My name is Thomas Murphy and I lead a congregation in the world’s largest city, New York. A city of sinners—and I’m one of them. The year is 1924.
Standing in my office chamber I hold the file. I gauge the weight of it. In it are the reports, photos, and accounts taken by the police about the incident. I want to open it, but my attention is drawn to the city.
Outside darkness clings fast to the night, eclipsing any last hope of light from the stars and moon. The streets perform a playlist of standards like an out-of-tune three-piece band. Sirens howl, subways rattle, and horns honk, together generating a low and constant buzz that runs unnervingly just under the skin. Prostitutes, addicts, and hobos clog the avenues that lead to my sacred doorway. This city guts you one way or another—that’s for certain.
I’m supposed to be a harbinger of hope and redemption. They come to me for salvation. If they only knew the doubts I carry about The Passion, the burden of my faith. After all, I’m only a man.
That’s the beauty of perspective, it shines a fiery light on all that’s dark and hidden. At some point, everyone is exposed, held accountable. And they either bask in the warm embrace of their convictions or burn red and hot.
I open the folder, like I have so many times before, and spread out the contents on my mahogany desk. The photos bring vivid life to my shadowy memory of the incident. Instinctively, my right hand moves to the large, jagged scar that runs across my chest, so profound that I feel the unevenness of the skin under my clothes. It’s still sensitive to the touch. And with that slight twinge of pain, I close my eyes, and stitch together a vision of how it all played out that dreadful day five months ago…
Mass was full, like most Sundays. Many of the congregation sat quietly, except for a few bold souls whispering to one another about the inappropriate length of someone’s skirt or the crookedness of another’s hat. The candles were lit and the smoke of incense drifted through the air. The organ hummed the sacred melody of Sing with All the Saints in Glory. The altar boys, dressed in flowing white robes and black pants, stood in their designated places, their toes tapping with nerves and impatience. I stood off to the side, in a vomitory, admiring all the false pageantry, and praying that my sermon would make a difference this time, change lives, and inspire those in attendance.
But truth be told, I wasn’t that good.
Then the organ music transitioned and I made my way to the pulpit. “Good morning, Church. Welcome to St. Michael’s. Please stand and pray with me. Heavenly Father, watch over our humble parish and guide us with your loving hands. We are slaves to earthly desires and in dire need of your grace. Forgive us our—”
That’s as far as I got.
I thought I saw him for a moment, just before all hell broke loose, but I’m not so sure anymore. All I really remember, before I fell and blacked out from the stabbing pain, was the flare of the bullets exiting the barrel, followed by a harsh “rat-tat-tat” echoing off the granite walls. And the screams. So many screams.
But sometimes I remember only what I want.
His name was William Sharnell, the young man who shot me and so many others. They say he was down-and-out, unhinged. Broken. I want to believe them, but I know pure evil exists in this world.
At age twenty-four, he stood five-foot eleven inches tall, his wiry frame topped off with shocking red hair. He entered through the heavy, wooden doors at the front of the chapel with the rest of the congregation. He wore a long, over-sized black raincoat buttoned up; his right hand thrust deep into its pocket. He had ripped the pocket seam open the night before so he could hold a steel-gray Tommy Gun hidden up against his side. By all witness accounts, he grabbed a bulletin from a volunteer usher with his free hand and took a seat on the far aisle of the last row. No one was the wiser. He had good, unobstructed sight lines and easy access to move from that vantage point. A perfect place to unleash his mayhem.
The police suspect that he had visited our church several times before, the dates probably spread out not to draw any attention to himself, and most likely in disguise, to plan logistics. The act was premeditated. He came with purpose, on a mission. He knew what he was doing and how to handle a submachine gun.
He sat and waited; he wanted an audience. He slowly unbuttoned his coat. The vamping organ played his cue. He stood up, raised the machine gun, pulled back on the trigger, and fanned it high across the chapel. The first spray of shots ricocheted off the hard stone walls. It was intended to make a statement, get everyone’s attention.
William Sharnell had arrived.
Pieces of stone from the walls dislodged and scattered; the congregation dropped to the floor. A .45 caliber Tommy Gun can do a lot of damage.
The next round of shots came with Sharnell at a hard run up the side aisle. They first ripped through the altar, fragments of wood flying in the air, and finally made their way to the pulpit. One hit me square in the chest and brought me to the ground in a heap.
Sharnell killed nine souls on his way to the pulpit, including Johnny Stevenson, just turned eighteen. I knew them all well, like family. I’d shaken their hands each week after mass and anointed their sons and daughters. I’d married some and helped others receive their first communion.
When Sharnell finally reached the pulpit, he stood over my fallen body for a moment, looking down at his handy work. I saw his eyes. His red-veined, cobalt eyes staring me down. I saw the hate etched in his young face; I felt his loss.
Then he pointed his gun at me, ready to strike the final blow, like the Holy Trinity of judge, jury, and executioner.
But Sharnell never finished me.
In that slight hesitation an off-duty detective attending the service, Michael Genaro, fired his snub-nosed .38 and the bullets hit their mark. The first shot hit Sharnell in the back of the head. He probably died instantaneously. The next four hit him in the back. He crumbled on top of me, his dark, crimson blood running strong like the river Nile and saturating my robes. They said it was hard to tell where Sharnell’s blood began and mine—
A gentle knock on my office door disrupts my thoughts. I drop the photo of a dead Sharnell onto the desk and cover it up with the manila folder.
“Yes,” I say. “Come in.”
“Good evening, Father.”
“Michael, nice to see you again.” The detective stands tall, with broad shoulders and wears a charcoal, pin-striped suit.
“I saw your light on and thought I’d check in.”
“Like you have before. I appreciate it.” We shake hands.
“You’re looking good, Father.”
“Thanks, Michael…our patron saint.” I smile and pat him on the shoulder.
He looks past me, at my desk. “I see you’re going over the file again.” The concern in his voice is evident. “I regret giving it to you, Father. I thought it would help, maybe fill in some blanks, but now it’s bordering on obsession.”
“I shouldn’t have asked you for it in the first place. I misused my position. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks for saying that, Father.” He nods and reaches out his hand. “But I’ll take it back now. I think it served its purpose.”
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
“Plus, I wouldn’t want the top brass to find out I slipped you a copy of an ongoing investigation.”
I place the documents back in the folder. “Here you are,” I say, my hand shuddering and then clutching a bit as I finally hand it over to him.
“You’ve got a big weekend coming up,” he says, trying to fill in the awkwardness.
“You’re right. My first time back at the pulpit.”
“How’s the sermon coming along?”
“Just ironing out the last few details,” I say, even though I haven’t started to write it.
“Good,” says Michael. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yes, me too.” The lies just keep coming. How can I take on themes like love and forgiveness anymore? I don’t know the path. Somehow, the thought of preaching again seems unfathomable after all that has transpired. The trauma of the incident, the operation and follow up tests, months of agonizing recovery. And the funerals. I’m just not the same man.
Maybe I was never that man.
“Well, I better be going, Father.”
“Thanks again for checking in, Michael. And your kindness. You’re one of the good ones.”
And with that, he is gone. And so is the file.
I feel the loss of it. Not relief, but a hollowness. Like an ancient darkness has bored deep into my soul.
I walk to my office door and shut it. I’m alone. Just me, my thoughts, and the hollowness. I had hoped knowing the details of that day would bring me back to the living, create some form of closure and maybe even renewal.
It has done the opposite.
Back at my desk, I take the keys from the depths of my pocket and unlock the lowest right hand drawer. It opens with a whine, like the joints of a feeble old man, wood brushing up against wood, and doesn’t pull easily. I find the envelope that rests on top of a pile of loose papers and take a seat.
The envelope is well-worn, blemished with creases and stains from the oils of my hands. I lift open the flap and remove the letter inside. It’s folded in three but unfurls easily. It, like the envelope, has seen better days. Then, I force my eyes to the page…
April 10th, 1900
Dear Father Murphy,
As per your request, I am writing to update you on the status of the infant that was left abandoned on the steps of St. Michael’s Church several months ago. I am pleased to report that the child was adopted and placed with the Sharnell family of Brooklyn. Should you require any additional information or want to follow up with the family in the future, please reach out to me at any time and I will be happy to connect you with them.
Sincerely,
Robert Sinclair
Executive Director
Children’s Aid Society of Queens
I place the letter on my empty desktop with care; my thoughts are flooded.
I never reconnected with the family. I never followed up. I was happy to think I’d resolved it.
Maybe I should have done more? Maybe I could have prevented all this? Saved the lives of my parish and ensured a promising future for the young William Sharnell.
That’s my job, right? To protect and guide those who cannot protect and guide themselves. To save the children and shepherd the flock.
But I was young and weak. I used my influence and moved on. I took the path of least resistance. In a city filled with loss and heartbreak, I was happy to live cocooned in the church. Happy to wash clean any residue of unwanted sin.
I reach down into the drawer again. Behind the papers, set way in the back, my fingers fumble onto a bundle of cloth: a folded up towel. It’s heavy, but I pull it up, place it on the desk and unroll it. It reveals a .45 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. In the high polish of the barrel and cylinder my distorted image stares back at me. The blue eyes, wrinkles creeping in at the edges, no longer glint of youth. The gray wisps of hair that taint my temples conceal my once sharp red locks.
Only God knows the true darkness that lives deep within our souls. Only God knows the deception we are fully capable of achieving. William Sharnell deserved better; my flesh and blood deserved better. The sins of the father should not pass on to the son. As a man of the cloth, I know when a reckoning is well overdue.
I raise the gun to my head to finish it. Finish what William Sharnell could not. Enough blood drips from my cold hands. Enough for one lifetime.
But the weight of the pistol is too much…or too little. What if Hell lacks the fire and brimstone my faith demands? What if Death delivers yet another undeserving reprieve?
I place the revolver on the desk next to the letter and exit the church that has stood as my sanctuary for over twenty years.
The dark streets welcome me. Their harsh sounds and sensations the heralds to my inevitable arrival. The consequences of my damning past bearing down on me like iron shackles, dragging me into the dirt and filth of the city…my city.
I’m finally where I belong—adrift in a concrete sea, brimming with sinners.
Penitent and accountable, but there’s no going back.
Sometimes you burn red and hot.
[Image Credit : Photo by davide bodini on Unsplash ]
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Latest posts by James Patrick Focarile (see all)
- Sins of the Father - August 6, 2023
This is a fantastic and timely story. Real twists the reader will not see coming. This guy needs to write a full length book! Wonderful.
Great little read. Thanks.