by Edward Izzi
“But don’t go far. I’m going to need more of your help on this homicide case, Mr. Rizzo.”
He just looked at me and smiled, knowing that he still had one up on me.
“Anything for you, Detective,” as he left my office, closing the door behind him.
I knew Chaz Rizzo was licking his chops for another exclusive “Channel 8”news story. I also knew that I couldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. But he always seemed to have more information than I did when it came to these messy homicides, and I knew that I had to keep him around if I wanted to solve this case. But I kept asking myself same the question:
Who would kill for the Archdiocese?
Chapter Seven
SAL MARROCCO
The morning dawn was peeking across the cloudless sky that cold winter morning before Christmas, as Little Tony pulled his Maserati into his South Ashland parking lot. It was just after five in the morning, and he was late for his early morning workout, which he did religiously five days a week. He had a large exercise room in the DiMatteo Tomato Distribution plant, which he and several of his employees would meet each day to do weights and cardio machine workouts. Tony was very health conscience and was a firm believer in living a healthy lifestyle. He encouraged his employees to take advantage of the company exercise room, which was filled with several Precor elliptical and treadmill machines, along with a large weight room and some stationary bicycles. He hired a trainer to come to the warehouse plant on that day, as he and several other employees were preparing for their private spinning class, which started at 5:15am.
As Tony came out of the adjacent locker room, which was complete with a private sauna and showers, several of his employees were already on their stationary bikes, ready for class. One of his employees there was Salvatore Marrocco, his financial controller and trusted colleague. Sal was an older, heavy-set man in his late sixties, with over dyed jet-black hair and a moustache.
He was very well educated, with an MBA degree from Northwestern University and a law degree from the University of Chicago. Although his corporate title was that of chief financial officer, he was better known as the ‘Consigliere’ of the DiMatteo Family. Little Tony consulted him daily regarding all business matters within the company, and topics ‘outside’ of the DiMatteo Tomato business. Marrocco was quite valuable to Little Tony and was well paid for his diverse business knowledge, his understanding of the criminal and civil laws, and his well versed ‘street smarts’.
“What’s up Sal?” he said as he climbed onto one of the free spinning cycles next to him.
“How was your dinner last night with the Monsignor?” the Consigliere asked, as he usually spoke with a very deep, raspy voice.
Little Tony started to chuckle to himself as he contemplated his dinner meeting with Monsignor Kilbane at the Trattoria Pagliacci the night before.
“You’re laughing, so you must have had a good time,” Sal observed.
Tony was still laughing to himself as he began peddling his stationary bike, with the trainer yelling out instructions.
“That Fr. Joe is still fucking crazy after all of these years.” Tony laughed.
“Why? What happened?”
“You’re not going to believe this!” Tony said, as he was accelerating his peddling, his head down facing the floor.
“I think Fr. Joe wants to become one of us!”
Sal looked at Little Tony with a confused look on his face. He had also gotten to know Monsignor Kilbane very well through his relationship with the DiMatteo Family, and knowing his affiliations with the Archdiocese, was bewildered by his bosses’ comment.
“What are you talking about?”
“I think the Monsignor has been watching too many ‘wise-guy’ movies.”
Sal was still perplexed by his comments but decided to play along.
“You’re probably right, Tony. The last time I saw the Monsignor was at your daughter’s wedding. He was at the bar doing a very bad ‘Joe Pesce’ imitation after sucking down three or four Manhattans.”
“I remember that,” observed Tony as he was adjusting the speed of his spinning bike.
“He should stick to ‘DeNiro’. He does him a lot better!”
They were both laughing as they were accelerating and decelerating their stationary bikes. They continued to make small talk until the forty-five-minute spinning class was finally over. Tony grabbed a towel after his workout and followed his ‘consigliere’ into the locker room. While they were both getting dressed, Sal decided to press his boss for more details.
“So which movie has the Monsignor been watching these days?”
“I think he’s got ‘Casino’ of the fucking brain,” Tony said loudly, making sure there was no one else in the locker room.
Sal laughed as he pressed Little Tony further, “So what did he want?”
Marrocco was more than aware of Tony’s dinner date with the Monsignor the night before. When Monsignor Kilbane personally called to invite Little Tony out for dinner, Sal became suspicious. He knew that Fr. Joe was looking for more than just a ‘soup kitchen’ donation. Whatever the matter was, the Consigliere knew it had to be serious enough for Kilbane to insist on meeting with Little Tony alone.
“That crazy bastard wants me to loan him out a ‘hit man’!” Tony said, knowing that there was no one else within earshot of his comment.
The ‘Capo’ knew he could completely trust his faithful advisor with anything and had no issues with Sal Marrocco’s ability to be discrete and keep their conversations confidential.
Marrocco stopped buttoning his shirt and gazed at Tony, completely confused.
“What the hell is Kilbane going to do with a ‘hit man’?”
“That’s what I asked him. Some bullshit about taking out some pedophile ex-priests with large insurance policies. I guess the new story now is that the Archdiocese is broke.”
Salvatore Marrocco became frozen, as he blankly gazed at Little Tony, completely speechless.
Marrocco had grown up on Taylor and Halsted Streets, and went to catholic school as a young boy at St. Rosalia’s Parish. He was barely in the second grade when his mother forced him to serve as an altar boy for Saturday afternoon masses. He had suppressed many of his childhood memories during his time at St. Rosalia’s Catholic School, as his family moved away to the western suburbs when he was ten years old. He had suffered nightmares as a young boy, and was often medicated as a teenager, struggling to cope with the horrendous experiences he had suffered through during his time at St. Rosalia’s, and especially, his time as a young altar boy serving mass. He was still struggling to remember the abusive pastor’s name, for which it had taken him decades to forget.
As he slowly sat down in front of his locker, Tony looked at him, noticing that he was in some sort of a trance.
“Are you okay?”
Sal quickly looked at Tony and shook himself back to reality.
“Oh yeah, I’m fine,” he replied. “I hope you told him ‘No’. We don’t need to get involved in that shit.”
“Of course,” replied Tony. “Besides, I told him the Archdiocese couldn’t afford our services.”
Marrocco looked at Little Tony and shook his head. “I think your Monsignor friend is losing it.”
“I’m starting to think you’re right,” replied Tony.
“Maybe Fr. Joe had too many Manhattan’s last night,” Sal suggested.
Tony thought about it for a few seconds. “No, not really. I was the one gulping down the Crown Royals,” he remembered.
“Anyways, I reminded Fr. Joe of one of His Ten Commandments and squashed his big ‘wise-guy’ idea!”
“Was he really serious?” Sal asked, still perplexed by the subject of their conversation.
“Oh yeah. He was fucking serious. I told him it was a ‘whack-job’ idea and that he should stick to running the Archdiocese, saying masses and hearing confessions.”
Sal walked over to the sink with his shaving kit and began sil
ently shaving his heavy beard. He was still thinking about his grammar school days in the old neighborhood, and especially, his memories as an altar boy. He started thinking about all the times he was attacked and assaulted in the church sacristy after Saturday afternoon masses, and how ashamed he was to mention anything about it to anyone.
He thought about his poor tormented mother, Elsa. ‘God Rest Her Soul’, he thought to himself. She used to beg her son to tell her what was wrong, as he used to recluse himself in his bedroom after school for weeks at a time. Little Salvatore finally told his mother that he didn’t want to be an altar boy anymore, for which she finally gave in. Sal was an only child, and his loving mother, Elsa, selflessly doted on him.
When the young boy started having nightmares, his mother realized that something was terribly wrong with her son. She blamed the school for the ‘bullying’ that she assumed was going on and faulted his dropping grades on the school nuns. She presumed their inability to properly teach her young son was the reason for his unexplainable depression and failing grades. When they finally moved away from Taylor Street, young Salvatore never looked back.
As a young teenager, he went to St. Fabian High School in Oak Park, where he continued to struggle with his studies as a freshman. He became suspicious and angry with the Jesuit clerics, who oversaw instructing the high school students. He had experienced some physical and emotional abuse at St. Fabian in the form of corporal punishment, when he and his high school friends didn’t always ‘follow the rules’.
His high school counselor, Mr. Thomas Saunders, a layman, realized Sal’s deep depression problems and assisted him in getting help with his classes. His study habits and academics significantly improved, and he graduated in the upper third of his class.
But Sal Marrocco grew up with a very tainted view of the Roman Catholic Church. He married and raised his three children outside of the Catholic faith, never allowing any of them to make any of the holy sacraments. He struggled throughout his life to hide his hatred and distain for Roman Catholic priests. He still believed in a ‘divine being’ and organized religion but was very anti-Catholic. Over the years, he learned to restrain his personal opinions and religious viewpoints upon others.
The Consigliere at that moment, had tears in his eyes, as he struggled to focus on the mirror and continued shaving without cutting himself. He then walked to his locker and slowly put on his trousers and his crisp white shirt, blue sweater and gold cufflinks. He was careful to wear his gold Rolex watch that he just received as an early Christmas gift from his wife. He made sure he didn’t forget to put back on his gold, 18-carat red cross ring that he always wore. He was still trying to remember the name of that monstrous pastor from St. Rosalia’s Church who had stolen his innocent soul when he was a child.
“Aren’t you done getting dressed, Sal? We’ve got a busy day today. We’ve got a ton of bad debts that we need to review before the year end,” Little Tony said.
Marrocco was aware of the year end duties that awaited his controllership position that day. He tried to stay focused, struggling to put his past childhood nightmares behind him. It had taken him a lifetime to forget the terrifying incidents he experienced as a young altar boy at St. Rosalia’s Church.
It took him many years to control the emotional flashbacks he experienced, remembering the pastor pulling his pants down, beating and punishing him with a thick paddle for dropping the container of communion hosts on the floor during holy mass. He could still remember being sexually accosted in the sacristy after mass and threatened by the pastor that he would instantly burn in Hell if he had ever mentioned anything to anyone. It took him years to forget as a little boy, how he would hide his blood-stained underwear away from his mother, so she wouldn’t get suspicious. He remembered crying and screaming in the middle of the night, afraid he would be condemned to a burning fire of death, if anyone ever found out what that evil priest had been doing to him.
Sal Marrocco walked out of the company locker room and took the long stroll to the other side of the distribution warehouse, as his upstairs office was located on the opposite end. As he unlocked his office door, he broke into a cold sweat. The wicked face of the priest who had abused him as a little boy, his evil eyes casting down on him as he mentally struggled to escape his fury, suddenly appeared before him. The pastor’s icy cold blue eyes were radiating fire as he loudly screamed for help, before the priest’s hand covered his mouth.
He could still feel his head being pushed up against the cinder block wall of the church sacristy, feeling excruciating pain encompass his whole body as blood dripped onto the marble floor. The immoral image of his face, wearing his holy vestments, flashed before his eyes as the name, which took him years to forget, finally came back to haunt him. A name, which he now swore with a deep vengeance, he would never, ever forget again:
Fr. John Marquardt.
Chapter Eight
Confronting Kilbane
It was a bright, sunny spring morning, as the sun’s reflection from the lawn’s morning dew blinded my eyesight. The neatly manicured lawn and the park-like setting of the Cardinal’s mansion was breath-taking, as I parked my Crown Victoria police car at the nearest illegal parking space. As I started climbing up the grand entranceway, I began chuckling to myself, wondering what these great walls of the Cardinal’s mansion would have to say, if they were ever subpoenaed and forced to talk.
When I entered the office, I approached the old, frumpy receptionist, remembering that she didn’t like coppers. I asked her in a well-mannered tone of voice, if I could possibly have a short, pleasant visit with Monsignor Kilbane.
“The Monsignor is very busy today. You will have to make an appointment if you wish to see him.”
“The Chicago Police Department doesn’t make appointments, ma’am,” as I showed her my star, still trying very hard to be polite.
The old women gave me a dirty look for about three seconds. She probably thought that I had a lot of nerve questioning her sentinel duties, as she aggressively guarded the main gates to the Monsignor’s office.
“I will let him know that you are here,” she growled.
“Thank you,” I politely answered with one of my fake smiles.
I sat myself down on one of their plush, velvet oak chairs and waited, noticing the ornate décor of the general reception area. I would have to remember all this elaborate opulence the next time I was at Sunday mass, I thought to myself. It was probably more than fifteen minutes before the Monsignor came out of his office to greet me.
“Hello, Detective,” he said in a very cold, monotone voice, letting me know through his body language that I was more than disturbing him.
“Good Morning, Monsignor Kilbane,” as I extended my hand and showed him my star again.
“Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?”
“I have a very busy day today, Detective. I can only spare you a few minutes.”
“That’s very kind of you, Monsignor,” as I was trying hard not to sound sarcastic, even though I knew this guy thought he was doing me a huge favor.
We walked into to his very extravagant office and I sat myself at one of the chairs, in front of his antique, wood carved, Maplewood desk.
“Since I’m a Catholic, may I call you Father?”
“Of course.”
I took out a small note pad from my dark suit jacket and crossed my legs, trying to make myself comfortable.
“Is there any information you would care to tell me, regarding our investigation into the murder of John Marquardt?”
“Nothing that I can think of,” he replied.
“Then I will get right to the point, Father. We have gotten word from the Great Lakes Life Insurance Company that there was a five-million-dollar insurance policy taken out on the life of John Marquardt back in 1982, naming your Archdiocese as the beneficiary. Are you aware of this?”
Kilbane started to change skin colors, as the few hairs he had combed across his bald scalp s
tarted to reflect his perspiration.
“Yes Detective. That is correct.”
“Is this standard procedure?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does the Archdiocese go around insuring all of their former priests for five-million-dollar life insurance policies?”
The Monsignor looked directly in my eyes, never flinching for a second as he answered my questions.
“John Marquardt was employed by the Archdiocese in our accounting department. His life insurance premiums were one of his employment package benefits, taken directly from his salary.”
“Really?” as I smiled. “And he named the Archdiocese as a beneficiary to his life insurance policy?”
“Of course, Detective. As a matter of fact, he did,” Kilbane boldly answered.
He then pulled out one of his desk drawers and retrieved a thick, yellowed manila folder. He fumbled across a few papers before showing me a copy of the life insurance application, dated March 20, 1982, signed by John Marquardt. There was a highlighted section of the application where the named beneficiary was handwritten: Archdiocese of Chicago. I read through the actual application, noticing that it had been notarized by an outside party.
“Could I have a copy of this, Father?”
“Of course, Detective.”
He dialed his receptionist’s front telephone, and within several seconds my favorite secretary came in to make a copy of Marquardt’s insurance application, still wearing one of her dirty looks. She came back moments later with a copy, which I folded and placed in my pocket.
“Why would Marquardt name the Archdiocese as his beneficiary?”
“Well, Detective, I don’t know if you’re aware. Besides administering to our churches and schools within the City of Chicago, we are involved philanthropically within the community as well. We fund food banks, child care services, adoption services, and many other needy organizations within the city.”
I looked at him for a moment. It was as though his answers to my questions were very well scripted.
