A Rose From The Executioner

by Edward Izzi

  “I have that very same problem, Father. I always forget my glasses at home, and I often have to wear my prescription sunglasses,” the old volunteer replied.

  The ‘Monsignor’ quickly took off his sun glasses and anxiously, put on his wire rimmed eyewear that he was so famous for wearing.

  “What parish are you with?” she eagerly asked, as he was adjusting his spectacles.

  “Holy Name Cathedral,” the distinguished priest quickly replied, growing impatient with all this idle chatter.

  “Could you give me his room number please?” he eagerly asked her again.

  “Oh yes…Room 821, Bed A,” she politely replied. “Are you here to give him communion?”

  “I’m here for his confession and last rites,” he annoyingly replied, wondering why this old women was asking him all these rapid-fire questions.

  The older receptionist began thinking to herself, how wonderful it was that an Archdiocesan parish priest would come from Holy Name Cathedral to the West Loop hospital for a dying Catholic’s confession and last rites. He must have been called from the dying patient’s family, she thought to herself, specifically requesting the presence of an Archdiocesan clergy.

  Mr. Matthew McDougall was a dying patient, with late stage four lung cancer. He had been receiving experimental chemotherapy treatments and had been in the hospital for over two weeks. The former smoker’s body was ridden with needles and chemicals, and most of the nurses within the hospital ward on the eighth floor did not expect him to live past the end of the week.

  McDougall was weak and was in and out of consciousness, as the cancer ward nurses continued to monitor his lack of progress. His only nephew and living relative, Raymond McDougall, was told that the sickly man would remain on hospice and made comfortable for as long as possible. His uncle did not have long to live, he was told. But the nephew was not aware of the diocesan priest’s surprise visit to his uncle’s bedside.

  Mr. McDougall was a 77-year old former priest, who was formerly employed as a high school English teacher at Roberto Clemente High School on North Western Avenue for almost twenty-five years. Mr. McDougall was very active with the young teenagers at the high school and was very involved in couching their junior and varsity baseball teams. He was a very well-liked popular teacher, who never had any ‘formal’ documented problems or reported issues with the Chicago Public School Board.

  McDougall’s background when he was hired as a teacher, was never thoroughly checked by the school board or the high school’s principal back in 1985. Had Matt McDougall’s background been properly investigated, the various child molestation accusations that he was accused of while an associate pastor at various Chicago parishes would have possibly, come to light. But Cardinal Bernardo, who was Cardinal Brody’s successor after his death in 1983, pursued his CPS connections to ensure that the former Fr. McDougall’s employment was all but guaranteed at the Chicago high school.

  Cardinal Bernardo forced McDougall to resign from the priesthood back in 1985, and as part of his ‘deal’, would not be prosecuted or charged for any of his various pedophile crimes. His Eminence procured the former priest’s public school employment, while assisting him in his resignation and signing all the necessary life insurance documents. McDougall, as part of this agreement, was forced into intense therapy, in order to reassure His Eminence and the Archdiocese of Chicago that McDougall was no longer a “threat” to young children.

  When Matthew McDougall started teaching at the high school, he developed a strong friendship with a Mr. James Hennig, who had been the high school’s principal for many, many years. Mr. Hennig was also a former seminarian and had a solid connection with Cardinal Bernardo and the Chicago Archdiocese at the time.

  McDougall was clean and incident free for many years, until one young teenager discovered the varsity baseball coach one afternoon, masturbating in a custodian’s utility closet in the boy’s locker room while the other young boys were taking showers after practice. The incident was reported to the school’s principal the next day, and although he denied it, was severely reprimanded by the principal in 1992. Because of their strong friendship, Hennig never reported the incident.

  Tommy Griseta, one of the young baseball players on the varsity team who had recently been benched, accused McDougall in 1995 of forcing him to perform oral sex one evening after a night game in the coach’s office. Again, the incident was investigated thoroughly by Mr. Hennig, the school’s principal. Because of Tommy’s repeated school suspensions for other matters, the student’s integrity was questioned, and the accusation was discounted and dismissed. There had been other incidents of inappropriate behavior that was frequently noticed and reported by other students as well, including the groping of some young boys in the locker room after baseball practice. When McDougall finally retired in 2009, the rumors of his being a “pervert’ were quite rampant within the local Chicago community. But thanks to his strong relationship with the principal during his years at the school, no definitive charges were ever filed with either the Chicago Police Department or the Chicago Public School Board.

  There wasn’t any doubt that McDougall was a closet homosexual and pedophile. He managed to hide his penchant for perverted, deviant sex with young boys well during his later years in retirement. Matthew McDougall lived alone, in a comfortable townhouse in Westchester. Except for a very large library of child pornography, which he kept in a locked safe in his basement, he lived a normal life.

  He would often take vacations to South Korea, Hong Kong, Vietnam, and other exotic destinations to the Orient every summer. He would enlist the services of very young, inexpensive ‘male guides’ to support him and assist him in his travels. The very young teenagers would accompany McDougall in his sight-seeing adventures and attended to his other ‘personal’ needs while he traveled abroad.

  ‘‘Monsignor Kilbane’’ took the elevator to the eighth floor of the hospital and walked past the nurse’s station toward the designated patient’s room. He hoped he would find McDougall there alone in his hospital room and without a roommate, as he was told this over the phone yesterday when he inquired with the hospital. He walked slowly down the hallway, noticing that there were no cameras or other security devices monitoring the safety of its patients. The only security was the ward nurse’s station nearby. He also noticed that the hospital room was adjacent to the fire door, opening to the emergency stairwell leading to an exit out of the building.

  As he entered Room 821, he noticed the older, balding man, sleeping and almost comatose. The old man had several tubes and IV bottles protruding from his body, and he was heavily sedated. The heart monitor machine was beeping quietly, as the graphs of his heart rate were being properly displayed on the green screen.

  The priest found an empty chair next to the bed and took out his small bible and rosary. He wrapped the rosary beads around the old patient’s hands, and then started reciting the Lord’s Prayer. He continued praying as one of the floor nurses entered the room.

  “Good Afternoon, Father,” the young, blonde haired nurse said to the priest.

  “Good Afternoon,” he replied, still holding his left hand over the patient’s arm while reciting his prayers. He was looking in the other direction when the nurse entered the room and tried to keep from making direct eye contact and displaying his face to the nurse.

  “I’m here to give him his last rites,” he continued to tell the young nurse, while he was looking down, reading his bible. The young nurse took the patient’s vitals and his blood pressure from the harness already strapped to his right arm.

  “Don’t let me interrupt you, Father,” she sweetly said. “Would you like me to close the curtains and the door?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The young nurse finished charting the patient, then obeyed his request and closed the door to the dying old man’s hospital room. She thought that it was unusual that the priest was looking towards the wall and wasn’t making eye contact with the patient while
praying and administering the patient’s last rites. ‘Monsignor Kilbane’ continued to pray with the old man for several minutes, as he watched the patient breath.

  “Fr. Matthew McDougall?” the priest quietly called out to the dying patient. “Do you know who I am?”

  McDougall, barely responsive, looked over to the direction of the priest, trying to focus on who was calling him by his ordained name.

  “Do you know who I am?” ‘Kilbane’ asked again.

  The old, dying patient, opening his eyes, tried to focus on the priest. The patient only shook his head, trying desperately to move his lips.

  “I am your death angel,” the imposter replied.

  The ‘priest’ then removed a small bottle of holy water from his coat pocket. ‘Kilbane’ pulled down the bed covers of the patient, then sprinkled the holy water on the old man while saying the executioner’s ritual prayer from the secret society:

  “Fr. McDougall,” he started, “I pray to the Lord Jesus, that you may be forgiven for the many sins and abuses, torment and suffering, that you have caused God’s children in your quest to fulfill your deviant transgressions. You have fallen victim to Satan’s desires and demands, and you have caused an amount of great suffering to the many innocent children whom you have exploited against the Lord and his holy covenants. As a Catholic priest and a soldier of God, you have taken sacred vows and sworn to them in the Lord’s name. We now offer your tainted soul to the Virgin Mary, that you may be cleansed in the Kingdom of Heaven. We beseech thee, oh Lord, that you may be forgiven and accepted again into the Paradise of our Almighty Father, in the name of the Rose Crucifix.”

  As was the sacred tradition of the Rose Crucifix, each victim of the secret society was blessed, when possible, with holy water, and then prayed over by their executioner. Each fatality, in order to be accepted by the Kingdom of Heaven at the time of their death, is then adorned with a long stemmed, red rose.

  The red rose symbolizes the offering of that victim’s soul to the Virgin Mary, to exonerate them and offer them back to the Kingdom of Heaven.

  Each secret society execution can only be performed using a sharp knife, as no other murder weapon can be used when expiring the victim. The knife and cutting of the victim’s torso symbolize Azrael, the Angel of Death, who gouges out the tainted souls of his victims before offering their bodies back to the Lord. This method is also in tradition with the secret society’s ancient 15th century rituals, with its execution procedures following the medieval laws of the Society of the Rose Crucifix.

  ‘Monsignor Kilbane’ then took out a long-stemmed red rose, which he had wrapped in his raincoat, and placed it on McDougall’s chest.

  “May Jesus grant you mercy, Father McDougall.”

  ‘Monsignor Kilbane’ then put on a pair of plastic gloves, which he had folded in his pants pocket. He then withdrew a long, sharp, butcher’s knife from the pocket of his raincoat, and quickly, thrust the knife into McDougall’s neck. Blood started to spring out everywhere like a fountain onto the patient’s face, chest and onto his bed. He then, took a pillow and covered the ex-priest’s face and mouth, as he began to loudly gag, fighting for air while he struggled to breath. He then inserted the knife several times into McDougall’s abdomen, stabbing him across his torso many times, making sure that he didn’t pierce his heart.

  Blood was spurting out like a jet spring across his hospital bed, as the red fluid from his numerous knife wounds began forming a pool of blood onto the hospital floor. The killer was careful to make sure none of the blood had splattered onto his newly acquired clergy uniform. ‘Monsignor Kilbane’ then swiftly stood up from his chair, and immediately left the hospital room.

  He quickly turned left down the hallway and rapidly entered the emergency stairwell, running down the eight floors of stairs without anyone questioning his hasty decent. As he removed his rubber gloves while approaching the exit door on the first floor, he noticed that it directly opened to the parking lot outside.

  Without anyone noticing or questioning him, he casually put on his rain coat and hurriedly walked towards his Chevy Impala rental car in the parking lot.

  But in all his haste while leaving the hospital room, the secret society’s killer had made a critical mistake. ‘Kilbane’ nervously forgot to retrieve the serrated knife, which he inadvertently left inserted into McDougall’s abdomen.

  A few minutes went by before the heart monitor alarm went off, alerting the nurse’s station of the sudden stoppage of McDougall’s heart. As the blonde nurse entered the room, she gasped as she saw all the blood splattered everywhere across the old patient’s body, walls and floor. The long knife was still inserted in the patient, with a red rose carefully placed on top of him.

  She quickly alerted the nurse’s station, and several nurses and doctors ran into McDougall’s room. They were trying in vain to stop the bleeding, noticing the numerous, deep knife wounds which were dispersed across the patient’s torso and around his neck. Several nurses began to ask for more assistance, as two more nurses were trying in vain to stop all the horrendous, excessive bleeding. After several minutes of frantic first aid and lifesaving efforts, the patient had bled to death, suffering from the massive bleeding from all his knife wounds. Another doctor looked at the clock and pronounced McDougall dead. The sharp knife, which was still inserted into the ex-priest’s abdomen, was removed as a bloody sheet from the hospital bed was pulled across the former Fr. McDougall’s ashen white face. It was exactly 3:33pm.

  As the disguised Monsignor Kilbane started his rental car and exited the parking lot, he peered into his rear-view mirror, verifying that no one was following him.

  The disguised priest smiled with pride, immediately removing his white collar. He then quickly removed his skull cap and used a moist cloth to take off his makeup at the adjacent Ashland Avenue traffic light.

  ‘Brother Barabbas’ was amused and began laughing to himself, knowing he had done the Lord’s work.

  All in the name of the Rose Crucifix.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Another Murder

  My stomach was starting to gurgle with hunger pains, and I was contemplating whether I should run out and grab a sandwich on that late Tuesday afternoon. I was too busy to eat lunch earlier that day, and I looked at the wall clock in my office. It was almost 4:00pm...too late for lunch, and too early for dinner, I thought to myself. I had put on my suit jacket and was about to walk out of my office when my desk phone started ringing loudly.

  “Detective Dorian,” I answered, thinking that my next phone call should just be a freaky fast delivery from Jimmy John’s.

  “Phil? It’s Tommy Morton…we’ve got another dead priest.”

  I suddenly felt my body go numb, and I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest. My mind was swirling with confusion, and I was beginning to wonder if this nightmare was ever going to end.

  “What? Where? What happened?”

  “Rush Hospital in the West Loop. Just got the call. The victim was a dying cancer patient. Somebody just walked into his room and stabbed the shit out of him.”

  “Huh? No nurses? No security? What the hell?” I loudly reacted.

  I sat back down at my desk, as the reality of another pedophile priest murder on my watch was becoming too much for me to bear.

  “When?” I asked him.

  “About a half hour ago…same killer, same red rose,” he blurted out.

  “Oh shit,” I said out loud, as a thousand different thoughts and questions started going through my head. There was a long silence on the phone as the two of us were speechless, trying to get our heads around how and why this could have happened.

  “I’m running out to Rush right now and I’ll meet you there. Expect a party,” as he abruptly hung up the phone.

  Maybe it was because I hadn’t eaten that afternoon, as I wasn’t sure why I was starting to feel so nauseous. I sat there at my desk and buried my head in my hands. My brain was beginning to pound. It was an
insurmountable amount of pain that started with my temples and continued to worsen as each moment ticked by. It was an extreme nausea, and it felt like another one of my punishing migraine headaches. My skull was feeling like someone had taken a sledgehammer and began hitting both sides of my brain.

  I grabbed a bottle of Advil in my desk drawer and walked over to the water cooler in the precinct kitchen on the other side of the office. I just stood there for a moment, waiting for the pain and the queasy feeling to subside. The stress of these ‘Pedophile Priest Murders’ and the strain of a serial killer on the loose was becoming totally unbearable. All this anxiety was beginning to take a physical toll on me, as I stood there for several moments, all alone in the precinct kitchen. I kept shaking my head in disbelief.

  I did not want to go to this crime scene. With three homicides and three dead ex-priests in less than a month, I knew that all hell was going to break lose in Chicago. I could see it coming down the road. The pressure on the Chicago P.D. to solve these murders, the media publicity, and the anxiety of these homicides was going to turn my life into a living hell. The burden to solve these serial killings on the department will be the kind of pressure we haven’t seen since the “Tylenol Murders” back in September 1982.

  I felt defeated. I felt discouraged. I physically felt pain. I wanted to walk back into my office and lock the door, shut off the lights and pull the phone cord off the wall. I just wanted to hide. I wanted to sit at my desk, all alone in the dark, and pretend that none of this was happening.

  Grabbing my car keys, I walked outside in the warm rain and into my Crown Vic police car. I put both my hands on the steering wheel and closed my eyes for a moment, taking a long, deep breath.

  “Dear God, please give me strength,” I prayed to myself out loud, and then turned on the sirens.

  The parking lot of the Rush Medical Hospital on West Harrison Street was filled with Chicago Police Cars, as I pulled up as close as I could to the front door. There were already several policemen talking and interviewing everyone in the lobby and within the reception area. I noticed a policeman with a notepad in his hand, speaking with an older lady on the couch near the window, while several other detectives were speaking with other hospital staff. It was a though the whole hospital had broken loose and was on high alert and seemed like every single copper in Chicago was at the scene of the crime.