The Confession of Alan Evans

The Confession of Alan Evans

By

Brian Montgomery

Copyright 2005

Brian Montgomery

Published by Brian Montgomery at Smashwords

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Cover Art

By

Debi Cates

www.debicates.com

Chapter One

The Fall

I

Archbishop Evans looked at the clock in the upper right hand corner of his computer screen and decided to close his internet connection and shut down the computer for the night. The screen blinked blue, then sea green and made a small chirping sound as it went off. The hard drive itself made a soft humming reverberating sound as it wound down, then clicked off. The man stood and stretched his neck and back to reinvigorate it once again from its previous hunched over posture of the last three hours. His body responded by creaking and reminding him that he was beyond the age of staying up all night hovering over a keyboard like a college student.

The Archbishop placed his skullcap on its stand and prepared for bed. The room was a dim glowing spectral scene with the faint light provided by the table lamp. He had always found his room eerie late at night but was also somehow comforted by the vague light. A silver tray with a half eaten and now crusty sandwich sat on the nightstand beside his bed. Father Adams had offered to take the tray to the kitchen before he went to bed but the Archbishop had waved him away with a smile, saying that he was fully capable of cleaning up his messes. The empty soda can lay spent beside the sandwich. Even after becoming the leading authority for the Roman Catholic Church in the city of Los Angeles, Archbishop Evans was still a guy who liked his soda straight from the can and not over ice in some grail-mocking goblet.

The tray trembled in his grasp and he looked at the rolling can as it swayed this way and that. Was his mind too heavy with thought to ensure his grip on the tray or was his grip unsteady because his strength was waning in this most dire moment? He sat the tray once again on the small table and walked quickly to the door while his strength and determination were at a level that allowed him to function. Doubt and fear crept into his mind but he walked out of his bedroom and into the corridor beyond. The bedroom doors of the priests were all closed and the corridor was as faint as his poorly lit room had been. At the top of the stairway, Archbishop Evans grabbed the heavily polished ebony rail and felt his head swim. His resolve however did not waver.

As his body fell down the marble stairs, Archbishop Evans did not utter a sound. His thudding body however, awoke more than one of the priests on the third floor. On the second floor landing, he came to a stop. Face down, with blood issuing from his mouth, nose, and left ear, Archbishop Evans lay quiet. His resolve and his strength dismissed by unconsciousness.

Father Simmons was the first out into the great dark corridor and his shriek at seeing the holy patriarch of the diocese face down in a slow growing pool of blood on the landing, was like a fire alarm. Doors flew open and within thirty seconds of his body coming to rest on the cool marble landing, Archbishop Evans was surrounded by a gaggle of whimpering priests in pajamas. Someone screamed for an ambulance and the whimpering became a moaning. Two of the men went into action and ran for the telephone on the first floor.

In the ambulance, Archbishop Evans awoke to find an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and a penlight in his eyes. He smiled at the emergency medical technician but found that he couldn’t speak. That didn’t matter at the moment. He blessed the young woman in his mind, then closed his eyes and went back to the ethereal.

II

There’s no physiological reason why the Archbishop can’t speak. He’s choosing not to speak, Dr. Heidl said to Father DiMezzo.

Are you sure that there’s no brain damage or nerve damage or something? I can’t imagine that he’d choose not to speak, Father DiMezzo said.

No brain damage or nerve damage, Father. Mild concussion only. CT Scan is clear and clean. He should be speaking, Dr. Heidl said.

Why does he look at us that way? He almost looks angry, Father DiMezzo said.

I don’t know father, he won’t respond to me either. He’s bruised and banged up a bit but actually in pretty good shape for a man his age who just fell down a flight of marble stairs. He should stay with us tonight but he can be back in his own bed tomorrow night, Dr. DiMezzo said.

You know better than I, doctor. I will stay at his side tonight, if that’s not a problem, Father DiMezzo said.

Sure father, the doctor said.

The gray diocese limousine pulled up to the entrance of Archbishop Evans’ rectory. The gathering of priests applauded his return home after one night’s stay in the hospital. Archbishop Evans stepped out of the back seat and looked at them with what could only be construed as disdain. Their applause slowly died and the priests’ heads fell as their eyes sought the ground. Father DiMezzo brought a wheelchair from the trunk of the hulking car and persuaded the archbishop to be wheeled into the house. The skullcap sat slightly crooked atop the bandage on his battered head. He looked straight ahead, purposely avoiding the gaze of any of the priests bold enough to attempt to make eye contact.

At the foot of the marble staircase that witnessed his fall only the night before, Archbishop Evans stepped from the wheelchair and began to briskly walk up to the third floor.

Archbishop Evans, please take your time on the stairs. You may feel well, but with a concussion, you may fall weak again at any moment. At least wait for me to help you, Father DiMezzo called after the hasty man.

Archbishop Evans quickly turned to the priest and glared what appeared to be an evil glare at him. He held out his right hand, fingers splayed and extended - except for the ring finger, which he bent downward at the middle knuckle. Father DiMezzo was taken aback at this strange gesture and remained at the bottom of the stairs while the elder Evans began he journey to his room once more. When the archbishop made it safely to his door and entered, Father DiMezzo returned the wheelchair to the trunk of the limousine.

After putting the wheelchair away and instructing the driver to put the car away, Father DiMezzo turned to his subordinate assemblage of priests. There was a look in their collective eyes for guidance from the man who was second in the chain of command of the Catholic Church in this region of the state. He was masterful in the art of allaying the fears of the flock.

Fathers. Brothers. Archbishop Evans is a strong man and asked to come home to be with us. Strength, however, should not be confused with good health. He is in quite a bit of pain and he has suffered a severe concussion. He may seem out of sorts for several days or so and I advise you all to give him a wide birth until his health returns. His doctor has assured me that he will indeed have a full recovery without any brain or nerve damage. Father Adams and I will care for him until his recovery is total. Keep him in your prayers and let’s all continue with our normal schedules. Are there any questions? Father DiMezzo asked, knowing that no one would question his authority.

The gathering of priests milled around momentarily. Most of them shook Father DiMezzo’s hand and were comforted by his touch on the shoulder during the handshake. This was Father DiMezzo’s particular trait when giving solace. The hand on the shoulder was a move that he put into practice while still in divinity school. The method was tried and true. When the crowd had dispersed, Father Adams approached Father DiMezzo.

So, what’s going on with the old man? Father Adams asked.

God only knows. He won’t say a word. He won’t even eat. He’s got this weird evil look on his face most of the time. When I took him to the staircase, he started up and I offered to help him. He turned to me and gave me the evil eye and some kind of…gesture. I have no idea what it meant or what it was about. I think there’s more going on in that old head than the doctor does. The doctor says there’s no brain damage but he’s not the same, DiMezzo said.

Well, what are we supposed to do with him? Can we force him to eat? Is he dangerous to himself? Adams asked.

I don’t know. I don’t think he’s dangerous to anyone, including himself but I don’t know. He’ll eat soon enough or he’ll have to go back to the hospital and be force fed, I guess. For now, let’s just keep an eye on him, you and I. We’ll have to ride this out and see what happens. Did you call Archbishop Engle in San Francisco? DiMezzo asked.

Yes, he wants to speak to you. He wants to hear it from you because you’re number two, Adams said.

I’ll call him after dinner, DiMezzo said.

Chapter Two

Call for Help

I

Hey Sison, where’s Dire? Captain Daniel Dickinson of the Los Angeles Homicide Division asked one of his detectives.

He just walked out Cap, he’s probably just making it to the parking lot. He and Scranton are heading out to talk to the neighbor of the Franks guy from last night. Want me to get him for you? Detective Ken Sison asked.

No, I’ll call the desk down there on the land line. I tried calling him on his cell phone but there was no answer. It’s probably the weak signal that we get in the garage. I’ll catch him before he gets out of the building, I need him somewhere else right now, Cap said.

Okay, Cap, Sison said.

Captain Dickinson called from his office to the desk in the parking garage of the Los Angeles Police Department. The officer at the desk paged Detective Dire and told the young detective that his captain needed him back upstairs immediately. Dire, being a new member of the Homicide Division, did as he was told without question and trotted back to the elevator. Dave Scranton, Dire’s more seasoned partner, happily walked up the two flights of stairs to the cafeteria on the first floor.

Mick Dire adjusted his collar and ran a hand quickly through his hair before entering his captain’s office. The tall, thin captain was sitting on the edge of his desk talking heatedly into the phone. A sliver of intimidation crept into Dire’s heart but he was a master of concealment even at the age of twenty-six. Dickinson hung up the phone and offered his fresh-faced recruit a tired smile.

Week three going good for you, Dire? Any complaints? Captain Dickinson asked.

If I had one, I wouldn’t come to you with it, Captain. I can handle myself out there. Have you gotten any complaints about me? Mick asked.

You’re our wonder boy right now. No one’s gonna say boo about you, kid. The guys here are detectives, remember? They’ve all read your record prior to you coming to homicide. They know you’re no green kid who’s gonna muck everything up. You’re one of the youngest guys ever to make detective. We wanna see what you can do, Captain Dickinson said.

Am I under a microscope? Mick asked.

"Three weeks in and you’ve solved a huge case for us. That thing’s been lying around for more than two months and you