“I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave now,” he said. “Father Robert is just as indisposed as far as you’re concerned as he is for everybody else. Come back tomorrow like the others; I’ll see you get some time with him.”
“That’s nice. And I’ll hold you to it. But right now I don’t want to interview him.”
“I thought—”
“I want to talk to you.”
Looking on as the other reporters were being summarily dismissed, she realized she could never get through to the priest today. That’s when she had decided to go for an interview with the sergeant-major Brother.
This was an unexpected tack. He studied her more closely. His better judgment, all his finely honed instincts, told him to stonewall this woman. She could be trouble. Lots of it. But other, compelling inner voices made themselves heard.
If she was going to become a problem he’d better be tuned in to what she was doing and what she intended. Better to know what the enemy was up to than be surprised and taken unawares. Besides, it was possible that this broad had a good brain as well as a great body. Matching wits with her might be a worthy game.
“Just a few minutes, then.” He gestured toward a couple of nearby chairs.
Pat sat on one of the chairs, crossed her legs, flipped open her notepad, and waited. He took the other chair, moved it further from her, and sat down.
She noted the maneuver. The darkened interior of this building, his cowl, and the angle at which he sat made it impossible for her to see his face. The ploy disturbed her. She had no doubt that he intended to hide from her.
However, there was little she could do about the situation. A complaint would probably terminate the interview and put an end to any chance of progress on the story for today. So, on with what little she had to work with. “You read my story today, so you know that Mrs. Whitehead had her sight restored only to the extent she had before she went blind.” She paused, looking for some reaction from the robed figure. There was none.
So she proceeded. “Did you know that that was the case?”
“Before I read your account? No.”
“Does it trouble you?”
“That she hasn’t got perfect sight? No.”
“I would have thought . . . okay, scratch that.” Pat looked up at one of the painted windows. It was as useless as looking at the hooded figure opposite her. She would try a different approach. “Was this Father Robert’s first miracle?”
“Hard to say. I suppose it depends on what you think a miracle is. He prayed with and for others. Often enough they improved. Sometimes they recovered completely. Some of those prayers were for a job, for health, for family problems. A lot of those prayers were answered: Were they miracles?”
A no-nonsense tone crept into her voice. “I think you know what I mean . . . Brother . . .”
“Paul.”
“Brother Paul.” She recorded his name in her notepad and her memory. “Mrs. Whitehead’s experience was major league. It separates the men from the boys. More: It separates prayers that may have an effect sometime in the future from an instantaneous cure. Did he ever . . .was he ever responsible for anything like this before?”
Brother Paul hesitated. His cowl tipped forward, suggesting that he might be pondering the reply. “To the best of my knowledge,” he said finally, “no. This was the first time.”
“Then”—her tone indicated that this was what she was getting at—”when do you think the Church is going to get involved in this?”
Even though he was hooded, his body English made it obvious that this question had taken him by surprise. “The Church? What . . . what do you mean?”
“The Roman Catholic Church. You’ve got a Lourdes-like miracle on your hands. Thanks to the news media, the report of this is going around the country—the world. People will be flocking here in droves. People from around the country, maybe from other countries. I’ve read enough about events like this to know that eventually the Church puts its Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval on this miracle—these miracles, there’s bound to be more—or, more often, the Church withholds its approval. When’s it going to happen?”
Had Pat been able to see inside the cowl, she would have noted that Brother Paul’s face was bathed in perspiration.
With effort to keep any semblance of agitation out of his voice, he said, “I would have no way of knowing the answer. We have no interest beyond giving witness to the Lord by our lives. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, then, how does it take place? All I’ve ever read is the conclusion of some sort of inquiry, or examination. Who conducts such an examination? Who appoints the presiding official? What are the procedures in such a study?” She paused. Enough questions for the moment.
The pause persisted. Brother Paul was not considering the answers. He was, rather, most concerned that he had given no detailed forethought to these questions. According to his carefully made plans, this affair was to be concluded long before any outside officials entered the picture. In fact, he had not envisioned any meddling on the part of any Church authority. But then, he hadn’t anticipated that there might be a spectacular miracle.
However, of more immediacy, he had to respond to Lennon’s questions.
He finally spoke. “You must understand, Miss Lennon, that the five of us are not canon lawyers. We are just simple monks. None of us anticipated this kind of event. Quite honestly, we don’t know what to expect. But we’re here. If the Church wishes to examine what we are doing, I’m sure the Church has the wherewithal to do it.”
Pat considered the matter. “How long have you been in Detroit, Brother Paul?”
“Not long. A matter of months.”
“Then you’re not familiar with how this Archdiocese of Detroit functions.”
A bit defensively, “The Congregation knew enough to choose to locate here.”
“And a good choice you made. But what you might not know is that the Archbishop, Cardinal Boyle, doesn’t like trouble. He’s had enough of it. Vatican II happened here like almost nowhere else in the world, with the possible exception of the Netherlands. When all the changes of the Council hit the fan in Detroit, things turned upside down. The local Church was picketed by dissidents from the right and left wings, but mostly the right.”
She shrugged lightly. “No need to go into all that spun off from the Council. Enough to say that Cardinal Boyle has grown a little gun-shy with all that’s gone on in this archdiocese. Typically, if a problem pops up here that does not cry to heaven for a quick decision, the usual Chancery m.o. is to appoint a blue-ribbon committee to study the matter forever. And my guess is that that’s what would happen to your miracle—unless something hits the fan and forces the Archdiocese of Detroit to get off the dime and do something about it.”
Brother Paul turned his head just enough to look at her face. She was gazing off into the distance, but even had she been looking at him, she still could not have seen his features.
Her expression telegraphed her thoughts. She was about to make this major story distinctively hers by finding a way to get the investigation started. She would start the avalanche!
His first inclination had been correct. This woman was trouble. She had intended all along to interview Father Robert. Only when she became convinced that this would be impossible because he, Brother Paul, would not permit it did she change tactics. She’d get her story by interviewing him.
But Brother Paul did not for a moment regret talking to her. As he had concluded earlier, better to know what potential enemies were planning than be surprised by them.
He had thought he had anticipated all eventualities. For the first time in his life, failure would not dog him. It had been such a tidy little scheme, well worth his investment of time and trouble. But he had not anticipated an official investigation for the simple reason that he had had no grounds to expect a spectacular miracle.
Even now, there was no clear indication of any sort of investigation looming. Thi
s troublesome broad probably was right: This was not the sort of diocese that went around buying trouble pell-mell.
If that was true, then exactly what would make the bishop take some sort of action? His experience in reading news accounts of miracles was the same as Pat Lennon’s: Inevitably, after a purported apparition or miracle, there would be some form of study done on it, usually followed by a disclaimer. Yet her questions were his. Who? What? Where? Why? How? The average Catholic, even one who had studied in a seminary, would have no way of knowing the mechanics of such an investigation.
One thing seemed certain: This young woman was going to do her best to make it happen. And if she could bring it about, she’d be near the center of the story. She’d have a beat on every other reporter in town. She’d already stacked up one exclusive with her interview of the Whitehead woman. No, there was more: She had also inveigled this interview with him. While the other reporters would be forced to face fuming editors armed only with a pale account of a simple Latin Mass and a boring sermon enlivened only by an unexpected illness of the miracle worker, Lennon could flesh out her story with quotes “from the inside.”
It was, of course, possible that the dread investigation might commence any time now. It was just as possible that, unprovoked by any further incident or agency, it might well remain for the foreseeable future in an inactive file on the Cardinal’s desk. And there, in a forgotten folder, was precisely where Brother Paul wanted this matter, if only for a few more days.
It was a case of simple deduction that the most serious threat to his hopes and plans was this Lennon woman. Well, Brother Paul had risen to more than one occasion. Right now, she was the major threat. But threats must be eliminated. Therefore . . .
The most important consideration was not to act rashly or incautiously. That had been one of his principal failings and he could not afford to be precipitate. He’d have to think it out. But he could do it. He knew that. All he needed was a little time. Time to check routines, activities, opportunities. Time to eliminate loose ends. Time to plan a perfect crime.
When he returned to the present from his deliberations, he was startled to find he was alone. Sometime during his absorption, Pat Lennon must have gotten up and left.
Just as well. He’d have a few quiet moments to examine his options. How appropriate that he had been left to himself in the church.
He turned to the tabernacle, a small, gold-plated boxlike structure, where, Catholics believe, Jesus resides under the appearance of the consecrated bread. He knelt before the tabernacle, conscious of the flickering red votive candle that silently indicated the presence of the Lord. He made the sign of the cross and, a smile playing about his lips, began to pray for the success of his plot to kill Pat Lennon.
WEDNESDAY
JULY 26
CHAPTER
13
“I really feel bad taking you away from work.”
Alice sat as close to the open window as possible, fanning herself with a small lacy handkerchief.
“No problem.” Tully carefully picked his spots, cutting in and out of traffic in an attempt to maintain a speed that would keep as much breeze as possible flowing through the vehicle.
“But two days in a row!”
Tully smiled ever so slightly. “I have a benevolent boss.”
“I’m not worried about your boss. Walt Koznicki—and all the rest of us—probably would feel better if you ever took all the vacation time you’re entitled to. It’s just that I know how you feel about your work, and I’m taking you from it.”
Tully sighed. “That’s all we need, honey, for you to get all worked up and nervous. You don’t want anything more bothering you than you got. So just relax. The squad is covering for me. Everything will be okay. Right now, you come first.”
Alice turned her head to look squarely at him. “That’s not true. We all know that.”
“Right now it is true.”
They rode on in silence.
At length, Alice spoke. “I wish it would rain and get it over with.”
Tully nodded agreement. “One of those times when I wish we had air in the car.”
“It’s okay, it’s just a little close.” She continued waving the hanky, though all it moved was humid air.
More silence.
“Did you notice the News had the most complete story on Father Robert?”
“Uh-huh.” Tully also noticed that Alice had not mentioned the reporter who wrote the story. It was a common enough occurrence. Readers rarely note bylines. Columnists whose photos run with their work are fairly well-known and recognized. But few readers pay attention to which staff writers author news stories. Tully well knew that the byline on the story to which Alice referred was that of Pat Lennon. But he did not mention this fact.
“I wonder why that is,” Alice mused, as she looked idly out the open window. “I mean I, of course, took a more than ordinary interest in this story. So I paid particular attention. All the radio and TV stations and even the Free Press had was just the report that Father Robert had been ill. And then maybe a little speculation of what might be wrong. But the News ran that interview with the Brother. Plus the News raised the possibility of a Church investigation.”
Why did he feel guilty? Nothing had happened. Granted, he had trampled all over his usual m.o. It was completely out of character for him to have gone to a singles bar and still more wildly out of the ordinary for him to have—face it—made a play for Pat Lennon. Of course, nothing had come of it. Still, he felt guilty.
“I hope they don’t do it,” Alice said, after a short pause.
“Do what?”
“Have that Church investigation.”
Tully glanced briefly at her. “Honey,” he said, “they have to.”
“Why?”
“Alice, there are a whole bunch of bad guys out there lying, cheating, deceiving people. If I had a nickel for every fake faith healer, we could afford air conditioning in this car. A better question is: Why not have the investigation?”
Alice was slow to respond. “It’s all some of us have to hold onto,” she said, finally, seeming to choke on the last couple of words. Abruptly, she pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. She made no further sound, but he could feel the silent sobs telegraphed through the car seat.
One more corner of Alice’s world revealed itself to Tully.
Until now, he had not accurately gauged the bottomless reservoir of her despondency. Both he and Alice were practical people, at home with reality. Neither of them could do his or her job outside the realm of reality. He as a homicide detective, she as a social worker, were constantly involved with real people, situations, problems. It would be counterproductive for either of them to mix shadow with the substance of their lives.
But not for her. Not now. She was so depressed that she had made a faith healer her last-ditch straw. Reality would have told her that odds were heavily in favor of this priest’s being no better than a pious fraud. Reality would have made her question what right she had to a miracle wrought by faith when she’d depended on faith so little in her life to date. Reality would have warned her of the consequences to her already deeply depressed state if this last-ditch effort were to fail.
She was so desperate that reality no longer mattered. She feared a routine investigation that might reveal the “miracle worker” to have no clothes. If it was all a myth, she’d rather believe in the fantasy than be crushed by reality.
They rode the rest of the way with their own unexpressed thoughts.
If anything, the crowd was larger than it had been yesterday. Today, however, Tully had made preparations. Earlier this morning, he had spoken with the officer in charge. By prearrangement, that officer met Tully’s car at the far fringe of the crowd.
Sergeant Lukas smiled and touched his cap. “Mornin’, Lieutenant. We got everything set for you.”
“Thanks, Luke.” Tully looked about. “Looks like rain.”
“It’ll miss a great chance if i
t don’t.”
Lukas had another officer take charge of Tully’s car. Then he conducted Tully and Alice through the crowd to a desirable position in the chapel.
Well, thought Tully, we’re gonna give this miracle worker every possible shot at Alice’s problems. That was the good news. The bad news was that the increased humidity made it even more uncomfortable than it had been yesterday.
Having arrived early, and aided by her press credentials, Pat Lennon also had an advantageous position; she would be in close range of whatever would happen.
Early this morning, when she was preparing to leave for the News before heading to St. Stephen’s, the possibility of encountering Tully again occurred to her.
She still had no clue as to why he had been at the chapel. While the crowd and then the reporters were being dismissed by Brother Paul, Pat had had no opportunity to check on Tully’s whereabouts. She had been far too busy improvising a scheme that would enable her to get by that most determined Brother and come up with a reasonable story for the next upcoming edition. By the time she’d finished questioning Brother Paul, Zoo Tully was apparently long gone.
So, while it was impossible to figure out what he’d been doing there, the distinct possibility existed that whatever had brought him to the chapel yesterday would return him there today.
With that thought bouncing around the outskirts of her consciousness, Pat had gotten ready more for a date than for work. She had very carefully blow-dried her hair. She applied Chloe, her favorite perfume, which she rarely wore to work. She selected a French-made navy blue pleated skirt, a frilly silk blouse and a light, Italian-made cashmere cardigan, and topped it with a long strand of pearls. She had even shaved her legs and donned lace lingerie. One never knew.
She didn’t notice Tully and Alice when they entered. But after they had been escorted to their select vantage, Lennon spotted him. Since she had no idea whom to look for, she was unaware that Tully was accompanied. Depending on what transpired here today it was just possible that she and Tully might go somewhere for a late lunch and then . . . well, who could tell. Her imagination painted vivid pictures of the two of them enjoying each other through the evening and night hours.
Eminence Page 18
