TWENTY-NINE
Villa Maria was a sprawling compound, located in a wooded setting in Chester County. The building had at one time been a long-term care facility owned by the county for indigent patients, but purchased and refitted by the archdiocese in the late 1980s. In all, there were sixty-one retired priests at the facility.
From a distance it looked like a fading old resort, something you would find in the Poconos or Catskills. The only hint that it was not was the large statue of the Blessed Mother in front of the main entrance.
The priest sat alone on the rear porch, a large fieldstone veranda overlooking the valley. The room looked like it had at one time been an open porch, but had been enclosed sometime in the seventies or eighties. There were two space heaters glowing in the corners.
The old man faced away from them. As Jessica and Byrne approached, Jessica was first struck by how small the man was. On the way up to Villa Maria, Byrne had told her stories about him, about how the priest had instilled fear and respect in not just the smaller kids in his parish, but the older boys as well.
‘Only one ring at the first genuflection, Mr Byrne,’ the old man in the wheelchair said.
Jessica and Byrne stopped in their tracks, looked at each other. Father Thomas Leone had not turned around. There were no mirrors in the room. It was a bright winter day so there were no night-reflections to be found in the windows. Byrne had not called ahead to make any kind of appointment to see the man. They were not expected.
Was the old man prescient?
‘How did you know it was me?’ Byrne asked.
Leone dabbed at his lips, gently put the napkin back into his lap. His hands were gnarled with arthritis. ‘I wish I could tell you that, at my age – as reward for more than sixty years in service of Our Lord – I have been imbued with the power of omniscience.’ He lifted a thin arm, pointed out the window. ‘The truth is, I saw you pull up in the parking lot.’
Byrne laughed, put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Jessica walked around the other side. Byrne introduced her.
This close, Jessica could see not only the ravages of time, but the ravages of disease. Leone unhooked the oxygen cannula and let it dangle over the side of the chair.
‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’ Byrne asked.
Leone shrugged. ‘What are they going to do? Withhold my stewed tomatoes?’
The two men took a few minutes to catch up. Mostly they talked about who had died.
‘Have they torn it down yet?’ Leone asked.
‘Not yet,’ Byrne said. ‘In a few days.’
Jessica knew they were talking about St Gedeon’s, the church of Byrne’s youth, the massive stone cathedral on Second Street.
Leone looked out over the grounds, which were still covered with a thin layer of snow. ‘I married about five hundred couples at St Gedeon’s,’ he said. ‘Baptized around a thousand babies.’ He looked at Jessica, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Do you think those numbers add up?’
Jessica thought for a few moments, doing the math. ‘Two babies each? Not for Italians and Irish,’ she said with a smile. ‘I think you must have missed a few.’
Leone smiled. ‘It’s possible.’
Byrne tucked the afghan back around the old man’s thin legs as a draft skittered across the large porch. Leone put a hand on Byrne’s hand.
‘Do you still think about him, Kevin?’
Jessica looked at Byrne, found no answers there, then back at the old man. Think about who?
‘Now and again,’ Byrne said.
Father Leone took a few seconds, adrift in time. ‘Do you remember how I found him?’
Jessica understood. They were talking about The Boy in the Red Coat.
‘I do,’ Byrne said. ‘I remember as if it were yesterday.’
‘Nothing seems like yesterday to me anymore.’
‘It was Monday morning,’ Byrne said. ‘You called at 6:15.’
Leone looked surprised. ‘Was it that early?’
‘It was.’
‘Were you awake?’
‘I was doing my best,’ Byrne said. ‘I was on last out in those days. I was trying to stay awake.’
‘You weren’t down at Platt Bridge, were you?’
Jessica laughed. She had no idea that spot was so well-known. At one time some PPD officers on last out – the midnight to eight shift – would drive down to the area beneath Platt Bridge during the last hour or so of their tour and catch a nap. Jessica’s father told a story of waking up in his squad car one morning with a dead squirrel under each windshield wiper. Nobody was more relentless with practical jokes than police.
‘I know why you’re here,’ Leone said.
Byrne knelt down. ‘We need help understanding this, Father.’
The old man nodded. ‘Tell me how I can help.’
Byrne gave Father Leone the briefest details on what had been happening.
‘These people are being found in closed churches?’ Leone said.
‘Yes.’
‘The first body … where was it?’
‘St Adelaide’s.’
‘Ugly place. Never liked it. Even when it was new.’
Jessica wanted to mention that St Adelaide’s was built in 1853, but decided against it.
‘I mean in the church, Mr Byrne,’ Leone added. ‘Where was the body found in the church?’
‘In the basement. It was –’
‘Where in the basement? In relation to the church proper. Was it directly beneath the altar? The vestibule? The sacristy?’
Byrne looked at Jessica. Jessica closed her eyes, relived the moment of descending the stairs. As a matter of procedure, one of the primary detectives always made a pencil sketch of the crime scene. It was rudimentary, but even in this digital age it was the most referred to document – besides the body chart – in the binder. Jessica had sketched the basement at St Adelaide’s. She found it in her portfolio, took it out, showed it to Father Leone.
The old man studied it for a moment, his weary eyes suddenly flashing bright. ‘This X … This is where the body was found?’
‘Yes.’
He turned the sketch around four times. ‘Which way is north?’
Jessica berated herself for not putting that on the drawing. In fact, she’d never put it on a crime-scene sketch. She would from now on. She turned the paper, showing Father Leone north.
‘This is below the sacristy,’ Leone said. ‘What about St Damian’s?’
Now it was Byrne’s turn. He took out his drawing. The old man looked at it.
‘You still can’t draw, can you?’
Byrne reddened like a schoolboy. He tapped the N at the top of the sketch. ‘At least I indicate north on my sketches.’
Byrne looked at Jessica, who stuck her tongue out.
‘I was only in Damian’s twice,’ Leone said. He studied the sketch. ‘But this is below the sacristy, too.’ He handed the drawing back to Byrne, who filed it away. ‘This was the baby?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Leone made the sign of the cross. ‘No need to see the third sketch.’
This was good, because they didn’t have it. It was Maria Caruso’s case.
‘Look to the sacrarium,’ Leone said.
Jessica glanced at Byrne, who nodded. Jessica wrote this down. The word was somewhat familiar, but she knew she would have to look it up, even if it was not going to mean anything in the end, even if it was just the rambling of an old man.
‘Father, I hate to think that these killings are going to continue, but we have to be prepared for that,’ Byrne said. ‘If there is any way we can anticipate the killer’s next move, we need to do everything in our power to be there first.’
‘I understand,’ Leone said.
‘On the day the first body was discovered, at St Adelaide’s, we received a telephone call,’ Byrne said. ‘A call relaying a rather cryptic message.’
‘What was the message?’
‘The caller said, One God, then seven churches.’
‘Seven churches.’
‘Do you have thoughts on this?’ Byrne asked.
The old man thought for a few moments. ‘I do.’
Father Leone pushed off the afghan, tried to rise to his feet. Byrne helped him.
‘Whatever it is, I can get it for you, Father,’ Byrne said.
Leone glared at Byrne, and for a moment Jessica saw the fire in his eyes, the look Byrne had described to her. ‘I’m not dead yet.’
Byrne smiled, but still kept a light touch on the old man’s arm. It took a minute, but eventually they made it over to the bookshelf. The bottom half was mostly popular fiction, brightly colored spines ripped and torn with use. The upper shelves were devoted to board games and jigsaw puzzles, haphazardly filed. On the right side of the bookcase were two shelves of leather-bound books. It was from this section Father Leone drew a volume, then slowly made his way back. He eased himself down into the chair, arranged the afghan over his legs.
‘Seven churches,’ Leone said. ‘It’s from the Book of Revelation.’
Jessica, who was anything but a biblical scholar, knew some of the major points of the Bible. Genesis, Exodus. Some of the Psalms. She had probably heard the least about Revelation, although the 666 number popped up from time to time in movies and fiction.
‘This section is known by different names. The Seven Churches of Revelation, the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse, the Seven Churches of Asia – all the same.’
Leone flipped through the book slowly, continued.
‘When Jesus appeared on the island of Patmos, in Greece, he gave John a mission to write down on a scroll what he saw and send it to the seven churches.’
‘Were there specific churches named?’ Byrne asked.
Father Leone looked up. ‘Are you asking if the person you’re looking for is targeting churches by name?’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘I would have to say no.’ Leone riffled the volume, put the red ribbon between the pages. ‘The meaning here is unclear. Christ was most likely referring to seven communities, not necessarily seven brick-and-mortar buildings.’
‘Why these seven?’
‘Christ believed these communities were failing in some way.’
Father Leone flipped a few more pages, found what he was looking for, put a finger between these pages. ‘Let me think about this for a day. My mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be.’
‘Of course, Father,’ Byrne said.
At this, the old man’s eyes seemed to go distant again.
‘Have they torn it down yet?’ Leone asked again. He had clearly forgotten that he’d asked the question before.
Byrne had told Jessica on the way up that St Gedeon’s was slated for demolition. It was on the list of closed churches they had gotten from the archdiocese. Jessica had never been inside, but she had been by it many times. It was an impressive structure with a high spire.
‘Not yet, Father,’ Byrne said. ‘Not for a few days.’
‘I want you to bring me a piece of it, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘Nothing big. A small piece of stone.’
Byrne got down on one knee, brought himself face to face with the old man. ‘How do we stop this, Father?’
The question brought the priest back to the moment.
‘There have been three murders?’ Leone asked.
‘Yes. Three that we know of.’
At that moment there were investigators in four counties – city police, state police, county sheriffs – visiting all the closed churches on the list, methodically searching the premises.
‘There will be four more,’ Leone said.
The statement was uttered so calmly that a shiver plaited down Jessica’s back. Was the old priest saying the killings could not be stopped?
‘These churches,’ Byrne said. ‘Is there any way to know which one he’ll pick next?’
‘I don’t know. But there is something you might find interesting, and perhaps most relevant to your case.’
‘What would that be?’
Leone opened the book on his lap. ‘There was a church, one of the seven, that waited patiently. A community that endured, if you will.’
‘I don’t understand, Father.’
Leone turned the book to face them. One page contained a large color-plate illustration of seven churches floating in a golden sky. Father Thomas Leone tapped the lower right-hand side of the illustration, and said, ‘The sixth church of the Apocalypse is called Philadelphia.’