Free True Confessions by John Gregory Dunne Page A

Spellacy. You couldn’t outwait Sonny. You couldn’t stay in the locker room until he finished his shower. Not if you minded catching a cold or smelling bad. So into the shower. And there would be Sonny, all lathered up. “ Tantum ergo, Sacramentum, Veneremur cernui; et antiquum documentum . . .” The memory made Desmond Spellacy flinch. “A grand number, isn’t it, Des?” Sonny McDonough would always say. And sing another hymn: “Heads lifted high, Catholic action our cry, And the Cross our only sword.” A number made for that voice. When Sonny was feeling like a tenor, he would sing “Lovely Lady Dressed in Blue.” Another grand number. “About Our Blessed Virgin,” Sonny McDonough had informed him the first time he rendered “Lovely Lady” in the shower.
    He was an idiot, Sonny. An idiot who thought there was an advantage in singing hymns in front of a priest in a locker room. But a definite possibility nonetheless. And one way to bring Sonny around to discounting the funeral costs of all the nuns and priests who died each year in the archdiocese. An idea Sonny wasn’t too keen on, but if he were chairman, he couldn’t very well turn it down. Tommy would be a help. Tommy would know if there were any little colored boy in Sonny McDonough’s woodpile. Besides that raffle that was fixed at Our Lady Help of Christians. The memory was painful for Desmond Spellacy. Not one of my finer moments. Although it did get the property condemned. It would be a help knowing that Sonny was shifty going in. The question was, how shifty.
    Sonny McDonough . . .
    There was a sudden stir at the rear of the sanctuary. And then His Eminence Hugh Cardinal Danaher appeared on the altar. He must have thought better of his flu bug, Desmond Spellacy thought. Put-A-Pool-In-A-Catholic-School. The Cardinal blessed the casket and then stood at the foot of the altar steps until the bustle in the cathedral quieted down.
    “It is not the custom in this archdiocese,” the Cardinal began, “to deliver a eulogy at the funeral of a layman. But I would be derelict if I did not acknowledge in some way the passing of Chester Hanrahan and pay my respects to his godly wife and his two children, Brother Bede and Sister Mary Peter, whom he gave to his Father Almighty.” There was absolute silence in the cathedral. “I remember that day so many years ago, the nation coming from depression into war, when I asked Chester Hanrahan if he would take over the Building Fund. I think you all know what he answered. ‘YES!’ said Chester Hanrahan. And over the years, everything I ever asked of him, a new boiler for Saint Malachy’s, new classrooms for Our Lady of the Assumption, a new hospital for the Sisters of Saint Joseph, you know the answer I always received. ‘YES!’ said Chester Hanrahan . . .”

Three
    Tom Spellacy chewed on a hangnail and waited for the pain in his stomach to pass. Gas, probably. In the three days since the discovery of the body at 39th and Norton, he had eaten nothing but donuts and hamburgers from the cafeteria at the corner of First and Temple. All those hours and nothing to show but BO and constipation. No fingerprints, no identification. No friends, no neighbors, no employer, no acquaintances. The girl at 39th and Norton seemed not to exist before her murder as she did not exist now. He picked up the report from the night watch. Five witnesses heard a woman scream the night of the murder two blocks from where the body was found. A house-to-house investigation. The screamer was a young woman whose husband had returned that day from service in the Pacific with the marines. It was the first day she had had sexual intercourse in three years, four months and two days. He wondered who had computed the days, the woman or the night watch.
    The cream in his coffee had curdled. Flecks floated on the surface of the olive-colored liquid and the soggy paper cup had begun to leak. He watched the stain widen on his desk blotter. Corinne