~ At The Last Supper ~

by

Sr. Christine Kresho

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 parishioners, some weeping, some looking around in silence and a few women clutching their stomachs, 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. His eyes went back to the face and lingered on the smile. Who did you see, Father? The angels, a friend, your parents?

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."