He believed him. He was his priest and confessor for fifty years and knew he didn’t murder that little girl.
Mrs. Donnelly had taken the call just after lunch and gave him the sad news.
“John Ryan’s going to be arrested, Father—he left a message on the phone for you to call.”
He immediately telephoned his house. The familiar Irish brogue on the other end of the line was verging on hysteria.
“They asked me to get a lawyer and turn myself in, Father. I’m in a twit to be at Rory O’Hara’s law office now.”
“I’m so sorry, John—I can only imagine how you must feel.”
“I can’t believe it, Father, after all these years. I told them back in the day I didn’t do it—I was on that train to Chicago when that girl went missing. When they closed the case, I figured it was the end of it.”
The face of the blonde seven year old surfaced in the priest’s mind—the way she appeared on the front page of the Herald.
He remembered the sickening fear and oppressive heaviness that enveloped him.
Nine months later when they found the tiny body in a woodlot, the same unspeakable weight returned, plunging him into a black depression.
He knew the girl and the family. He would have to celebrate the funeral Mass.
“Would you do me a favor, Father?”
The high-pitched voice of John Ryan pulled him back to the present.
“Of course, John—How can I help?”
“Perhaps you could drop by the house and check in on Cogan for me? I don’t know who else to ask.”
Cogan was the one-eyed cat John had rescued years ago and as far as the priest knew, was also his only companion.
His neighbors, following their own style of justice, had found him guilty and shunned him accordingly.
“I’ll drop by and make sure he has food and water, John.”
Thank you, Father—It's only for today—Mrs. Mappin will be around tomorrow.”
Bridge Mappin was the rotund, acid-tongued shrew that tidied up after John and cooked his meals. She constantly complained about her meager pay and would certainly not bestir herself on her day off regardless of circumstances.
“I’ll leave the key under the mat. Make yourself a tea, if you have a mind to, Father.”
Twenty minutes later he was unlocking the front door to John Ryan’s run-down cottage on Walnut Street. Cogan was sitting on the sofa back staring through the hazy window at some sparrows outside.
“Good day to you, Cogan,” the priest whispered.
The gray tabby meowed, arched his back and leapt down onto the rug. The priest found the kibble and shook some into a chipped china bowl and then poured fresh water into its mate.
He then filled the kettle and put on the water for his tea.
When it had boiled, he took his cup and sat in the sofa chair opposite the window and watched Cogan grooming himself by licking his paws and using them to wash his face. He noticed the worn furniture and faded curtains.
The house has been neglecting itself for sometime, John would say.
It was a comfortable house, nevertheless, and cosy. A pang of sympathy caused him to inhale sharply. How could they think such a gentle soul as John would harm a little girl?
They couldn't prove he didn't go to Chicago and wasn't in town when the murder occurred.
The injustice angered him and he struggled to suppress more bitter thoughts.
How easy it was for people to rush to judgment and accuse a neighbor. Strangely, John had been patient through the ordeal.
He never complained and never fought back.
He continued on in the same neighborhood where he had grown up and spent the last fifty years.
The priest glanced absently around the room. What immediately struck him was that it was impersonal.
There were no photographs of relatives, or anyone for that matter—only a few dusty pictures of pastoral scenes and an ink engraving of the Sears building in Chicago.
The engraving caught his eye and he got up and walked across the room to examine it more closely. In contrast to the other, kitschy, framed art, the engraving was quite good. There was a scrawled signature on the bottom right, but the name was indecipherable.
The priest reached out and carefully took down the picture. Perhaps there was some information on the reverse.
He turned over the engraving and was shocked to find taped to the back, an unused train ticket to Chicago.
He felt the breath go out of him. John Ryan had lied.
