If Angels Fall

FOURTEEN

Vassie Laptak, the choirmaster for Our Lady Queen of Tearful Sorrows RomanCatholic Church, tapped his baton crisply on the podium’s edge, halting “TheLord is Risen.” He pushed aside his wild, maestrolike strands of ivory hair andstudied his sheet music.

The North American Choir finals in San Diego werethree months off. Our Lady was a contender and with God’s help they could win.Victory would mean an audience with The Holy Father in Rome. Vassie lay awakenights imagining how it would be. Our Lady’s singers were spiritually dedicated,but today his number-three contralto, the dwarfish spinster who cleaned thechurch, was off.

“Florence, dear, you are not feeling well today.” Hereviewed his sheet music on the dais.

Florence Schafer flushed. “Why I’m fine, Vassie.Really.”

Agnes Crawford, the choir’s star soprano, put her handon Florence’s shoulder. “Are you sure, Flo? You look pale. Would like somewater? Margaret, fetch some water for little Flo.”

Florence loathed that name. Standing at four feet, sixinches, she was, in the clinical sense, a dwarf.

“Please don’t bother. I’m fine.”

Vassie regarded her sternly through his fallen locks.

“I wasn’t concentrating, I’m sorry.”

“Very well.” Vassie sighed, nodding for the organistto resume. Pipes and voices resounded through the stone church, but Florence’sattention wandered again.

She admired the statue of the Blessed Virgin in thealcove behind Vassie. The Queen of Heaven, in the white gown with a golden hem,arms open to embrace the suffering. She was beautiful, mourning the death ofher child. As she sang, Florence recalled her own grief and the part that diedso many years ago. Philip, the young man she was going to marry, was killed ina house fire. She had wanted to die too. The night of his death, she visitedher parish priest. He helped her find the strength to live, she never loveanother man. For years, she considered becoming a nun, but instead devotedherself to her church and her job as a city hall clerk before retiring afterforty years.

Florence lived alone, but was not lonely. She hadBuster, her budgie. And there was her hobby, true crime, mystery, and detectivestories. She walked in Hammett’s footsteps, Pronzini’s, and others. Onvacations, she took famous murder-scene tours, visiting police museums. She devourednovels and textbooks. She clipped articles, filing them meticulously. To whatend, she didn’t know, For each day of her life was marked by the three chinaand three sterling silver spoons she used for tea, which she took in themorning, afternoon, and evening as she read, Three times daily, as a steamplume rose from the kettle, she pondered the meaning of her life, wonderingwhat God’s purpose was for her. It had become her eternal question.

She now knew the answer.

And this afternoon she would act on it.

After choir rehearsal, Florence prepared to clean thepews. She went to the utility room at the rear of the church and tugged on thechain of a bare bulb. The room smelled of disinfectant. It had a largejanitor’s sink, bottles of furniture polish, wax, rags, pails, all neatlyorganized. Florence closed the door, and checked inside her bag. Everything wasset. If it happened again today, she was ready. She slipped on her apron,collected a rag, some polish in a pail, and went to work cleaning pews.

“And how are you this blessed afternoon, Flo? I heardthe choir from the rectory. The gang sounds wonderful.” Farther McCreeny smiledas she gathered old church bulletins from the first pew.

“Very well thank you, Father. And you.”

“Tip top, Flo. Tip top.”

You may say so, Father, but I know you’re bearing aheavy cross.

Father William Melbourne McCreeny had been with OurLady for years. A fine-looking man standing six feet, five inches tall, who atsixty-two, still maintained the litheness of his seminary days as a basketballplayer. With the exception of crack dealers and pimps, he was love by everyone.McCreeny was instrumental in establishing a new soup kitchen in Our Lady’sbasement, using bingo proceeds to provide hot meals for the homeless. McCreenychecked his watch, then surveyed his empty church. ”Five minutes beforeafternoon confessions. I’d better get ready.” He stopped near the altar on hisway to the sacristy and turned to her. “By the way, Flo. I almost forgot. Thisweekend I’ll be asking for help at the shelter. We’re getting more clients asthe word on the street goes ‘around. I know you already do so much, but pleaseconsider it.”

“I will Father.”

He smiled his handsome smile.

Later McCreeny emerged carrying a Bible, wearing a cassock,surplice, and purple stole. He genuflected, crossed himself before the altar.He seemed taller. Florence’s heart fluttered. Seeing him like this emphasizedthat he was a Godly man, a human tower of strength. McCreeny lit some vigilcandles at the alcove of the Virgin then proceeded to one of the confessionalbooths, the rustling of his vestments echoing softly as he walked.

Overcome with fear, Florence wanted to cry out to himand gripped a pew to steady herself. Father, help me! The words wouldn’t come.What was happening? She had arrived at the church that morning confident shewould do what was right. Now she was consumed by doubt. McCreeny entered theconfessional. She needed his guidance. Father, please turn around! The latchclicked. The small red ornate light above the confessional went on. McCreenywas ready to perform the sacrament, ready to hear the confession of sins.

Florence went back to cleaning, touching her eyes withthe back of her hand. For the next hour, she concentrated on her work. Duringthat time nearly two dozen people trickled in and out of the church. Florencesmiled at those she knew. The children held their tiny hands firmly together attheir lips, prayer-like. Adults were less formal, clasping theirs loosely,letting them fall below their waists. One by one they entered the curtainedside of the booth, knelt, and whispered their confessions to Farther McCreeny.As she worked, Florence heard the shuffle of old tired feet, the smart snap ofheels, and the squeak of sneakers as each person left the booth for anunoccupied pew where they could say their penance, some to the muted clickingof rosary beads.

Maybe it wouldn’t happen today, she thought, allowingherself a degree of relief. Maybe not today. Maybe not ever again?

Florence was calmer. She had nearly finished her work.Two more pews. Then she would go home, make some tea, and read. Moving to thelast pew, she reminded herself to pick up some cream. That’s when she looked upand all the blood drained from her face.

He had come.

Her hand trembled. She dropped her bottle of furniturepolish. It bounced and rolled, making a terrible noise. He stood at the back,dipped his hand in the holy water basin, and took a place in line. Florence hadlittle time. Suddenly he glanced at her. Florence had seen him occasionally atthe soup kitchen.

A crepe-sole shoe squeaked. A woman entered theconfessional.

He was next.

Florence collected her cleaning things into her pail,stepped into the main aisle, genuflected, crossed herself, and glanced at thehuge crucifix behind the altar for inspiration. She went to the utility room,tugged on the light. She ran the faucet full force, gazing at the ventilationregister near the ceiling. It was Mary Atkins who had discovered the registerwas part of the ductwork system for the confessionals on the other side of thewall. And that it was an excellent conductor of sound.

“It’s clear as a bell. Like listening in on atelephone extension.” Mary giggle to Florence one afternoon. “You should tryit, Flo.” Mary’s eyes grew. “It’s better than the soaps.”

For a few months after the discovery, they secretlycompared the confessions they overheard. Soon they realized the sins of theirfellow churchgoers were actually minor. For Florence, the thrill wore off. Andshe’d always felt uneasy about what they were doing. “I just don’t want to doit anymore. It’s not right,” Florence told Mary, who agreed, saying she feltashamed and promised to stop. Florence tried to avoid the utility room whenconfessions were being heard.

Except for today.

Today she wanted to hear the confession of the man sherecognized from the shelter. She had to hear it. But she was paralyzed,agonizing over whether to eavesdrop on his confession. Again.

The first time was some months ago.

McCreeny was hearing confessions when she had to go inthe utility room for more polish. She was certain no one was in theconfessional with McCreeny at the time. She was wrong. A man was confessing tohim. Florence was trying to hurry, to get out, but she could not find thepolish. She kept searching, unable to avoid the voices. At first she did notunderstand what she was hearing. Thought it was a joke. But it wasn’t. A manwas begging Father McCreeny to absolve him. A chill inched up Florence’s spinas she listened in horror, hearing him describe his sin in detail. She grewnauseous, and dabbed at her face with cold water. The man implored FatherMcCreeny to swear he would honor his vow and never reveal what he was hearing.McCreeny assured him. The man hinted he would return.

During the following weeks, Florence was tortured withindecision. She couldn’t tell Father McCreeny what she knew, nor any priest forthat matter. She couldn’t. The man would return to confess. Without warning.Once Florence saw him leaving, and made a mental note of it. He had uniquetattoos on his arms.

As days passed, her conscience screamed at her: tellsomeone!

She did.

When the three-year-old boy was abducted from thesubway, Florence called the reporter at The San Francisco Star who hadwritten about Tanita Marie Donner’s murder. But he didn’t believe her. Sheknew. She couldn’t blame him. But she didn’t know what to do. What if the man hadabducted the boy? She looked for answers in the steam cloud of her kettle. Shefound one: she needed to provide proof. God showed her the way.

Now get going.

She had a few seconds. With the water still running,Florence opened her bag, removed a miniature tape recorder she had bought amonth ago, should the man ever return. Now he was here and she was ready.Florence set the volume and pressed the record button, like the clerk showedher. The red recording light glowed and she stepped up on an old file cabinetnear the wall and hung the recorder by its strap from a nail above theregister. Then she locked the door and shut the water off.

Voices floated through the air duct, tinny anddreamlike.

“Go ahead,” McCreeny’s voice was encouraging.

Silence.

“Don’t be frightened. God is present.”

Silence.

“I’ll help you begin. Bless me Father-“

“It’s me, Father,” Tanita Marie Donner’s killer said.