Patron Saint, page three
"Puh-leese." Nolan laughed. "They actually pay
you to do this to people?"
"Tell me you're not John Wayne out there," Jo said,
pressing him. "Explain your two commendations for bravery above and beyond
the call."
"I lost my head." A wry smile. "Twice."
"Bullshit. You're always volunteering for extra
duty. Didn't you even volunteer for this Task Force?"
"So I'm a civic-minded guy. Big deal. I'm still
countin' the years 'til I put in my twenty and can pension out. Just like
everybody else."
A thick silence. Nolan just stood there, looking
at her. He seemed to deflate a bit.
"Tom, I'd like you to sit down, all right?" She
nodded at the overturned chair. "And easy on my furniture."
He smiled sheepishly and sat. But his face was
still flushed, his breathing labored. Fumbling with his pack of Camels,
he finally managed to light another one.
"Remember our first meeting, " Jo said, "how you
described yourself?"
"Yeah. I said I was always the first cop on the
scene. First through the door. Kind of a precinct joke."
"You care, Tom. About your family. Your brother.
You care about doing your job, stopping the bad guys. That's why these
murders are eating you alive. Why you always have to show me the crime
scene photos. So I'll get it. See what you see. Understand the pain you're
feeling."
"Yeah?" He blew a smoke ring. "I figured I showed
'em to you to gross you out. Knock you down a peg. Show you what goes on
in the real world, outside of this nice, safe office."
"Maybe at first that was true. But not now. Now
you want me to understand you. Your heart. Your cause."
He waved her off. Then, after a heavy silence,
he said, "I don't wanna talk anymore. Can I go now?"
"Not yet."
The sharpness in her own voice surprised her. But
she couldn't let him leave. Some vague notion was taking shape in the back
of her mind, like a photo slowily developing, coming into focus.
Nolan's eyes, meeting hers, were opaque. Unreadable.
Jo steadied herself. She had to do this just right.
"Where's Eddie now?" she asked.
"Ungrateful shit's baack at my folks' place, living
over the garage. He always crashes there when he's broke, or when there's
too much heat. Last time, he stole money right out of my old man's wallet,
wrecked their car."
"Why do your parents put up with him? What is he,
thirty, thirty-two?"
"He's their son, for Christ's sake! Their blood!"
He spat the words at her, as though they tasted bitter. "You wouldn't understand.
The way we were raised, you don't turn your back on your family. Not even
when--" He stopped himself.
"When what?"
He didn't reply.
"It's killing you, isn't it?" she said.
His face grew darker, etched with pain and anger.
"I don't know what the hell you're--"
"He's evil, Tom. You know it and you hate him for
it, and you also love him."
"Shut up!"
"That's what's eating at your insides. The love
and the hate and the guilt."
"I said, shut up, bitch!" His hands gripped
the chair arms, propelling him out of his seat.
Jo's heart was pounding, but she kept on. "You
can't stop him, and you can't turn him in. And yet you have to do something
for his victims, even if it's just a gesture, a token to guide their poor
souls on their way out of this life."
Nolan was standing now. He brought his huge hands
up, fingers spread, as though to shield himself from her words.
"You--you don't know--" he said, almost stuttering.
Jo took a breath. Under the table, she shifted
her knee a few inches to the left, feeling for the panic button. Where
the hell was it?
"I do know, Tom," she said, softening her voice.
"I know because you want me to know. Remember what you said? You're always
first on the scene. The first to get close enough to the victim's body
to slip on the St. Christopher medal, before the other cops see, before
the M.E. arrives to examine her. That's why victim number five, Roberta
Ruiz, wasn't wearing the medal. It was the one time you weren't
first on the scene. Greer was. By the time you joined the team there, it
was chaos. Cops, Crime Scene techs. There was no chance to bless her, to
protect at least her soul, if not her life."
Nolan was backing away, eyes wide. His mouth was
moving, but making no sounds.
"Tommy..." Jo got carefully to her feet.
Finally, Noland found a voice--one she'd never
heard before, a high-pitched sputter, the keening of a child. "Sweet Jesus,
stay with me. Sweet Mother of God, protect me."
Jo gasped. She knew now, with blinding clarity,
the price Tom Nolan had paid for keeping his horrible secrets. Now, with
the truth revealed, his psyche was literally unraveling...
Instinctively, she came around her desk, hands
reaching to touch him, as though to pull him back from some dark place.
The blood was roaring in her head. Fear knotted
her stomach. It all seemed unreal, like a feverish nightmare unfolding...
"I understand, Tommy," she heard herself saying. She forced her legs to
move her toward him, as he backed up against the far wall. "You were doing
the only thing you could do."
The detective's eyes were blinking, as though against
a harsh light. His voice had sunk to a whisper. "Holy Mary, Mother of God..."
Jo took another step closer. "But it has to stop
now, Tom. We have to call Lt. Rossi. Get him to send a unit to your parents'
house and pick up Eddie."
But Nolan was shaking his head.
"We have to, Tommy. You know that."
Her eyes searched his face, beseeching him. Looking
for the man behind the grief, the terror, the guilt.
His words were choked. "He's not there."
"Not there? Did you tell him you knew? Did he run?"
She took his hands in hers, gripped them with a
fierce strength. "Where is he, Tom?"
"Where he can't hurt anybody anymore."
He leaned back against the wall, as though finally
giving up the ghost. He closed his eyes, let his shoulders slump.
Jo froze where she stood, as the implication of
his words sank in. The breath seemed to go out of her.
With an effort, she steadied herself. Suddenly,
absurdly, she was conscious of the noise from the air conditioner. The
car sounds from outside. But at least the roaring in her ears had stopped.
She grew calmer still. No, this wasn't a nightmare.
This was real. And Detective Tom Nolan, regardless of what he'd done, was
first and foremost her patient.
"Tommy..." She stood next to him, stroking his
arm. He was docile as a child, head hanging down.
Voice quiet, almost serene, he said, "I buried
him behind the batting cage at Beeman Park. We used to play there every
day as kids. We were a team. Second base and shortstop. The Nolan brothers,
guarding the infield."
"You'll have to take the police there," she said
softly. "Show them exactly where you put Eddie."
He nodded, oblivious. "It's okay, though. I put
the Christopher medal around his neck. And I said some prayers. God will
understand. Eddie--I mean, it wasn't really his fault. Those girls...he
just wasn't in his right mind. You know?"
"Yes, I know," Jo said. She returned to her desk
and picked up the phone.
Tom Nolan stayed where he was, huddled against
the wall. His lips were moving again, perhaps in silent prayer.
Jo paused, phone in hand, and looked at him. She
wished she shared his faith in the power of the St. Christopher medal and
that she had one to give him for the journey he was about to take.
Written expressly for WRITTEN
BY, Copyright 2002 by Dennis Palumbo
dennis@dennispalumbo.com
