Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “Ssssssh, keep your voice down.”

  “You won’t get away with this.”

  “How dare you …?”

  “… too far. You went …”

  The tall man who’d been in the shadows made a sound of disgust and began to walk toward the small door at the front of the chapel that led to the hall. The other quickly turned to the Satterlee vault. Two large, heavy brass candlesticks used during Communion services had been left there by a member of the Altar Guild; they would be polished the next day by another of the guild’s devoted, reverent women.

  A hand grabbed one of the candlesticks by its top. A few quick steps after the man from the shadows. The candle-holder was raised in the air, then swung down and around in a wide, vicious, and accurate arc. As the base of the candlestick caught the man in his left temple, there was the sound of bone being crushed, followed by a low, pained moan when the man hit the stone floor as if driven into it like a flame-hardened nail.

  * * *

  Joey Kelsch stiffened as the noises from the chapel reached him. The choirboy had been listening, had heard only one voice, but not the other. He hadn’t been able to make out the words, but he knew the speaker was very angry. Other people’s anger was always frightening. Besides, he had heard enough of it from the choirmaster. Still, Joey went to the door that led to the corridor and pressed his ear to it, heard footsteps in an irregular pattern, heard laborious breathing, heard what sounded like something being dragged along the floor, a large sack of flour, maybe, or a big cardboard carton. The sounds faded in the direction of the stairs that led up to the north entrance to the cathedral, where the tiny Good Shepherd Chapel remained open twenty-four hours a day.

  Joey carefully pushed the door out an inch; its hinges made some noise, but not much. He continued opening it until there was room for him to poke his head into the corridor. Looking to his left, he saw empty corridor. Looking to his right, he saw a figure, nothing more than a black shroud really. He thought it a statue until he saw that it was about to turn the corner and go up the stairs with whatever was being dragged behind.

  Joey closed the door, felt his heart threatening to beat through his chest wall. He waited, unsure of what to do. Then he heard footsteps returning. The door was open just enough for him to peek through the crack. Now it was not just a form in the distance. There was, for a split second, a face. The hands belonging to the face were carrying two red hand-crocheted kneeling pads from the chapel, their faded renderings celebrating Bethlehem and the birth of the Baby Jesus.

  The face returned to the Bethlehem Chapel and disappeared from Joey’s field of vision.

  Joey quietly pulled the door closed, tiptoed across the choir room, left through another door leading to the outside, and ran as fast as he could to his dormitory. Other students were finishing the Ping-Pong tournament in the room, but Joey didn’t stop to join them. Trembling, he raced up the stairs, went into his room, quickly got into his pajamas, climbed into bed, panting, and pulled the covers over his head.

  Until then, he hadn’t cried.

  4

  The Next Morning, Which Would Be Thursday

  Although the sunrise was only a suggestion, the Right Reverend George St. James, bishop of Washington and dean of the National Cathedral, had already completed his daily contemplative stroll, had ridden his stationary bike, and had said his morning prayers. Now, as he stepped from the shower and vigorously began drying himself, he focused on the day ahead.

  The major event was to be the funeral of Adam Vickery, a former attorney general of the United States, scheduled for nine o’clock in the cathedral’s nave. Vickery and his wife, Doris, had been active in cathedral affairs for many years. Vickery had sat on the cathedral’s chapter—its “board of directors”—for the past seven years, and as head of the building fund had received deserved accolades for his deft handling of it. His death had been sudden and unexpected. Seemingly in the best of health, he’d been found slumped inertly over his desk three nights before, the victim, apparently, of a massive coronary.

  Now toweled dry, the bishop looked at his naked image in a full-length mirror in the rectory’s second-floor master bedroom. The enticing aroma of coffee drifted up from the kitchen. St. James heard his wife, Eileen, singing along with a popular song of another decade that came from a radio, a song the bishop began to hum although he couldn’t put a title to it. His wife would know the title and the words and carry the tune. He looked at himself in the mirror again and smiled; God had a reason for everything, even personal tragedy and sociological disaster, but what could possibly have been on His mind when He—okay, or She, the bishop reminded himself—decreed that in middle age weight must settle in the midsection? St. James was the same weight he’d been while attending the Yale Divinity School almost thirty years before, but the same number of pounds had found an unwelcome redistribution center between his chest and his hips. Maybe I’d better start riding more of it off—or up—on the bicycle that goes nowhere, he thought.

  He dressed, joined Eileen in the kitchen, kissed her cheek, and ate the scrambled eggs and dry toast she’d set before him. The Washington Post was beside his plate at the table. No need to look for the Religion section; it wasn’t Saturday. Then again, politics was the city’s religion, and there was always plenty of that in the Post each day. Which was not to say that religion—the spiritual variety—didn’t play a role in the nation’s capital. Lord knows there were enough prayer breakfasts every morning in Washington to save a regiment of souls. Prayer breakfasts in the White House were very much in vogue with the new administration, and the Cabinet, the House, the Senate, myriad governmental agencies, and even the military kicked off their days with a few words to a Higher Authority.

  St. James had once delivered a sermon based upon the theory that religion played less of a role in Washington than in almost any other city in the world. He used the numerous guidebooks to Washington as an example, pointing out that they scarcely mentioned the city’s religious life, and suggested that an interdenominational committee be formed to encourage better coverage in future editions. Nothing ever came of it, which did not surprise him.

  What really bothered him (although he did not give a sermon on this) was that Washington’s churches were usually better known for whom they attracted rather than for the quality of salvation being offered. President John F. Kennedy virtually put St. Matthew’s Cathedral “on the map” because of his frequent attendance there, and because it was where his funeral Mass had been conducted.

  Directly across from the White House, on Lafayette Square, stood St. John’s Episcopal Church, known as the “Church of the Presidents” because virtually every American president showed up there at least once, including Gerald Ford, who privately and understandably asked for divine wisdom while contemplating a pardon for Richard Nixon. Nixon, of course, enjoyed having the church and clergy come to him at the White House, as opposed to presidents Carter and Truman, who frequently prayed at the First Baptist Church, only a few minutes’ walk from the White House.

  Teddy Roosevelt had worshiped at Grace Reform Church, but his wife and her family went to St. John’s Episcopal. Grace Reform rewarded TR’s allegiance by creating a collection of memorabilia from the Roosevelt White House. St. John’s did not create such a memorial for the rest of his family.

  The Eisenhowers preferred worshiping at the National Covenant Presbyterian Church, which lost its location to a modern office building and was moved to new ground near American University, where tourists could browse its Chapel of Presidents.

  Of course, there had been the snide references to Christian Dior, cattily referred to as First Lady Nancy Reagan’s religion. St. James had thought that a cheap shot, but had laughed when first hearing it.

  Churches everywhere, he mused, but only throwaway mentions of them in the guidebooks. A pagan city, if one used the travel literature as one’s criterion.

  He scanned the Post’s front page, was more thorough as he went throug
h the Style section, finished his second cup of coffee, and kissed his wife good-bye on the other cheek. “I’ll be home this afternoon,” he said. “I need some quiet time to work on the presentation.” He was to address the National Association of Asphalt Contractors that night—he gave many such speeches in the continuing process of raising money for the cathedral’s building fund. What had begun for him as a quest for God too often translated into a quest for checks. It seemed never to end, this need for money. The cathedral, sixth largest in the world, was an insatiable devourer of cash, its completion so near yet so far away; just another ten thousand for an additional gargoyle, forty thousand to reinforce a corbel in the north entrance, a hundred thousand to repair water damage in the Children’s Chapel. Adam Vickery would be missed, St. James reflected. Despite his unpleasant demeanor, Vickery knew how to shake money loose.

  The bishop strode with purpose across the fifty-seven-acre close and looked up at the Gloria in Excelsis Tower soaring more than three hundred feet into the cerulean October sky. Given its supporting hill, the tower was the highest structure in Washington, so inspiring, so majestic, and so expensive. St. James felt good, but he always felt good in the early morning. Morning was the time his internal clock ticked at optimum speed. By the time he addressed the asphalt contractors, his clock would have slowed, and he’d have to wind it up a little to make it through. How much he disliked having to ask for money! Praying for it was one thing; asking was another.

  A group of men milled about the south entrance. One of them, Idris Porter, chief of the Washington Cathedral Police, was leaning against his white Ford Bronco talking to a man whom the bishop didn’t recognize. The man was bulkier than Porter, and wore a gray suit.

  “Good morning, Idris,” St. James said. “Ready bright and early I see.”

  “Yes, Bishop,” Porter said with a smile. He was a very dark black man with sparse, unruly gray hair. “Bishop, this is Agent Lazzara, Secret Service.”

  “Good morning,” St. James said, extending his hand. Security at the cathedral for events such as Vickery’s funeral necessitated the involvement of other agencies besides the cathedral’s small security force. Which agencies, and the number of personnel assigned, depended upon many factors—anticipated crowd size, the deceased’s position and level of controversy, rumors, threats. There hadn’t been any threats regarding the funeral as far as St. James knew. When attorney general, Adam Vickery had been controversial, as most attorneys general are, considering that they’re appointed more for past political favors and fund-raising than for legal insight, but controversy hadn’t followed him into private life.

  “Nice day,” Lazzara said.

  For a funeral, St. James suspected Lazzara was thinking. “Yes,” the bishop said. “How many agents will be here?”

  Porter, who was always a little disgruntled when his domain was intruded upon by other officials, answered with curt, controlled precision: “A dozen from the Secret Service uniformed force, four plainclothes, nine MPD officers. FBI is supposed to have six men assigned, too.”

  “Well, it looks like with you all, including the Metropolitan Police, we’re all safe for another day,” the bishop said, a chuckle in his voice. “Glad you’re here.” He bounded up the steps and entered the cathedral’s south transept. To his immediate right was the War Memorial Chapel, dedicated to the men and women who’d lost their lives in defense of the country. St. James entered it, looked for a moment at a huge needlepoint tapestry called “Tree of Life” on which the seals of the fifty states were done in petit point, then continued through another door leading into the Children’s Chapel, his favorite of the cathedral’s nine chapels.

  “Suffer the little children to come unto me,” he said softly, looking at a reredos of carved wood overlaid with gold portraying Jesus when he’d spoken those words. Children and small four-legged animals, the most vulnerable and dependent of all creatures. Everything in the Children’s Chapel was child-size—a small organ, scaled-down seats and low altar, miniature needlepoint kneeling pads featuring family pets and wild beasts, including those that had boarded Noah’s Ark. A statue of the Christ Child stood near the entrance, its arms open wide in welcome. St. James did what he almost always did upon entering the chapel. He took the Christ Child’s extended bronze fingers in his own and squeezed, as thousands of visiting children did each year. The statue itself had burnished with age, but the rubbing of so many tiny hands kept the fingers bright and shiny, a glow from children to Child. The bishop went to the altar, genuflected, gave thanks for the glory of another day of service, and crossed the cathedral to the narrow, winding stone steps just inside the north entrance and across from the Good Shepherd Chapel. A sign at the foot of the steps said CLERGY; an arrow pointed up. Good direction, he thought once again, and took the steps two at a time.

  He’d no sooner entered the bishop’s dressing room and closed the door behind him when there was a knock. He opened the door to admit one of his canons, Jonathon Merle. “Good morning, Jonathon.”

  “Good morning, Bishop,” Merle said dourly, in a tone which mirrored his general personality. The canon was considerably taller than the bishop, his body lean and angular. His face matched his body; hawklike, eyes sunken and ringed with puttylike flesh, nose a bit of a beak. His face had an overall grayness to it that went perfectly with the rest of him. A sincere man but, sadly, a somewhat sour one.

  “Everything in order?” St. James asked, referring to preparations that would be taking place downstairs for the funeral.

  “Yes, I think so.” The Bishop would be present during the ceremony, but Father Merle would conduct the service.

  “Is Father Singletary back?” St. James asked absently.

  “He’s due tonight, I think,” Merle said.

  “I wonder how his meeting with the archbishop went.” St. James said it not so much because he wondered what the answer would be but because he knew any mention of Paul Singletary nettled Jonathon. That these two canons disliked each other was no secret, and while St. James did what he could to keep their mutual animosity from getting in the way of cathedral business, there were times when he took a certain private delight in the conflict. The truth was that he, too, disliked Father Merle, a failing for which he often asked forgiveness during his prayers. He was confident that Merle had no inkling of his feelings, thank the Lord. The canon’s devotion to God and to his priestly duties at the cathedral were indisputable. If those criteria were ever fore-most in the bishop’s mind, it would be Singletary’s devotion he would question, not Merle’s. The problem with Canon Merle was his personality, or lack of it. A rigid, dogmatic, and humorless champion of the church’s conservative element, he had little patience with those who did not embrace his views. Heading that list was the Reverend Paul Singletary.

  “What did you think of the article last Saturday?” St. James asked as he disappeared behind a folding screen. The article in the Religion section of The Washington Post was an update about the Word of Peace movement, to which Bishop St. James and the cathedral had pledged considerable support. There was no answer from Merle. “Did you hear me, Jonathon?”

  “Yes. I didn’t think very much of it.”

  “Really? What did you find lacking?” He knew the answer; a considerable portion of the article dwelt upon Singletary, and a picture of the handsome liberal priest dominated the page. The photo had been taken in an AIDS hospice in the Adams Morgan district that had been established through Singletary’s untiring fund-raising efforts.

  “It misrepresents the purpose of this church,” said Merle.

  “Interesting,” the bishop said as he came out from behind the screen. “What is the mission of this church?” He was instantly sorry he’d asked. These conversations usually went nowhere; Merle would deliver a sermon on the spot. The bishop sometimes thought he himself had become a missionary cause for Merle, a potential convert to the canon’s view of the Anglican role in the world.

  Merle said, “You’ll forgive my im
pudence, Bishop, but it has been my concern from the beginning that the lofty and holy purposes of this cathedral could be tarnished by over-involvement with the Word of Peace.”

  “Why would I consider you impudent, Jonathon, for raising such a thought this morning? You’ve been saying it with some regularity for over a year.”

  “My concerns grow each day,” Merle said gravely. “I find some of the leaders of the movement to be distasteful. I find the movement itself, despite its professed aims, to be distasteful.” His usual pinched voice became more so.

  “You find seeking peace in this world to be distasteful?”

  There was silence, and St. James realized he had gone too far. He smiled broadly and said, “It is to my benefit and this cathedral’s as well that we have Father Jonathon Merle to keep his eye on the till and his hand on the tiller. Perhaps we should discuss Word of Peace in a less busy, more contemplative atmosphere. In fact, I would be delighted to have dinner with you this evening, Jonathon, just the two of us. I’ve been thinking a great deal lately about China. More specifically, I’ve been craving Chinese food for a week. We can indulge my craving and spend some quiet, focused time discussing this.” He clapped Merle on the arm.