It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 104: Chapter V (Cont'd)

Coarse and Offensive Language. Reader Discretion Advised.

'Give me a warrant,' Detective Mooney demanded of her most immediate superior, barging into his office without welcome, nor knock, nor even a by-your-leave.

Superintendent Walsh, fully engrossed in his corn beef lunch, mustard staining the corners of his poorly shaven cheek and collar, spluttered with indignation. 'For what?'

'I have it,' declared the lady, and from there she laid out her discovery and suspicions regarding the murder of Father Peter in as broad a way as possible, fearing that too many details might overwhelm the man behind the desk. She didn't get very far into her explanations, for maybe a minute or two into the scattershot presentation, the Superintendent shook his head.

'You don't got diddly-shit!' he bleated, taking his forefinger and wiping everywhere on his cheek but the spot of mustard. 'You go in front of any judge with what you just told me, and they'll laugh you all the way out of the Commonwealth. Get more!' Then, to show he was not an entirely unreasonable character, he added, 'I would hate to see you embarrass yourself.'

'But I've got it!' said Alanna, ready to add any amount of significant detail to her speech. 'I've made the connection between—'

'And good for you!' interjected the Superintendent. 'Considerin' I gave you an ultimatum, and then, suddenly, somethin' materializes. One would think you only work when forced.'

"How long," quoted Alanna, who had not only studied the verse, but the chapter and book ad nauseam, getting a splitting migraine for her troubles, 'will You refrain from judgin' and avengin' our blood on those who live on the earth?'Avenge! Our! Blood! What else do I need?!'

But an abrupt uncomfortableness came across the Superintendent, and she saw a flash of recognition in his grubby face. 'I think you're graspin' at straws.'

'Sorry?'

'Who has a motive to kill a priest? It's a priest, for fucks' sake. What would a priest do that would get him shot?!'

'I don't know—'

'You think that a priest—a man of God!—might've had a hand in his own murder?'

'I'm not sayin' I think—'

'Of all the stupid things I've heard! Forget explainin' to a judge, I want to see you explain to the Archdiocese this theory. You ever sat across from a lawyer for the Church? Because I have. You don't know what hell is... '

'There's no theory, Sir! I'm simply sayin' I need a way to get a look at this guy. I need a way into his apartment. His mother is stallin' me, he's dodging me—for all I know, he's already taken off. But I need to know for sure. If we lose him—'

'If you lose him, Detective,' pounced the Superintendent. 'This is on you. If you really believe this is your guy, and the link was sittin' on your desk for weeks—my God, the gross incompetence!'
There were many things that rage begged of Detective Mooney, but she resisted all temptation to spit, or to gouge the eyes of the man before; and instead, with what little strength she had left, swallowed her pride and resorted to begging. 'Sir. I am askin'—I can prove this if you just—'

'No! Get more, before you turn it over to Murphy.' 

Superintendent Terrance P. Walsh could have used many different words, but he had chosen 'before', and sense returned to Alanna Kathleen Mooney. There was no hope in it after all. The decision had been made. Short of tying the case up with a neat bow, there would be no betterment, no banishment of doubt. No matter what she did now, her fate had been determined. 

And so it was that on the morning of February 2nd, 1976, Detective Mooney was summoned back to the Superintendent's office. There, flanked by Detective Murphy, his mustache combed free of cigar ash, Terrence P. Walsh informed Alanna that all her work, her seniority in the case, would now be turned over to the more, as he put it, 'experienced eye.' 

Alanna had held out hope to the last that by some miracle, a quirk of fate, her career would be saved...but now, here it was, consequences of self-belief. There was nothing left to offer. No fight, no curse, no plea, she stood there and took it on the chin in numb disbelief.

'I never had a chance,' she would later write.

She tried to rally, tried to show that the dismissal would not bother her, but by mid-afternoon with her desk cleared and Detective Murphy, who had summarily dismissed her with a, 'if I need anythin' I'll let you know,' holding court nearby, Alanna retreated from the office.

'Failure' was the word that haunted her as she got in her car and drove without thought or care for where she would end up.

I am a failure.

The more she drove and the more she thought, the more she came to appreciate that failure was an ever present part of her life. Failure was everywhere, in everything she cared for and loved. How would she face her child now? Michelle, whom Alanna had always tried her very best to instill a sense of boundless possibility, would now see her 'hero' for what her 'hero' truly was.
A failure. Always a failure. Failure as a professional. Failure as lover. Failure as a daughter. Failure certainly as a mother—not even a mother! A replacement. It wasn't her house, it wasn't her car. What did she have in life that she could honestly call her own? What was she proud of that were her accomplishments? Some clothes...some trinkets...a bank account and money—no, not even that. Just clothes and trinkets. She and Christopher shared the bank account.
What am I? Where did it all go wrong?! I tried my best! Why wasn't that good enough? What more could I have done? Could I have given? I was better. I was always better! Why am I still a failure like the rest of them?!

It always came back to St. Gregory's, she knew, twisting the cold wheel, changing lanes at random, turning down streets and corners without seeing where she was going. St. Gregory's always followed. She could run, but never escape.

'NO! NO! NO!' She punched her hand dashboard, and screamed so long and loud that her throat cracked.

What could any of them have been if they had just left?

Nothing.

Me!

The afternoon grew to evening, and Alanna's long and winding drive grew wearisome. She would have to face Christopher. Better sooner than later. She would have to face Michelle. If there was any hope of moving on from failure, of learning and growing from it, she would have to go home. But the scope of her embarrassment, the pervading sense of shame and worthlessness made the woman uncertain, and uncertainty always leads to vulnerability. She knew she couldn't circle the city and its neighborhoods forever, but—

And there it was!

Home.

She had not meant to come that way. She did not remember choosing to be here. She had just thought of 'Home', familiar and safe, and here she was...St. Gregory's Parish, always home whether you liked it or not, had called, and Alanna had come, cowered and defeated, crawling back to atone.