“Nothing like that, Bishop,” Tully assured. “For one thing, we’re gonna get this guy. In the meantime, though, in a situation like this y—uh, one can’t be too cautious. Although, as I said, it’s highly unlikely that you could have been the intended victim.
“But you are a prominent figure … not one of the crowd. So it’s not beyond possibility that someone might have known … somebody, say, in your headquarters. The … uh …”
“The chancery,” Zack Tully supplied.
“Yes, the chancery,” Zoo picked up. “There are any number of ways security can be breached. All we’re saying is that it is most unlikely that you were the intended target. However, that doesn’t mean it is totally impossible. I’d hate to see something happen because we thought it was impossible when it wasn’t.”
“You’d hate it!”
“Just keep your guard up”—Tully smiled reassuringly—“and try to think of some names.”
“I may go now?”
“You may.”
The bishop left, dodging the few media people still at the scene.
Lieutenant Tully turned back to the group. “Who was in charge here today?”
“What do you mean ‘in charge’?” asked Koesler.
“In charge of the ceremony itself? All that was supposed to take place in the sanctuary?”
After a brief pause, Father Tully spoke up. “I was in charge, I guess.”
“You!” A note of surprise in Zoo’s voice. “How come I didn’t know that? This ceremony was just about the only thing you’ve been talking about the past couple of weeks.”
Zachary shook his head. “I must have been very boring. But now that I look back on it, I guess I must’ve talked about what we expected to take place without mentioning who was going to direct traffic.”
Zoo Tully sighed deeply.
Walt Koznicki suppressed a smile. He, more than most, had appreciated the irony of Zoo Tully’s suddenly learning he had a Catholic priest for a brother.
Inspector Koznicki—those who knew him still accorded him his preretirement title—was confident of Zoo’s ethical standards. But there was no doubt whatever that the lieutenant steered clear of any institutional religion. Koznicki found it amusing to see this Baptist backslider struggling to cope with organized religion as it was alive and well in the Tully household.
“Okay …” Tully turned his total attention to his brother. “We want to get the chronology as accurately as we can. Now, excepting the priest who was killed, no one was injured because no one else was at the altar when the bomb went off. And no one was at the altar because the ceremony was late in starting. In other words, probably nothing was wrong with the bomber’s timing. Something went wrong with your timetable, Zack.”
Father Tully nodded. “True enough.”
“What time was the ceremony scheduled to start?”
“Four-thirty.”
“Yes, I remember you kept mentioning that over and over.”
Father Tully winced. “You don’t have to keep reminding me.” He looked up at his policeman brother. “Next time I get on your nerves, just tell me.”
Zoo ignored the digression. “But it didn’t start at four-thirty. Exactly what time did it get under way?” Actually, Zoo had a pretty good idea; at the time, he had been glancing at his watch with some impatience, wondering just when the program would start. But for purposes of this investigation, he had to be exact.
Father Tully glanced around at the others. No one volunteered to supply a time. “I hadn’t reflected up till now,” he said finally. “But as far as I can tell, it never really did get under way. I—and Bob—started for the sacristy to see what was holding things up. For all practical purposes, Father Koesler and I were wearing what we needed for the ceremony—our cassocks. All we needed to do was slip on our surplices and we could have easily gotten into the procession that was already moving into the church. As for exact time …? I suppose we headed back there sometime between four thirty-five and four-forty. But, as I said, I couldn’t swear that the procession had in fact begun even then. Only that Bob and I began walking over.
“Actually, I wanted to find out what was holding things up.”
“Well,” said Zoo, “let’s suppose for the moment that things actually had started on time. You said the procession was scheduled to begin at four-thirty. Suppose it did.”
“Okay,” Zack agreed.
“How long,” Zoo theorized, “would it take for the procession to enter the church and reach the … the, uh, sanctuary?”
“Hmmm … I’m not sure. But one way or the other—whether it started on time or it was late starting—it probably would have taken five to ten minutes to reach the sanctuary—”
“Five to ten minutes? Why the discrepancy?”
“Oh, yes … well, it just depends on how many people take part … how many are in the procession—and how fast or slowly they walk.”
Lieutenant Tully, satisfied, nodded. “Okay. So if the procession had begun promptly, it would have reached the altar at approximately four thirty-five to four-forty. And what time did you say you and Father Koesler started for the …” He hesitated again, searching for the correct term.
“The sacristy,” his brother provided.
“Yes, the sacristy. What time did you start for there?”
“About …” This time it was Zack who hesitated, trying to pinpoint the exact time. “… about four thirty-five to four-forty.”
“But you didn’t reach the sacristy—your destination. Because …?”
It was as if Zachary was playing into his brother’s hand. “Because the bomb exploded.”
“And what time was that?”
“Between four thirty-five and four-forty.” Zachary was growing increasingly certain where his brother was going with this line of questioning.
“Now,” Zoo said, “you stated that whether or not the ceremony started on time, it would still take five to ten minutes for everyone in the procession to reach the sanctuary.” Fathers Tully and Koesler both nodded agreement. “Now, let’s suppose the ceremony had begun on time. What would be happening at the altar?”
Father Tully knew exactly what would have been happening. He himself had planned it all after consulting with the Liturgy Department of the Archdiocese of Detroit. “Well …” Zack closed his eyes and envisioned the aborted ceremony as it might have been. “There were only ten visiting clergy—three women and seven men.” He further explained that six were Catholic priests and four were of other denominations. Of course the three women would be members of these other denominations.
“They—the visiting clergy—would have taken their positions in the rear of the sanctuary. Actually,” he said after further thought, “I would have directed them. As it turned out, they might have been pretty well out of harm’s way. Depending on the power of the blast, they at least had a better chance of not being seriously injured—”
“Who,” Zoo interrupted, “would have been at the altar?”
No hesitation here. “Three. The bishop would be seated. His ceremonial chair would be several feet from the altar, on a slightly raised platform. And standing together at the middle of the altar would be George Wheatley and me.
“At that point, the ceremony would have begun.”
“At that point,” Zoo said solemnly, “the bomb would have exploded.”
A reflective silence fell over the group. The realization sank deeply into their consciousness that in all probability, if the program had gone as planned, at least two people—Wheatley and Father Tully—would now be dead. Possibly also the bishop. Additionally, others would have been injured—perhaps even one or two fatally. Anyone in that sanctuary, from the bishop to the altar servers, would have been in jeopardy.
“Now,” Zoo addressed his brother, “you can give us all this information because you yourself planned the ceremony.”
“From the procession to the recession,” Zack replied.
“But you didn’t plant
the bomb. How could anyone else know in advance what was going to happen? And they’d have to know what plans were made. I mean, the bomber would have to know the timing just about to the minute before he set the timing mechanism. Who else, besides you, Zack, would know what was going to happen and when it was going to happen?”
Father Tully shrugged. “Just about anyone who was familiar with this type of Liturgy.”
“I’ve got to understand this,” Zoo said. “Explain it, please. Better yet”—he turned to Father Koesler—“since you were not responsible for planning this ceremony—would you, Father, explain how the ritual could be more or less common knowledge.”
“Well …” Koesler gathered his thoughts. “I guess there are two prescribed ways of entering the sanctuary for a Liturgy. We’re talking about Mass, usually … but also benediction or novena or rosary devotions.
“Anyway, for less solemn occasions, the priest and the altar ministers enter the sanctuary in the simplest possible way. Maybe from the side or rear of the sanctuary, if there’s a sacristy in that area.
“But in any case, usually, whether it’s devotions or daily Mass—or Sunday Mass, for that matter—the procession starts in the rear of the church, processes up the center aisle, and enters the sanctuary, circling around behind the altar. The celebrant—or main concelebrant plus any other priest or priests who are part of that procession—advances to the altar—facing the people—and bends to kiss the top of the altar, thus reverencing it.
“And that’s the usual way the celebration of Mass begins.”
“And that’s common knowledge?”
“Yes,” Koesler asserted. “Ask somebody—anybody—who attends Mass, even irregularly. He or she may have to give it a little thought. But unless that person is comatose during the ceremony, he or she knows that the participants enter from the rear of the church, they process down the center aisle, they enter the sanctuary, they go immediately to the altar, reverence it, then they stay pretty close to the center of the altar. The whole thing takes about five to ten minutes—depending on how many people are in the procession.
“I’m sorry the procedure seems so cut and dried. I know it would narrow the field of suspects if insiders were the only ones familiar with the Liturgy. But the ritual is so predictable that almost anyone could have had the knowledge …” His voice trailed off.
“Well, all right,” Zoo grudgingly agreed. “But there’s got to be a margin for error.”
“And now”—Walt Koznicki spoke for the first time—”we have seen that margin filled. Many, many things could go wrong with such a plan. The ceremony might have begun earlier than scheduled. The ceremony could have been only slightly delayed. Or the procession could—as it did today—suffer a significant delay.”
“That way,” Koesler said, “if poor Father Farmer’s curiosity had not been piqued, no one would have been hurt, much less killed. There would merely be some damage to a portion of the sanctuary.”
Silence. “But what,” said Zoo, after a few moments, “if the procession had started on time? The bishop and my brother would have arrived at the altar just a minute or so before the explosion. Wouldn’t one of them have noticed the bomb … or any out-of-the-ordinary object?”
“Possibly,” Zack conceded. “But speaking personally, I doubt I would have paid any attention to it. As I heard one priest express it recently, this is the age of the Plastic Church. In the old Tridentine Mass that most of us grew up in, one large missal held all the words that would be used for any Mass throughout the year. It even contained all the sung prayers for the celebrant and his assistants.
“Nowadays, there’s a lectionary for the readings, another book for the Mass prayers, and another containing the prayer of the faithful that takes place just after the homily.
“My point is: It is not strange that there would be objects in the sanctuary whose purpose would be known only to whoever put them there.”
“A good point, I think,” said Koznicki. “We are, after all, acting as Monday morning quarterbacks, in that we know there was a bomb and that it exploded, killing one person. To us now this is all a fait accompli. In retrospect, it is natural to think that we would be alert and suspicious about every small object that might appear strange or odd. Whereas, in actuality, as far as those who were participants in the ceremony and had places reserved for them in the sanctuary, they probably would, I think, tend to overlook objects we might now consider foreign to the ceremony.
“But,” Koznicki added, “that is not to say that choosing this method to commit murder didn’t involve a heavy risk of failure.”
“Right,” said Zoo. “Our presumption is that somebody wanted to kill someone who was part of this service today. Centering and focusing on that one person—whoever it may be—the perp could have simply shot the man on the street, in his home, wherever. We read about such things in the papers every day: So-and-so was shot while standing on his porch, while walking down the street, while driving his car, while at work. Or so-and-so was found drowned in his bathtub; the police suspect foul play.
“Murder—or attempted murder—by bombing a church simply doesn’t happen every day, or every year, or even every decade.” He held up one hand as if to forestall dispute. “I did not say that church bombings do not occur, or that there are not deaths as a result. What I am saying is that church bombings as a means of killing one specific target are so rare as to border on the nonexistent.
“Of course, there is always the possibility—although I think it is exceedingly remote—that this bombing did not target any specific individual—or individuals. It is possible as in the bombings of Southern black churches, for instance, that the perpetrator wanted to make some sort of general statement, send a message, express some sort of nasty attitude.
“In which case,” he concluded, “in being concerned with specific timing we could be barking up the wrong tree.
“Besides, an attempted murder like the one today can go wrong more often than not.
“We’ve explored some of the ways it could fail. And there are many more possibilities. In any case, the perpetrator is taking a big chance with a bomb. Yes …” He nodded as if to himself. “… the use of a bomb is a special consideration in this case.
“Now,” he continued, “it’s too bad—for our purposes—that so many people appear to be familiar with how a church procession works. That opens the door to lots of possible assassins.
“So”—Zoo turned his attention to George Wheatley—“it’d be a good idea to take a closer look at what happened with the procession. It was fortunate the delay occurred. But why was there such a late start—”
A hesitant knock at the door interrupted Zoo’s question.
“Come in,” Zack Tully invited.
Judging from his appearance and demeanor, the young man who entered had to be one of the Wheatley clan. Indeed, it was the younger son. In his mid-to-late teens, he was the only one of the Wheatley progeny who had chosen to attend his father’s ordination.
Nan Wheatley had explained that Richard was indisposed. And, he did appear to be under the weather. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. His tie hung askew. His hair was rumpled and his countenance was marked by a deathly pallor. In short, the young man gave every evidence of having very recently been very sick at his stomach.
“This is Richard, our younger son,” Nan Wheatley said, smiling at the lad encouragingly.
Richard hurriedly scanned the room, nodded, and took a seat next to his mother.
SIX
In the awkward silence that followed, Richard finally coughed nervously. “Sorry I’m late. Got a little shook up. Actually, I was doing pretty good until I saw that guy on the stretcher. He was so messed up I guess I just lost it.” He hesitated. “Did he … does anyone know … uh, did he make it?”
“No, dear,” his mother said in a consoling tone. “He died.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Was he Roman?”
“Yes, dear.”
Koesl
er was not the only Roman Catholic in the room who felt strange being identified by an adjective rather than the accustomed noun.
“Is everybody else okay?” Richard inquired.
“As far as we know, yes.” Nan was now holding one hand of her husband and one of her son.
“Where were we?” Zoo said.
Koesler picked up the ball. “I believe we had determined that a great number of people would be familiar with the procession that opens nearly every liturgical event. At least in the Roman Church.” He was beginning to find it somehow refreshing to be Roman rather than Catholic. It seemed to level the playing field. The Episcopalians felt justified in calling themselves Catholic. And, in fact, they did so at Mass and in their prayer life. So if they could tolerate being designated as Anglicans, Koesler, for one, could live with being known as a Roman. It was refreshingly different. And since there was going to be a good deal of talk regarding the two communions, things would get cluttered if both sides constantly referred to themselves merely as Catholics.
“Okay,” Zoo said, “let’s get on to the next, and maybe the crux of this business: Why the delay? What held up the procession? It was thanks to that delay that there was only one death instead of multiple deaths and injuries—”
“Excuse me,” Father Tully interrupted. “I think I know where you’re going now: George—Father Wheatley—was to be the star of today’s show—”
“We’re taking this step by step,” Zoo broke back in. “And yes, the next logical step is in Father Wheatley’s direction.”
“And I’m suggesting that there’s someone else you should consider first.”
“And that is—?”
“Have you forgotten that according to the Liturgy, there would have been more than one person standing directly in the bomb’s path?” It was strange, when Zack was assuming an authoritative role, how much the two brothers resembled each other.
There was a moment’s pause.
“You?”
“Me.”
“How do you figure? As far as I’m concerned you could have been in the classical wrong place at the wrong time. What would motivate anyone to murder you?”
The Sacrifice Page 7
