"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 16

Thursday, November 11th, 10:10 a.m.

The doorbell rang at the St. Lawrence rectory. Fr. Dan sat at the kitchen table reviewing a pile of paperwork recently sent over from the Archdiocese. He cringed when he heard the bell. Oh, I hope it’s not her, he immediately thought to himself.

The priest cautiously approached the front door and peered through the peephole. A huge, distorted eyeball peered back at him from outside. Fr. Dan yanked the door open and exclaimed, “You knucklehead! Why do you always do that?!”

“Because I know you always look to see who’s standing here,” his brother Mike replied with a laugh. The cop entered the rectory and followed his older brother into the kitchen.

“Want some coffee?” Fr. Dan asked, even though he was already in the process of pouring a cup for his brother.

“Is the pope Catholic?” Mike answered. “Of course I want some coffee. I’m a cop, don’t forget.”

“Milk’s in the fridge,” Fr. Dan said as he handed over the steaming mug. “So, Mike, what’s up? Find out anything about the license plate?”

“Yeah, kind of interesting, Danny.” The cop sat down at the kitchen table and carefully pushed some papers aside to make room for his coffee mug. “You’re as messy as I am,” he said. “You should see my cubicle at headquarters. I’ve stopped trying to keep it neat. It’s a losing battle. I just bring in a snow shovel once a week to move the piles of paper around.”

“The age of computers,” the priest said with a smile. “We were suppose to have paperless offices by now. But instead we just print out twenty copies of everything. So Mike,” he said, shifting to a more serious tone, “What did you find out?”

“Well, at first I found nothing on the plate. Speaking of computers, the main database at Motor Vehicle returned nothing. No match. So I figured your, uh, your ‘source,’ had given you some bum information. By the way, you’re not gonna tell me who your source is, are you?”

Fr. Dan shook his head. “Can’t do it, bro. The kid is—I mean, the ‘source’ is scared to death. I had to promise.”

“So it’s a kid, huh?” Mike said.

“Dammit, Mike, why are you grilling me?”

“Danny, come on, I’m not grilling you. I didn’t even ask you to tell me. I just wanted to confirm what you said the other day, that you’re not going to tell me.”

“Yeah, I can’t, Mike. I can’t.”

“OK, fine,” the cop said. “So, I have a buddy over at Motor Vehicle. And I asked him to do me a favor and look through his old paper archives. He wasn’t really thrilled about that, I can tell you. I had to promise him a case of beer. Hey, I should send the bill to your church.”

“Very funny,” Fr. Dan said with a smirk.

“Well, he finally called me back this morning. He actually dug out the old record. That dealer plate was issued in the 1960s, but in 1985 it expired and was never renewed. The plate was originally issued to Wilkins Ford.”

“The car dealer? Right here in town?” the priest asked.

“Right. I’m not sure why they never renewed it. Dealer plates are golden, you know? When you have one of those on a car it’s like having diplomatic immunity. The cops assume the car is owned by a dealership with a big group insurance policy, so unless the driver is blatantly breaking traffic laws, we usually leave them alone. The only reasons I can think of why one of those plates would not be renewed is if the dealer went out of business—obviously not the case here—or if the plate was lost or stolen.”

“Hmm, that’s interesting, Mike. What do you think?”

“Realistically, I think it’s just an old lost plate. Someone found it or stole it years ago and realized it’s the perfect thing to slap on the back of your car if you’re gonna commit a crime.”

“Well, you’re going to check it out, aren’t you?” Fr. Dan asked. “I mean, what did the other guys at headquarters say? It’s worth pursuing, right?”

“I didn’t tell anybody,” the cop replied. “And I’m not going to.”

“What?” Fr. Dan said incredulously. “What are you talking about? This is a really important lead. Even I know that!”

“Hold on, Dan. Hold on,” Mike said, raising both palms toward his brother. “Of course it’s important. I realize that. It’s definitely worth checking out. The problem is, if I tell anybody, specifically the guy I’m suppose to tell, my boss, I already know what he’ll say.”

“What will he say?”

“He’ll say, ‘Meaningless. Dead end. Make a note in the file and forget about it.’”

“Really? Why?”

“I truly do not know, Danny. It’s the weirdest thing. He is allocating more department resources trying to track down somebody who stole a bicycle off a porch than for these two murders. It makes no sense.”

“What about the state police?” the priest asked. “Aren’t they doing most of the murder investigation anyway.”

“Yes and no,” Mike answered. “They’re certainly doing a lot. They have all the fancy, expensive tools, like the mobile crime lab and the DNA testing and all that stuff. But the local PD still does most of the grunt work, knocking on doors, following leads, asking questions. And besides, if I gave this information directly to the state police—meaning I’d be going over the head of my boss, Captain Psycho—within an hour I’d be a Meter Maid and my career would be over.”

“So what are you going to do?” Fr. Dan asked.

“I’m gonna look into it myself, off the record. Maybe sniff around that car dealer’s place and see if anybody remembers anything.”

“When are you going to do that?”

“In my spare time, Danny.”

“Spare time?” the priest laughed. “You’re just like me! You have no spare time.”

“Yeah, I know,” Mike said. “Maybe I’ll give up sleeping this week. That’ll free up some extra hours.”

Fr. Dan nodded his head and smiled. “You get used to it after a while,” he said. “I gave up sleeping when I was assigned to this parish. On the plus side, though, it’s kind of interesting to go through life as a zombie.”

“Coffee, me lad!” the cop declared. He stood up and went to pour himself another cup. “A steady supply of coffee be the only thing standin’ between civilized society and complete lawlessness!” Mike was acting silly, affecting a rather bad brogue, reminiscent of a 1930s cops and robbers movie. “If there be no coffee, why, we would never solve a single case. And don’t forgit the occasional nip of Irish coffee,” he added with a leer.

“OK, OK, give me a break,” Fr. Dan said as he stood up from the table. “It’s too early for Pat O’Brien impersonations. So you’re going to check it out?”

“Yeah. No problem, Dan,” the cop said in his own voice. “This, uh, this case really means a lot to you, huh?”

Fr. Dan nodded. Mike continued cautiously, “Um, it’s none of my business, I know, but, uh, I didn’t really understand what you were talking about the other day, you know, when we saw Jitterbug’s mom.”

Fr. Dan shrugged. After a few moments he said, “Nah, don’t worry about. It’s something I have to deal with.”

“You sure? Are you OK?” Mike asked. “Is there something you want to talk about?”

The priest laughed out loud. “Now that’s the question I usually ask.”

“Well, I worry about you sometimes, Danny. I just want to make sure everything’s OK. You know, you’re a healthy, normal guy, and she’s a really healthy gal, and…”

“Oh yeah, she’s really healthy all right. You should feel how hard she can hug the stuffing out of you.”

“Excuse me?” Mike said in surprise.

“Well, I guess that’s kind of the problem, Mike. She’s in the middle of a crisis, right? So she goes to her parish priest for comfort, let’s say a shoulder to cry on and maybe some firm, prolonged hugs. And her priest,” Fr. Dan continued, shifting to the third-person, “who apparently and maybe unfortunately is still a somewhat healthy guy… Well, let’s just say this parish priest kind of enjoys the hugs…a lot. More than a lot. And let’s just say his imagination starts to run a little wild…” Fr. Dan’s voice trailed off. He gazed out the kitchen window.

The room was silent for a few minutes. Finally Mike said, “Danny, I don’t know what to say. You’re the strongest guy I’ve ever known. I mean, strong as in strength of character. While I’m one of the weakest guys I know. If anyone can deal with certain situations, with temptations, it’s you. And since my marriage is wrecked and I’m currently shacking up with a very lovely, uh, high-maintenance airhead, it’s not like I’m exactly the best guy in the world to be giving out advice about women, you know? Especially to priests!”

Fr. Dan laughed. “Mike, you don’t have to say a thing. There is no specific advice needed here. I’m just glad I could tell you what’s on my mind, get it off my chest. It’ll work out, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Mike said. “Hey, look at the time. I’ve got to get going, OK? I’ll see you soon.”

“Right,” Fr. Dan answered. The two brothers hugged. As they released their grasp of each other, Mike whispered, “So be honest, who’s the better hugger, me or her?”

“Get out of here, you knucklehead!” Fr. Dan yelled while offering a broad smile. Mike grabbed his jacket and walked toward the front door. He turned back and waved to his brother, who stood in the kitchen watching him leave. When the front door closed, Fr. Dan said out loud, to no one in particular, “Definitely her.”

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