Catechisms

By James W Bennetts

Detective Paige McGraw is waiting for something to go her way for once. After letting a suspect slip through her fingers, her career is now in shambles. Stuck working in the shadow of the brash new homicide inspector on the force, Clarissa Wright, she hopes to redeem herself by catching a good case or bringing her slippery fugitive to heel. When a defrocked priest is found horribly murdered and mutilated, it may be just the right investigation Paige needs to prove she's still a capable cop. When she and the inspector go off on a quest to find the killer, they uncover a multitude of other crimes including child sexual abuse. While in pursuit of the devilish predator, the inspector falls victim to one of these horrendous misdeeds. With her partner sidelined, can Paige still find the killer and prove she is capable or will more suffer at the hands of the mysterious murderer?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350945881

James W Bennetts

James W Bennetts is an author and native of Minnesota, where he currently lives. CATECHISMS is his second novel, following up his internationally published first novel, THE NAME GAME, about a thief who mistakenly assumes the identity of a wanted man.

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Copyright 2022 by James W Bennetts

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher or author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although some of the locations in this book are real, they are used in a fictitious manner, and the people associated with them are purely the product of the author’s imagination.

ISBN: 979-8-35094-014-5 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-66787-366-4 (eBook)

Contents

Original Sins

Prologue

Wages of Iniquity

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Unreal Presences

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Profane Revelations

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Last Judgments

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Grace

Epilogue

For my two Sarahs

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

—The Gospel According to St. Matthew

Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich.

(Every angel is terrifying.)

—Rainer Maria Rilke

Original Sins

Prologue

In the chill of the evening, in the dark of the night, the boy stands, head down, on the front walk of the old house, an autumn breeze tossing dried leaves about him.

He is alone. No one else is around. The older students of St. Ignatius’s School for Boys are in the library studying or at the gym shooting hoops. The younger ones are in their rooms, which is where he should be, too. But he has permission to be out after curfew, he’s been told. Because he is struggling in his coursework, Father Paul has summoned him to the house for tutoring.

In his arms, he carries his books. On his back, he wears a woolen pea coat, which is too large for him. He swims in it. Given to him by his aunt who has claimed he’ll grow into it, he feels small and insignificant in it.

After studying the cracks in the sidewalk for a while, he finally climbs the front steps of the old house and knocks at the door. When no one answers, he knocks again and waits. Uncertainty consumes his thoughts. Never has he been to the house of the priests. A part of him wants to leave. But he screws up his courage and knocks a third time. When there is still no answer, he tries the door and discovers it unlocked. Slowly, he opens it.

Entering, he finds himself alone in its sparse front hall. Hesitant to go any farther, he pauses there. Overhead, a single electric bulb bathes him in faint yellow light. Next to him, a crucifix hangs on the wall. From high on his perch, Jesus looks down with a face drawn long and sorrowful by deep shadows.

Father? the boy calls out meekly. Father Paul, are you here?

Suddenly, a door at the far end of the hall bursts open and bright fluorescent light floods out, causing him to squint. After his eyes adjust, he sees Father Paul, tall with rounded shoulders, soft face, and thick dark hair, step out from the kitchen. The sweet smell of chocolate trails after him and fills the hall with a delicious aroma.

Well, hello, Simon, Father Paul says. I didn’t hear you come in. He is wiping his hands with a ragged dishtowel. Welcome, welcome. I’m just making us some hot cocoa. Set your books down, take your coat off, and come join me.

Yes, Father, Simon Peters says.

Have a seat, Father Paul says to him once in the kitchen. He gestures for him to take a place at the old linoleum table pushed against a wall.

Mrs. McCormick baked a batch of cookies before she left. They’re warming in the oven. Would you like one?

The fresh aroma of oatmeal and cinnamon escapes the stove, mixing with the smell of chocolate still in the room. Hungry, Simon nods and sits down. The old wooden chair is dry and brittle, and creaks as he settles himself onto it. Father Paul laughs while taking a thermal mitt from a drawer and plucking a sheet of cookies from the oven.

We could certainly use some new furniture around here, couldn’t we? he jokes. He sets the sheet of cookies in the middle of the table and sighs a little. But I won’t see that in my time here, I don’t suppose. We Jesuits are expected to do with little or, worse, he tells Simon, nothing at all by way of worldly comforts.

Yes, Father, the boy replies.

From a cupboard next to the stove, the priest retrieves two large mugs and small plates. I’m not complaining, though.

No, Father.

He places the plates on the table and the mugs on the stove. From a pan on the range top, he ladles large helpings of hot cocoa into the mugs, and then carries both over to the table. Settling himself into a chair opposite Simon, Father Paul encourages him to partake.

Mind you don’t burn your fingers.

No, Father. I- I mean, yes, Father.

Drinking in the rich taste of cocoa and the smell of freshly baked cookie dough, Simon relaxes. Gone is the knot in his stomach that had arrived with him. Replacing it is a warm, easy liking of this man who has given him such a hearty and delicious welcome.

Between ravenous bites and deep slurping gulps, he tries to answer, as best he can, the questions Father Paul puts to him.

How does he like St. Ignatius’s? The priest asks him. Well enough, but he finds Latin and mathematics hard. Does he miss his parents? He has no parents, just an aunt who has shipped him off to this school because she doesn’t know what else to do with him. He doesn’t miss her. She is mean to him. He prefers living at school to living with her, but he does miss the freedom of the farm he once lived on. The one his parents owned before they died, the boy explains. The one he shall inherit when he’s grown.

Good to know, but back to school matters, the priest redirects him. What does the boy think of his classmates?

Other than their rude farting and belching, they are okay enough the boy tells him.

Good, good, the priest replies to it all with an easy laugh. Seems you’re settling in well enough. It takes a while to adjust to being away from home, even a bad one. But tell me, you don’t find yourself a little lonely from time to time? From my experience, I’d say a fellow of your size tends to get ignored or picked on by the other boys. Is that true?

Yes, the boy confesses, when they aren’t picking on him, they do tend to ignore him. He does feel lonely sometimes because of it. He wishes he were better at making friends.

While the boy is speaking, the priest rises and collects their dishes.

Well, never you mind about that for now, he says while setting them in the sink. We can talk about it later. Right now, let’s turn to the subject of your Latin lessons. Rinsing the dishes, he allows the conversation to take a more serious turn. Your teacher tells me you’re having a slight problem with conjugating verbs. Is that right?

Yes, Father.

Go then and get your books.

Yes, Father, the boy tells him. He likes how the priest has taken an interest in him, has made him feel a little special for it. He excuses himself from the table and goes to the hall to gather his books.

Now with them in hand, he looks up to see the priest looming over him. Imposing in his black shirt and white collar, he suddenly is more intimidating than he seemed in the kitchen. However, the priest sets a hand on his shoulder and leaves it there, a gesture that comforts the boy.

We’ll go upstairs to the study to work on these, he says. We won’t be disturbing anyone. The rest of the priests are gone for the evening. We have the house to ourselves.

Yes, Father.

A single shaded lamp lights the small book-lined study, coloring the room in hues of sepia. Seated together around an old wooden desk, Father Paul tutors the young boy until, at last, he says, There, that’s enough studying for the night. Closing the books that laid open on the table, he looks at the boy and adds, I think you’re getting the hang of it now.

Thank you, Father.

Collecting his things, the boy begins to leave.

Oh, no, no, his tutor objects. No need to go just yet.

He puts a hand to the boy’s arm and indicates with a nod of his head for him to sit again.

"That’s enough academic study for the night. But I also wanted to talk to you some more about your feelings of loneliness. I’m a priest, after all. My concern is not only your mind but your soul."

Yes, Father, Simon says as he hesitantly resettles himself into his chair and places his books back on the table.

Now tell me, son, how is it you manage this loneliness of yours?

Father?

Come on, boy, you can trust me. Perhaps I can help.

Then he places a hand on his knee.

In bewilderment, Simon looks up at Father Paul, tries desperately to read his intentions on his face. But the shadow of the lamp next to the table conceals most of it, leaving just a thin smile on moistened lips to offer the slightest hint.

Then, Father Paul is laughing, but differently this time. Unlike the deep and hearty chortle he exhibited in the kitchen, this laugh is unexpectedly high and giddy, almost like that of a delighted child. Simon leans back in his chair, the sudden change in Father Paul’s demeanor frightening him.

As Father Paul moves his hand along the inside of his pants, Simon jumps, knocking his pile of schoolbooks off the table. He feels a clear sensation of falling, will remember it for a long time to come, a distinct and otherworldly feeling of dropping out of himself, as if into another dimension.

But, Father...

Wages of Iniquity

Chapter 1

Jiāo Xiè grabbed an armload of books from her cart and put them back where they belonged on the bookshelves. As one of a platoon of student librarians who worked in St. Paul University’s new state-of-the-art library, her job was to return books to their places on its many floors of shelves. As she did most mornings, she was working alone.

She enjoyed the early shift. Wandering the several stories of books with no one else around allowed her time with her thoughts. Accompanying her was a large mechanical arm, suspended from an overhead track. Operating it with a wireless control, she used it to carry her cart of books from floor to floor. She had nicknamed it her Nán péngyǒu—her boyfriend—in her native Mandarin. It was something of an inside joke between her and her fellow library workers.

He’s best kind of boyfriend, Jiāo would often say to them, making them laugh. He does not talk back. And he hung!

Each floor was connected by a double helix of service ramps. She used them to guide her boyfriend from one level to another. Finished on the third floor, she stepped away from the shelves to where he was patiently waiting for her on the nearest ramp. She started him up and fell in behind him as he slowly crawled along his track toward the fourth floor, where the library housed its books about the law.

Walking behind Nán péngyǒu, she turned up the volume on her earbuds and let the sounds of the latest Hong Kong hip-hop pound in her ears. She missed her home in China.

Near the top of the ramp, Nán péngyǒu slowed his pace while he negotiated a hard-right turn. Jiāo let him keep going while she grabbed an arm full of books from the bottom of the cart and walked ahead to put them back where they belonged.

At the end of one of the book aisles, in a corridor next to the outside windows, she found several books in a jumble on the floor. Disgusted with the thoughtlessness of some people, she quickly picked them up and put them back on the bookshelf where they belonged. Once she was done, she noticed something else on the floor: a crumpled piece of paper and a set of keys. She snatched them up, too. Curious, she uncrumpled the paper and read the message inside:

Meet me. Midnight tonight. Library. Fourth floor. Use the pills. You know the way.

Oddly, whoever wrote it had simply signed it Friend. The note meaning nothing to her, she shoved it and the keys into a pocket, and then ran back to catch up with her boyfriend. She would figure out what to do with them later.

But before she could get to him, Nán péngyǒu had turned the corner at the other end of the fourth floor and onto the down ramp. Suddenly, he stopped. With a cacophony of clanging bells and shrill whistles, he alerted her to his distress. Designed to avoid collisions, he seemed to have detected something in his way.

"Tā mā de! (Fucking damn!"), she muttered.

She pushed hard on him, hoping it was only a faulty sensor and he would reset himself, but he wouldn’t budge. Something wedged between the first two rows of shelves off the downward slope was blocking his path. Frustrated and perplexed, Jiāo reversed him and turned off his alarms. Perhaps a forgetful night janitor had left a cleaning cart in the way, or maybe some careless coworker had neglected to return a helper of their own the previous day. Stepping around her boyfriend, Jiāo went to see what the matter was.

Suddenly, she stopped and stared at what appeared to be a bare foot extending midway out one of the book aisles. Cautiously, she moved forward. Another foot came into view, and then a pair of bare legs, and then—"Gǒu niáng yǎng de! (Son of a bitch!")—a bare white ass.

Standing at the top of the ramp, she stared in disbelief. Frightened, yet curious, she studied the naked figure while a heavy hip-hop backbeat pulsated through her headphones. Thinking she was the victim of a co-worker’s prank, she pulled the ear buds from her ears and yelled at the bent body.

Hey! You! What the matter?

Her words echoed through the deserted library. Not wanting to get any closer, she stood quietly for a moment and waited for an answer. When none was forthcoming, she realized it was no prank. Nailed to the spot, immobilized by a combination of fear and morbid fascination, she could not help but continue to stare at the body.

The head, she noticed, was turned slightly to one side and something was wrapped around the neck. She could see a little of the face. It looked to be an old man’s. The lips of his mouth were a sickly blend of pale gray and dark red, like someone had smeared them with red and blue lipstick, and his nose had an unusual bend in it. His eyes were open but lifeless.

He looked vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t quite place him.

The body itself lay on the floor in an odd posture that seemed to her almost prayerful, the legs and arms pulled tightly beneath the torso. The floor around it was stained red. Stained red, too, was the pair of dingy underwear pulled partway down the two wrinkled butt cheeks.

A sudden turbulence overtook her stomach.

Closing her eyes to compose herself, she struggled to suppress the roiling. Lightheaded, she reached for a nearby shelf to steady herself. That’s when she felt it. Thick, wet, and sticky, like syrup. Opening her eyes again, she turned to look and stopped her breath. There they were—"Cào! (Fuck!")—a bloody pair of severed hands wedged inside a row of books just above her head. And covered in blood.

In a flash, the queasy feeling returned.

Retching, Jiāo Xiè, student, immigrant, assistant librarian, and now discoverer of a mutilated body, pushed her boyfriend into the shelves, sent tumbling to the floor a dozen or more books—along with the hands—and ran back through the section on law in terror.

Chapter 2

The traffic at the intersection of Randolph and Fairview Avenues was a noisy, hissing mess. Detective Sergeant Paige McGraw of the St. Paul Police sat back in her patio chair, dropped a pair of sunglasses over her eyes, and wrapped her lips around the straw of an iced coffee. From her vantage point on the corner, she observed the morning’s rush hour sputter along in fits and spurts like some mechanical serpent coiling and uncoiling with each changing light.

Tired and worried, that was about all Paige could do. Watch the traffic going by.

She was waiting for someone. The call had come early in the morning as the sun was rising.

Can you meet? the caller had asked.

Yes, she answered, still half asleep. Where?

Espresso Royale at seven. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee before work.

Better make it iced, Paige had told her caller. It’s going to be another hot day today.

Now at a quarter past seven, the caller was late, so Paige had bought her own drink and wandered out to the café’s patio. Already, the early morning air was heavy with moisture. July in Minnesota could be like that. She didn’t mind. Summers in the Upper Midwest were often hot and humid, winters cold and snowy, and spring and autumn a little of both. Like most natives, she accepted the cycles of the seasons with an equal measure of grace and fatalism.

On this summer’s day, the ripening heat and humidity were conspiring to paint the morning sky a hazy blue. Only the shimmer of emerald and jade seemed to take the edge off the tropical feel of things as a light breeze blew through the leaves of the trees along the boulevard; that, and the pageant of yellow, azure, red, and violet flowers dancing in the gardens of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet just across the street. Their conference center and retreat house formed a peaceful oasis amid the hustle and bustle of the city streets.

Taking her attention off the chaotic traffic scene, she stretched her long legs out in front of her, cradled her drink in her hands, and rested her head against the metal back of her chair, trying to clear her mind. At the opposite end of the patio, a sweaty middle-aged man in a business suit leered at her from behind his open laptop. She stared back at him. Embarrassed, he looked away, and then went back to his work.

Blessed with short blonde hair, fair yet lightly tanned skin, and a lissome, athletic build, Paige had grown used to the attention she drew from most men. And some women. The chance product of good genes on both sides of her family, she considered her looks more of a liability than an asset, although she knew how to use them to her advantage when she needed.

Ignoring the businessman, she looked up and watched as faint wisps of clouds drifted overhead. Before long, she had closed her eyes.

Letting her thoughts drift back, she took stock.

That night in December, when she had confronted the prime suspect in a big case of identity theft, she had allowed her emotions to get in the way. Instead of coldly cuffing him and hauling him in, she had made the mistake of following her instincts. She had taken pity on him. Playing her emotions to his advantage, he had conned her and gotten away. Now he was in the wind, on the run—and her career in shambles after her Captain had found out what had happened. She wasn’t sure she could ever trust her instincts again.

The email message left open on her phone certainly suggested she shouldn’t.

After the fiasco, she tried to go back to work in Fraud and Robbery, but things, never good in the first place, had quickly worsened. When a new police chief came on board in May, Paige saw an opportunity to move quietly out of the unit. She requested a transfer, and, to her surprise, got it, an unexpected posting to the reorganized homicide unit the new chief was creating. She soon found out why such a plum assignment had come her way.

The reason’s name was Inspector Clarissa Wright. She was the department’s latest wunderkind, the new hotshot detective who had just moved to St. Paul from Chicago. Having worked for the incoming chief when he was a division commander there, she was one of several new and talented individuals he had brought to the department with him. Somehow someone in senior command had gotten the idea that Paige was the perfect candidate to help the inspector adjust to policing in a new town. And if somehow along the way Paige received much-needed mentoring from a more experienced female officer, well then, that was simply fine, too. All Paige knew for certain was that this was her last chance to succeed as a St. Paul police detective. It was ‘succeed or find another line of work.’ She had no choice but to make the best of it. Yet, the message on her phone made her less certain she could.

Didn’t believe me when I said I’d buy? Inspector Wright asked, standing over her, gesturing at the coffee in Paige’s hand.

Brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, Paige looked up at her partner and said, Sorry, but you were late, and I was thirsty—and tired. She hadn’t slept well for months. Not since the previous winter.

Setting two iced coffees on the patio table, Clarissa sat in a chair next to Paige. As she settled herself, Paige noticed her glance at the email on Paige’s phone.

Is that from who I think it’s from? she asked.

Paige looked at Clarissa and shrugged, and then turned her phone face down and looked away, embarrassed. When she did, the businessman on the other side of the patio fell into her line of sight again. She observed him looking her partner over the same way he had done her. In her partner’s case, Paige couldn’t blame him. She had often stared, too.

Clarissa had shoulder-length black hair, big brown haunting eyes that took in everything, and smooth, flawless dark skin. And like Paige, she had an athletic build. Muscular, toned, she was gracefully sculpted, like a gazelle, yet fiercely built, like a hungry lion. It was a contrast Paige found both fascinating and frightening.

They told me there wasn’t going to be an investigation, she finally confessed. Captain Wiggins and Agent Ottmann said as much. Nothing would go on the record.

Captain Wiggins isn’t here anymore. Remember? Clarissa reminded her. Early retirement last week. And this Agent Ottmann from the FBI doesn’t have much say, does he?

She, Paige corrected her. Ottmann is a ‘she.’

Clarissa clucked her tongue.

Doesn’t matter. The chief wants to start off on the right foot with everything and that means tying up loose ends. He doesn’t want anything to come back to haunt the department while he’s in charge. He’s a neat freak that way. No skeletons in the closet he doesn’t know about. So he ordered IA to audit all closed disciplinary cases from the last five years.

Is that why you wanted to meet this morning? To tell me the reason behind it? Paige said, lifting up her phone and showing Clarissa the email from Internal Affairs scheduling an interview with her next week.

No, she retorted smugly, taking a sip of her own iced coffee. It’s about your boyfriend.

He was not my boyfriend, Paige protested. Stop calling him that.

The reference was to the fugitive who had sent her career into free fall. Everyone in the department knew about him, even Clarissa. Someone had probably briefed her, likely Captain Flynn. Now it was something she wouldn’t let go. Like a dog worrying at a bone.

So that’s why you called? Paige asked her, bewildered she would waste both their time before work. To give me more grief about him? I told you I don’t want to talk about it.

Clarissa laughed again, this time a charming, mischievous laugh Paige had come to know well.

No, honey; I’ve got good news, she chirped. I say again, good news. Can I get an Amen?

Amen, Paige mumbled as she slouched in her chair. Because she had only worked with Clarissa for a few weeks now, she had yet to develop an appreciation of her partner’s sense of humor.

Oh, that ain’t no amen, Clarissa scolded her with a light slap to the arm. Say it with feeling. Can I get an Amen?

Inspector Wright, we’re in a public place and you woke me early. That’s the best you’re going to get out of me this morning. Just tell me the news or let me get to work.

Clarissa twisted in her chair and let the suspense build, her eyes widening as she flashed Paige a broad smile. Irritated, Paige sat up and gave her a hard look.

What? What is it? Come on, give it up.

With the air of a conspirator, Clarissa leaned forward.

I found him, she said. I found your boyfriend.

Chapter 3

W hat do you mean you found him? Paige asked. She tensed at the news.

Clarissa laughed.

I mean I found him. Or, to be more precise, I found where your identity-thief guy has stashed himself.

Wait. You mean you found Aldo Harrison? Or whatever damn name he goes by now?

Clarissa’s surprising revelation wasn’t necessarily good news for Paige. Sure, she wanted that punk liar Harrison caught and thrown in prison. He deserved it. But if someone besides her caught up with him first, it could go badly for her. What would Internal Affairs have to say about why she let him get away? Let him go, in fact, if she were being completely honest about it. What would her father say?

Yes, the one and only ‘Also Known As,’ Clarissa teased her.

Where? Paige demanded. She knew this day was bound to come. He couldn’t stay on the run forever. Not with the St. Paul Police and FBI after him. But she needed to get to him before he said too much—to prevent him from giving anyone the wrong impression.

If I tell you, you need to know that we can’t do anything about him just yet. Okay?

"Where?" Paige repeated.

Before Clarissa could respond to Paige’s question, her phone rang. She grabbed it and checked the number.

It’s dispatch, she told Paige as she answered.

While her partner took the call, Paige tried to process the impact of Clarissa’s sudden and startling revelation. It meant Clarissa had been doing more than just badgering Paige about Aldo Harrison all this time. She had also been digging on her own, which was a turn of events Paige hadn’t quite anticipated.

She had hoped Clarissa would eventually tire of bothering her about Harrison and just drop the matter, but clearly she wasn’t going to do that. Paige would have to be careful. No one else knew the real reason she had let Harrison go, get away, whatever anyone might call what she did. For the sake of her career, she needed to try to keep it that way. Otherwise, she might lose her job. No one likes it when an officer lets a fugitive go instead of arresting him. At least, not without a good reason and she doubted feeling sorry for him counted as one.

We’ll have to put your boyfriend on hold, Clarissa announced, hanging up her phone and getting up. We’ve got work to do. There’s been a murder. At St. Paul’s University.

Grabbing her own phone off the table, Paige got up, too. Putting her problems out of her mind for the moment, she asked, At the university or somewhere in the neighborhood?

At the university, her partner said as the two of them headed for the parking lot, leaving their drinks and the leering businessman behind.

I take it homicide is not a common occurrence around there.

Hardly, Paige answered. Not much happens in that neighborhood at all.

In fact, the last time she had heard of anything seriously felonious taking place there was several years