Assault with Intent

by William X. Kienzle

  The bell rang. The students hurried out, eager to see how the movie, which was being filmed in their very building, was progressing.

  Father Budreau strode off in his military gait, left arm swinging stiffly, right arm crooked around his books as if supporting a rifle.

  He headed for the chapel for a private prayer before lunch. He recalled only a few years back when the then large student body would daily visit the chapel together for prayer before the noon meal. Now he was the only one to continue the custom. He was a man of custom and habit. Eating, resting, working, and praying each at the same time each day. Days off and vacations, as well as his twice-a-week target practice at the rifle range were scheduled events that he depended upon for recreation.

  He knelt and tried to pray. But he could not rid himself of the thought of how much better than today were the good old days. He thought it fortunate that Edward Maley was not studying for the priesthood and unfortunate that Raphael Doody was. In the old days, both of them would have been dropped—the former as one whose loyalty to the Church would always be in question; the latter as a hopeless incompetent.

  He was wondering if there were, indeed, any way of returning to yesteryear, when he finally caught the thread of prayer.

  By anyone’s standard, the scene in St. Joseph’s transverse corridor was chaotic.

  The windows had been covered with black plasterboard. A camera track had been laid the length of the corridor. Technicians were everywhere, stringing lights, arranging equipment, looking busy. Makeup people were attending two actors, one of whom was dressed in black cassock and white surplice, the other in dark street clothes.

  Father Koesler was observing all this carefully, marveling at the number of people required to make a simple movie. It seemed to him there were actually two crews, one doing almost nothing but trying to look busy.

  Sergeants Patrick and Morris stood to the front of a group of bystanders who had come to see how a movie was made. Most of the bystanders Koesler recognized as students of either Sacred Heart or St. Joseph’s seminary. Evidently, when on hand, some were hired as extras.

  Standing near the large camera were Bruce Lauther and Sol Gould. Nearby, Herman Deutsch, looking much the worse for wear, curled into a canvas folding chair. Mary Murphy stood off to one side with what Koesler thought was a slightly dubious expression. He had found Mary to be both enlightening and refreshingly normal. He decided to stroll over to her.

  “Oh, hi, Father.” She smiled, crookedly. “If you have prayers, prepare to say them now.”

  “Things going badly?”

  “I’ve never seen anything like this. We’ve been rehearsing this scene all morning. If anything more can go wrong, I don’t know what it might be.”

  “People not cooperating?”

  “Nothing is cooperating! Actors blow their lines; the track breaks down, tilting the camera; lights pop; we’ve already run out of film once; three technicians have been fired so far; Herm is hung over, and Bruce is edgy. You can budget for a certain amount of waste and error, but this is phenomenal. And we’re just beginning!”

  “You’re right; a little prayer couldn’t hurt.”

  Koesler looked around casually, then halted his survey to focus on five men who had been occupied in the center of the action. They were now clustered at one side of the corridor. Koesler would not have thought it possible to describe work clothes as conservative. But these five wore conservative work clothes. He realized that he recognized one of the men.

  “Excuse me, Mary, but,” inclining his head, “those men over there; did you hire them?”

  She glanced at the small group. “No, but I hired the person who hired them.”

  “What do they do?”

  “They’re production assistants. A rather pretentious title for gofers. They do odd jobs.”

  “I’ll bet they do.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Oh, no … it’s just that I know one of them.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised: production assistants are always locals.”

  At the same time that Koesler spied the five production assistants, Sergeant Patrick also spotted them. They called attention to themselves by their huddle and by their conservative, almost uniform-like clothes.

  “Looka there,” Patrick called the five to Morris’ attention. She gazed at them for several seconds before recognition crossed her face. “Oh, my God, it’s Kirkus—Roman Kirkus!”

  “That’s who it is, all right.”

  “How did he get on this set?”

  “Apparently, someone hired him. I think we ought to find out who.”

  “Do you think we ought to get him out of here? If he’s the one we’re looking for, he could be a danger to someone on the faculty here.”

  Patrick pondered that possibility.

  “No, I don’t think so. We’ve got him right out front. I’d rather have him where I can see him than have him skulking about somewhere.”

  “Quiet on the set! Quiet on the set!” Sol Gould’s megaphone blared. “Places everybody!”

  It occurred to Koesler that he had not yet heard the first assistant director’s normal speaking voice.

  “Now let’s get this right for a change!”

  “What are they filming now?” Koesler whispered to Mary.

  “This is the scene where Father Ward gets attacked.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. That actor playing Father Ward must be in his fifties. The real Father Ward is in his eighties.”

  “Artistic license,” Mary said, with a thin-lipped smile.

  The silver-haired actor entered the corridor from an adjoining room. All lights were extinguished but the flashlight “Ward” carried. In his other hand was a human skull. With the exception of the age discrepancy, Koesler thought, so far so good. Then he noticed a flaw that had hitherto eluded him.

  “Wait a minute,” he whispered to Mary, “that priest should not be wearing a surplice. That’s a liturgical vestment, and carrying a skull down a corridor has nothing to do with any liturgical function.”

  Mary quickly moved forward and whispered to Gould.

  “Cut! Cut! Damnitalltohell! Cut!”

  The lights went up and the crew went into action. Koesler thought all this effort a bit excessive just to remove a surplice.

  Finally, all was again ready. The lights were extinguished. Gould again called for action. The actor once more entered the corridor, this time sans surplice. He walked at an unhurried pace down the corridor as the camera followed silently on its track.

  “Father Ward said he was reciting Hamlet’s speech about Yorick as he walked down the corridor,” Koesler whispered to Mary.

  “That’ll be done later with a voiceover,” she whispered back.

  As the Father Ward character neared the end of the corridor, a figure stepped from the rear doorway. Though the corridor was dark, Koesler was immediately aware of the assailant’s presence, perhaps, he thought, because he had heard the story from the real Father Ward. So the figure’s appearance was not unexpected. Nonetheless, Koesler jumped. He thought of old Father Ward and how frightening the actual assault must have been for him.

  What happened next made Koesler disbelieve his eyes. Instead of stumbling and falling all over each other as the real Father Ward had described, the film Father Ward was giving as good as he got. After the initial surprise advantage of the assault, the assailant was slammed up against a wall. Then the two became locked in a frenzied wrestling match.

  “Ouch! Oh, damn it! Watch what you’re doing with that damn knife, will you!” the Ward character shrieked.

  “Cut! Cut! Now what the hell is it?” Gould shouted through his megaphone.

  The lights went up.

  The Ward character was clutching his left hand. It obviously had been cut.

  “Props! Props!” Gould yelled. “You were supposed to get a stage knife with a retractable blade, not a goddamn real knife! Whatinhell’s the matter with you?”

&nb
sp; “But I did! I did!” A small, agitated man ran onto the set and took the knife from the assailant. He placed his palm beneath the blade and bravely plunged the knife downward. The blade seemed to pass through his palm without appearing beneath the hand. The blade was retracting into the handle. “See!” the man said with an air of vindication.

  “Well, it didn’t do that a minute ago!” said the actor, displaying a fairly deep slash in his hand.

  “O.K., all right!” said Gould, for the first time speaking unaided by the megaphone. “Get him patched up and see if anyone can figure out what happened to the damn knife.

  “Listen, on the next take, let’s go from the struggle sequence. At least we finally got him all the way down the goddamn hall for a change!”

  Mary Murphy returned to Koesler’s side. “You see, Father, that’s the way it’s been going: just one fool thing after another. The knife retracts every time except when we’re filming. Then it cuts. I swear, I’m almost ready to believe there’s some sinister force at work here.”

  “I don’t know about the sinister force, but what on earth happened to that scene? I mean, the writing of it? According to the only eyewitness we’ve got, that’s not the way the attack took place.”

  “Oh, you mean the awkwardness, the stumbling, the falling all over each other?”

  “Yes—the event as described by the real Father Ward.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, Bruce and Herm seldom agree about anything. But they did agree that Father Ward’s story was incredible. And it does sort of explain why we needed a somewhat younger actor for the role.”

  “But it is the truth. He was even quoted in the newspapers.”

  “Father, think of the millions of people who will watch a made-for-TV movie—the group to whom we have to present a simple, uncomplicated plot. We are not thinking of the much smaller group who takes the time to read a newspaper and grasps the subtleties and nuances. In brief, Father Ward’s story might make sense in print, but it won’t work on TV.”

  “But it’s the truth. Father Ward wouldn’t he.”

  Mary simply shrugged.

  “Yeah, I know; the same thing happened when Pilate asked Jesus, ‘What is truth?’ He didn’t get an answer either." Koesler’s disgust was evident. “Look, Mary, if I’m not needed here, I’ve got things to do.”

  “It’s all right, Father; they’ll be lucky to get this scene wrapped up today.”

  As he left the set, Koesler noted that Deutsch had sunk deeper into his chair, almost into a fetal position. He also noticed that Roman Kirkus was smiling so broadly he seemed near breaking into laughter. Koesler wondered about that.

  He also wondered again, since the movies rejected the verity of this event out of hand, about the peculiar ineptitude of this assailant. Somewhere in that was a message. It just wasn’t coming through clearly.

  “Pat, are you old enough to remember when there were the big three newspapers in Detroit?” asked Bob Ankenazy.

  “The Detroit Times? The Hearst paper? Just barely. I was just a kid when the Times folded.”

  “In a way, Detroit has been singularly lucky in its metro newspapers. Most cities that have a couple of newspapers find little, if any, difference between them. Both conservative, or both liberal; both play it close to the vest or both are willing to take chances. The Minneapolis papers for example. Both owned by the same company and hardly a shred of difference between them. Same with St. Paul.

  “But in Detroit, it’s never been that way. The News has always leaned to the conservative, at least editorially. The Free Press has been audacious. And the Times was sensational.”

  “I suppose,” said Lennon, “you’re leading up to today’s dramatic disparity in the coverage of this filmmaking.” Lennon had on her desk Friday morning editions of the Free Press and the News.

  The Free Press carried a page one story by staff writer Joe Cox, exposing the sordid background of the moviemakers and the opportunistic motives behind the made-for-TV film, “Assault with Intent.” This contrasted with the News’ entertainment feature extolling the benefits, financial and morale-wise, Detroit could anticipate from the work of the gurus from L. A.

  News readers would be left with the feeling that they should prostrate themselves in gratitude before these powerful visitors from the West. While Free Press readers might consider running these interlopers out of town on a rail.

  This dichotomy in treating the story was an embarrassment to the News people, and Ankenazy was responsive to this. He was also aware that had he and Lennon been allowed to develop this story, there might have been no embarrassing gap between the two papers.

  “I don’t think it’s the fault of either Leon or Pete,” said Lennon. She knew she had anticipated the angle of the story as it had been developed by the Free Press. But she was not in the mood to gloat, nor was she the I-told-you-so type. “It was just one of those things.”

  “I can see where, from London’s viewpoint, he went with what were his best lights. But Sands should have sensed there was something wrong with this setup. After all, he was on the scene.”

  “Yes, but,” Lennon said loyally, “Pete’s specialty is entertainment. This was an investigative story and you simply have to have the nose for that sort of thing.” After all, what might have happened had she been insistent that London assign the story to her instead of Sands? They might now be neck and neck with the Free Press.

  “And look who they sent on the story," Lennon continued, “Joe Cox, the ace of their investigative staff.”

  “Well,” Ankenazy acknowledged, “at least we can kill Sands’ account in our later editions and save ourselves some embarrassment.”

  “There, you’ve salvaged some silver lining. Want me to get back on the story?”

  “Not much to get back to. They’re going to make their movie—probably not very professionally—and that’s that. But be ready in case something hard breaks: We’ll want you on it.

  “By the way, Leon wants me to get someone on that new Jerome P. Cavanaugh Memorial Building. Word is the contractors are cutting every corner possible and there might be some collusion with Mayor Cobb’s office. Looks kind of promising. Want it?”

  “Yeah, I do. But first, I’ve got a tip on who’s dumping the latest barrels of toxic waste all over the city. I’ve got some good sources rounded up. O.K. with you if I finish the waste story before I tackle the building scam?”

  “Fine with me. Personally, I’d welcome the return of capital punishment if for no other crime than the irresponsible disposal of toxic waste.”

  “Absolutely.” Lennon picked up her notepad and totebag and prepared to leave. “When you think of the innocent people in those neighborhoods and the scum who, just to save a few bucks, dump that stuff illegally, it’s enough to make your blood boil. They poison the land, the water, the air. And all for a few bucks. And if they’re found out, they may get a small fine and an insignificant jail term. But with any luck, we can fry them in print!”

  “Go get’em!”

  “Oh, good, here’s Tony.” Father O’Dowd welcomed Father Gennardo to the luncheon table.

  Father Budreau rose to greet his friend and attempted to help seat him.

  “Please, please,” Gennardo protested, “I’m all right. Just a little slow.” He snorted.

  “Snow? Snow?” asked Father Dye. “We aren’t expecting any more snow, are we?”

  “How are you feeling, Father?” asked Father Feeny.

  “I’m coming along. It takes time, I guess. I am forced to conclude it is no fun being shot.”

  “I can attest to that,” said Budreau.

  “I didn’t know you’d ever been shot.” O’Dowd was surprised.

  “Not I,” said Budreau, “but I’ve seen and ministered to any number of boys who bought it on the battlefield.”

  “Ah, yes. In your military career.” O’Dowd remembered all too well.

  “I just don’t want to be treated as a martyr,” Gennardo protested.r />
  “Thank God you didn’t become a martyr,” said Budreau.

  “That’s an interesting point,” O’Dowd observed. “To be a martyr, one must live up to the etymology of the word ‘martyr,’ and die as a ‘witness’ to the faith.”

  “The point being?” asked Budreau.

  “It goes back to the motive as, I believe, the police would say. A martyr dies because he or she is witnessing to the faith. The one responsible for the martyr’s death kills the martyr because of what the martyr believes.”

  “So?”

  “Why are these priests being attacked? Why was Father Gennardo shot?”

  There was a prolonged silence as each elderly priest seemed to consider this question in the light of martyrdom for the first time.

  “No offense, Father Gennardo,” Feeny broke the silence, “but it could not be because of the faith. That makes no sense in this day and age. Besides, why single out Fathers Ward, Merrit, Sklarski, Koesler, and yourself? Where is the common denominator?”

  Again silence.

  “Probably somebody who doesn’t like priests,” Dye observed.

  “That’s probably correct,” said O’Dowd, who, from time to time tried to encourage his friend, who was fighting a losing battle against senility.

  “Common denominator?” Gennardo stabbed a large chunk of lettuce from his salad. “I don’t see one, outside of the fact that we are all priests and none, of us is exactly young.”

  “And the fact that all are seminary professors,” O’Dowd added.

  “So far,” said Feeny.

  “Borrowing from George’s earlier observation,” said O’Dowd, “perhaps it has something to do with hating elderly seminary professors.”

  “But why?” asked Budreau.

  “I don’t know,” O’Dowd admitted.

  “Maybe the movie will shed some light on it,” Dye offered.

  “The movie!” Feeny almost spat the words. “Can you imagine bringing all those foreign people into the seminary in the old days! Disrupting the order of the house and making a mockery of the priesthood! It isn’t likely those movie people can tell us anything.”