A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  The holy mass went quickly that weekday morning, as he recited a quick homily and dispensed communion to the eighty or so worshippers who attended that day. As was his usual routine after mass, he took off his vestments and walked over to the confessional in the rear of the cathedral. For the next hour, he was expected to offer his time and to hear confessions from the various parishioners who had attended services that morning. He had brought a prayer book along with him, as he usually did, to keep himself occupied in between acts of contrition.

  He had already heard the confessions of several people that morning, when another well-dressed gentleman entered the confessional. As he entered the enclosed private chamber, the Monsignor was only greeted with several moments of silence.

  “Recite your trespasses before the Lord,” the Monsignor began, breaking the extended void. There were only more silent moments, as Kilbane tried to see who the man was that had entered his confessional. It was dark in the ornate, private room, where there were no lights available inside of the cathedral’s private chamber.

  “Confess your sins, please,” the Monsignor requested again.

  “I got your fucking sins right here!” said a brash, familiar voice.

  “You mother-fucker! I’ll confess my sins to you, you fucking son-of-a-bitch!” as more vulgarity came from the other side of the small, private room.

  “My sins are that I’ve allowed you to be my friend for too fucking long, you sick, fucking bastard!”

  Fr. Joe immediately knew who it was.

  “Please! You are in the House of the Lord!” as he tried to calm down his childhood friend, not expecting him to arrive unannounced to Holy Name Cathedral and to loudly invade his private confessional.

  “You mother-fucking asshole! Do you have any idea how much heat you’ve put on us? Do you have any fucking idea? And there I was, having dinner with you, listening to your crazy, fucking bullshit!”

  The Monsignor was completely stunned and surprised to hear the angry voice of Little Tony DiMatteo. He was especially shocked at his coming into his confessional and to begin verbally cussing him out. He had not heard from Tony since their dinner together at the Trattoria Pagliacci a few weeks ago, and he did not try to contact him.

  Although he had been pulled over for a DUI that evening, he had been released by the police the next day and he had not thought much more of the incident since.

  “Tony,” Fr. Joe sternly replied, “this is not the place.”

  “Fuck you, Joe. This is the only place. Thanks to you and your bright, wild-ass fucking ideas, I can’t even be seen with you anymore.”

  “What happened, Tony?”

  “What happened? I’ll tell you what happened! The coppers are on to you and your brilliant fucking ideas. And now, you’ve dragged me into this too.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about?” Tony replied.

  ”They picked me up on a DUI charge yesterday, and they said they pulled you over last week as well. Now I’ve got Detective Fucking Dorian up my ass, and he’s saying that they busted you with the suitcase full of goddamn cash,” Tony angrily explained.

  “And what’s worse, Detective ‘Fucking Columbo’ started taking smart pills. Somehow, he figured out that you’ve been shopping around for a mobbed-up butcher for the insurance money. He now knows that you were trying to pay me off while we were having dinner at the restaurant the other night, you asshole!” Tony continued to loudly cuss, as the other worship-pers sitting in the last pews of cathedral were noisily being disrupted.

  “Tony, please! Keep your voice down,” the Monsignor loudly begged.

  “We didn’t even ‘ace’ these fucking priests and now we’re taking the fucking heat for it,” Tony begrudgingly complained.

  “I’ve got an unmarked cop car sitting at the end of my street, following me around all fucking day. I can’t even shit and wipe my ass without the fucking cops watching me!”

  “Your voice, Tony,” the Monsignor warned him again.

  “Fuck you, Joe!” Tony very loudly whispered, “Is this quiet enough?”

  “I told you this was a stupid idea,” he continued, “and now I’ve got all these fucking coppers and detectives up my ass, thanks to you!” Tony irately whispered.

  The Monsignor was totally shocked and embarrassed. He peeked out of his confessional chamber for a moment and counted the number parishioners who were witnessing the loud, Shakespearian poetry that was coming out of Little Tony’s mouth.

  “This is not the place, Tony. Let’s go into the sacristy where we can talk, please.”

  “Fuck you, Joe! I can’t even be seen with you anymore. And I don’t want to be seen with you, you sick, fuck-ball!” Tony angrily replied.

  “I’m fucking done with you, Joe. Stay the fuck away from me! If you’re too stupid to keep these fucking coppers away from you, don’t send them over to me! I’ve got enough of my own fucking problems.”

  With that, Little Tony angrily stormed out of the confessional. He slammed the chamber door so loud that the noise reverberated from the stained-glass windows of the landmark cathedral. Several worshippers were staring at the angry ‘Capo dei Capi’ as he loudly exited Holy Name Cathedral. He walked down the church steps to his black Mercedes parked on North Wabash, where his chauffer was waiting.

  “Get me the fuck out of here,” he ordered his driver, as the vehicle sped off into the busy morning traffic, going eastbound on Chicago Avenue towards the city.

  The Monsignor gathered his prayer book and quickly, walked out of the confessional chamber and over to the front door of the cathedral. Several parishioners were still staring at the rear of the church, witnessing the confessional drama as Kilbane went looking for Little Tony. He wanted to confront him face to face and to rationally, calm him down. He wanted to reassure his childhood friend that, somehow, the Lord will find a way and prayerfully, the truth in all of this will come out. It always does, Fr. Joe thought to himself.

  But deep down in his soul, Monsignor Kilbane was horrified. The fact that the police were now suspicious of his soliciting a “murder for hire” plot for the life insurance money was sobering. Kilbane was trying very hard not to panic and not to have a total meltdown. He confidently knew that, no matter how angry Tony was at him, and no matter how hard his juvenile friend was pushed, that Little Tony would never, ever, ’rat’ him out.

  Not to anyone. Ever.

  Despite his suggestion to Little Tony of hiring a hitman for the insurance money several months ago, the reality was that, neither the Monsignor nor Little Tony had anything to do with these murders. Although Fr. Joe was pleased that the Archdiocese was the intended beneficiary of these life insurance policies, he was extremely fearful and suspicious. It seemed in his mind that, somehow, someone was killing these pedophile ex-priests and trying to put the blame on the Archdiocese and especially, himself.

  But why? And by whom? Was he being framed? Why would he be blamed for these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’ that neither he nor Little Tony had committed?

  Someone else had to know of his intended plan to ‘hire out’ the murder deaths of these pedophile ex-priests. But who else would carry out these plans? Who else would know of his evil intentions? Who else would have heard him discussing his malevolent plans to DiMatteo that evening? Did Little Tony mention this to someone within the DiMatteo Family and perversely, carry out his plans? There were too many questions going through his head, and Monsignor Joseph Kilbane didn’t have the answers to any of them.

  He opened the old, antiquated walnut doors and walked down the steps of Holy Name Cathedral, looking both ways on North Wabash Street for his friend. But Little Tony had abruptly left and disappeared. He was nowhere to be found. Monsignor Kilbane then walked back inside of the Cathedral and, still grasping his prayer book, kneeled in the last pew at the rear of the church and prayed. He prayed for the Lord’s forgiveness. He prayed for the Lord’s understanding.

  But most of al
l, he prayed for the truth.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  An Attorney’s Visit

  The beautiful, sharply dressed brunette wearing a white, Anne Klein business suit had just left Starbucks on Jefferson Avenue and was casually walking across the street to work and begin her day. Olivia Laurent arrived at her office at the Great Lakes Life Insurance Company on the thirty-sixth floor of the Renaissance Center, as it glistened off the bright sunrays of that early June morning. She settled at her desk with her grande, extra-wet cappuccino, and shuffled through her desk files and the current matters at hand. It was almost 10:30am when her administrative assistant, Ginette, paged her on her desk phone:

  “Olivia, you have a visitor from Chicago. He says he would like a few minutes of your time.”

  Olivia thought immediately of Detective Philip Dorian. Her hands began perspiring, and her heart started to pound out of her chest. She hadn’t seen or heard from Philip since her dinner date with him last week and had hoped for several seconds that he would just magically appear in the reception area of her insurance company.

  “Who is it?” she inquired.

  “His name is James Gleason, and he’s an attorney.”

  An attorney coming here all the way from Chicago? Why? This seemed unusual, and she was curious as to why she would be receiving such an unexpected visit.

  “Shall I send him in?” Ginette asked.

  “No, I will be right out.”

  Olivia walked out of her office and over to the reception room, where she greeted her unexpected visitor. He was a tall, portly older man, well dressed in a dark blue, pinstriped three-piece suit, complete with a bright blue handkerchief and a pocket watch. He looked to be in his much later years, bald with an over-sized, red Irish nose that could probably compete with W.C. Fields.

  “Ms. Laurent? I’m James Gleason, and I’m the attorney for the family of Mr. John Marquardt,” the well-dressed attorney announced as he handed her his business card.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gleason. What can I do for you?” Olivia curtly asked, uncomfortable with this sudden visit from a strange Chicago attorney that she had never met, nor expected at her office.

  “I’m sorry to barge in on you unexpectedly like this, but may we go somewhere in private to talk?”

  “Certainly.”

  The Chicago attorney followed Olivia into her office, as the conference room on her floor was already occupied with another meeting. The gentleman had brought along a dark brown briefcase and sat in front of Olivia’s desk with his case on his lap. As his hands were placed over his briefcase, Olivia noticed a shiny gold ring on his right hand, with several red rubies in the shape of a red cross.

  They exchanged a few pleasantries regarding his unpleasant drive to Detroit from Chicago that morning, and he explained that his office was on West Wacker Drive. Mr. Gleason was the founding partner of his law firm, which was established back in 1985, and concentrated on personal injury and liability cases.

  “So again, Mr. Gleason, what can I do for you today?”

  “As I’ve mentioned, I’m here on behalf of the Marquardt family. As you may know, the former Fr. Marquardt was violently murdered in his home last month, from what has been reported in the media lately, as a serial killer. We understand that there was a five-million-dollar life insurance policy written against Marquardt’s life at the time of his resignation from his pastoral duties by the Archdiocese back in 1982. Our firm has now discovered that the Archdiocese was the beneficiary to this very large life insurance policy. The family of John Marquardt is in the process of filing a lawsuit claim against the Archdiocese for any proceeds that may be distributed to them,” Gleason carefully explained.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss this life insurance claim with you, Mr. Gleason, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

  “I understand Ms. Laurent. I’ve anticipated your unwillingness to discuss this matter with me, and I fully understand,” the attorney replied, then asked in the same breath, “Would you be at liberty to discuss with me your progress on this insurance claim?”

  Olivia just laughed, not knowing whether she should entertain or insulted by such a blatant, out-of-line question.

  “No, I cannot discuss that with you either, Mr. Gleason,” she sarcastically repeated.

  The Chicago counselor was not astonished by Olivia’s reaction nor her reluctance to discuss this matter with him. He only looked at her with a satirical look on his face.

  “Have you been following the progress of these “Pedophile Priest Murders” in Chicago?

  “Yes, Mr. Gleason, I have.”

  “Correct me if I am wrong, Ms. Laurent. Since an arrest has not been made in these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders, that there is a very good possibility that the Archdiocese’s claim to these life insurance proceeds could be approved, notwithstanding any other evidence or arrests made in these murder cases, correct?” Gleason asked.

  “Yes. That is correct Mr. Gleason.”

  “And with the high dollar amount of this life insurance policy, your company would more than likely hire your own private investigators to examine the validity of this claim or any other related life insurance claims concerning these recent murders, correct?” Gleason asked.

  “That typically would be correct. But we have not hired a ‘P.I.’ to investigate these murders yet, Mr. Gleason. We have been reassured by the Chicago Police Department that so far, they have these homicide investigations under control,” Olivia stated matter-of-factly.

  Gleason laughed to himself and smiled, as he continued to bring his point home.

  “I can assure you, Ms. Laurent, that the Chicago P.D. does not have these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’ under control,” the Chicago attorney blatantly stated.

  “But I understand that the FBI is also involved in these investigations,” Olivia replied.

  “Yes, they are, but the progress of these murder cases has been very slow, and they have not uncovered any evidence leading to an arrest.”

  “Ok,” Olivia replied, “But I don’t understand where you’re going with any of this, Mr. Gleason,” Olivia impatiently said, as she was starting to become angry with this fishing expedition.

  “What does your client’s lawsuits have to do with us? We cannot approve of any claims until the evidence has been uncovered and we decide whether these insurance monies can be rightfully claimed by the Archdiocese. The Chicago Police Department hasn’t completed their investigation into this or the other related homicide. We have no idea what the Chicago P.D. is going to uncover in this or on any of the other murders’,” she bluntly replied in a very snarky voice.

  The old, Chicago attorney just sat at his chair in front of Olivia’s desk and smiled.

  “Will your insurance company be hiring a private investigator to examine my client’s homicide? Or for that matter, the serial killer involved in these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’?”

  “Again, I am not at liberty to say, Counselor. I would imagine that we will be looking into that matter very shortly after I meet again with the Chicago Police Department and their investigators.”

  Gleason continued to push his case, as if to make a grand revelation. “Would it be accurate to say, Ms. Laurent, that when an arrest has been made in a related murder case, that the insurance company can postpone the related life insurance claims until the homicide case has been tried in a court of law? When an establishment of guilt has been found regarding the alleged killer?” Gleason kept inquiring. He was verbally making his assumptions to Olivia as though he were standing before a grand jury in a court of law.

  “That would be accurate.”

  “And if the alleged murderer were found not guilty in that homicide, the insurance company can approve the insurance claim and pay the proceeds to the beneficiary, correct?”

  “Yes, Mr. Gleason…that would be correct,” as Olivia was beginning to grow weary and impatient of Gleason’s questions.

  “Let’s imagine, if you will, that your compan
y acquires a private detective, and that your investigator uncovers evidence which would make you believe that the beneficiary of these life insurance policies did not perpetrate the murders of these former priests. Would that evidence, or any lack thereof, incline your company to approve these insurance claims?”

  “Well, probably, eh…yes…it would.”

  “Even before this murder case is tried in court?”

  “Yes. Once we have definite evidence that could indicate that the beneficiary was not the perpetrator to these murders, we would automatically approve the life insurance claim. Even if only some of the evidence is circumstantial on the part of the Archdiocese, we would be within our rights to approve or deny these claims regardless of the suspicions of the Chicago P.D.,” she explained.

  “I see,” said the Chicago counselor said. “And of course, any evidence that you would uncover, you are not obligated to share this evidence with the Chicago P.D., correct?”

  “No, we are not,” she answered. “Where are you going with all of this, Mr. Gleason?” Olivia was starting to get angry. She was beginning to count to ten under breath as she was thinking of initiating this old attorney’s exit, and then possibly, throwing this old son-of-a-bitch out of her thirty-sixth-floor window.

  “We suspect that there are other parties involved in these homicides that may be trying to ‘frame’ the Archdiocese and specifically, Monsignor Kilbane as the perpetrator of these murders. I believe that there is not enough evidence to make any such conclusions,” Gleason explained.

  He just sat there in front of her desk, reiterating his point.

  “Ms. Laurent, as you have said, if a private investigator were hired by your company, and no additional evidence is uncovered in a homicide case such as this, you could use this lack of evidence to approve the insurance claim. Correct?” Olivia was silent, thinking again about her answer. The old man only smiled, opened his briefcase, and withdrew a large white envelope and placed it on Olivia’s desk.