Sins Like Scarlet

By C. J. Lowe

When the big guy said he’d give justice to the fatherless, I’m pretty sure this isn’t what he was talking about. I sighed and checked the clock. 7:32 a.m. I had been sitting idle for half an hour, and the pale, cold sunlight was creeping through the side windows.

No one ever tells you how quiet detective work is. If you had asked me twenty years ago, I would have pictured something from daytime television—the naïve rookie pinning clues on a bulletin board while arguing with their grizzled partner. Not some balding, middle-aged man sitting alone in a church parking lot. Most of my days were early and long, waiting in the solitude of my Impala with only my thoughts, paperwork, and gas station coffee.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat and closed my eyes. Squiggles of scarlet flitted in my vision. The early morning light was awful in the winter, and the sheen of melted snow on the windshield made everything hopelessly bright. Maybe this was a sign I should move on. Instead I opened my eyes. No, something still felt wrong. My hand reached into the console and pulled out a half-emptied pack of Reds. I tamped the smokes on the dash and lifted a cigarette to my lips. I should stay just a while longer.

A wall of incense hit me as I opened the double door to St John’s. It was warm and thick and uncomfortably inviting. I took a breath. This was purely professional. There was only so much surveillance a guy could take before the numbness traveled from his haunches to his mind. Besides, I had only been in the building the night of the incident, focusing most of my futile efforts on the scene outdoors. Perhaps I could find some answers inside.

Ahead of me I saw a familiar figure. It was Father Callaghan, standing on the front steps of the sanctuary, looking toward the altar. The eastern sunlight streamed through the glass murals, staining the room a deep wine color. He stood in the middle of it all, silent and seemingly unfazed by the cardinal glow that surrounded him. I waited a moment before tapping my wet boots on the entry rug to signal my presence, then walked forward.

He faced me as I made my way down the nave. He didn’t look surprised, but judging by the white stubble and red, glassy eyes, he had not expected company this early.

“Ah. Lord be with you, Detective Quinn. Please, come in.”

“And also with you, Father. I hope I’m not interrupting…” I paused, looking away as the priest wiped his eyes with his hands. “…anything important.”

He chuckled a bit. “Yes and no. I was thinking. Praying for Sarah’s family. But I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you more down at the precinct, but it wasn’t the right time.”

He motioned for me to sit in the pew in front of him.

“She was a good kid,” he said after a moment.

“I know, Father.”

“I’m sure you do at this point. What do your reports say about her?”

I wasn’t quite sure what he was getting at. “Good grades, good friends, stayed out of trouble. Went to church with her mother every Sunday”—he smiled at that—“and was going steady with that O’Connor boy who was with you that morning. Typical fifteen-year-old. Nothing out of the ordinary, and honestly, nothing that helpful.”

Father Callaghan sighed, and I scooted on the well-worn bench to make room.

“I keep thinking about it, Detective,” he said, sitting next to me. “Searching for answers. Killian said he saw a man through these very windows.” He gestured to the colored glass on our left. “But by the time he found me, and we rushed outside, all we found was…” He paused. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know, Father,” I said. “I think that question every day.”

He looked at me for a moment, then put his hand on my shoulder in quiet solidarity. We sat together in the warmth of the dawning, red light, staring at the stained-glass figures illuminating the room. Some I recognized, but to me, most were just solemn, nameless men. My gaze wandered again to the window on the left. Sarah would’ve been right outside. The panel depicted the only woman of the lot, garbed in a bright crimson robe, holding a cross the size of her body. Her eyes sadder than the rest.

I stood suddenly. The light. The glass.

“Father, what do you see in that window?”

Father Callaghan turned, shielding his eyes. “Mary Magdalene. She was one of the few who were with Jesus as he died.” He sighed. “I wonder if that’s how Sarah felt.”

I walked over to the image. A ray of blinding, red light cast down upon me, and in that moment, I understood. As I squinted, Mary no longer appeared sad, but expectant. Like she had been waiting for me.

“No. What do you see?”

Father Callaghan stood and followed me to the window.

“I’m not quite following. It’s hard to see anything—”

“Exactly.” My heart raced. “So how could Killian?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

C. J. Lowe is a transplant to the great white north of Minnesota. She wears many hats through out the day, including instructional designer, board game beta tester, B-movie aficionado, reigning champion of her Fantasy league, writer, and loving wife to her husband, Rob.

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