1789, a restaurant a short block away from the church. Kinderman. knew him, for he also owned The Tombs, a popular rathskeller where the detective had often met with a friend who had died many years before.
“One or two more questions, please,” said Kinderman. “It will only take a minute. I’ll hurry. First, Mister Pate rn o. Would you kindly step back inside the box?”
The confessional was divided into three distinct sections. In a middle compartment equipped with a door, a confessor sat in darkness, with perhaps a small amount of light seeping in through a grille at the top of the door. The other two compartments, one on each side of the confessor, were equipped with kneelers and, again, a door. There was a sliding panel on each side. When a penitent was making his confession, the priest had the panel in the open position. That confession finished, he slid the panel shut and then opened the panel on the other side, where the other penitent was waiting.
At approximately six thirty–five that morning, a man in his twenties, as yet unidentified but described as having pale green eyes, a shaven head and wearing a heavy blue turtle–neck sweater, exited the penitent’s box on the left after making a fairly long confession, and his place was then taken by George Paterno. At that time, the deceased, Father Kenneth Bermingham, once the president of Georgetown University, had turned to confess a man on the right, also still unidentified, but described as wearing white cloth trousers and a black woolen windbreaker with a hood. After six or seven minutes, this man emerged, and his place was taken by an elderly man with a shopping bag. Then, after a period of time described as “long,” the old man emerged, apparently without having made his confession, inasmuch as Paterno’s turn for confession should have come before his; yet Paterno wasn’t seen to come out of the box. The old man’s place had been taken by McCooey and both he and Paterno had then waited in the darkness, with McCooey asserting he’d assumed that the priest was busy with Paterno, while Paterno’s story was that he’d assumed that the man in the windbreaker hadn’t finished. Whatever the truth of their averrals, neither Volpe’s nor Coleman’s turn ever came. It was Coleman who had noticed the blood flowing out from under the door.
“Mister Paterno?”
Paterno was kneeling in the left–hand penitent’s box. The color was gradually coming back to what appeared to be a dark olive complexion. He stared back at Kinderman and blinked.
“While you were in the box,” the detective continued, “the man in the windbreaker was on the other side, and then after that the elderly man and then Mister McCooey. And you said you heard the panel sliding shut and into place on the opposite side at some point. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“And you said that you presumed that the man in the windbreaker had finished.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear the panel sliding again? Like maybe the priest had forgotten something that he wanted to tell him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Kinderman nodded, then he closed Paterno ’s door and stepped into the confessor’s box and sat. “I will close the panel on your side,” he told Paterno. “After that, listen carefully, please.” He closed the panel on Paterno’s side, and then slowly slid open the panel on the other. He opened Paterno’s panel again. “Did you hear something?”
“No.”
Kinderman considered this answer thoughtfully. When Paterno started to get up, he said, “Stay where you are, please, Mister Paterno.”
Kinderman stepped out of the confessor’s compartment and knelt in the penitent’s box on the right. He slid the panel open and looked over at Paterno. “Close your panel and then listen once again,” he instructed. Paterno closed his panel. Kinderman reached inside the confessor’s box, found the pull on the back of the panel and slid the panel closed as far as he could
“One or two more questions, please,” said Kinderman. “It will only take a minute. I’ll hurry. First, Mister Pate rn o. Would you kindly step back inside the box?”
The confessional was divided into three distinct sections. In a middle compartment equipped with a door, a confessor sat in darkness, with perhaps a small amount of light seeping in through a grille at the top of the door. The other two compartments, one on each side of the confessor, were equipped with kneelers and, again, a door. There was a sliding panel on each side. When a penitent was making his confession, the priest had the panel in the open position. That confession finished, he slid the panel shut and then opened the panel on the other side, where the other penitent was waiting.
At approximately six thirty–five that morning, a man in his twenties, as yet unidentified but described as having pale green eyes, a shaven head and wearing a heavy blue turtle–neck sweater, exited the penitent’s box on the left after making a fairly long confession, and his place was then taken by George Paterno. At that time, the deceased, Father Kenneth Bermingham, once the president of Georgetown University, had turned to confess a man on the right, also still unidentified, but described as wearing white cloth trousers and a black woolen windbreaker with a hood. After six or seven minutes, this man emerged, and his place was taken by an elderly man with a shopping bag. Then, after a period of time described as “long,” the old man emerged, apparently without having made his confession, inasmuch as Paterno’s turn for confession should have come before his; yet Paterno wasn’t seen to come out of the box. The old man’s place had been taken by McCooey and both he and Paterno had then waited in the darkness, with McCooey asserting he’d assumed that the priest was busy with Paterno, while Paterno’s story was that he’d assumed that the man in the windbreaker hadn’t finished. Whatever the truth of their averrals, neither Volpe’s nor Coleman’s turn ever came. It was Coleman who had noticed the blood flowing out from under the door.
“Mister Paterno?”
Paterno was kneeling in the left–hand penitent’s box. The color was gradually coming back to what appeared to be a dark olive complexion. He stared back at Kinderman and blinked.
“While you were in the box,” the detective continued, “the man in the windbreaker was on the other side, and then after that the elderly man and then Mister McCooey. And you said you heard the panel sliding shut and into place on the opposite side at some point. Do you remember that?”
“Yes.”
“And you said that you presumed that the man in the windbreaker had finished.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear the panel sliding again? Like maybe the priest had forgotten something that he wanted to tell him?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Kinderman nodded, then he closed Paterno ’s door and stepped into the confessor’s box and sat. “I will close the panel on your side,” he told Paterno. “After that, listen carefully, please.” He closed the panel on Paterno’s side, and then slowly slid open the panel on the other. He opened Paterno’s panel again. “Did you hear something?”
“No.”
Kinderman considered this answer thoughtfully. When Paterno started to get up, he said, “Stay where you are, please, Mister Paterno.”
Kinderman stepped out of the confessor’s compartment and knelt in the penitent’s box on the right. He slid the panel open and looked over at Paterno. “Close your panel and then listen once again,” he instructed. Paterno closed his panel. Kinderman reached inside the confessor’s box, found the pull on the back of the panel and slid the panel closed as far as he could
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