Richard’s?”
“Yes suh.”
“For how long?”
“Met him ’bout a week after I come up. Billy Jordan taken me to Savior House and Bishop Richard were there. Told me I could move in and I were most grateful, not havin’ much money ’n’ all.”
“How long did you live there?”
“Until past December, a year and nine months. Yer suppose t’ move out when yer eighteen, but he let me stay on for almost a year. I helped ’round the church and such. Then in December me and Linda got us a place over on Region Street.”
“So he didn’t make you move?”
“Oh no suh. Fact is, I think he woulda preferred for us t’ stay on at the house but… ’twere time t’ move on.”
“Why?”
“We, Linda and me, we be sleepin’ together. Y’know, sneakin’ inta the dorm after lights-out and, uh …”
“Did you get caught?”
“No suh, but we sure would of.”
“So you didn’t exactly leave with his blessing?”
“Well, he tole us we always be welcome at the house. There weren’t no hard feelin’s ’bout it, if that what ye be askin’.”
“You didn’t have any kind of fight … or argument … with the archbishop.”
Aaron shook his head. “Never did.”
“How about Linda?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is she still living there? On Region Street?”
“No suh. She moved.”
“Where to?”
“Ohio. Went back home. Weren’t easy, y’know. I had this job at the libury, cleanin’ up. Three dollar an hour. But she couldn’t get a job. One mornin’ she just up and left. Wrote me a note g’bye.”
“Pretty tough.”
He shrugged. “Guess it were time. ’Twasn’t there was hard feelin’s, just hard times.”
“But you weren’t particularly bent out of shape over her leaving?”
“No suh. Y’know, I been missin’ her some.”
“Did you kill Bishop Richard, Aaron?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No suh.”
“Did you see it happen?”
Aaron looked at him with his wide, saucer eyes and said nothing.
“Were you there when it happened?”
Aaron slowly nodded.
“But you didn’t actually
see
it happen, is that what you’re saying?”
The young man looked down at the floor and picked at a fingernail.
“Guess so,” he said.
“Do you know who did it?”
Stampler still did not answer.
“All right, let’s try this. Are you afraid of the person who killed the archbishop?”
Aaron looked up and nodded.
“So you do know who did it?”
Aaron did not answer.
The cab inched down the street, its driver bitching every foot of the way, and stopped in front of the church. In the back seat, Vail finished reading the story in the afternoon paper for the third time.
“Shoulda never let you con me into this,” the driver said. “Like drivin’ on fuckin’ ice, it is, man.”
“You
are
driving on ice,” Vail said. “And I didn’t con you into anything, I offered you a twenty-dollar tip.”
“Look, you gonna pray, pray we get home. Looks like it’s gonna start again.” The driver nervously scanned the dark clouds that swept over the city.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Vail said. “Wait.”
The Cathedral of Saint Catherine of the Lake was the oldest church in the city. Archbishop Rushman, a purist, had refused to allow any changes in its structure. It was still the same huge brick manse it had been when it was built 145 years before. The steeple towered above the trees on Lakeview Drive and was visible from far out on the lake, a reminder to the crews of the pigboats and barges as they lumbered into port that the Roman way was the best way.
Vail looked up at the spire and suddenly remembered his granny, doing the thing with her fingers entwined in a pyramid: “Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors”—and flipping her hands over and wiggling her fingers—“and here are the people.”
He walked cautiously across the ice-draped yard to the rectory, a stark, stem-looking addendum to the cathedral, and entered the rectory office.
“Yes suh.”
“For how long?”
“Met him ’bout a week after I come up. Billy Jordan taken me to Savior House and Bishop Richard were there. Told me I could move in and I were most grateful, not havin’ much money ’n’ all.”
“How long did you live there?”
“Until past December, a year and nine months. Yer suppose t’ move out when yer eighteen, but he let me stay on for almost a year. I helped ’round the church and such. Then in December me and Linda got us a place over on Region Street.”
“So he didn’t make you move?”
“Oh no suh. Fact is, I think he woulda preferred for us t’ stay on at the house but… ’twere time t’ move on.”
“Why?”
“We, Linda and me, we be sleepin’ together. Y’know, sneakin’ inta the dorm after lights-out and, uh …”
“Did you get caught?”
“No suh, but we sure would of.”
“So you didn’t exactly leave with his blessing?”
“Well, he tole us we always be welcome at the house. There weren’t no hard feelin’s ’bout it, if that what ye be askin’.”
“You didn’t have any kind of fight … or argument … with the archbishop.”
Aaron shook his head. “Never did.”
“How about Linda?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is she still living there? On Region Street?”
“No suh. She moved.”
“Where to?”
“Ohio. Went back home. Weren’t easy, y’know. I had this job at the libury, cleanin’ up. Three dollar an hour. But she couldn’t get a job. One mornin’ she just up and left. Wrote me a note g’bye.”
“Pretty tough.”
He shrugged. “Guess it were time. ’Twasn’t there was hard feelin’s, just hard times.”
“But you weren’t particularly bent out of shape over her leaving?”
“No suh. Y’know, I been missin’ her some.”
“Did you kill Bishop Richard, Aaron?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No suh.”
“Did you see it happen?”
Aaron looked at him with his wide, saucer eyes and said nothing.
“Were you there when it happened?”
Aaron slowly nodded.
“But you didn’t actually
see
it happen, is that what you’re saying?”
The young man looked down at the floor and picked at a fingernail.
“Guess so,” he said.
“Do you know who did it?”
Stampler still did not answer.
“All right, let’s try this. Are you afraid of the person who killed the archbishop?”
Aaron looked up and nodded.
“So you do know who did it?”
Aaron did not answer.
The cab inched down the street, its driver bitching every foot of the way, and stopped in front of the church. In the back seat, Vail finished reading the story in the afternoon paper for the third time.
“Shoulda never let you con me into this,” the driver said. “Like drivin’ on fuckin’ ice, it is, man.”
“You
are
driving on ice,” Vail said. “And I didn’t con you into anything, I offered you a twenty-dollar tip.”
“Look, you gonna pray, pray we get home. Looks like it’s gonna start again.” The driver nervously scanned the dark clouds that swept over the city.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Vail said. “Wait.”
The Cathedral of Saint Catherine of the Lake was the oldest church in the city. Archbishop Rushman, a purist, had refused to allow any changes in its structure. It was still the same huge brick manse it had been when it was built 145 years before. The steeple towered above the trees on Lakeview Drive and was visible from far out on the lake, a reminder to the crews of the pigboats and barges as they lumbered into port that the Roman way was the best way.
Vail looked up at the spire and suddenly remembered his granny, doing the thing with her fingers entwined in a pyramid: “Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors”—and flipping her hands over and wiggling her fingers—“and here are the people.”
He walked cautiously across the ice-draped yard to the rectory, a stark, stem-looking addendum to the cathedral, and entered the rectory office.
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