Eminence

by William X. Kienzle

  CHAPTER

  12

  It was just five minutes before noon when Tully drove his elderly, battered, but serviceable, Ford into the area of Bushey and Michigan Avenue. He had expected a crowd, but not this. It was difficult to tell whether people were going into or coming out of the old bank building.

  Actually, it was both. Some who had come early enough to get a spot inside had been overcome either by the oppressive heat and humidity or by the emotion of the moment. The ill almost equaled the curious as literally hundreds crowded the sidewalk and overflowed into the streets.

  George Fielding, the uniformed officer in charge, was managing things as well as possible under so many and such unpredictable demands. He recognized Tully just as another officer began waving the lieutenant away from the building. In short order, Fielding had an officer take the car; then he ushered Tully and Alice through the crowd and, incredibly, to a fairly good location inside the chapel.

  “Al,” Tully leaned down and spoke loudly enough to be heard over the steady murmur of the crowd, “you sure you want to go through with this?”

  She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. But she nodded. There was nowhere else for her to go. She had put all her eggs in this basket.

  “Okay,” Tully said, “but let me know the second you want out.”

  Tully began to take stock—the surroundings, the people. He couldn’t help himself. By now, taking stock was part of his nature.

  Obviously, the place had been a bank. Equally as obviously, it had been erected back when they cared how buildings were put together. This place had been built to last. Lots of brick, a good measure of marble, and the genuine terrazzo floor. They just didn’t build them like this anymore.

  Tully hoped the bank’s conversion into a church—a monastery—was a temporary thing. What they’d done to the place made it look like a bordello. The plasterboard definitely did not blend with the building’s solid construction. And if they could not afford stained glass windows, they should have left them alone. Painting over the panes succeeded only in creating what seemed an almost purposeful attempt to dull the spirit. It was so dark in here it had taken several minutes for his eyesight to adjust.

  He looked around at the people. Nobody here with the Whiteheads’ money that he could see. Some of the building’s neighbors. Stolid, Slavic faces. Women in babushkas tied tightly about their heads even in this heat. They would never appear in a church without covering their heads. Some of the Michigan Avenue regulars. Bums, drifters, people who lived on and off the street, beggars hoping some part of the ceremony would include a handout. A few middle- to upper-middle-class individuals. Some merely curious but most of them looking, hoping, for something, for their own miracle.

  He looked down at Al. Her eyes still tightly closed, tears sliding down her cheeks. She, as much as, or more than anyone else there, desperate for the healing miracle.

  Suddenly he was very angry. He was sure this was some sort of bunco scam. For starters, he did not trust any form of organized religion. Experience had taught him that their top priority was to preserve themselves. After which, anywhere from next to one-hundredth on the list, they served their members.

  There were plenty of collection baskets in this old bank; Tully could only imagine the unsolicited donations that were pouring in from a wide variety of contributors—everyone from believers who blindly wished to further the cause to people who wanted to buy a miracle.

  The pity was in individuals like little Alice here, who was so desperate for help that she was willing to believe today what she hadn’t believed yesterday. And so intensely wrapped up in this last-ditch hope that she wept openly.

  He promised himself that if this proved to be the fraud he suspected, he would personally make sure that these guys paid.

  Then he saw her. He wouldn’t have, if someone hadn’t shifted position. Tully was not tall enough to see over this crowd, and Pat Lennon was only about Al’s size.

  But there she was, standing back against the rear wall, undoubtedly covering this event for the News. When he caught sight of her, all the thoughts, the speculation about her returned in a flood.

  He had to put them, and her, out of his mind, at least for the present. To check out this operation, he would have to pay close attention. And evidently, the event was about to begin.

  A bell sounded, as an abbreviated parade of monks made their way from behind the main partition to the homemade altar.

  They were covered from head to toe.

  Tully had never seen a monk in person before, only pictures. Three of them took positions at one side of the altar. A fourth positioned himself alone at the other side. He didn’t fit in. He was so much bigger than the others.

  The final person evidently was the priest. He was wearing Mass vestments. He was the only one whose face was visible. Even so, in this abysmal lighting, it was impossible to make out his features.

  With the entry of the monks the crowd noise diminished markedly. It grew steadily quieter as several people made shushing sounds.

  The priest bowed low and, tracing a sign of the cross on himself, intoned, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Almost everyone responded, “Amen.”

  “Dominus vobiscum” the priest said. To which fewer people responded, “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  Tully pondered that. He’d thought Catholics got rid of Latin years ago. He knew next to nothing about the religion, but had, in the course of duty and friendship, attended numerous weddings and funerals. Many years ago the priest had used Latin. Then, for the past twenty or so years, everything had been in English. Now they were back to Latin. He wondered why, if only because he wanted to learn all he could about this operation. If the need to bust them arose, he wanted to know what he was doing. He’d have to ask somebody who knew what was going on here.

  The priest looked at a card he was holding, and read, “Fratres, agnoscamus peccata nostra, ut apti simus ad sacra mysteria celebranda.”

  As far as she could translate it, leaning on her nearly forgotten courses in Latin, Pat Lennon thought it meant something like: Brothers, let us know our sins so that we can better celebrate these sacred mysteries.

  The Latin swept her back many years, to her days in a Catholic girls’ college and even further back to her parochial grade and high schools.

  Now, outside of select occasions, she no longer attended Mass. But she had followed the proceedings and consequences of Vatican II. Aware of the role of the vernacular in the liturgy, she knew that the use of Latin here was a statement. Undoubtedly, it identified this group as staunchly conservative.

  She remembered enough from her days as a faithful Mass-goer to know that the formula being used here was not the one with which she had grown up. In the old Mass—what did they call it?—the Tridentine, she thought—in that old format there was no invitation to recall sins so as to prepare one for a worthier celebration of the Mass.

  All of which indicated that, while the little group was solidly conservative, it was not off-the-wall conservative. They were observing the letter of the law. It was a Latin Mass, but the approved version of the Latin Mass.

  Brother Bernard gave the first reading. Bernard was the only one besides Father Robert and Brother Paul who knew Latin. He finished the reading and announced, “Verbum Domini,” to which only those in the makeshift sanctuary replied, “Deo gratias.”

  Shortly thereafter, Father Robert read the Gospel, first in Latin, then in English.

  It was obvious to Tully that something was wrong. The priest seemed unwell. Tully could not testify to the Latin reading, but when the priest switched to English, he faltered several times, as if it was difficult for him to make out the text.

  After the Gospel, those in the sanctuary sat down, as did those few in the congregation who were fortunate enough to have found one of the few chairs. The rest remained standing.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Tully asked Alice.

  Again she nodded. Her eyes remai
ned closed, as if she was concentrating with all her strength on something Tully could not fathom. Prayer?

  Father Robert began to speak. Those who had attended Mass here before were familiar with the ritual. This would be a brief homily. But the regulars were puzzled over Father’s delivery. He spoke in a halting voice. It required a determined effort to hear him. They wondered about that.

  Pat Lennon had flipped open her notepad and was scribbling in her own version of shorthand. Her frown that had appeared when the priest began to speak grew more pronounced as he continued. Not only was he difficult to hear, he seemed to be speaking at best nonsense, at worst gibberish.

  Initially, he spoke of St. Stephen, as the patron and model of their order. Stephen the protomartyr, the first martyr of the then brand-new Christian Church. Stephen who challenged those who hated Jesus and had been instrumental in His execution. Stephen who drove the enemies of Jesus mad with his fearless defense of Christianity.

  All well and good, thought Pat, but what did that have to do with anything? As far as she could tell, there was no connection between what Father Robert was talking about and today’s Scripture readings.

  With no segue whatever, the priest shifted into the topic of birth control. Pat, of course, was aware that the topic was near and dear to the hierarchy and to practically no one else. But even for a conservative Catholic priest, this guy was stretching things.

  He insisted that married people who limit their family to one or two children are selfish and that there is almost never a serious, positive, valid reason for such a limitation. He questioned how a married couple, whose prime function is the procreation and education of children, could be so selfish and ungrateful to the all-generous God who gave them their responsibility to increase and multiply and fill the earth.

  Tully gave up trying to follow Father Robert’s train of thought. Catholics might get something out of it; he was more concerned with the priest’s unsteadiness.

  The lieutenant’s restless gaze fell on the monk he thought of as, for want of the actual name, the Big One. The Big One, in a decidedly restrained way, seemed quite concerned about the priest. In consequence of his barely discernible movements, the Big One’s cowl would rise slightly, as if the monk were trying to get a better view of the priest. Several times the monk seemed about to rise from his chair and do something. But each time he stayed seated.

  Father Robert, in apparent free-flowing association, began to combine his two unrelated themes.

  “St. Stephen,” the priest said, “laid down his life for Christ, who had just given His life for sinners—for all of us. Sacrifice for sacrifice. And children in a family are a gift from God, just as is martyrdom. And children bring sacrifices, many sacrifices. But that is how a man and wife come ever closer together: through generous sacrifice. You don’t see good Christian parents enjoying themselves. They know the importance of sacrifice. St. Stephen watered the fertile ground of the Church with his martyr’s blood. And married people should always look upon their marital bed as an altar on which great sacrifices are offered.”

  Lennon raised an eyebrow in disbelief. She looked about, attempting to gauge the expressions of those whose faces she could see. By and large, most of the congregation seemed to have tuned out this priest and his strange notions of family life. What little emotion she could detect in the crowd seemed to be impatience. They were not here for sermons. They were looking for something else, undoubtedly miracles.

  Then she saw Tully. He appeared to be totally engrossed in what was going on. He was staring straight ahead at the sanctuary. His gaze did not waver to one side or the other.

  Why was he here? This had nothing to do with Homicide. Could he be with someone? Lennon shifted position as much as the press of the crowd allowed. Gradually she was able to assemble a composite picture of the area immediately around Tully. She could see no one who evidenced any connection with the lieutenant. Having been advised by Pringle that Tully was living with someone, Pat searched specifically for a black woman. But there were few black women or men in the audience, and none of them was anywhere near Tully.

  She returned her attention to the pulpit, where the priest seemed to be winding up his rambling, disjointed sermon.

  “And so, my dear children, let us pray that we may have the strength of faith that St. Stephen had. That we will welcome sacrifice and that we will welcome children into our families so that sacrifice will mark our daily lives.”

  With that, he seemed to falter. The crowd, sensing something was wrong, inched forward en masse. However, instantly, Brother Paul was at the priest’s side, assisting him and motioning the congregation back.

  Brother Paul supported Father Robert while he spoke to him quietly but with obvious intensity.

  “You’ve got to get through this, old man!” Brother Paul spoke only loudly enough to be heard at extremely close range.

  “I . . . I don’t think I can,” Father Robert gasped.

  “You’ve got to. We’ll help you.” Paul nodded at Brother Bernard, who quickly joined them at the altar.

  Bernard was agitated, though it was all but impossible to tell with his face hidden by the cowl. “This is your fault, you know,” he said to Paul. “You shouldn’t have been so hard on him last night.”

  “That’s enough! Drop it! Now!” Brother Paul bit off the words.

  Bernard reacted as if struck. Silently, he took a position opposite Paul at the side of the priest.

  A murmur rose from the crowd, but, again, it was effectively shushed.

  The Mass proceeded through the offertory ritual, the prayers of the Canon, and on to Communion. Father Robert could not have collapsed had he wished to. Brothers Paul and Bernard had positioned themselves as if extensions of the priest.

  Throughout Communion the priest slumped in his chair while the Brothers offered a wafer and a sip of the consecrated wine to each of those who came forward.

  After Communion, the Mass quickly came to an end.

  The crowd moved forward purposefully, with individuals jockeying for position closer to the sanctuary, either to seek favors from Father Robert or to listen in on those who did. Brother Paul’s commanding voice stopped them as if they had run into an invisible wall. “There will be no blessings today. Father Robert is not well, as you can see. Come back tomorrow. He will be better then.”

  There were angry sounds. They had perspired through a deadly dull sermon and a ceremony that could have been duplicated or surpassed in almost any Catholic church anywhere. This—the time of blessings, the possibility of a circus miracle—this is what they had come for. They were disappointed and angry and primed to demand the show they had been anticipating.

  Brother Paul turned fully toward the congregation as the other Brothers assisted the priest from the sanctuary. In his habit, his countenance shrouded in shadow, Paul resembled nothing so much as the Grim Reaper. He pointed to the door and commanded, “Leave! Now!”

  It was a tribute to his bearing that the crowd’s movement halted, then reversed. Now, instead of advancing toward the altar, they were retreating toward the exit.

  Tully and Alice were singular in not being swept up in the crowd’s ebb. As the ceremony drew to a close, it had become clear to Tully that either this priest was ill or he was giving an award-winning performance. The lieutenant was certain there would be no encore to the Mass. So, sometime prior to Brother Paul’s announcement, Tully had begun to ease a protesting Alice toward the exit. The two were almost out of the building by the time Paul ordered everyone to leave.

  The only notable exceptions to the mass exodus were the media representatives. They moved against the crowd, clamoring for Brother Paul’s attention.

  Paul stood his ground and dealt with them, so far as he was able, one at a time. Not wishing to alienate the news media—he needed them to spread the news of the miracle worker—he was as mollifying as possible. But placating as his words were, he remained immovably firm: No one was going to talk with Father Robe
rt until he felt better. Very possibly it would be tomorrow, at which time he would try to get each of them some time alone with Father.

  One by one, he got rid of them. Ultimately, each was convinced that no matter how abusive their editors would be when they returned with no story, those editors would be easier to face than this implacable monk.

  And now, they were gone. All but one.

  She stood against the wall, coolly taking in Brother Paul’s performance. In all the hubbub between him and the media, she had remained aloof. It was her attitude that piqued Paul’s interest and curiosity.

  After an extended period of silence between them, the only two people left in the chapel, Brother Paul spoke. “Did you just come in?”

  Lennon shook her head.

  “Then,” Paul said, “you know that Father Robert is not well. Come back tomorrow.”

  “My name is Lennon ... Pat Lennon. I’m with the Detroit News.”

  Now he recognized her. She was the one in the singles bar last night. The one with the black boyfriend. So, she’s a reporter.

  “Look,” he spoke with some asperity, “if you’ve been here all this while, you heard me tell those other reporters to come back tomorrow.”

  “I heard.”

  “Wait . . .” He regarded her more intently. “You’re the one who had that interview with the Whitehead woman, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was that an exclusive? I didn’t see any other firsthand interview.”

  “You’re right; it was an exclusive.” She tilted her head. “I didn’t think monks read papers, watched TV, or listened to radio . . . or otherwise got involved with the outside world.”

  “We have to know who and what to pray for.”

  So this knockout broad who fancies black studs got an exclusive chat with the elusive miracle child! He wondered how she had finagled that. Probably seduced somebody—maybe the old bitch’s husband. Then what the hell was she trying for now? Another exclusive? Was she about to offer a quid pro quo? Another definition of fat chance. Oh, it would be fun, no doubt about that. But he was not about to compromise this caper for a quick roll in the hay with anybody, no matter how sexy she looked.