to answer before the home movie starts.

The provost removed his hand from the video cartridge and ignored an intense ‘I told you so’ stare from his superior. What do you want to know? he reluctantly asked.

You failed to report it when Father Blais turned up two weeks ago and now … now you’ve intentionally put him beyond our reach. He was part of a police investigation and I want to know why you’re obstructing us. Something’s dicey here. Forgive my French, Father, but what the hell’s going on?

The provost’s ruddiness deepened. There was now a roseate tint to his nose that Georgie hadn’t previously noticed and that consequently had her suspecting that he was familiar with more than just sacramental wine. He turned to the chancellor and asked if he might sit. At the perfunctory nod, he pulled up a chair, sat and said, We didn’t ask you here intending to hide anything, Detectives. I …We … We’ve been tasked to give you the facts and to trust to your mercy and God’s.

Then fill us in, she said. Start with the friar’s disappearance, through his return to today. Take your time.

As you wish. The Provost shifted nervously in his seat and now avoided looking directly at Georgie or Adam. He said, To start with, Father Blais had been missing fifteen days before we asked for your help, not two days as we led you to believe. We …

Ready to begin jotting down notes, Georgie looked up with a start and nailed both priests with stares that would have melted ice. In disbelief, she asked, He’d been gone for more than two weeks when you called us?

The provost suddenly seemed to have a bone stuck in his throat. Adam’s apple bobbing, he gulped, cleared his gullet noisily and said, We delayed telling you because of what we knew of Bob’s, I mean Father Blais’, state of mind at the time. You see, Detective, his was a tormented soul. Originally, we weren’t that concerned. We thought that he’d simply left for a short period of solitary prayer, an inner searching if you will, and that he’d then return.

Adam spoke, beating Georgie to the punch. He asked, Fifteen days of prayer and inner searching is a short period? He’d nearly died of boredom once, when as a kid, he’d endured a weekend religious retreat.

The priest ignored the question and went on. Four years ago, he said, Father Blais returned from the same sanatorium outside Santa Fe that he’s in now. It’s a mental hospital that … that ministers to perverse minds. If truth be told, its … its specialty is returning priests with homosexual tendencies to God’s intended way of life. Father Blais spent eighteen months there. He’d been cured. At least we thought he’d been cured. But the unnatural feelings returned. The chancellor and I prayed and fasted with him several times. We counseled him. Nothing we did was enough. He felt he’d betrayed our Lord and us. I excused him from his duties so that he could spend more time praying. Then one day, he just left. We …

The chancellor interrupted and finished the sentence. We thought that he’d return after a period of solitude, but when two weeks went by without a word, we became worried. He’d never left us before, not even when he first struggled with his devils.

Then, of course, the provost added, there was the matter of Father Arnold’s disappearance.

Georgie and Adam were jotting down notes. At the new revelation, they abruptly stopped and looked up. Georgie sputtered. Wha … what disappearance? You mean to tell us that two friars vanished?

Adam demanded, Who’s this Father Arnold?

The chancellor, hard eyed and in form, took up the story. Look, he said. "It wasn’t necessary to tell you because there was no connection between the two events. Believe you me, the circumstances were as different as night and day. Father William Arnold walked away a year ago. He was a malcontent, never comfortable with his calling, always questioning it, always resisting mine and God’s authority. The provost and I believe he left us for a domestic life. We’re sure he’s in some suburb now, guzzling beer and watching TV, shacked up, doing only God knows