Mother and I were the first to be questioned by Chief Cassato, who wore his usual white shirt, blue tie, gray slacks, and blank expression. When he’d first arrived, our eyes met, his asking if I was all right, and mine signaling yes. Then his demeanor changed abruptly from concerned suitor to tough cop. Now, remaining seated, he was motioning brusquely for us to sit opposite him at the table, a small tape recorder making a clunky centerpiece. The religious setting gave the proceedings an extra somber note, as if they needed one, and it felt natural to be praying, which I was. I was praying that Mother wouldn’t fall into her typical flippant arrogance—I’d seen this from her in the past, when interviewed by police—but she’d been hit hard, finding Father O’Brien, dead by violence in his own sanctuary, sprawled before her like a pagan sacrifice. She appeared disoriented, her hands shaking, and I could see the mentally ill woman behind the confident, if eccentric, facade showing through.
