Thin Black Line
by Frederick Gero Heimbach The beat priest, Fr. Vincent by name, was waiting for them on the fourth floor. The room was shabby, all faded wallpaper and frayed electrical. The Embassy Hotel’s repute was, if not full-on ill, certainly under the weather. Fr. Ciaran’s senses woke to scents of sulfur and blood among the dust motes. His partner, Fr. Bill, gave Fr. Vincent a bored nod, gave a bored reply of “It’s not going anywhere,” to the question “How’s the prostate?” All this while standing ten feet from the corpse on the bed. Fr. Bill clapped Ciaran’s shoulder. “Vince: meet my partner, Ciaran. Ciaran’s Joe Callagan’s, what? Second cousin?” Fr. Ciaran extended his hand. “First cousin once removed.” “Once removed.” Fr. Bill rolled his eyes. “I was never good at numbers.” Fr. Vincent, sturdy in his Roman collar and creaky wingtips, shook warmly. “You some kind of math whiz?” “You wouldn’t believe,” said Fr. Bill. “Top of his class. Seminary and academy. Ain’t that right, kid?” Ciara...