Shadow of Death fk-5 Page 5

In a separate wing of the building that housed the Office of Black Catholic Services, Mrs. Irene Casey, editor of the Detroit Catholic, was seated at her desk in her private office. She was talking on the phone.

  “What’s so different about your backyard shrine to the Blessed Mother?”

  “What’s so different?” the caller echoed.

  “Yes, different—unusual, out-of-the-ordinary. You know, a lot of Catholic homes have backyard shrines. And as we enter spring, most of them get their shrines ready for summer. You must realize that it’s simply impossible for us to run pictures of all these shrines. We just don’t have the space.”

  “So?”

  “So what is special or different about your shrine?”

  “Well,” the woman hesitated. Obviously, she had not anticipated any resistance to having a photo of her shrine placed in the archdiocesan newspaper.

  “Well . . . if you drive up Lahser between, say Eleven and Thirteen Mile Roads, you’ll see lots of statues of the Blessed Mother in the yards. But,” her voice rose, “they’re all Immaculate Conception statues.”

  Irene could not suppress a smile. She was grateful videophones were not yet in general use.

  “Now, my shrine,” the woman continued triumphantly, “has the Pilgrim Statue of Fatima as the main attraction!” She paused to allow this revelation to have its effect.

  Shifting papers on her desk, Irene said nothing.

  “Well?” the woman snapped at length.

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, what do you say to that?”

  “I can think of any number of backyard shrines that have the Pilgrim Statue of Fatima,” Irene exaggerated. She wondered if anyone had ever wasted time on a study of the subject.

  “Now you listen here, Mrs. Casey: I’m a parishioner of St. Ives, and our pastor subscribes to the Detroit Catholic for all his parishioners. This is a parish the Detroit Catholic can ill afford to lose!”

  “I understand. And I agree. But you must understand what precious little space we have in the paper. If we ran a photo of one private shrine, I wouldn’t be able to refuse anyone else who has a shrine. And very soon the paper would be filled with nothing but shrines. So you see, there just would have to be something unique before we could consider yours.”

  “Well,” Irene could tell from her altered tone that the woman was taking another tack, “my husband and I occasionally see a vision over the shrine . . . at least,” in a slightly smaller voice, “it looks like a vision.”

  “Fine,” Irene spotted light at the end of the tunnel, “you get a photo of the vision and we’re in business.”

  “Oh, what is it with you people!” Obviously, the party was over. “Last year you refused to run a photo of my daughter twirling her baton!”

  “You’re the mother of the cheerleader!”

  No way could Irene have forgotten: the woman, within the confines of the Detroit Catholic, was notorious.

  “Yes, I am! And you haven’t heard the last of me!”

  The woman slammed down the receiver. Irene gently massaged her ear and prayed that her caller was mistaken and that this would indeed be their terminal connection.

  The phone rang again. It was going to be one of those days.

  “Mrs. Casey?” The familiar deep voice resonated with barely curbed fury. “This is Father Cavanaugh at Divine Child. I am just going to make a statement. I do not expect a response from you. It’s about a story that appeared in the latest issue of the Detroit Catholic . . . about two former priests who are now employed by Wayne County as marriage counselors.

  “Your story quoted them as saying that they were happy in their new work and that they felt completely fulfilled. One of them even compared what he was doing to what he did as a priest, stating that counseling was now his full-time ministry.

  “I just want to say, Mrs. Casey, that this is not the sort of story one should find in a Catholic newspaper. When you have ex-priests who are out of work or who have found only distasteful employment, that is the sort of story you should print.

  “That is all, Mrs. Casey. I just want you to know how I, and many others, feel.”

  He broke the connection.

  This type of call, though rare, was among the things Irene found most unpleasant about her position as editor of a Catholic newspaper. Even if she had been allowed to respond, there was little she could have said to a man like that. He was a priest and she was of the laity. She could not overlook his privileged position. Nor would he allow her to overlook it.

  Furthermore, what could anyone say to someone like Father Cavanaugh, whose mind and heart were closed?

  “You look as if you just lost your best friend, Irene.” John Howe, gray-haired business manager of the Detroit Catholic, knocked pro forma on the open door as he entered her office.

  “I feel like it. I just had a very depressing phone call.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, then,” he brightened, “I’ve got some good news: The archdiocese is going to pick up the whole tab for your trip to Rome!”

  “Well, there’s a break.”

  “You said it! In our present financial condition, it would have been pretty tight, to say the least. I was going to offer to pay half and see how the chancery would react. But Monsignor Iming called just a few minutes ago and said they would take care of all your travel and hotel costs. You’re on your own for food and out-of-pocket expenses. But we can handle that with no problem.”

  “That’s just great!” Irene beamed.

  “Of course,” he grew serious, “that covers just Detroit to Rome and back.”

  “No London or Ireland, eh?’’

  “I’m afraid not.” He smiled. “You’ll just have to wait for an Irish Catholic Press convention for a visit to your homeland.

  “Unless,” he shrugged lightheartedly, “unless you find something that needs reporting in addition to the Rome story.”

  “That’s another definition of ‘fat chance.’ It’s not as if a visit to England or Ireland per se constitutes a breaking news story. I mean, what can happen to an archbishop after becoming a Cardinal?”

  “I guess you’re right. Well, anyway, have a nice ‘Roman Holiday.’”

  4.

  Maybe this is what it had been like at the Tower of Babel—a confusion of tongues, Father Koesler mused.

  He was standing near Gate Three in the Michael Berry International Terminal at Detroit’s Metropolitan Airport. He was attempting to remain at the fringe of the crowd. But it seemed that if one was not part of one crowd, one was swallowed by another.

  Koesler did not often utilize Metro’s international terminal, so he was not familiar with its day-to-day operation. But, at this moment, it was clearly proving its cosmopolitan character. People of seemingly every known complexion, costume, and tongue milled in groups of varying sizes. Caftans and muumuus, prayer beads and rosaries, tilaks and beauty spots.

  The group on the fringe of which Koesler was trying to stay was Detroit’s Rome-bound contingent . . . two chartered planeloads.

  The center and focal point of this group, quite naturally, was Archbishop Mark Boyle, on his way to becoming His Eminence Mark Cardinal Boyle. He was surrounded by representatives of the local news media, friends, well-wishers, and the merely Catholic curious. The Archbishop stood bathed in the unreal glare of the television lighting. Nearby and sharing in the periphery of the sungun, Koesler could identify many of the movers and shakers of the archdiocese as well as the city of Detroit. It was as if they constituted the dramatis personae of a play about to unfold.

  Maynard Cobb, Detroit’s mayor, was presiding at the battery of microphones. He was developing the theme of how proud the city was of its new Cardinal. He had already explained that the press of civic duties prevented him from accompanying the group to Rome. But, he affirmed, he hoped to be able to join them there before all the induction ceremonies were completed.

  Maybe. But Ko
esler made a wager with himself that they would not see Cobb again until they returned to Detroit.

  Although they had met only a few times, and very briefly at that, Koesłer was convinced that Cobb was practically perfect for his job. In his early sixties, graying, with a vocabulary suited for a White House visit or, alternately, appropriate for the nadir of the black ghetto whence he had sprung, Cobb could feel Detroit coursing through his body, and he fought for his city every step of the way.

  While not, to anyone’s knowledge, a religious man, Cobb was well aware of the national and international publicity a new Cardinal would draw to Detroit. And Cobb was determined to milk that limelight for all it was worth.

  Standing next to Cobb was Archbishop Boyle, with his characteristic bemused expression. He seemed quite content, even though theoretically he was the center of attraction at this affair, to stand aside for the mayor.

  Those who knew Boyle—and their number was not legion—understood that Boyle did not take himself overly seriously. Above all, he was the epitome of a Christian gentleman. Shortly, the reporters would begin asking him questions. Then he would bloom. He had been an educator. No matter what else he became, he would always be an educator. And when he explained his answers to the reporters’ questions he would be right at home.

  Koesler recalled the photo story the Detroit Catholic had published the week after Boyle’s nomination was announced. The photos spanned the time from Boyle’s youth to the present. He had been an outstandingly handsome young man. Slightly more than six feet tall, he was still handsome, with thinning white hair, sooty eyebrows, piercing blue eyes, and attractive Irish features. It was not difficult for those associated with him to be very proud of him.

  Nor was the Archbishop without a sense of humor. Though many might think of him as dry, the wit was there. Unlike some, Archbishop Boyle was sufficiently secure in himself and his position that he did not require that his face be ubiquitous in the archdiocesan newspaper. So that when he and several other Catholic functionaries were scheduled to fly to Rome for the first session of the Vatican Council, and Father Koesler, then editor of the Detroit Catholic, had sent a photographer to snap the Archbishop and his entourage boarding the plane at Metro, Boyle had commented that the Detroit Catholic should just take photos of him on the boarding ramp of each of the airlines that served Detroit, and then in the future they could run the appropriate photo automatically; no matter where he was bound, they would already have the correct shot in their files, he said.

  It was impossible not to be aware of the man standing on the other side of Boyle in this impromptu tableau. Inches taller than the Archbishop, and large in every direction, Inspector Walter Koznicki, chief of the Homicide Division of the Detroit Police Department, seemed relatively uninterested in the proceedings. But then Inspector Koznicki seldom was what he seemed.

  Over the past several years, a warm relationship had developed between Inspector Koznicki and Father Koesler. The priest had proven helpful in the solution of several homicide cases involving the Catholic community. The initial professional association of the two men had blossomed into a friendship based on mutual respect.

  Inspector Koznicki was not in attendance today in his professional capacity. He was taking a vacation, and was a member of the delegation on its way to Rome. As a prominent Detroiter, and also a Catholic, Koznicki had been invited to join the other VIPs appearing with the Archbishop and the Mayor.

  As the sungun played about the tight-knit group before the cameras, Koesler recognized some of the other important people, all of whom were familiar faces.

  There was Liz Taylor look-alike Joan Blackford Hayes, director of the Office for Continuing Education for the archdiocese. She long had been the token female in the Boyle administration. However, as is so often the case with most women who have risen to a high bureaucratic level, she was far more qualified than any man in a comparable position.

  Koesler recalled a meeting he had attended with, among many others, Mrs. Hayes. Attired in a striking red ensemble, she had raised her hand to ask a question. Archbishop Boyle, seeing the upraised hand and the red apparel out of the corner of his eye, had said, “Yes, Monsignor . . . uh . . . er . . . Mrs. Hayes.” At that moment, Koesler had wondered whether a woman could become a monsignor because an archbishop, even mistakenly, had called her one. The question dissolved quickly when he remembered that only a Pope can make a monsignor.

  Now that he recalled the incident, Koesler’s peculiar stream-of-consciousness led him to wonder, if Boyle did indeed become a Pope, would that make Joan Blackford Hayes a monsignor retroactively?

  Speaking of tokens, standing just to the rear of Mrs. Hayes was Ty Powers. Koesler could easily recall a time when there was no diocesan Office of Black Catholic Services and also a time when there were nearly no black Catholics for whom to have an office.

  Actually, there were not that many more even now. But the “time” for blacks had come in a way that it had not yet for women. A few years ago, the consensus was that most blacks who converted were merely trying to become white, not necessarily Catholic. But now there was a better, if thinner, ministry for core city blacks. Most of today’s inner-city priests still happened to be white. However, most of them no longer forced the white man’s religious experience on their black parishioners. A few even blended the essence of the Catholic Mass with a healthy measure of free-wheeling Baptist worship.

  Powers’ expression puzzled Koesler. Here the man was about to embark on a trip—a free trip at that—to Rome. Most of his fellow travelers were ebullient if not downright euphoric. Yet Powers seemed preoccupied and troubled.

  Mayor Cobb had completed his statement, but remained standing close to Archbishop Boyle. As long as the TV cameras would grind away, Cobb would linger on.

  As was his wont, Boyle had a prepared statement, which he read carefully. It was a solemnly composed declaration asserting his unworthiness for the honor that was about to be accorded him in Rome. But he would accept the Cardinalate in the name of and to the honor of the good people of the Archdiocese of Detroit. He thanked all who had come to wish him well, as well as those who would be accompanying him.

  He folded the statement and tucked it in the inside pocket of his black suit coat. The gold chain carrying his pectoral cross and appearing across his chest swayed gently.

  He removed his eyeglasses and looked expectantly at the reporters. The questions were not long in coming.

  First Reporter: Archbishop, you’re considered to be a liberal as far as the Church hierarchy is concerned. Do you see this recognition on the part of the Pope as an endorsement of your policies in Detroit?

  Boyle: Oh, no, my dear young man. “Liberal” and “conservative” are labels attached to people for the sake of convenience. But in reality, most people are liberal, if you must, about some issues, and conservative about others.

  First Reporter (determinedly): But, compared with other dioceses, especially in this country, there seems to be a lot of freedom. Some priests say if you can’t get away with it in Detroit, you can’t get away with it anywhere. Care to comment?

  Boyle (smiling tightly): I suppose you would have to ask the priests whom you are quoting about that.

  Second Reporter: Will any of your policies change in the diocese once you’ve been made a Cardinal?

  Boyle: No, my dear young lady. I have no plans to change anything in the archdiocese. Things change, of course. That is only part of life. But such changes will not spring from the honor that has come to me.

  Third Reporter: What’s the purpose of your stopovers in England and Ireland?

  Boyle: In England I will visit my dear old friend Cardinal Whealan, the Archbishop of London. And in Ireland—he permitted himself a smile—well, my parents, may the Lord rest them, were born in County Dublin. My visit there will be a touching of roots and a bit of a vacation for me before getting back to Detroit.

  Something wasn’t quite right. Koesler couldn’t put his finger on it
. But something was definitely amiss.

  Third Reporter: How long have you known you were going to be made a Cardinal?

  Boyle (after a pause): It was, I believe, March 27th that the Apostolic Delegate to this country phoned me.

  Second Reporter (consulting her notes): But it was released to the media on the 28th.

  Boyle (smiling): You seem surprised.

  Second Reporter: Yes. I thought you’d have to keep the secret longer!

  Boyle (chuckling): Our motto is not secretum gratia secreti.

  Mixed sounds of incomprehension and laughter.

  Koesler was still trying to detect what was wrong. There was some movement in the crowd immediately in front of Cobb and Boyle that seemed inappropriate, even problematical. But though he was taller than most of those standing nearby, Koesler was unable to isolate it.

  Fourth Reporter: Archbishop, this may be a bit premature, but there is talk of the Papacy . . .

  Boyle, with what might almost be classified as a frown, began shaking his head.

  Fourth Reporter: . . . as a Cardinal, you will be in the running to become Pope. Some pundits have said—

  It was unreal. Koesler could only think of similar episodes he’d seen in the past. But it had always been on TV, never in person. A sungun was knocked over and several cameramen and reporters near the front seemed to collapse in a heap. Several people were shouting. A woman screamed.

  It was over as quickly as it had begun.

  The square peg Koesler had sensed in the crowd was a young black man who was now prostrate on the floor by virtue of his being knelt on very decisively by Inspector Koznicki.

  The Inspector had worked the man’s right arm behind him and was prying a large knife from his fingers. Everyone else seemed stunned into inactivity.

  A phalanx of Mayor Cobb’s bodyguards, airport security officers, and members of the Wayne County Sheriff’s Department converged on the two men and assisted Inspector Koznicki as they swept up the captive and hustled him into a nearby room, into which a seemingly incredible number of people immediately crowded. The door then closed.