Position in which he was found. The carpet beneath the chalk
head is almost black with dried blood. I close my eyes and think about the series of photographs that Schroder and Landry showed ne. Father Julian was lying on his back, his head twisted to the side. Closer photos showed gashes in the back of his head from the impact of the hammer. I don’t know how many times he was hit, but it was more than once. Perhaps the first blow killed him.
At the very least it would have dropped him to his knees. I figure he ended up dead face down, but was rolled onto his back. I try to imagine the thirty seconds before that. Did Julian know his killer was there — if so, why would he turn his back on him?
The tongue had to have been cut out after he was dead. It’s
not the kind of thing you can do to a man unless you’ve got
him bound, and even then it’d be a struggle. The photographs
didn’t show any evidence of that, nor of any defensive wounds on Julian’s hands. I look up and point the torch at the ceiling. There are lines of blood up there, cast off from the swinging hammer.
I stand up. Father Julian’s tongue wasn’t cut out to frame me: that’s why it wasn’t dumped in my house with the hammer. It was cut out not as a message but from anger. Father Julian wouldn’t tell his killer something he needed to know. That made him angry.
That’s why there are holes in the walls even in the lounge of the rectory. What was he looking for?
The entire death scene is horrible under the focused beam of
a halogen bulb: it looks yellowish, like a faded newspaper article.
Everything in here looks old too, like it all came out of a 1960s catalogue. My immediate thought is that it can’t be a fun lifestyle being a priest. Everything you own has to be old and outdated.
It’s a lifestyle that doesn’t rely on monetary possessions, but on scripture and love and peace. In Father Julian’s case, perhaps a little too much love if it turns out he is Bruce Alderman’s
father.
The rectory is as messy as the office. Papers and books
everywhere. Furniture has been tipped up, the sofa and cushions torn open. The bedroom isn’t any better. The mattress has been pulled from the bed and sliced up, every drawer pulled out and tipped over, a clutter of clothes and toiletries spewed across the floor. In the bathroom the medicine cabinet is empty. So is the space beneath the sink. I head back into the bedroom. There are framed photographs on the drawers — some have been tipped down, some have cracked glass. I don’t recognise anyone in them except Father Julian and Bruce Alderman. Most of the others in the pictures are wearing cassocks.
I pull up the corner of the carpet in the bedroom then, and
it’s a case of like Father like son. There is an envelope beneath it. I wonder who came up with the idea first — Bruce or Father Julian — and then I make room for the possibility it was a genetic link.
The envelope is full of photographs, fifteen, maybe twenty of
them. Most are of babies; there are a few of young children and a couple in their teenage years. I recognise Bruce Alderman. The photos were taken when he wasn’t looking at the camera, as if he didn’t know the photographer was there. In most of the shots he is isolated, alone. But these images are out of context. They don’t mean anything by themselves.
It’s hard to know how many children I’m looking at here; the
ages and faces seem to change to a point where I can’t tell if a six-month-old baby is the same six-year-old or sixteen-year-old.
There are sixteen photos in total, but not necessarily sixteen kids.
It’s obvious the age of the photographs changes by the quality and condition of the paper they’ve been printed on, and by the clothes the kids are wearing. Some pictures look thirty years old, some look like they may only be a few. It’s impossible to know whether Father Julian took them or was sent them. Other than the photos of Bruce, all the others are taken closer up — indoor shots of Christmas presents being opened, of birthdays, happy moments caught in time.
I pull the carpet up further, then start lifting it in other areas of the rectory before returning to the office and doing the same thing there. Nothing. These photographs, these children — is this the secret Father Julian died for?
I head back down the corridor. I’ve been here over an hour
and Alderman is still waiting for me. I pass Father Julian’s office.
When I was here a month ago he apologised for the mess. He’d
obviously been looking for something. I squeeze my eyes shut
and try to focus. Something here is falling into place. I can see the edges of it, forming, forming … and I think of the key that Bruce Alderman gave me. No numbers, no markings. Did this
key belong to Father Julian? Is that what he was looking for?
Suddenly the door I used to enter the church opens up, then
closes. The muffled sound of a voice drifts down the corridor