by Henry Hack
“Not well, sir. And you? How are you feeling? Were you hurt badly?”
“Some bumps and bruises, but I’m hurting a lot more inside for my friend.”
“We all are. I can’t believe it.”
“I won’t keep you long. I know you’re busy making preparations for the funeral. I wanted to know if you checked his office for any notes he might have left.”
“For you?”
“Not necessarily for me. For anyone. He said after lunch he wanted me to come back to his office. Said he had something to show me.”
“I noticed nothing other than routine church business on his desk, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe in his safe?”
“You know, I couldn’t get into the safe this morning. I have to assume the Bishop changed the combination and didn’t have the opportunity to tell me.”
“I guess you’ll have to call a locksmith.”
“I thought about that, but decided to wait for the designation of the new Bishop for that. There was a lot of cash in there, I realized. I didn’t want any suspicions directed my way. I’m sure you understand.”
“I certainly do, Brian. Good decision. Any idea who the new Bishop will be?”
“Not a clue. For now the senior Auxiliary Bishop of the Diocese will most likely run things.”
“Who is that?”
“Bishop Kenneth Stachurski.”
“If he gets the job, and with a Polish Pope on the throne, the residents of Greenpoint will be ecstatic.”
“Yes, they will, until they find out he’s half Irish.”
I couldn’t think of a way to tell him to notify me if or when Chief O’Connor or his designee showed up to gain access to the safe. The best I could come up with was, “Brian, you must have observed Bishop Manzo was apparently concerned about something recently?”
“Yes, and I asked him about it, but he said it was minor, and nothing for either of us to worry about. Wait, you don’t think –?”
“That the accident was not an accident? No, Brian, not at all. But if anything suspicious, or unusual, occurs in the near future, please call me right away.”
“I’m not sure what you’re looking for.”
“Neither am I. Probably nothing will crop up. I’m a suspicious old cop. Forget it.”
“Oh, okay. Uh, I have to go now.”
“I understand, Brian. I’ll see you at the funeral.”
I hoped I planted a seed in his mind. I hoped he wouldn’t forget it.
. . .
Another thing the NYPD and the Catholic Church have in common is they do funerals well. Some might say over the top. But when a cop gets killed in the line of duty, or a bishop gets killed in a tragic accident, all the stops are pulled out. And the Bishop of Brooklyn, His Most Reverend Excellency, Francis Andrew Manzo, was no exception. His two-day wake, with his body lying in state at the much larger co-cathedral of St. Joseph on Pacific Street, and his funeral mass, topped every one I had experienced over the years. And I had, sadly, seen too many.
The department had hundreds of uniformed officers stationed up and down Pacific Street and on the surrounding streets. The intersections were blocked off several blocks away. Only bonafide residents were allowed around the wooden barricades. I’d bet the top police brass and high religious officials had some sort of reserved parking nearby, but I, a mere lieutenant, would not even attempt to drive my NYPD sedan anywhere near the vicinity.
Vivian and I walked to the elevated subway line on Jamaica Avenue from our home in the Woodhaven section of Queens and changed at Broadway Junction for the A train. It was the first day of the wake, and I had taken the day off. When we got off the train at the Clinton-Washington Station and walked up the stairs to the fresh air, I was immediately reminded of the last walk I took with Frank on that fateful day not long ago. Same gentle breeze. Same deep blue sky. As we walked south on Washington Street, Vivian said, “What a gorgeous day. No one should be lying in a casket on a day such as this.”
As we turned onto Pacific Street we were amazed, but not surprised, by the length of the line of mourners quietly standing in subdued silence. We joined the queue and it took us a full hour to reach the entrance doors to the Cathedral. Twenty minutes later we were at the open casket. The Bishop’s body was resplendent in his clerical garments, all gold and cream-colored. His Bishop’s miter was set atop his head, and his golden scepter was tucked under his crossed hands. A strand of golden rosary beads was intertwined among his fingers with his ring of office prominently displayed.
As I looked down upon his peaceful countenance I stumbled from the range of emotions that suddenly ran through me. Sadness that he was no longer with us. Rage at the manner of his death. Higher rage at those responsible for that vicious attack. Amazement at how an unfortunate teenager – Giuseppe Mastronunzio – sought atonement and absolution for a crime not of his making, became a model Marine, and a truthful servant of the church. I couldn’t stem the silent flow of tears. Vivian grasped my elbow and said, “Mike, we have to move on. People behind us are giving us evil looks.”
“Okay,” I said, reaching for my handkerchief to wipe my eyes. My handkerchief! Now Mort Stern’s visage floated through my brain, and I let out a loud sob.
“Mike!” she whispered. “Get it together, for Pete’s sake! People are staring. Let’s find a pew. You need to sit down for a few minutes.”
“They’re all full. I don’t see a vacant spot.”
A hand grabbed my arm and a voice said, “This way, Lieutenant.”
I looked up and saw Brian with a concerned look on his face. He said, “Are you feeling okay?”
“No, Brian. I am not feeling well at all.”
“I understand. Here, come this way.”
He guided us to the first two pews at the front of the church and lifted a purple velvet rope motioning us to slide in. I genuflected and made the sign of the cross, automatically and unconsciously, and slid in after Vivian. Brian re-attached the rope and sat next to me. He had a quizzical look on his face. “Uh,” he whispered, “I thought you were Jewish?”
“I am.”
“But you made the sign of the cross.”
“Oh, did I? Pure habit. I was raised in the church, you know. Went to Bishop Loughlin High School, a few blocks from here. Same as Frank. Uh, same as Bishop Manzo.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said, looking at me a bit differently. “Are you going to attend the funeral?”
“Yes.”
He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a white card and a pen from his shirt pocket. He said, “Will your, uh, companion be also attending?”
“Oh, Brian, I’m sorry. This is my wife, Vivian.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Yes, I will accompany my husband.”
He wrote something on the card and handed it to me. He said, “This will get you a good seat on Wednesday. Not the front rows, but not the rear ones either.”
“Thank you. Oh, did you ever get that safe open?”
“Yes! The Cardinal himself came to the Cathedral and gave the combination to Bishop Stachurski, who, as I expected, will be in charge until a permanent bishop is named.”
“The Cardinal, of course,” I said. “He would be the logical one to have that combination. Bishop Manzo would certainly have given it to him.”
“Yes, he would have, Lieutenant.”
“But, Brian, why would he not have given that combination to you?”
“Um, you know, Lieutenant, I don’t know.”
I had to tread carefully here. “Maybe there was something in there the Bishop only w
anted the Cardinal to see, or take possession of. I’m sure he trusted you fully.”
“H-m-m-m, now that you mentioned it, when the Cardinal left the office he did have a package under his arm.”
“Probably important Diocese matters Bishop Manzo wanted to trust with His Eminence.”
“Yes, probably. Oh, please excuse me, Lieutenant, I have other business to attend to. Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Simon. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
After Brian left, we bowed our heads in silence and Vivian whispered, “What was that all about?”
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered back, as I hypocritically recited the Our Father. But it was for the soul of the Bishop, a true believer. It was for him. There is no God, but he believed there was. And then I thought about the Cardinal’s visit to Bishop Manzo’s office. The chief of detectives took his letter with the combination to the police commissioner. The PC called the Cardinal and gave him the numbers, whereupon the PC shredded the letter. The Cardinal retrieved the documents from the Bishop’s safe. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. The crimes remained hidden. Rome was off the hook. Not so fast, you murdering bastards and cowardly accomplices, I’m coming after all of you. Soon.
THIRTY
“So our wonderful chief of detectives took the smoking bomb and passed it up the chain of command, the fucking coward,” Richie Paul said.
“And the PC threw it immediately to the Cardinal who retrieved what he thinks is the single remaining copy of the damning documents,” Harry said.
“He also got the copies of the return receipts from the four letters Manzo sent to the brass,” John said. “Which worries me.”
“Why?” Charlie Seich asked.
“He’ll know the originals are out there someplace else, and he’ll conclude the only person who could have them in his possession is our favorite lieutenant here.”
“Whereupon,” Richie said, “another zip may be on his way to finish the job on our dear boss once and for all.”
I smiled and said, “I’m not the least bit worried. Your favorite lieutenant is not as dumb as you think.”
“Please tell us why,” Harry said.
“The copies of the receipts were not ordinary copies. They were specially made by a detective in the Document Analysis section of our lab on the same green cardboard stock. They look and feel exactly like the originals.”
“And you have the actual originals and copies of the letters safely tucked away somewhere,” Charlie said. “Don’t you?”
“I do, to be utilized at an appropriate time in the future.”
“When do we want to call Howie Stein?”
“Sometime after the funeral tomorrow,” I said. “I’d like to give it maybe a week, to see if anything happens with the church or the department.”
“Guaranteed, nothing will,” Charlie said. “They have tied up all the damning documents in a sturdy box and buried it forever.”
“You’re no doubt right, but I want to wait a bit. I want to see if the brass is going to make a move against me, or against Ray Elliott.”
“The inspector from Internal Affairs? The guy that was Manzo’s guy inside?” John asked.
“Yes. He accessed the department’s records and passed the information on to the Bishop, as I told you before. My question is, are they on to him?”
“And if they are, did he give it up?”
“Right, Harry, but more importantly did he give me up?”
“Are you going to the funeral tomorrow, Boss?” Charlie asked.
“Yes, Vivian and I have been given seats in the church by the former Bishop’s secretary.”
“Do you think we all should go too?” Harry asked.
“No, not unless you want to stand in rank formation, in the forecasted rainstorm, and listen to a two-hour funeral mass on a loudspeaker.”
“No thanks,” Richie said. “I stood in formation for dead cops enough in my life. Besides, I didn’t, I guess none of us didn’t, know him at all.”
“Good decision,” I said.
. . .
The predicted rain was coming down hard as Vivian and I unfurled our umbrellas as we left the subway station. Pacific Street was lined with uniformed cops assigned there by the patrol commander. Hundreds of priests were in the ranks in front of them. They all stood at attention as the mourners entered the cathedral. A Marine Corps Honor Guard lined the steps of the church on both sides at rigid attention, eyes directly forward.
Not one of the Marines, priests or cops was dressed in rain gear. That was forbidden by protocol. I remembered the tail end of that old saying… And happy are the dead that the rain falls on. However, the dead don’t get wet, do they? But these hundreds of men and women certainly do. And, as I knew from personal experience, the uniforms would absorb the rain and get heavier and heavier, and your body would get chillier and chillier. The morning coffee would make your bladder scream for release as you shivered in the wetness and cold. And you were forbidden to break ranks, which didn’t matter anyway because there were no bathrooms or porta-potties in sight. So you pissed your pants, and no one noticed, or cared, because they were pissing themselves. And the warmth running down your legs felt good for the minute it lasted.
Finally, when the ordeal was over, you were bussed back to your command where you peeled off your uniform, bagged it up, got into your civvies and went home shivering and cold. And you hoped the dry cleaners could work their magic and restore your duds to some semblance of its former condition – all at your expense, of course.
We passed into the cathedral and an usher took my invitation and escorted us down the center aisle, stopping at the tenth pew and pointing to the four empty seats at its end. We slid in and my eyes took in the spectacle of the pomp and circumstance of a Bishop’s funeral. The first eight rows were filled with the clergy of every religion practiced in Brooklyn. The majority were Roman Catholics, but also what appeared to be Protestant hierarchy from all the major denominations. I assumed Frank’s close friend, the Episcopal Bishop, was there among them. I saw imams and orthodox rabbis with their beards and side curls. And there was Rabbi Berman, and Brian, probably the only non-clergyman in the group.
The ninth row, right in front of us, was filled with high ranking brass of the NYPD and FDNY. The police and fire commissioners and their chiefs of department sat stoically. I spotted Kevin O’Connor, the chief of detectives, and the chief of patrol and several men in suits and ties who I assumed were deputy commissioners and other detective brass.
I glanced down my row which was filled with lesser chiefs and police brass from other departments. I recognized most of the Brooklyn and Queens boro commanders, uniformed and detective. And then the one missing one, Deputy Chief Roger Hendriks, and I assumed his wife, slid into the remaining two seats of our pew, next to me and Vivian. Although I didn’t desire to do so, I nodded to him out of respect for his rank and he nodded back, but there was a questioning look in his eyes. He was no doubt thinking how a lieutenant such as I deigned to occupy the same row with the likes of him and his fellow chiefs.
The pomp and circumstance began and the smell of incense fragrantly filled the air. The casket, now closed, was blessed by the Cardinal who proceeded to say the mass. His voice was shaky throughout, and I was not surprised he did not give the homily or eulogy. Those tasks, performed with respect, and a bit of humor, were well carried out by the Bishop of the Rockville Centre Diocese and the Episcopal Bishop of Long Island. Several others, the Chief Rabbi of the Lubavitch orthodox sect, the Chief Imam of the Brooklyn Arab community and Auxiliary Bishop Stachurski, also spoke highly and kindly of their relationship with Bishop Manzo. All, thankfully and mercifully, were brief in their remarks.
&nbs
p; Finally, the mass was over and the casket began to roll down the aisle toward the open doors of the waiting hearse. We followed out in turn after the pews in front of us emptied out. I caught a glimpse of Ray Elliott as we passed by his row near the back of the church. I gave him a smile and a nod, but he did not meet my eyes, and abruptly turned away. Not a good sign. Had he thrown me under the bus?
As we reached the steps and started to walk down them, I realized the rain had stopped. The clouds broke and a burst of sunshine momentarily swept over the Bishop’s casket as it was being pushed into the hearse. Vivian poked me in the side and said, “A sign from God perhaps, as he welcomes his faithful servant into Heaven?”
“An abrupt change in the weather.” I said.
“Heathen.”
“No one knows if there is a heaven, Viv, but if there is, I hope the good Bishop is already there and arguing over egg creams with Mort Stern.”
“That’s better. I’ll make you a believer once again.”
“Don’t bet on that, dear. Let’s go home.”
. . .
The next day everything returned to its normal routine in Queens Homicide after I recapped the funeral service and the reception I had received.
“Elliott didn’t even look you in the eye?” Harry asked.
“No, he didn’t want to engage with me at all.”
“I don’t like that, and I don’t like the cold reception you got from the boro commander.”
“They know all their bases are covered,” I said, “but they also know the Bishop and I were close. They remember him calling them to push my career. Now that he’s gone, they can do what they want to me.”
“You mean transfer you?” Richie asked. “On what grounds? We have the best closure rate of all the boro homicide squads.”
“They will do what they want, when they want,” I said. “And they don’t have to give me a reason if they do.”
