In the Church’s Shadows
In the early-1970s before smartphones, a clock radio was a lifeline to the outside world. The timekeeper of music and news served as the consciousness of the times. To avoid startling everyone still sleeping in the house at five a.m., a morning wake-up song played at a low volume. Altar boy Logan Wright prepared himself for the mystery of faith. He put on his socks. The first light of day fanned its shadows across St. Anthony’s Church.
In a community full of hard-working, red-blooded Americans, it’s another Sunday morning. The bakery on Chester Street across from the church had a well-stocked supply of fresh donuts. A steady stream of customers will purchase a baker’s dozen, making sure to share the extra one with a neighbor. Inside the Greek Diner, Costas defrosted frozen vegetables for soup of the day. Everyone around here played and drank hard. You often heard the locals say, “Be careful hanging out on Chester Street, that’s where trouble lives.”
There are obvious murderers and clearly improbable locations for murder for those who are driven by an internal call to kill. Word was yet to get out about lowrider, bell-bottomed wearing 19-year-old Ingrid Ladd—the girl “who couldn’t say no” with a million troubled thoughts swirling in her mind. She was about to play a strange role in a young man’s world. Inside St. Anthony's, a fossilized Monsignor donned his vestments. While instructing the altar boys to line up for an inspection, the winter white-haired priest would snap his fingers and wave his arms in circles.
One of the most popular saints in the Catholic Church is St. Anthony. Centuries-old depictions show the patron saint of lost and stolen items was a Portuguese priest born in 1195. The Franciscan friar performed lots of miracles during his lifetime. One incident involved St. Anthony on the shoreline of the Adriatic Sea. Seeking spiritual guidance, schools of fish arranged themselves in rows and pushed their heads up through the water as he preached. Hearing that story alone made Logan want to be an altar boy. When he attempted this technique at home with his tropical fish collection, it didn’t work.
Catholic congregations participated in all of the customary worship practices. Parishioners were ushered in and seated. Men wore hats, which they removed, and ladies “could” wear their hats in church. To prevent a mess, parents waved their kids’ hands over the holy water fountain. The Holy Trinity of scents completed the religious experience: air perfumed by the subtle fragrance of frankincense, the woody smell of mahogany confessionals and an afterglow of burnt candle wax. No one had noticed several religious items, statues and donation boxes were missing.
When Logan arrived, he went behind the marble altar to a small space used as a dressing room and quickly put on his cassock and surplice. One daily duty was opening the choir loft. He climbed a steep flight of stairs in the back of the church, took a deep breath and noticed something unusual. The choir door was open. After a few knocks, he entered.
In front of the pipe organ, Logan looked down at his feet, the night watchman’s cold and stiff body was sprawled on a tile floor in a pool of blood. The victim’s face was the color of poached salmon. Wooden splinters were in his cheeks. Torn velvet drapes, a broken vase and gladiolas were scattered around. “That’s sick!” Logan thought. The intensity led to nausea, as he emptied his breakfast in a nearby trash basket. The church’s sanctity had been violated.
It wasn’t unusual having dead bodies in church, it happens all the time during funerals. But not like this. Logan thought he might need spiritual counsel to help figure this out. The idea of clergy pursuing their own personal needs attempting to give guidance, while routinely preying upon young men was an unspoken problem. No way José! He didn’t have enough fingers to count the number of times he heard “Come into my office. Shut the door.” It was a hidden thing. Those in the know often whispered about questionable actions occurring, especially at summer youth camp. Lines need to be drawn somewhere, but a strict vow of silence was in place for an unspoken dogma.
Intrigued by the horrific discovery, Logan noticed a suspicious figure hidden in the church shadows below: a troubled and unkempt girl with a duffel bag sat in the last pew. Her dark sunken eyes displayed regret and sadness. Unlike turning water into wine, the bitterness of these tears couldn’t be made sweet by prayer. The young sleuth picked up on her mood. Logan ran to the rectory, called police, then returned to the choir loft.
The name Ingrid means godlike beauty. Her childhood struggles with abuse left traumatic emotional scars. No one seemed to care or dealt with Ingrid’s erratic psychotic outbursts. Hearing voices with jittery twitches made her ashamed to ask for help. Her divorced parents forced her to go to parochial school, but sometimes you can’t fix a broken mentality. As a child, it was drilled into her head, “If you pick your nose or bite those dirty damn fingernails, you’re going to Hell.” Her mother would slap Ingrid’s hands, pick up a knife and threaten to cut them off. The habitual runaway found lots of trouble in dive bars and dark alleys.
She did every drug. One of Ingrid’s favorites was Angel Dust. It elevated day-to-day life to an incredibly powerful high allowing her to drift away. The comedown was frightening. Burning every bridge, she was willing to do anything to get it every day. Up until now, Ingrid was the “least” disturbed person in a halfway house for degenerate youth. The home for outcasts had an endless supply of various drugs to make bad ways even worse.
Space cadets have strange minds. It’s certainly possible to have a nice side and still be unhinged. Ingrid, always sad and blue, tried to hide her true feelings. At the facility, she befriended a hefty shlub; a recovering alcoholic and stoner named Tripper Bob. Together, they hatched a hare-brained scheme to pawn off stolen church goods in a quick cash effort.
“Look, I need your help. The Good book told me to seek justice and destroy world vanity. In my efforts, I have saved you. Here’s how salvation works. You just put things in this bag for me. What do you think?” Ingrid asked.
“Not sure about this.” Bob replied.
“This is your last chance to do me a solid. Dig?”
Bob nodded grudgingly.
Ingrid rubbed her hands together with excitement after manipulating another gullible sucker. “That’s my boy. We don’t sleep. Divide and conquer, no chit-chat.” Then a huge jones for PCP hit. She fired-up a monster parsley joint, just short of overdose proportions.
Now obviously impaired and paranoid, the awkward duo huddled in a church confessional booth waiting. Late Saturday night, they jimmied the choir loft’s lock. As the night watchman made his rounds, the choir door crashed open, knocking him to floor.
Ingrid went blank. The world turned upside down. In a fit of rage, she committed an abysmal act of violence and mercilessly beat the watchman to death with a crucifix. There’s no question about the brutal force, given a cracked skull. Hands bathed in blood; her screaming was unbearable.
“He’s dead Bob. I’m sorry, none of this would have happened if the choir had arrived early. Why didn’t you try to stop me? Hey, I’m Catholic by the way.” Ingrid said.
“You’re also a thief and killer.” Bob replied.
The flimsy Bonnie and Clyde relationship was over.
“Don’t play me for a chump.” he said.
“Go on stupid. Take your cut and leave.” Ingrid said.
Furious, the “Tripper” left after the spat. Ingrid stayed put in the church. After the police cordoned off the crime scene with tape, the morgue removed the body.
From the choir loft, one final glimpse burned itself in Logan’s brain. Handcuffed, Ingrid was led away. She raised her head and stared for a moment. An icy gaze focused directly into Logan’s eyes burning right through to his heart, which dropped like a brick. He didn’t think she could do that, but knew instinctively, it’s tragic when people go insane. Logan wondered why he didn’t have all the answers. The church’s statue of St. Anthony remained untouched.
Things did return to normal for the hard-working people who lived in a run-of-of-the-mill place previously thought to be safe. With no easy answers, Ingrid’s damaged life was complicated by the scars of her past amidst the chaos and complexities of religion and abuse. For those seeking closure, her behavior was influenced by the need to “go all the way.”
On Monday at five a.m., “American Woman” by The Guess Who played on the clock radio. Donuts were priced two for one at the bakery. After Mass at the counter, Logan Wright stared out the window. He finished his cup of coffee and second donut thinking about Ingrid Ladd. The teenage murderess would remain an inaccessible enigma to him.