It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 103: Chapter V

In the week since her discovery at Ohannes', Detective Mooney's prospects for a timely resolution to the Father Peter investigation had not improved and by all indications were markedly worse.

Daniel McKeen was easy enough to find in the BPD's records. His sole mugshot, dated the 8th of September, face pockmarked with blood and scrapes and bruises, stirred vague images in Alanna's head. More so at least than the picture she had discovered in the priest's bible. In that, Mr. McKeen had appeared as a groomed and tolerable child. Yet in the mugshot, the scruffy, unkempt man, some eight or so years older, eyes open with tearful worry, recalled memories of children that had once congregated around her brother and, to a lesser extent, sister. Alanna had hated them all, but Niamh, for her limited wisdom, had seen nothing wrong with those friends of Alfonso. The eldest Carr had tried to make her mother see sense, but the lady cared nothing for her daughter's opinion. With the advent of new and surviving children, Niamh had grown doting, where once she had been a strict and dictatorial figure. The lady would always profess the treatment of each of her offspring equal, while Alanna, from the moment Alfonso Ignatius was born, would claim to feel shunted to one side, a nuisance, never more than a babysitter. It was a role, once upon a time, the Detective had taken too. Where their mother faltered, Alanna tried her best to instill some small modicum of virtue in the only brother; but Alfonso Ignatius did as Alfonso Ignatius pleased, never resulting in serious punishment for himself, but always his sister. If he came home late or battered, it was not him who suffered their mother's wrath. Rather, at the sight of him, Niamh would collapse in tears of fear, his safety paramount whenever she bothered to remember her children. But once he was nice and tucked into his bed, flesh wounds tended too with care, once his door would be closed tight, violence then would be visited upon the 'fat' eldest.

'I TOLD YA TO WATCH FOR HIM!' Niamh would holler, wooden spoon a-crashing down upon the thick girl's frame. 'USELESS THING, YA ARE! FAT, UGLY, USELESS, STUPID GIRL!'

Still, Alanna persisted in her attempts to be the figure of moral authority that should have been coveted by her parents and grandparents. They were efforts in vain. She was only a child after all, and what little progress came from her efforts was forever undermined by Niamh's lacking attention. What child will listen to a sister, or any authority, if their parents allow them the freedom to run amok.

And with those friends too. Yes, those friends of Alfonso's. How Alanna had hated them. They were the most loathsome. He could have done better, he should have done better, had Alanna had her way—

'What would ya know?' Niamh would mock when Alanna would broach the subject of those boys...if you could call such animals boys. 'Ya have no friends. Ya would too if ya'd take care of yourself, but ya don't. Boys will be boys!'

'Vera is not a boy!'

'She'll grown out of it!'

How? Alanna wanted to shout at her mother. How if you keep letting her run around with the worst kind of examples. The Donavans for starters, as full of it as their parents; Little Robert Sullivan, a carbon copy of his father, who had often leered at Alanna on her way to school; Edward Towne, the mercurial boy her mother had taken in as a stray. Everyone loved Edward, especially Alfonso, who followed him about like a whipped dog. Even in a child, Alanna thought, that amount of subservience he should for the blond boy was hideously craven. And what did it say of the blond himself allowing such a cloying friendship to continue? Perhaps he would go farthest in life, but he would be a manipulative son of a bitch, Alanna was sure. There had been more, of course, and each, in their own way, had made some sort of impression on the Detective....

...except for Daniel McKeen.

They had grown up near each other, he had been friends with Alfonso, Edward Towne had confirmed all this...but if had not been for that pitiful look of neediness, so openly given in the mugshot, Alanna would never have remembered him.

Yet, this mattered little in those times. Remembrance or not, the Detective now had a true person of interest. Certainly there was little proof to outright connect the priest's murder to Mr. McKeen, but the proximity of the two begged for further answers. There were no other photographs taken from the rectory, no other mementos of a life lived, save for the one shoved into the bible.

Not even of Father Peter, but of old Father Charles and little Daniel McKeen.

Instinct nipped at Detective Mooney from the moment she had first seen the photograph—

And that inscription!

"How long, O Lord, holy and true, will You refrain from judging and avenging our blood on those who live on the earth?"

But why—

It doesn't mattered, she would tell herself. The 'why' would come as soon as she could get her hands on the 'who'.

But cornering Daniel McKeen had not proven such an easy task. For someone of such limited education and skill, he was quite adept at not being found. He was never home when she called, never picked up the phone when she rang, and he never appeared on the streets that she roamed.

And she watched for him!

She watched from early morning until very late at night. She even put an undercover across the street, not that that did much. St. Gregorites of Curly's were accustomed to undercover officers of the law. Alanna knew this, but what else could she do. She had to have Daniel McKeen, and at some point he would have to show himself...

But nothing!

'If he's at home, you need to tell me, Mrs. McKeen. This is a police investigation!' Alanna would say, face wedged in the crack in the door of the apartment, at least once a day until Mrs. McKeen learned not to answer.

'Aren't you a little concerned?' Alanna would say over the phone. 'Your son hasn't been home in days. Don't you want to find him.'

'Nah, not really. I don't like him much,' the mother would say before hanging up. It took her awhile, but eventually Mrs. McKeen realized you could disconnect the phone.

The more the week dragged on, the more a feverish imprudence took Detective Mooney, her excitement fast becoming agitation. It did not help matters that her home life was suddenly floundering.

Things remained cold. A septic resentment was growing. Christopher had made it abundantly clear that he did not want his wife involved in any case in her birth neighborhood. Though he made excuses as to his reasoning—intuition, safety, her 'promise', which she found the most ridiculous excuse of all—Alanna inferred a more fundamental problem. His opposition had nothing to do this case, nothing to do with St. Gregory's at all!

No.

Her husband, like so many others, had turned to petulance out of spite. His support for her would only go so far, and its limits were easily and perversely brought to bear when she needed him the most. Like all the others, she knew, her husband could not stand that his wife was pursuing her own wants and objectives. It embarrassed him. It was fine for her to playact, but when push came to shove, it was all a joke to him. Just like the rest of them, Christopher had no faith in her ability, no time for her impassioned diligence to her job.
But none of it mattered now. She had been wrong about him, so what? What was one more doubter in a life chalk full of them? No, she would prove him—them all!—wrong. Doubt only spurred Detective Mooney on. Once she got a hold of Daniel McKeen, they would see. They would all see!

And as her agitation boarded on near delirium, she fancied the idea that she alone would destroy all the doubt in this world—not the world, that was impractical, but at least all doubt in her home, all doubt in her professional existence!

But Daniel McKeen first!