THE ACADEMIC EXERCISE

By James G. Bruen, Jr.

Father Petersen Mysteries

Choptank Publications

Copyright 2011 James G. Bruen, Jr.

In Memory of Monsignor Michael Farina,

priest in residence at St. Patrick’s in the City, Washington, D.C.

May he rest in peace,

and may eternal Light shine upon him

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PREFACE

THE ACADEMIC EXERCISE

THE EXAMEN

THE FLIGHT

CHRISTMAS AT ST. PATRICK'S

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

PREFACE

While my older son, Gregory, was recuperating from a broken leg, he challenged me to write a mystery story. I accepted his challenge; the result is the first of the short stories in this collection, The Academic Exercise, in which a priest is confronted by a tale of a murder that occurs during a class at Catholic University’s law school.

I then found other mysteries for that priest, Fr. Paul Petersen, to solve from the rectory at St. Patrick’s in downtown Washington, DC, and this collection of four short stories is the result. Fr. Petersen lives on to this day, solving mysteries in the pages of the American Chesterton Society’s Gilbert Magazine, where he now appears occasionally in short-shorts, or for those hampered by visions of wardrobe, in flash fiction, rather than in short stories.

Winner of the 1991 Stuart Stiller Writing Competition Award, The Academic Exercise first appeared in the September/October 1991 issue of The Washington Lawyer, and was reprinted in Culture Wars in its October 2003 issue. The Examen and Christmas at St. Patrick’s also appeared in Culture Wars, in its November and December 2003 issues, respectively. The Flight ran in the March 2006 issue of Gilbert Magazine.

G. K. Chesterton’s stories of his priest-detective Father Brown inspired the Fr. Petersen stories, but the Fr. Petersen mysteries are not pastiches.

THE ACADEMIC EXERCISE

Father Petersen sunk into the stuffed armchair. For years, once a month, he had visited his high school classmate for dinner. The routine was the same each month. Promptly at seven o'clock on the evening of the first Wednesday of the month, Father Petersen would rap the knocker on the door of Matthew Hart's townhouse on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. Matt Hart, a Catholic University law professor who is almost as heavy as the priest, would greet him perfunctorily. Then the two would promptly seat themselves for a dinner that Matt had cooked and already served. Both men enjoyed a fine meal, and little would be said that did not relate directly to the meal until it was over. Once they had finished the meal, Matt would pour brandy, and the two would retire to the stuffed armchairs in the living room for conversation. Wednesday was chosen originally because it was the priest's cook's day off, but dinner on the first Wednesday was now so traditional that the night could not be changed even if the cook's day off were changed. Occasionally Father Bill, the other priest assigned with Father Petersen to St. Patrick's, would join them for dinner and afterwards, but he usually inhibited the conversation. Father Petersen was thankful Father Bill had declined to accompany him that evening because, although the routine had been followed, something in Matt's mannerisms warned Father Petersen that the conversation would not be routine.

"What is the matter, Matt?" asked the priest, sniffing the brandy.

"Am I that transparent, Paul?" said Matt Hart with a smile and a sigh. "I guess after all these years you know me well."

He put his glass on the small table next to his chair.

"One of my law students was killed today," Matt continued after a short pause. "He was one of the best students I had last year, and he was killed by another one of my students. The police say it's murder, and they have arrested him. I know he didn't mean to do it. I feel responsible for the killing and obligated to prove he isn't culpable."

"Responsible? Why?" said the priest. He dipped his tongue into his brandy.

"Do you remember the exercise I do with first year students every year?" asked the law professor. "The one in which I have second year students create some disturbance on the first day of class, and then I ask the first year students to tell me what they observed?"

"Of course I do," replied the priest. "My favorite was when you had a thug dressed in black leather pants and jacket and wearing a dark knit cap pretend to punch and kick a young woman in the classroom. As I remember, there was no consensus among the students on what they had observed: some even described the assailant as over six feet tall with dark hair and a beard. When you had the 'thug' reenter the classroom, everyone was surprised to see that the 'thug' was a petite young woman whose flaming red hair tumbled out when she took off the cap, if I recall correctly."

"You do," laughed the professor softly. "The exercise prepares them to deal with the often contradictory stories of witnesses and of clients, too. It shows them that confusion and excitement can cause the senses to play tricks, and also that we all see things differently."

"It also shows them that, no matter what they think, truth exists and can be revealed to them," noted the priest. He sipped his brandy. "What happened this year?"

"Last night I had two of my best students from last year over for wine and cheese. Jack Dougherty and Don Phillips. They received the two highest grades in my first year class last year. They were in high spirits and looking forward eagerly to the new academic year. They were rooming together this year and hoped to help each other study. The exercise was to take place today, and we spent a couple of hours planning it last night. I've been doing this for so many years that it has started to get stale to me. But their enthusiasm was catching, and I found myself eager to see their performance.

"The performance was to be relatively simple, although, of course, the first year students would not know it was a performance and would misinterpret it in the confusion. In the classroom, the students sit at long tables on which they can put their casebooks and that give support to their notebooks when they take notes. The tables are arranged in rows from the front to the back of the room. There is an entrance on the side wall of the classroom, near the front of the room. Jack was to wear a light jacket and sit in the front row on the side opposite the door. I would begin my lecture from behind the podium at the front of the classroom. After a few minutes, Don would saunter in through the door. He'd make sure no one else was entering at the same time. Students always straggle in late –- even on the first day -- so nothing would seem out of the ordinary. Then, suddenly, Jack would jump up and yell 'I told you to stay away from her,' pull a gun from inside his jacket, and shoot Don. Don would stumble out the doorway. Jack would rush out after him, fire another shot to finish him off, and run down the hall.

"You can imagine the pandemonium that would occur in the class. I'd have to settle them down, explain it was just an academic exercise, and get them to tell me what they had witnessed. Of course, I'd get contradictory versions. Then Jack and Don would reenter the classroom and reenact the scene slowly for them so they could watch what really happened."

Father Petersen had swallowed little of his brandy; instead he was swirling it slowly in his mouth.

"Everything was set when they left here last night. I lent Jack my revolver. We checked each chamber of its cylinder to make sure the gun was not loaded, and I gave them several blanks. They left thanking me for letting them be the ones to participate in the exercise. They were in such good spirits. I know Jack couldn't have shot Don intentionally. I just know it."

Father Petersen swallowed the brandy he had held in his mouth.

"Are you certain you gave them blanks?" asked Father Petersen.

"Absolutely certain," replied Matt Hart, reaching for a box of blanks on the table beside his armchair. His untouched brandy was also on the table. "They came from this box. There is no question: I gave them blanks. Somebody substituted real bullets later."

"How did the shooting occur?" asked the priest.

"When I started lecturing today, Jack was in the front row; he was wearing a light jacket. I was not looking at the door when Don entered. But I saw Jack jump to his feet and point at the door. 'I told you to leave her alone,' he screamed. Then he sprang from behind the table, dropped to one knee, pointed the revolver at Don, steadied his arm with his other hand, and fired twice. It happened very quickly.

"Don dropped the book he was carrying, clutched at his chest, then staggered backwards. Blood was dripping over his hands. He stumbled out the door and fell in the hall. The blood should have alerted me immediately, but it didn't. I didn't realize he'd actually been shot.

"Jack rushed through the door, but he never fired the shot that was supposed to 'finish Don off.' A couple of students from the front of the class rushed out after him. I was calming the class down and explaining to them that what they had just seen was only an academic exercise, when one of the students who had gone into the hall yelled at me: 'Shut up, will you? Can't you see this man needs help?'

"I turned to the doorway. Just through the door was the young woman who had yelled at me. She was kneeling on one knee beside Don, who was on his back. 'I'm a nurse,' she yelled. 'This man needs help.'

"The presence of a nurse in the class was providential, although each law school class seems to include several students with medical backgrounds. That background can be very valuable in certain types of lawsuits.

"Jack was standing over them. He was sobbing and moaning and exclaiming it was an accident. Everyone tried to crowd through the door at the same time.

"The nurse took charge, and for a moment I thought Don could be saved. She pointed down the hall towards the school's administrative offices and ordered one student to call an ambulance and the police. She made the other students move back so Don could get air. She worked frantically over him, but blood was pouring everywhere. Her clothes were covered with his blood. There was no way for her to save him. Finally, his body twitched. Then she took his wrist and felt for his pulse. It was gone. All she could say was: 'Dead.' She collapsed on the floor, as if she had no more strength. Several of the students told her that no one could have done any more for him. Everyone was crying.

"All this time, Jack was blubbering as though he had just lost his best friend. And, of course, he had. While the nurse was working on Don, I pulled Jack to one side of the crowd and tried to calm him. That was impossible. So, when Don had died, I took Jack up the stairs to my office so we could be away from the confusion while we waited for the police."

Professor Hart paused to sip his brandy.

"Quite remarkable," commented Father Petersen. His brandy was almost gone. "Go on."

"Once in my office, Jack was more under control. He was still sobbing intermittently, but we tried to reconstruct what had happened.

"He had no idea how the real bullets got in the gun. He had loaded the blanks himself the night before and left the revolver on a desk in his apartment. I had the horrible thought that perhaps he had too much wine at my home and had mistakenly loaded live ammunition, but he assured me he didn't even own any live ammunition.

"Jack and Don lived with another student, Mike Preeble. Jack was sure Preeble wouldn't have switched the bullets. He said that no one but the three of them had access to the gun while it was in their apartment; and, it had been in Jack's possession all day today until the shooting. After the shooting I brought it to my office so that we could give it to the police when they arrived.

"Anyway, I pressed Jack to recall whether anyone else might have been in their apartment, even momentarily. I suggested a paperboy, a mailman, a pizza deliveryman, or anybody else whose visit would have been so routine that it would be unremembered. His eyes brightened a little when he recalled that Mike had brought a woman friend over for a short while last night. But then we both realized how unlikely it was that a girlfriend or a deliveryman or any other visitor would have happened to bring the correct size bullets, discover the revolver, remove the blanks, and then reload it, all without being observed, and all for no apparent reason.

"I was -- and remain -- unwilling to think that Jack substituted the bullets himself. He and Don were good friends, not enemies. The only other possibility I could think of was just as preposterous, and I hesitated to even suggest it. Perhaps Don had changed the bullets? But why? I could imagine no reason for him to arrange to have himself shot or for him to try to frame Jack for the shooting. Still, I mentioned the possibility to Jack. Cursing, he dismissed it summarily.

"Finally, we could think of no more possibilities. Jack sat in despair on the wooden chair in my office. I had lost hope too. 'Let's face it,' said Jack. 'I did shoot him. There's no way around that. It's probably involuntary manslaughter or negligent homicide -- I never could get the definitions and names of the crimes right -- but there's no question about who pulled the trigger. I should have checked the bullets this morning.'

"I said, 'It's my fault too. After all, I put you up to this.' Then I told him not to worry: we'd figure out who put the bullets in the gun. I didn't really believe that, and neither did he. But I didn't know what else to say. Neither, I guess, did he. So we sat there and cried until the police arrived."

Father Petersen had finished his brandy, so he got up and got the bottle. He poured himself another before resettling in the armchair.

"When the Capitol Police arrived," continued Matt, "we told them everything that had happened. We didn't hide behind our right to remain silent. We gave the police a complete description of all that had happened."

"You do have a good sense for detail," said the priest with a chuckle. He sipped from his replenished glass. "Did you tell them everything you told me?"

"Everything. We also gave the gun to them. They put it in a little plastic bag, probably to preclude tampering with the evidence. Then they put Jack's hands behind him and put handcuffs on him. There were two of them. They seemed quite impressed with themselves just because they had the power of the uniform and the badge. They couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old. You could tell they enjoyed arresting a law student. They grinned through the whole thing. They probably despise lawyers for freeing people they've arrested. That's common among policemen. Anyway, you could sense the insincerity in their voices when they apologized to Jack for having to use the handcuffs. I really resented their attitude. Then they took him to the police station and left me alone in my office."

"Very interesting occurrence," said the priest with a trace of a slight laugh.

"I'm not sure how long I sat alone in my office, but when I got a call from a lady named Margaret Boyle who writes for the Washington Post, I realized that if I stayed there I'd have to handle media inquiries. Reporters are just voyeurs, and I needed to be left alone. I tried to put her off by telling her I needed to collect my thoughts, but she persisted. Finally I agreed to let her come here tonight to interview me. Then I used the back entrance to come home."

Father Petersen began to laugh so heartily that he could not speak. His large body shook so violently with laughter that the brandy splashed from his glass onto his lap.

"Damn it!" said Matt, slamming his fist on the table. "The death of one of my students is nothing to laugh about."

The priest laughed even harder. He tried to put his glass on the table next to his chair, but his hand was so unsteady with laughter that he instead dropped the glass, spilling brandy over the tabletop and onto the floor.

Matt Hart voiced his strong reaction to the priest's behavior. Standing, he told Father Petersen that he thought it would be appropriate for the priest to leave.

"Matthew," began the priest when he was able to control his laughter, "save your sorrow. Save your indignation at me, too. There was no killing. You have excellent recall of all the details of what happened but you didn't notice the most important fact: there was no corpse. You looked but did not see. Your students just turned the tables on you. They staged a mock killing so that you could experience what they experience in your exercise."

Matt stared at him intently. Neither man spoke. After a minute or two Matt sat down again. "How can you be sure?" he asked eventually.

"You told me yourself," replied Father Petersen. "You said that the Capitol Police investigated the killing and arrested Jack. The Capitol Police are a federal police force. They work for the federal government. In the normal course, they wouldn't investigate a killing on private property such as the university. The Metropolitan Police - the local District of Columbia police force - would. The university's police force might get involved, too, but federal police wouldn't."

Fr. Petersen hesitated only slightly before continuing.

"Those 'policemen' were students who were acting, Matt. They weren't policemen. That's why they were grinning so much. They didn't hate lawyers; they just were poor actors who couldn't control themselves too well. Jack, Don, and the 'nurse' were acting too. They fired your blanks, squirted a little fake blood, and took you in hook, line, and sinker, my friend. That's probably why Jack and Don were in such high spirits last night: they were planning an even more dramatic ruse than you expected."

Matt managed a small chuckle. "I hope you're right," he said softly. "I hope you're right."

The rapping of the knocker on the townhouse door interrupted their conversation. When Matt opened the door, Margaret Boyle stepped in from the dark.

"Professor Hart? I'm Maggie Boyle of the Post. I'd like to talk with you about the killing in your class today," she said.

Before he could reply, she continued. "I've already got most of the details from two of your students," she said, gesturing towards the door as Jack Dougherty and Don Phillips came into the townhouse. They were grinning broadly.

Father Petersen excused himself, saying that he wanted to leave them alone for the interview and that he had to return to his rectory.

THE EXAMEN

Father Petersen unhooked the chain and turned the latch to unlock the front doors, swung the windowed doors open, and let Matt Hart into St. Patrick's rectory.

"I don't know why you don't get a stronger lock on that door," said Matt Hart, with a touch of irritation that surprised the priest, who had come to the door almost immediately after the doorbell rang. "Anybody could give it a strong kick and then barge into the rectory. You're hardly safe here."

"The Lord protects his own," replied the priest calmly. "After all, Matt, I've been here for years without a problem."

"There's always a first time," said Matt Hart, almost growling.

Father Petersen ignored the tone of his visitor's voice. "Let's go upstairs to my rooms, Matt," suggested the priest. "Then I'll hear your confession."

"I'd almost forgotten why I came, Paul," said Matt Hart as the two men walked down the rectory's central hallway. There was no longer any trace of irritation in his voice. "After years of monthly confessions," he continued with a sardonic smile, "you probably wonder what could get me so upset to forget that, don't you?"

The two men stopped at the foot of the winding staircase. Father Petersen grasped his friend's elbow lightly and replied: "I was wondering what has irritated you, Matt; but if you don't want to discuss it, that's all right, too."

"No. No. I want to tell you. After all it concerns your safety here in the rectory."

Father Peterson released Matt Hart's arm as they began to ascend the stairs.

"My safety?" said the priest, puzzled.

"Well, the rectory's, anyway. Let me explain."

"I took the subway to get here," began Matt Hart. "A few minutes ago, I came out of the Gallery Place Metro station. I was examining my conscience, preparing for confession, as I walked down that pedestrian mall beside the Martin Luther King Library."

"It's called the Hubert H. Humphrey Mall. The library's near one end, and the rectory's at the other," laughed the priest. "St. Patrick's Academy, the parish's school for over one hundred years, faced that mall. Now, the school building houses the Paul VI Institute for the Arts. You don't need to describe the geography of my own neighborhood to me, Matt."

"Well," said Matt Hart, irritated again, "do you know what goes on out there?"

"When G Street was closed to traffic on that block years ago, the idea was to encourage people to walk in the city. To create a little park or village green, complete with fountains and trees," replied the priest. "Instead the area's a home to the homeless, and a drop off point for prisoners from Lorton who are supposed to be searching for jobs. Instead, they hang around, play cards and dice, drink, panhandle, and prevent any use of the area by others. And the fountains are filled in because they urinated and bathed in them."

"The entire place stinks," interrupted Matt Hart. "They still urinate anywhere and everywhere they choose."

"That it does, Matt," said Fr. Petersen. "The mall is another testament to failed social planning. The planners said it would help foster a sense of community. Instead, some people, especially older women, are afraid to come to church at St. Patrick's because the beggars are so physically aggressive."

"Beggars?" said Matt Hart. "What I am talking about is the druggies, Paul. Here I am, a white, middle-aged, law professor, wearing a suit, minding my own business, on foot in the middle of a fine autumn afternoon, and these two young blacks sitting on that mall jump up and want to know if I want to buy some cocaine. What do I look like? A junkie? 'Want some crack?' asks one. I tried to ignore him. The other one grabs my arm so that I have to stop walking. 'Great stuff, man," he says, "guaranteed to bring happiness.' I growled at him as I shook loose of his grip. They followed me for a few yards, touting the quality of their dope. I thought they might jump me, but, after a while, they retreated to look for another customer, I guess."

The men had reached the top of the stairs and were standing in the hallway, just in front of the entrance to Fr. Petersen's rooms.

"I was angry," continued Professor Hart. "I ought to be able to walk in downtown D.C. without being accosted this way."

"And that's what has you so upset?" said the priest.

"That's the least of it," said Matt Hart. "I continued down the mall towards the rectory. I paid more attention to what was going on around me. Guys slumped in doorways, some passed out, others sucking on bottles. Dice and card games. Cursing. All of this made me feel madder. I didn't feel danger as much as I feel anger. What's the matter with these people? Why don't they do something useful?

"Anyway, as I approached Tenth Street to turn to the front door of the rectory, I spotted three policeman at the end of the mall. They were huddled together, laughing. One held a radio. Two were black, and one was white. I hadn't noticed them before. So I went over to report the drug dealers. I figured I could do my part in the war on drugs. You know what the cops did? They laughed at me. Laughed. 'Beat it, buddy,' said one, as he motioned for me to leave. 'We're busy, fella,' said the white one. 'Just doing our job.' And the other one just laughed. I got so mad that I was almost yelling at them to arrest the drug dealers. You know what those cops did? They told me they'd arrest me for disturbing the peace if I didn't shut up! Here I am, a law professor trying to report a drug crime and the DC cops threaten me with a disturbing the peace arrest! No wonder this city is in such a mess. No wonder it has such a drug problem."

Professor Hart and Father Petersen had entered the room that served as the priest's office. The priest usually sat on a sofa and seated Matt Hart in a straight-backed wooden chair while hearing Matt's confession. The priest motioned the penitent towards the chair, but Matt Hart demurred. "I think I'd like to use your phone, if I may, to call Father Geno first," he said.

"Why?" inquired Father Petersen.

"I got their badge numbers," said the professor. "As chaplain to the police force, Father Geno probably knows the best way to ensure this gets some attention instead of just getting disregarded. Those cops can't be allowed to laugh at citizens who are reporting crimes. They can't get away with threatening me with arrest. Father Geno will know how best to handle this."

"Perhaps he will," said the priest. "And you may, of course, use my telephone, if you choose to. But first, I would ask that you indulge me a moment, and perhaps you'll change your mind."

"And let those cops off the hook?" sputtered Matt Hart. "Not a chance. They're worse than the drug dealers."

"Come over here, Matt," said Fr. Petersen as he guided Matt Hart to a bay window overlooking the pedestrian mall that had replaced G Street years earlier. The priest parted the curtains. "What do you see, Matt?"

The leaves were off the trees, so they had a clear view.

"There's the cops. And the winos. And the dice players. And the drug dealers, too," replied Matt Hart, pointing to each in turn. "Just as I described. They're all still there."

"See that man over there?" asked the priest, pointing across the mall to a shabbily dressed man leaning against a column that supported the library. "What is he doing?"

"Beats me. Listening to a CD on his headphones. I don't know. Just another homeless bum, probably." Matt Hart turned away from the window. "What do yo want me to say, Paul? 'We all have faults, so why point out those of others to Father Geno'? 'There but for the grace of God go I', so let's forget about the misfeasance of those cops? No. They can't be let off the hook. I think it's time to call Geno."

"All I am asking is that you watch with me for a minute or two," replied the priest.

Matt Hart returned silently to the window.

"Look," said Matt after a minute or so. "They're at it again."

The drug dealers approached a man in a suit who had entered the mall from Ninth Street. After a short conversation, the man pulled a billfold from his back trouser pocket, and there was a quick exchange, after which the man walked briskly towards Tenth. The shabbily dressed man who had been leaning against the library column came suddenly to life. He slipped the headphones off and started after the man in the suit, trailing him by about ten paces. Another disheveled figure emerged into view almost simultaneously from the side of the mall that adjoined the rectory. He was clutching a small brown paper bag that apparently held liquid nourishment. He too trailed the man in the suit, but by about a dozen paces. The two men were sufficiently far apart that a casual observer would have taken no particular notice of them, but to the men in the rectory window who had seen them spring in tandem from opposites sides of the wall, their movements demonstrated unequivocally that they were working together.

"They're going to mug him," observed Matt Hart. He reached to unlatch the window so that he could warn the man in the suit.

But Father Petersen grabbed Matt Hart's wrist. "Don't," he instructed the professor. "Just watch."

The three uniformed police officers formed a wall that blocked the man in the suit's progress. He turned to flee, but the two shabbily dressed undercover officers blocked his retreat.

"Judge not, lest ye be judged," mumbled Matt Hart.

"What?" asked the priest.

"Nothing," said Matt. "I was just talking to myself."

They continued to stare out the window as the uniformed police officers handcuffed the man in the suit.

"Well," said the priest softly, "you've probably finished your examination of conscience. Why don't I hear your confession now?"

THE FLIGHT

The two priests stood in the stone arch that protects the doorway of St. Patrick's rectory. A light drizzle dampened the rectory’s stone exterior. The older, heavier priest, Fr. Petersen, was dressed in black and wore a clerical collar, as was the custom in the Catholic Church. The younger priest, Fr. Bill, wore casual clothes, as was his custom.

"Where the hell is that cab?" complained Fr. Bill. "I'm going to miss my flight."

"Right there," said Fr. Petersen, pointing through an open space in the arch. A tree partially obscured the view. A cab had turned south onto Tenth Street and was headed in their direction. It pulled over to the left curb in front of the rectory. Directly across the street from the rectory, the loading docks of a department store were idle. They used to teem with activity, but the store had closed a year earlier, the victim of a leveraged buyout several years before, during the eighties.

The priests headed down the walkway from the rectory to the street. Despite his luggage, Fr. Bill bounded down the stairs. Fr. Petersen's large frame followed more deliberately. No other cars were in sight. The cabby popped the cab's trunk open. He jumped out of the car and helped Fr. Bill put his knapsack and suitcase in the trunk. Fr. Bill kept his laptop computer with him as he got into the taxi on the street side. Fr. Petersen got into the cab on the curbside.

"Where to?" asked the cabbie.

"National," barked Fr. Bill. "Northwest Airlines; main terminal."

The priests were silent as the cab passed Ford's Theater, turned left on Pennsylvania Avenue, and headed for the Seventh Street tunnel on its way to Northern Virginia.

The cab's wipers cleared its windshield intermittently.

"You think it's wrong, don't you?" asked Fr. Bill as the car entered the tunnel.

"No," replied Fr. Petersen. "There's nothing wrong with taking a leave of absence. Even bishops do it."

"This is no leave of absence," said Fr. Bill. "It's final. Quits. That's the trouble with you: you're not living in the real world. You believed the Cardinal’s statement about a leave of absence. That's just public relations. He's putting the best spin on it he can. You couldn't see through that? That's what wrong with the whole Church. It's not living in the real world. It has no idea what's going on. It's living in the past."

The cab emerged from the tunnel.

"The real world is full of angels and devils and signs of God," said Fr. Petersen. "Modern man ignores the spiritual part of reality. He lives in a truncated reality. He is oblivious to much of what is going on about him."

"Bull," snorted Fr. Bill. "When I talked you into renovating St. Patrick's, I thought I was getting you ready for the American church of the next century, but I failed spectacularly." He patted the laptop. "This computer is my future," he said. "I'm going to use it to define my own reality. I'll do it in a book about leaving the priesthood: Descending the Seven Storey Mountain." The older priest grunted at the allusion to Merton's bestseller of a half-century earlier. "Face it: the computer has created a new reality," Fr. Bill continued as the taxi passed over the Potomac River. "Virtual reality. And it's going to control the future."

"Virtual reality?" said Fr. Petersen. "Technology isn't bad in itself. But a fascination with an imagined world that displaces the real world can be unhealthy. We can't define our own reality. Trying to do that is a futile exercise. People are more important than things. We should focus on people, not computers. We should be working for a virtuous world, not virtual reality."

Fr. Bill muttered a curse. The cab headed south on the George Washington Parkway. The priests resumed their silence. The intermittent squeaking of the wipers annoyed Fr. Bill.

Fr. Bill jumped from the cab as soon as it stopped in front of the terminal. Pulling his luggage from the trunk, he turned to Fr. Petersen, who was paying the cabbie. "I can't wait to leave," snarled Fr. Bill. "From now on, no one's going to call me 'Father' anymore!"

Fr. Petersen gave the cabbie a large tip.

Bill checked his suitcase at the curb, telling the porter he already had his ticket and was checking his luggage so he wouldn't have to stand in line at the ticket counter. Once inside, he and Fr. Petersen passed between the throng at the luggage pick-up carousels and the lines at the ticket counters. They headed for the security checkpoint at the mouth of the tunnel to the departure gates.

In line at the metal detector, they shuffled forward for several minutes. Eventually, Bill left the line to put his computer and knapsack on the moving belt. As his carryons went through the X-ray equipment, he rejoined Fr. Petersen. Four people were in line ahead of them: a young woman in a halter top and cut-off jeans, a middle-aged man in a gray business suit, an elderly woman in a floral print dress, and a youth in a tee shirt and denim jeans.

"Forty-five minutes more and I'm outta here," said Bill.

The young woman walked through the metal detector without setting it off. So did the man in the business suit. But it buzzed sharply as the elderly woman made her way through its arch. A security attendant had her empty her pockets. "Surprise," muttered Bill. "Maybe she's never flown before." She put car keys and a few coins into a small plastic basket before the attendant allowed her to try the metal detector a second time. This time, there was no buzz. She smiled broadly, obviously relieved. Then she went to retrieve her possessions.

Fr. Petersen removed his rosary beads from his pocket. He placed them in a plastic basket. Bill put his wristwatch and some coins into another basket.

The denim-clad youth also set off the buzzer. Bill waited impatiently as the security officer had the boy empty his pockets. The buzzer sounded again as the boy passed through the metal detector a second time. Once again, the youth searched his pockets, producing a pocketknife and a money clip. "Don't know how I missed these," he said sheepishly. His third attempt was successful.

Bill then walked through the arch without tripping the alarm. He turned to reclaim his computer and knapsack, but the elderly woman and the youth were in his way. Once they had retrieved their possessions, Bill stepped up to the conveyor belt. He slung the strap of his knapsack over his shoulder. "Where's my computer?" he asked no one in particular. He could not locate it in the small jumble of bags at the end of the belt. Bill remembered a newspaper article indicating that, due to an unexplained explosion that downed a commercial airplane, security officers often required a passenger with a computer to turn it on to confirm that no one had removed its insides and substituted a bomb. "Where's my computer?" he asked the attendant manning the X-ray device.

"Huh?" said the attendant. She looked at Bill momentarily, then quickly resumed inspecting the images on the device's screen. "Ain't got no computer," she said without stopping the belt. Luggage continued through the X-ray machine. "You gotta computer?" she yelled at another security officer who was leaning against a table at the end of the conveyer belt.

"Huh?" replied the second attendant. He held a wand for checking passengers for metal. He pointed the wand at his fellow worker. "What computer?"

"This guy's lookin' for a computer," said the first, jerking her hand in Bill's direction without looking up.

"Damn thing must be here somewhere," growled Bill, peering under the table.

"There's no computer here, mister," said the second attendant after a quick search.

"Where the hell is it?" yelled Bill.

"Beats me," he replied. "Are ya sure ya had one?"

"Do you think I’m an idiot?" Bill barked. "Of course I'm sure. A computer can't evaporate into thin air. Now where the hell is it?"

The attendant shrugged.

The attendant working the X-ray machine stopped the belt. "Did you look in the pile over there?" she asked the other attendant, gesturing towards the bags at the end of the belt.

"Yeah," he replied. "It's not there."

"It didn't just evaporate," Bill said, waving his arms wildly. "Now where the hell is it?"

"Look, mister," said the male attendant, "we'll help ya look for it. Just calm down, will ya?"

A quick but thorough search did not locate the laptop. "Looks to me like ya've lost a computer, mister," said the male attendant. "Someone else picked it up, I bet."

"Maybe they'll bring it back when they notice the mistake," said Bill.

"I doubt it," said the attendant, laughing. "There's no mistake. It's probably stolen. Ya wanna fill out a report?"

Bill ignored the question. He seemed to look in all directions at once. His arms flailed as he tried vainly to determine which of the people rushing through the airport had his computer. Ignoring the commotion he was causing, Bill darted around, trying to inspect everyone who passed by.

Bill stopped short when he saw Fr. Petersen near the end of the line to go through the metal detector. Bill spat out a curse, which included a reference to Fr. Petersen's corpulence even though the priest had lost weight recently. "Where the hell's he been?" Bill shouted angrily to no one in particular. He threw up his arms in despair. "The least he could have done was help me search," Bill said, laughing bitterly. "Instead, he's oblivious to the whole damn thing."

Frustrated, Bill threw his knapsack against the tunnel's curved wall. He sat down, leaned against the wall, and began to cry.

After he passed through security, Father Petersen stopped briefly at the belt, then he headed towards Bill. "I thought you might want this," said Father Petersen. He handed the computer to Bill.

The tears stopped. Bill stared at the priest in disbelief.

"I was amused by the people ahead of us who passed repeatedly through the metal detector," chuckled Father Petersen. "Then I noticed a man in a business suit take your computer from the conveyor belt while we were waiting for them to go through the metal detector. I realized immediately that they were working together. That man quickly passed the computer to a woman heading in the opposite direction, out of the airport. The hand-off was unobtrusive. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn't seen him pick up the computer."

Bill stood up, but he continued to stare at Fr. Petersen. He placed the strap of the computer bag over his shoulder. His knapsack remained where it had fallen on the floor.

"I didn't have time to alert you. You were starting through the metal detector. I followed her to the exit. When I yelled at an airport policeman to stop her, she dropped the computer and ran. I hope it isn't damaged."

Bill mumbled something.

Fr. Petersen reached out, grasped Bill's hand, and shook it. "Godspeed, Bill," said the priest before turning to leave the airport.

CHRISTMAS AT ST. PATRICK'S

After the noon Mass, Professor Matt Hart waited silently in the narthex in St. Patrick's in downtown D.C., studying the Christmas decorations. He particularly admired the evergreen trees in the transept and the green wreaths that hung on the wall at the front of the church.

The candles that adorned each step to the altar were extinguished, but red, white, and blue vigil lights lined the sides of the church; red in front of the statue of the Sacred Heart and that of the martyr More, blue by the altar and shrines dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, and white before the other statues. The side aisles contained rows of folding chairs in anticipation of the crowd of worshipers that would gather that evening to celebrate the Vigil Mass of Christmas. But now the church was empty. The few who had attended noon Mass had left, and Matt waited for the celebrant, Fr. Petersen, to join him for lunch at the Capital City Brewery, a few blocks away.

"Merry Christmas, Matt," said Fr. Peterson when the priest finally joined him. Fr. Petersen grinned widely and grasped the professor's arm affectionately, saying, "Let's go eat." They buttoned their coats before stepping out of the church building into a carpet, several inches deep, of new fallen snow and a thick wall of gently falling powder. "A dazzling display of white!" exclaimed Fr. Petersen as they headed down the snow-hidden concrete ramp in front of the stone rectory to the sidewalk on G Street. "Perfect for the season!"

As they passed the rectory, Matt Hart glanced at the crèche on the balcony over its entrance. The figures were covered with snow. There were no cars on G, and they crossed against the traffic light.

"It's better since they removed the pedestrian mall and let the traffic flow instead," commented Matt. Years before, urban planners had inserted a pedestrian mall, complete with seldom functioning fountains, on G Street, between Ninth and Tenth, to restrict vehicular traffic and encourage walking. The mall successfully restricted traffic, but it discouraged most pedestrians because it attracted vagrants and petty criminals. With the advent of the MCI Center sports arena and other redevelopment in the neighborhood, it was removed. "Got rid of the homeless people who congregated there."

"Businesses demanded its removal as part of the area's renewal," said the priest. "A number of large law firms and other professionals have moved into this part of the city. It's been reborn. But the homeless are still here, too. They're just not as evident. They've become invisible. They don't have a place anymore. There's still no room at the inn."

Passing between the Grand Hyatt Hotel and the brick facade of the Webster School, which had been gutted and connected in the rear to the Secret Service building, the two men slogged through the snow on the sidewalk on the block to H. Later that evening, the congregation at the Christmas Vigil Mass would be invited to a reception hosted by the parish in a meeting room generously donated by the Grand Hyatt, Fr. Petersen remarked. "We found room at the inn," he added.

"Unless the snow keeps people away tonight," noted Matt.

There were no other pedestrians on the sidewalk and no cars on the unplowed road. The snow collected on their coats and in their hair, for neither wore a hat. They crossed H to the Convention Center, which spanned two blocks, and turned west, headed towards Eleventh. The priest noted that the Convention Center, barely twenty years old, had been replaced recently by a much larger structure several blocks north. "They'll soon demolish the old one," he observed, "so it doesn't get designated as a landmark that has to be preserved."

A short line of cabs, barely visible to the priest and professor through the falling snow, idled across the street on the curb on Eleventh, awaiting summons to the hotel's covered semi-circular driveway on H. Few guests, though, were requesting cabs during the storm.

A man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, jogged across H from the line of cabs. He slipped in the snow a few times but did not fall. Approaching Fr. Petersen and Matt Hart, he held out two ten dollar bills and asked, "Can either of you give me a twenty for two tens?" He pointed to the taxi stand. "I'm a cabbie, and I'm trying to find someone to change these bills for a twenty." He shivered.

Matt averted his eyes, brushed the quickly accumulating snow from his shoulders, and said nothing. The priest lifted his black overcoat and fished in the back pocket of his pants. "Let me see," he said. "Yes, I've got one," he said, pulling a bill from his wallet. He took the two tens from the man, and turned them both over in his hands.

"They're real," laughed the cabbie. Fr. Petersen handed him the bill. "Thanks, mister," said the man, "you've solved a problem for me." He turned to cross H, but stopping abruptly, almost slipping in the accumulated snow, he turned back and addressed the priest quizzically: "What's this?" He held a one-dollar bill out to the priest. "I gave you two tens."

The priest inspected the one. "That'll never do," said Father Petersen, chuckling slightly. Matt Hart laughed gently at his friend's mistake. Fr. Petersen fished again in his pocket, extracted a twenty from his wallet and exchanged it for the one.

"Thanks again," said the man, who then scampered back across H to the cab stand without slipping in the snow.

"Driving a cab's a tough way to make a living," noted Matt Hart, watching the cabbie disappear into the falling snow and the line of taxis. "No one should have to work on Christmas Eve."

"It is tough," agreed Fr. Petersen, who was not watching the cabbie; "but it's honest work."

Matt did not reply. Instead, he stared at the taxi stand: the cabbie, again barely visible through the snow, reemerged from the line of taxis and headed alongside the hotel in the opposite direction from Matt Hart. "Something's not right," the professor muttered inaudibly.

"Let's go eat," said Fr. Petersen.

The priest and the professor resumed their walk. Traffic had left ruts and slippery patches of packed snow on Eleventh Street. They crossed gingerly, stopping once to let a lone car pass. Matt Hart almost fell as they reached the curb, but Fr. Petersen caught his arm.

"Thanks," said the professor. "My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking something through."

"What?" asked the priest.

"Oh, nothing," replied the professor.

The snow continued to fall heavily. The two men walked the short distance to the Capital City Brewery in silence; the priest did not want to intrude on the professor's thoughts. A cab drove by slowly, but they were alone on the unshoveled sidewalk.

"I've got it!" exclaimed Matt, stopping abruptly as they reached the door to the restaurant. "Two tens for a twenty!" he chortled, turning to the priest. "You got scammed for twenty bucks, my friend!"

"Twenty?" replied the priest, shaking snow from his coat. "What do you mean?"

The professor laughed. "You've tweaked me a few times with your ability to see through situations where I couldn't, Paul. This time the tables are turned!"

The priest smiled slightly. "Go on, my friend."

The professor grinned broadly. "Why would anybody try to change two tens into a twenty? That's backwards! You'd try to break a twenty into two tens if you were trying to make change, not the other way around!" he explained gleefully. "That cabbie wasn't a cabbie at all. He's a small time con man. You gave him a twenty for the tens, then he switched a one for it and hit you up for another twenty. You got scammed for twenty bucks, my friend!"

"Twenty?" replied the priest. "I only count nineteen."

"Huh?"

"He got two twenties from me, but I ended up with two tens and a one from him, so it cost me nineteen dollars, not twenty," said the priest.

Matt Hart rolled his eyes. "So you saved a buck," he snorted. "Big deal."

"Besides, it was charity, not a scam," continued the priest. "A small Christmas gift."

"What?" sputtered the professor. He grasped the restaurant's door handle but did not pull the door open.

"I carry tens in my billfold to give to street people," said the priest. "Usually they don't phrase their request for money quite as creatively as our friend the cabbie did, but they have a real need. One of my predecessors as pastor at St. Patrick's carried quarters to dispense to the needy. Times have changed, but there's still great need. There's still no room at the inn. Ten dollars is the least I can do."

Matt Hart stared at the priest, but did not reply. He shook the snow from his hair and laughed slightly.

"And the other nine dollars?" asked Fr. Petersen rhetorically. "Merely the price of admission to a remarkable performance of street theater. Or, perhaps I should say more accurately, a small token of my appreciation of his performance."

The professor grinned broadly. "You always amaze me," he said, finally pulling the restaurant door open.

"Besides, Matt, I really haven't suffered a financial loss," said Fr. Petersen. "In the end, I'll still be ahead."

"How is that?" replied the professor.

"You'll be picking up the tab for lunch, won't you, Matt?"

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

James G. (Gerry) Bruen, Jr. is a recovering attorney. He began writing as a link to reality - a means to maintain sanity in the midst of the insanity that often infects the American legal system.

Gerry has published in a number of newspapers and magazines, many of which have gone out of business, though he sees no causal relationship. Gerry's The Academic Exercise, a murder mystery, won the 1991 Stuart Stiller Writing Competition Award. His non-fiction work now appears primarily in Culture Wars magazine, and his fiction in the American Chesterton Society's Gilbert Magazine. You may contact him at cwbullets@yahoo.com.

Gerry is also author of Impossible Possibilities - five brief interlocking stories of people who accomplish the proverbially impossible, published originally in Gilbert Magazine. Each story stands alone; together they also constitute a single narrative. Humorous, yet serious. Inspired by G. K. Chesterton's Tales of the Long Bow.