The Witness
Geoffrey Kruse-Safford
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by Geoffrey Kruse-Safford
Other Titles available at Smashword:
From The Other Side: Two Stories -https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/128958
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*****
Retired cops always get asked the same questions. The first question is, “Did you ever shoot anybody?” When I was young, thin, had hair, and no idea what I was doing, my first partner told me that if I had to draw my weapon, I’d already screwed up really bad. In thirty years as a cop, I can count on the fingers of one hand those instances. The very first time, it was abundantly clear that he had been right. I had screwed up. Lucky for me and my need for sleep, I never had to pull the trigger.
Right after that question is some variant on, “What’s the most interesting case you ever had?”
What follows is the answer to that question. I’m giving it because I’ve already lost the first month of the five or so allotted to me by my doctors. Over a half century of clean living and pancreatic cancer is eating me up from the inside out. The pain has started, but the stuff I get from the doctors keeps it at bay.
With death in the neighborhood, I figure I should tell this one story. I have no idea who’ll read it. If someone does, I doubt they’ll believe it. That’s OK. I’m not writing it for them, anyway. Truth be told, I’m not writing it for me, either. I’m writing it because someone should hear the truth. Weird, wonderful, horrible stuff happens all around us, you know. Most folks go through their round of days, the worst thing they experience may be a kidney stone, or the kind of cancer I got now. The usual terrors.
Sometimes, either by accident or design, we get a chance to peek behind the veil. The story I’m about to tell you was my glimpse. Let me tell you right now. I never thought something could be beautiful and terrible at the same time.
Have I got your attention?
*****
The call came early in the morning. They always do for church vandalism. I didn’t even get a chance to take my jacket off, but my partner Teddy Herman told me we have to head over to St. Francis de Sales Church. Poor Teddy. First the bottle got him. Then he ate his own gun.
On this day, all that was in the future. It was sunny and pleasant, promising more warmth. April in Chicago, my friends, is all about promise.
You ask any cop, they’ll tell you the same thing about church vandalisms. A couple, maybe three, kids get drunk or stoned, and then they think it’ll be fun to get up to dickens in a church. The folks who discover it are usually the janitor, or the local minister, pastor, or priest. If a lay person finds it, they want the person or persons who did it strung up, preferably by something that would hurt. If it’s the clergy, they insist they don’t want to press charges. Too much television right there; you can’t “not press charges”. When the stupid kids are caught – and they’re almost always stupid – the clergy are usually the first person trying to see them. Even before Mom and Dad and their lawyers.
We pulled up in front of St. FdS, and the usual cop-hubbub was already going on. A uniform was out front, keeping an eye on folks coming and going. The van from the tech lab was sitting, locked. Teddy and I were on the walk when Bill Morris, one of the head tech guys, walked out.
“The usual?” Teddy asked.
Bill nodded. If Teddy was tall, stocky, blessed with movie-star good looks and hair, Bill was the exact opposite. Short, thin but not quite frail, the rubber gloves he always wore at crime scenes looked too big for his hands. He also had a pair of those paper booties to cover his shoes. There was a box of gloves and booties by the door, which Teddy and I put on while Bill chatted.
“The usual. Upside-down crosses. An inverted pentagram was spray-painted on the floor in front of the altar. The Mary statue in the shrine off to the side there was knocked over. They put a blow up doll there, with dildos in the orifices.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
Bill nodded. “I know. Fucking creeps.” He looked down at his notebook. “There was blood and feces on the altar, and they super glued another dildo to the loincloth on the Jesus on the crucifix.”
Teddy “Hmph”ed. “I swear, these dorks just don’t get very smart or original.”
“There were a couple things,” Bill said. “They spray-painted a message on the priest’s door. Then, they left the can sitting right there on the floor. Ashley is in there right now, dusting for prints. She wonders why we’re worrying about the whole scene, because there are clear prints on the can.”
“What’s the message on the Father’s door?” I asked. Lapsed Catholic that I am, I still call them “Father”. And seeing them makes me feel guilty.
Bill checked his notebook again. “’You can’t hide, old man.’” Bill flipped a page. “Thing is, the priest here, his name is Benjamin Jameson, by the way, he’s thirty-four according to the info I have.”
“Some teenagers would call that old,” I said.
“That it?” Teddy asked Bill.
“That’s the basics. A couple old ladies who came in to set up for a luncheon found it. They’re giving their statement to one of the uniforms inside. I tried the priest, but he wasn’t answering.” He turned to go. “The path is marked, but I wouldn’t worry about it if you step over the line. We got more than we need.”
“Thanks, Bill,” I said. I hated having to wear those little booties. The rubber gloves always made my hands all pruney, too.
Once inside the sanctuary, the light was very different. A small woman, bent with age and her hair in a bun, was giving a statement to one uniformed officer. A tall, rather severe woman was speaking to the other uniform. Teddy and I walked up the main aisle, glancing this way and that. From about half way up, we could see the lump on the altar that showed where someone had decided to leave their brown calling card. Behind the table, on a ladder by the crucifix, Ashley was dusting the plaster Jesus.
“Tommy,” she said to me. The only person in my life other than my mother I allowed to call me that was Ashley. Don’t ask me why.
“Ash,” I said.
“I’m glad I keep nail polish remover in my kit,” she said.
“How’s the rest of it going?” Teddy asked.
She barked out a “Ha!” then continued. “This will be the easiest case I get this week. Probably this month. There are clear prints everywhere, not to mention the bonanza on the altar table. I feel like they did our job for us.”
Just then, I heard a commotion behind us. Turning, I saw a man who made Bill Morris look bulky. If he was five-three, that would be if he was wearing platforms. He couldn’t weigh more than one hundred twenty pounds. Dark skin, black hair, his beard neatly trimmed, he had the kind of cinematic good looks that made you wonder why he became a priest. Presently, the two women who had been giving statements to the uniformed officers were standing by him, screeching and waving their arms. He looked at each of them, giving them the time to vent.