Designed Intent

Chapter 57

Tuesday Morning

Gleason decided to stay in as her hips and legs were a bit sore from her excursion the day before and had gone back to bed after Bobby left for work. She had not dreamt the night before and wanted to see if she would this morning.

She cuddled with Bobby's pillow, hugging it as she did him. Thoughts of their lovemaking last night came back to her. Remembering what they had done thrilled her and she knew she could pleasure herself again with those thoughts and her fingers. God how she loved making love with Bobby, he was an incredible lover – generous, intuitive and adventurous.

She thought of their coming life together. She would make him happy. In every way, she would make him happy. He deserved to be happy. He had shared little of what his childhood was like and she sensed the rest from spending time with his mother. She would ensure happiness in the rest of his life.

Gleason thought about her name – 'Gleason Goren', 'Gleason Wintermantle-Goren' – nope, she would remain 'Gleason Wintermantle' and claim professional reasons. Bobby would be ok with that, she reasoned. Most of everything was already in both of their names. She had arranged to have her pay deposited into Bobby's checking and savings accounts when she had given up her campus apartment while at Brookbine. That had continued now that she was at Northwestern; he took care of all of their finances anyway.

She would continue at Northwestern. They would make it work. Like Bobby said when she first told him about taking the job there: this is where she lives, Evanston is where she works.

Slowly, eventually, Gleason fell asleep; but she did not dream.

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Tuesday Afternoon

"What do we know about Turnbuckle and Brine?"

"Turnbuckle has a list of priors from four states going back twenty some years."

"What about Brine?"

Eames read, "Brine was a Jesuit priest until he was asked to leave five years ago."

Bobby looked up at this, "Why was he asked to leave?"

"His file doesn't specify. Since then, he has been working the docks. That is probably where he met Turnbuckle. He doesn't even have any parking citations. He was clean."

"Let's go talk to their co-workers at the dock."

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"Naw, Brine was a good guy, quiet, kept to himself. He was always on time, never missed, polite, respectful. He was a nice man."

"What about Turnbuckle?" Eames talked with the supervisor as Bobby stood nearby, listening.

"He was a trouble maker, hot head, always mouthing off. I'm surprised Brine was even with Turnbuckle, they were very different people."

"Thank you, we'll be in touch"

As they headed to the car, Bobby said, "Uh, let's go to St. Martin's. I want to talk with Fr. Picard."

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"Bobby! Bobby Goren! How are you?"

"Fr. Picard, I'm glad you're here. Can we talk with you for a few minutes? Is this a good time?"

"Of course, Bobby, of course. Come in, come in." Fr. Picard stepped back from the open rectory door and Eames stepped through, then Bobby.

"Uh, Father, this is my partner, Detective Alex Eames. This is Father Picard."

The priest shook Eames' hand, "Good to meet you. You protect this big lug? Why, you are just a tiny thing. Isn't she Bobby?"

Eames went six shades of red, Bobby looked at the floor, two stepped in a square, and Fr. Picard turned and said over his shoulder, "Come this way." Then the priest hollered to the kitchen, "Sara, we have guests."

A plump woman of about the same age as the priest entered the den, wiping her hands on a towel.

"Sara, these are two detectives. Would you be a dear and get us some coffee?" The priest indicated to two wingback chairs and the detectives sat.

"I have fresh peach pie cooling on the table. Would you like a piece?" she asked the group.

Fr. Picard smiled broadly and said, "That sounds good, what do you say?"

Bobby would have liked a piece but declined when he stole a look at Eames, she never accepted food on the job, not even coffee.

"All right then, just coffee, please, Sara."

Sara nodded and waddled back to the kitchen.

Eames began with, "Father, we'd like to run some things by you, if you don't mind."

Fr. Picard shifted his gaze from Bobby to his tiny partner, "What can I do for you two?"

Eames said, "We're investigating the deaths of two men, one of whom served as a Jesuit priest up until five years ago."

"Yes?"

Eames hesitated and then said to Bobby, "Why don't you explain to the Father how you see him helping?"

"Uh, yeah, this is about yesterday's shooting and the theft of those altar items. The one victim, a Sylvester Brine, has no priors and was a Jesuit until five years ago; his co-workers claim he and the other victim, Melvin Turnbuckle, were like night and day. Turnbuckle has a sheet an inch thick."

"Yes, but how can I help you?"

"Well, I'm not sure, really. They are thought to have been shot by a third individual. Uh, Major Case was brought in because of the load of altar items, a myrrh container, Litya, the Riza Icon, and the like, that they stole. The items were stashed in the apartment they burgled."

The old priest looked from one to the other, "I still don't see how you think I can help you." Sara returned with a tray of cups and fixings. Fr. Picard helped himself, as did Bobby, while Eames smiled her decline.

Eames replied, "We'd like you to direct us as to where we can find out about this Sylvester Brine while he was a priest. He was asked to leave the clergy and we want to know why."

"Oh, well, those kinds of things are kept confidential, I'm afraid. I'm not sure I can help you with that, sorry." He smiled sadly and sipped his coffee.

"I see, well," Eames continued, "what can you tell us about the stolen items? We have no reports of missing liturgical items. We're kind of stumped here, Father, right Bobby?"

Her partner nodded, set down his cup and opened his folder, withdrawing several photos. "Father, these are photos of the recovered items." He handed to stack to the priest and then stood beside the older man, looking over his shoulder. "They are all Russian except for that one, the Icon of the –,"

"Yes, the Iveron."

"You know these pieces?" Eames asked.

"Oh, yes. Yes I do, young lady." Fr. Picard was quiet a moment and then said softly, "You have these pieces, Bobby? At the police station? They are safe?"

"Yes, Father, they are locked up in an evidence bin. What can you tell us about them?"

The priest went through the photos again, staring at each one. The detectives shared a glance, waiting for the man to continue. "Do you know who stole these? Have you caught him yet?" Fr. Picard asked.

"Uh, no, that's why we came to you. They were in a duffle bag dumped a few blocks from the two murdered men. A matching censer was found in a trashed apartment. It apparently was missed in the robbery."

"The two men, what were their names again?"

"Melvin Turnbuckle and Sylvester Brine; Brine had been a Jesuit until five years ago," Eames offered.

Bobby returned to his seat and the priest stood up, handed Bobby the photos and crossed to his desk. Again, Eames and Bobby shared a look. The old priest removed a key from the center desk drawer and unlocked the lower left hand drawer. "Here, Bobby, help me with this box, will you?"

Bobby rose and went to the priest. He lifted a heavy metal box from the drawer and set it on the desktop. "Thank you. Give me a moment to find it." Bobby returned to his seat and the detectives watched the old man remove file after file, studying each one before setting it aside. "Ah, yes, here it is." Fr. Picard turned with an old fashioned, brown folder tied with a narrow length of brown cotton ribbon. "Here, this is it."

He returned to his seat and untied the ribbon, removing a thick stack of papers. He set the folder on the floor and the stack on the coffee table between them. "Yuri Sylwester Brinosovich, that's the original name of your dead former Jesuit. A brilliant man, brilliant. He wrote volumes of philosophy, theology, and his area of expertise – ancient Eastern religious liturgical ware."

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Bobby spent every available hour researching the one thing that was the hardest to find. Dogged determination and a gift for sleuthing helped him locate what would probably bring Gleason to tears. He was so happy that he had thought of it. Tim said he could add what Bobby wanted using a jeweler's laser. Tim was impressed when Bobby told him what it was.

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Wednesday Morning

"I brought Gleason home this weekend," Bobby told Dr. Stephens.

"How is she doing?"

"Fine, uh fine."

Dr. Stephens heard the hesitation and waited for him to continue.

"Uh, there is one thing, though." Bobby sat on the edge of the seat, elbows on his knees, fingers laced, looking at the floor. "We, uh, Gleason and I seem to have had parts of the same dream the other night."

Dr. Stephens was intrigued as she had a whole theoretical mind set when it came to dreams. This was a particular area of interest for her. She waited again for him to continue.

Bobby sat back and told his psychiatrist about the dreams. Then he relayed Gleason's tale concerning the little boy in the coffee shop. Bobby confessed his confusion.

"How does Gleason feel about all of this?"

"She's convinced that the boy in my mother's hallucination, the child in the dreams, and the kid in the coffee shop are all the baby she miscarried. She said he wants to be born."

"What do you think?"

Bobby struggled. "I, I fear Gleason is fixating on this child. Could this be some kind of delayed reaction to the miscarriage? Some kind of guilt or something?" Bobby looked at the good doctor with desperate eyes.

She saw his concern. Dr. Stephens was fascinated; she wanted to, needed to, speak with Gleason. "I don't know, Robert. What have you told her?"

"I don't know what to tell her. I have to say, I was impartial about it all until she told me the man called the boy 'Chris.'" Bobby reminded Dr. Stephens about the child's name his mother had told them about. "Now, I don't know what to say to her."

"Has she brought it up since it happened?"

"No, she hasn't actually."

"Perhaps it's passed." They were both silent for a moment. "Robert, do you think Gleason would agree to speak with me about this?"

Bobby stood and moved to the bookcases – his avoidance tactic. He stood with his back to her, hands in his pockets, thinking. "I don't know, Dr. Stephens. Things are so good. I, I don't want to upset her."

"That's fine. Not a problem."

He turned and spoke from where he stood, "She would be so upset knowing you and I are talking about her like this." Bobby wiped his hands over his face. "I don't want to upset her. I love her so much." He whispered this last bit.

Dr. Stephens watched the tall man and thought how lucky his woman was to be loved by a man like him. "I understand, Robert."

Bobby returned to his seat and asked, "So, is it a delayed reaction to the miscarriage?"

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