Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  Nothing had changed.

  Even today, a young couple—mirror images of himself and Abby—would be condemned to the same frightening fate. Any one of the shrinking number of obedient young Catholics could have their lives ruined because a series of popes had remained—and continued to remain—closed to reason and medical knowledge.

  And now, another pope was about to make things worse.

  In the years since Abby’s and Antoinette’s deaths, David had retreated from a social life that might be expected of a single young man. His time was spent either alone or in the company of several priest friends. From them, he had heard all the rumors surrounding the coming papal visit. Of those of his friends who believed these rumors, some were indifferent. To them the matter had been settled long ago and not in accord with papal thinking. Others were outraged that the pope would apply this added pressure.

  Some priests of course were in total agreement with the pope. None of these were among David’s friends.

  Clearly, the bitterness that filled Dave’s soul had grown rather than faded over all these years. As far as he was concerned, his beautiful young wife had suffered a completely unnecessary death. Her death was a festering wound that, in itself, programmed his current life.

  He had had many opportunities to date women. He accepted few of them. He never allowed himself to become serious with any woman. In effect, he was neither a widower, nor was he single; he was married to a dream.

  His emotions were volcanic and ready to erupt. This papal visit was becoming the spark that could cause chaos.

  Without being bid entry, plans were beginning to form in his conscious mind. At first they had seemed harmless daydreams. But now he was testing them for feasibility.

  Through his priest friends, David had become familiar with the scheduled events that would culminate in the pontifical Mass.

  As a prelude to this Mass, to be celebrated in Cobo Arena, one of the largest indoor structures in the city of Detroit, several related conferences were to be held. The thinking of his clergy friends was that these conferences would be geared to smooth the pope’s path.

  But at the time these meetings were to be held, the pope would not yet have left Rome.

  When the pope actually arrived in Detroit at least the first phases of his arrival would be a carbon copy of the previous papal visit.

  His plane would land at Detroit Metropolitan Airport and taxi to the General Motors hangar. There he would be met by Cardinal Boyle, and all of Detroit’s auxiliary bishops, of course. All the civil dignitaries that could be rounded up would be present, including Michigan’s governor and other state officials.

  The pope would no sooner hit the ground than he would be surrounded by a ton of security, federal, state, and local.

  David’s best guess was that it would be next to impossible for anyone to breach that security. Some of them would be fawning. Some would be delirious with celestial joy. Some—particularly Boyle—would be cool: They had met a pope before. In Boyle’s case, he had helped elect the pope.

  A goodly number of those physically close to the pope in concentric circles would be heavily armed. They would not hesitate to shoot to kill should anyone attempt to attack the pope.

  In any case, if the pope survived Metro Airport, he and the other bishops, and as many priests as could fit, would board a helicopter and, with a heavy air escort, travel to Sacred Heart Major Seminary in almost the heart of Detroit. The spacious grounds of the seminary had formed one of the borders of the brutal ’67 riot. With a huge, completely fenced-in playfield, and with the principal players inside a circling shield of protectors, things should be pretty secure.

  When, next, the papal motorcade traveled the short distance to Blessed Sacrament Cathedral, security would have to break down to some degree. For the occasion, the cathedral would be filled with clergy and Very Important Catholics. This would be a relatively short stopover.

  With the pope entering from the rear of the cathedral and proceeding down the middle aisle, he would be quite near to those closest to the center of the church. While an attack would not be anticipated from anyone in this gathering, still there were all those angry and alienated priests. An attack here? Unlikely, but still possible.

  In any case, if he survived to this point, the pope would then retire for the night, surrounded by maximum security.

  However, the next day was a different matter.

  There was the public pontifical Mass in Cobo Arena. No one could provide fail-safe security to match the size of that crowd.

  Here, actually, David thought, was the ideal place and moment for an attack. To strike just before the pope was scheduled to make his dogmatic declaration—-that would give maximum meaning to the act.

  Throughout this scenario, David had not identified the person who might level this assault. Obviously, it would have to be someone who was able to draw near the pope—ideally someone with the credentials that would gain him or her access to the man.

  As conductor of the combined choirs, David would be so accredited. In that capacity, he would be only several yards from the pope, with no one between them.

  He had identified the best place and time for an attempted murder. Now: Who would do it?

  Whoever did it probably would not survive the deed. Whoever did it would have to leave behind some document explaining the motive as well as the necessity.

  In the calm of this Sunday evening, David realized that if by the time the pope was about to make the promulgation, no one had acted to prevent it, he himself would be the last best hope.

  The thought made him tremble.

  The deed would make him a murderer.

  And it would make him a victim.

  He did not want to die.

  Could he die for this cause?

  David thought again of Abby. How different his life would have been if she had lived.

  He thought of Catholics of a strict observance. Somewhere out there was another Abby—undoubtedly more than one.

  He did not want to kill anybody. The very thought was repugnant. But if the pope were to promulgate such a restrictive doctrine, a lot of innocent people would have their lives shattered.

  He would have to center his imagination on Abby. But, yes, if pressed, he could do it.

  So little time, so many preparations to be made: He’d better prepare the document, his apologia.

  He started toward his desk, when another thought occurred. Perhaps there was a way to accomplish this goal without killing the pope. Perhaps there was a way to dissuade the pope from pursuing his course.

  It was well worth some serious thought.

  11

  The dictionary defines “gang” as “a group of persons working toward unlawful or antisocial ends; esp: a band of antisocial adolescents.”

  Detroit had a frightening number of gangs. But so too did many large particularly industrial cities in the United States and other countries.

  One of the most disturbing of Detroit gangs was the group that called itself the Young Boys. For this is what they were: very young African American boys. Too young to be sentenced to a traditional prison, their lockup was more likely to be some form of reformatory. And, due to their tender age, they generally were not held for any significant period.

  The Young Boys were controlled by slightly older young men, who, if convicted of any of the crimes for which they were responsible, would be in Jackson State Penitentiary—“Jacktown”—for a very long time, if not for life.

  But the Young Boys were by no means the only local group of antisocial adolescents, merely, for their time of ascendancy, the most troublesome. There were many other gangs. Some destructed by attrition as members were murdered by rival gangs or even by those in their own camp.

  Among the most active recruiters were the proliferating Latino gangs. The bottom line for most of these groups was to force prospective members into a position of either being “for us” or “against us”—with an early death the likely outcome
of either choice.

  The group of young people now gathered in the Vanderwehl basement by no means fit the general profile of a modern gang. But by definition, “a group of persons working toward antisocial or unlawful ends,” this was a blue ribbon gang.

  At this moment, they were in their own self-described mode of a “cooldown.” In a sense, they were not unlike the Jets of West Side Story.

  Near the end of that musical, the Jets have had a “rumble” with another New York City gang, the Sharks. Both gangs thought this would be a fight, quite probably bloody, to establish territorial rights. Things got out of hand, however, and there were two killings.

  The scene of the Jets in an abandoned building immediately after the deaths is arresting. The now-leaderless gang is so frenetic it is all they can do to keep from exploding emotionally.

  The group presently gathered in the Vanderwehl basement was in an emotional state almost identical to that of the fictional Jets. Except that the “Golds,” as this gang called itself, were or appeared to be too cool to let the explosiveness express itself. There was no pacing or finger snapping or shouting. But their eyes were wildly out of focus.

  Until this evening, this had been a routine, even boring, Sunday.

  Most of the day had been spent cruising the Birmingham Bloomfield suburbs. They had been ready, eager for action. But, seemingly, no one else was.

  In late afternoon they had returned to the Vanderwehl estate. The owners of this mansion, and parents of Rick Vanderwehl, were in their winter retreat in the Virgin Islands. Usually they stayed in their Bloomfield Hills residence until after Christmas. But this year winter had become serious early on and Mrs. Vanderwehl particularly grew tired of the snow. So Mr. and Mrs. V had staged an early escape.

  They left Rick behind. There was school and his friends and all. But, today being Sunday, school was out and Rick’s friends were in.

  Rick’s friends were four in number—all, like Rick, high school seniors. In tow were the boys’ steadies. There being nothing better to do, they ordered pizzas delivered. That was followed by group grope, group sex, and gang bangs. After which the young women were casually dismissed.

  Since there was no consensus for evening activity, Rick decided to return to cruising. Something had to develop.

  It did, on a lonely stretch of Franklin Road.

  A lone driver, a woman, in a silver BMW traveling at the speed limit. On a rise in the road, none of the Golds could spot another vehicle either ahead or behind.

  Rick moved his Jaguar up slowly but steadily until it was almost touching her car. At that point he bumped the BMW gently.

  Her head shot up and around. Obviously she had been unaware of the vehicle behind her. She sped up. So did Rick.

  He bumped her car again, this time harder since they were going faster.

  Then she made a serious mistake. She’d read it in the papers. She’d heard it on the radio. She’d seen it on television. When something like this occurs, drive to a well-lit, crowded area. Or, better yet, drive to a police station. Under no circumstances stop your car.

  She stopped her car and got out.

  She was furious.

  A second later she was terrified.

  Rick’s entourage descended on her. Before she could step clear of her car, they picked her up and threw her into the backseat of the BMW. Three of the young men crowded in with her. The fourth got behind the wheel and drove off. Rick followed.

  They headed for a parking lot behind a series of shops on Telegraph Road. Since the shops were closed, the lot was only dimly lit.

  By the time the two cars reached the lot, she had been stripped. The gang rape had begun.

  When the third young man began to mount her, her screams took on one coherent word—his name.

  He immediately lost his erection. He scrambled backward out of the car. “She knows me!” he screamed to Rick.

  “Shut up!” Rick frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure! I know her. She lives in our neighborhood.”

  “You could have told us a little earlier, you know.” Rick was covering rage with his usual flippancy.

  “No! I didn’t know! I was driving. I didn’t get a look at her till she saw me. She recognized me, okay!? What the hell are we going to do?”

  Rick pondered that. Then he took a small-caliber pistol out of his jacket. He offered it handle-first to the other, who shrank in horror. “What the hell is this?” he exploded.

  “A gun,” Rick said calmly.

  “I know it’s a goddam gun!” He stopped, stuttered. “Y-you … you d-don’t expect m-me to—oh, no! That’s murder one!”

  “It’s murder one if they catch you. Let that bitch live and you’ll be in Jacktown until you’re old enough to be her grandfather.”

  “There must be …” But he began to see the situation clearly. It was exactly as Rick stated it: If she lived, he probably would spend most of the rest of his life—or at least the best part of it—in prison. And if he tried to take any of the other Golds with him, he’d be a dead man.

  “Look at it this way,” Rick said calmly, “we’re lucky we’ve got a gun. This way it’s not messy. One shot, maybe two, and it’s over. You don’t have to hit her or strangle her or knife her, nothing like that. No muss, no fuss. Simple for everybody—including the bitch.”

  It sounded so reasonable, so logical. It was inevitable. He was the one she’d recognized; he was the one who had to do it.

  But killing someone! He’d done a lot in his young life, but he’d never killed anyone. Animals, yes; but a human being …

  “How should I do it?”

  Rick laughed. “Pull the trigger, you jackass.”

  “I mean, where do I shoot her? Where do I point … where do I put the bullet?”

  “Well, don’t shoot her in her big toe. Put it in her brain.”

  “How …?”

  “Look, get back in the car. When she sees you, she’ll probably open her mouth. She’ll probably start begging. It’s even money she knows that IDing you was a king-size mistake. So she’ll try to talk her way out of this. When she opens her mouth, just put the barrel of the gun in it and fire. That’s it. Easy.”

  With a shaking hand, he took the gun. Slowly he crawled back into the car where the other three were holding her down. Just as Rick had predicted, she was pleading for her life.

  When she saw him, her eyes grew wide, as if he alone could save her. Her mouth opened …

  While Rick stood guard, the others worked diligently; no print or clue must be left.

  When they were done, Rick checked it all over. Clean.

  They returned in the Jaguar to the Vanderwehl home.

  Had they been the Jets, by now they would be nervously pacing up and down the basement. They would be acting out their disorientation, their gnawing fear.

  But they were not the Jets, misfits and castoffs of society, “depraved on account of we’re deprived.”

  No, they were the Golds. Their problem was not poverty, but affluence. Most of them came from extremely wealthy families. Since, in their experience, everything in life had a price, and money was the answer to everything, the parents reasoned that they could buy a present and a future for their children.

  The children’s response to life on a silver platter was boredom.

  However, this Sunday evening they had chanced upon a remedy for boredom: murder.

  So, while they were not engaged in choreographed rage, as the Jets had been, the Golds were every bit as much on the breaking edge.

  The Golds were cool. The Golds could take everything in stride. If all else failed, their parents could always buy them out of trouble’s way.

  Were they really cool?

  The silence of the oversize rec room was broken by sobs. At first quiet and restrained, then racked and agonized. It was the young man who had pulled the trigger.

  The others, except for Rick, were first embarrassed, then troubled by the realization that they s
hared Ronnie’s guilt. Outside of the sobs, which were growing into cries of self-torture, the room was deathly silent.

  “Okay, okay …” Rick’s voice was as commanding as it was sympathetic. He would have been a leader no matter what course his life had taken. “Let’s put a cap on this. We haven’t got a thing to worry about. We covered our tracks.”

  “Covered our tracks!” Ronnie, red-eyed, was breathing irregularly. “We just killed a woman! We just killed a goddam woman!”

  Rick looked at Ronnie as if he were an interesting but foreign insect under the microscope in a biology class. He was always surprised that he was so far ahead of everyone else in seeing what the future held. “Hey, it’s not like we never killed before.”

  “Killed before!” It was John’s turn to be surprised. “You mean animals! We killed animals! Dogs, cats, birds, ’coons … like that. Just animals. This was a woman! A human being, for God’s sake.”

  “Dog, cat, mouse, woman, man … what difference? That’s what it’s all about,” Rick said. “We’re born, we live, we die. That’s it. That lady could be in some hospital right now telling the cops what happened to her. She’d be a little worse for wear, but she’d still be hangin’ on. She had the tough luck to know Ronnie.

  “Even then, if she’d pretended that she didn’t recognize him, she’d’ve made it. Tough luck. But that’s the way the witch burns.”

  Somehow he was making sense. It wasn’t their fault. They’d just been out for some kicks. They’d had plenty of sex with their girlfriends. But that couldn’t touch the thrill of doing it to somebody who resisted.

  Somehow it made sense that the whole thing was her fault. She’d done everything—stopped her car, got out, fought them every step of the way. Yeah, she’d done it all just right until she let on she knew one of them.

  So they had no alternative. It was like she put the bullet in her own head.

  So, instead of getting treated and released from the hospital, instead of being able to tell her country club girlfriends about her exciting experience, instead of being alive and recovering, now she was gonna be on a slab in the fridge in the morgue waiting to be identified.