Keystone Justice. Amen.

Lombardi felt above his ankle for that reassuring sheath.  He knew there had been a reason he was still wearing it, despite being retired for nearly eleven years.  Such a shame Josephina wasn’t alive, as nothing would’ve tickled him more than bragging about finally having such a heroic use for it while she pretended not to hear him.

The former detective rubbed his eyes, squinted, and peered into the recesses of his brain for old case file photos.  Could that tethered goat really be Father Benlico, Lombardi’s white whale who recently dropped off the Pennsylvania FBI’s Ten Most Wanted?  Rather than draw undue attention to another unsolved sexual battery case, the authorities had opted to declare him dead.  Of course nobody would miss this cassocked scofflaw.

The victims?  Only about 90 children.  And that was just through 1978 before Detective Lombardi had been kicked off the case.  Lombardi should’ve known better, as Chief Borecca had always been a devout Catholic and mouthpiece for the Archdiocese of Philadelphia.  He even swore off his son after the boy refused to attend his own confirmation, thereby denouncing his faith.  It would be years before Borecca’s murder/suicide forced the community to face what really caused their schism.

Lombardi gulped his espresso and stood.  The old priest was gazing at the Palazzo Pamphilj like an overwhelmed tourist.  The sun dangled even higher, the shadows casting a jagged dark throw rug on Piazza Navona’s floor for Lombardi to move along without being noticed or even heard.  Lombardi took one last deep breath.  He thought of Josephina on their wedding night, of his younger brother graduating from medical school, but mostly he recalled the haunting rectory footage he received anonymously years ago.

Lombardi emerged from the baroque born shadows, his mind racing while considering all potential outcomes, wondering where exactly he’d crossed his Rubicon.  The wind howled, the buildings loomed larger.  His quickening pulse provided percussion in his ears between gusts.  The salty air he’d been tasting all morning evaporated, leaving behind only smacking lips and an aftertaste of sawdust.  He ignored the anxiety and dismissed the trembling as old age instead of nerves.  He reached toward his ankle.

Despite the high traffic piazza, the Good Lord provided no witnesses to his crime, only the aftermath.  Italian authorities spoke with three different tourists – in three different languages – and while testimonies clashed, a clear consensus had been made.  Father Benlico, Benedict Lucarelli according to his expired passport, had attacked an American tourist with a knife during a disagreement. 

The retired detective, a widow vacationing in Italy to honor his wife’s posthumous honey-do list, had approached the priest asking for directions.  When the priest wasn’t reimbursed for his time and acumen, the altercation became physical.  The American suffered a cut to his left temple and a 1.5 inch stab wound to his left forearm while defending himself.  The assailant acquired two holes of his own, one puncturing his right kidney and another that reached the femoral artery in his left leg.  The former priest lost consciousness before being transported to the nearest hospital, where coma was induced due to the catastrophic blood loss. 

Lucarelli would not be able to give his side of the story any time soon.  Lucky for Lombardi, his wounds had been nonfatal, thanks to a brother that graduated near the top of his class.  The younger sibling’s anecdotal advice, secured years ago under the guise of law-abiding pretense, had been that scalp wounds bleed obnoxiously and forearm punctures were the least life threatening, though limited future mobility would always be a possibility. 

When Josephina had been in hospice, she whispered that her proudest accomplishment was marrying a man who chose to protect and serve out of instinct, not oath.  She would’ve been beaming today. 

Their son should’ve turned 32 this year, same as Chief Borecca’s boy. And while Lombardi had never addressed the rectory footage with his son out of fear that he’d resurrect trauma the boy had perhaps blocked out, chances are Anthony would’ve been proud of his father too.  It may have taken nearly a quarter of a century, but Keystone justice never wore a watch anyway.