Adam's Witness

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2017 J.C. Paulson

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-9959756-1-3

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 1

  Dread weighed on the bishop’s soul as he emerged, shoulders hunched, from the confessional at the back of the church. He walked slowly past the pews, aware that a small light was the only illumination in the vast, domed cathedral. The stained glass windows were only a faint glimmer of blue, gold and red in the darkness.

  He had just finished the final confession, and tried to shake off the uneasy feeling it produced. He wondered why no lights were on. Did no one know he was still in the church?

  As bishop, Howard Halkitt heard few confessions; the priests managed most of them, but someone had to plumb their sins. When the bishop was in the cathedral, he would often take on one or two parishioners. It was always good to know what was going on in the hearts and souls of the congregation, he thought.

  This last one, though, was disturbing. The man in the confessional was confused, the bishop thought, and so angry. Even crazy. The parishioner, if that was what he was, seemed to be less interested in confessing and more interested in confrontation. Rarely did a confession cause the bishop enough concern that he wished he could disobey his vows and call the police, or at least a psychiatrist.

  But there had been no truly overt threat. He could only call on God.

  As he approached the altar, Halkitt looked up and began to pray for guidance. As far as the bishop could gather, the man hated nearly everyone who was not white, heterosexual, and Christian. He particularly hated gay people. One of those. God knew there were a few of them out there, although they were reasonably rare in Saskatoon. Immigrants were starting to come into the community in larger numbers, and Halkitt could sense the city becoming more open-minded, more welcoming, due to the cosmopolitan influence.

  But then there was this man. He expressed himself in strange, clipped sentences, sprinkled with profanity. He constantly asked the bishop to agree with his point of view. A confessional was not supposed to be about agreement.

  “So the guy. Faggot. Came on to me at the bar,” said the confessor. “Had to give him a piece of my mind. Right? What would you do? Slapped him upside the head.”

  That kind of thing.

  “You don’t feel that you did anything wrong, though?” Halkitt had asked him, wondering why the man was confessing.

  “Need to know if I’m okay. Last time this happened, I got popped by the cops.”

  The bishop suggested several Hail Marys, and pointed out to the confessor that he was really asking for secular, not sacred, forgiveness. With a humph and a few more epithets, the man finally left.

  Halkitt was almost before the altar, turning over the confession in his mind. Was the man’s admission that he slapped someone reason enough to call the police? But how would that help, since he didn’t know the man’s identity?

  Then he heard steps . . . soft steps, creeping toward him down the carpeted aisle.

  “Ed? Is that you?” asked Halkitt, expecting the janitor.

  “No,” said a voice Halkitt thought he recognized. The steps came more quickly; hard breathing filled the air. Halkitt started to turn, then looked up — surprised to see a flash of gold over his head. There was a shriek of fury, then no more words. The heavy object, encrusted with gilt and precious stones, caught the bishop on the side of the head with a sickening thud.

  He fell to the floor. There was no time to call for his God.

  *******

  The phone rang for the twentieth time in three hours. How, Grace asked herself, was it possible for the phone to ring that often on a Sunday night in Saskatoon? Full moon? She was already scrambling to write four stories for the Monday newspaper, and still had police checks to do.

  “StarPhoenix newsroom, Grace Rampling speaking.”

  “Hi, Grace,” said a resonant tenor voice. “My name is Bruce. I’m a member of the Pride Chorus. Do you have a minute?”

  Did she have a minute? It was an unusually busy news day, already six o’clock and the copy editor was putting on the pressure. She could hear the bustle on the news desk as the front section was put together. Her four stories were destined for that section. The last deadline was ten o’clock. Grace sighed. How much longer would she be the weekend reporter at the newspaper? Damn it, she was almost thirty. It was time for Monday to Friday, and maybe a social life.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, resigning herself to an even busier night.

  “Something has happened, and I’m wondering if you’d be interested in doing a story.”

  Everyone started their story pitches this way. It was always a little frustrating. How can you tell someone if you’re interested in a story when you know nothing about it?

  “Give me the short version? Then I’ll tell you whether it’s newsworthy.”

  “Well, our chorus — are you familiar with it?”

  “I am.”

  “We were supposed to sing tomorrow night at St. Eligius. Our director just got a call from the church office — I think it was from the secretary — to say they aren’t going to let us sing in the sanctuary. It was a concert, you know, not part of a church service or anything, and now they’re backing out on our contract. I mean, we pay for the use of it.”

  The four stories she was working on — well, at least three of them — would have to wait. A gay men’s choir being booted out of a Catholic church venue these days was not only a good story, it was also a human rights issue.

  “Bruce, do you feel comfortable giving me your last name?”

  “I . . . I guess so. Are you going to quote me?”

  “Probably, yes — I’d like to speak to your choir director, too.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Okay,” said Bruce at last. “My last name is Stephens.”

  “And the director’s name?”

  “Alan Haight.”

  “Tell me about the concert, Bruce. What were you going to sing? Was it religious music, show tunes, or was it something — well, something the church would consider sacrilegious?”

  “It was supposed to be our usual spring concert,” said the singer. “We do Broadway tunes, both solos and full choir, light operetta numbers — Gilbert and Sullivan, that sort of thing — and a few pop songs. Nothing salacious. Or sexy. Honest,” he added.

  “Why were you going to sing at St. Eligius?”

  “Third Avenue United was already booked. It’s our usual venue. We decided to try St. Eligius; it has fantastic acoustics. Ever been?”

  She had, actually. While covering arts, she had see
n many acts there — mostly instrumental trios and quartets, but also a few singers. The effect was transporting. It was a beautiful church.

  “I have. I take your point. What reason did the secretary give your director?”

  “He just said they changed their minds; that hosting our chorus was not appropriate for the cathedral. Wow.” Bruce halted.

  “It’s okay, Bruce,” said Grace, who could hear him choking up. “I know it’s upsetting. Can you tell me what the fee was?”

  “I think it was five hundred dollars, but you’d have to ask Alan.”

  “How many singers are there in the Pride Chorus?”

  “Fifty, more or less. All men, of various ages. We’re thinking of inviting women, but the choir started as a gay men’s thing . . . art mixed with support, you know?”

  “Sure. Could you please give me Alan’s number? I’d better get going, or I won’t reach anyone at the church. And your number, too, please.”

  Bruce Stephens provided the requested numbers, then asked, tentatively, “How will the story be received?”

  “Most people who read the story will understand the problem. I’d bet that will be about eighty percent of them. Try not to worry about that, Bruce.”

  “I’ll try not to. I had to call, you know?”

  “Absolutely. Thanks, Bruce. I’ll be in touch.”

  Grace hung up, amazed at what she had heard. What was the matter with the church management? No church administrator in his right mind would do such a thing, if only from a public relations standpoint.

  A quick call to Alan Haight confirmed Bruce’s information, but calls to three numbers at the church office brought no answer. Balance, in news, was everything; it was crucial to get the cathedral’s side of the issue. Grace leapt to her feet — it was already after six-thirty. Pulling on her parka and scarf, she approached the madly-typing news editor, looking pale and harried under the bright fluorescent lights.

  “I have a story for you.”

  “You have, I hope, four stories for me,” said John Powers, looking at her list, then expectantly at her.

  “I don’t think so,” said Grace. “We have a gay choir getting kicked out of a Catholic church.”

  “What? Which church?”

  “The cathedral. St. Eligius.”

  “When?”

  “The concert was supposed to be tomorrow. Pretty shitty for them to pull the plug at this late hour.”

  “No kidding,” agreed John, looking at his watch, and then at the four holes on his dummy pages, waiting for copy.

  He grunted. John was nothing if not a true newsman, and Grace knew he smelled a story with legs. Unfortunately, she knew he also saw vast tracts of white space in tomorrow’s paper.

  “I’ll make you a deal. If you finish the fire story, you’re off the hook for the other three stories if and only if you deliver the gay choir. I’ll find some more copy from Canadian Press or the Leader-Post, or something. I hope.”

  “Thanks, John.” Grace was already dashing for the back door.

  “Where the hell are you going?” he called after her.

  “To the church. Can’t reach anyone by phone. Be back pronto.”

  “Okay,” John yelled at her back.

  St. Eligius and its offices were located directly behind the StarPhoenix; it was an easy dash from the back door. Grace pulled a scarf around her thick auburn curls, slipped her gloves on and checked again for her notepad and cellphone. Pen? Door pass card? Check. It would be nice to get back into the newspaper building once the interviews were done. The security guard could not be trusted to answer the bell, and if he did, couldn’t be trusted to actually let you in without giving you the third degree. Grace didn’t always win those battles.

  It was cold, not that twenty-five below zero in March was that unusual in Saskatoon. It was also getting dark as she walked across the parking lot and down the alley toward the church office, skin already tingling and brown eyes watering in the icy breeze. She shivered from exhaustion and cold. Her empty stomach growled.

  As she hurried down the alley, she thought how ridiculous it was that this kind of thing still happened to gay people. At least, that appeared to be the issue. She thought the local churches were rather enlightened, but this showed otherwise.

  She arrived a bit breathlessly at the office door and knocked loudly. No lights were visible, so it was unlikely anyone was still there. Still, she tried the door. It was locked.

  There was another door at the east end, so she walked over to it and knocked again. Nothing. Damn it. She’d have to go back to the newsroom and start looking up the names of the priest, bishop and secretary, and try to find their home numbers.

  Shifting her heavy bag from one shoulder to another, she turned back toward the alley, and started to hurry back. Wait, Grace asked herself: what if someone is in the church? It was mostly dark, but she thought she could see one small light at the back.

  Mist swirling up from the half-frozen river cloaked the beautiful brick cathedral with gothic mystery, and for a second or two, Grace admired the eerie majesty of it. A few steps more took her to the beautifully carved, heavy wooden door, with its arched top and wrought iron trim. When she went up to knock, she discovered it was open, just a crack. Grace felt a bit of a thrill; it wasn’t a fool’s errand after all. Someone was about.

  Knocking again, she pushed the door open and walked directly into the cathedral’s sanctuary. Stained glass windows ringed the long room, and the wooden pews, oiled to a soft shine, glowed in the dim light. Church sanctuaries, at least the lovely ones, always awed her a little, despite her secular views.

  “Hello?” called Grace. “Hello! Is anyone here? I’m from the newspaper.”

  There was no answer — in fact, no sound at all. Grace walked toward the altar, away from the dim light — a little reading light, perched over a music stand — and into the gloom.

  Calling “hello?” rather more softly, Grace peered along the pews and peeked at the confessionals, wondering if a priest was cloistered inside one of them.

  Then her foot hit something — something soft, but not yielding. She almost tripped, but held her balance as she realized it was not something, but someone lying across the aisle.

  Shocked, Grace let out a strangled yell and looked down at a man in clerical clothing right at her feet.

  Backing up with speed and suddenly breathing hard, Grace pulled out her cellphone, clicked a button to turn on the screen light, and pointed the phone at the person. A priest lay in front of her, bleeding copiously from the head. Gore was congealing on the floor.

  Grace sank to the floor, hand on her stomach, and tried not to throw up. Maybe he had fallen and hit his head, but more likely someone had done this to him. If it was the latter, was that someone still in the church?

  Panicking, as the possibility of someone watching her sunk in, she crawled into the closest space between two pews and punched 911 on her cellphone. An operator answered immediately.

  “911. What is your emergency? Do you need police, ambulance or fire?”

  “Police. I’ve found a man lying on the floor in St. Eligius Cathedral,” Grace said in a stage whisper. “I think he’s a priest, and he may be dead.”

  “What?” Even the operator sounded flummoxed. “One moment please.” Grace could hear her dispatching the police. Then she came back on the line. “Why do you think he might be dead?”

  “He has been struck in the head and there is blood everywhere. He’s not moving.”

  “What is your name, please?”

  “Grace Rampling. I’m a reporter at the StarPhoenix. I was here to cover a story.”

  “Are you safe?” asked the operator.

  “I don’t know,” said Grace, still in a stage whisper. Thank God the operator could hear her. “I don’t know if anyone is here.”

  “Police are on their way. Please stay on the line.”

  “I can’t. I have to call someone else. Thank you,” said Grace, hanging up.
br />   Then she hit a speed dial button. John answered in one ring.

  “John,” she hissed. “I think there’s a dead guy in the sanctuary. He’s bleeding all over the place — can you hear me?”

  “Grace? What the hell? I can just barely hear you. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see or hear anyone, but I’m crouched between two pews.”

  “Do you know if he’s dead? Or are you guessing?”

  “I’m guessing. I haven’t felt for a pulse or anything. There’s an incredible amount of blood, though.”

  “I’ll call 911. And I’ll be right there.”

  “I already called 911. But if you could come, that would be great. Thanks, John.”

  Grace hung up, then threw up. Wiping her mouth, she looked over at the body again, and took as deep a breath as her pounding heart would allow. She crawled toward the man lying before the altar, stretched out an arm, and found his wrist.

  He was definitely dead.

  Chapter 2

  Grace couldn’t look at the man on the floor again: the gore, the staring eyes, and the gaping hole in his head were too revolting. She couldn’t see much by the light of her phone, but what she could see was stomach-twisting. There was, in her view, no doubt that he hadn’t fallen. He had been struck, and hard.

  It occurred to Grace that she was not just the primary reporter, but the primary witness in this likely murder case. She had seen dead people before, especially on the weekend news beat, but this was the first one she had discovered. It wasn’t exactly on her bucket list.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said to herself, then became aware she had said it out loud, in a normal tone of voice. Brilliant, she thought sarcastically. Was there someone lurking in a confessional? Behind the font? Did he hear her?

  Stuck until help arrived, she started scribbling notes, describing what she had done, what she had seen, and how she had nearly tripped over the bloody, lifeless body. Huddled between the pews, with half an eye on the body, she felt she could die herself of thirst and disgust.

  Sirens. The cops were fast, especially considering what a busy day of crime they had faced — as, therefore, had she: there was the fire, which was almost certainly arson, considering who owned the property; several domestic disputes, two of them violent, according to the police scanner; a few downtown drunks, one of them with frostbite; and myriad other scuffles and intoxications.