Chapter 10


Stuff Happens


He lay on the blacktop of the parking lot. A dog was licking his head. He seemed to see an old woman bending over him, a pendant around her neck, and she was pushing a red button on it.

Chris Utermollen awoke in a hospital bed. A woman in a flowered smock was nearby. She noticed his open eyes and left the room. Soon man appeared and began to speak to him.

“Hi. You’re awake Chris.”

“What’s happening? What happened?”

“You’re in County Hospital. I’m your nurse. You were hit by a car about a week ago. Looks like you’re going to be okay. Your doctor will be in to see you as soon as he can. How do you feel?”

Chris found it hard to take all that in. “I’ve been here a week?”

“Let’s see . . . yeah, a week tomorrow.”

“What day is it?”

“The 20th. Tuesday.”

“I missed Mass, then?”

Father Christopher Utermollen hadn’t missed Sunday Mass since he had the chicken pox when he was six years old. That was a long time ago. Fact is, he hadn’t missed daily Mass since sometime in high school. Well, it wasn’t his fault, so, no sin. But how had he been struck by a car? He didn’t remember. He did know who he was, a comforting thought. He wondered what was going on back at St. Matthias. Who was in charge? Who said the Masses on Sunday? As he lay there, noticing tubes and other paraphernalia, Father Alphonse Socci walked in. The young priest had been assigned to St. Matthias the previous June and had worked out as a parochial vicar, the new title for assistant pastor. Al Socci, like so many newer priests, had a late vocation after another career start. In Al’s case, he had been a Navy pilot. Like all aviators, Al did not lack self-confidence. He had been to the hospital often since the accident, including a hurried trip when he learned of his pastor’s injuries to give him the sacrament.

“Good to see you awake, Chris.”

“Happy you’re here Al. Guess all is well at St. Matt’s?”

“As good as it can be without the skipper. No need to worry. People are still showing up for Sunday Mass, although the daily turnout is slightly up. Guess they’re praying for you. Oh, the police are continuing to look into your accident. Seems like it might have not been. .. an accident, that is. You can expect to be talking to a detective as soon as you feel up to it.”

“What do you know?” Chris asked.

“Not much. The big thing seems to be no indication of skid marks. Whoever hit you either didn’t see you --- and that’s what one would hope – or it was deliberate. That’s hard to believe, but the cops want to check that out. Either way, it was still a hit and run.”

“It must have been an accident --- hit and run, but an accident. Can’t think of any other explanation.”

“Enough of that for now,” said Al. “You shouldn’t try to talk too much. You can’t be feeling good? Don’t answer that. Just rest.”

“Yeah. Still can’t fathom being here. Haven’t even said a prayer of thanks. My guardian angel did a heck of a job, eh?”

“You can say that again. But you’re a tough guy.”

“I don’t even know what’s wrong --- broken leg or what?”

“You’re doctor will fill you in, Chris.”

After a prayer together the assistant priest left, promising to get back as soon as possible and assuring his pastor that he need not worry about St. Matt’s.



Sometime later – Chris was not quite sure how long – Dr. Patrick Dolan came into the room. The physician asked, “How do you feel now that you’re awake?”

“Oh, hello Pat. OK, I guess. Quite surprised to hear I’ve been out all this time. A few pains, especially in my legs.”

“Well, I can understand that. First of all, your neurologist has been notified you’re back with us. That’s good. He’ll let you know how you are doing on that front. I’ve been taking care of your broken bones, and there are quite a few.” Dr. Dolan then went into some detail. “The bottom line, Father, is that the real worry is your legs, particularly the right. It was nearly crushed. The prognosis is not great.”

“What does that mean, Pat?”

“Straight out, it means we might not be able to save it. You could end up with prosthesis.”

“You mean amputation?” the priest asked in a voice only slightly shaky.

“Well, we don’t know yet. It will be a while, but yes, that’s what it could mean.”


Lt. Jim Morrison of the Maplewood PD has been working on the Utermollen case for almost a week. Things were starting to come together. He and his squad had been able to come up with several witnesses. One had recalled a part of the tag number of the vehicle that had hit the priest. And there was a description of sorts of the car. Some diligent employee at the DMV was able to come up with several cars that might fit the stories of the witnesses. A little leg work came up with a possible perp. Morrison went himself to check out the suspect.


As the door of the apartment opened, Jim Morrison asked: “Sean O’Conner?”

Hundred of weddings, many children had been baptized, scores of funerals had been held at St. Matthias since the parish’s name had been changed from St. Christopher. Sean still attended Mass but things had not been the same for him since his suggested new patron saint -- St. Elizabeth Seton – for the parish had been rejected. He had taken the rejection as a personal assault on his integrity. And his zeal for the Church that had shown itself in a passionate desire to select a new parish name had gradually evolved from eccentricity to zealotry. His bent for religious practice turned into extreme religiosity bordering on mental imbalance. He came to resemble, in some aspects, the character once seen at the daily 8 o’clock Mass who kept adding to the collection of crucifixes hanging about his neck until there were about 20. Then came bottles of holy water dangling from his neck along with the crosses. Finally he clenched five or six Bibles and other religious texts, in his left arm, the number limited by his ability to wrap the fingers of his hand around them. That unfortunate man just disappeared from St. Matt’s; Sean O’Conner did not change in outward appearance. He was a regular, daily communicant. No one really knew what he harbored in his heart.

“Mr. O’Conner, do you own a black, 1999 Oldsmobile sedan?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“We’re looking into an accident on the parking lot of the Safeway on Route 1.”

“Well, yes, I shop there from time to time. But, why are you at my door?”

“Are you the only driver, or have you let another person drive it?”

After a little back and forth, Morrison established that the car was Sean’s and he likely was driving it on the day in question. He informed Sean of his rights and asked him to accompany him voluntarily to headquarters. O’Conner got his coat.


At headquarters it did not take long for O’Conner to tell his story. Yes, it was an accident. He was backing out of his space after barely looking where he was going. He did not see who was behind his car. Yes, he felt his car hitting a person, quite hard. In his rearview mirror he saw part of a man’s body extending out from the left rear. His legs must have been beneath the car. Yes, after a brief moment, he recognized Father Utermollen.

“What happened then?” Morrison asked.

“I don’t remember exactly. I was sort of . . . dumfounded. What the hell had I done? It was the priest, the one I had lost some respect for. What should I do? Was he hurt? How can I get out of this? I can’t leave. I’ve got to get out and help. No I can’t! I’ve got to get out of here. I thought something like that. Then I just drove away as fast as I could. I got home and just . . . I just cried.”

Sean O’Conner was sentenced to the maximum term after pleading guilty.


Chris returned to St. Matt’s in a wheelchair. His mangled leg was saved, but he would never play golf again. Celebrating Mass would be difficult because of the five steps to the altar and he had to somehow balance himself after he got up there. He was permitted by the bishop to use a stool instead of standing at the altar. A small hydraulic lift was installed next to an extension built from the altars platform to facilitate his ascent to that level. His prognosis was that his leg probably would always be a useless appendage.


O’Conner found himself in the southwest part of the commonwealth, in the Bland Correctional Center, not too far from Roanoke. Sean had enough sense to behave himself and go along with the rules, enough so that in time he was recognized as a model prisoner. That was enough to permit him to take part in the prison pups program. PUP was run with the help of St. Francis Service Dogs, which trained and supplied dogs to help disabled people. Certain prisoners were assigned puppies to raise and train preliminarily for a year. Sean’s pup was a German shepherd named Apollo.

Father Utermollen was intrigued with Apollo when he visited the convict that had maimed him. The priest, although maybe not as altruistic as the late pope, still was moved whenever he was reminded that John Paul II had visited Mehmet Ali Agca in prison two years after the Turkish gunman put a bullet into the pontiff. The pope forgave his would-be assassin so it would be right for Chris to forgive the guy who ran him down and left the scene. At least, he thought he should. It was a moral obligation, he thought. Chris got one of the Malone boys to drive him down to the lockup in Bland.

Sean was a bit shaken when he saw the priest. At first he was reluctant to meet him when summoned by a guard. He had not seen the priest since the last time Chris said Mass before the hit and run. His curiosity over the visit finally drew him to agree. And, of course, Apollo came along. “Hello Father,” he said with eyes cast aside. He knew the priest was confined to the wheelchair.

“Hi Sean. Long time no see. Thought I’d come down for a visit.”

“I’m surprised, of course. Really it is I who should be coming to you, but, of course, I cannot, at least yet. I know I must apologize to you, but, frankly, I don’t know how. I did you such an injustice, even though it was not on purpose. And, and I just should not have driven away. I am sorry for what I have done to you. And I do deserve to be here.” Sean thought that he did not come up with the right words, hesitating whether to try to say more in a more sincere way, for he actually was sorrowful over what he had done and how he had handled the situation.

“Look, Sean, I think I know how you feel, and I appreciate your words. I want you to know that I don’t hold it against you. I guess I would like to, but I know that such a thing, such an attitude would be wrong. I’m not here to talk religion to you, or to myself, but in my job I must always remember the job description. I’m here to wish you well and tell you that I hope that when you get out you can carry on, put this behind you, and have a normal life.”

“Thank you. Thank you so very much. Your coming here to see me is, is so kind, so Christian. I really don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I appreciate it more than I can say.”

They chatted for perhaps 20 minutes. The priest learned about PUP and the care of Apollo and the service dog program named after the saint so often pictured with animals.



Frank Malone was bubbling when he broke the news to Chris that he would be getting a service dog. Chris immediately thought of Apollo, but that puppy was out of his mind when a representative of St. Francis Service Dogs introduced him to Doolittle, a black Labradoodle.