Cold Case Cathedral

Detective Elise Marlowe stood at the foot of St. Bartholomew’s Cathedral, watching as winter light slanted across its stone towers. It was just after dawn, and mist rolled low around the steps, blurring the carved saints and angels that loomed overhead. The cathedral bells began their mournful toll, sending tremors through the frost-covered air.

Elise stuffed her hands deeper into her coat pockets, gazing up at the stained-glass windows. Each shimmered like a secret.

Twenty-five years ago, on Christmas Eve, Father Michael Kearney had vanished from the cathedral during Midnight Mass. No body. No note. Only a trail of crimson droplets leading into the crypt.

The case had gone cold before Elise had even joined the force. But last week, an anonymous envelope landed on her desk containing one item: a tarnished silver crucifix. Etched on its back were two words: “Find me.”

So now, with her breath clouding in front of her, she pushed open the heavy cathedral doors.

Inside, silence clung to the air, thick as incense. Pale winter light streamed through the stained glass, splattering ruby and gold across rows of empty pews. Somewhere above, a draught made the organ pipes sigh.

Elise made her way down the center aisle toward the altar. She passed a statue of the Virgin Mary, her marble face smooth and expressionless. At the altar rail, she paused, scanning the mosaic floor for any sign of the hidden crypt entrance.

Then she heard footsteps.

“Detective Marlowe.”

She spun around. Standing near the confessionals was Monsignor Wallace, his white hair a halo in the dim light.

“Monsignor,” she said. “I didn’t expect you here so early.”

“Neither did I expect the police reopening an old wound.” His voice was soft but carried an edge. “Father Kearney was my friend.”

“I received a tip,” Elise said. She took out the crucifix and held it up. “Recognize this?”

Monsignor Wallace paled. “That belonged to Father Kearney.”

“Then you know why I’m here. I need to see the crypt.”

He hesitated, folding his hands as though in prayer. “There’s nothing down there but dust and bones, Detective.”

“I’d like to see for myself.”

Reluctantly, Wallace led her around the altar to a section of tiled floor. He lifted a narrow brass ring embedded in one tile and pulled. A trapdoor swung open with a protesting squeal.

A wave of cold air drifted up, carrying the scent of damp stone and ancient candles. Elise clicked on her flashlight and began her descent.

The crypt was a vaulted chamber, its ceiling low, supported by thick granite pillars. Niches lined the walls, each containing a stone coffin. Carved plaques bore names fading with time. Elise swept her light along the floor, dust swirling in the beam.

At the far wall, her flashlight caught on something metallic: an iron grate covering a narrow passageway.

“That’s the old catacomb entrance,” Wallace murmured. “Sealed off for years.”

Elise crouched. The grate was held shut with a heavy chain. She rattled it gently and heard a hollow clink. Peering between the bars, she spotted a dark bundle lying just inside the passage.

She turned to Wallace. “Help me break this chain.”

Together they forced the rusty links apart with a crowbar borrowed from the sacristy. The grate groaned open. Elise slipped inside and knelt beside the bundle.

It was a priest’s robe, black with age. Inside the folds, she found a skeleton curled into itself, a silver ring still on one bony finger. She lifted the ring into her flashlight beam. It was engraved with Father Kearney’s initials.

Wallace stared, crossing himself. “Dear Lord…”

Elise felt a chill that had nothing to do with the crypt’s cold. She carefully checked the bones and found a deep fracture in the skull. Murder, plain as day.

Wallace’s voice quavered. “But… who would do this to him?”

Elise scanned the narrow space. Scratches marred the stone wall beside the body. She angled her light closer. Letters had been carved, ragged and uneven:

“Wallace. Forgive me.”

She turned slowly to face the Monsignor. His eyes glistened with tears.

“I tried to stop him,” Wallace whispered. “Michael… he wanted to expose the cathedral’s money laundering. He planned to speak out that Christmas Eve. I confronted him down here. We argued. He fell. His head…” Wallace sagged against a pillar. “I panicked. I hid him. Told everyone he’d vanished. I thought it would protect the Church.”

Elise’s chest tightened. Twenty-five years of silence, hidden under stone and stained glass.

“You killed him.”

Wallace wept openly now. “I’ve prayed for forgiveness every day. It haunts me. I sent the crucifix… I wanted someone to find him. To end this.”

Outside, the cathedral bells began to toll again, each peal echoing through the crypt like judgment.

Elise pulled out her radio. “This is Detective Marlowe. I need a unit at St. Bartholomew’s Cathedral. I have a suspect in custody for homicide.”

Above them, colored light fell through the stained glass, washing the ancient stone in crimson and gold, as if the cathedral itself finally exhaled a secret it had held too long.