Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

Once again, the declamation provoked spontaneous individual reactions.

  “That’s right! The bishops are telling our children it’s all right to go ahead and whore!”

  Cox thought that might be a step in the right direction.

  “They shouldn’t be teaching children about sex. It’s dirty! You should save it for the person you marry!”

  “Yes, marriage is plenty of time to learn what you do in it!”

  “And these are the same bishops who okayed all those sex classes and filthy pictures for those innocent seminarians!”

  “Something ought to be done to them to get their attention!” said the short dark man.

  “Nap seems to have a one-track mind,” said Koznicki to Koesler.

  “Kind of scary,” Koesler murmured. He found this vehement outpouring overwhelming.

  “Hit them where it hurts!” shouted an elderly woman. “The diocesan collection! Boycott it!”

  There was so much uproar, Kirkus was forced to pound the gavel vigorously. The head of the gavel flew off and landed at the feet of a man in the first row. He picked it up and returned it to Kirkus, who screwed the two parts together.

  “Murphy’s Law seems to work overtime for these people,” said Koesler to Koznicki.

  With a semblance of order restored, Kirkus shouted that a boycott of diocesan collections throughout the state seemed the most effective course of action. He suggested that the society explore ways to publicize this action to get more broad-based support.

  Just then, as if in answer to his prayer, there was a disturbance at the rear of the auditorium. Like a field of undulating grain, the audience swiveled to see what this disturbance was. It was television. The saving medium. The medium that would carry the Tridentine message as well as the Tridentine persona. It was Steve Schatz with the cameraman and soundman from WDIV-TV, the local NBC affiliate.

  “That’s Channel 4’s crew,” Cox said to Lennon. “Last time it was Channel 7. They must be taking turns.”

  “Look at that guy,” Lennon stage-whispered, indicating Kirkus, “he’s a true media creation.”

  Where Roman Kirkus had hitherto seemed to be slipping into ennui, now, conscious of the presence of a mobile camera, he had snapped to alertness and seemed eager to become the on-camera attraction.

  “Does anyone want to make a motion to the effect that all Michigan Catholics be urged to boycott all diocesan collections until further notice?” This was Kirkus’ first excursion into the realm of Robert’s Rules of Order. He could think of no other way of bringing the subject to the TV reporter’s attention.

  “I’ll make that motion,” said somebody.

  “Is there a second to the motion?”

  “Second,” said several voices.

  “All those in favor?”

  There was much clamor.

  “Those opposed?”

  Relative silence.

  “Then the motion is passed,” Kirkus concluded.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Schatz, “but what was the motion related to? I mean, why do you want Catholics to boycott diocesan collections?”

  “Because the Michigan bishops have come out in support of the state’s sex education plan.”

  “I see.”

  “Aren’t you going to turn on your camera?’ Kirkus looked so disappointed he appeared on the verge of tears.

  “Not yet. We’ll get to that after the meeting.”

  If the meeting was all that was keeping him from being televised, there was a simple solution.

  “If there is no further business,” said Kirkus, ignoring the hands being raised all over the audience, “this meeting is concluded. Keep watching the Detroit Catholic for the time and place of our next meeting. The box for your free-will donations is over there at the corner of the stage.”

  Kirkus brought his gavel down hard to silence the barely muted audience protest over the meeting’s abrupt conclusion. Was it Koesler’s imagination, or did he see the lectern split?

  Just then, Ven Marshall and WXYZ-TV’s crew entered the auditorium. Marshall paused to appraise the situation, then started for the front of the auditorium where Channel 4’s crew was setting up. Soon, Kirkus became the center of more attention than he had dreamed possible.

  Spotlights gave an unreal vividness to this section of the auditorium. Cameramen adjusted their gear. Soundmen seemed supremely bored. Two microphones, one with a number 7 affixed, the other with a number 4, were thrust close to Kirkus’ face. Giving him their full attention were two handsome faces Kirkus had seen countless times on local TV.

  There was no denying it: Roman Kirkus had become a celebrity. All those at work and in the rest of society who laughed at him and made jokes about his opinions and mistakes would have to heed his newfound fame. He would, indeed, have the last laugh.

  “Mr.Kirkus—” said Marshall.

  “Mr. Kirkus—” chorused Schatz.

  “Mr. Kirkus—” Marshall prevailed; Kirkus knew that Channel 7 had higher ratings than Channel 4. “Mr. Kirkus, what is your position in the Tridentine Society?”

  “I am chairman.”

  “And the purpose of the society?”

  “To restore the Catholic Church to its divinely established purpose which it maintained before this Vatican II madness ran rampant.”

  “That’s pretty ambitious, wouldn’t you say?” said Schatz.

  “Well, we’re concentrating our efforts here in Detroit, mostly, and then the rest of Michigan. We figure if we can turn Detroit around, it will be example enough for other right-minded Catholics to do the same in their dioceses.

  “Besides, you can never discount the power of prayer.”

  “You’re dealing with something more tangible than prayer,” Schatz interjected. “Your society just made a resolution to boycott all diocesan collections in the state. Did it not?”

  “Yes.”

  Kirkus suddenly realized the truth of what he had just said about the power of prayer. Only minutes ago, the Tridentines were wondering how they were going to get their message across to the general public. Now, suddenly, two TV stations were recording the message for telecast at 11:00 p.m. God was mighty. And Kirkus was His prophet.

  “What is it, specifically,” Schatz asked, “that you object to that would cause you to resort to such an extreme stand?”

  “The bishops’ endorsement of Michigan’s school sex education program.”

  “In a previous meeting,” Marshall had the advantage, since he had covered the previous meeting, “you condemned the seminar in sexuality being offered at Detroit’s two seminaries. Is there, do you think, any connection between that seminar and the present endorsement of the state’s plan?”

  “Of course there is,” said Kirkus, who, until now, had not drawn any connection between the two. “It’s another case of the hierarchy pandering to the public. There is no longer any question of right and wrong—it’s all subjective morality. Before Vatican II, we Catholics knew that sex was for procreation and procreation alone. Now, the bishops and seminary professors want to have sex taught to children who are too young to do it, and seminarians who should never do it. Somebody is going to have to pay for this perversion of God’s law!”

  “When you say, ‘somebody is going to have to pay,’” Schatz pressed, “are you alluding to eventual divine retribution, or do you mean this as some sort of immediate physical threat?”

  “Both. We are the tools God uses now in this world to do His Holy Will.”

  “Are you then, Mr. Kirkus,” Marshall asked, “threatening the lives of the seminary professors and/or the bishops of this state?”

  “God does not always make His Will clear. And neither will I.”

  Just beyond the TV crews, the print reporters, including Lennon and Cox, were taking notes incredulously.

  The two TV reporters had Kirkus pose with each separately, this time filming from behind Kirkus, while each reporter repeated and rephrased the questions that had been asked. Then each reporter stood
aside and was recorded making an introduction to the tape, and a wrap-up. The film would be edited at the studio.

  Roman Kirkus had never been this high. He would not sleep tonight. He would lie awake, planning.

  At Inspector Koznicki’s suggestion, he and Father Koesler had stopped in at Topinka’s for a nightcap.

  They were seated on the first level of the nearly deserted restaurant. A small glass of port rested before Koznicki; Koesler nursed a bourbon manhattan on the rocks. He had sufficiently recovered from his brush with Antabuse to return to his occasional drink.

  “What did you make of it, Father?”

  Koesler looked at his friend uncomprehendingly.

  “The meeting,” Koznicki clarified.

  “I found it overwhelming. I mean, I knew there were differences of opinion, but I have never heard them aired with such vehemence. It was like concentrated acid. Do you think it does them any good to get it out of their system like that?”

  “I do not really know, Father. There is a school that claims that letting it all out, verbalizing one’s hostile feelings, is good for the psyche. Prevents their putting their feelings into action … a safety spout to channel off violence.”

  “Like the hypothesis that voyeurism may appease a sex maniac … so that pornography is better than rape?”

  “Exactly. On the other hand, there are those who argue that such inflammatory utterances can cause a borderline psychotic to pass over the threshold of violence.”

  “Ah … ” Koesler thought a moment. “One such as Conrad Nap, perhaps.”

  “Yes, indeed. And as difficult as it is to get any information about the Tridentines, we are conducting a rather thorough investigation of Mr. Nap and Mr. Kirkus.

  “I must say, though, this society is among the most secretive I have ever encountered. We have not been able to obtain any information from inside the group. There is nothing to infiltrate. There may be an infrastructure—and I sense there is—but we have been unable to put our finger on it, much less penetrate it. We have been unable to detect a membership roster or a constitution. Nothing.

  “But what continues to amaze me is that these people can become so worked up about a vernacular Mass or hymns or sex education.”

  “Well, Inspector, I think these people, if they were not hunting down what they consider to be a wayward theology, would be out beating the bushes for Communists. But then you ought to remember well the old Latin liturgy.”

  “Indeed I do. But what does that have to do with this?”

  “Well, I think when one understands the Latin Mass—or, rather the Tridentine Mass, since there is a new Latin Mass—one can understand the rationale as well as the plight of today’s conservative Catholic.

  “The Mass you and I grew up with was formulated some time before the Council of Trent. But it was that council which sort of sunk that Latin Mass in cement with its reform of the Missale Romanum or Roman Missal. Which means that for approximately the past four hundred years that same Mass was offered unchanged all over the world in the Latin rite. We Catholics gloried in the notion that we could attend Mass in this country or in Japan or just about anywhere in the world, and the Mass would be the same, gesture for gesture, word for word. It was symbolic of the Church’s universality.”

  “Yes,” Koznicki interrupted, “but was not there an opposite opinion that having the Mass in Latin meant that a Catholic could misunderstand the Mass in his own country as well as he could misunderstand it in a foreign country?”

  They laughed.

  “That’s true,” Koesler admitted. With a finger, he stirred the ice in his drink. He was determined to have only one manhattan, no matter how long they remained at the restaurant.

  “However,” Koesler continued, “that objection was not raised popularly until about the time of the Second Vatican Council. In fact, there weren’t many questions asked—except by the reformers —before Vatican II.

  “But you see, Inspector, not only did we grow up with that Tridentine Mass, it had been around for nearly four hundred years! It’s easy to see why Catholics, particularly those not only comfortable with the past but incorrectly convinced that nothing in the Church ever changes, would be shocked when the Tridentine Mass not only is altered but is abrogated!”

  “And all this takes place within a decade which, compared with its four-hundred-year history, seems almost to have happened overnight.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Of course, the transition was not without its light side. Something funny was bound to occur when you suddenly switch from a language few of your listeners understand to their vernacular. Mistakes in Latin cannot compare with bloopers in English.

  “I have a friend—who shall remain nameless—who was chaplain at a girls’ high school when we switched languages. He claims he was only vaguely aware that one of the seniors, named Linda, had developed magnificently and had a terrific figure … bountifully endowed … ”

  “Yes, yes.” Koznicki smiled in anticipation.

  “Well, one day, while distributing communion, as this priest went along the railing, he was saying, ‘Gloria, the body of Christ,’ to which she responded, ‘Amen,’ as she should. He continued, ‘Mary, the body of Christ,’ ‘Susan, the body of Christ,’ then, unwittingly, ‘Christ, the body of Linda.’”

  They laughed.

  “And then there was the day I was standing in the rear of a suburban church during communion time. An usher, one of those who thought Vatican II might have been a major mistake, came back to talk to a few of his fellow ushers. Unaware of my presence, he said disgustedly, ‘Some kid just peed on the altar rail.’ And then he added, resignedly, ‘Probably part of the new liturgy.’”

  Koznicki shook his head in amusement.

  “Now,” Koesler went on, “I think those stories are intrinsically funny. But I doubt the average Tridentine Society member would laugh. They find no humor or joy in what has happened to the Mass. Nor to the new approach to moral theology, which they term ‘situation ethics.’ A term they intend as pejorative.

  “Perhaps this is comparable to a form of psychopathology. We agree that abnormal behavior is an exaggeration of the normal. For instance, it is a normal reaction for many people to experience some fear of heights or closed-in areas. However, when this fear overcomes, immobilizes, paralyzes, then we have a neurosis or a psychosis.

  “I think it well within the realm of normal behavior to resist change, especially when one has good reason to. Few would argue that change is intrinsically good. But when you find a group like the Tridentines, you are no longer dealing with reason, logic, or normality.

  “I don’t think there are many of these people around. But when you do stumble across them, there’s one thing you can bank on—they will be loud.”

  “And conceivably dangerous,” Koznicki added.

  “Do you really think the—our—assailant”—Koesler still had difficulty including himself in the intended victims— “might be one of the Tridentines?”

  “Do you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “At this point, Father, I would think it quite possible.”

  “Do you think you will discover whoever it is?”

  “Oh, yes, I believe we will, Father. It is my hope we will do so in time.”

  “In time?”

  “Before he strikes again.”

  Koesler gulped, and drained the remainder of his manhattan. “On that awesome note, Inspector, I think we’d better call it day.”

  “Come on, Cox,” Nelson Kane prodded, “what is it?” Cox studied the eight-by-ten UPI photo Kane had handed him. The small building that took up most of the photo was being consumed by flames. That much was certain. Any further implication eluded Cox.

  “It’s a small building on fire,” Cox said at length.

  “It’s more than that. Use your imagination.”

  Kane had taped over the caption. All that was visible was the dateline.

  “South Billings Harb
or,” Cox read. “That’s South Jersey, isn’t it?”

  Kane nodded encouragingly.

  “Chickens,” Cox said. “If it’s South Jersey, it must have something to do with chickens.”

  Kane nodded again.

  “Ummm,” Cox made a meditative sound, “a chicken coop?”

  Kane nodded enthusiastically.

  “A burning chicken coop! What do I win?”

  “That’s not all.”

  “That’s not all?”

  “Look at it!”

  Cox looked at it. He turned the photo sideways. He turned it upside down. He took his glasses from his shirt pocket, put them on, moved the photo close to his face, and studied it still further.

  “It’s a burning chicken coop,” Cox pronounced flatly.

  Kane, in a gesture reeking with disgust, tore the tape off the caption.

  “Residents of South Billings Harbor see figure of Jesus in flames of burning chicken coop.”

  Kane picked up the photo. Cox circled to Kane’s side of the desk.

  “See it?” Kane’s index finger traced the dark lines amid the flames engulfing the coop’s doorway.

  “Nellie, you’ve got one of the more overactive imaginations of all time.”

  “I should’ve known you wouldn’t see it.”

  “That’s right. I missed Christ in the tortilla and in the folds of the tabernacle veil. And I didn’t see the tears of the Madonna in St. Elizabeth’s church.”

  “You have no faith, Cox.”

  “That’s all right; you have enough for all of us agnostics.”

  This was a peculiar side of Nelson Kane, thought Cox. Kane was an acknowledged professional from his soles to the top of his thinning hair. His news sense was unerring. But his fey sense of humor made him a hopeless patsy for the offbeat religious story or photo. From experience, Cox knew that Kane would throw all his considerable influence behind getting this burning chicken coop on page one of tomorrow’s Free Press.

  “But enough of Our Savior of the Chicken Coop.” Kane crop-marked the photo for two columns, slugged it for page one and spun it into the copy basket. “How’s the ‘Is Nothing Sacred’ story coming?”

  “Dead in the water, I’m afraid. Unless the cops come up with a suspect, I think this thing will trickle into the unsolved cases file.”