Byrne laughed, put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
Jessica walked around the other side. Byrne introduced her.
This close, Jessica could see not only the ravages of time, but the ravages of disease. Leone unhooked the oxygen cannula and let it dangle over the side of the chair.
‘Are you sure you should be doing that?’ Byrne asked.
Leone shrugged. ‘What are they going to do? Withhold my stewed tomatoes?’
The two men took a few minutes to catch up. Mostly they talked about who had died.
‘Have they torn it down yet?’ Leone asked.
‘Not yet,’ Byrne said. ‘In a few days.’
Jessica knew they were talking about St Gedeon’s, the church of Byrne’s youth, the massive stone cathedral on Second Street.
Leone looked out over the grounds, which were still covered with a thin layer of snow. ‘I married about five hundred couples at St Gedeon’s,’ he said. ‘Baptized around a thousand babies.’ He looked at Jessica, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Do you think those numbers add up?’
Jessica thought for a few moments, doing the math. ‘Two babies each? Not for Italians and Irish,’ she said with a smile. ‘I think you must have missed a few.’
Leone smiled. ‘It’s possible.’
Byrne tucked the afghan back around the old man’s thin legs as a draft skittered across the large porch. Leone put a hand on Byrne’s hand.
‘Do you still think about him, Kevin?’
Jessica looked at Byrne, found no answers there, then back at the old man. Think about who?
‘Now and again,’ Byrne said.
Father Leone took a few seconds, adrift in time. ‘Do you remember how I found him?’
Jessica understood. They were talking about The Boy in the Red Coat.
‘I do,’ Byrne said. ‘I remember as if it were yesterday.’
‘Nothing seems like yesterday to me anymore.’
‘It was Monday morning,’ Byrne said. ‘You called at 6:15.’
Leone looked surprised. ‘Was it that early?’
‘It was.’
‘Were you awake?’
‘I was doing my best,’ Byrne said. ‘I was on last out in those days. I was trying to stay awake.’
‘You weren’t down at Platt Bridge, were you?’
Jessica laughed. She had no idea that spot was so well-known. At one time some PPD officers on last out — the midnight to eight shift — would drive down to the area beneath Platt Bridge during the last hour or so of their tour and catch a nap. Jessica’s father told a story of waking up in his squad car one morning with a dead squirrel under each windshield wiper. Nobody was more relentless with practical jokes than police.
‘I know why you’re here,’ Leone said.
Byrne knelt down. ‘We need help understanding this, Father.’
The old man nodded. ‘Tell me how I can help.’
Byrne gave Father Leone the briefest details on what had been happening.
‘These people are being found in closed churches?’ Leone said.
‘Yes.’
‘The first body … where was it?’
‘St Adelaide’s.’
‘Ugly place. Never liked it. Even when it was new.’
Jessica wanted to mention that St Adelaide’s was built in 1853, but decided against it.
‘I mean in the church, Mr Byrne,’ Leone added. ‘Where was the body found in the church?’
‘In the basement. It was — ’
‘Where in the basement? In relation to the church proper. Was it directly beneath the altar? The vestibule? The sacristy?’
Byrne looked at Jessica. Jessica closed her eyes, relived the moment of descending the stairs. As a matter of procedure, one of the primary detectives always made a pencil sketch of the crime scene. It was rudimentary, but even in this digital age it was the most referred to document — besides the body chart — in the binder. Jessica had sketched the basement at St Adelaide’s. She found it in her portfolio, took it out, showed it to Father Leone.
The old man studied it for a moment, his weary eyes suddenly flashing bright. ‘This X … This is where the body was found?’
‘Yes.’
He turned the sketch around four times. ‘Which way is north?’
Jessica berated herself for not putting that on the drawing. In fact, she’d never put it on a crime-scene sketch. She would from now on. She turned the paper, showing Father Leone north.
‘This is below the sacristy,’ Leone said. ‘What about St Damian’s?’
Now it was Byrne’s turn. He took out his drawing. The old man looked at it.
‘You still can’t draw, can you?’
Byrne reddened like a schoolboy. He tapped the N at the top of the sketch. ‘At least I indicate north on my sketches.’
Byrne looked at Jessica, who stuck her tongue out.
‘I was only in Damian’s twice,’ Leone said. He studied the sketch. ‘But this is below the sacristy, too.’ He handed the drawing back to Byrne, who filed it away. ‘This was the baby?’
‘Yes, Father.’
Leone made the sign of the cross. ‘No need to see the third sketch.’
This was good, because they didn’t have it. It was Maria Caruso’s case.
‘Look to the sacrarium,’ Leone said.
Jessica glanced at Byrne, who nodded. Jessica wrote this down. The word was somewhat familiar, but she knew she would have to look it up, even if it was not going to mean anything in the end, even if it was just the rambling of an old man.
‘Father, I hate to think that these killings are going to continue, but we have to be prepared for that,’ Byrne said. ‘If there is any way we can anticipate the killer’s next move, we need to do everything in our power to be there first.’
‘I understand,’ Leone said.
‘On the day the first body was discovered, at St Adelaide’s, we received a telephone call,’ Byrne said. ‘A call relaying a rather cryptic message.’
‘What was the message?’
‘The caller said, One God, then seven churches.’
‘Seven churches.’
‘Do you have thoughts on this?’ Byrne asked.
The old man thought for a few moments. ‘I do.’
Father Leone pushed off the afghan, tried to rise to his feet. Byrne helped him.
‘Whatever it is, I can get it for you, Father,’ Byrne said.
Leone glared at Byrne, and for a moment Jessica saw the fire in his eyes, the look Byrne had described to her. ‘I’m not dead yet.’
Byrne smiled, but still kept a light touch on the old man’s arm. It took a minute, but eventually they made it over to the bookshelf. The bottom half was mostly popular fiction, brightly colored spines ripped and torn with use. The upper shelves were devoted to board games and jigsaw puzzles, haphazardly filed. On the right side of the bookcase were two shelves of leather-bound books. It was from this section Father Leone drew a volume, then slowly made his way back. He eased himself down into the chair, arranged the afghan over his legs.
‘Seven churches,’ Leone said. ‘It’s from the Book of Revelation.’
Jessica, who was anything but a biblical scholar, knew some of the major points of the Bible. Genesis, Exodus. Some of the Psalms. She had probably heard the least about Revelation, although the 666 number popped up from time to time in movies and fiction.
‘This section is known by different names. The Seven Churches of Revelation, the Seven Churches of the Apocalypse, the Seven Churches of Asia — all the same.’
Leone flipped through the book slowly, continued.
‘When Jesus appeared on the island of Patmos, in Greece, he gave John a mission to write down on a scroll what he saw and send it to the seven churches.’