by Mark Zubro
He smiled at them. “Word has gone out not to talk to you two. We all got phone calls.”
“Hell of a lot of calls. They weren’t afraid we’d find out?”
“Two things. They are confident of their power. And they aren’t afraid of two city of Chicago detectives.”
“But you’re willing to talk to us?” Turner asked.
“Of course. I hate the Abbot and the Order. And those two.” He spat. “Kappel and Tresca! Ha! Priests! They didn’t believe in prayer or God any more than this cane does.”
“Why did they stay?”
“This life is cushy. Why would you give it up? The gullible contribute, and we live easy.”
“Aren’t you guilty of the same thing?” Fenwick asked.
“What the hell do you think I’m going to do after all these years? I’ve got no Social Security. I’ve just got what the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order provides. A roof over my head and a pittance.”
Turner realized Keerkins was echoing Garch’s view of the financial peril of elderly priests. He said, “They lived in a condo on Lake Shore Drive. Kappel’s name is listed as the owner. How could he afford it?”
“Some of us take our vow of poverty more seriously than others.”
“That doesn’t really answer the question,” Turner said.
“Most likely it was given to him, a donation from a rich, guilt-ridden Catholic.”
“Wouldn’t he have to pay taxes and condo fees?”
“He wrote books, lots of text books. He made a good private income.”
Fenwick said, “I’m kind of lost on this vow of poverty stuff. How does that work?”
“They don’t promise to be poor, although there are some religious orders that do that. By poverty they more likely mean, and in this case do mean, that everything is held in common.”
“So anybody could live in that condo?”
“Oh, my dear, no. Some things are held in common more than others. You don’t know what those two were like. They had their little fists deep into financial chicanery on at least two continents, but oh, my, those two and their carrying-on go back a long, long way.”
“Were they molesting children?” Fenwick asked.
“Oh, my, no. As far as I know, they were seducing adults starting from an early age. One rumor claims they were quite active before they entered the seminary, but one must be very careful of poisonous rumors in today’s Church. No, my guess is a whole lot of people might be afraid of them blabbing about what they’d done. They’ve had years of practice at being fake. Fake outrage at liberal politicians. You know Kappel helped put out those press releases about the evils of destroying religious freedom? Shock at the immorality of contraception? Kappel and Tresca helped engineer that. They helped with calculated leaks to the media. They worked with politicians. They’re up to their armpits in intrigue with that sanctimonious prick, Vern Drake.”
“What was the connection there?”
“I’m sure they were of use to each other. Tresca and Kappel never did anything unless it benefited themselves.”
Fenwick asked, “Those two could do all those things you claimed?”
“Certainly. They were a perfect pair and had worked their formula for years. Tresca was more gregarious, more political. He could smooth and schmooze, entertain and explain. All that glad-handing Tresca did, it was all hypocrisy, all for show. He was as misanthropic as Kappel, but Kappel was more open about his. They were in the middle of plotting and planning in this diocese, in this religious Order, in this country, and in the Vatican. Be assured, if they weren’t in thick with the Cardinal, they’d be much less. But they are in league with him, and that makes them far more dangerous.”
“So they weren’t harming kids. What were they doing so long ago?” Fenwick asked.
“The two of them screwed every priest in the province they could get their hands on. The key is they did whatever they could get away with. And they seem to have done just that, at least until now.” With studied care, he lifted his glass of Scotch, gulped for a second, then replaced it with fussy carefulness on the exact same spot he took it from. The whole process took nearly a minute to achieve. His hand trembled throughout. He resumed, “I heard they started when they were kids. When I knew them back then, they were hot. Tresca wore the tightest pants of any seminarian, and he had a crotch bulge in the front of his pants to make any remotely gay person drool, priest or not. He thought he was funny too. You know he does imitations?”
“Imitations?” Fenwick asked.
“You know, Jimmy Stewart, that stuff. Tresca was the buffoon in that relationship. Kappel was the smart one.”
“People knew they were lovers?”
“I assume everyone knew. Who would be willing to admit to having that knowledge, I have no idea.”
Turner said, “You had a relationship with them.”
Keerkins gave him a vinegary smile. “I never had a ‘relationship’ with either one although I did screw them both, separately, not together.”
Turner only cared who slept with whom if it had a connection to the murder. “Tresca seemed pretty shaken at the news of Kappel’s death.”
“Maybe they made a life commitment to each other, or in their minds they were married. They had the condo as a household together, or maybe they provided easy sexual gratification for one another? There must have been some reason they stayed together.”
Turner reflected that Kappel was going outside whatever the relationship was to get sexual gratification. He wondered if Tresca was doing the same. Could this murder be as simple as a lover’s quarrel?
Fenwick asked, “Who were their enemies?”
“The list is long.”
“How about a few examples of the most angry enemies?”
“Kappel was leading the investigation into doctrinal purity at a number of universities, Pope St. Agatho’s here in Chicago for one. People could lose their jobs and security. He may also have been involved in several Vatican-ordered investigations.”
“Into what?” Turner asked.
“That I don’t know. Several years back the rumor was the Vatican wanted to rein in the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order. Then Duggan got appointed Cardinal here and Bruchard was made Abbot. It was murky and rumors flew throughout the Order. People took sides. Kappel and Tresca mostly work for the Cardinal now, so assumedly they took his side.”
“Isn’t it kind of a victory for each, if one gets to be Abbot and the other gets to be Cardinal?”
“My dear man, vast egos are involved. Who knows what drives these men?” He coughed into a hanky. Went through another hand-shaking production of taking a sip of Scotch. “I was not privy to all those intrigues. I didn’t want to be. I still heard the rumors.”
“Who else might be an enemy?” Fenwick asked.
“Besides the political intrigue with the Vatican and the Order et al, Kappel was appointed to the commissions to investigate nuns in that big crack down on evil nuns last year.”
Fenwick asked, “Are you saying that disgruntled, angry nuns killed him?”
“You asked who had reason to dislike him. The nuns ran afoul of the Holy See. That is bad no matter who you are or how much good you do. And those nuns can be tough and vicious.”
“How so?” Fenwick asked. He didn’t bother to keep the skepticism out of his voice.
“Be careful of the power of those who are actually spiritual and committed. The Vatican knows this and knows it has to be stopped, controlled, made to obey, or ruined. But those nuns, did you see the ones who were on television during the last election? Calm, reasoned, sensible, very powerful enemies against the Roman Catholic church.”
“You know of a burly guy in a limousine?” Fenwick asked.
“No, who is he?”
“We’ve heard him described as someone interested in Kappel.”
“I know of no such person.”
Turner said, “Kappel had his kneecaps broken before he died. What kind of information
would he have that he’d need to be tortured out of?”
“I don’t see Timothy as the type who would keep his mouth shut at the first sign of torture. I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever did it just didn’t like him. He was not a very nice man. He had a degree in psychology as well as ones in canon law from the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome and his MBA from Harvard and a law degree from Yale. He passed the bar in Illinois.”
Fenwick asked, “So lots of people hated Kappel and Tresca?”
“A multitude.”
“They had no friends?” Fenwick asked.
“Have you met any?”
Turner asked, “If they were such rotten human beings, how did they rise so far in the church?”
“They knew who to suck up to and when, physically, morally, and for all I know, spiritually. Some of it was competence, some of it was seduction.”
“That’s all it takes?” Fenwick asked.
“You work in a hierarchically structured bureaucracy, what do you think? None of your brethren are incompetent suckups? These were highly competent, master suckups.”
An image of Carruthers flashed in Turner’s mind. He ignored it and asked, “What else was he investigating?”
“He was the financial fixer as well. You did not want to come under his scrutiny. If you did, if you were guilty, he’d find it. Even if you weren’t guilty, you could be in trouble.”
Fenwick said, “But I thought the diocese itself was under scrutiny.”
“Kappel could have fixed it either way. He could be involved on either side,” he paused to sip Scotch, “or both for that matter.”
Fenwick asked, “Whatever happened to the priest who first reported the money problems?”
“I have no idea.”
“We need to examine those financial records.”
Keerkins choked on his sip of Scotch. “You will never get those records. Not now, not ever. The church will not let you get at them.”
Fenwick said, “But all these dioceses have been in court over bankruptcy. Don’t they have to reveal all then?”
Keerkins laughed. “A bankrupt diocese! That’s a laugh.”
“What do you mean?” Fenwick asked.
“Let me give you an example. Who is the biggest land owner in California?”
The detectives shrugged.
“The oil companies. Who is the second biggest land owner in California?”
More shrugs.
“The Roman Catholic church. Another trifling example, you know how much money the Church has tied up in land or art work? You know how much insurance they have? Another example, do you remember The Godfather II when Michael Corleone is testifying before that Congressional committee?”
Turner did. It was one of Ben’s favorite movies.
“They ask if he has money invested in casinos. Michael adds that he has investments in all kinds of legitimate companies. It’s the same with the Church and the Order. They have financial people who rival the biggest hedge-fund managers in the world, and they are accountable only to Rome.”
Fenwick asked, “And Kappel was involved in all this?”
“Oh, my yes. Up to his pretty blond eyebrows.”
“Who else would know these details?” Turner asked.
“The Cardinal. Good luck even getting to talk to him. And not all the luck in the world will get you the financial records. After the Cardinal, I don’t know.” He frowned. “The usual plethora of CPAs and financial drones any large, wealthy organization or individual has.”
“You don’t know anyone on the inside who might be willing to talk?”
Keerkins spent another couple of minutes taking his next sip of Scotch. Then he took his time pouring himself another two fingers then said, “I can make a few calls. I doubt if I’ll find anyone.”
“You talked,” Fenwick pointed out.
“I don’t like the Cardinal or the Abbot, and I have nothing much to lose.” He drained the entire contents of his newly poured Scotch.
Keerkins knew nothing more. They left.
In the car Turner said, “At least you’ve never tried doing imitations to your repertoire.”
Fenwick started the car. “Give me time.”
Turner sighed. “Maybe Kappel was investigating and skimming. What better position to be in, accusator and investigator?”
“Accusator?”
“You’re not the only poet around here.”
This was a reference to Fenwick’s fairly secret profession as a poet of no distinction. Turner had gone to his poetry readings. He was loyal, and when he attended, he always got to see Madge, Fenwick’s wife. Turner enjoyed seeing Madge; the poetry readings, not so much.
Fenwick asked, “What exactly is canon law and why should I care?”
Turner called up the Internet and read, “Unchanging rules of discipline.”
“What does that mean?”
Between fits and starts of Fenwick’s driving, Turner scrolled and read for a few minutes on the Internet about canon law. “Here’s a part that might interest you. Seems there’s a section of canon law that covers self-castration.”
“Why would I care? And why was self-castration a problem they had to address? Was there an epidemic of it?”
“Must have been a problem to at least one person.”
“A painful one. But they made a canon law about it? Carruthers isn’t going to start inspecting everyone in Chicago’s scrotum?”
“I hope not.” Turner held up a finger. “Chicago scrotum? Is that south of the Loop?”
Fenwick harrumphed. “Or the name of a bar in the Forty-third Ward near Willow and Howe during Prohibition.” Turner knew Fenwick was referring to a famous old folk song about that era in Chicago. Fenwick was continuing, “We care about canon law if it leads us to a killer. Otherwise, we do not care.”
“But lots of people must have.”
“And still do. Just not us.”
“They had to be afraid that their being gay would come out and cause them problems.”
Turner asked, “Which of our glorious suspects do you want to question next?”
“How about the liberal priest they tried to oust?”
EIGHTEEN
Sunday 4:05 P.M.
Fr. Bernard lived in a rectory on the near west side of the city. He was a tall, thin bustling man. He escorted them to a living room done in Salvation Army chic: couches that needed recovering, a rocking chair with runners that had been repaired with duct-tape, a recliner chair with maroon leather cushions with rips that had been mended with thick, bright yellow yarn. One wall had been given over to graffiti.
Bernard offered coffee. They accepted. He returned a few minutes later from the kitchen with a nicked tray upon which sat three mismatched coffee cups, spoons, a bowl of sugar, and a cup of cream.
Bernard began, “You’re here about Kappel.”
“Why would you think that?” Fenwick asked.
“The son of a bitch tried to destroy me. And he was still investigating me and this parish. He was told to find something wrong.”
“He told you that?”
“Right up front. He didn’t care what good I’d done in this parish or what the people in the community needed or how much success we’ve had.”
“What exactly was he investigating?”
“He wanted to accuse me of molesting boys. Problem with that, I’ve never done it. Although, as you know, the accusation would have been enough. Either way, he didn’t get around to it.”
“Or got stopped by someone with a reason to murder him.”
“Or that.”
“What else was he investigating?” Fenwick asked.
“The parish finances.”
“Was there something wrong with them?”
“No. I’ve kept perfect books for all these years. Plus he wanted copies of all my sermons and of all the church bulletins I’d put out. He wanted my correspondence. Kappel claimed he was checking for doctrinal purity, but really he was looking for an ex
cuse. He was told to come down here and “clean up this parish.” Basically the Cardinal wanted obedience to his dictates. Obedience is real important to John Cardinal Duggan. More important than priests or people.” He sipped some coffee. “My demotion wasn’t enough. He and they wanted my ruination. He should have been investigating the diocese’s finances. He should have been investigating that religious Order he was in. The Pope’s commandos. Ha! The Pope’s lackeys.”
“There were financial irregularities in both?”
“I presume so. No, I have no proof, but even a few vague rumors made it into the local papers. Mostly about the diocese and the banks they supposedly had money in.”
“But that was under the last Cardinal. Wasn’t Duggan brought in to clean it up?”
“Or profit from it. The financial chicanery can be easily covered up. Who examines these people? Not outside consultants. The Vatican has a CPA police to monitor dioceses. Religious orders? There it gets murky about who is called to account for what. I’m a diocesan priest. I know nothing about those priests in the Order. I have too much to do in my parish to pay attention to gossip and rumors.”
“Do you know anyone connected with the old Cardinal’s finances?”
“I can make some calls and see if I can get someone to talk to you.”
“You can’t give us a name or names?”
“No. Although I do have advice for you.”
“What?” Fenwick asked.
“Be careful.”
Fenwick asked, “You know a big, burly, furtive guy?”
Bernard looked confused. “No.”
Turner said, “Please call us if you find someone who will talk.”
“If I do, I will call.”
In the car Fenwick said, “All these guys are old.” Turner’s cell phone rang. It was Ian. “I got in touch with Tyron Bruno from that liberal Catholic paper. He’s willing to talk.”
“When?”
“Now, if you’ve got time.” He gave Turner the address.
NINETEEN
Sunday 5:11 P.M.
Bruno lived in a brownstone on LaSalle Street just north of Division Street. When Turner looked him up on the Internet he saw that he was on the board of directors of the Victims Network, a Catholic group helping those who had been molested by priests.
