Tibor looked startled. “No, Krekor, he was never at St. Anselm’s. But Father Corrigan was. I’d forgotten that that was where you were looking into the murders.”
Gregor peered at the computer screen again. “Father Corrigan was the biggest offender,” he said.
Tibor nodded. “Yes, Krekor, the biggest and also the most determined. The other men, there are a few incidents, and then that seems to be all. With Father Murphy, there were three boys. With Father Roselli, there were two. You see? But with Father Corrigan—he was out of control, we would say now. There were dozens.”
“All of them at St. Anselm’s?”
“Most of them, yes. He was there for twenty-five years.” Tibor clicked at his keyboard again and brought up a page that seemed to be devoted to Father Corrigan alone. The mug shot was reproduced there, at three times the size it had been on the main page. Tibor scrolled down and pointed to a triple-column list of names. “There they are,” he said. “The men who have come forward to claim that Father Corrigan molested them when they were children.”
“Good grief,” Gregor said.
“Yes, Krekor, I know. A shameful thing. An evil man.”
“But how could he have done all that without anybody realizing?” Gregor asked. “I mean, even in the sixties, after a while, wouldn’t the archdiocese have begun to suspect that the man had something psychologically wrong—”
“But Krekor, Krekor. It is possible that they did not know there were so many. It is possible they didn’t know there was even one. The boys would not have been likely to tell anyone. And if they did, they would not necessarily have been believed. And the parents, even if they did believe their children, wouldn’t have wanted the incidents to become public. It was a time when children were blamed for causing these incidents, don’t you see?”
“I worked for twenty years with serial killers,” Gregor said, “and I know something about patterning in behavior.”
“Yes, Krekor, but the archbishop of the time was not a policeman, or even a psychiatrist. He did all the wrong things, yes, but he did them with the best of intentions. The man who came after him, now, that was panic. He wasn’t thinking at all. He was only trying to escape.”
“This was the man who tried to effect the cover-up? The last archbishop before this one?”
“That’s right, Krekor. But it’s all been taken care of now, you know. There has been a settlement.” Tibor clicked at his keyboard again. A window came up that said “WE WON!!!!” “The men were triumphant, but that is to be expected. Some of them had been trying for years to be taken seriously. One of their mothers, too, who had done the unusual thing at the time and told the archdiocese about Father Murphy, she felt vindicated. She has her own web page. Would you like to see it?”
“No,” Gregor said, and then, “thank you,” so as not to be rude.
Tibor looked at him oddly, then clicked the keyboard again. The mug shot disappeared. In its place was a small rectangular billboard that said “Read My Newsgroups!”
“You are all right, Krekor? Does this have something to do with your murder that you are investigating?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh. Well, there is much information if you want it. There are many articles in the local papers and there is an organization, the Freedom from Religion Foundation. Well, you can imagine. But if there is something you want to know, and you do not feel you can ask the Cardinal about it—” Tibor shrugged.
“I’m going to go buy Bennis a Valentine’s Day heart,” Gregor said. “Thank you for all the information. It probably means nothing, but you know how that is. I’m going to see Anne Marie this afternoon, did I tell you that? Henry Lord set it up. She wants to talk to me.”
“It would be of more moment if she wanted to talk to Bennis,” Tibor said. “Or to Christopher, who is coming from California. They will not witness the execution, but they want to be together when it happens. I think it was very wrong of Howard Kashinian to suggest they make popcorn.”
“I think Howard Kashinian is going to be a murder victim one of these days if he keeps it up,” Gregor said. “Okay, Tibor. I’ll talk to you later. I have to get something that glows in the dark. Literally.”
“Try Martindale’s,” Tibor said solemnly. “They have them the size of blackboards that play music. It is even very bad music.”
2
Gregor went to Martindale’s first, because it was on the way to the station, and then, coming out with the box under his arm, wondered why he wanted to be saddled with the thing halfway across the state. He was going up to the state penitentiary in Henry Lord’s car. He could leave the box in the backseat if he wanted to, instead of carrying it with him through the prison. It still seemed odd to him to be carrying a box of chocolates for one sister while going to visit the other on death row. At any rate, the boxes in Martindale’s were as big as Tibor had said they were, and covered over with so many ribbons and so much glitter they might as well have been wired for neon. They played music, too: “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby” and “Making Whoopie” being the two favorites. Gregor chose “Yes, Sir, That’s My Baby.” All euphemisms for sex embarrassed him, as if there was nothing wrong with committing the act, but something wrong about pretending not to.