Ted Patchett. He could tell Ted was lying during the questioning. He was as nervous and agitated as Rick Pettinger. A couple of times, Jack caught him contradicting himself.
He wondered if Johnny’s trio of “boyfriends” weren’t all somehow involved in the drowning. Had the three of them been in on it together? Was it some kind of sexual hazing that had gone wrong?
Jack was about to duck out of St. Clement Hall when Anton caught him in the stairwell. Anton volunteered to “keep digging” with the investigation. Jack thanked him, but said he could handle the inquiries himself. He left the dorm at a quarter past ten.
Anton was a bit too helpful, too eager, and too quick with his alibi. His strange enthusiasm was almost as suspicious as the denials from John’s alleged boyfriends. Jack swung by the college library and browsed the current newspapers and periodicals. He looked up the lifestyle section in Wednesday’s Seattle Times . There was a ten-o’clock screening of The Great Escape at the Cinerama Theater.
Anton hadn’t been lying about the movie. But three sophomores on Anton’s floor had indeed lied to him. They were the ones with something to hide.
Jack wandered out of the library into the damp night air. He turned up the collar of his jacket as he wandered through the maze of old, ivy-covered buildings toward the faculty boat dock. At the edge of campus, he walked by Our Lady of Sorrows Church. Jack hesitated, then he glanced up at the tall, Gothic edifice.
“ There’s this window to the church basement, the lock’s broken…. We’d go into the catacombs under the church…. I know he met John Costello there several nights .”
Jack turned, then slowly circled around the church. Looking past the bushes and flower beds, he studied the basement windows for one with a broken latch. He found the window on the lake side. A few old cigarette butts scattered on the ground gave it away. He picked up one of the butts: a Winston Light, Rick Pettinger’s brand.
Jack glanced around to make sure he was alone. The muddy ground felt soft beneath his feet as he moved closer to the side of the building. Bending down, he pushed at the window. With only slight resistance, it swung open. He dug a miniflashlight from his coat pocket. It was on his second key ring, along with a spare set of keys for St. Bartholomew Hall.
He shined the light into the darkened basement. A squat cabinet had been shoved against the cellar wall beneath the window. Jack could see shoe prints on top of the cabinet. It was obvious how the boys had climbed down into the basement. He wondered if John’s shoe prints were amid the many left there.
Jack crawled through the small window. He almost tipped over the cabinet as he climbed down into the dark, dank cellar.
A dim light filtered from the stairwell, and Jack could make out an array of old, broken-down altar fixtures, standing crucifixes, and even a couple of receptacles for holy water. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Jack gazed at all the abandoned artifacts, then he saw something that made his heart stop.
He pointed the miniflashlight at the tall, thin shadowy figure. “Oh, shit.” He laughed. It was a life-size statue of St. Joseph. The paint was flaking off his face, and he had a haunting, pious gaze that seemed almost demonic. Sitting through Mass and staring at that thing must have given churchgoers nightmares.
He’d been in this cellar once before, when another priest had given him a tour his first week at the school. Jack remembered the catacombs were on the other side of the large, dull metal door, which looked like the entry for a bomb shelter. The door wasn’t far from where St. Joseph stood glaring at him.
Jack pulled at the elongated handle. Locked. He searched around for the key. He thought about switching on the light, but didn’t want anyone to know he was down here. After a couple of minutes, he finally found the key under an old pulpit.
The
He wondered if Johnny’s trio of “boyfriends” weren’t all somehow involved in the drowning. Had the three of them been in on it together? Was it some kind of sexual hazing that had gone wrong?
Jack was about to duck out of St. Clement Hall when Anton caught him in the stairwell. Anton volunteered to “keep digging” with the investigation. Jack thanked him, but said he could handle the inquiries himself. He left the dorm at a quarter past ten.
Anton was a bit too helpful, too eager, and too quick with his alibi. His strange enthusiasm was almost as suspicious as the denials from John’s alleged boyfriends. Jack swung by the college library and browsed the current newspapers and periodicals. He looked up the lifestyle section in Wednesday’s Seattle Times . There was a ten-o’clock screening of The Great Escape at the Cinerama Theater.
Anton hadn’t been lying about the movie. But three sophomores on Anton’s floor had indeed lied to him. They were the ones with something to hide.
Jack wandered out of the library into the damp night air. He turned up the collar of his jacket as he wandered through the maze of old, ivy-covered buildings toward the faculty boat dock. At the edge of campus, he walked by Our Lady of Sorrows Church. Jack hesitated, then he glanced up at the tall, Gothic edifice.
“ There’s this window to the church basement, the lock’s broken…. We’d go into the catacombs under the church…. I know he met John Costello there several nights .”
Jack turned, then slowly circled around the church. Looking past the bushes and flower beds, he studied the basement windows for one with a broken latch. He found the window on the lake side. A few old cigarette butts scattered on the ground gave it away. He picked up one of the butts: a Winston Light, Rick Pettinger’s brand.
Jack glanced around to make sure he was alone. The muddy ground felt soft beneath his feet as he moved closer to the side of the building. Bending down, he pushed at the window. With only slight resistance, it swung open. He dug a miniflashlight from his coat pocket. It was on his second key ring, along with a spare set of keys for St. Bartholomew Hall.
He shined the light into the darkened basement. A squat cabinet had been shoved against the cellar wall beneath the window. Jack could see shoe prints on top of the cabinet. It was obvious how the boys had climbed down into the basement. He wondered if John’s shoe prints were amid the many left there.
Jack crawled through the small window. He almost tipped over the cabinet as he climbed down into the dark, dank cellar.
A dim light filtered from the stairwell, and Jack could make out an array of old, broken-down altar fixtures, standing crucifixes, and even a couple of receptacles for holy water. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Jack gazed at all the abandoned artifacts, then he saw something that made his heart stop.
He pointed the miniflashlight at the tall, thin shadowy figure. “Oh, shit.” He laughed. It was a life-size statue of St. Joseph. The paint was flaking off his face, and he had a haunting, pious gaze that seemed almost demonic. Sitting through Mass and staring at that thing must have given churchgoers nightmares.
He’d been in this cellar once before, when another priest had given him a tour his first week at the school. Jack remembered the catacombs were on the other side of the large, dull metal door, which looked like the entry for a bomb shelter. The door wasn’t far from where St. Joseph stood glaring at him.
Jack pulled at the elongated handle. Locked. He searched around for the key. He thought about switching on the light, but didn’t want anyone to know he was down here. After a couple of minutes, he finally found the key under an old pulpit.
The
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