by Mark Zubro
Bruchard settled himself and said, “Bishop Kappel’s death is a great tragedy. All who knew him cared for him and loved him. He did great, good work for Holy Mother Church.”
Fenwick said, “All who knew and loved him except one, probably more than one.”
Turner asked, “How well did you know Bishop Kappel?”
“All of us in the Chicago province knew each other. He and I were dear friends. His loss is most grievous.”
“Did he have enemies?” Fenwick asked. “Someone who wished him ill?”
“We are a prayerful, monastic order of men dedicated to God.”
Which didn’t answer the question.
Fenwick said, “We’d like to examine his room.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m sure there’s nothing there that would help in your investigation.”
Fenwick said, “We’d like to make that decision ourselves.”
“I’m afraid as this is church property, that won’t be possible.”
Turner said, “He lived here and in a condo in one of the most expensive addresses in the city with his lover Bishop Tresca.”
Bruchard frowned. “I’m aware of the condo.”
And that’s all he said.
Fenwick said, “Bishop Kappel’s name is listed as the owner. If he took a vow of poverty, how could he afford that?”
“I’m sure you’re aware that church finances are not the purview of the Chicago police department.”
Fenwick asked, “Is Bishop Tresca here right now?”
“We’re all adults here. We don’t do bed checks.”
“Would you check?”
“I don’t remember him being here.” He made no move to ascertain Tresca’s whereabouts. If there was an intercom system, he was not going to use it. If there was a room to visit, he was not going to go there or send someone there. No search of the premises seemed to be in the offing.
After several moments of silence during which the Abbot eyed them with bland indifference, Turner asked, “Were they lovers?”
“The church has said that homosexuality is an intrinsic disorder that is grounds for not being admitted to the priesthood.”
“Did anyone report or notice that Kappel was missing?”
“Again, we are all adults. We don’t do bed checks.”
“Did they have any friends or enemies, especially someone who wished them ill?”
“I’m sure we all have friends and enemies who wish us ill, even detectives on the Chicago police department.”
Fenwick asked, “It doesn’t worry you that one of your priests was murdered?”
“Are you sure it was murder?”
Fenwick said, “Unless he broke his own knees and then bashed his own head in with a baseball bat, which was not at the scene, yeah, it was murder.”
“Are you attempting to be amusing, Detective? Do you treat everything as a joke?”
“Just you.”
The Abbot frowned and gave him a look drenched in pity. “Someday you’re going to laugh or make a joke at the wrong moment.”
“And this is that?” Fenwick asked. He returned the Abbot’s look of pity with a bemused condescension worthy of the most hardened Vatican bureaucrat or Chicago gangbanger. He said, “It won’t be my first or last opportune or inopportune moment. How about you? I think you’re pretty funny.”
The Abbot said, “I think you’re sad.”
“I think you’re ahead on pathetic points so far,” Fenwick retorted. “And no, murder is rarely funny, but you are.”
Turner knew that showing this amount of hostility this quickly meant that Fenwick hated the guy.
The Abbot said, “I sense hostility, Detective.”
“I sense obfuscation, Abbot,” Fenwick replied.
They glared at each other. After a few moments, the Abbot spoke first. “Are you saying there’s a killer targeting bishops? Priests? Members of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order? I’d say that was more your problem as an inability to protect the faithful from persecution, an attack on religious freedom.”
Turner asked, “Did Bishop Kappel have any family that needs to be notified?”
This question brought the first break in the Abbot’s demeanor. He paused for a moment. “I don’t know.”
“Who would?”
“I’m not sure.”
Turner thought this was a crock.
The Abbot said, “We’ll need his personal effects, his wallet back.”
Turner said, “They’re part of a murder investigation. Perhaps when we’re done.”
“We’re eager to follow all procedure.”
Fenwick asked, “Do you employ or have any knowledge of a large burly man who was seen banging on the door of Kappel and Tresca’s condominium?”
“There are numerous large, burly men in this world, yourself for example. Do you have that large, burly person’s name?”
Turner ignored the question. “Bishop Kappel is listed in numerous articles on the Internet as an investigator for the church.” Silence from the Abbot. Turner pursued it. “Was he investigating something or someone who might want to kill him?”
“He was investigating internal church matters which I am not at liberty to discuss.”
“Where were you last night around midnight?” Fenwick asked.
The Abbot smiled enigmatically and didn’t answer.
Turner said, “Cardinal Duggan is a member of your order.”
“That’s not a secret nor is it a crime.”
In ten more minutes of conversation, they got not the slightest bit of information out of him. Turner felt as much rising frustration as Fenwick did. His partner sighed and grumbled. The Abbot ignored him.
Bruchard pressed a button, and after a few minutes Graffius entered the room. He nodded his head to the Abbot who said, “If you would show these gentlemen out?”
Graffius limped ahead of them down the hall. Turner said, “I’m sorry for the way you’re forced to live.”
Graffius spoke softly, “Hush for a moment.”
When they exited the great hall into the vestibule, Graffius cast a haunted look back behind them. He nodded and led them to a door on the right. It opened soundlessly into a short hall. He ushered them through it. The detectives kept their hands near their guns and their senses on high alert. All the medieval elegance and cleric obfuscation didn’t dull their awareness of that which might be dangerous.
Graffius led them into a ten-by-twenty foot chapel lit only by rack upon rack of glowing red votive candles near the front. He collapsed into the last pew on the right.
Turner sat next to him and Fenwick leaned against the pew in front of them.
“He didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Graffius asked.
“No,” Turner said.
“Liars and fools.” He breathed deeply as if exhausted. He ran his hand over his pate and disturbed the wisps of white hair barely a whit. “I was Abbot. Forced out years ago by these so-called political priests. I believed in real Christianity. Then God punished me for my pride. I thought I knew best. I thought no one would listen to their palaver about taking up arms against the enemies of Christ.”
“Who were they?”
Graffius coughed. “Their greed and their blind ambition.” He’d been speaking in a rush. He paused now, breathed deeply, and then began rocking himself back and forth in the pew.
Turner felt sorry for him. “Can we get you something?” he asked.
The aged cleric shook his head, wrapped his arms around his torso, drew a deep breath, and stopped rocking and then resumed. “My greatest sin, my greatest hubris, came in 1968. We thought our little bit of pride could change the world.” He shut his eyes, rocked himself again, then gazed mournfully at Turner. “We were driving to Washington D.C. for a protest. We were going to burn draft records. We never got there. Our car went off the highway just the other side of Cleveland. Two of us died, one a dear friend, a priest, the other a seminarian. My spine has been wrong ever
since. I’ve paid for my pride with years of pain.” He sighed. “But you don’t want to hear that.”
Turner said, “You were trying to do good.”
“We failed as will all who try to do good. Evil will triumph. It always does.” He gave Turner a sad, wan smile. “You want to solve your mystery. As if that would make any difference to the corpse. He’s dead. He won’t care. And these other bishops and priests and the Cardinal himself, will care even less. Your investigation is a threat to them. You should look to fear for yourselves, to protect yourselves and the ones you love.”
“What could they do to us?” Fenwick asked. “They can’t excommunicate us or deny us communion.”
“You shouldn’t be flip. The Catholic Church relies on threats to one’s faith when it can. When it has to, it can be a very real and a very serious institution indeed. Be careful. Take note. Kappel is dead. Be afraid.”
Fenwick asked, “Are you saying members of the Order conspired to kill him? Or if we’re investigating, they’d conspire to kill us?”
He rocked some more then whispered, “I don’t know. They are capable of anything.”
“Did Kappel or Tresca have specific enemies who would conspire against them?”
“Their enemies were legion, and they had no friends. Although they did have each other. They loved each other, I think, in their way. At least that was something.”
A door to the chapel opened. Abbot Bruchard stepped into the room and marched toward them. At his approach Graffius cowered back.
“Ah, Graffius, I didn’t see you at your post. I was afraid you’d fallen asleep or perhaps become ill. I assume you’re all right.” He glared at the officers. “You detectives don’t seem to have quite made it to the door.”
Turner asked, “Brother Graffius, are you all right?”
“He’s fine,” Bruchard said.
Fenwick said, “He can answer for himself.”
Graffius hung his head. They saw him nod, heard him mumble, “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Excellent! Gentleman, I’ll see you out myself.”
He ushered them to the front door. Moments later the detectives were in their car and on their way back to Area Ten. They stopped at Casa Lenora, a twenty-four hour deli at the corner of North and Elston. It was Fenwick’s new favorite stop for artery-clogging sandwiches. Fenwick got the Italian with the works including hot peppers. Turner got an antipasto salad. They ate at a picnic table in the not-that-cool night air. After he chewed and swallowed his first gargantuan bite and guzzled half of his diet soda, Fenwick said, “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. And I don’t like the Abbot.”
Turner said, “I agree. Although, frankly I’m a little disappointed there hasn’t been an Abbot and Costello reference from you.”
“The fucking Abbot wasn’t funny.”
“Well, then you have something in common.”
Fenwick growled and chewed and then slurped some more from his extra-large diet soda.
Turner ate a forkful of salad then said, “Graffius was a revelation. I felt sorry for the old guy.”
Fenwick said, “Me too.”
Turner sighed. “Murder is a First Amendment attack on the Catholic church?”
“Just like contraception isn’t.”
“We’ve heard dumber shit.”
“Name one.”
“We’re going to make a list of dumb things criminals have said to us?” Turner asked.
“It’d be a best seller. I can see the title now. Criminals Say the Darndest Things, or Stupidity; the Real Story, or the Stupidest Criminals of Cook County.” Fenwick’s eyes gleamed. “Or a reality show based on stupid.”
Turner said, “Isn’t that kind of redundant?”
Fenwick smiled. “I hate when you’re right.”
Turner remembered last winter when Jeff and a couple of his buddies, including Arvin, had spent several months of Saturday nights obsessing over some television show the name of which Turner vaguely recalled, maybe “Surviving Singer.” He wasn’t sure. Brian used to tease the younger boys unmercifully. His suggestion was that instead of denying the contestants food and water until they could sing, they deprive the contestants of such necessities until just after the nick of time, when, the older teenager said, he hoped they’d all “Keel over and shut up.” Paul and Ben had been forced to intervene and ban Brian from the room while the younger kids obsessed. The ultimate parental question to Brian had been, “What is it to you?”
Brian’s response had been, “It’s a stupid waste of time.”
“And did any of us make comments when you obsessed over activities of questionable use when you were younger?”
When Brian hesitated, Ben had said, “Do not dare to claim that every single one of those video games had intrinsic moral value.”
Brian had said, “Every single one of those games had intrinsic moral value.” Brian and his dads had laughed. And after that the older teenager left the younger kids alone.
Turner returned to the conversation. “Why’d he ask about the wallet?”
Fenwick shrugged. “So the official line is all was sweetness and light, and we are to butt out, and the unofficial line is they are all threats to each other, willing to cut each other’s hearts out.”
“Sounds like a lot of organizations we’ve dealt with.”
“More secretive with more protections. And a readily available supply of toadies to hold down people as you’re beating them to death with a baseball bat.”
Turner said, “And we’ve got his knees broken before death. A lot of anger or a lot of torture.”
“Torture for the hell of it, or torture to get him to tell something he knew, or to punish him? Or maybe all of the above?”
“We’ll have to see if we can get Molton to budge those Church people on being more cooperative.”
Fenwick shook his head. “I don’t hold out much hope. Not because Molton isn’t good, but this is the Catholic Church in Chicago. They may not be what they once were, but they still have influence.”
Turner said, “Unfortunately, I think you’re right, but there’s more odd shit.”
“What?”
“One of their own was missing and they weren’t concerned? Running around frantically looking?”
“Maybe he went missing a lot or was gone for long periods of time. Or they were frantically looking but didn’t feel the need to call the police or tell us about it just now. If he lived at the condo, would the people at the Abbey know where he was?”
“Presumably Tresca would.”
“Tresca who may or may not exist at the Abbey.”
“That’s strange, but I still don’t get why the Abbot wanted Kappel’s stuff?”
“There’s a clue in it that leads to the murderer?”
“I didn’t see any.”
NINE
Saturday 9:20 P.M.
It was just after nine. The temperature had sunk into the lower fifties. Fenwick parked their car in the cop-lot. Ian Hume emerged from the shadow of a building ten feet away.
Ian was a reporter for the Gay Tribune, the largest gay newspaper in Chicago. Many years ago he had been Turner’s first partner on the police force and his first lover. He wore his trademark slouch fedora, khaki pants, and leather jacket.
“You could come into the station,” Turner said.
“As an ex-cop, I’m not real popular around here.”
“Does anybody really remember you?”
“I don’t want to take the chance,” Ian said. “There was a big limo out here earlier. You guys riding in style?”
“You see a big, furtive guy?” Fenwick asked.
“Bigger than you?”
“But more furtive,” Turner said.
Ian asked, “Is it more burly than Fenwick or burlier than Fenwick?”
“Who cares?” Turner asked.
Ian sneered. “Philistine.” And added, “I don’t know about the people inside. It had tinted windows.”
“Why are we being
graced with a late night visit?” Turner asked.
“I hear you got a bishop for a corpse.”
“Not a secret.”
“I have news about their secrets.”
Fenwick said, “You were dating the dead guy, his lover, and their pet goldfish.”
“They had a goldfish?” Ian asked.
“What do you know?” Turner asked.
“I used to date one of the priests in the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order.”
“You were dating a priest?” Fenwick asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“You’re kind of radically gay, right?”
“What does that mean?” Ian asked.
Turner leaned back to listen to the exchange, slightly fascinated, slightly amused, mostly wanting to get on with their work so he could get home.
Fenwick asked, “You find the church’s teachings offensive, right?”
“I kind of think the love-your-neighbor, do-unto-others parts have a lot going for them, maybe even a certain appeal. After that, not so much, and sure, the anti-gay stuff is pretty nuts, among other things.”
“And you didn’t mind dating a representative of those offensive teachings?”
“I’m not prejudiced. If we could only date people with flawless personalities, how’d you ever get married?”
Fenwick said, “I have hidden perfections.”
“Well hidden indeed,” Ian murmured.
Fenwick said, “You were willing to date a guy who believed you were an intrinsic disorder?”
“He didn’t whisper church doctrines in my ear when we fucked. Mostly he called out, ‘Make me daddy.’”
“The point of this?” Turner asked. “I’d like to get home before the end of the month.”
Ian said, “I think the guy I used to date would be willing to talk to you about these guys.”
“He knew the dead guy?” Fenwick asked.
“All the guys in the Chicago province of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order knew each other, at least peripherally. All of them knew Kappel, Tresca, Abbot Bruchard, and Cardinal Duggan.”
“Intimately?” Fenwick asked.
“That’s what I’m hoping he’d be willing to tell you.”
