3
“And you said you knew who it was?”
Another nod, this one longer in coming.
“I want to show you some pictures, and if one of these people is the one who hurt you, I want you to point to it. But if the person who hurt you isn’t in one of the pictures, you just shake your head no, so I know he’s not there.”
Patrick has phrased this perfectly—an open, legally valid invitation to make a disclosure; a question that does not lead Nathaniel to believe there’s a right answer.
Even though there is.
We all watch Nathaniel’s eyes, dark and boundless, moving from one face to another. He is sitting on his hands. His feet don’t quite reach the floor.
“Do you understand what I need you to do, Nathaniel?” Patrick asks.
Nathaniel nods. One hand creeps out from beneath a thigh. I want him to be able to do this, oh, I want it so badly it aches, so that this case will be set into motion. And just as badly, for the same reasons, I want Nathaniel to fail.
His hand floats over each card in succession, a dragonfly hovering over a stream. It lights, but doesn’t settle. His finger brushes Szyszynski’s face, moves on. With my eyes, I try to will him back. “Patrick,” I blurt out. “Ask him if he recognizes anyone.”
Patrick smiles tightly. Through his teeth, he says, “Nina, you know I can’t do that.” Then, to Nathaniel: “What do you think, Weed? Do you see the person who hurt you?”
Nathaniel’s finger dips like a metronome, traces the edge of Szyszynski’s card. He hesitates there, then begins to move the other cards. We all wait, wondering what he is trying to tell us. But he slides one photo up, and another, until he has two columns. He connects them with a diagonal. All this deliberation, and it turns out he is only making the letter N.
“He touched the card. The right one,” I insist. “That ID’s good enough.”
“It’s not.” Patrick shakes his head.
“Nathaniel, try again.” I reach over and mess the pictures up. “Show me which one.”
Nathaniel, angry that I’ve ruined his work, shoves at the cards so that half of them fly off the table. He buries his face on his bent knees and refuses to look at me.
“That was useful,” Patrick mutters.
“I didn’t see you doing anything to help!”
“Nathaniel.” Caleb reaches across me to touch our son’s leg. “You did great. Don’t listen to your mother.”
“That’s lovely, Caleb.”
“I didn’t mean it like that and you know it.”
My cheeks are burning. “Oh, really?”
Ill at ease, Patrick begins to stuff the pictures back into the envelope. “I think we ought to talk about this somewhere else,” Caleb says pointedly.
Nathaniel’s hands come up to cover his ears. He burrows sideways, between the sofa pillows and Patrick’s leg. “Now look what you’ve done to him,” I say.
The mad in the room is all the colors of fire, and it presses down on him, so that Nathaniel has to make himself small enough to fit in the cracks of the cushions. There is something hard in Patrick’s pocket where he’s pressed up tight to it. His pants smell like maple syrup and November.
His mother, she’s crying again, and his dad is yelling at her. Nathaniel can remember when just waking up in the morning used to make them happy. Now, it seems that no matter what he does, it’s wrong.
He knows this is true: What happened happened because of him. And now that he’s dirty and different, his own parents do not know what to do with him.
He wishes he could make them smile again. He wishes he had the answers. He knows they are there, but they’re dammed up in his throat, behind the Thing He Is Not Supposed to Tell.
His mother throws up her hands and walks toward the fireplace, her back to everyone. She’s pretending no one can see, but she’s crying hard now. His father and Patrick are trying hard not to look at each other, their eyes bouncing like a Superball off everything in the tiny room.
When his voice returns, it reminds Nathaniel of the time his mother’s car would not start last winter. She turned the key and the engine groaned, whining and whining before it kicked to life. Nathaniel feels that same thing now, in his belly. That kindling, that croak, the tiniest bubble rising up his windpipe. It chokes him; it makes his chest swell. The name that gets shoved out is feeble, thin as gruel, not nearly the thick and porous block that has absorbed all his words these past weeks. In fact, now that it sits on his tongue, bitter pill, it is hard to believe something this tiny has filled all the space inside him.
Nathaniel worries no one will hear him, since so many angry words are flying like kites in the room. So he comes up on his knees, presses himself along Patrick’s side, cups his hand to the big man’s ear. And he speaks, he speaks.
· · ·
Patrick feels the warm weight of Nathaniel on his left side. And no wonder; Patrick himself is ducking from the comments Caleb and Nina are winging at each other; Nathaniel has to be faring just as poorly. He slides an arm around the child. “It’s okay, Weed,” he murmurs.
But then he feels Nathaniel’s fingers brush the hair at his nape. A sound slips into his ear. It’s not much more than a puff of breath, but Patrick has been waiting. He squeezes Nathaniel once more, because of what he’s done. Then he turns to interrupt Caleb and Nina. “Who the hell,” Patrick asks, “is Father Glen?”
The logical time to search the church is during Mass, when Father Szyszynski—a.k.a. Father Glen, to the children like Nathaniel who cannot pronounce his last name—is otherwise occupied. Patrick cannot remember the last time he went on a hunt for evidence wearing a coat and tie, but he wants to blend in with the crowd. He smiles at strangers while they all file into the church before nine A.M .; and when they turn into the main nave of the church he walks in the opposite direction, down a staircase.
Patrick doesn’t have a warrant, but then this is a public space, and he does not need one. Still, he moves quietly through the hallway, reluctant to draw attention to himself. He passes a classroom where small children sit wriggling like fish at even smaller tables and chairs. If he were a priest, where would he stash the Goodwill box?
Nina has told him about the Sunday when Nathaniel came home with a different pair of underwear on beneath his clothes. It might not mean anything. But then again, it might. And Patrick’s job is to overturn all the stones so that when he goes to back Szyszynski into a corner, he has all the ammunition he needs to do it.
The Goodwill box is not next to the water fountain or the restrooms. It’s not in Szyszynksi’s office, a richly paneled vestibule stacked with wall-to-wall religious texts. He tries a couple of locked doors in the hallway, rattling them to see if they’ll give way.
“Can I help you?”
The Sunday school teacher, a woman who has the look of a mother about her, stands a few feet behind Patrick. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your class.”
He tries to summon all his charm, but this is a woman who is probably used to white lies, to hands caught in the cookie jar. Patrick continues, thinking on his feet. “Actually, my two-year-old just soaked through his jeans during Father Szyszynski’s sermon … and I hear there’s a Goodwill box somewhere around here?”
The teacher smiles in sympathy. “Water into wine gets them every time,” she says. She leads Patrick into the classroom, where fifteen tiny faces turn to assess him, and hands him a big blue Rubbermaid box. “I have no idea what’s inside, but good luck.”
Minutes later Patrick is hidden in the boiler room, the first place he finds where he won’t readily be disturbed. He is knee deep in old clothing. There are dresses that must be a good thirty years old, shoes with worn soles, toddler’s snow pants. He counts seven pairs of underwear—three of which are pink, with little Barbie faces on them. Lining the remaining four up on the floor, he takes a cell phone from his pocket and dials Nina.
“What do they look like?” he says when she answers. “The underwear.”
“What’s that humming? Where are you?”
“In the boiler room of St. Anne’s,” Patrick whispers.
“Today? Now? You’re kidding.”
Impatient, Patrick pokes at the briefs with one gloved finger. “Okay, I’ve got a pair with robots, one with trucks, and two that are plain white with blue trim. Does anything sound familiar?”
“No. These were boxers. They had baseball mitts on them.”
How she remembers this, he can’t imagine. Patrick couldn’t even tell you what pair of shorts he has on today. “There’s nothing here that matches, Nina.”
“It’s got to be there.”
“If he kept them, which we don’t know he did, they could very well be in his private quarters. Hidden.”
“Like a trophy,” Nina says, and the sadness in her voice makes Patrick ache.
“If they’re there, we’ll get them with a warrant,” he promises. He doesn’t say what he is thinking: that the underwear alone will not really prove anything. There are a thousand ways to explain away that kind of evidence; he has most likely heard them all.
“Have you talked to—”
“Not yet.”
“You’ll call me, won’t you? After?”
“What do you think?” Patrick says, and hangs up. He bends down to fork all the spilled clothing back into the bin, and notices something bright in an alcove behind the boiler. Working his big body into a pretzel, he stretches out a hand but cannot grab it. Patrick looks around the custodial closet, finds a fireplace poker, and slides it behind the bulk of the boiler to the small hollow. He snags a corner of it—paper, maybe?—and manages to drag it within his arm’s reach.
Baseball mitts. One hundred percent cotton. Gap, size XXS.
He pulls a brown paper bag from his pocket. With his gloved fingers, he turns the underwear over in his hand. On the left rear, slightly off center, there is a stiff stain.
In the custodial closet, directly beneath the altar where Father Szyszynski is at that moment reading Scripture aloud, Patrick bows his head and prays that in a situation as unfortunate as this one, there might be a shred of pure luck.
Caleb feels Nathaniel’s giggle like a tiny earthquake, shuddering up from the rib cage. He presses his ear down more firmly against his son’s chest. Nathaniel is lying on the floor; Caleb is lying on him, his ear tipped close to the boy’s mouth. “Say it again,” Caleb demands.
Nathaniel’s voice is still thready, syllables hanging together by a string. His throat needs to learn how to hold a word again, cradle it muscle by muscle, heft it onto the tongue. Right now, this is all new to him. Right now, it is still a chore.
But Caleb can’t help himself. He squeezes Nathaniel’s hand as the sound flounders out, spiky and tentative. “Daddy.”
Caleb grins, so proud he could split in two. Beneath his ear, he hears the wonder in his son’s lungs. “One more time,” Caleb begs, and he settles in to listen.
A memory: I am searching all over the house for my car keys, because I am already late to drop Nathaniel at school and go to work. Nathaniel is dressed in his coat and boots, waiting for me. “Think!” I say aloud, and then turn to Nathaniel. “Have you seen my keys?”
“They’re under there,” he answers.
“Under where?”
A giggle erupts from deep inside him. “I made you say underwear .”
When I laugh along with him, I forget what I’ve been looking for.
Two hours later, Patrick enters St. Anne’s again. This time, it is empty. Candles flicker, casting shadows; dust motes dance in the slices of light thrown by the stained-glass windows. Patrick immediately heads downstairs to Father Szyszynski’s office. The door is wide open, the priest sits at his desk. For a moment, Patrick enjoys the feeling of voyeurism. Then he knocks, twice, firmly.
Glen Szyszynski glances up, smiling. “Can I help you?”
Let’s hope so, Patrick thinks, and he walks inside.
Patrick pushes a Miranda form across the investigation room table toward Father Szyszynski. “It’s just a standard practice, Father. You’re not in custody, and you’re not under arrest … but you’re willing to answer questions, and the law says I need to tell you you’ve got rights before I ask you a single thing.”
Without hesitation, the priest signs the list of rights Patrick has just read aloud.
“I’m happy to do anything that helps Nathaniel.”
Szyszynski had immediately volunteered to help with the investigation. He agreed to give a blood sample when Patrick said they needed to rule out anyone who’d been around Nathaniel. At the hospital, watching the phlebotomist, Patrick had wondered if the sickness in this man’s veins was measurable, as much a part of the fluid as the hemoglobin, the plasma.
Now, Patrick leans back in his chair and stares at the priest. He has faced a thousand criminals, all of whom proclaim their innocence or pretend to have no idea what he is talking about. Most of the time he is able to acknowledge their barbarity with the cool detachment of a law enforcement professional. But today, this slight man sitting across from him—well, it is all Patrick can do to not beat the priest bloody just for speaking Nathaniel’s name.
“How long have you known the Frosts, Father?” Patrick asks.
“Oh, I’ve known them since I first came to the parish. I had been sick for a while, and was given a new congregation. The Frosts moved to Biddeford a month after I became a priest here.” He smiles. “I baptized Nathaniel.”
“Do they come to church regularly?”
Father Szyszynski’s gaze slides to his lap. “Not as regularly as I’d like,” he admits. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Have you taught Nathaniel in Sunday school?”
“I don’t teach it; a parent does. Janet Fiore. While the service is going on upstairs.” The priest shrugs. “I love children, though, and I like to connect with the little ones—”
I bet you do, Patrick thinks.
“—so after the service, when the congregation is enjoying fellowship and coffee, I take the children downstairs and read a story to them.” He grins sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a frustrated actor.”
No surprise there, either. “Where are the parents, while you’re reading?”
“Enjoying a few moments to themselves upstairs, for the most part.”
“Does anyone else read to the children with you, or are you alone?”
“Just me. The Sunday school teachers usually finish cleaning the room, and then go up for coffee. The storytime only lasts about fifteen minutes.”
“Do the children ever leave the room?”
“Only to go to the bathroom, right down the hall.”
Patrick considers this. He does not know how Szyszynski managed to get Nathaniel by himself, when all the other children were allegedly present, too. Maybe he gave them the book to look over for themselves, and followed Nathaniel into the bathroom. “Father,” Patrick says, “have you heard how Nathaniel was hurt?”
There is a hesitation, and then the priest nods. “Yes. Unfortunately, I have.”
Patrick locks his eyes on Szyszynski’s. “Did you know that there’s physical evidence Nathaniel was anally penetrated?” He is looking for the slightest pinking of the man’s cheeks; a telltale hitch of his breathing. He is looking for surprise, for backpedaling, for the beginnings of panic.
But Father Szyszynski just shakes his head. “God help him.”
“Did you know, Father, that Nathaniel has told us you were the one that hurt him?”
Finally, the shock that Patrick has expected. “I … I … of course I haven’t hurt him. I would never do that.”
Patrick remains silent. He wants Szyszynski to think about all the priests around the globe who’ve been found guilty of this offense. He wants Szyszynski to realize that he’s walked himself right onto the gallows of his own execution. “Huh,” Patrick says. “Funny, then. Because I talked to him just the other night, and he specifically told me that it was Father Glen. That’s what the kids call you, isn’t it, Father? Those kids you … love?”
Szyszynski shakes his head repeatedly. “I didn’t. I don’t know what to say. The boy must be confused.”
“Well, Father, that’s why you’re here today. I need to know if you can think of any reason why Nathaniel might say you hurt him, if you didn’t.”
“The child’s been through so much—”
“Did you ever insert anything in his anus?”
“No!”
“Did you ever see anyone insert anything in his anus?”
The priest draws in his breath. “Absolutely not.”
“Then why do you imagine Nathaniel would say what he did? Can you think of anything that might have made him think it happened, even though it didn’t?” Patrick leans forward. “Maybe a time you were alone with him, something occurred between you two that might have put this idea into his head?”
“I was never alone with him. There were fourteen other children around.”
Patrick rocks his chair back on its rear legs. “Did you know that I found a pair of Nathaniel’s underwear behind the boiler of the custodial closet? The laboratory says there’s semen on it.”
Father Szyszynski’s eyes widen. “Semen? Whose?”
“Was it yours, Father?” Patrick asks quietly.
“No.”
A flat denial. Patrick has expected nothing less than this. “Well, I hope for your sake you’re right, Father, because we’re going to be able to tell from DNA testing on your blood whether that’s true.”
Szyszynski’s face is pale and drawn; his hands are trembling. “I’d like to leave now.”
Patrick shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Father,” he says. “But I’m placing you under arrest.”
Thomas LaCroix has never met Nina Frost, although he’s heard about her. He remembers when she got a conviction for a rape that occurred in a bathtub, although all the evidence had been washed away. He has been a district attorney too long to doubt his own abilities—last year, he even locked away a priest in Portland for this same crime—but he also knows that these sorts of cases are extremely difficult to win. However, he wants to put on a good act. It has nothing to do with Nina Frost or her son—he’d just like York County’s prosecutors to know how they do things up in Portland.
She answers the phone on the first ring. “It’s about time,” she says, when he introduces himself. “I really need to discuss something with you.”
“Absolutely. We can talk tomorrow at the courthouse, before the arraignment,” Thomas begins. “I just wanted to call before—”
“Why did they pick you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What makes you the best attorney Wally could find to prosecute?”
Thomas draws in his breath. “I’ve been in Portland for fifteen years. And I’ve tried a thousand cases like this.”
“So you’re just phoning in a performance, now.”
“I didn’t say that,” Thomas insists, but he is thinking: She must be a wonder on cross-examination. “I understand that you’re nervous about tomorrow, Nina. But the arraignment, well, you know exactly what it’s going to entail. Let’s just get through it, and then we can sit down and strategize about your son’s case.”
“Yes.” Then, dryly: “Do you need directions?”
Another dig—this is her territory, her life; he is an outsider on both counts. “Look, I can imagine what you’re going through. I have three children of my own.”
“I used to think I could imagine it too. I thought that’s what made me good at what I did. I was wrong on both counts.”
She falls silent, all the fire having burned out of her. “Nina,” Thomas vows, “I will do everything in my power to prosecute this case the way you would.”
“No,” she replies quietly. “Do it better.”
“I didn’t get a confession,” Patrick admits, striding past Nina into her kitchen. He just wants his failure immediately set out there, like a carcass to be picked apart. There’s nothing she can say to berate him he hasn’t already said to himself.
“You …” Nina stares at him, then sinks onto a stool. “Oh, Patrick, no.”
Anguish pushes on his shoulders, makes him sit down too. “I tried, Nina. But he wouldn’t cave in. Not even when I told him about the semen, and Nathaniel’s disclosure.”
“So!” Caleb’s voice interrupts firmly, brightly. “You finished with your ice cream, buddy?” He throws a warning like a knife between his wife and Patrick; tilts his head meaningfully toward Nathaniel. Patrick has not even noticed the boy sitting at the table, having a bedtime snack. He took one look at Nina, and forgot there might be anyone else in the room.
“Weed,” he says. “You’re up late.”
“It’s not bedtime yet.”
Patrick has forgotten about Nathaniel’s voice. Still rough, it sounds better suited to a grizzled cowboy than a small child, but it is a symphony all the same. Nathaniel hops off his seat to run to Patrick, extends a skinny arm. “Wanna feel my muscle?”
Caleb laughs. “Nathaniel was watching the Ironman competition on ESPN.”
Patrick squeezes the tiny biceps. “Gosh, you could deck me with an arm like that,” he says soberly, then turns toward Nina. “He’s strong. Have you seen how strong this guy is?”
He is trying to convince her of a different sort of strength, and she knows it. Nina crosses her arms. “He could be Hercules, Patrick, and he’d still be my little boy.”
“Mom,” Nathaniel wails.
Over his head, Nina mouths, “Did you arrest him?”
Caleb puts his hands on Nathaniel’s shoulders, steering him back toward his bowl of melting ice cream. “Look, you two need to talk—and clearly, here isn’t the best place to do it. Why don’t you just go out? You can fill me in after Nathaniel’s gone to sleep.”
“But don’t you want to—”