Chris ETC. at 3210 Norbeck Rd #234, Silver Spring, MD 20906 US - At the Last Supper

The candles on the altar in St. Joseph’s Church had been burning for fifteen minutes; the footsteps of the latecomers had ceased. Restless fidgeting stirred apologetically among some of the morning faithful; others were transparently annoyed.

“Why is it,” Diane groaned under her breath, “that whenever I have a doctor’s appointment that priest is late?” The jab of her sharp elbow into her dozing husband’s side woke him; he gave her a so-what shrug as she pointed to her watch. 8:10 and no Father John in sight.

Maggie Wendell, who was recognized by all as the resident owner of the front pew, twisted her weary and lumpy body towards the back of the church; she squinted until she located Joe and Charlie sitting at either end of the last pew. With a poke of her wrinkled, quivering finger to the clock above the exit, she then jabbed the air towards the rectory; they nodded to each other and simultaneously rose straight into the air, ready to follow her orders.

Joe’s chuckle when they got outside made Charlie grin to himself. “Father John’s going to be embarrassed that we had to wake him up again; second time this month.”

Charlie nodded his agreement as they walked the short azalea-lined sidewalk to the rectory; he tried to brush away a twinge of gloom tugging at his heart. A faint breeze whimpered through the huge oak that stood guard in the front yard. “I guess these two years without Father Bill is wearing him out; remember when we had three priests here?”

“Sure do; things were a lot different back then.”

Joe pressed the doorbell and they waited; no answer, no sound from inside. After the third time, both men shaded their eyes as they leaned into the long window on the right side of the door. Their eyes focused first on the grand oval rug that defined the entrance and then moved to the imposing crucifix on the far wall. Suddenly Charlie shivered from an unexpected chill and he rubbed his clammy hands together. He stared at Joe and just as he opened his mouth, he heard a car approaching.

Charlie winced as he twisted his ankle and turned to see Joe’s granddaughter arriving for work; she was the computer coordinator at the parish school. He smiled when he saw that red Mustang; he remembered the day Joe had told him about it. When Jen noticed her grandfather, she braked with a screech and rolled down her window.

“What’s wrong, Grandpa? Waking up Father John again?” Her teasing grin faded away as soon as she saw their anxious steps and heard the worry in her grandfather’s words.

“Jen, we rang the bell three times.”

Jen swung back her long cinnamon hair and grabbed for her cell phone. Joe looked with such pride at his lovely young granddaughter; for three years she had been making a lot more money working in the county school system; that’s when she bought that car. But last summer when Father John told her that her former grade school was hurting for a computer teacher, she gave up the great money, “but my car,” not she had said with a serene smile.

She would forever be grateful to Father John; two years ago, the day before her wedding, the priest, her favorite priest at that time, Father Bill, had left the parish without a word. How could he? Why did he? Didn’t he know how brides want every detail planned and perfect? Father John had stepped in; he did everything she had wanted and even more than she expected; everyone at the wedding had been impressed with his charm; her words of praise for him knew no limits.

The answering machine came on. The three frowned at each other, their breaths in short puffs, their hearts pounding. Jen bit her lip and punched in 911. Oh, God, please, please, please, don’t let anything be wrong with Father John, she begged silently.

Within minutes Detective Chris Coleman and his partner, Rick Russell, careened into the driveway of St. Joseph’s parish, their siren blaring.

Following them Alice stumbled out of her car, banged her knee on the edge of the car door and muttered to herself for being so clumsy. She usually made it in time for Mass, but everything had gone wrong this morning. She would just have to live through a bad hair day, and promised herself an appointment at the beauty salon before the weekend. “Oh, please, not Maggie,” she whispered as she watched a dark-suited broad-shouldered stranger coming straight towards her.

She heard Joe yelling in the background. “Alice, open the door; we can’t seem to waken Father John.”

A deep voice above her asked, “Who are you?” and she looked up into the darkest deep-set brown eyes she had ever seen; the badge he pulled out of his jacket, and the heavy hand that felt so light on her shoulder, made her realize her hands had turned to ice.

“I’m Alice Manning, the secretary, what’s wrong?”

“Would you open the door?”

“Of course.” She fumbled for her keys; with her left hand steadying her trembling right hand she felt the lock click its release, and she shoved open the heavy door.

 Her stomach twisted itself into knots so tight she heaved for breath as she stepped aside for the detectives. Just like walls, she thought, as she stretched her neck to see first around the one, then his partner.

”Father John Martin! Father John Martin!”

He’ll be so embarrassed, Alice told herself, to see these officers standing at the foot of his steps. She strained to hear his footsteps, but nothing except a forbidding silence filled the room. The fright in her stomach was churning out dread.

Coleman turned to Joe, Charlie, and Alice; again those deep-set eyes spoke control and security as he asked them to wait outside. Walking out in a straight line, they saw Jen still in her car, her head on her hands clasped to the steering wheel.

When the screech of the police siren had punctured the stillness inside the church, the twenty or so people gasped as one. They stumbled out of their pews in their rush towards the door, bumping elbows, tripping over themselves and one another. Some stopped long enough to mumble a quick sorry while a few shoved their way through every empty space; a young child began to cry.

As they pushed through the church doors, Joe and Chuck waved to them to stay where they were. Huddled at the entrance they watched the two detectives emerge from the rectory and walk towards Alice.

Even though 500 yards separated them, they heard Alice’s broken-hearted sobs and watched her shoulders rising and falling as she tried to breathe. Father John Martin was dead; before they could cry out from the pain that stabbed at them, they overheard one word in Jen’s phone call to her husband. “Murdered.”

Their grief burst into panic. Shivering from head to toe, on a warm May morning, they clutched at one another. The child had stopped crying while his wide, wet blue eyes moved around the circle of faces surrounding him; he was too young to be surprised that even the men were wiping away the dampness from their cheeks.

Soon a steady stream of cars flooded the driveway as parents arrived with children who attended St. Joseph’s School. Disbelief and stunned anguish traveled from one car to the next. They looked around for Sister Ann, the school principal. “There she is,” came a shout from one of the eighth grade boys. Everyone rushed towards her, stopping only inches away from this small woman commanding their attention while hastily wiping her eyes.

Mothers and fathers panted for air and pulled their children close to them as they cried out with one voice, “Not Father John! Tell us what happened.”

A single voice from the side shouted, “Why are we being punished? Why has evil come here?”

Sr. Ann raised her hand, and said simply, “Please, take the children home. We know nothing yet. Please. Go home and pray with your children.”

Dazed parents turned and walked to their cars. The bus pulled into the driveway with all the student faces pressed against the windows. Sr. Ann raised her hand again; even the bus driver knew he must stop right where he was. Seeing Sr. Ann headed for the bus, the students dropped into their seats, their eyes darting from one friend to another.

As the door opened, they watched Sr. Ann as she forced her legs to carry her up the three steps; she looked into their bewildered faces. She failed to smother the tremble in her voice as she spoke her terrible message.

Tears began to flow immediately; some older students bit their lips in defiance while stinging trickles ran down their cheeks. An eighth grade girl sitting in the front seat screamed, “No, No, No. Not Father John.”

Sister Ann squeezed her hand and motioned for all to follow her to the cafeteria. She promised to stay with them until their parents could come to pick them up.

In the parking lot, the tragic scene had already been invaded by TV vans and pushy reporters loaded with cameras and microphones. Shoving their way into small clusters of weeping parishioners, they began asking the mindless “How are you feeling” questions.

One reporter shouted to the crowd, “Was there evidence that Father John was not alone when this happened?”

Glaring looks stopped his next question. Some shook their heads, and walked away; others began shouting their disgust.

When two more detectives from homicide arrived, they were grateful that the crowd had thinned. Coleman called them upstairs to the priests’ bedroom. He began to speak, but paused and coughed to clear his throat. His partner, Russell, stared in disbelief at this unfamiliar behavior in his always-in-control partner.

“Be extremely careful here,” Coleman began. Again, he cleared his throat. “We can’t miss a single clue, do not overlook anything, no matter how small,” he continued with an urgency that implied a personal obligation.

The chaos he sensed in Coleman puzzled Russell. St. Joseph’s was Russell’s parish; Father John had visited his home, and the two men had shared many good laughs. Russell had admired his pastor, and knew how devastating this murder would be to the congregation. He understood why his encounter with this crime was personal, but what was Coleman’s struggle?

His eyes roamed around the room of the dead priest. In the chilled room, the lamp lay on the floor, the light bulb shattered where it fell. The yellow blanket and top sheet had been wrenched from the bed and the phone cord yanked from the wall. From the crack in the screen it was obvious the laptop had slammed to the floor along with everything on the table—notes, books, pens, paperclips—were scattered in all directions.

The large mahogany dresser had been shoved across the room, leaving a cruel check-mark scratch on the shiny hardwood floor, and now it sat at a desolate angle near a wide rectangular window. In the mournful stillness the smashed mirror reflected a fractured image of the room.

Father John Martin, age 47, black hair with silver specks, graying at the temples, lay on the floor his open dark eyes fixed on the ceiling. His blue-striped pajamas were ripped and bloody, his rather muscular arms were crossed over his chest rigid in defeat. He must have stayed with some kind of exercise program, thought Russell, though he had told me two Christmases ago he was giving up golf.

On his arms rested a Bible opened to Matthew Chapter 26. The faint hint of the smile frozen on his face was so utterly out of place that Russell found himself momentarily paralyzed. He willed his eyes away from the body for a few seconds, only to hear the booming laugh that had often come out of this man. Swallowing his gulp of grief, he leaned over closer to the body and counted the stab wounds; there were twelve. He added that information to his notes.

Coleman was also looking at the dead priest. He found himself full of questions for God, which did not make much sense because he had decided a long time ago that God was uninvolved in life here on earth. The remnant of his childhood faith prevented a total dismissal of the idea of God, but life had taught him that God had no power. The only way to survive was to be strong and self-sufficient; if you were careful and did the right things, if you were fair, you would be safe. His insides squirmed; he knew that was not true; he had seen too many good people killed. Which, of course, merely proved his conclusion about God. God could not protect you, no matter how much you prayed, how good you were, or whatever else you did to please Him.

So, he asked himself, what happened, here, Father John? Were you a good priest, and your God did nothing for you? Or were you something else? Why was someone so angry with you? Was your life a lie, and God just gave you up? A God of justice; that might explain a few things for me, but a God who does not care explains a lot more.

“Any thoughts so far?” Russell’s question cut through the muddle in Coleman’s head.

“Not much. You?”

“Looks personal to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The Bible; I think it was opened for a reason to Matthew, Chapter 26. Plus the twelve stabs; one or two would have been enough to kill him; someone is giving us a message.”

Satisfied that they were collecting the evidence and doing everything right, Coleman realized it would be late in the afternoon before the coroner’s office could remove the body from the rectory. “I guess we’ll know more after the autopsy. Come out back with me.”

The back door leading into the kitchen was open; the lock had fresh scratches; maybe the crime lab would find something useful there. No dead bolt. Coleman pointed to the security system, in working order but it had not been armed.

Some marigolds under the kitchen windows had been tramped on. Russell called for the photographer to take a picture of a large footprint. Two deep impressions from something else were another few feet away.

The lid for one of two trashcans hung slanted on a bulging trash bag. If he threw the knife away I doubt he took time to tie up the bag, thought Coleman. He lifted the other lid; only an empty Cheerios box.

They continued to search under all the shrubs and hedges. “Get someone on the roof to look at those gutters,” yelled Coleman.

“I don’t see anything else, Rick. Do you? I guess we might as well head back to the station.”

Chris Coleman and Rick Russell had been partners for three years. Coleman was 42, two years older than his partner. Coleman was exactly six feet tall; Russell was a mere half-inch shorter. Both gave themselves high marks for being in good physical shape. Coleman tended to ignore a minor detail, as he called it; only fifteen pounds overweight, a fact his wife reminded him, every now and then, he could change before it got worse, but only if he chose to do so; she never bugged him, though, and that he appreciated. She’s a patient woman, thought Coleman, especially with me. I wish I could tell her what I feel, but I don’t want to lose her; she’s such a believer, how does she put up with me?

He and Russell worked well together sharing an unwavering dedication to the ideal of justice for all. They despised any sign of weakness within themselves but both became very protective of anyone who was clearly vulnerable. Each man always brushed off any compliments to his tender side.

Coleman especially would never admit, least of all to himself, that tears, especially a woman’s tears, stripped him of objectivity. To be honest, eyes pulled him into their inescapable mysteries. What he did not realize was how his eyes gave strength to others.

 The partners talked about their wives and kids, sports and politics. They thought they knew each other well, but were typically masculine when it came to sharing their personal beliefs. So it was a reticent Coleman who said, “What do you think that priest did to make someone so angry?”

“What he did? What do you mean? You think this is about some kind of revenge? Are you suggesting that he abused someone?”

“Isn’t that the first thing you thought? You said yourself it was personal.”

“True, but I didn’t mean something like that. I know… I knew, Father John; he was my pastor.”

 Wow, thought Coleman; you sure kept that part of your life a secret. “You’re a Catholic! I didn’t know. What did you think of him?” What would Russell think if he knew I was Catholic, too? Well, in name anyway, Coleman laughed to himself.

“He was a great man and a remarkable priest. We trusted him completely; no reservations.”

“So, then you must question how God let this happen.”

“No, I don’t.” Russell avoided Chris’ stare. He never felt comfortable questioning God about anything; somehow, he always tried to believe what he had been taught as a child—it was always God’s will, and God knew better than we did. “

Well, what good is a God who does not or cannot protect you?”

That’s the question Russell had never faced, and he had no answer now. “That’s not why I believe in God; I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, but I do acknowledge that there is a higher power in my life.” That sure was weak, Russell admitted only to himself.

“Well, this might be hard for you to accept, but maybe Father John wasn’t the priest you thought he was. Many priests have fooled a lot of people.

Anger and resentment swelled within Russell; he and Coleman had never had this type of conversation, and he did not like where this was headed. “Not so with Father John; I just know it could not be.”

Coleman would not let go. Knowing that Russell was Catholic made him even more insistent. “You saw the results of rage back there, Rick. I’m just saying we have to be open to any possibility.”

“OK, I know what you’re saying, and usually I’d agree with you. But, I can tell you with certainty, this crime has nothing to do with any secret life of Father John. This is something else; I’m positive. I’d stake my life on it.”

“Take it easy, Rick; we’ll find the truth. And I hope you’re right; I really do.” A yawning surge of loneliness erupted in Coleman’s stomach. He shoved it deep into an internal cavern with all his other questions.

An anxiety spasm shattered Russell’s insides but he pushed it away as Coleman pulled into his parking spot and they hurried into the station. The chief and the captain motioned them to a conference room. Once inside, Chief Joe Flannery, in his no-nonsense fashion, gave them the expected announcement. “I know you realize that solving this murder is our top priority. So the first item on the agenda is setting up a task force.”

Before the Chief could ask for volunteers Coleman spoke up. “I want to head this task force, Chief.”

 “Any particular reason?”

“No, not really; Russell and I were the first on the scene. I do guarantee this my total undivided attention.”

 Russell squirmed and got lost in his doubts. We’re starting off with two different views; I’m afraid we’re almost at opposite ends on this. I wonder if this will be the end of our partnership. Chris is a great guy, but I just don’t understand why he’s on this God-has-no-power thing. He all but regretted the Chief’s answer. “

OK, it’s yours. I’m depending on you for a swift resolution. Anything to add, Captain?”

“Just that you’ll have full cooperation, including state level support. Coleman, let me know by the end of the day how many men you will need.”

“Thanks, Captain. You, too, Chief.”

“One more thing,” said Chief Flannery. “The bishop is issuing a statement at 6:00. You should be there.”

Throughout the day as reports of Father John’s violent death spread, people began gathering at St. Joseph’s to seek solace from other friends and parishioners. When workers left their jobs, they also headed for the church. A mysterious pull was drawing them to the place where they had celebrated Mass with their beloved priest just two days earlier.

The darkened church comforted yet confused them. How would they continue believing in a loving God? Was it possible for the pain to go away; could their anger be quelled? Why did the Almighty allow this to happen? How could anyone expect forgiveness for such an evil?

Everyone was anxious to hear the evening news. What would the bishop say, and what would he do with their church? Six years ago St. Joseph’s had three priests residing there. The oldest one, Monsignor Robert Wetzel, had officially retired, but continued to say Mass on a daily basis until he died three years ago; there was no one to take his place. Then Father Bill had gone away a year later; no one seemed to know why. Now they had no priest.

By 5:40 Coleman and Russell were in the bishop’s office, jammed against the back wall behind the swarm of reporters. Coleman studied the gaunt figure of Bishop Steele as he sat at his desk staring down at his notepad; not one strand of his thinning white hair was out of place. Even at this distance Coleman could see a persuasive kindness softening his solemn face. As the program manager signaled the countdown of seconds, the bishop put on his rimless glasses and cleared his throat.

Coleman moved his head back and forth to see around the microphones and cameras. Bishop Steele clutched his notes in front of him. The unsteadiness in his well-manicured hands was barely perceptible. Coleman could see determination in the whiteness of the bishop’s knuckles. He wondered if the bishop’s uneasiness meant more than the obvious. His voice was tense but unwavering; his aging body claimed an unexpected strength.

“Good evening. As you have no doubt heard, Father John Martin of St. Joseph’s Church was found brutally murdered this morning.”

He paused, swallowed the lump in his throat, and sipped from the glass of water nearby.

“We ask your prayers for Father John’s family, and for the congregation of St. Joseph’s. The mystery of evil is always a challenge to our belief in a loving God.”

Coleman stole a quick glance at Russell; his eyes were fixed on the bishop; his jaw was rigid; his shoulders were pulled back, locked in attention.

“But I urge you to put yourselves with your questions, your pain, and your anger into God’s embrace.”

Coleman’s whole body tensed. What! What was that word he used? Embrace? He had said to put yourself in God’s embrace. If you could do that, Coleman argued with himself, then how could you suffer evil? If there were such a thing as God’s embrace, why didn’t he protect those who were faithful? Faithfulness was what he saw in his mother and his wife. I guess those words work for some people, he thought; but he was glad that at least his wife didn’t bug him about this, either. His mother, though, had been a different story. And being her only child, made it worse; she had tried so hard to convince him, but once he had learned of God’s impotence, he would not let anyone be his savior.

“Funeral arrangements will be made after the autopsy is completed.” The bishop hesitated. He lifted his head and looked into the camera, his blue eyes, wet and raw, aroused again the loneliness, and again Coleman sent it back to its cave.

 “All I ask of you now is to pray. Pray for this city, pray for yourselves, and pray for the police. Pray for me. And I join my prayers with yours. May God give us peace.”

He bowed his head, his sad sigh missed as the camera faded away to a reporter.

Coleman found himself both fascinated and perturbed by Bishop Steele. How well did you really know Father John, he thought. And how do you know about God’s embrace, he heard himself screaming inside. I am sure, Bishop Steele, we will meet face to face very soon