© 1997 by Nick Schinker
A University of Nebraska journalism graduate, Nick Schinker spent a decade working as a reporter, covering law enforcement and crime. Six years ago, with two national awards and several local honors to his credit, he decided to become a freelance journalist in order to gain more spare time for writing fiction. His debut piece testifies to time well spent. We salute a promising new writer.
In these first few minutes of exhausted sleep, he would have ignored it all, had he been alone.
His awareness began with the bells. From the steeple. No, too steady. Too hollow. Too rude. Had to be the phone. Then came the knocking, a light rap that grew steadily to a thump, thump, thump. Like that of his heart...
“Yes?” he called out from the dark.
“Fadder Jerome?” The accent belonged to Magda, the 8,000-year-old Hungarian woman who served as the rectory housekeeper. “You awake?”
His eyes had barely adjusted to the light spilling into the room from the hallway when his hand found the switch on the bedside lamp. He winced at the sudden brightness of the 75-watt bulb. “Yes, I am awake. What is it?”
“A call for you,” Magda said. “From Lincoln.”
“The president,” he asked, “or the city?”
The old woman didn’t understand, as was the case with the best of his jokes, and the worst ones, too. “A man,” she said matter-of-factly. “At da prison.”
The prison? “Are you sure?”
Magda shrugged and nodded simultaneously, silent responses she had learned to combine and apply successfully to nearly any perplexing situation.
He reached out to the nightstand, to the rotary telephone with the ringer he’d permanently disabled two weeks after taking over as pastor and sole proprietor of St. Rose Church. Fumbling the headset, he managed to catch it as it fell and lift it to his ear. “Father Hill here. Who is speaking, please?”
He listened for two minutes, quiet but intent, nodding occasionally as he made mental notes. “But I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Why me?”
He nodded once more, then hung up.
The associate warden’s answer echoed through the recesses of his mind. Because Gary Hoover requested you. He sat on the edge of the bed, stunned. Reaching again to the nightstand, he swatted at the faded lace doily, searching for the familiar shape of his glasses and their thick prescription lenses. Tucking the wire frames behind his ears, he said nothing, his mind drifting, his fingers tugging unconsciously at one corner of his thick, dark moustache.
“Fadder?”
Magda’s voice startled him, though he should have been aware of her stocky form loitering in the open doorway.
“Fadder?” she repeated. “Bad news?”
The first fifteen miles of the thirty-one-minute trip to Lincoln was a two-lane stretch of asphalt winding past fields lush with midseason corn and soybeans. In the light from a full moon he saw two raccoons nosing a fresh carcass alongside the road and, a mile or two later, a fawn darting into a grove of apple trees. But not another human soul.
Had he stayed in bed, he doubted he could have dreamed his current mission. Like everyone in the state, he had read the recent accounts of Gary Hoover’s pending execution. He’d skimmed over the grisly details of the two murders that sweltering summer of 1962. All too well he remembered how the boys had been snatched as they rode their bicycles to church on consecutive Sunday mornings, their bikes found abandoned. How they had been driven out of the city to the country, to fertile fields much like those Father Jerome now passed in his car. How both had been stripped and tied up like rodeo calves. How they weren’t stabbed to death, but sliced...
Unlike his fellow seminarians at St. Michael’s, Jerome Hill was shocked when three weeks after the second murder police arrested twenty-two-year-old Gary Hoover. He recalled Hoover from his own high-school years, when he attended St. Peter’s and Hoover was a star at crosstown rival Pope Pius X. Talented in baseball and track, Hoover was a top contender in the long jump for two years at the state track meet. Not good enough, however, to garner a college scholarship.
When arrested, Gary Hoover was employed with the Lincoln parks department, assigned to the inner-city neighborhoods, using a coat of paint to make worn playground equipment look new. He was a bachelor and a member of St. Benedict Church, where he sang in the choir and was a regular at the singles mixers in the church hall. He was an Eagle Scout and an assistant scoutmaster. He had never been arrested; never even received a speeding ticket. And he had taken part as a volunteer during the searches when the two boys were still “missing.” It didn’t matter.
Throughout the eight-day trial, Hoover maintained a simple defense: When the boys disappeared, he was at home. Asleep. He insisted it was the truth. That, too, didn’t matter.
State detectives presented as evidence samples of the rope used to bind the boys’ wrists and ankles. They said it was identical to a length of rope found in the trunk of Hoover’s ’57 Chevy. They had a witness who saw a car just like Hoover’s moments after one of the boys passed her home on his bike. They said Hoover “could have” sneaked from his home at the time the boys disappeared. Called separately, his elderly parents, with whom Gary still lived, testified that once he turned eighteen they never kept precise track of his comings and goings.
And, with the victims’ families present in the courtroom, prosecutors finished by showing the jury a half-dozen photos of the dead boys. Color photos.
Hoover’s decrepit, alcoholic attorney had been appointed by the court after his family was judged to fit the term “indigent.” The old man put up quite a fight, sweating heavily as he countered each blow. He said the rope was a common variety used by boy scouts across the country. And though it was true police found similar rope in Hoover’s car, he pointed out that it was the only “so-called evidence” detectives could find there. No traces of blood. No hair or fiber samples that could be linked to the boys. No knife. He reminded the jury that, in fact, the murder weapon was never found. He quoted automobile registration figures for the county to show Hoover’s car was a popular model. He called an optometrist to testify that the “eye witness” wore lenses to the fifteenth power, then got the witness to admit she didn’t have them on the morning of the boy’s disappearance. And, the attorney said, “not a solitary soul” had seen Gary Hoover near either victim, or the remote areas where the bodies were found. As his final card, he put Hoover in the box. The young man swore through teary eyes that not only had he never seen either boy in his life, he personally mourned their deaths.
Trouble was, Gary Hoover was black. Both victims, like all twelve members of the jury that uncomfortable summer, were white as Wonder bread. After less than a day’s deliberation, Gary Hoover was found guilty of two counts of first-degree murder, two counts of kidnapping, two counts of use of a weapon to commit a felony, two counts of battery, two counts of being different...
Exactly one month after his jury trial ended, a three-judge panel handed down the only sentence that a boisterous media claimed would “calm the violent storm brewing.” Death in the electric chair.
Upon leaving the packed courtroom, Gary Hoover’s father suffered a massive heart attack. Slipping through his wife’s arms, he collapsed to the cold marble floor of the crowded corridor and died before they could lay him on a stretcher.
That very day, a troubled Jerome Hill confessed to his fellow seminarians his serious doubts that justice had been served. Now, after fourteen summers and countless failed appeals, Gary Hoover had personally requested that Father Jerome Hill of St. Rose Church be the priest to hear his last confession. He could not understand for a moment why. Though he knew well who Gary Hoover was, they’d never spoken. Never even met.
And, after 2:01 A.M. tomorrow, they were certain never to meet again.
Piloting his dusty sedan — a hail-pocked, seven-year-old Ford Falcon which he’d procured at a “substantial discount” through the parish’s used-car dealer — he parked in the last of five empty spaces marked Visitor. Across from the penitentiary parking lot stood a group of maybe two hundred people, mostly young, some carrying candles, others carrying signs. News reporters focused their television lights and cameras on the signs, and he could read some of them. One said, “Shed No More Innocent Blood.” Another read: “The State Must Follow God’s Commandments Too.” Oddly, he saw only a few dozen death-penalty supporters, a group whose presence was so boldly evident at other executions. Apparently they too had doubts about Gary Hoover. Or perhaps in America’s glorious bicentennial, racism was no longer fashionable. He hoped for a little of both.
From the crowd someone yelled, “Tell Gary we love him, Father!” He nodded but said nothing in reply, the television lights turning to chase him into the building.
Inside, he walked down the long hallway to the visitors desk. It was normally closed this time of night, but this was no normal night at the prison. A pending execution means a lockdown, extra guards, and an uneasy tension on both sides of the iron bars. The stress was evident on the faces of the trio in beige uniforms manning the desk.
“I’m Father Jerome Hill,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Right,” said the eldest guard. “Need to see some ID.”
He took his driver’s license from his wallet and handed it over. “And you are?”
“Very tired, Father,” the guard replied, not bothering to look up.
After the guards each took a turn checking the priest’s license, he was led to a room off to the side of the waiting area, a room he presumed would contain Gary Hoover. It proved no bigger than a closet. And it was empty.
“Okay, Father,” the guard said. “Strip.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t make policy. Really, it ain’t no picnic for me, either.”
Ten minutes later, he was led back into the waiting room and told politely to take a seat. Angry and embarrassed, he silently wished to be anywhere else, doing anything else. Then he said a prayer, a quick Hail Mary, asking God to forgive his weakness.
From the speaker in the ceding came a tinny, orchestrated version of the Beatles’ “Hey, Jude.” Deeper in the budding he could hear the occasional clang of iron doors, and the sound of electronic buzzers as guards made their rounds.
His eyes grew heavy as he listened and waited, and he fed asleep.
Awakened fifteen minutes later by the guard from the strip-search, Father Jerome was led into another small room. The white walls practically glowed, awash in fluorescent light. There was a table with chrome legs and a bare metal top. The legs were bolted to the floor. There were two chairs, the lightweight kind with one-piece molded gray plastic seats. At the top of one wall was a clock, a General Electric with a round white face and simple black hands and numbers. Without its dark rim, it would have been impossible to read against the sterile walls. Up near the ceiling in the far corner was a closed-circuit TV camera. There was no red light to indicate it was on, but he supposed it was.
He was just becoming comfortable with the room when the steel door creaked open. Standing in front of two guards was Gary Hoover. He was dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Their eyes were level and met instantly. But it was one of the guards who spoke first, motioning to the clock. It was half past midnight.
“You got one hour, Gary,” he said. “Don’t waste it.”
Father Jerome’s eyes dropped to Hoover’s arms, then to his ankles. He was surprised to see there were no handcuffs, no shackles. The guard mistook it for fear. “Don’t worry, Father,” he assured. “He’s harmless.”
“There’s a good reason for that, Lloyd,” Hoover said. “I’m innocent.”
“Oh, yeah,” the guard said, touching his forehead. “How could I forget?”
Father Jerome found it curious that Hoover’s expression hadn’t changed with the challenge. He didn’t even look back at the guard, though he called him by name. Only his lips moved.
“If this is to be a confessional,” Hoover continued, “turn off the camera.”
“It is off,” the guard replied.
“Then unplug it.”
The guard’s face was turning red. “There’s no damn need.”
“A condemned man’s last confession is considered private,” Hoover argued, “by the Catholic Church, the State of Nebraska, and the United States Supreme Court. Do the right thing and unplug it, Lloyd. Please.”
The guard grunted and kicked one of the chairs over to the corner. There was a single screw securing the plug to the wall, enough of an anchor to allow time for the keepers to storm the room, should anyone try to remove it. “Harry,” he said to his partner. “You got a screwdriver?”
Harry shook his head.
“Nail file? A coin or something?”
Harry scrounged in his pockets, producing a nickel and two dimes. Lloyd took one of the dimes from Harry’s outstretched hand and removed the screw, then jerked the plug from the wall.
The guards left the room and double-locked the door. Hoover took the chair at the table. Father Jerome pulled the other from the corner and sat across from him.
With his fingers Hoover traced a cross, first on his forehead, then his lips, then his chest. “Bless me, Father,” he began, “for I have sinned. It has been fourteen years since my last confession. These are my sins.”
Father Jerome took a small purple vestment from his jacket pocket and put it to his lips, then lifted it over his head. “Go on.”
Hoover confessed that he’d cursed, lied, and had lewd thoughts while confined.
“What else?”
Hoover cocked his head to one side. Without knowing it, he glanced to the camera. “Isn’t it true, Father,” he said, “that people have different definitions of sin?”
“What do you mean?”
He shifted his weight and crossed his legs. “Is it true that what one man determines to be a sin,” he said, “may not be that way for his neighbor?”
“Perhaps with venial sins. But I don’t believe that’s true for mortal sins. As far as the Church is concerned, breaking a commandment, after all, is just that.”
“In here, they call them ‘Satan’s Top Ten.’ ”
Father Jerome smiled.
“And for mortal sin, there is absolution?”
“It depends.”
“In cases with extenuating circumstances?”
“Yes, but...”
“Like an execution?”
“Gary. What are you trying so hard not to say?”
“Aren’t you wondering,” Hoover said, staring into the priest’s eyes as though they were tiny mirrors, “why I asked for you?”
Father Jerome looked away, to the floor. “Ever since I answered the phone.”
“Tell me something. When did you first realize you were black?”
He looked up at Hoover. “What?”
“You know.” Hoover was more than staring into his eyes now. He was searching. “When did you first realize the color of your skin made a difference with other people? With white people?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Sure you can. I know I can. It was a Sunday morning, clean blue sky, right after a rain. I was twelve years old, just turned. I wanted to be an altar boy very badly. So I worked up the nerve and went into the sacristy after Mass. I asked the monsignor if I could sign up. Know what that old relic said?”
“No.”
“He told me colored boys couldn’t serve on the altar. He said it was because there was no place for colored people in God’s Kingdom. Not in this world, he said, or in the next. Evidently, to him the Pearly Gates worked like a filter.”
“That is unfortunate, Gary, but things have changed. That monsignor probably died a long time ago. So did his way of thinking.”
“Oh, he’s dead all right. That one didn’t count.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you ever wonder why it was two altar boys who died, Father?”
For the first time, Hoover’s eyes dropped and his expression changed. The look was one of embarrassed admission. Father Jerome recognized it immediately. He’d seen it many times before in his work. It was guilt.
“Sweet Jesus,” he said. “Is this why you asked me here? To tell me you did kill those boys?”
Hoover leaned close to the priest, their knees almost touching. He put his hands on Father Jerome’s shoulders. “Yes, Father,” he said. “Two very young boys and one very old priest.”
“The monsignor? How?”
“Scared him to death, really. Never touched him. That’s why I said that he didn’t count.”
Father Jerome was heartsick.
“What’s my penance?”
“You expect absolution?”
“I expect nothing more than I see.”
“Why tell me this? You could have asked for any priest. Why me?”
“Look at us,” Hoover said. “You and I could be brothers; twins even. Same age. Same height and weight; eyes. Same olive complexion, as though we were born trying to pass. I’ve watched you, followed you ever since I first saw your picture in the local Catholic weekly. A black priest is pretty damn rare, you know. Made everything you did newsworthy. So I had a friend send me one of your old high-school yearbooks. It was like looking in a goddamned mirror. I’m sure you noticed it. I’ll bet white people especially liked to point it out to you. That would explain your moustache.”
Hoover inched closer. “It’s only inside where we’re different, Father. We’ve both seen it, you and I, what hides beneath the surface of a man’s skin. Good may struggle, but evil survives.”
The priest shook his head, tears welling in his eyes. “All along, you’ve said you were innocent. I believed you. People supported you, prayed for you, fought for you. How could you lie to us?”
“Believe me, lying was the easy part.”
Father Jerome couldn’t believe anything. “There are hundreds of people outside who fear that an innocent man is about to be sacrificed to a system.”
For the very first time tonight, Hoover smiled. “Then we can’t disappoint them.”
Without warning, he slammed the top of his skull against the priest’s forehead.
Once was enough.
Father Jerome came to and blinked hard. He did not know how much time had elapsed, nor was he able to tell. The room was a blur, out of focus and moving so slowly. Colors seemed to swirl in the air as he turned his aching head side to side. He needed his glasses, but he couldn’t see far enough to find them. He could barely make out the nearest wall, much less any other landmark. Until he heard voices.
“He started to faint,” a man was saying. “Then he fell forward and hit his head on the table. He was out only a moment or two.”
Across the room, he could sense an open doorway and three figures. Two of the images were mostly beige. The third was dressed in black.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” It was one of the beige men speaking. He could see a dark slit, a mouth moving as he heard the words. His own mouth hurt. No, it was his lip. He touched the skin beneath his nose and sensed a fresh cut, a quarter-inch-long slice, moist with blood. Where his moustache used to be...
“I’m fine, I assure you,” replied the man in black. “I am worried about his head, though. There’s a bruise.”
He could make out that voice now. He’d just heard it a few minutes ago. He couldn’t remember the name. He couldn’t remember, but he knew that voice was why he was here. Wherever here was.
“That’s okay,” a beige voice said. “A half-hour from now it won’t make any difference.”
He tried to speak. “Wait a minute,” the words coming slowly, like from a drunken mind. “Who is talking, please? Where am I?”
The answer was laughter.
“Can you believe that?” the second beige man said. “His curtain call and he offers us amnesia.”
“Please, gentlemen,” the man in black cautioned. “Treat Mr. Hoover with some dignity.”
Hoover. That was the name. Something Hoover. Greg. No, not Greg. Something like Greg.
“Tell us the truth.” It was one of the beige figures speaking. “Is he the saint he claims to be?”
The man in black seemed to be shaking his head. “God forgive me for saying this, but the world’s going to be a better place without him.”
He waved a hand at the blurs. “Excuse me. Without who?”
More laughter, a bit restrained this time.
One of the beige images reached out for the image in black. “Sorry. We knew this wouldn’t be easy. Do you want to stay with him until the end, Father?”
Father? Father? “But I’m...”
“No,” the black image replied. “No matter what I think of the man, I cannot condone his murder. Breaking a commandment, after all, is just that.”
Recognizing his own words, Jerome Hill tried to stand but his legs were weak as straw. “Wait a minute,” he said, slumping back into the chair, his voice raised halfway to a yell. “You must be mistaken.”
“True to the end, huh, Hoover?” said one of the beige images, coming closer. “Still an innocent man?”
When the figure neared, he could make out the guard’s uniform as the big man reached out and took his left hand. “We already thought of that, remember?” The guard rolled back the bright orange sleeve covering the priest’s arm. There, written on his amber skin in thick black marker, were five letters, maybe, or numbers. Squinting without his glasses, Father Jerome could not be sure.
“Nine-seven-six-seven-seven,” the guard announced loudly. “See? It’s you, Hoover.”
Outside the prison, the priest took the Ford key from his pants pocket and slipped it into the ignition, backing the dusty sedan out of the space reserved for visitors. He tucked his eyeglasses into his jacket pocket where they settled against his tiny “tool kit,” a miniature pouch containing the razor blade and laundry marker he’d managed to conceal earlier in the hollowed-out sole of a sneaker. He stopped at the edge of the parking lot to wave at the crowd with the candles across the road. Then, with a touch of the brake lights, the Ford disappeared into the passing traffic.
He drove around the city awhile, breathing in the heavy night air. Near the edge of town, he noticed several young boys out well past curfew. They were riding bicycles, and when they saw his clerical collar as he slowed the car, they stopped and smiled. He posed no threat to them. A priest never did. White or black.
He leaned out the open window. “You boys should be home,” he called.
“Okay, Father,” one of them replied, giggling. “That’s where we’re going. Trust me.”
He smiled for the second time this muggy mid-July night. “Remember, boys,” he warned. “The devil hides in the dark.”
The teens turned their bikes and rode off, waving their goodbyes.
Setting his left arm on the car’s window sill, he pushed back the sleeve of his black jacket to check his wristwatch. The light from the full moon made the dial easy to read. It was 2:06 A.M. Time to go home.
As he looked away from the watch he saw it. There on his arm, peeking from beneath the worn fabric of his sleeve, was a number, the number 7, written on the skin in permanent black marker. He touched his tongue and rubbed at the ink. It faded a bit, transferring onto his fingertip.
It wouldn’t be permanent for long, he thought. Nothing was.
Not even death.