The Pope's Suicide

by Steve Richer

  “Okay, what do we have?”

  Taking a sip of the fine scotch he’d received as a gift for making detective first grade, he leaned back into his chair and stared at the documents on the screen. What did they have? What did they know for sure?

  The Pope’s death was a homicide. There was no forced entry and surveillance tapes were useless. Victor Bray had found the killer’s DNA, saliva, but the evidence had been stolen from the Crime Lab.

  It stood to reason that the killer had already been in the house. So who could it be? The Papal Household had to be ruled out. If any of them had wanted the Pope dead, it would have been a lot easier to do it back at the Vatican where they knew the lay of the land and could control the investigation. They had no incentive to do this here in New York.

  Then there was the nuncio and his staff. But again, these were high-ranking officials at the top of their game. What did they have to gain? Perry Butterfield had been the strongest suspect on paper, but Donnie had been tragically wrong about him.

  What was he missing?

  He just had to be missing something, he knew it. He was no Sherlock Holmes, he didn’t have any illusions about that. Yet sometimes you thought about the question in a way that was completely outside the box and it revealed the secret lying within.

  It was like one of those abstract paintings. It doesn’t look like much when you’re standing too close, but if you take a step back and look at the whole picture, the subject becomes clear. He had to do this now with this case. If he could find out what he was missing, he would know what to look for.

  He stared at the list of everyone who’d been present at the crime scene. The responding officers had done an efficient job of taking everyone’s names. Donnie sipped his drink and read each name again and again. That’s when a word triggered his memory. Wallenberg.

  Of course it rang the bell because it was the Secret Service agent who had welcomed him when he’d first gotten to the scene. But there was something else familiar about him, something he couldn’t place.

  He called up another file on the computer, the list of everyone on the task force and their contact information. He phoned the Secret Service liaison. It took several rings before he answered.

  “Special Agent Petersen? Detective Beecher.”

  “Oh, hey. A little late for chitchat, no?”

  “Is it?” Donnie asked, glancing at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. “Listen, I need something from you. Could you get me the file on one of your people, Special Agent Skip Wallenberg?”

  “What’s going on, Detective? You’re not looking into one of our people now, are you?”

  “Just need to check something out, that’s all. Just doing my job.”

  “Look, Beecher, your reputation is taking a hit. First, you go after the wrong guy, he gets killed, and now you’re turning the spotlight on one of my guys?”

  “Agent Petersen, don’t bust my balls, okay? Until somebody way high up comes down and says I’m no longer in charge of the investigation, I can do whatever I want. Understand?”

  “I just don’t like the implication that you think one of my people is involved.”

  “I get it, I get it. I’ve been there before. But I’m trying to get a fresh look at this thing and this starts by you giving me the file on Skip Wallenberg. Can you do that for me? Is that too much to ask? I mean, I don’t wanna go over your head or anything, but…”

  There was a pause but Petersen finally spoke. “All right, I’ll see what I can do and email you back.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

  Donnie exhaled as he hung up. “Geez…”

  Not only did he have to work with a total lack of evidence and now his own people were putting up roadblocks? He was pretty sure that was how you got ulcers, he thought as he swallowed more whiskey.

  “They told me you’d be here.”

  Startled, Donnie almost dropped his drink.

  Chapter 33

  He swiveled his chair around and found Emma standing in front of him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  He really hadn’t expected to see her tonight. To be honest, he even wondered if she would show up tomorrow. It wouldn’t have surprised him if he’d been told the next morning, going into the One Police Plaza conference room, that Officer Aldridge had requested to be taken off the task force.

  And he wouldn’t have blamed her either. It was a lot to ask of her, not just because she was a former nun, but because she was plainly out of her element. It would have been the same if his partner had been a traffic cop from Murray Hill or some pencil pusher from headquarters. Some people had their limits and reached them easily. It was human.

  But here she was.

  She came closer. “I wanted to apologize for how I acted earlier. Running toward the house, blaming myself, blaming you, all of it.”

  “Forget about it,” he said. “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “I’ll say!”

  “Come here, you’re gonna have a drink with me.”

  “I don’t drink, remember? I hate the taste.”

  “That’s not my problem.” He produced a new plastic cup from his drawer and poured her a shot. “You come to a man’s office late at night, you have a drink with him.”

  She grabbed a chair from the next desk and wheeled it nearer. She didn’t have a choice and took the drink he thrust into her hands.

  “Go on, try it.”

  “I might spit it out,” she said, bringing the cup closer to her lips very carefully, as if it contained poison.

  “Just go slow and swish it in your mouth before you swallow. That way you won’t choke.”

  She nodded, gathering her nerves, and did as instructed. Donnie watched her closely and she eventually swallowed. She creased her brow and smiled when her eyes met his again.

  “It’s not bad.”

  “Told you,” Donnie said, trying not to gloat. “It’s nothing like that brake fluid you keep at home. Are you gonna trust me now?”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  She explained that she had called the task force who had referred her to Detective Kwon who, in turn, had suggested she checked the 19th Precinct, where he would likely be. She didn’t want to be alone after what had happened today.

  “It was the first time I really witnessed what men are capable of, you know?”

  “Some women are capable of the same, Emma.”

  “No, I meant men in general. Mankind. You hear about it all the time, the violence, the inhumanity, but I hadn’t seen it face-to-face before. I knew it was a possibility, they explained everything at the Academy, but…”

  “I know,” Donnie replied, realizing he had been desensitized to this vicious world after being on the job for so long.

  “That’s part of why I wanted to work in the Juvenile Division. I wanted to try to keep kids from ever encountering this sort of violence. I see now that we all get exposed to it whether we want to or not. My prayers simply aren’t powerful enough.”

  Donnie felt for her. She had been with Victor when he died from his wounds. She had seen Butterfield getting gunned down right before her eyes. It was a lot for someone who generally didn’t step foot outside of a classroom.

  She finished her drink and licked her lips, reminding him of a teenager getting their first taste. It wasn’t that far from the truth.

  “A refill?”

  “No, I shouldn’t.”

  “Shouldn’t but you want to, right?”

  She blushed and the sight was amusing. She was getting drunk and he refilled her glass.

  “No, no, no… Well, okay.”

  “You’re not driving, are you?”

  She shook her head as she promptly took another sip. “I took the train.”

  The computer beeped and Donnie kicked his chair closer to the desk. “Yes!”

  “What is it?”

  “The file on Special Agent Wallenberg.”

  “Why is this import
ant?” Emma inquired.

  “His name rings a bell and I want to confirm something.”

  She looked at him opening the PDF file and reading it.

  “What exactly?”

  “Son of a bitch, just like I thought. I know this guy.”

  “Of course, you met him yesterday.”

  Donnie shook his head. “No, I mean I knew him when I was a kid. There was this Skip Wallenberg who played baseball in the church league. He was a couple of years older than me, but he was on my brother’s team. According to the file, that’s him. From the Bronx, same age as my brother, it fits.”

  “Okay,” Emma began, the cup at her lips. “I know I’m not a big fancy detective or anything, but a question comes to mind.”

  “Which one?”

  “Why is any of this relevant?”

  It took several seconds for Donnie to push the chair back from the desk. He wiped his clammy hands on his pants and swallowed the rest of his drink.

  “The church baseball league was a perfect hunting ground for priests with certain… tastes.”

  “Oh heavens,” Emma whispered, understanding everything. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The abuse went on for a while and it was years until my brother said anything. Instead he started drinking heavily, the usual pattern, right? He ended up committing suicide.”

  “I’m so, so sorry, Donnie.”

  She made the sign of the cross and he snorted with disgust.

  “You can probably guess why I’m not too fond of the Church anymore. What kind of god would let this thing happen to little kids? It’s not a god I want to believe in.”

  “Donnie…”

  She reached for his hand, but he moved out of the way before their skin touched. He remembered his brother as being full of energy before this had happened to him. He’d always been so sure of himself, so dignified. Their mother used to joke around, saying that he looked like a man of the cloth. She called him “my little Pope.”

  Fucking twisted sense of irony, right? His happiness – his life – had been wiped away over the course of one baseball season. He poured himself another drink and swallowed it whole.

  “Anyway, bygones, right? That was twenty years ago. The reason why this is relevant, to answer your question, is that I’m wondering if the same thing happened to Wallenberg.”

  “So we have the same motivation and opportunity as with Butterfield,” Emma said, this situation becoming clear to her as well.

  “Exactly. What if my theory was correct, but that we were looking at the wrong guy?”

  Chapter 34

  The Gardens of Vatican City covered more than half of the enclaved country. There were buildings strewn about, such as Radio Vatican and the Ethiopian College, but for the most part it was a lush urban park.

  Colm had decided to come jogging this morning. It was still early and the tourists hadn’t shown up yet. If this was a good enough activity for Nigel, he figured it might do him some good too.

  He decided that he should do this more often. The physical exertion was helping to clear his mind. He hadn’t slept well last night, certainly not better than the night before, and running was therapeutic.

  He was coming out of the English Garden and up ahead was the Fountain of the Eagle. It was four hundred years old, a small lagoon surrounded by cascades built into rocky grottoes. It was a favorite spot for visitors.

  He saw that someone was sitting on the ledge. It was an old man with headphones on, listening to music. He was even bobbing his head along with it. Colm was about to take the long way around as to not disturb him when he recognized who it was. It was Cardinal Velasquez. He decided to go say hello.

  Getting closer, he noticed that the man was once again in jeans and flip-flops. He was tearing out pieces of bread and tossing them to the few ducks in the pond.

  “Good morning, Your Eminence.”

  He looked up, surprised, and brightened up immediately. “Oh, good morning!”

  He lowered his headphones, and just before he turned off the music, Colm could swear he’d been listening to Iron Maiden.

  “I thought I was alone out here this early.”

  “So was I,” the cardinal said. “I like to come before the crowds. I like to see the birds, be one with nature. I think it’s misguided to think one can only converse with God within the walls of a church.”

  “God is all around us, he’s everywhere.”

  “Indeed, young man. And he’s never too busy to listen. Is that why you’re jogging? I’ve never seen you around here before so I wonder if there isn’t something you find a need to reflect on.”

  Colm couldn’t suppress a smile at how insightful the man was. “Something like that.”

  He caught his breath and, although he felt it was bad form, he took a moment to stretch his arms and legs so he wouldn’t cramp up. The man didn’t mind.

  “I’d wager that you’ve been very busy these past couple of days, yes?”

  “That’s putting it mildly, Cardinal Velasquez.”

  “Ah… So you know who I am?”

  “Of course, sir. As I’m sure you’re aware, you’re practically a legend here.”

  “Legend, another word for relic.”

  “I meant it in a most respectful way, Your Eminence,” Colm said, terrified that he’d offended him.

  “I’m just teasing, young man. But you’re right, I have been here a very long time. Whether that’s fortunate or not, I’m not sure myself. Sometimes I wonder if I would have better served our faith running a soup kitchen in the streets of Rio or perhaps holding umbrellas for high-ranking bishops.”

  “Cardinal, I’m certain the work you’ve done on the ecclesiastic commissions have been very important.”

  “Perhaps,” the older man replied with a wan shrug. “What is undeniable is that I have been here forty years and I have seen power change hands many times. When we lose our Holy Father, men of the cloth tend to forget who they are, who they should be.”

  “What do you mean, Cardinal Velasquez?”

  Before answering, he broke off two pieces of bread and threw them at a couple of colorful ducks who were looking up hungrily.

  “Too often I’ve seen good men fall into the dark hole that corrupts the soul. In times like these, it becomes about politics, posturing, anything to secure power for oneself. Are you a fan of Star Wars, young man?”

  “Of course,” Colm said. “Are you?”

  “Oh yes! I have the first trilogy on LaserDisc. I bet you don’t remember that technology. In any case, you have to be wary of the dark side. It happens when you expect it the least. So tell me, do you think you’re in danger of succumbing to the dark side?”

  The young Irishman wanted to deny it straightaway, but deep down he wasn’t sure.

  “I don’t think so. I hope not.”

  “Wise answer. The Catholic Church shouldn’t be about power. It should be about service.”

  “I agree, Your Eminence.”

  “And yet you’re the assistant of an influential man. Yes, I know who you are as well. Do you think Cardinal Blanchet is hoping to be elected Pope at our next conclave?”

  Colm sighed. “I’m starting to believe so, sir. He hasn’t told me about it, but I have to believe the evidence I’ve been encountering these past few days.”

  “Yes, it’s what I’ve been hearing too, young man. Perhaps you will be interested to know that I have heard rumors that Cardinal Zupan is also maneuvering to gain favor among the College of Cardinals.”

  “Really?” Colm said, unable to remove the shock from his voice.

  “And Cardinal Zupan has some very powerful friends and allies. Your superior may be facing an uphill battle. I thought perhaps you could use the information.”

  “You don’t want Cardinal Zupan to become our next pontiff?”

  Colm felt sick to his stomach at the idea of the Archbishop of Maribor becoming pope. With his fancy cars and private jets, he would set the Catholic Church back three hundre
d years.

  “I don’t care about politics, young man. I trust that God will inform our decision through prayer. As long as our goals remain pure, the right choice will be made.”

  He smiled graciously and put his headphones back on before playing the music once more. Colm recognized the song as The Evil That Men Do.

  He waved to Cardinal Velasquez and jogged away. He thought about this conversation as he returned to his apartment to shower. Why couldn’t he be working for someone like him instead of the conniving Cardinal Blanchet? Life would be so much more simple, he decided.

  And what would Blanchet have him do next? Background checks on all the other cardinals? Would he need to dig up dirt against them? Would it be worth it if it allowed him to become a bishop and implement all his ideas?

  Once he had showered and dressed properly, he went to his office at Saint John’s Tower. In addition to everything Cardinal Blanchet had him do, his preparations for the conclave, he still had his tasks to perform since his superior was a council member of the Secretariat for the Economy.

  His office was small and unassuming and he had no issue with it. All he needed was a phone, a desk, and a computer, really. He sat down with a cup of tea and before reviewing the fiscal audit preliminary numbers, he decided to catch up on what was happening with the investigation on the Pope’s death.

  He went online and read several articles. There didn’t seem to be anything new until he saw that the police had gone after a suspect and he had been killed in a shootout.

  “How unfortunate…”

  He clicked a link that brought him to an American website. They had a video of a press conference shortly after the shooting. Curious, he watched it, but he found nothing vital aside from the morbid aftermath.

  But then his eye caught sight of the last thing he had expected. In the background, next to what looked like a police detective, was a woman he knew. At first he told himself that it was impossible, simply his eyes playing a trick on him.

  And yet she had the same auburn hair pinned up, the same pretty face with the shy demeanor. It was Sister Emma, it had to be!