FLAWED – Chapter 3

Coin Collector USA’s Headquarters

Chicago, Illinois

September 2012

Lawrence Sheffield III, known to everyone as Larry, could be described as professionally lethargic. In ten short years a once exhilarating career now put him to sleep. He didn’t bother keeping his boredom to himself. Why hide it? Fellow journalists whispered about him in clumpy huddles at big events, waging bets on everything from his health to his love life. Larry politely and perpetually declined their inquiries, offers, and advice. He just wanted to be left alone. That was probably for the best as Larry’s gloominess contaminated everyone who came within a ten-foot radius.

Larry hadn’t always been this way. Originally, working for Coin Collector USA magazine felt like a dream come true. As a lifelong coin collector and a gifted writer, fate dealt him a beautiful hand by giving him a career that combined both passions.

His interest in coins came honestly. Of the three men in his family to carry the moniker Lawrence Sheffield, his career was the third to interact in some way with numismatics; the study of coins and currency. His grandfather, the original Lawrence Sheffield, took on an expert status in Greek and Roman coins following World War II, with his historical research maintained by the American Numismatic Society in New York City. Then came Larry’s father, Lawrence II, who carried the torch into the next generation as a professor of numismatics at Princeton University. He eventually became curator for their coin collection, a high honor given the rarity of academic coin collections in the United States.

Larry’s interest didn’t fall into the academic vein of his predecessors. He wrote about, as he put it, the “edgy side of coins”. He took coin journalism to a more exciting place by shining a light on dealing, auctions, and big-ticket items. Most provocative of all, he recounted the stories of famous thefts and unusual encounters involving coins.

His favorite writing assignment thus far in his career involved a major coin discovery made by a husband and wife while walking their dog on their sprawling Northern California property. The story began when something shiny caught the wife’s eye in the grass as her pooch did his business. It ended with the dream of a lifetime, ten million dollars’ worth of uncirculated, mint condition, solid gold coins. Larry had been granted permission to fly out to interview the couple and examine the coins for himself. A good year of writing came out of that find. It inspired several award-winning articles in which Larry postulated about how the coins landed on that property in the first place. To him, the most obvious answer was a robbery at the San Francisco Mint that occurred back in 1898. It was allegedly committed by one of the Mint ’s own employees. A routine audit by the San Francisco Mint at the time revealed that twenty-eight thousand dollars’ worth of Double Eagles were missing from the hoard within the compound. The finger pointed directly at a press operator, who ultimately did nine years of hard time for the crime. Oddly enough, the whereabouts of the coins remained a mystery. As usual, the United States Mint had a keen interest in keeping in that way. When Larry tried to get information about it from a Mint representative, she downplayed what he considered to be ridiculously obvious links between the modern find and the century-old heist. According to the representative, Larry’s interest in the story was typical journalistic sensationalism. His response: “No, it’s called connecting the dots!”

Regardless of the Mint’s stance, the story stoked Larry’s creative fires for a long time. How he longed for another great assignment! A buried treasure discovered by a worthy individual who put it to good use, or a minting event that exposed some dark secret about the Department of Treasury. Something with substance. Alas, intriguing stories in the world of coins are in short supply. Instead, Larry suffered through spewing out mindless articles about exhibits, coin dealing, collecting. Bleh.

Sure, being employed by Coin Collector USA had its perks, but hyping up some upcoming coin show in some big city was a massive waste of Larry’s talent, his vast intellect, his poetic grandeur! He seriously considered writing a novel on his own time just to keep life interesting, always putting it aside as a pipe dream and nothing more.

Then out of the blue he happened upon a stroke of luck – a tip with the potential to resuscitate his withering career. Carl Baggley, Larry’s former college roommate at Princeton was the unlikely source. Back in 2002, Carl muscled his way into being the best scrum-half ever to grace the field for Princeton’s rugby club. A decade later, Carl once again donned his number nine jersey on the day of his induction into their alma mater’s Rugby Hall of Fame. The small ceremony took place in a restaurant in Princeton’s Palmer Square just last month. In attendance were a small team of devotees to the rugby club, mostly former members and their families. As the evening wore on, Larry and Carl reconnected over drinks and memories. Two scotches in, Larry opened up to his old roommate about his occupational ambivalence.

Who knew that one month later, that venting session of Larry’s would unexpectedly pay off? He’d never have guessed that alcohol and an old college buddy would provide the antidote he needed. The phone rang just as Larry threw together beef and macaroni for dinner. Putting down the tomatoes, Larry picked up the phone to hear Carl speed-talking.

“Lar! Glad you’re there. Good to hear your voice buddy. I got such a story for you! This case hit my desk a few hours ago and I instantly thought, ‘Jesus, this has Sheffield’s name all over it!’ I don’t have all the details yet, but I had to at least call.”

“Whoa dude!” Larry interrupted. “You gotta cut back on the caffeine! What case?”

For eight years, Carl Baggley plugged away for the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Newark, New Jersey. Initially an admin for the public affairs department, he eventually made his way past the bar exam and traded in the admin position for his dream job. Now Carl provides direction to various federal agencies like the FBI, the IRS, and the DEA, giving them the expert legal counsel they need during criminal investigations. The job kept Carl excited, and he called Larry to share the most interesting cases. At this moment on the phone his voice rose to a near fever pitch.

Carl laughed apologetically and began again. “An arrest was just made involving a retired Philadelphia police officer who used to work at the U.S. Mint!”

Larry’s lungs involuntarily drew in a deep gasp of air. “Whoa. What happened?”

“Tax evasion. That’s what’s on the initial warrant anyway. I don’t know all the facts yet, but it looks like a recent tax return didn’t account for all the proceeds he made selling stolen coins.”

“Wait, wait, you mean he stole them?”

“I can’t say for sure yet, but I’ll be involved with the investigation. All I can tell you so far is that it appears he sold over six thousand of those First Ladies coins.”

“Holy shit!” Larry slid the pack of ground beef back in the fridge and turned off the burner under a half-cooked pot of elbow macaroni. Dinner would have to wait. “Okay Carl, you’ve got my attention.”

“It gets even better. The coins weren’t even finished. They hadn’t gone through the process that engraves the edge of the coin.”

“The edge inscription! Oh my God, the dude stole half-baked coins!” Larry jumped up, bouncing around like a five-year old on Christmas Eve. “This is huge! The cop knew exactly what he was doing. Coin errors rake in a fortune!”

“Yes, they do. Wanna take a guess how much of a fortune he raked in?” Carl challenged.

Larry zoned out as he tried to recall the bits and pieces he’d heard around the office about the First Ladies Coin Program being under government review. Who’d been talking about it? Oh yes, Travis. Travis Simmons, a lanky fellow journalist at the magazine had gone on and on about it to the receptionist at the office. Larry remembered him leaning over her desk in a clear effort to impress her. At the time, Larry took more notice of how she shifted uncomfortably in her swivel chair than anything else. The information didn’t concern Larry then, but he certainly planned to follow up now.

“Yo Lar, you still there?”

“Yeah yeah, I’m here.” Larry slid into the solitary chair at his kitchen table, cell phone still pressed against his ear. A typical journalist, he’d already scribbled half a page of notes on his legal pad as the two talked. He finally got back to Carl’s challenge and offered his best guess.

“I’ll say some dealer offered him fifty per coin. You said he stole six thousand of them?”

“Yep, a little over six thousand.”

Quickly drawing the calculation out on his pad, he circled the answer. “That’s about four hundred grand.”

“It would have been four hundred grand if he hadn’t hit the jackpot of dealers. Some guy on the west coast paid him two hundred bucks a piece. He raked in over a million two!”

“Jesus! One million two hundred thousand?

“Crazy isn’t it? How would you like to make a hundred and ninety-nine-dollar return on your one-dollar investment? Oh wait. He didn’t invest, he stole! Or at least that’s what it looks like.”

“You said the warrant is for tax evasion. So you’re telling me the guy managed to hack security at the most secure building in the State of Pennsylvania but has a moron for an accountant?!”

Carl laughed. “Sounds like a good possibility. Hey, hang on a sec.” His voice trailed off, and after a few seconds of muffled sounds he returned to the line. “Buddy, I gotta run. The kids are up way past bedtime and my wife’s giving me the evil eye. But just so you know, the cop’s next hearing is scheduled for Thursday. I’ll be there, and I’ll fill you in on every detail, cool?”

“Fantastic! Wow man, how can I thank you?”

“I was hoping you’d ask! You can start by telling your Cubs to lay off my Phils. This series is killing us.”

“Yeah sure, I’ll get right on it. Hey, don’t forget to fill me in on that hearing. I’ll chase you if I don’t hear back.”

The next morning Larry moved with an extraordinary bounce in his step when he entered Coin Collector USA’s office building. Everyone noticed. Including Phoebe, the attractive receptionist who Travis worked so hard to impress. She’d found Larry fascinating until his attitude went south a couple years ago. The twinkle in his eye when he greeted her had Phoebe sitting a bit higher in her swivel chair.

“Larry?” she squeaked out quickly before his atypical demeanor had time to fade. “You look downright elated!”

“Who, me?” It felt good to smile again, and to be smiled at. “Yeah, I guess you could say it’s going to be a productive day!” He paused and placed his hand on top of her computer monitor. “You know, I’d really like to treat you to lunch at Jake’s one of these days.”

“Really?” Caught off guard, Phoebe struggled to conceal her erupting smile. “Why, what’s going on?” As she looked down away from his eyes, he whizzed past her leaving the words of her question suspended in air.

A handful of journalists lingered in the main corridor near the cafeteria. Those who knew him best did a double take, with a bit of harmless taunting flying from the boldest. “Yo Lar! Tone it down.” and “Looks like someone got lucky last night!” He smiled and nodded, engaging them just long enough to get his coffee. Then he abandoned the inquiring minds to gossip among themselves and entered the solitude of his office. Opportunity knocked, and as any good journalist knows you never leave her waiting.

He yanked the cord on the mini blinds, sending a cloud of dust throughout the tight room. As the computer booted, he retrieved the legal pad from his backpack and held it gingerly as if it were a sacred manuscript. Page after page of notes, many he’d scribbled long after Carl ran off to tend to the kids. The little bit his friend shared so far reignited Larry’s fire.

He scrolled through Coin Collector USA’s Intranet looking for the ‘Team of Journalists’ webpage. It didn’t take long for him to find contact info for Travis Simmons. Before dialing, Larry practiced a nonchalant inquiry. No need to raise dust at this point, he simply wanted to learn a little more about the controversy surrounding the one dollar First Ladies Program.

“You’ve reached the voicemail of Travis Simmons. Please leave a message.” Larry hung up and decided to email him instead. Just a quick note asking Travis to touch base for a brief, non-urgent conversation at his convenience. Then Larry dug back into and expanded the notes from the night before. He knew from experience that keeping busy cured nerves. Within the hour Travis responded and let Larry know it would be a couple days. He was out of the office until Thursday. That wouldn’t be a problem, because Larry had plenty to keep him busy until then. Call it intuition, but Larry just knew this was the story he’d been waiting for. The hearing and Travis’s information would make Thursday well worth waiting for.

______

Would you like to read more? Click here for the remainder of the book!

______

(Book) Copyright © 2018 DD&LL, LLC (book) / ISBN: Pending / Fiction

(Blog) Copyright © 2018 Lynette Landing – BareNakedTalk

All rights reserved. No part of either of these publications may be reproduced without the prior written permission of authors. To share this blog post, please include the following statement with hyperlink: “Copyright 2018 –  Bare Naked Talk  – All Rights Reserved”

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the authors’ imaginations.

Flawed – Chapter 2

United States Mint Facility

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

March 2010

When it comes to committing a federal crime, Officer Patrick McGowan felt certain that the third, sixth, even the eleventh heist were all just as nerve-racking as the first. He knew that one suspecting eye could land him in the federal penitentiary alongside dozens of thugs he’d put there himself. It didn’t matter that his first ten attempts at smuggling government property from his place of employment had been successful. This time he couldn’t help imagining the worst.

If people could walk in his shoes for a while, they might understand how he felt. It takes two thousand steps for the average person to walk a mile. It would take Pat one tenth of that to reach the exit while carrying stolen goods, a number he’d worked out to last footfall. Counting steps turned out to be a gift of sanity and a powerful focus technique that his daughter Cat had suggested. It stopped him from ruminating on potential catastrophes. It also stopped the disposable coffee cup in his hand from quivering.

Weaving his way through the plant, he counted under his breath. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. He acknowledged random line workers with an obligatory nod or smile. Forty-eight. Forty-nine. Pat then continued through the corridor into the extravagant lobby of the United States Mint. Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight.

Opposite a bank of escalators hangs a dynamic digital display that provides tourists with an up-to-date count on the number of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies that are minted each year. One hundred and fifty-four. One hundred and fifty-five. Step number one hundred and fifty-six brought him directly in front of that mammoth display. Another twenty-eight steps and he’d reach his destination.

“McGowan!!! Stop right there!” yelled an impassioned voice from somewhere in the cavern of the giant building.

Pat froze. The cup in his hand shook to the beat of his thumping heart. Images of his wife and son raced through his head. What would Deidre and Jason think of him? He prepared for the stampede of angry cops, the cocking of guns, the echoing of charges leveled against him and the humiliation of being cuffed in front of his peers. He knew the worst was coming.

“McGowan?” The same voice called out, this time perplexed instead of indignant.

Pat looked cautiously in the direction of the voice. Simon. Harmless but stupid Simon, a fellow Mint cop whose sole job consisted of running the central x-ray detection system at the main entrance.

Simon laughed apologetically for alarming his coworker. “Geez buddy! Didn’t mean to startle you! I just noticed you headin’ out for your break and wanted to tell ya to lay off the cancer sticks! You been coughing more than usual and it’s gettin’ on everybody’s nerves!”

Pat smiled awkwardly and pressed the pack of Marlboro’s deeper into his breast pocket. “Thanks” he said, feigning normalcy, “but I already got one wife too many!”

“Ha, don’t we all!” Simon then turned his attention to a large group of chatty adolescents in lime-green t-shirts being unsuccessfully herded by a couple of tired-looking chaperones in matching t-shirts. “Good morning kids! Right this way.” Simon said in his haplessly cheerful tone, ushering them towards the detection system.

Pat refocused on his steps to brush off the shakeup. One hundred and eighty-six. One hundred and eighty-seven. As he exited through the large glass doors, he scolded himself for nearly losing it back there. His anxiety came dangerously close to giving him away and tanking the whole operation.

Inside the big glass doors, Simon busily x-rayed school children. Outside the big glass doors, Pat busily impersonated an employee on a smoke break. He counted eleven steps to the left of the main entrance where an isolated alcove protected him from the surveillance cameras. Then he casually took a seat on the alcove’s concrete bench and carefully set the disposable cup beside him. Pat took four focused deep breaths, looked up at the puffy white clouds in the Philly sky, and let his mind race through his situation.

The United States Mint in Philadelphia stood as one of the most secure facilities in the nation. For eight years and counting, Pat McGowan patrolled the place and kept a watchful eye on the hundreds of employees, the thousands of visitors, and the billions of coins that were manufactured annually. He took his job seriously. God as his witness, that was the truth! He considered it an honor for the government to entrust him with this responsibility. Why wouldn’t they? His resume boasted thirty blemish-free years on the Philadelphia Police Force. When the Mint hired him, from the looks of it they chose the right man. With seven years of impeccable service they had no reason to question his movements or his motives. For most of that time, Pat only desired to do his job and to do it with integrity.

Not anymore.

Starting last year, he dangled his stellar reputation over a cliff. His oath of honor no longer carried an ounce of weight for him. A combined thirty-seven years of public service couldn’t prevent him from snapping. From willfully betraying the trust of those he’d served and falling from grace. Pat’s recent dabbles in illegal activity stood to put everything at risk. His career, his reputation, his marriage too. Dee would surely leave him if she ever found out. His son Jason would turn his back on him. His parents, upstanding and honest Philly natives, would roll in their graves if they knew what their son had done. Backed into the corner for too long, this officer of the law knew for certain that he had no choice but to commit the unthinkable. How could any man watch his family sink into a state of poverty while standing idly by?

Years of financial turmoil spoils moods and ruins relationships. It takes a physical toll, and Pat’s body bore a living testament to that. Much as he tried to deny it, his health deteriorated strikingly as the pressure squeezed his life dry. That was just one of many factors that convinced him to take the bait and steal from the United States Mint. At fifty-seven years of age, Pat finally concluded that he, like anyone else, deserved to have the simple pleasures that make life worth living. Sacrifice was no longer sexy.

To his own great surprise, Pat’s scheme worked. With the help of his daughter Cat, he found a way to beat the system. This would make the dozenth time now that Pat has embezzled coins right out from underneath the government’s nose. Not just any coins, but one-dollar coins from the First Ladies series that were minted in his hometown. When this series originally launched, the United States government had high hopes for it. They expected it would go over as famously as the Fifty State Quarters Program, making collectors out of average families.

Plans don’t always go as expected. The First Ladies Program failed miserably. Regardless of the cool artwork and the educational aspect of the coins, the public didn’t take to them. Who wants to carry around heavy dollar coins when paper dollar bills weigh a fraction as much in your pocket? Who wants to get shortchanged by witless clerks who confuse the quarter-sized dollar coins with actual quarters? When the consumers didn’t want them, neither did the banks. Much of the series got shipped right back to the Federal Reserve. That is until recently when interest in the program suddenly spiked. Thanks to Pat and his guilty habit of smuggling large sums of the coins before they were fully minted. Error coins, as they’re called, have a way of attracting attention because they’re worth almost two hundred times their face value. That means that one of these babies found in pocket change could be sold to a dealer for two hundred dollars or more.

Word travels fast when something of great value circulates through society. People began to race each other to the bank in hopes of getting lucky. They bought up roll after roll of First Ladies with the hope of finding an error or two in the bunch.

Pat McGowan inadvertently stirred up interest in a dying program. He inadvertently saved the program from an early termination. He inadvertently saved the government from incurring a huge deficit on the machinery used to manufacture the coins. He inadvertently saved the jobs of hundreds of local workers involved in the program. None of that mattered to him. Saving the program was never his intention. He and his family needed saving.

Up until a few months ago, Pat didn’t give a crap about things like numismatics, or collecting, or dealers, or error coins. All that changed after the Director of the Mint dropped an interesting idea into Pat’s head with an offhand remark. Something about the value of partially minted coins. That seed of an idea took root, and just like that a hardworking, likable, Philadelphia Mint cop transformed into a criminal.

Deep breaths and a clear head mattered right now. Pat needed to get a hold of himself because this gig wasn’t over yet. Too many debts left to pay, messes to fix, and relationships to rebuild. He owed it to Dee to renovate their little getaway in Sea Isle City, so they could retire there in peace. Leaving Philly couldn’t happen soon enough. For both of them.

The sound of a police car barreling by, sirens blaring, snapped him back into the moment. Pat pulled out his phone. He texted a single word to his accomplice and began a new count. Counting seconds tortured him making this ten-minute break seem endless. After two hundred and forty seconds ticked by, he reached down to the sixteen-ounce disposable cup which only contained a few ounces of liquid yet weighed more than three pounds. Ever so gently, he moved it into the shadowy sliver of space between the bench and the concrete trash receptacle. Tucked into that corner, the cup sat imperceptible from all directions. Pat pulled out a smoke and lit up.

“Fuck Simon” he thought to himself as he dragged the puffs of smoke into his lungs. Cigarettes were more of a prop than a habit these days. Yet like many of the dwindling number of smokers, Pat’s defenses flared when anyone challenged his cigarette habit. A smoke break is an expected ritual for employees, but for Pat it served as the perfect pretense to get outside and hide the goods without having to go through security.

He glanced at his watch. Like clockwork, a faded blue Honda Accord rolled up Independence Mall East. It passed the historic burial grounds of Christ Church where Benjamin Franklin had been laid to rest, then crossed the intersection of Arch Street and entered the Constitution Center’s huge parking garage located directly across the street from the alcove.

He exhaled fully, sending a final cloud of smoke into the air. Then Pat extinguished the nub of the cigarette. As casually as possible, he re-entered the building without a single glance back. That seemingly tiny mistake nearly bit him before as he and Cat executed their plan, and he wasn’t anxious to repeat it. It must have been the fourth or fifth time he’d concealed the cup of coins when a nosy Mint employee took notice and goaded Pat uncomfortably about eyeing up the “young girl with the large breasts” walking towards them from across the street. In any other circumstance, Pat would have punched the jerk in the face for even looking at his daughter. Given the situation, he bit his tongue and played along, quickly redirecting that idiot’s attention elsewhere.

With time, Pat had learned to exercise a little more trust in Cat’s part in this grand scheme. She knew what she was doing, and God knows her confidence far exceeded that of her father in many ways. Still, he did advise her to dress less conspicuously. A pretty girl is naturally an attention magnet, and Cat happened to be gorgeous. She needed to tone it down a lot. Forgo the make-up, pull the hair back, wear an oversized Eagles sweatshirt, that kind of thing. All this would help her blend into the landscape, not to mention help her conceal that disproportionately large chest of hers.

Perhaps someday they’d have a normal father-daughter relationship again. The shame he shouldered for drawing her into this crushed Pat. He couldn’t think about that now. As she constantly reminded him whenever shame got the best of him, “Dad! You’re going to blow it for both of us. Keep your eye on the prize, would you?!” He’d make it up to her someday.

Back at his desk he filled out mid-shift reports. At least he pretended to for the sake of his coworkers. Focusing on anything was impossible when his mind understandably fixated on Cat and her whereabouts. What could possibly be taking her so long? Normally after this many minutes she’d have messaged him some clever code word to let him know that all went well. He’d know she made it back to the car safely with the coins. Minutes passed with not a word from his daughter.

Meanwhile, Pat struggled to keep up the appearance of a normal guy doing his normal job. A fellow cop sitting a few feet away hounded Pat for not laughing at some asinine joke. “Jesus, buddy, the wall appreciates my humor more than you do.”

Pat couldn’t hear past the obsessive, paranoid thoughts running rampant in his mind. Where was Cat?

______

Would you like to read more? Click here for the remainder of the book!

______

(Book) Copyright © 2018 DD&LL, LLC (book) / ISBN: Pending / Fiction

(Blog) Copyright © 2018 Lynette Landing – BareNakedTalk

All rights reserved. No part of either of these publications may be reproduced without the prior written permission of authors. To share this blog post, please include the following statement with hyperlink: “Copyright 2018 –  Bare Naked Talk  – All Rights Reserved”

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the authors’ imaginations.

 

FLAWED – Chapter 1

Hospice Unit, Federal Correctional Institute

Loretto, Pennsylvania

February 2013

A caged clock on an otherwise lifeless wall counted seconds, a cruel reminder to sixty-year-old Patrick McGowan that his days were numbered. Lying on the lumpy mattress, he stared up at stained ceiling tiles and brooded over a life gone wrong. He’d once been a man of integrity, a man of honor. Given the choice, this police-officer-turned-prisoner would rather be shot in the line of duty than to go out this way. Was there ever a choice? The truth sat on his chest like a ton of newly minted coins, that he would not be remembered as a hero, but as a criminal rotting in a prison hospital. Convicted of tax evasion, but he was guilty of much more, the worst of his crimes – being gullible. To top it all off, end stage lung cancer is the inescapable ending that will have him choking to death on his own spit.

Officer McGowan spent close to four decades on the good side of the law. Fighting crime, putting thugs in jail, making Philly a safer place. What did he have to show for it? A rap sheet. So much for the elegant ending that most cops get. Like a motorcade of officers in uniform saluting their casket. And a color guard waving flags and leading a procession of sympathetic civil servants. Pat knew he’d not get one whiff of that. No loved ones paying their respects and fighting back tears. No black bands across badges. None of those things could happen because the idiot couldn’t resist temptation.

While his body deteriorated, his mind was alive and well, torturing him with the reality that he’d been written off, pissed on by stray dogs, unworthy of human dignity. Pat would leave behind only tax evasion as his legacy, but the truth was he’d stolen government property while in uniform and gotten away with it. Crime always catches up with you. That’s a bit of wisdom he imparted to every thief, embezzler, and drug dealer he’d cuffed over the years. “Your winning streak ends when that the ugly truth surfaces. Game over asshole.” McGowan never imagined his own words would bite him in the ass.

For Pat, death couldn’t come soon enough, and it surely couldn’t be worse than the emotional torment or the burning in his lungs with every breath. The only grace left to him would be the last of the holy sacraments. Father Kevin Casey sat in the metal folding chair beside Pat’s bed.

“If there is anything you’d like to confess before meeting with the Almighty, I am here to listen.”

Father Casey knew well the physical condition of the man to who’s bedside he’d been called, and he held some awareness of the crimes that put him in this hellhole. But the man in the collar was oblivious to the dark secrets that his former parishioner kept from him while sitting in the pews all those years. Lying there in the swamp of his own bodily fluids, Pat had resolved to come clean. Obtaining the good Father’s respect or approval no longer carried any importance for him.

“I got things to get off my chest and you might not like it,” Pat said smugly through the haze of his wheezing chest.

The priest leaned back in the unaccommodating chair, crossed his legs and said “Let ‘er rip.”

Father Casey prided himself on connecting with parishioners more than the average priest. Like Pat, he was also born and raised in Mount Airy. He formed friendships with many police officers and firefighters early in his career and unfortunately went on to officiate many of their funerals. It was the funeral of a mutual friend that had brought he and Pat together almost thirty-two years earlier. A fatal gunshot wound claimed the life of a young officer leaving behind a wife and five-year old twin girls. A record-breaking number of cops attended, most them unable to process what had happened to their young comrade. Their latent hostility permeated the sanctuary of the church, powerful enough to chill the marble statues, yet Father’s brilliantly crafted sermon sliced through that hostility and provided solace in the face of a senseless crime. It also reignited Pat’s interest in church. Over the years he and his wife came to know Father Casey as “Kevin.” The priest baptized two of the McGowan children and administered last rites to another.

Now Father Kevin sat deep in the armpit of a Pennsylvania cellblock that housed sick and dying delinquents, face to face with Pat for possibly the last time. Despite their kinship, Pat insisted on addressing him as “Father.” Closures of this type require a sense of formality.

With a quivering hand, the ailing man pressed the button making the top of the bed incline just enough to engage in conversation while keeping a safe distance. He took a deep breath and silently vowed not to filter anything. The time had come to speak his truth, to one person at the very least. Head back and eyes closed, he let ‘er rip.

“Father, it’s like this. I’ve been tempted by three things in my life,” Pat confessed before triggering a coughing fit that required several minutes to quiet. The priest reached out a hand to lay on Pat’s back for comfort. It didn’t abate the burning in his lungs, but it did bring an unexpected calm.

Once his breathing steadied, Father Casey removed his hand and Pat leaned back on the pillows and let his eyelids close.

“Go on.”

“The first temptation was chocolate. Just thinking about it made my mouth water, but my mother wouldn’t allow it in the house. She said I had an allergy to it or something, but I knew that was bull crap and I had to get my hands on some. So I’d stop by Gibbon’s corner store on my way home from–”

“Gibbon’s! Sure. I remember that place.” Father interrupted, then caught himself. “Sorry Pat. You were saying?”

The break gave Pat the chance to catch his breath. Talking became more exhausting as the disease advanced. Were it not for the adrenaline rush of having Father listen, he’d have struggled to get the words out.

“I must’ve been nine or ten, can’t remember, but I wondered what made old man Gibbons stock the most tempting inventory furthest from the cash register and closest to the exit. Didn’t he know how easy that made it for a desperate kid like me to slip a chocolate bar up his sleeve? I got away with it once, then it became a habit. I pocketed twenty or thirty bars over a year or two. The old man must’ve caught on to the dwindling inventory because he moved the register to the front of the store, right next to the candy. That’s when I stopped.”

Pat’s eyes still sealed, he didn’t see the compassionate look on Father’s face. He sucked in a few labored breaths.

“Did I feel bad shoplifting? A little. ‘Til one day it occurred to me that maybe easy-to-grab chocolate was God’s way of making up for the mean-spirited nuns at school. Or having a mother who wouldn’t allow chocolate in the house. Either way I wasn’t about to insult God by not accepting His gift.” He cracked opened his eyes to gauge the priest’s reaction.

Father busily fished for something in his jacket pocket. “Hang tight, it’s here somewhere,” he continued to dig. “Ah, there we go.” He retrieved a half-eaten Heath bar in a frayed wrapper and waved it in corroboration. “I agree, chocolate’s a gift from God. Although,” he added sheepishly, “I did pay for this bar.”

An attempt at humor seemed instead to come across as a dig at Pat. Embarrassed, the priest extended the leftover treat, but it was waived away by the patient’s bony hand, so he stuffed it back in his pocket and offered grace instead. “I assure you Pat, God forgives you. Go on.”

Pat closed his eyes again. “The second temptation was breasts.”

Father cleared his throat and stared at the crease where the wall met the floor as Pat went right on talking.

“There’s just something about those wonderful mounds rising and falling when a woman talks. Or laughs. Or breathes. Big breasts, small breasts, it didn’t matter. They were all fascinating! How can you blame a guy for letting his eyes wander when women flaunt those things around like they do? Plunging necklines, tight sweaters. I was seduced I tell ya! Maybe I could have controlled myself, maybe I wouldn’t have even noticed if they weren’t right there in my face.”

“Like the chocolate in Gibbon’s store?”

“Exactly! Like the chocolate! You’d think God could’ve found a less prominent place on the female body.” He’d made his point, but his breath caught up with him and again he labored to fill his lungs enough to keep going.

Smiling uncomfortably, Father twisted his ring while Pat started flapping his lips again.

“I’ll admit it, okay? I undressed women with my eyes. I had lustful thoughts. I had sex before marriage. And even after I got married I kept looking.” Pat’s voice shrunk to a whisper, “and not just at my wife’s.”

“Then looking turned into touching and next thing you know I had. I had . . .” The phrase ‘I had extramarital affairs’ felt too uncomfortable to say in present company, so Pat maneuvered his way around it. “I slipped up, okay? But I’m human! And I felt really bad about it until one day it occurred to me that maybe sex is God’s gift to man to make up for all the stress in life. And I had a lot of stress.” Breathing became difficult again, but he pushed through defensively, “Life is not some walk in the park you know!”

Dead silence came from the priest as Pat closed his eyes and pulled at the air in the room while he listened for a response. Did Father pass out? Turn into a pillar of salt? Or worse, step out and dial Pat’s wife to tattletale? Pat winced at the thought. He slowly cracked open an eye, expecting admonishment for such evil practices.

Father’s fingers were steepled and leaning against his bottom lip, his gaze still fixed on the wall. At an obvious loss for words, he mumbled quickly, “God forgives you. Is there anything else?”

Pat asked the priest to take a large envelope from the top drawer of the night table and hold on to it for the time being. Then he closed his eyes and calmed his lungs before resuming his confession.

“The third temptation was money. I needed to find a way to stop the hardships from destroying my family any further. My one kid got sick and died, another landed up in jail. All I could do was stand there and watch. I never felt so powerless in my life. Huh, and Deidre. She started looking at me like I’m some kind of loser ’cause I couldn’t save my family, couldn’t get us out of debt, damn it! I got on my knees and begged for help.”

Pat opened his eyes and looked towards the flickering fluorescent light above him. The memory of this moment tightened his chest, which threatened to revolt against him.

“And I swear to you, it was like an answer to prayers. I got a tip from the head honcho at the U.S. Mint, the Director himself. He told me something in passing. Told me how much dealers pay for defective coins. I had no idea. I was clueless about coin collecting and dealers. But once he told me that, it felt like I’d been given the answer to all my problems. Next thing you know, I was stealing coins by the thousands and selling them. It was for my family I swear to you, I swear to God I did it for my fam–”

The mucus rose up suddenly, choking off his air supply and causing him to cough violently. This bout shook Pat’s body with more force than the last one, and the startled guest jumped from his chair and searched frantically for a call button. Pat’s frail hand blocked him before he could push it.

“I’m alright” Pat wheezed uncontrollably as he spoke. “A second. Just give me a second.” He motioned to the priest to push the other button instead, the one to make him sit up higher in the bed and take the pressure off his lungs. Once he managed to calm down, he looked squarely in the priest’s eyes with a voice faint and splintered. “The moral to the story Father? God doesn’t give gifts after all.”

Father nodded sympathetically. For the first time, the holy man had no words. He prayed he’d do better at the ex-officer’s upcoming funeral.

“What’s in here?” he held up the envelope.

“Go ahead, take a look.”

Father pulled out a slim stack of newspaper clippings about the incident, the arrest and the arraignment. Press coverage from various publications across the globe filled the pages. Ironically, the city where the crime took place published nothing about it. The United States Mint goes to great lengths to minimize press coverage about security issues and theft. That turned out to be a mixed blessing for Pat. It brought relief on one hand, as so few people in the Philadelphia area knew about the crime. It brought resentment on the other hand, as only half of the story was told. The real criminal got off scot-free.

Even Pat didn’t know precisely why he went to the trouble of giving this pile of news clippings over to Father Casey. Maybe to cut down on an already verbose confession. Maybe to get them the hell out of his personal space.

Father adjusted his eyeglasses and silently absorbed the first article.

“Former U.S. Mint Worker Charged with Tax Evasion for Alleged Theft of Coins”

A former federal police officer assigned to the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia has been found guilty of income tax evasion. Patrick McGowan, 59, of Sea Isle City, N.J., was arrested at his home…

Father stopped reading. He didn’t bother looking at any of the other articles either. Instead, he slid them back into the envelope and tucked it inside his breast pocket. “There’s no need for me to read any further. I know who you are. God knows who you are. And God knows we’re all sinners.”

He dispensed with any other formalities and moved on to the point of his visit, offering Pat an explanation of the meaning of last rites. “As you know, I’m here to provide absolution for the sins you have committed.”

Pat had witnessed the sacrament enough that it no longer had meaning. He flashed back to grade school days when a severe nun extolled him on the importance of confessing his sins to gain entrance to heaven. An ugly moment he’d rather have kept buried in his subconscious. Facing whatever lie beyond this mortal life, he experienced no relief from this meeting to get that absolution. What did absolution even mean? The truth behind his sin hadn’t even been broached. The truth that he was purposely given a tip by the real criminal! In other words, it was all a set up! No one seemed to give a damn about that, not even the good Father. Casey clearly just wanted to get the hell out of there and get on with his day. Fine, thought Pat. Gaining absolution for sins was more the Church’s goal than Pat’s anyway. He let the priest believe that he’d reconciled with God so at least one of them could have a clear conscience.

Long after Father Casey’s visit, Pat continued brooding over things left unsaid. For hours he tossed and turned and replayed the discourse in his mind. Perhaps he was rehearsing his final defense for the Ultimate Judge.

His mouth moved breathlessly. His battered lungs would not allow his voice to come now, no matter how hard he tried. But he had to say it, if only to himself.

“I’m no thief – not deep down. I took those coins to survive! To feed my family, pay their medical bills, keep them safe. You dealt me a bad hand and then served me up to some sociopath who cost me my freedom. Why God? Why?”

He knew this thing to be pointless. Ruminating on the unfair cards he’d be dealt, arguing with an invisible deity. It only made him feel worse. He wanted something, and time was running out. He centered his thoughts, then sent up a voiceless plea to the great beyond.

“All I ask is that you help them remember the real me. The kid who tried hard to make his parents proud. The young guy who found his soulmate and did whatever he could to make her happy. The father who hurt when his kids hurt and would stop at nothing to help them. Can you help them remember that at least? That’s all I ask.”

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(Book) Copyright © 2018 DD&LL, LLC (book) / ISBN: Pending / Fiction

(Blog) Copyright © 2018 Lynette Landing – BareNakedTalk

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Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the authors’ imaginations.