Make them Cry (4 page)

Beep
.

“
Hello, Father Murphy?
” The voice on his answering machine was effeminate and breathy. “
This is Deacon Robert phoning for Monsignor Fuller. It’s 11:30, Thursday morning. The monsignor would like to meet with you as soon as possible. Please call me at your earliest convenience….
”

Monsignor Fuller was president of the seminary. A summons from him was a very big deal. When Jack called the office, Deacon Robert didn’t explain why Fuller wanted to see him. He just said they’d expect him in forty-five minutes.

Jack had met Monsignor Fuller only once before—a brief introduction at a reception for the new priests the previous August. Fuller was a short, balding man in his midsixties, frail and liver-spotted, with huge, thick glasses that gave him a strange, buglike appearance. Jack thought he looked like E.T. And for some reason, Monsignor Fuller had let his fingernails grow. Jack remembered they were at least half an inch long.

Fuller had his office in the administration building, so Jack took one of the faculty boats and rowed across Lake Leroy to the campus. Working the oars, he gazed at the placid silver-green surface. It was hard to fathom that the lake had swallowed up John Costello last night, then spit him out on its muddy bank.

He wondered if Pete Tobin could really prove “
it was no accident
.” Or was Pete simply unable to accept his best friend’s death? Jack was starting to worry about him. Pete had said that he needed to be alone. He’d probably gone for a walk by himself.

Jack knew what it was like. After his wife and son had been killed, he’d shut everyone else out. At work, he barely functioned. To his students and coworkers at St. Xavier grade school, he was something of a tragic curiosity—a cross between a former mental patient and a holocaust survivor.

He leaned on Father Mike Berry, the pastor at St. Xavier’s. They’d grown up together, a couple of Irish Catholic boys from Chicago. Together, they’d attended the seminary, where their education came cheap. But Jack loathed the place. With their rigid rules about when to sleep, study, pray, eat, and go to the toilet, it was like a prison. If not for Mike, he would have gone insane.

After the seminary, and during his theologate studies, Jack wrestled with the celibacy issue, and the idea of never having any children. Jack earned his Master of Divinity degree, but didn’t take his vows.

Later, Mike used his clout at St. Xavier parish to recruit Jack as vice principal at the grade school. Mike presided over Jack’s marriage to Donna. He baptized Leo, and taught him in confirmation classes. He also said Donna and Leo’s funeral Mass.

According to Mike, after a few months as a widower, Jack become St. Xavier’s most eligible “Hunk.” Scores of female parishioners were dying to fix him up—or be fixed up with him. But Jack wasn’t interested in dating or starting over.

He was far more prepared for a life of sacrifice and celibacy. He found out he could use his time in the seminary and his Master of Divinity to enter the priesthood. He filled out a mountain of paperwork, sat through several interviews, and endured a year of novitiate work before his ordination. Father Jack Murphy’s first assignment was teaching history and acting as resident adviser in the freshman dormitory at Our Lady of Sorrows Seminary in Leroy, Washington.

“Leroy is this tiny little burg where God lost his shoes, seventy-two miles north of Seattle,” Mike told him, over pizza and beer at Sully’s Inn. The tavern was Mike’s favorite haunt, a real “joint,” with barstools around barrel tables, and peanut shells on the floor. “This particular dorm at Our Lady of Sorrows has a bad history attached to it….”

Mike told him the story of Gavin McAllister. Thirty-five years after Gavin, Abigail, and little Hazel McAllister were discovered in what became known as the Easter Sunday Massacre, St. Bartholomew Hall was host to another murder-suicide. It happened in Room 410. Two boys, Gerard Lunt and Mark Weedler, became fodder for legend, limericks, and jokes—like Gavin McAllister before them.

Mike told him the story—as much as he knew, anyway.

“That room on the fourth floor is supposed to be haunted now,” Mike explained with a wry smile. “At least, that’s what I hear. They’ve tried boarding one kid after another in there. And one kid after another has complained about the noise—things scraping against the floor and ceiling in the middle of the night, moaning, and crying. One kid said his bed shook, another claimed he felt someone grabbing at his foot while he was sleeping. The list goes on and on—”

“Well, what do you expect?” Jack countered. “I’d be pretty shook up, too, if I had to stay in a room where something like that happened once. Small wonder these kids experienced…sensations—”

“None of them
ever heard
of Gerard Lunt or Mark Weedler,” Mike replied, setting down his beer glass. “These were new kids. They had no idea what happened in there.” He sighed. “And for that matter, neither do we.”

Jack chuckled. “You’ve been reading too many comic books, Mike.”

His friend shrugged. “Hey, I’m on the level, Jack. I’m just passing along what I heard from a friend who was there for a year. If you were moving to Sleepy Hollow, I’d want you to know about old Ichabod Crane. I mean, these freshman dorms are always a hotbed of testosterone and craziness. They all have histories with scandals and a suicide or two. But St. Bartholomew Hall is a cut above the others in that kind of history.”

From the rowboat, Jack glanced back at St. Bart’s, standing alone on the other side of the lake. He couldn’t help thinking that now John Costello was part of its curious history.

He kept rowing toward the boat slip on the college side. Beyond that, he could see the cluster of old, ivy-covered, brick-and-mortar buildings.

Monsignor Fuller would want an explanation of how and why John Costello had drowned. Jack didn’t know what to tell him.

He tied up the boat, then climbed onto the dock. Glancing at his wristwatch, he hurried toward the administration building.

Jack needn’t have hurried. Deacon Robert made him wait in the tiny anteroom outside Monsignor Fuller’s office for fifteen minutes. The pencil-thin, young deacon had curly black hair that he kept patting into place. He fidgeted with everything on his desk and occasionally smiled at Jack, whispering, “It won’t be too much longer.”

Jack nodded and smiled back. There was nothing to read except a copy of
Catholic Digest
on the end table. Finally, Deacon Robert’s intercom buzzed twice, and the young man sprang to his feet. “Monsignor Fuller is ready for you now,” he said, showing Jack to the door.

Jack stepped into the monsignor’s office, a huge room with dark paneling, stained-glass windows, and a fireplace. The antique furniture was bulky, upholstered in elaborately patterned, faded fabric.

“Father Murphy,” Deacon Robert announced.

Seated at a large mahogany desk, the diminutive, liver-spotted priest with the big glasses nodded benevolently at his assistant. “I’ll have my tea in five minutes, Deacon Robert.”

“Yes, Monsignor.” Deacon Robert ducked out of the room.

Jack waited for Fuller to offer him a seat. But the old man started sifting through some papers on his desk. Jack noticed his fingernails were just as overgrown as they’d been last fall. Fuller seemed oblivious to Jack, who stood by the door for at least three minutes, until he finally cleared his throat. “You wanted to see me, Monsignor?”

“Have a seat, Father,” he replied, not looking up from his work.

Jack sank into an armchair in front of Fuller’s antique desk. The threadbare cushion had caved in, and no matter how he shifted his weight, a support beam dug painfully into his backside. Fuller continued to ignore him. He finished with the papers, and now decided to refill his stapler.

Deacon Robert knocked on the door to announce himself, then came in balancing a bulky silver service tray.

“I’ll take my tea on the davenport,” Fuller told him, not looking up from his busywork with the stapler.

The young deacon set the tray down on the marble-top coffee table. “Will Father Murphy be having tea?”

“No, he will not,” Fuller said, getting up from his desk chair.

If the monsignor was trying to be rude, he succeeded with flying colors. Jack watched the little, bug-eyed priest pad across the worn Persian rug to the sitting area. Fuller settled back in the corner of the sofa. Then, for the first time, he actually looked at Jack. With an almost regal gesture, he pointed to an armchair at his right. “Over here, Father,” he said.

Deacon Robert was still fussing over the silver service, which had to be worth about five thousand dollars. As Jack’s friend, Mike, used to say about some of the more pampered priests: “
If that’s what comes with a vow of poverty, bring on celibacy
.”

Jack sat down across from the old priest.

“I understand you were well acquainted with the lad who drowned,” Fuller said. “In fact, I’m told that you’re very popular with all the students.” Fuller watched Deacon Robert cut a thin slice of lemon cake, then transfer it to a gold-trimmed plate. “Among all these youngsters who hold you in such high esteem,” he continued, “has anyone shared with you information regarding the circumstances behind the Costello lad’s drowning?”

Jack thought of Pete Tobin for a second, but he shook his head. “No, Monsignor. They’ve merely speculated as to what happened.”

Fuller sipped his tea. “And what did they speculate?”

Jack hesitated. Did the good monsignor know about the students’ furtive trips to and from town? Was he aware of the parties and beer busts that drew some freshmen to the campus side? Fuller seemed about as in-touch with these kids as the author of that orientation questionnaire:
What’s your greatest accomplishment as a Christian?

The old priest set down his teacup. “It was a simple question, Father.”

Straightening in his chair, Jack nodded. “Yes, Monsignor.” He cleared his throat. “The general consensus seems to be that John must have been swimming back from a party here on the campus side.”

Those bug eyes behind the huge glasses squinted at him. “Swimming?”

“Yes, Monsignor. I have a hard time believing it myself. This time of year, it’s pretty cold for a dip in the lake.” He shrugged. “Then again, maybe Johnny had too much to drink, and his judgment was impaired.”

Fuller scowled at him. “I still don’t understand about the swimming.”

“Well, from this side of the lake, it’s quicker to swim across to St. Bartholomew Hall than walking all the way around to the bridge on College Road.”

“You sound as if these midnight swims are a regular practice among your students. And you condone these activities?”

Jack quickly shook his head. “Oh, no, Monsignor…”

“But you’ve known such practices were going on, and you did nothing about it.”

“Monsignor, these late-night trips back and forth from the campus and town are nothing new. And certainly, they’re not exclusive to the boys under my supervision.” From the stony look on Fuller’s face, Jack gathered he wasn’t making much headway. “I enforce the curfew rules on my floor, Monsignor. But if a boy wants to sneak out of St, Bartholomew Hall badly enough, he can find a way. This has been going on for a long while. I understand another student was drowned three years ago—just like Johnny…John. His name was Julian Doyle.”

Fuller had a mouthful of cake, but he may as well have had a mouthful of worms from the disgusted look on his face. He briskly set his plate on the coffee table, then wiped his lips with a cloth napkin. “So, am I to tell people that the priest supervising this unfortunate boy was aware of these late-night swims? Do I say in the school’s defense that you let such dangerous practices continue under your nose—though you knew another boy had drowned a few years ago?” Fuller’s face was turning red. “Perhaps if you were more concerned about supervising these youngsters—instead of winning popularity contests—the Costello boy would still be alive.”

“It’s not like that at all,” Jack murmured, dazed by this sudden attack.

“That boy was under your care,” the old priest went on, his anger now turning to feigned bewilderment and grief. “His family trusted us to look after him, keep him safe. You were responsible for him, Father Murphy, and now the poor boy’s dead. How could you let that happen?”

Jack just shook his head. “
How did it happen?
” he remembered the policeman asking. The cop had to shout over the blaring car horn. It had gone off at the moment of impact, and couldn’t be silenced. Jack was covered with blood from hovering over his wife and son. Yet he didn’t have a bruise or cut on him. “
How did it happen?
” The question still haunted him to this day. How could a good husband and father let that happen to his family?

“You don’t have an answer for me, do you?” Monsignor Fuller tried to steady his teacup with a slightly palsied hand.

“No, I don’t, Monsignor,” Jack replied, gazing down at the rug. “I have no excuse. You’re right. John was in my care—”

Someone knocked on the door. Without waiting for a response, a tall, handsome priest with receding brown hair and an affable smile breezed into the office. He was in his late thirties, and dressed in the black suit with the turned-around collar. “Well, Monsignor, it looks like I’ve interrupted your teatime.” He touched Fuller on the shoulder. “Forgive me for being late. Is that Nelly’s famous lemon cake? Yes, it must be.”

“Would you like a slice Father Garcia?” the monsignor asked.

The younger priest patted his stomach. “Oh, no thanks. I’ve gained five pounds just sniffing it. I came to steal away Father Murphy here. Is that all right with you, Monsignor? You’re finished talking with him, aren’t you?”

Within a minute, Jack found himself at the door with Father Garcia. He was grateful for the way the younger priest had just strutted in and taken over. Jack mustered up a polite farewell to Fuller and his assistant.

As soon as he stepped out to the hallway and closed the door behind them, the other priest sighed. He grabbed Jack’s hand and shook it. “Jack, I’m Tom Garcia. I’m the one who wanted to talk with you.”