Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Seated in his cluttered office in Fordham’s faculty building, Martin threw back his head and laughed when told of Arpie’s warning.

  “Ah, the archdiocese,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s staffed with bureaucrats and bankers, and somehow they’ve lost all sense of their priesthood somewhere along the way. Perhaps they should all have gone to law school instead.” He shrugged. “It’s the price of power, I’m afraid. Thank God I’ve been spared that temptation, at least.”

  “But how the hell do I deal with them? One bark from Arpie and the mayor jumps out of his shorts. All he can think about is the two and a half million Catholics who show up at mass every Sunday. There are a lot of voters in that number.”

  Again, Martin shrugged. “I’m not sure how many of those Catholics show up, let alone pay the slightest attention to archdiocesan pronouncements. You want my best advice? Ignore them. At least, ignore Arpie. I doubt this directive came from the cardinal. I’ve met his eminence. He’s a sophisticated man, sophisticated enough to know that unpleasant things occasionally hit the fan.” He grinned. “Besides, you can lie as easily as Arpie can. You can say he never told you not to show the list to anyone else.” He held up a cautioning finger. “Of course, as a priest, I’m not telling you to lie.” He laughed again, then ran his fingers through his gray hair. “God, Paul, it’s all insanity, isn’t it? Just save the poor devils on that infernal list and to hell with the bureaucratic madness.”

  Devlin smiled at the idea of matching Arpie lie for lie. He pushed it away. “There are four priests on Arpie’s list. That makes a total of seven with reported cases of AIDS. It seems like a high number to me.”

  Martin shook his head. “Not when you think of the large number of priests working in the archdiocese,” he said. “Well over seven hundred, I’d guess, and I’d also speculate that they are not men who normally carry condoms around in their pockets.” He raised a hand, begging Devlin’s patience while he continued. “Now let’s assume that we in the church follow the general population, and that ten percent of our number is gay.” He paused. “Frankly, I’m sure the percentage is much higher. Even something close to fifty percent would not shock me. So seven gay priests with AIDS is not a surprise. It also shouldn’t surprise you to find that you don’t have a complete list in your hands. Remember, only the illnesses of diocesan priests are reported to the archdiocese. Those in religious orders would be reported to their specific superiors in that order.”

  He smiled at the look on Devlin’s face. “Yes, those of us in the various orders face the same situation. I, for one, think we should ignore it. Just face the fact that it’s part of the human condition and not something that should be shunned, or lied about, or hidden away. But for the present, at least, it is regarded as a central problem for today’s church—whether or not its clergy will soon be dominated by gay men.” He raised his hands out at his sides and let them fall away. “Of course, what the leaders of the church do not see is that it all stems from the intransigence of our popes, past and present. Like his recent predecessors, our current pope will not even consider the need to make celibacy voluntary. Married priests remain a taboo as far as he’s concerned. The same is true with the ordination of women, even though neither ban can be found anywhere in the teachings of Christ.” He shook his head. “Most of the first priests of the church, the apostles, were married men. Peter, our first pope, was married. And Christ’s own veneration of his mother displayed no prejudice against women.” He laughed again. “Fat old men in Rome came up with those ideas.”

  “So why so many gay priests today?” Devlin asked.

  “Two reasons, really. First, it is very, very hard today to convince young heterosexual men to go into the priesthood. It’s a hard life, made even harder when one has to forgo the joys and pleasures of married life. No children of one’s own, no companionship, and, unless illicitly taken, no relief from the sexual inclinations the good Lord built into all of us. Second, gay men—especially gay Catholic men—have been taught all their lives that responding to the sexual natures with which they were born is a grievous, grievous sin that they must avoid. Not an easy task, to say the least. It’s like telling a child with two strong legs that he must never run.” Martin raised a lecturing finger. “But for those poor souls there is hope—at least there appears to be. Voilà! They can overcome their natural instincts. They can enter the priesthood, where they will live lives of celibacy. And there it is, a solution to their problem: a life where sex is not even an option. Except it is, of course, as every priest learns. It’s all around them, just as it is for every lay man and woman. And priests, unfortunately, lack even the blessing of a wife to ease those temptations. Meanwhile, we’re called upon to do the same things that lead lay people into that temptation. We work with people who from time to time we find attractive. We attend cocktail parties and social gatherings. We even find ourselves being flirted with on occasion. Plus we must also sit down each week and hear confession—and that almost always includes a certain number of young men and women who are sexually active.” He smiled broadly. “And we’re told not to think about those things as part of our own lives.” He leaned forward. “Fat chance, my friend. Fat chance.”

  “So you think about it, yourself,” Devlin said.

  “Never,” Martin snapped. He tilted his head to one side and smiled. “Only every time a young coed sashays down the hall in a pair of too-tight jeans.”

  “So what do you do?”

  Martin grinned at him. “I pray a lot, rather than surrender to my baser nature.” He sighed. “However, I’m told by my noncelibate friends that the results are not quite the same.”

  The rain had stopped when Devlin reached Sharon’s apartment at ten o’clock, and the sun streamed down on the wet sidewalks, driving all the umbrella salesmen back to their rabbit warrens.

  A patrol car was parked in front of Sharon’s building, and the two uniforms inside jumped out and stopped Devlin when he headed for the front door. It was a good protective response, although he doubted Sharon would share that view. When she opened the door to her apartment, she looked even angrier than he expected. Across the room Devlin could see Ollie Pitts grinning at him, and he wondered if Ollie’s special charm had added fuel to the humiliating presence of the patrol car. It would be safer to ignore the entire subject.

  “So what have we come up with?” he asked, as he took a seat next to Pitts.

  “Bubkes,” Sharon snarled. “There’s nothing there, dammit. Nothing in any of my past cases that would warrant a professional hit. Hell, I can’t even think of anybody who could afford a professional hit.” She paused to stare at Devlin. “And this was a pro, Paul. It went sour on him, but he was good. He got in here. He waited for me. He came up behind me without a sound. If it hadn’t been for his reflection on the door of the refrigerator, he would’ve had me cold.” She shook her head. “Christ, if I hadn’t had a bag of Chinese food in my hands, he would have had me anyway.”

  “Then it has to be this case.”

  Sharon stared at him in disbelief. “You think someone from Opus Christi hired a hit man?”

  Devlin made a helpless gesture with his hands. “It’s like Sherlock said: When you eliminate everything else …”

  “I think the boss is right,” Ollie added. “Don’t forget there’s a drug dealer involved in this somewhere.”

  Sharon glared at him. “And I’m not even close to finding out who that is.”

  “You must be close to something,” Devlin said. “Someone’s scared enough to try to kill a cop.”

  Sharon shook her head. She was dressed in jeans and a baggy T-shirt. She walked to an overstuffed chair, dropped into it, and tucked her bare feet beneath her legs, yoga style. “I’ve gone over every interview in my mind. I’ve gone over every one of them again with Ollie.” She looked across at the hulking detective. “Has anything I said suggested any threat to you … to anyone?”

  Ollie turned to Devlin. “It’s like she said. Bubkes.�
��

  “I’ve been stonewalled at every turn,” Sharon added. “It’s like this nun I’ve been trying to see. Nobody comes out and says I can’t talk to her. They just smile and say they’re sorry and keep insisting they’re not sure where she is.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Like nuns just wander off and disappear all the time,” she added.

  Sharon’s telephone interrupted them. It was Stan Samuels calling for Devlin. She and Ollie listened to Devlin’s end of the conversation as a hint of excitement seemed to creep into his voice. He had taken out his notebook and was jotting down information.

  “Okay, Stan, great work. Now, I need you to contact the head of our intelligence unit. See if anybody knows this guy. If not, ask him if he can put us in touch with somebody at the Colombian embassy who might. Just lay it out for him. Tell him it involves an attempt on a cop’s life. That should get everybody up off their asses. I’ll be back in about an hour. See what you can set up for me by then.”

  When he replaced the receiver, there was a small smile playing at the corners of Devlin’s mouth. “Stan got a hit on the prints we lifted from the automatic. Nothing here in the U.S., but Interpol had him as a drug-smuggling suspect five years ago in Spain. He walked, but not before they printed and photographed him.”

  He glanced at his notebook. “His name is Emilio Valdez. He’s a Colombian national, thirty-four years old, five feet, eight inches, slender build, one hundred forty-five pounds, black hair, brown eyes.” He grinned at Sharon. “Looks like your description was right on the money … for a cop who didn’t see anything.”

  Sharon ignored the compliment. “We got pictures?”

  “We’ve got one. Interpol faxed it to us. The only problem is the guy had a full beard five years ago. Stan says he looks like Fidel. But it’s a starting point. We’ll find out who he’s connected to here in the States. Then we’ll run his skinny butt into the ground.”

  “You want me to work it?” Ollie asked.

  Sharon’s eyes snapped to him. “It’s mine.”

  “It’s Stan’s,” Devlin countered. He held up a hand as Sharon wheeled on him. “You’ll be there when we bust him, I promise. But as soon as you’re up to it, I want you back on the Opus Christi case. You’re doing something there that drew somebody out, so I don’t want to let up now.”

  He turned to Ollie. “You and I are going to work on these murdered priests. The archdiocese finally coughed up the name of every one of their priests who’s been diagnosed with AIDS. We’re going to play out our hunch that somebody’s after them and is working from an alphabetized list.” Devlin took out the typewritten sheet Father Arpie had given him. “If we’re right, our next target’s name is James Janis. He’s a curate at the Church of Our Savior at Park and Thirty-eighth.”

  “He know we’re gonna be on him?” Ollie asked.

  Devlin glanced at his watch. “He will in about half an hour. You and I are going to stop and see him on our way back to the office.”

  “What about me?” Sharon demanded.

  “You get a day sitting on your butt.” He raised a hand, stopping her objection. “We’ll see how you feel tomorrow. We get anything on the shooter before then, I promise we’ll get you there before we take him down.”

  Father James Janis had the saddest eyes Devlin had ever seen on a young man.

  “I want you to know that the information about your illness will be kept in strict confidence,” Devlin said, as he finished explaining why they believed the priest, along with others, was in danger of being murdered.

  They were seated in a large office in the church rectory. The room held all the opulence one would expect on Park Avenue: Oriental carpets scattered across a highly polished oak floor, hand-carved tables and chairs that were clearly antiques, heavy brocaded draperies pulled back to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows. It reminded Devlin of photographs he had seen depicting the homes of robber barons of the past century.

  Father Janis didn’t seem to fit his surroundings. He was a slender man in his early thirties, with unruly brown hair that grew in several directions at once. His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, cornflower-blue eyes staring at them as Devlin spoke. He looked like a farm boy who had just wandered in from Iowa, still uncertain of his surroundings.

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he said, his voice barely audible. He looked up. “I mean, if you catch this man, it will all come out eventually.” He gave Devlin a weak smile. “I mean, the reasons for his doing it.”

  “That’s possible,” Devlin said. “I won’t he to you. Once we make an arrest, it’s out of our hands. But the archdiocese carries a lot of weight in this city. And they’ve made it very clear—to me, at least—that they want everything kept in strict confidence.”

  The priest gave out a small unhappy laugh. “Oh, yes. I’m sure they do. No fags in the priesthood. And certainly none who are sexually active.” He let out a long sigh. “And they’re right, of course. I vowed to put that all aside. I just couldn’t live up to my good intentions.” The weak smile returned. “In Rome they would call that an infamia.”

  “I think they said the same thing in The Godfather,” Ollie interjected. “The hoods, I mean.”

  The priest smiled more sincerely. “There’s a lesson there, I think. But I won’t comment on it.”

  Devlin leaned forward in his chair. “Have you had any counseling, either individually or in a group?”

  Father Janis shook his head. “I was diagnosed six months ago. I had all the symptoms for a long time—almost two years—but I chose to ignore them. I think, at first, I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Then, subconsciously at least—when I really knew in my own mind—I looked at it as a punishment for my sins.” He looked at his hands again, as if unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “You see, I never should have become a priest. I was sexually active in the seminary, and I knew—oh, yes, deep down I knew—I would continue. But I lied to myself. I kept telling myself that I would stop once I was ordained—that I was only having a last fling before I gave it all up.” He shook his head. “But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

  Devlin was hearing more confession than he wanted. He needed to get the priest back on point. “Father, what we have to do here is keep you under close surveillance. And we need to do it as unobtrusively as possible.”

  The priest looked up. He seemed clearly shocked by what he was hearing. Devlin had decided to treat it as a fait accompli, giving the priest no room to refuse their offer. He nodded toward Ollie. “Detective Pitts will be running the operation. He’ll be with you, or as close as possible, from the time you get up in the morning until you go to bed at night. There will also be a surveillance team on the rectory at night. Hopefully we’ll have one man inside and two watching the exterior of the building. So far, at least in the deaths of the other three priests, we haven’t had any attacks during the night. But we don’t want to take any chances. The most important thing is that you tell Detective Pitts every move you’re going to make before you make it. If you’re going to visit someone, you tell him. If you’re going to say mass, you tell him. Anything at all. That will allow him to position himself so he can watch you without being seen. He’ll have backup men close by that he can call in if he needs them. They also won’t be easy to spot, but they’ll be there.”

  Father Janis glanced at Ollie. The detective was dressed in his usually baggy suit, sturdy black brogans, and wrinkled shirt and tie. He looked like a slob, a very large, imposing one. “I think Detective Pitts may stand out. Certainly here in the rectory and the church proper.”

  Devlin nodded. “I was going to ask if you had any … priestly attire … he could wear. A large cassock, or something like that.”

  Ollie threw Devlin a look. “What?”

  Devlin raised a hand, shutting him off, as he awaited the priest’s reply.

  “A cassock, yes. I think we could do that. Then he’d look like another priest moving about.”

  “Wait a minute,
boss. I dunno.”

  “You have a better idea, Ollie?” There was a sharp warning in Devlin’s words.

  “How about a janitor? Somethin’ like that,” Ollie offered. “I mean, a cassock is like a dress, right? I mean how am I gonna get to my piece if I need it?”

  “Actually our janitor is a rather large man. And he keeps extra clothes in the basement,” Father Janis said.

  “All right,” Devlin said. “But use a cassock too, if you need to. I don’t want you easily spotted.”

  Devlin began to rise from his chair. The priest’s words stopped him.

  “Inspector, can you tell me … these other priests, the ones who were murdered … were they also infected?”

  Devlin paused, thinking about Father Arpie. He dismissed the man and his warnings. “Yes, Father, they were. It seems to be the common thread.”

  Father Janis nodded. “Retribution for our sins.” His voice had become almost a whisper again. “It’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “What is, Father?” Devlin asked.

  “That they should want to punish us by ending our lives a little earlier.” His weak, sad smile had returned. “If they knew anything about the final stages of this illness, they’d realize they weren’t punishing us at all. They’d realize they were actually being merciful.”

  Xavier de la Mayo was listed as a military attaché to the Colombian Mission to the United Nations. He was actually a colonel in his country’s newly formed antidrug force and had been assigned to the UN to plan and coordinate joint operations with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  The NYPD Intelligence Unit recommended the colonel as a top authority on Colombian drug traffic, and to Devlin’s surprise de la Mayo offered to come to the squad’s office for their first meeting.

  The colonel was dressed in a business suit when he arrived, and like most career military men he seemed slightly uncomfortable in civilian clothes. He was a short square man with dark hair, graying at the temples, and dark brown eyes that seemed to look right through you. Severe was the only word you could use to describe the man. Devlin felt immediately that life as a private under the colonel’s command would be one long road to hell.