The Dermot Sparhawk Collection by Tom MacDonald

Author:Tom MacDonald
Language: eng
Format: epub

CHAPTER 2

As I headed back to the office, a lean man with dark hair and dark features fell in stride next to me. I knew him from the pantry, but I couldn’t recall his name. He smiled at me with straight, white teeth. This was unusual for a food pantry client—both the smile and the teeth. The man followed me into the office and sat across from my desk. He didn’t bat an eye when the metal door slammed behind him.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He took a pen from the desktop and wrote, My name is Blackie Barboza. I’m deaf. I can’t speak. He wrote stenographer fast. I read lips.

The name Barboza got my attention.

“Help with what?”

He shook the pen and wrote, My brother was Father Netto Barboza.

“The slain priest?”

He nodded.

The killing of Father Netto Barboza dominated yesterday’s news cycle, spurred by the shock that he was the second Boston priest within a week to be crucified. The first victim, Father Axholm, had been found nailed to a concrete highway buttress in Dorchester. Joyfully for the press but sadly for the Archdiocese, Father Axholm was an accused pedophile. The press hinted at revenge as a possible motive—a brilliant deduction. Father Axholm had been awaiting trial at the time of his murder.

Yesterday, Father Barboza got it. He too was an accused pedophile priest, and he too was crucified, nailed to a wharf on the Boston side of the Charles River Basin. Monday morning Red Line commuters gawked at the wharf-turned-cross that jutted from below the Longfellow Bridge.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I wasn’t sure what to say. I’ve dealt with trauma before. It happens all the time in the projects. “I can recommend a good grief therapist.”

He wrote, I don’t want that kind of help.

I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the desk.

“What kind of help do you want?” I found myself annunciating each syllable. “Do you want to talk to a priest? Father Dominic will be glad to help you.”

I don’t want a priest. I want you to find my brother’s killer.

“What?”

He wrote again, Find my brother’s killer.

“Sure, no problem,” I said. “I’ll find him on my lunch break. Anything else while I’m at it?”

Yes. He wrote. Prove my brother is innocent. He is not a pedophile.

Apparently, lip-readers don’t translate sarcasm.

“You can’t be serious.” I waited, but Blackie didn’t respond. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”

He scribbled, I am serious. Find my brother’s killer.

I could tell by his expression that he was in fact serious. Was he also wacky?

“You’re asking the wrong guy, Blackie. You should talk to the police.”

I don’t trust the police.

“Don’t trust the police? What does trust have to do with it? I don’t trust my bookie, but he’s the guy I go to when I place a bet. The cops will find the killer. They’re all over it.”

He tore off the top sheet. On a fresh page, he wrote, Maybe the cops will find him. Maybe they won’t. Maybe some rich guy will pay them to look the other way.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.