“It’s Mike. A buddy called...they fished two Greek guys out of the Hudson. My gut tells me you should get down there and check it out."
Chapter Forty-Five
Father Patrick wasn't much into religion before he donned his collar, but he didn't mind his cover. He liked the church; he enjoyed working with the elderly and hearing confession. His favorite part was the quiet, closely followed by the sound of a choir practicing to an empty room. He often spent hours sitting in the back of the church, listening with his eyes closed. Today a group of men were singing some sort of Gregorian chant. It was delightful; he would have listened, but had too much to do.
As he walked to his office, Patrick sensed people shifting their gaze. The greetings were muted. The little voice in his head was issuing warnings. Patrick knew better than to tune out the little voice. He opened his office door.
“Your Excellence, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Patrick noticed that the bishop wasn’t alone, and he gave a quick look to the three priests huddling in the corner.
The bishop remained sitting behind Patrick’s desk, his hands folded in his lap, and a look of sadness on his face. “We received a disturbing call, and we would like to hear your side of the story.”
“I am sorry, but I don’t understand?”
One of the priests began to speak, but a look from the bishop stopped him. “You have been accused of being a fraud.” The bishop paused to gauge Patrick’s reaction.
Patrick’s mind calculated the best expression and tone. “A fraud? By whom?” The tone was a mix of mostly hurt and a small measure of confusion. The confusion was mostly through his facial expression. It was brilliantly delivered.
“The who isn’t important, but we must take any accusation seriously, so I have come to talk to you myself. You have, in your time here, done a remarkable job.” He looked at the three priests, who all nodded in agreement. “We put in a call to seminary, and they confirmed that you, or at least your name, was there when you said.”
Sensing the other shoe was about to fall, he asked, still sounding hurt, “Then what is the problem?”
“I spoke with a priest who thinks he remembers you, but he describes a different man, shorter, much heavier, and bald. I asked him if he was sure, and he said he wasn’t. So we need to look into this further.”
“Short and fat, hmmm, and balding…” Patrick was talking but really just stalling as he decided on his next move. “I don’t know why he wouldn’t remember me, but I guess I was pretty quiet, kept to myself.”
“He is getting on in years, so it is possibly an honest mistake. What I am wondering though, is why someone felt compelled to level the accusation in the first place. Have you upset someone recently? Do you have any idea why he might have brought this to me?”
Patrick sensed that the scales were tilting in his favor. The bishop was now leaning back in the chair. He seemed more relaxed. It seemed like he was on his side now.
“I really couldn’t say. I take confession, help with the food kitchen, and visit some of our older parishioners. There are some people who get upset in the food lines, but when they get full bellies, they calm right down. If I could just talk to the person and ask them, I am sure we could get to the bottom of this.”
The bishop shook his head and then stood. He walked over to Patrick and put his hand on his shoulder. “We need to be careful and get to the bottom of this. Even a rumor could be disastrous. We must use caution. This is a serious accusation. It is a crime, but the church would like to keep this in house, while we sort this mess out.”
He then did something Patrick didn’t expect. He returned to the chair behind the desk and asked the other priests to leave. When the door closed, he leaned forward and looked Patrick in the eye.
“Are you a priest?”
The tone was strong.
Patrick felt like he was a child again, being interrogated by his father. His chest tighten, his mouth went dry, and he wasn’t sure if it was showing on his face. The voice was crystal clear: he needed to get out of there, and he needed to leave now. He needed to stare the bishop in the eye and lie to him. He had a lifetime of lying, and he was good at it, but this time was different. It was wrong. He liked the bishop, he liked the other priests, and he couldn’t remember ever being happier than he had been pretending to be a priest. He was actually good at it. Not as good as he was at painting forgeries, nor as good as he was at selling stolen art, but he was good. Did he need redemption? It crossed his mind.
Then it was time to answer.
“Yes I am,” he said looking down, then looking back up and squarely in the eye of the bishop. “And I can prove it! I have a photo from the seminary. I am younger, but I have my hair, and it is a good photo.”