Free Day of Confession by Allan Folsom Page B

were there or not.
    “Oh, God,” he breathed. “Oh, fucking God!” Horror and disgust and loss swept over him. The color drained from his face, and he had to put out his hand to keep his balance. Somewhere he heard the rattle of Italian, and it took a moment before he realized Gasparri was talking.
    “Signore Gasparri apologizes for what your brother looks like,” Father Bardoni said. “He wants to cover him again, to take him away.”
    Harry’s eyes lifted to Gasparri. “Tell him no, not yet…”
    Fighting everything in him, Harry turned to look at the mutilated torso once more. He had to pull himself together. To think. To say silently to Danny what needed to be said. Then he saw Cardinal Marsciano gesture and Gasparri move forward with the lid. At the same time something else registered.
    “No!” he said sharply, and Gasparri froze where he was. Reaching out, Harry touched the cold chest, then ran his fingers down under the left nipple. Suddenly he felt his legs turn to rubber.
    “Are you all right, Mr. Addison?” Father Bardoni moved toward him.
    Abruptly Harry pulled away and looked up. “It’s not him. It’s not my brother.”

14
    HARRY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK OR how to feel. That it might be someone other than Danny in the casket had never occurred to him. That after everything—the police work, the investigations by how many agencies, the recovery of the personal articles, the identification of the body by Cardinal Marsciano, the death certificate—they could have made this kind of error was unconscionable.
    Cardinal Marsciano put a hand on his sleeve. “You are weary and filled with grief, Mr. Addison. In circumstances like this our hearts and emotions do not always let us think clearly.”
    “Eminence,” Harry said sharply. They were all staring at him—Marsciano, Father Bardoni, Gasparri, and the man in the starched white jacket. Yes, he was tired. Yes, he was filled with grief. But his thinking had never been clearer in his life.
    “My brother had a large mole under his left nipple. It’s called a third breast. I’ve seen it a thousand times. Medically it’s known as a supernumerary nipple. Whoever’s in that casket has no mole under his left nipple. That person is not my brother. It’s as simple as that.”
    CARDINAL MARSCIANO closed the door to Gasparri’s office, then gestured toward a pair of gilded chairs in front of the funeral director’s desk.
    “I’ll stand,” Harry said.
    Marsciano nodded and sat down.
    “How old are you, Mr. Addison?”
    “Thirty-six.”
    “And how long has it been since you last saw your brother without his shirt or with it, for that matter? Father Daniel was not merely an employee, he was a friend. Friends talk, Mr. Addison…. You had not seen him for many years, had you?”
    “Eminence, that person is not my brother.”
    “Moles can be removed. Even from priests. People do it all the time. I should imagine you, in your business, would know that better than I.”
    “Not Danny, Eminence—especially not Danny. Like most everyone else, he was insecure growing up. What made him feel better about himself was when he had things other people didn’t. Or did things differently from those around him. He used to drive our mother crazy opening his shirt and showing his mole to people. He liked to think it was some kind of secret baronial mark, and that he was really descended from royalty. And unless he changed deeply and immeasurably since then, he would never have had it removed. It was a badge of honor, it kept him apart.”
    “People do change, Mr. Addison,” Cardinal Marsciano spoke gently and quietly. “And Father Daniel did change a great deal in the years I knew him.”
    For a long moment Harry stared, saying nothing. When he did speak, he was quieter but no less adamant. “Isn’t it possible there was a mix-up at the morgue? That maybe another family has Danny’s body in a sealed casket without knowing it?… It’s not unreasonable