Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “What’s that?”

  “She was madly in love with Paul, and I think it even went beyond that. I think they were in the midst of an affair, a very serious one, when he was killed.”

  “She said that?”

  “She didn’t have to. Trust me. Good night, Mac. Sleep tight.”

  19

  The National Cathedral, 5:00 a.m. the Following Morning—Frost on Everything

  His eyes were fixed upon the sword embedded in the heart of the Blessed Mother, rendered in tempera over gold leaf. The profound sorrow on the face of Mary Magdalene, who knelt at the feet of the Blessed Mother, radiated out into the Chapel of St. Joseph of Arimathea.

  He lowered his eyes and leaned farther forward, his long, angular frame hunched over the wooden communion rail. Lips moved in silent prayer. It was cold in the chapel, perhaps because of the symbolism of Christ’s death as well as the natural early-morning chill contained by the stone walls.

  He looked up again, and his lips stopped moving. St. Joseph of Arimathea, he thought, the Jew who took Christ’s brutalized body into his sepulcher because there was room there, and because there was room in his heart, too, for the crucified martyr.

  Opaque, sunken eyes moved to other depictions on the mural behind the altar. Dominating the center was the Christ of Good Friday who had given His life so that others—so that we could enjoy an everlasting life through His grace.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” he said, embracing the richly polished wood of the rail as though to squeeze understanding and compassion from it. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  A cough. He looked over his right shoulder at one of two sets of carpeted stairs. No one. The maintenance man who’d cleared his throat as he started to enter the chapel had seen the figure at the communion rail and quickly backed out. You learned certain rules when working in the National Cathedral, among them that prayer was more important than polishing and was not to be interrupted. Maintenance chores could always wait.

  Reverend Jonathon Merle made the sign of the cross and slowly stood, using the rail for leverage. Although he was no longer in a submissive prayer position, his concentration was as total as it had been when he was on his knees. He searched the faces on the mural. For what? Did they understand? he asked himself. Were they more than inanimate figures of garish paint and gold leaf? Could they hear his pleas for help? Did those beautiful figures function as conduits to Him, or was there a more direct communication?

  Merle jerked his head left and right, looked up at the arched masonry ceiling thirty-nine feet above, supported by the substantial stone pillars more than twenty-seven feet in diameter. This was a chapel he avoided when possible, so depressing was its theme. The other chapels rang out with the joy of salvation: the Bethlehem Chapel dedicated to the birth of Christ; the Resurrection Chapel a triumphant proclamation of Christ’s having risen in victory. But this chapel was different, with its Norman altar, its green-and-brown stone floor like that of a Roman amphitheater, the attempts by the muralist, Jan Henrik DeRosen, to mitigate the horrible theme of crucifixion through the use of colors so vivid that they only masked what any true believer felt.

  Merle went to the center of the chapel and stood on the stone floor. Now he was shaking with anger; it was as if he were there in the scene depicted in the mural, had been there on that infamous day. How dare they, he thought, and his shaking intensified. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his head slowly moved back and forth. There was no cough this time, but Merle sensed that someone was looking down upon him from the top of the stairs. He looked in that direction and saw the maintenance man quickly walk out of view.

  “Don’t let this happen to me,” Merle said to Him. Merle cried inwardly, but his eyes remained dry.

  Then he stood ramrod straight, and his mouth pressed into a tight line. He walked up the stairs at the opposite side of the chapel, left the cathedral through the south transept, and sat on a bench in the Hortulus, the “Little Garden,” centered on a ninth-century French baptismal font. He sat there until the sun had risen and Bishop St. James would be in his study.

  “Yes, Jonathon?” St. James said after Merle had knocked and had been invited to enter.

  Merle sat in a chair across the desk from the bishop and stared at him.

  “Jonathon, is something wrong?” St. James asked. “You look deeply troubled.”

  “I …” Merle started to say, then fell silent.

  St. James got up and came around to the priest. He knew it had been an ordeal for his canon to be interrogated by the police. He leaned back against the edge of his desk, folded his arms across his chest, and tried a little humor. “Are you upset because I never followed through on my offer of a Chinese dinner?” He instantly realized it was inappropriate, and certainly not effective. Merle looked ready to cry at any minute, but there was such an aridness to him that it seemed inconceivable that there could be moisture within.

  “Does this have something to do with Paul’s death?” St. James asked.

  Merle sat perfectly still for what seemed an eternity. Then, with an almost indiscernible movement of his head, he nodded that it did.

  St. James drew a deep breath and allowed his body to slump. Was he about to hear that Merle had murdered Paul? He silently said a quick prayer: Dear God, please do not let it be that. But he also had to honestly admit to himself that he had wondered from the start whether Jonathon Merle had killed Singletary. The animosity between them was overt. Devout as St. James knew Merle to be, and yes, good and decent, the bishop also recognized an enigmatic force within the priest, the sort of force that seemed endemic to social misfits, to those seemingly decent and good people who do dreadful things, who gun down fellow workers at a plant, or who follow their inner demons to cleanse the world by murdering prostitutes.

  “Jonathon, you know you can trust me. Whatever is weighing so heavily on you can be handled more easily if it’s shared.”

  Merle had been looking down at his hands, clasped in his lap. He raised his head and peered into the bishop’s eyes with an intensity that could be interpreted as seeking understanding or revealing his distrust.

  “Tell me, Jonathon,” St. James said, forcing a smile and placing both hands on Merle’s bony shoulders. “Tell me.”

  Merle spoke in a monotone. “I was treated like a common criminal. I sat in a room where the dregs of society sit, and was subjected to the same scorn. The only difference is that they deserve it. I do not.” He leaned forward. “You should have seen what happened. You should have seen their expressions when I honestly answered their questions. They looked at me as the Blessed Mother looked at the Romans who put Him on the Cross. They saw nothing but guilt, nothing but degradation. It was humiliating.”

  “Yes, it must have been,” St. James said. “Sorry I wasn’t here when you returned. I was glad that Mac Smith was with you.”

  “Not all the time. He came later.”

  “Yes, of course he did. He didn’t know you had gone to be questioned at first. Wasn’t he a help once he got there?”

  “A help? He is one of them. He does not understand that a man like me, a man like you, answers to someone above their worldly views.”

  “Mac Smith is a good man, Jonathon.”

  Merle sighed, and his head fell forward.

  St. James returned to the chair behind his desk. “Jonathon, I understand the pain you’re feeling, and I have considerable sympathy for it, but is that all that has brought you here this morning? Is it simply the pain, the humiliation, of having been questioned at police headquarters?”

  Merle’s head came up. “No, there is a much heavier burden upon me.”

  “And what is that burden?”

  “That … I have been forced to suffer such debasement and degradation while the one who should bear it walks free.”

  St. James sat up straight. “What do you mean? Are you saying that you know who killed Paul?”

  Merle’s face opened up, b
lossomed as though he had awakened from a deep sleep. “Yes,” he said.

  Again, Bishop St. James had hoped it would not come to this. Did the priest sitting across from him really know? If so, was he about to point his finger at someone within the cathedral, someone who, if guilty, would bring disgrace to the institution he loved so much? He didn’t ask for a name.

  “She is a slut,” Merle said.

  “She is a … a slut? Jonathon, to whom are you referring?”

  “Reverend Armstrong.”

  “Oh, my God,” St. James said, bringing his hand to his face and rubbing his eyes.

  Merle was now more animated. “Don’t you see? She shared his bed. She slept with him, fed his carnal instincts.”

  St. James flapped his hands in the air as though to obliterate everything that was happening at the moment. “Jonathon, you are saying that Reverend Armstrong and Reverend Singletary … had an affair?”

  The smile that crossed Merle’s face was the first that morning. “Of course,” he said. “Everyone was aware of it. I knew about it long ago. Didn’t you?”

  “No, I did not, and I am not sure I believe it now. How can you make such an accusation? Do you have proof of this?”

  Merle’s smile widened. “Oh, my dear friend and bishop, it has been going on under your nose for so very long.”

  St. James abruptly went to the window and looked out over the close. “Are you saying that not only did Reverend Armstrong and Reverend Singletary have an affair, but that she murdered him as a result of it?” His hand gripped drapes that had been parted to allow the morning sun to enter the study. His eyes were closed tight: Please don’t say yes, he prayed.

  But Merle affirmed in a voice that had gained volume, “Yes, that is what happened.”

  Bishop St. James released his grip on the drapes and turned to face his priest. “I pray that you are wrong, Jonathon.”

  “I have been offering that same prayer ever since it happened,” Merle said. “Unfortunately, my prayer has not been answered.”

  The aloofness behind Merle’s statement angered the bishop. He gave Merle a hard look and said, “If you have any evidence to support what you are saying, Jonathon, you must come forward with it to the proper authorities. I’ll stand with you, but you must have evidence, must have proof, before you make such accusations.”

  Naturally, it had occurred to the bishop that Merle’s statements might represent nothing more than giving tit for tat. Carolyn Armstrong had implicated Merle in the Singletary case, at least to the extent that she claimed he was lying about his whereabouts the night of the murder. Was this a misguided attempt to get even? More disconcerting was the question of whether this was a way of turning the spotlight from himself to Armstrong because … because perhaps he had been in the cathedral that night, and … and had murdered Singletary.

  No. That contemplation was too painful. The bishop said, “Mackensie Smith has been extremely helpful in every aspect of this unfortunate situation. He functioned as your attorney during most of the questioning at police headquarters. He is a friend of mine and of this cathedral. I would like you to tell him what you’ve told me. I trust his judgment. Will you do that, Jonathon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ll call him now.”

  Merle stood and started for the door.

  “Please stay until I’ve reached Smith and have arranged for you to get together.”

  “I have work to do, Bishop. You know where to reach me. Thank you for your time.”

  After Merle had left and closed the door, St. James sat in his chair and tried to sort out what had happened. There was such anger in the man; his parting words had been uttered with a wind-chill factor of minus sixty. Was there any truth to what he’d said? St. James tried to pray but was incapable of it. What would he ask for, what sins would he confess? Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed Smith’s home.

  20

  Later That Morning—The Frost Has Melted, but It’s Still Chilly

  Choirboy Joey Kelsch and his mother sat with other mothers and children in the waiting room of his pediatrician, Dr. Gabe Griffith. Joey had been cared for since birth by Dr. Abraham Goldin, who’d retired six years ago and sold his practice to the young Dr. Griffith and two associates. They’d built it into one of Washington’s thriving pediatric partnerships. Some mothers of children who had been Dr. Goldin’s patients weren’t sure they liked the new, younger, and decidedly trendy pediatricians, but few had abandoned ship. The long waits that were never the case with Dr. Goldin were balanced by not having to seek out a new physician in another part of town, arrange for records to be transferred, and all the other inconveniences inherent in a change of doctors. Besides, this new group of Young Turks were local celebrities of sorts. Dr. Griffith wrote a column for a weekly newspaper, and conducted a talk show on one of the cable channels. Claiming Dr. Gabe Griffith & Associates as your pediatric group conferred panache akin to that of having the Gene Donati Orchestra play your wedding or François Dionot cater your bar mitzvah.

  Joey and his mother waited almost an hour. Finally, a nurse said with studied pleasantness, “Joey, Mrs. Kelsch.”

  When Dr. Griffith finished examining Joey, he said, “Looks in great shape to me. A fine, healthy young man.” Mrs. Kelsch’s expression told the doctor his evaluation had not appeased her.

  “Tell you what, Joey, how about going back into the waiting room while I chat with your mom for a few minutes?” Griffith said.

  Joey didn’t hesitate. He was gone within seconds.

  “You said he’s been acting strange lately,” the doctor said. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know, Doctor, it’s hard to pin down. Joey has always been high-strung and hyperactive, but ever since—” She looked up at the ceiling as though wanting to affirm that what she was about to say had validity. Evidently, she decided it did, because she continued, “Ever since Reverend Singletary was murdered at the cathedral, Joey has been a different boy. He sulks a great deal, and sometimes is down-right arrogant and nasty.”

  “Well, you’re right, it could have something to do with that event. Was he close to Reverend Singletary?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. He certainly knew him because of going to school there and being active in the choir, but he never talked about Father Singletary to my husband or me. It’s as though that event changed him.” She told the doctor how Joey had vomited while singing a solo during the funeral.

  Griffith, who was sitting behind his desk, ran his fingertips through a carefully arranged set of gray-black curls and shook his head. “I wouldn’t worry about this, Mrs. Kelsch. Joey is a sensitive boy and has probably taken a great deal of this to heart. He also has the demands of school, peer pressure, and all the other things that work on a youngster of his age. No, I wouldn’t concern myself about it.”

  “But you aren’t living with it, Doctor,” Mrs. Kelsch said.

  Griffith smiled. “That, of course, is very true. Tell you what, Mrs. Kelsch. If you think it’s sufficiently serious, maybe Joey should see a psychiatrist, talk it out, deal with whatever it is he’s feeling about Reverend Singletary’s murder. I can refer you to some excellent ones.”

  “A shrink for Joey? No, I think that would be more destructive than helpful.”

  “Well, that’s the only advice I can offer. I’m a pediatrician, not a psychiatrist. Think about it. If you decide to give it a try—and some of the people we work with are top-notch—I can arrange an appointment. By the way, anything new on the reverend’s murder?”

  “I have no idea, Dr. Griffith,” she answered. “My husband and I discussed taking Joey out of the cathedral school, maybe placing him in another private school just to get him away from there.”

  “That’s a decision only you and your husband can make, but I wouldn’t be too hasty about it. Keep an eye on him, and talk to your husband about getting Joey some professional counseling. Have a good day, Mrs. Kelsch.”

  Joey’s mother tried to
make light conversation as they drove home in their new red Volvo wagon, but Joey would have none of it. He sat in a defiant shell against the passenger door and would not respond to his mother’s questions and comments. His withdrawal made her increasingly angry, and by the time they walked through the door of their home, she was screaming at him. He immediately went upstairs and slammed his bedroom door.

  Maybe Dr. Griffith was right, she thought as she fixed herself a cup of herbal tea in the kitchen. Maybe he does need counseling, some sort of professional intervention. Lord knows, she and her husband had been unable to reach him. That’s what shrinks were for, to reach people.

  She carried her tea upstairs after having decided to suggest to Joey that they see a counselor. She knocked on his door; there was no answer.

  “Joey, it’s your mother.”

  When there still was no response, she tried the door, but he’d locked it from the inside. She banged on it with her fists. “Joey, open this door immediately! This is ridiculous, and I will not stand for it.” She beat on the door again even harder, and the teacup and saucer in her left hand fell to the floor, the tea creating an instant brown stain in the thick white carpet.

  She heard the lock turn and the door opened. Staring up at her was her only son. She had seen anger before on his face, but nothing to equal this. His eyes filled, and he screamed, “Leave me alone! You don’t understand!” He pushed by her with enough force to propel her against the wall and bounded down the stairs. She heard the front door open and slam shut.

  “My God,” she muttered as she picked up the cup and saucer. What should she do?

  She walked into his room and looked around. Was he using drugs? The thought sent chills through her. No, of course not. But people said that parents who assumed their children would never use drugs were often the most disappointed ones. She should have raised that possibility with Dr. Griffith. But Joey? At the age of ten? Ridiculous.

  Still, she opened each of his dresser drawers and searched beneath what clothing was in them. Most of his clothes were in his room at the cathedral school. She reached up in his closet and ran her hands over the shelf, looked under the bed, riffled through books and papers and magazines. Then she glanced up at the wall above his bed, where a National Cathedral calendar had always hung. It wasn’t there; it had been torn to shreds, the pieces strewn over his pillow.