Page 65 of Tortured Eyes
“I’m not sure it would be public knowledge. But seeing as Logan had you preside over the funeral of Benjamin Vico, he must have trusted you in some capacity.”
His smile is soft and mournful at the mention of Vico. “Whatever Mr Cane might or might not have shared with me is private and above intrusion from the law.”
It’s my turn to put on my poker face, and I wait to see if Father Cleary will give anything else. I take a moment to watch for tells or anything else that might provide me some insight regarding Logan, but Father Cleary doesn’t reveal anything. He’s calm and collected. Measured in the way he’s approached me and answered my questions.
“Look, my bet is that you know the kind of man Logan is. Considering who he worked with, it would be impossible not to. I’ve been on the receiving end of exactly what he’s capable of. What I’m asking is if there’s anything you know, or can share with me, that might make me see him differently?”
“Differently from what? The rumours and reputation? And, I think we’re past the pleasantries. You’re here for information, so let’s talk plainly.” His tone holds an undertone of frustration. Not a trait I’d associate with a priest. Perhaps he’s not as comfortable in this situation as he looks.
“Very well. Logan is a criminal. His family is linked to a handful of crimes, including the murder of his own uncle. I’m guessing those traits aren’t ones you advocate amongst your congregation.” It’s a blow to use that, considering my involvement, but I have to get the priest to talk.
“You’re correct. But I believe I’ve already mentioned that I’m not here to judge.”
“But how can you not, when he’s involved in drugs and crime, not just here in New York but in Chicago, too? He causes pain and misery.” I force my voice to stay level to not give away just how much hurt and pain he’s caused me.
“Would you like a coffee?” Father Cleary stands abruptly. “Perhaps something to eat?” The change in topic gives me whiplash.
“Um, sure.”
He begins to walk towards the entrance of the church, so I follow. We leave the church and weave the long path to the gates, all the time in silence. The absence of streetlights doesn’t slow Father Cleary down; rather, he seems to glide the road as if he's walked them a thousand times. A couple of shops pass by, until we arrive at what looks like a restaurant come-diner in the sleepy suburb. The little bell on the door chimes loudly as we enter and step inside.
Nearly all of the tables are full of people, but as I look closer, they aren’t the type of people I’d expect out for dinner. They are all untidy and unkempt, wearing ill-fitting clothes, along with a grateful smile for Father Cleary as he walks through towards the small bar at the back.
A petite older lady totters up to him with a notepad in her hand. “What will it be, Father?”
“Two coffees to go, Mable.”
“On it.” She turns and points to another employee behind the counter who sets about working the barista machine.
“This is an… unusual place,” I muse, wondering about the priest’s reason for bringing me here.
“It’s our equivalent to a soup kitchen. Donations pay for the goods that make up the menu. Those who can afford to pay are asked to pay what they feel their meal was worth. And those who can’t pay have a hot meal. It also employs members of our homeless population and helps to bridge the gap between living on the streets and full employment.”
I take another look around the room with fresh eyes, now seeing everything for what it is—a shelter for those in need but done in a different way than traditional soup kitchens. “It’s a good model. One that should be adopted by more than your church,” I say, genuinely interested.
“This isn’t the church’s doing. Or rather, the funds behind it aren’t from the church. We have a prominent benefactor. It’s his generosity that makes this work for so many on the streets here. Not that he'll ever admit it.”
My eyes widen. “Logan did this?” The shock in my voice is clear. "I…" I don't know what to say.
“Have you looked so little into Mr Cane that you’ve already made up your mind about him?”
The lady comes back with two takeaway cups and smiles at Father Cleary. I pull out a twenty and stuff it into the donations box on the counter. This philanthropy isn’t Logan Cane. He’s a criminal. Set out for no one but himself. Hell-bent on ruling by his way or no way. Generosity and kindness aren’t in his repertoire.
I leave, unable to stomach the polar opposite version of the man I know. It takes me two minutes worth of pacing the pavement to even begin wrapping my head around what I've just been told. Logan? He wouldn't. Why? What man would do what he did to me and then do this sort of thing?
“Everything alright, detective?”
“Yes, fine," I snap, frustrated. Father Cleary walks in front of me and hands me one of the cups, a faint trace of a smile ghosting his lips. "You find my distress funny?" The curt words from me cause a raised brow before he turns to look along the street. I take a sip of the burning hot, rich liquid and sigh, calming myself down. "I'm sorry. I just…"
“Would you feel more comfortable if we went back to the church?”
“I think that would be best. Yes.”
Why am I having a crisis about this? Why is seeing something good in Logan Cane such a problem? Of course, I know the reason. It's because if I see that he’s not the evil man I’ve experienced, if I know there’s good in his soul and that not everything he does is black or white, then there’s a justification for the way I feel. There’s a chance, a flicker or even some vindication to how I feel towards the man I should want dead.
I keep walking alongside Father Cleary, my head downcast. It's both calming and unsettling. I feel more lost with every step, especially considering his unwavering support for someone like Logan.
“I’m not here in an entirely professional capacity,” I murmur, the moment we’re back on church ground. Don’t ask me why, but it makes the confession I'm about to make more bearable.
