Assault with Intent Page 23

  “Basically, sweetheart, remember: you’re a wild man. Even though your girlfriend is willing, this is more a rape than a voluntary offering. So let’s see some action, sweetheart. And let’s see if we can get this in one take.”

  Amid shouted jargon and general confusion, the set was cleared and all the preamble rituals to filming completed.

  “And action,” Gould called.

  Lauther stood to one side and began the mental computation of how much this scene would cost.

  Deutsch peered into the darkness; the set alone was illuminated.

  The actress was seated on the bed. Except for shoes, she was fully dressed. A knock sounded at the door.

  “It’s open,” she called.

  He stepped into the set from the darkness. She rose from the bed and ran to meet him at downstage left. She threw her arms around his neck. He lifted her from the floor. They kissed passionately. While still kissing, he clutched the collar of her blouse at the back and began ripping it.

  “Hey, lover,” she pulled back, “you don’t have to—”

  He ripped a strip the entire length of the back of her blouse. He dropped her, stepped back, grabbed the front of her blouse and yanked it from her body.

  She looked at him. Something in his eyes brought genuine terror to her face.

  He tugged at his shirt; buttons popped. He ripped the shirt off. He was bare to the waist.

  Stunned, she tried to step away, but he was too fast. He grabbed her skirt at the waist and pulled her close. With incredible strength, he tore the waistband and ripped the skirt from her. She screamed.

  “Do you think they planned it this way?” Sergeant Morris whispered.

  “I’m not at all sure,” Patrick whispered back, “stay alert.”

  She half turned and tried to run, but he snatched at her bra strap. She toppled back toward him as the catch broke and her bra flapped loose.

  “What the hell!” said Deutsch to Gould. “Did you typecast this bastard? He means it.” Deutsch was actually sitting up straight in his chair.

  Gould appeared uneasy. “Shit, I don’t know, Herm. Should I stop them?”

  “Hell, no. Film it. We can always cut what we can’t use or doctor it so we can waltz along the fringe of bad taste. We can always trim; we can’t add.”

  She crossed her arms over her breasts and backed away; he reached out and yanked her panties down to her knees. Hobbled, she tripped and fell back against the bed. The bed slammed into the rear wall and the entire set collapsed.

  “Cut! Cut! Oh, shit! What a time for that to happen! Oh, shit! Fire the prop man! Damn!”

  “I don’t think they intended that to happen,” said Morris.

  “Where’s Kirkus?” Patrick asked sharply.

  “I don’t know.” Morris looked quickly around the set.

  “Damn! He disappeared while we were watching that crazy mess. We can’t let that happen again. We’ve got to find him.

  “You go this way; I’ll go that. Don’t lean on him; just find him. But do it fast or we may find a dead body instead.”

  Pat Lennon glanced about. The Tridentines would have a good house tonight. Business for this ultraconservative group was definitely picking up.

  This evening’s meeting, announced, as were all previous meetings, through an ad in the Detroit Catholic, was being held in the auditorium of Holy Redeemer church. It was one of the largest such structures in the Archdiocese.

  Lennon could see that, while the balcony would not be needed, the main floor would be nearly filled. She estimated attendance at approximately four hundred. A large increase from the comparative handful present when she began going to these meetings with Joe.

  She had been unable to convince Cox to attend tonight. He was off the assignment for now, and preferred remaining at their apartment to catch up on his reading. She felt strongly that even if there were no specific assignment, nor even a story in this particular meeting, nevertheless it was all building toward a story, and to miss the meeting would be to miss an essential element in the story.

  From talking with a sampling of people at these meetings, she had determined that some—relatively few—were dyed-in-the-wool Tridentines. Some, attracted by the publicity, had attended only one or two meetings but found the group too far to the right for their taste; others enjoyed the glamour of being present at a media event. For the meetings continued to receive at least periodic, if brief, TV coverage.

  With no registered membership, it was impossible, without inquiring, to know which category people fell into. One sweet little old lady had approached Lennon earlier this evening and shyly asked after the health of her “mister,” since Cox was absent. Lennon considered this a distinctly old-fashioned expression and wondered what the lady would think if she knew that they lived together without benefit of any ceremony, civil or religious. On second thought, Lennon knew what the lady would think.

  “Look, over there. That’s Conrad Nap, isn’t it?” Marge Morris asked.

  Patrick craned until he could see the man. “Yes, it is. Looks mean, doesn’t he?”

  “He would have been my leading candidate. But he doesn’t have the access to the seminary that Kirkus has.”

  “Don’t count him out yet. Whoever the guy is, he had no special access to Sacred Heart, but he seemed to get around all right there. Kirkus might not be our man after all.” Patrick had great difficulty crossing his long legs. The architect had left little room between the rows of hard, unpadded theater seats.

  “That’s right. Speaking of Kirkus, where did you find him yesterday?”

  Patrick smiled wryly. “In the men’s room.”

  “The men’s room! You mean while all that ruckus was going on, Kirkus went to the John?”

  “Well, not exactly. All that ‘ruckus’ sort of, uh, aroused him, and he went to, uh … relieve himself.”

  Morris turned toward Patrick. “Masturbating?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Puberty must have hit that man hard.”

  Kirkus called the meeting to order. He led the group in a recitation of the Rosary.

  It appeared they were again going to experience trouble with the microphone. Lennon wondered about that.

  “This evening, instead of having individuals report from the floor, I’ve asked Brother Alphonsus to put together some of your complaints and make a single presentation.”

  He did not ask for a motion or put the matter to a vote. Lennon got the impression of opposition to this procedure spreading through the audience. She surmised the Tridentines felt cheated in not being allowed to make their own presentations.

  “So, without further ado, let’s welcome Brother Alphonsus.” The mike was losing about every fourth word.

  The tall, thin, conservatively dressed man approached the stage. In height and build he resembled Kirkus. Alphonsus completed his journey almost without incident. He did trip on the top step, but didn’t fall.

  “Could he be a religious brother?” Inspector Koznicki whispered.

  “It’s possible,” murmured Father Koesler.

  Brother Alphonsus arranged his notes, then tapped the mike. It was completely dead. He sighed.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Alphonsus almost shouted in order to be heard, “to show you how terrible things really are, I am not even going to mention the unjustifiable loss of our beautiful Latin Mass.”

  There was some stirring in the audience. Lennon guessed there were at least some who would very much like to dwell on that loss for a good long while.

  “Rather, tonight, let’s talk about what’s going wrong with the ‘new’ Church and the ‘new’ Mass that these post-Vatican II heretics have concocted.”

  A murmur of assent ran through the audience. Lennon heard someone—could it really have been that refined-looking white-haired woman?—say softly, “Sock it to ‘em, Al!”

  “These young upstart priests waste hundreds of thousands of dollars needlessly remodeling our churches under the excuse of maki
ng them ‘fit’ for a new liturgy. And that’s not just to turn the altar around so the priest can shamelessly face the people instead of standing with his back to us and looking at the crucifix, as the Church has always taught! That’s to move the choir and the organ all over the church! And to move the Blessed Sacrament off in a corner where no one will even be able to find Jesus, let alone worship him! And to remove the communion railing!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Right!”

  “It’s terrible!”

  “It’s the work of the devil!”

  He was reaching them.

  “Not only will they not let us kneel to receive Holy Communion reverently anymore, now they’ve taken away the whole communion railing that traditionally separated the sanctuary from the rest of the church.”

  “Shameful!”

  “Oh, yes! They stand up now to receive Holy Communion! They even extend their hands to receive Holy Communion in their hands! And we know what those hands have been busy doing only hours before, don’t we!”

  “Terrible things!”

  “Unclean things!”

  “Oh, my!”

  “Fooling with their wives!”

  “And that’s not all! Those priests wanted what they call ‘extraordinary ministers’—laymen and women—to distribute Holy Communion. They want us to forget what we learned in school and what the nuns taught us and what the Church has always taught—that only the priest’s consecrated hands are worthy to hold the Sacred Host and to distribute Holy Communion!”

  “Use them consecrated hands, I say!”

  “Shameful!”

  “They don’t need help!”

  “Now … now … now …”

  Lennon feared Brother Alphonsus was about to hyperventilate.

  “Now, on Sundays, who is the ‘ordinary’ minister of Holy Communion? The ‘extraordinary’ minister is the ‘ordinary’ minister I While the priest sits over in his rectory and reads the Sunday paper instead of distributing Holy Communion as he should. Or he is counting the collection. Or whatnot!”

  “Whatnot!”

  “They should be over there working!”

  “Who do they think they are?”

  “They should be over by the church!”

  “And that isn’t all!”

  No, not hardly all, thought Lennon. I’ll bet he could go on forever.

  “No, that is not all! The Holy Pope of God has commanded that little children go to confession before they receive their first Holy Communion. But what are our pastors doing? How are they responding to the commands of our Holy Father? They are letting the little tykes receive their first Holy Communion years before they go to confession! Don’t they know that at the age of seven, a child reaches the age of reason and can commit a mortal sin? That’s why the children must confess before they receive their first Holy Communion!”

  “Like the Church has always taught!”

  “Don’t they listen to the messages of Fatima!”

  “Haven’t they ever heard of Our Lady of Tumerango!”

  “They should listen to Evita, Elena, and Jose!”

  “Let’s get’em!”

  Lennon wasn’t sure, but thought the last outcry came from Conrad Nap.

  “Our priests are getting lazy. Not only do they not show up to distribute Holy Communion, but they are now granting general absolution. You don’t even have to go to confession anymore. Just find a priest who gives general absolution to everybody and anybody, go to his church, and get absolved of sin without going to confession! Imagine all those dirty sins that never get told!”

  “The Pope doesn’t like it!”

  “The Church has always taught you gotta go to confession!”

  “The priests are getting lazy!”

  “Let’s withhold our money from the collection!”

  “Let’s get’em!” Conrad Nap again.

  At this point, a crew from Channel 2 entered the rear of the auditorium. Evidently, it was the only channel that would provide coverage of tonight’s meeting.

  Roman Kirkus stepped to the podium and physically displaced Brother Alphonsus.

  “We’d all like to thank Brother Alphonsus,” Kirkus shouted above the uproar. “Well done, Brother. You certainly touched on some of the outstanding problems we face in today’s Church.

  “And now,” Kirkus took dead aim at the TV camera, which, after panning the audience, had focused on him, “I’d like to bring up another matter that should be of great interest to us and our cause, but which most of us haven’t known about.

  “It’s the seminary I’m talking about—St. Joseph’s Seminary. We have already heard Brother Alphonsus tell us about the sex classes they run there and at Sacred Heart Seminary. Well, now, I’m here to tell you of the latest abomination at St. Joe’s. They are making,” he paused for effect, “a dirty movie!”

  “A dirty movie?”

  “A dirty movie!”

  “How could that be?”

  “Yes, my friends, they are making a dirty movie! You may have heard that there is a crew here from Hollywood, that sin city, to make a TV movie of what’s been going on in our seminaries. That’s what they tell you. But what’s really going on is they are making a dirty movie! Now, you may find that hard to believe—”

  “That’s hard to believe!”

  “Are you sure?”

  As if it were a flaming torch he had carried from Marathon, Kirkus began waving a pack of photos. “Here, my friends, is the proof! On behalf of the Tridentines, I have infiltrated that den of iniquity and have had someone in their crew make a series of what they call ‘stills.’ My friends, these pictures speak for themselves. I will make them available to all of you who wish to witness to this atrocity.

  “You will see a man tear the clothes off a woman until she is bare-naked.”

  Many men in the audience leaned forward.

  “And this is the movie they are making at the seminary! At our seminary! For a few thousand dollars, the Archdiocese of Detroit has sold out and let this crew come in and film a dirty movie! What do you think of that?”

  “An outrage!”

  “The Church never taught that!”

  “Shameful!”

  “Let’s get’em!”

  “Friends, I’m going to make these pictures available to all of you in just a few minutes. Right after we finish the meeting. I urge you all to see this scandal for yourselves!

  “Now, we’ll close with a prayer. And then you can see the dirty pictures. In the name of the Father and the Son …”

  “You know,” Father Koesler remarked to Inspector Koznicki as they filed out of the auditorium, “everything that Brother Alphonsus said this evening was exaggerated way out of proportion. But it was all based on legitimate complaints.”

  “Well, Father, we have already agreed that things pathological are all based somewhere in the normal sphere.”

  I’m going to have to do a little research on that crazy movie they’re filming at the seminary, Lennon thought. If there’s anything at all to what Kirkus claims, it could just make it to page one. Meanwhile, this looks like a good time to interview Kirkus. He’s on a high and he’s available. The ones who usually crowd around him after a meeting are trying to get a look at those pictures. I can have Kirkus to myself.

  She made her way laboriously toward the stage. With the majority of the audience leaving, Lennon’s anabasis was about as untroubled as a trout’s trip to spawn.

  “It’s a lucky thing,” Morris said to Patrick as they made their way out, “that Kirkus was able to get those photos. This way, he doesn’t miss out on a thing.”

  Patrick laughed.

  Ordinarily, immediately after these meetings, Kirkus would be surrounded by Tridentines hoping to pass on their horror stories of the “new” Church. But this evening, there were only a few. The majority of those who remained in the auditorium were clustered near the apron of the stage, taking turns at viewing the glossies Kirkus had purchased from the second ass
istant cameraman.

  Lennon waited until the last Tridentine had finally departed. Notepad open, Cross pen at the ready, she introduced herself.

  From his expression, she could tell that though Kirkus had certainly heard of the Detroit News, he had never heard of her. He probably read the sports and comics, if that. She also was aware that he was ogling her bosom. So that was how it was going to bel

  “I’d like to get a little background on you, Mr. Kirkus.”

  “Call me Roman.”

  “I’d prefer Mr. Kirkus.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Lennon noticed Kirkus’ gaze straying over her head. He occasionally nodded to someone, exhibiting a quick, nervous smile. She guessed all the adulation he got from his Tridentines was, for him, pretty heady stuff.

  “Are you a native Detroiter, Mr. Kirkus?”

  “Sure am. Born in old Providence Hospital when it was over on West Grand Boulevard.”

  “And a Catholic from birth?”

  “Yup.”

  “Year of birth?”

  He hesitated as if debating whether to answer. Then: “1928.”

  “Education? Parochial schools?”

  His face hardened. “No. Public. My parents couldn’t afford Catholic. Graduated from Cooley High. When it was still a decent neighborhood. Before the niggers took over.” He studied Lennon’s expression to see if his racial epithet had offended. He gauged it had. “Don’t bother asking about college. I didn’t go. Too busy making the world safe for democracy.”

  “You were in the war?”

  “Two of’em.”

  “Two?”

  “Just barely old enough to get in on World War II, and just young enough for Korea.”

  “That’s remarkable. Army?”

  “Yup.”

  “What rank?”

  “Private.”

  “Private? Two wars and a private?”

  “Private First Class.” Kirkus reddened slightly.

  Evidently, his military stagnation was a source of embarrassment. Lennon considered it significant he had not been promoted. After a few more general questions, she changed her tack.

  “Mr. Kirkus, I’d like your opinion on a few topics.” She paused. “Guns.”

  “Don’t be silly. The Constitution guarantees the citizens’ right to own guns.”