Chief Among Sinners Read online

  Chief Among Sinners

  Lois K. Gibson

  Copyright © 2012 by Lois K. Gibson

  Mill City Press

  212 3rd Ave North, Suite 290

  Minneapolis, MN 55401

  612.455.2294

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-938223-72-3

  Prologue

  He parked off the street in the narrow gravel delivery alley. Slowly opening the car door, he swore under his breath. "Where is the goddamn switch to turn off the dome light?"

  The electronics in this car were a mixed blessing. The seat was warm in the winter and would be cool next summer, and the steering wheel was positioned just right for his ample six foot two frame. Tonight he didn't want any light showing. His brand new car was already well known around town and he especially didn't want it to be seen in this alley.

  Even though tonight was the real Halloween, the town pulled a switch this year. They agreed to celebrate on Saturday night, the thirtieth, instead of Sunday the thirty-first. It was easier for everybody, especially parents whose kids got sick from stuffing their faces with too much candy then throwing up for two days and missing school.

  Last night, the little woman was home, getting her jollies oohing and aahing over weird costumes and weirder kids. He liked seeing the little girls in their pretty costumes, but boys dressed like robots, gangsters, and every evil TV idol turned his stomach.

  So tonight, the town was not swarming with families, trudging from door to door in weird costumes. Tonight was pretty uneventful, a few overturned garbage cans, rotten eggs against a couple houses.

  Nothing serious.

  Slithering out, he closed the door quietly, leaned against it, wiped sweat from his face, ran a small comb through his thinning grayish brown hair, buttoned his coat against the late October chill, and pulled on a pair of leather gloves.

  Slipping and sliding on leaves, wet from an earlier rain, he hurried down the alley, sheltered from prying eyes on his left by the looming walls of St. Timothy's Catholic Church and concealed on the right by a small grove of trees around the Clark house.

  It was a small house, an obscure relic from the Civil War; the white painted trim on the red brick walls peeled away, as it did on the once grand columns holding up the second story. It was topped with a unique, small domed roof. During the Civil War, it was a small hospital for wounded survivors of the First Minnesota Regiment from Oakton, Prescott, Rutherford, and other towns in Houston, Monroe, and Fillmore County.

  Not only was the house isolated in a grove of trees near the church, but trick-or-treaters were leery of the town's only haunted house, rattling and crackling with the spirits of soldiers who died there. According to local legend it wasn't the only haunted house in southern Minnesota, but it was by far the scariest and most foreboding.

  It was an old fixer-upper, rehabbed many times, and now, just right for the Clark family. Formerly owned by the Historical Society of Southern Minnesota, upkeep had become too much, so two years ago it was sold to the Oakton chief of police, Scott Addams.

  Because the chief took pity on them when Joe Clark was killed, the Clark family: widow Agnes Clark, daughters Maggie and Sally, and granddaughter Lucy, lived there rent free. It suited them well because it was hidden away where few would bother them. In the eyes of the town, they were a strange family, and visitors were rare.

  Tonight, walking toward the house, black witches with glowing red eyes and white sheeted ghosts whooshed out of the trees across his path. An owl with yellow eyes flew at his head. Agnes Clark's motion sensors scared away most intruders, but not this man. He flung his arms in front of him to ward off the winged fury, and as he walked across the yard, he noticed something new this year: a skeleton sitting upright in a shallow grave, candle light flickering through its hollow eyes. He bent closer and saw it was more than a shallow grave. Dirt was piled up beside it, the true depth covered with sod so the skeleton seemed to be floating across the lawn. He wondered why she would dig a real grave. Was somebody going to die?

  The witches, the owl, the white sheets, and the skeleton leering at him from the grave were scary, exhilarating. He felt his body tense, and then tense even more when he thought about the child inside that house. He put his hand in his pocket to feel the weekly envelope with crisp new $20 bills and smirked when he sensed the growing bulge in his pants.

  The house was glowing from inside. Good. They were home, maybe even expecting him. Closer to the house, he was annoyed to confront a dozen or more candle-lit pumpkins lined up along the edge of the porch, each intricately carved malevolent countenance daring anyone to approach.

  As soon as he lifted one foot over the pumpkin barrier and it landed on the porch, the door flew open, and silhouetted against the light stood Agnes Clark, her hair disheveled, eyes glowing like the witch that flew at him out of the trees. She snarled, "What the hell do you want, you sick perverted bastard? Your little playthings aren't home."

  In a low growl, he asked, 'Where is she, Agnes?"

  Agnes Clark was unfazed by the menace in his look and voice. "With decent people doing what decent people do, and here you are, the biggest spook in town with your fat ass and your big cock."

  "Well, you know who I am, Agnes, and what I can do. I've got the power over you and your girls and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it, you crazy, fucked up witch."

  "Get out of here, you bastard. You've done enough damage to this family," she shrieked.

  Then he saw the long bladed knife in her hand, drawn from the folds of her dress. She thrust it toward him in a slashing motion. "I've got my ways, my own secrets you don't know anything about. Back off, you prick, or you'll find out."

  He put up his gloved hands in mock surrender, laughed, and said, "You've got a knife, but in two seconds I can take that knife away from you, slit your throat, and even make it look like suicide. You know I can, so don't try anything stupid."

  She lowered the knife, holding it close to her body, backed away from the open door, and he followed her into the kitchen. She climbed onto a high stool at the breakfast counter and with the knife in her hand resumed carving out a large pumpkin.

  The top of the pumpkin had been severed like an open cranium, with stringy orange brains pulled out. A little shudder went through him when he looked at the jagged teeth and evil eyes she was carving out of the thick orange flesh.

  "Halloween's over, you mindless hag. Why are you still slicing away at that poor defenseless gourd? Put down that knife. Here's the usual." He took off his gloves, took a white, unmarked envelope from his pocket, and tossed it onto a pile of slimy innards on the table.

  She raised her head and stared at him. Her black eyes seemed to fill her whole face. "You're a sick, perverted pedophile. First you use your grimy hands pretending to be their doctor, then you make believe you're their buddy, anything to get into their pants, but it's gonna catch up to you, mark my words."

  He walked to the sink to wash orange slime off his hands. "So you think you can tell all and people will believe you. No way, lady. I've laid very careful groundwork. If you think you can outwit me, you're out of your mind."

  She sneered at him, standing there, his back to her. She pointed the knife at his back. "I know you've told the whole world we're a bunch of whores. Well, everybody in town knows you for the whoring bastard you are. Are you so bloody sure nobody would believe me? Watch out, mister. People are smarter than you think."

  He was surprised to hear her say, "Take your dirty money. I don't want
it. It can't buy my silence anymore. There isn't enough money in this world to clean away your filthy sins. You've abused and threatened us for too long. No more. No more."

  Taking a handkerchief from his pocket to dry his hands, he turned and watched her lean across the counter to grab the envelope. She reached across the slippery guts, and he gasped as he saw her lose her balance. She fell off the stool, and the envelope dropped from her hand. Her feet slipped on the slimy pumpkin guts and she fell backwards. He heard her head hit hard against the base of the counter.

  Carefully picking his way through the mess on the floor, he bent over her. Her head was twisted to one side, her breathing shallow, but he felt a faint pulse. 'Decision time,' he thought. "I can save her or put an end to her chicken-shit threats, here and now."

  Reaching under her wild, stringy hair with both hands, he did a quick twist, heard a crack, and it was done. He picked up the orange stained envelope and put it in his pocket.

  There was no blood, just pumpkin droppings. He carefully picked his way through the mess, crossed to the phone on the wall, and dialed. When he heard someone answer, he held a glove over the receiver, to disguise his voice, and yelled, "Get the chief. Hurry! There's been an accident at the Clark house, in the alley near St. Timothy's."

  Madge Burns yelled back, "The chief's not here. What'll I do?"

  He hung up.

  He exited a side door from the kitchen, avoiding the Halloween traps, hurried to his car, and backed out of the alley as he heard the sirens getting nearer. He drove around the corner and pulled in behind the ambulance as it screeched to a stop.

  One

  Mrs. Murphy stood at the stove, stirring the big pot of soup with a wooden spoon, as Terry entered the kitchen from the back door. Without even a glance in his direction, she said, "B'gosh and B'gorra, Father Terrence Francis O'Reilly, I heard you stop on the steps before you came in. Was there another wee beastie? C'mon. Let yer old Bridget see what surprise they left for us this time."

  Father Terry reached to hang his coat, but he missed and dropped it on the floor instead. The shape it took lying there reminded him too much of what he'd seen outside. He felt dizzy and reached for the tall coat rack by the door.

  Mrs. Murphy finally turned around and saw him hanging on to the rack for dear life. She dropped the spoon and rushed over to him. "What's the matter, dear boy? You're pale as ash, and you look like you're about to faint. Speak to me!"

  He looked down at her, loosed his arms from the coat rack, straightened up, and said, "No more joking around, Mrs. Murphy. I just saw something that knocked the Irish right out of me."

  Father Terry slowly walked to the kitchen sink, washed his hands, and then took his seat at the long black Formica kitchen table in the large kitchen of St. Timothy's Catholic Church in Oakton, Minnesota. He smiled, watching Mrs. Murphy take his dinner from the warming oven, set it on the table, and put a cup of soup in front of him. She filled another cup of soup for herself, then sat down facing him.

  "Was it another wee beastie got to you, m' boy? That couldn't be so terrible. We've had them before. Tell me where it is and I'll fetch it right in." She sipped the hot soup, waiting for him to say something.

  He held the cup of soup in his hands, seeming to gaze at the contents as if it were a magic potion, then he lifted his head and stared into her eyes. "It was no wee beastie, Mrs. Murphy. It was a big, black, wet river rat."

  He wiped the napkin across his brow and took a shuddering breath before going on. "When I reached for it, I thought it was alive, ready to bite my hand. I poked it hard to make sure it was dead. This was the scariest yet. Believe me, you would not want that carcass in your kitchen. I stuck it in the usual place under the step so you wouldn't even have to see it. I'll put it in the shed with the others after Fellowship."

  After several gulps of soup, he picked up a fork and started to wolf down the rest of his supper. "This is great, Mrs. Murphy. It's cold and raw out there, and I was hungry."

  Mrs. Murphy said, "Slow down, Father. I'm glad you like your supper, but you haven't eaten a thing since breakfast, and you'll get the gas if you don't chew proper."

  He was surprised at her lack of reaction to his description of this latest beastie. She calmly stood up, cleared away his dishes ,and told him his favorite dessert was in the fridge; rice pudding with raisins and extra cinnamon and sugar on top, for after Fellowship.

  "Thank you. Supper was good, but now we both have to get going. You're due at the senior center and I'm rushing, as usual. We'll talk tomorrow."

  He watched his housekeeper untie her apron and lay it across the back of her chair, tuck her faded purple and gold Vikings T-shirt into her gray stretch pants, and harrumph her way to the coat rack. She put on her coat and long scarf around her neck, her graying red hair tucking under a snug wool cap. She leaned against the wall to pull on her galoshes. He wasn't surprised when she said, "I guess you were right not to bring that thing in here, if it's as ugly as you say. But remember, Father Terrence O'Reilly." Determination filled her voice. "We talk about this first thing in the morning."

  Mrs. Murphy made sure Father Terry would be all right for 6:30 Fellowship in the vestry with his parishioners before she departed down the back steps of St. Timothy's, but unbeknownst to the priest, instead of walking to the street, she reached under the steps and pulled out a white box.

  She felt a shudder go through her. In the glow of the three quarter moon, there was plenty of light to see the fat river rat; its pointed yellow teeth, its black fur still sleek with water, droplets clinging to its whiskers. She guessed it to be about nine inches from nose to butt and glimpsed a bit of twisted pink tail tucked under its fat behind.

  As with the other dead animals left on the back steps of St. Timothy's, she could almost hear a scream come out of the rat's mouth, which was propped open with a broken twig, and like the goldfish, chipmunk, and bat, a fancy hat pin protruded behind the skull. It disgusted her, but Bridget Murphy didn't scare easily, nor did her priest, if that was the intention of the miserable sneak who left it on the bottom step.

  Before she shoved it back under the steps, she noted that the rat was in a white shoebox, labeled 'Girls Size 6.' Was that a clue or a convenience? No time to think about that now. She was ten minutes late for her shift at the senior center.

  She hurried through the slushy streets, shivering from the penetrating November cold, hugging her coat close with one hand. She shoved the other hand in a pocket and, through her gloves, felt three buttons. She thought, 'I either have to sew them back on, get myself a new coat, or move back to San Diego.'

  This was Father Terrence Francis O'Reilly's tenth year in the priesthood. He grew up in Cloquet, Minnesota, where his father owned a neighborhood restaurant and bar. His mother raised four children, and when she wasn't home they could always find her at the Catholic church, which was why Da stayed at the pub more than necessary.

  Terry had a brother, Sean, and two sisters, Peggy and Maeve, and they all got the church habit. It was either go or be whipped by Mother O'Reilly, a stern, unyielding parent. As a young man, he worked several jobs: flipping burgers, bike deliveries, assistant at the local pizza parlor, to earn enough money, plus scholarships, to attend the University of St. Thomas then St. John's Seminary, fulfilling his mum's dream of a priest in the family.

  His brother Sean graduated from the University of Minnesota and became a social worker in Minneapolis, working with AIDS patients and GLBTG. Both sisters were in graduate school, one pursuing an advanced degree in social services and the other advanced economics.

  After ordination, Terry's first assignment was as one of several assistants to senior clergy at a large church in Chicago. Being an assistant wasn't his idea of serving a parish. He had wanted to work directly with people, hear their troubles, rejoice in their weddings and births, and be a hands-on minister. Besides, he was homesick for Minnesota. Three years later, at age twenty-seven, he got his wish and was assigned to St. Timothy's in O
akton. In all that time, he had never been a part of something as strange as the collection of gifts recently left for him behind the church.

  After the brief fellowship service, the priest changed into jeans and a sweat shirt, went back to the kitchen, retrieved the special dessert from the refrigerator, and sat down at the kitchen table. Staring at the golden rice pudding, he smiled, picked up a spoon, then put it down and lowered his head.

  His mind filled with pictures of the dead animals he found on the back steps. Since Halloween weekend, one mutilated animal, each gorier than the last, was there almost every Sunday evening when he came back from his rounds of the old cemetery behind St. Timothy's.

  He remembered that was a weird weekend because of how the community decided to celebrate Halloween on the thirtieth instead of the thirty-first. They reasoned that if the costume contests, parades, trick or treating happened on Saturday, parents wouldn't be calling the school Monday morning, saying their children were throwing up from eating too much junk the night before. The plan worked pretty well. Except for a few cut clothes lines and upset garbage cans on the real Halloween, most everybody in Oakton was happy with the decision.

  About five o'clock Sunday night, Father O'Reilly was getting ready for his regular go-around at the old cemetery, behind the church. He heard sirens in the alley and rushed down the back steps, Mrs. Murphy right behind him, both racing across the gravel path through the small grove of trees to the Clark house.

  EMTs were loading a gurney into the ambulance, parked in the alley that ran in front of the Clark house and behind the church. He glimpsed the back of Chief of Police Addams walking up the alley toward the street. Frank Stevenson, deputy chief, was standing near his car in front of the ambulance, its flashing blue and red lights casting a haunting flicker over the scene.

  When he saw Maggie Clark pounding on the hood of the deputy's car screaming, "He killed her. He killed her," Terry, rushed to her and tried to pull her away from the car. "Tell me who, Maggie? Who killed whom? Who's in that ambulance?"