Detective Kennedy rapped on the office door. Kris whispered at her, “What am I supposed to do?” She mouthed back silently, “Just be cool.” The small plastic placard on the door read “Mary Pendleton”. Presently the door opened and a pretty 50-something woman opened the door. The lady stepped up very close to the pair. Kris’ jaw dropped: Mary Pendleton could easily have passed for Detective Kennedy’s sister, or at least an aunt. If Detective Kennedy’s hair was reddish-blonde, then Mary Pendleton’s hair was blondish-red. Their skin, eye-color and bone structure were all familiar.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Pendleton. We are from Kensington Homicide Investigation. We are investigating a situation and we believe that one of our victims may have ties to Our Lady of the Sacred Heart. We spoke to Mr. Ragsdale and he said that you might be best equipped to show us around and get us oriented a bit.”
“What?!” Mary exclaimed. “You’re not talking about those girls with the A’s on their chests, are you?”
“Yes ma’am, I’m afraid so.”
“Oh my gosh! Hold on just a moment, darlin’.” Mary turned back into the office and searched about for her keys, a notebook, some other various odds and ends. The office was smallish; it was furnished with a desk, a chair, a worn loveseat, and was crammed to the ceiling with disheveled bookshelves. It looked well-nested; Mary had resided in this office for a good while. And at the moment, she was clearly upset, and seemed to be having a bit of a hard time getting herself together. “Oh man. Ok. Well, they told me you were coming, but, I just never could have expected, you know, anything like this. Hang on just a moment, where is my . . . I just hope that it isn’t one of our girls. I should have been reading up on this more. Those girls weren’t from our congregation, were they?”
“Well, that’s what we need you to tell us.”
While Mary rummaged for stuff, Kris looked wide-eyed at Detective Kennedy and mouthed the word, “Wow!” as if to say, “Wow, this dame is your spitting image.” To which Detective Kennedy, with a scowl, mouthed back, “Be cool!”
“Ok, ok,” Mary stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind her. She touched Detective Kennedy on the elbow in a friendly sort of way, looked her in the face and said. “Let’s walk. Tell me what it is you are looking for.” She kept her hand loosely at Detective Kennedy’s elbow and leaned just slightly in to show that she was listening intently.
Mary was disarming, once she cooled down. There was an immediate warmth about her. It had something to do with her complete lack of personal space and the subtleties of her body language that indicated that she was really valuing whatever was about to come out of your mouth. Mary had that whole ecclesiastical/academic feel about her, but right beneath that there seemed to be a hint of wildness about her as well. Her hair was almost out-of-control, but not quite; her loose blouse and linen pants passed for work-wear, but also wouldn’t have been out of place at a house party. Kris took note that her jewelry consisted mostly of turquoise and surmised that she must be a retired hippy. This, he thought, is what social revolution looks like when it has sowed all of its wild oats: all churchy and maternal, with just a dash of Easy Rider.
Detective Kennedy explained, “This morning another victim was found.” Mary put her hand to her chest in dismay and gasped. “And, long-story-short, the victim was wearing a garment, which apparently came from Sacred Heart.” Detective Kennedy fished a glossy photo out of her planner and showed it to Mary.
“Oh no,” Mary whispered. She looked at the picture in silence for so long that Kris began to feel uncomfortable. She touched the photo sadly. Finally, with a sigh, Mary came back, “Yeah, that’s one of our baptismal gowns.”
“Do you recognize her?”
“I recognize her face, but I don’t know her.”
She fished two other photographs out. “What about these two?”
“Oh dear,” Mary lamented. “You’re going to make me do this again, aren’t you?” She looked at the quickly at the photos. “No, these two I don’t know at all. But listen, Sacred Heart’s is a big place, with a lot of services and programs and clubs. A lot of people come though our doors in one way or another.”
“Well, how do you know Miss Trammel?”
“I said I don’t know Miss Trammel. I said that I recognize Miss Trammel. I think, think, that she was in one of our AA programs. I need to introduce you to Paul Gomez. He is the director of all of the 12 step programs that we have here.”
A young lady with a wealth of earrings approached and interrupted their conversation. She was small-framed and held herself sheepishly. “Can I talk to you Miss Mary?” Mary pulled the girl aside, “Of course, what is it sweetie?” The two spoke in hushed tones; the girl spoke through broken tears, something complicated about a surprise pregnancy. Mary put an arm around the girl and rubbed her back as she whispered intimate reassurances to the girl. Kris heard Mary tell her to go to her office and that she would be there in just a minute.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Mary said when she turned again to Kris and Detective Kennedy. “I need to deal with this. But listen, Paul is cool; he’s really good people, an angel in fact. If you go out here,” she pointed through the large window, “and cross the courtyard, his office is actually in that meeting room right over there. That’s where the Recovery Ministries meet. You can’t miss it,” she laughed, “It’s the only door with an ashtray in front of it. Listen, just tell Paul that I sent you over and that I said that you are good people, and I am sure that he will do anything he can to help.”
Mary made off down the hall, presumably to offer aid to the distressed young lady. Kris and Detective Kennedy went outside and took in the courtyard. The buildings around the cloister were of a Spanish style: pale stucco, terra cotta roofs. Most were connected by arcaded walkways. To the right was a large arched gate which exited to the street, directly ahead was a classroom building, and to their left was the back of the main Sanctuary, the largest structure on the square. Covering the entire façade of the Sanctuary was an intricate tile mosaic of a lovely, fair-haired Jesus, sitting on a stone with a child on his lap. Jesus’ demeanor was a delicate one, although he seemed to have a hundred-yard stare as he gave audience to a small gathering of sheep and multiracial children. It was late afternoon-ish; half of the buildings were draped with soft, early shadows; the others bore the glare of the low sun. The mosaic itself was aflame with the day’s last rays.
“Look at that tile-work,” Kris marveled. In fact, it was beautiful, grand one would say. It stopped Kris dead in his tracks momentarily and he had to hop to catch up with Detective Kennedy.
At the ground floor of the classroom building, one room had large storefront windows and door that opened onto the square. And sure enough, just outside was a very large concrete ashtray, shaped vaguely like a Grecian urn. Through the large, slightly dirty windows one could see a group in session: a dozen-odd gathering of mostly bedraggled folks, seated in grey aluminum fold-out chairs, facing a cheap podium at the far end of the room. It was a nice day so the door was open. Detective Kennedy leaned up against the frame. From inside, soundbites of Anonymous testimonials escaped intermittently: “My name is Roxanne I am an addict . . . (Welcome Roxanne) . . . started when I was a kid . . . woke up and didn’t know where I was . . . (tears). . . wanted to stop . . . stole his credit card . . . (more tears). . . clean and sober eighteen months next week! . . . (applause)”
“Oh brother,” Detective Kennedy mumbled. She shook her head slightly in disapproval as she smoothly removed a very small flask from somewhere within her loose-fitting charcoal-colored business suit, and took a nip.
Kris missed the maneuver entirely; he was still soaking in the splendor of the mosaic of the Good Shepherd. But then out of nowhere, as if resuming a conversation that had earlier been interrupted, Kris declared, “That woman is your spitting image! If . . . if they were to make a movie with you as the lead actress, she could play the slightly older you: the you-ten-years-later you. That is just un-canny. Tell me that’s not uncanny. That, that’s just . . .” he feigned a loss for words.
“Ten years?! Come on, man. I have to admit, though, she really did look like me.”
“. . . uncanny.” Kris concluded.
Detective Kennedy continued to look upon the meeting with derision. Kris noticed her scowl. “What’s wrong? What’s going on here?” Kris inquired.
“It just bothers me, all . . . you know . . . this.”
“This what?”
“Oh you know, this, ‘Oh, I was a latchkey kid, and that’s why I’m an alcoholic.’ ‘My daddy hit me so now I sleep with every man I meet.’ I mean, come on.”
“Why, Detective Kennedy, you have become quite the cynic,” Kris was a bit incredulous. “You can’t be serious, can you? These people are fighting to patch back together the scraps of their lives. It’s probably taking everything they have to come here pour out their souls, to learn to be normal again.”
Detective Kennedy produced again the very small flask and looked Kris square in the face. “They just need a little,” she took a pull, “direction.”
Kris was put back on his heels. He couldn’t decide if he was more stunned by her brazenness, or the cliché of a cop drinking from a flask. Either way, a subtle sense of culture shock was certainly teasing about the corners of his mind; some unconscious part of him foresaw a trend of experiences headed his way for which many summers of youth retreats had not prepared him.
Their conversation was put to an end by an en masse exit of the fellowship of addicts. The small throng poured out of the building as one, but then quickly broke into pairs and threes and fours, and commenced dutifully to a person to smoke.
Detective Kennedy quipped, “What is this? Am I at a church or a freakin’ community college? Whoa. Alcoholics Anonymous, brought to you by the good people of Marlboro.” She pasted the words with her hands across an imaginary billboard in front of her, “Because we care.”
The detective approached the nearest clutch of smoking enthusiasts, “Excuse me; we’re looking for Paul Gomez.” A short Hispanic woman pointed her smoke at the portly man in a Hawaiian print back inside the meeting room.
The detective thanked the lady and entered the Meeting Room. The room was worn and without frills, but the walls were covered with photos of smiling people, various award certificates, and pithy motivational quotes, so all in all it felt very welcoming. Along one wall was a fold-out table with a large, cylindrical coffee urn, as well the associated cups and creamers and such. At a table next to the podium sat Paul Gomez, studying something in a three-ring binder. Paul looked to be a fifty-something Latino man; a mostly-grey beard and longish mostly-grey hair covered his weather-worn face. He had the look of a man who had retired from a life of hard living, mostly. Splotchy gang tattoos, rendered illegible by sun and time, snuck out from beneath Paul’s sleeves, telling a very different story than the festive print trying to hide them.
“Paul Gomez?”
Paul looked up from his reading, and did a double-take when his eyes fell upon Detective Kennedy. He grabbed his chest in a pantomime cardiac arrest, a la Fred Sanford, “Whoa! What can I do for you?” he asked. Paul was trying to be charming and comically flirty, but instead came off as a dirty old man. Kris thought that he perceived Detective Kennedy bristle. “Mr. Gomez . . . “
“Mister is my dad!” interrupted Paul, “I’m just Paul.”
“Paul,” said Detective Kennedy, “We spoke to Mary earlier and she said that you might be able to help with an investigation that we are working on.”
“Mary Pendleton? Over in the Main?” he rolled his eyes and looked to Kris, as if to communicate an understood truth between the two of them as men, That Mary is a complete fox, am I right?
“If she said that I need to help you, then whatever you need. That woman is an angel.”
“Well, Ms. Pendleton said the same thing about you. Can you take a look at these?” Detective Kennedy handed Paul three 8 ½” x 11” glossy prints. “Have any of these women been involved with any of your recovery programs? Or do you recognize any of them?”
The photos were of the dead girls, each in state, as it were. “Oh no,” Paul said. He was visibly moved. “Oh no.”
Detective Kennedy perked up. “You recognize this woman?”
Paul didn’t answer. “Let’s go to my office.” He pulled them into his tiny office, just off the main room, down a tiny, dark hall. Paul’s office was a medium-sized windowless affair with fake wood paneled walls and a popcorn ceiling. It smelled cool and damp, like a basement. It wasn’t fancy. But in one corner, was a nearly complete model railroad vignette, complete with HO scale town square, forest and mountain tunnel. The granular grass had not been completely glued down and the south-west ward of the little city remained a field of nude plywood.
Paul sat down at his desk, pushed an ash-tray with a bean-bag base out of his way and paged to the next photo. He whispered almost inaudibly another, “Oh no,” and put his hand to his mouth beneath his wild moustache. He looked at the third one, sat in grim meditation for a moment. “Mmm. . . This one is Kathy. . . and this one is Susan Campbell, I think. I don’t know this third one. Mmm. Terrible. . . so beautiful, too.”
“Paul, how did you know these women? Were they in one of the recovery programs?”
“Susan was in one of my AA slots. And Kathy was in a sex addiction group.”
“Well, that’s two out of three. This is good. Is there anything else that you can think of that might be useful for the investigation?”
“It’s just a shame, that’s all. Susan was a good girl. She might have made it.”
At that moment a girl of maybe 20 burst in to the room, in a complete melt-down. She was sobbing and carrying a cardboard box. “Paul, somebody just hit this cat on in the street. I think that it’s Mrs. Silva’s. Omigod! It’s hurt real bad, Paul. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have a car. Can we take it the vet or something? It’s real bad, Paul.”
Paul spoke to the girl with a low, calm voice, “Ok, ok, it’s ok, sweetie. Bring it over here. Let me have a look.” The girl put the box down on his desk for Paul to see. Inside was the large grey-black Tabby that had been hit. Its hindquarters were badly injured, and the cat moaned quietly, but didn’t move much. “Oh yeah,” Paul conceded, “He’s hurt pretty bad, baby. But you know what?” Paul added with an almost chipper tone, “This is what the vets are for. They deal with this stuff every day, mija.” Paul was putting up a good face.
The girl was a complete mess. “Are you sure?” she sobbed at Paul.
“You did the right thing to bring him here. We’ll get him to the doctor and they’ll put him back together. That’s why they get the big bucks.” Paul began to usher her out of the room. “Stop crying now, mija. I’m going to take care of Mrs. Silva’s kitty, Ok? Don’t I always take care of all of you? Now go on, it’s going to be fine. Don’t worry, ok?”
“Thank you, Paul, thank you.” The girl continued to cry as she went back out to the courtyard and report to the smokers news of the cat.
Paul led his two companions back in to the meeting room.
“You know something, Ms. Kennedy? You’re not the only detective here. I think you need to be back in here, see, off-hours, I mean.” He walked over to the table with the coffee pot. “The sun ain’t even down yet, and you been hittin’ the hard stuff already? You always drink on the job, Ms. Kennedy? Or is this special for me?” Paul bent over, unplugged the coffee pot and came up with a white extension cord.
Detective Kennedy told Paul, “I don’t know if I would fit in here, Paul. I’m not a smoker.”Paul laughed. “Listen Paul, we sincerely appreciate your time. Mary said that you were an angel, and you have indeed been a great help.”
Paul wrapped the extension cord around his hand as he walked back towards his office. He said, “Hey, we’re all angels here, right?” And as he closed the office door, added, “. . . just angels with dirty wings.”
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