Doherty nodded. “In contrast, tolerance is a key to the Brennan family ethic. Racial, ethnic, and religious slurs, as far as I know, are non-existent in their home. Lucas was raised to believe that others would treat him as he treated them. So, when a group of teenagers who were affiliated with a California-exported gang set upon him one night after he’d finished a late shift at the restaurant and stepped off a bus, he didn’t change his mind, as many would have, about an ethnic group because of the behavior of a few. Sure, he was surprised and terribly distressed by what had happened to him, and it took weeks for his body to heal, but he went on about his life. He didn’t lose faith. His beliefs were rock-solid.”
The kid sounds like a saint, Barbara thought. “Did he go to college?” she asked.
The priest slowly wagged his head. “Lucas badly wanted to attend college. He graduated near the top of his high school class and received several scholarship offers. But, in his mind, he couldn’t justify accepting any of those because he had obligations to his brother and sister. He took a job with the same construction company his father worked for. Eddie, the second of the Brennan children, was one year younger than Lucas and immediately after high school graduation enlisted in the Army. One year later, Lois entered a convent.”
“That must have relieved some of their financial stress,” Barbara said.
Doherty shrugged. “Of course. But it wasn’t that the Brennan household was now absent stress. Eddie had been shipped off to Afghanistan and had told Lucas that the situation there was worse than he had imagined. The brothers exchanged emails quite frequently. Apparently, Eddie shared graphic stories with Lucas. I had several conversations with Lucas about his concerns for his brother. He experienced terrible tension headaches because of his worry about Eddie being over there. He confided in me that he prayed every day that God would protect his brother and would influence the leaders in Washington to bring the troops home. His confidence that his fellow man would do the right thing continued unabated.
“Nearly two years had passed with Lucas and his father working together. They’d pooled their earnings and built up a savings account that, along with a new mortgage, finally made it feasible for them to make significant repairs to their home.”
“Sounds like things were going well for them,” Barbara said.
“Yeah, until the economy weakened. The construction company Peter and Lucas worked for initially laid off employees as things slowed down. Finally, it closed its doors. Peter and Lucas couldn’t make enough money doing part-time jobs to stay current on the mortgage. When they became six months delinquent, the lender foreclosed on the property. They lost their home about a month ago.”
Doherty stopped at that point and just stared at Barbara.
“Is there anything else you would like to tell me?” she asked.
Doherty fluttered his hands and barely shook his head.
And the kid has now lost his father and sister, Barbara thought. She thanked Father Doherty for his time and let him escort her out to the sanctuary. Although the bodies had long since been removed, there was plenty of evidence that a ghastly event had occurred there. Stains in the carpet, the coppery odor of blood, the stench of other body fluids, the floor and pews littered with parishioners’ personal effects. The room was cold because someone had left the front doors of the church open — maybe to vent some of the smells. Barbara looked out through the open doors and saw snow flurries falling, blown around in an anarchical pattern by gusts of wind.
Great, snow in Albuquerque, she thought. A perfect addition to an already crappy day.
“When will you be finished with” — Doherty waved his hands around to indicate the large space — “all of this?”
She didn’t want to describe the church as a crime scene that needed to be processed. Instead, she said, “I’ll do everything in my power to expedite the investigation.”
After Father Doherty left her, Barbara went outside to her unmarked vehicle and drove to the Bernalillo County Sheriff’s Office headquarters in downtown Albuquerque. In the Detective Squad Room, she called Susan. “You with the Brennan kid?”
“I’m just a couple blocks away. I got hung up on a phone call from the lieutenant. You finished with the priest?”
“Yeah,” Barbara said. “He’s pretty torn up. You can imagine. He saw it all happen. He had a front row seat through the entire attack. Probably wondering how he escaped injury. Call me when you leave the Brennan apartment. I’ll meet you somewhere for an early breakfast.”
“I’ll be glad to get this over with,” Susan said. “That poor kid is probably suffering something awful.” Then, as an afterthought, she said, “I hope he can take some satisfaction from taking down the guy with the machete. Lucas Brennan probably saved a lot of lives.”
Lucas had been trying to mentally and emotionally process the events of the past few hours. Like a terrible dream, everything that had happened seemed surreal. He checked his cell phone and noted the time: 2:00 a.m. He walked around the rundown second floor apartment he and his father had shared for the past month. The brown stains on the ceiling from roof leaks, the threadbare soiled carpet, the cracked paint on the walls, the dated kitchen appliances, the rust stains in the sinks and the shower sickened him. He moved to the front window and parted the curtains. The deputy who had driven him home was still posted outside in his cruiser. A detective had, at first, wanted him to go to the sheriff’s department to be questioned, but she’d changed her mind when he’d asked to be allowed to go home. She’d agreed if a deputy accompanied him.
He was aware of shouting coming from the apartment next door — a regular occurrence at all hours of the night — but ignored it the way one ignores — even becomes inured to — the hum of an air conditioner or the vibrations from and sounds of passing traffic. But exhaustion had set in and he finally collapsed on the saggy couch they’d salvaged from a thrift shop. He barely remembered a call that had come in from one of the female detectives a few minutes earlier. She’d told him she would be by in a little while. What more can I tell her than I already did at the church? he wondered. He looked around the living room and felt a crushing sadness.
“What did faith in God and in your fellow man get you, Dad?” he whispered. “It’s just Eddie and me now.” A sudden and brief sob broke from his throat. Then his cell phone rang, startling him. He was about to ignore it but sneaked a peek at the screen and saw that the caller was someone named Stanley Wisniewski. At first, the name didn’t resonate. But then he remembered that Eddie had mentioned Wisniewski. How the two had met in Afghanistan and become fast friends.
He answered the call. “This is Lucas Brennan.”
“Lucas, it’s Stan Wisniewski. I’m a friend of your brother, Eddie. I’m call—”
Wisniewski’s voice cracked. Then he choked out a sob.
Lucas’s breath caught in his chest; he couldn’t seem to breathe. He finally expelled the air in his lungs. “Stan, what’s happened?”
Wisniewski coughed, paused a couple seconds, then said in a heavy, raspy voice, “Eddie and I have been best friends since we shipped over here.” Another pause, then: “We agreed to notify our families if something happened to either one of us. I’m sorry to have to tell you that... Eddie was shot in a fire fight today.”
Lucas felt icy fingers penetrate his skull, cascade through his chest, and down into his gut. His whole body was suddenly cramped.
“Is Eddie okay? Is he going to be all right?”