Shadow of Death

DETROIT

“I might have known. I should have known,” Free Press theater critic Larry Delaney edited himself. “When Joe Cox offers to buy lunch, it’s not going to be at the London Chop House.”

“That’s right,” Free Press travel writer George Singer agreed. “It’s going to be at the old faithful Econ.”

“And we are obliged to bring our own press kits for show-and-tell.” Delaney riffled through a disarray of newspaper clippings on the cluttered restaurant table.

“Gentlemen,” said Free Press staff writer Joe Cox, munching his Dandy Don, “there is no such thing as a free lunch.”

“There he goes, coining another phrase.” Delaney fingered a rigid fry.

The three were dining in an eatery located appropriately on the ground floor of the Free Press building. The location was appropriate in that the eatery was, from any vantage point, pedestrian.

Cox’s hot dog was named in honor of Don Meredith, star of “Monday Night Football.” Other sandwiches on the Econ’s menu were dubbed for media personalities—some local, such as the Mort Crim or the Bill Bonds; others national, such as the Dan Rather or the Ted Koppel. All sandwiches were overwhelmed with Bermuda onion, sliced or diced, depending on the mood of the short order chef.

“I mean,” Delaney continued, “management leaves me at sixes and sevens as to whether I cover the New York theater season. Yet they can send this worthy soul,” he looked derisively at Cox, “off to Rome to cover a Cardinal’s installation.”

“Go easy on this worthy soul, Larry,” said Singer. “It isn’t every day somebody becomes a Cardinal . . . especially Detroit’s Cardinal. Hell, Cardinals have only been around since—”

“About the sixth century.” Cox wiped the corner of his mouth.

Singer smiled. “Already started your research, eh, Joe?”

“Well, as I said when we began this banquet, you’re a lucky sonuvabitch, Joe.” Delaney pushed his plate to one side. It contained most of its original french fries, about one-quarter of the Howard Cosell ham sandwich, and all of a significant slice of Bermuda onion. “The Roman Summer Festival is starting early this year. You can have your pick of grand opera, operetta, ballet, concerts, jazz, art exhibitions, circus-in-the-streets, and a whole collection of old and new movies.”

“And all this,” contributed Singer, “against an incomparable historical backdrop.”

“Take Aida—please.” Delaney found it impossible to pass up a comic line. “It’s the open-air version staged at the Baths of Caracalla.”

“Where’s that?” Cox moved the map of Rome across the table toward Singer, who pushed aside his empty plate. Singer’s stomach was not as aesthetically picky as Delaney’s.

Singer located the Baths on the map just south of the Colosseum. Singer, who had been a sportswriter before moving to the travel desk, was being groomed for his own column, the dream of most journalists. One position he probably never would occupy was that of restaurant critic. An omnivore, he constantly fought a weight problem.

“This is the Aida,” Delaney resumed, “with its armies of Egyptian warriors, its crowds of Ethiopian slaves, and herds of live animals.”

“Elephants?” Cox swirled the coffee in his cup.

“Elephants,” Delaney confirmed. “Then there’s Tosca.”

“Ah, Tosca!” Cox clapped his hands and raised his eyes heavenward in mock rapture.

“You’re really in luck, you turkey.” Some manifestation of envy was beginning to creep through Delaney’s usually bland demeanor. “This presentation is billed as an ‘itinerant Tosca.’ They stage the opera at the actual places where the libretto sets it. So, for Act I, Mario Cavaradossi will meet Floria Tosca in front of the Church of Sant’Andrea della Valle.”

Cox leaned toward Singer, whose finger moved to the site of Sant’Andrea della Valle on the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

Satisfied, Cox returned attention to Delaney.

“Then, in Act II, the singers, orchestra, and audience will have moved to the Farnese Palace, where, in the Piazza Farnese, Tosca will confront and kill Baron Scarpia while Mario is being tortured and imprisoned.”

Cox inclined toward Singer, whose finger moved around the corner from Sant’Andrea della Valle to the nearby Piazza Farnese.

Back to Delaney.

“Finally, after another quick bus trip with perhaps a snack and a little vino, all will gather at the Castel Sant’Angelo where Mario is executed and Tosca leaps over the battlement to her tragic death.” Delaney slumped slightly in empathy with Floria’s fate.

Cox consulted Singer, who located the Castel Sant’Angelo near the bank of the twisting Tiber.

“What about the movies?” Cox probed hungrily.

“What else, you lucky dog, but a film festival!” said Delaney.

“A film festival!”

“Yes. Everything from about thirty American silents to Last Tango, the film that made Pauline Kael famous, to a collection of cinema verité, a clutch of contemporary classics, a Hugh Leonard retrospective—and a special showing of Abel Gance’s Napoleon.”

“Napoleon?”

“Yes, with the final scenes shot à la Cinerama some twenty-five years before Lowell Thomas commercialized the process.”

“Say, Joe . . .” Singer nibbled on a breadstick he had liberated from the basket before the waiter had cleared the table, “have you given any thought to work while you’re in Rome?”

“Work?”

“Yeah,” Delaney leaned forward for emphasis, “that for which the Freep is sending you to the Eternal City. I’ve given you more than enough entertainment material—and George has given you expert directions on where to find it—to keep you busy for your entire stay in Rome.”

Something was up. Cox sensed it. Something about his companions’ expressions. Cox slowly turned in his seat. Suspicion confirmed. Standing directly behind their booth was Nelson Kane, city editor of the Detroit Free Press, and Joe’s immediate superior.

“Uh,” Cox cleared his throat, “hi, Nellie. How long you been here?”

“Long enough.” Kane, in light raincoat and Irish slouch hat pulled low on his forehead, was obviously returning from lunch. “Stop by my desk when you get a chance, Joe. Like now.” He turned and headed for the bank of elevators.

Cox turned to his now grinning companions. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I needed that.” He rose to leave.

“Don’t forget this.” Singer handed Cox the check.

“Didn’t you forget something else?” asked Delaney, as Cox accepted the slip and turned to go.

“What?”

“The tip.”

Cox consulted the check, then grudgingly let a dollar flutter to the table. He could hear the others snickering as he headed for the register to settle accounts.

Joe Cox was the nonpareil of the Free Press city room. His resumé boasted a Pulitzer Prize. His work was uniformly workmanlike to excellent. He was the type of reporter who was a constant challenge to the Detroit News. Yet, possibly because he was so very good at what he did, and because he was very aware of that fact, there was a subtle touch of adolescence about him. From time to time, he required a figuratively short leash.

Usually found holding the other end of that leash was Nelson Kane. Now in his mid-forties, tall, balding, heavyset but not fat, Kane was that clichéd but authentic creature, a newspaperman’s newspaperman. He had spent his entire professional life with the Free Press, and was one of those rare and fortunate people who loved his work.

Cox scooped his notepad from his desk and approached Kane’s desk in the center of the long, rectangular, white-walled city room. As Cox took a seat at the side of the desk, Kane marveled again at the reporter’s physical resemblance to the actor, Richard Dreyfuss.

Kane unwrapped a cigar, bit off an end, then inserted it between his teeth. The bad news was that it was cheap. The good news was that it would not be lit. “Cox,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Oh, good!” Cox responded with clearly fraudulent enthusiasm.

“Before you got here, we had a religion writer whose name shall not be mentioned, but who was infamous nonetheless.”

“I think I know the one you mean . . . the one who used to phone people for a story and when they would tell him they had no comment they could hear him typing up the comment they hadn’t made . . . and then they’d have to read the paper to find out what they’d ‘said.’”

“The very one.

“Well, one of the Popes died. I don’t recall which one. It doesn’t matter. Anyway—and this happened at a time when the brass were even more reluctant than they are now to send a reporter on location—anyway, the decision was made to send this religion writer to Rome to cover the election of the new Pope.

“Well, the new Pope was elected. Radio and TV told us that. But we were waiting for the personalized, on-the-scene report of our own correspondent in Rome . . . our own man in the Vatican. Our deadline got nearer and nearer . . . still no word. With the deadline just minutes away, a goodly number of us were gathered around the teletype. Finally, it clicked. Code letters, dateline Rome, our man’s byline, then ‘Exclusive to the Free Press,’ and finally: ‘Today, amid the grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica, puffs of white smoke appeared over the Sistine Chapel as the Roman Catholic Church elected a new Supreme Pontiff.’ That was followed by three dots, and then, ‘Pick up wire service copy’”

Cox continued to smile, as he had throughout the account. “Very amusing. But what’s that got to do with me?”

“Just this: I don’t want to find myself standing in front of a teletype reading: ‘Rome, April 19, by Joe Cox. Exclusive to the Free Press. Today, amid the grandeur of St. Peter’s Basilica, twelve new Cardinals were created by the Roman Catholic Church . . . pick up wire service copy.’”

“Nellie, you know me better than that!”

“I also know what can happen when you and Lennon cover the same story in the same town. In this case, it spells ‘Roman Holiday.’”

“Hey, that is neat, isn’t it? A terrific serendipity when the News decided to send Pat to Rome. Should save you guys some money, too. You don’t ‘spose the News and the Freep would want to split the cost of our room?”

“Now that’s exactly what I mean.” Kane rolled the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Just because the two of you live together in Detroit without benefit of clergy doesn’t mean that it’ll work in this case. Especially when you’re both covering the same story and especially when that story is in a foreign city.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean. Cox, is, that for all practical purposes, your hotel room will be your office. You won’t have any other office. You’re working this assignment for us. What if you have to make phone calls? What if you have to talk to me or one of the other editors? What if someone phones you? Lennon can hear everything. And if she gets a lead from any of those phone calls or messages, she goddamn well is going to take advantage of it.

“And the same holds true for you. The News won’t want such an arrangement any more than we do. This is not a vacation. It’s not even a working vacation. You and Lennon may be ‘significant others’ for each other here. But in Rome you don’t know Lennon. Except as a competing reporter. And a goddamn competent one at that.”

Lennon had received much of her journalistic training at the Free Press. Kane still winced at the memory of her departure to the rival News . . . although he had to admit she’d had good reason at the time.

“O.K., O.K. But as long as we’re both on this story, there is one thing I want to know.”

“Yeah?”

“When does it end?”

“What?”

“After the ceremonies in Rome are completed,” Cox consulted his notepad, “on May 4th, the Detroit contingent—or at least most of it—will move on to England and Ireland before returning to Detroit. So when does the assignment end? Rome? England? Ireland?”

“England and Ireland are courtesy visits . . . part of the entourage’s package tour. The news angle is Boyle’s becoming a Cardinal . . . which takes place in Rome. That answer your question?”

“Ordinarily, yes. And I could have figured that out. Except that I have a feeling . . . a sort of presentiment.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t quite know. Like all premonitions, it’s hard to spell out—”

“Try.”

“Well, a couple of things have happened and I don’t know if they add up to a scenario.”

“Go ahead.”

“First, Boyle is named a Cardinal. Then the Cardinal in Toronto is killed—literally wasted. Cardinal Claret was an important figure in the Church. So is Boyle. What if—and I know this is going to sound farfetched—what if there proves to be a connection?

“What if precisely that important Canadian Cardinal was killed deliberately—for a specific reason? What if whoever killed Claret intends to attack another important Cardinal—of the United States? I just mean . . . what if . . .”

Normally, Kane would have dismissed this as a remote possibility. The Toronto police had pretty well concluded that the Claret killing was a fluke. Some hophead had simply struck at random and happened to hit a very important person.

But . . . if there was one thing he and Cox shared it was a keen news sense. A feeling not only for news that had happened, but a sense of the direction in which news was going to develop.

And the Free Press was still smarting from that fiasco wherein their erstwhile executive manager had arbitrarily pulled their leading sports columnist, despite his protests, home from the Olympics, saying that he’d been in Munich long enough . . . and that furious columnist, under threat of dismissal had boarded the jet home, only to discover when he deplaned in Detroit that terrorists had captured the Israeli athletes, and the eyes of the world were now on Munich.

“Play it as it lies, Joe. I’ll just rummage around in the exchequer in case—in the unlikely case—your hunch is right,” sardonically, “for a change.”

2.

The atmosphere was tense. The result of an exchange of many angry words. The twenty people—three of them women—gathered in the small office were black. The stenciled sign on the outside of the closed door read: Office Of Black Catholic Services, Archdiocese Of Detroit.

“What it comes down to,” Perry Brown was almost shouting, “is that he’s abandoned us! That’s the bottom line!”

“You’re being simplistic,” Ty Powers charged.

The argument, initially joined by nearly everyone in the room, now had narrowed to these two. They were the only ones still standing. Powers, tall, well-built, light-complexioned, was director of Black Catholic Services, appointed by Archbishop Boyle.

Brown, of medium height, pencil-thin, Afro-topped, was a physician whose patients included many in the black community who could afford neither medical treatment nor hospitalization insurance.

“How many Catholic schools in the core city has Archbishop Boyle closed?”

“Perry—”

“How many of our parishes has he closed?”

“Perry, it’s not so much that the Archbishop is closing schools and parishes.”

“No? Then what is it?”

“He’s pronouncing them dead. They died. We didn’t build them; white Catholics did. Then they moved away. There weren’t enough black Catholics left to support them. So they died. There wasn’t anything the Archbishop could do about it.”

“He could keep them open and operating!”

“Be reasonable: How is he going to do that?”

“By making a commitment to the core city!” Brown looked around. Most of those present seemed to be in agreement with him.

“The Archbishop has that kind of commitment. The Inter Parish Sharing Program was his baby. It was his idea to have suburban parishes share with the inner-city parishes.”

“Well,” Brown placed his hand on the chair in front of him and leaned forward, “I’ve got news for you and for him; His baby died abornin’.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you: Archbishop Boyle wants to keep our parishes and schools open. And he’s even tried to keep them open with programs like the IPSP, but his hands are tied. The whites who built these churches and schools have moved away. And,” Powers emphasized, “they have made it very clear they are not going to continue to support them.”

“Precisely why the Archbishop should not have made the sharing voluntary.”

“Not voluntary!?”

“Not voluntary!” Brown converted Powers’ shocked tone into one of triumph. “It does not require an MBA to know that all temporalities in this archdiocese are held in the name of the Catholic Archbishop of Detroit, whoever he may be.”

“You mean . . .” Powers seemed unable to complete the thought.

“Take it! Take the money from the savings of the rich parishes and distribute it to the poor. If the ‘have’ parishes will not be Christian to the ‘have-not’ parishes, then impose Christianity on them.”

There was a stunned silence.

“Why not?” someone finally asked, rhetorically.

“It makes sense,” someone else commented.

“It makes damn good sense,” another added.

Silence. They were awaiting Powers’ response.

“Ridiculous. It’s ridiculous. One move like that and he wouldn’t have a diocese anymore. You may recall, in 1968, the year after the riots, when the Archbishop allocated a healthy chunk of the Archdiocesan Development Fund collection to the needs of the inner city. There was plenty of very audible griping from white Catholics about how all their money was going to be used by ‘those niggers.’ And the following year, the ADF collection plummeted.

“If he were to simply take money, even surplus money, from suburban parish savings and apply it to the inner city, why, in no time he would have a hundred percent of nuthin’! And, eventually, the aid the Archbishop is able to give us now would dry up. And we’d be left sharing with him a hundred percent of nuthin’!”

In the pause that followed, some mumbled agreement with Powers, others with Brown.

“Boyle would not be the first Irish martyr,” Brown suggested.

“You’re not talking martyrdom, Perry. You’re talking fiscal insanity!”

“Christianity ought to have a little bit of insanity mixed in with it, the way I look at it,” Brown responded. “Didn’t St. Francis of Assisi call himself ‘a fool for God’? Besides, now that our Archbishop is going to become a Cardinal, this would be heeded by just about everyone in the world.

“You’re part of his official family, Tyrone; you’re part of the bureaucracy . . . why don’t you test the water? Why don’t you propose the idea? You never know till you try. Maybe the new Cardinal Boyle would be willing to consider martyrdom.”

“Let me put the shoe on the other foot, Doctor.” Powers smiled. “You’re going to Rome with the Detroit contingent. You’ll be with us when the Archbishop becomes a Cardinal. Why don’t you take it upon yourself to propose this ‘martyrdom’ to the Archbishop?”

Brown appeared lost in thought. Finally, he said, “You have a point, Tyrone. Perhaps it’s time for me to make an unmistakable statement on this matter.”

Brown once more retreated into his contemplation. He seemed troubled by what he found there.

3.

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 Koesler 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.

One minute there was mass confusion. The next, all was peaceful and quiet. There were now far fewer people in the waiting area. The missing were all in the room with the would-be assailant.

The media people pulled themselves and their equipment back together and crowded around the closed door.

Whatever was going on, the next news would emerge from that room.

5.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome aboard Trans World Airlines charter flight 1302 to Rome . . .”

“I wonder why it is,” Father Koesler asked his seat partner, Inspector Koznicki, “all stewardesses sound alike?”

“I suppose it is their training.” Koznicki wedged his way deeper into the narrow seat in a futile attempt to find comfort.

“At this time, please give your attention to the flight attendant at the front of your cabin . . .”

“Maybe,” Koesler suggested, “if we get out of our suit coats . . .” He was experiencing almost as much discomfort as Koznicki.

The two wrestled out of their jackets.

“The laminated instruction card in the seat pocket in front of you explains and illustrates the important safety features of this aircraft. The card should be read carefully before takeoff . . .”

“That feels better.” Koesler let out a sigh. “Now, what’ll we do with them?”

“Let me take your jacket, Father. Wanda can hold them until we are airborne. Then we can put them in the overhead compartment.” Koznicki was referring to his wife, in the aisle seat. She was accompanying her husband on this, their first vacation together in years that would be unencumbered by any of their children.

“The emergency exits in the 707 aircraft are the forward left door, the forward right door, the rear left door, and the rear right door. In addition to the four cabin doors, there are four over-the-wing window exits . . .”

Koesler fixed on the nearest exit, then returned his gaze to the attendant at the front of the cabin.

She continued explaining emergency procedures.

The plane taxied to its final ground turn onto the far end of the runway. The pilot braked; the hum of the engines rose to a whine, then a full-throated roar as the plane gathered momentum, raced down the runway, and pulled itself upward.

“I’m glad that’s over!” The color began returning to Koesler’s white knuckles.

“Yes,” said Koznicki, “they do say that takeoffs and landings are the most dangerous times in flying.”

“No, dear,” a smiling Wanda Koznicki corrected, “the most dangerous time in flying is the automobile trip to the airport.”

All three smiled.

A steward passed by, pushing a cart filled with small bottles containing a vast variety of potables.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” Koesler asked. “I mean, we’re still climbing!”

“Well, Father,” said Koznickl, “this is a charter flight. It may prove to be more of a party than your usual flight.”

The prophesy was correct. Archbishop Boyle’s Irish-blooded relatives were the principal reason the liquor cart was not put to rest until the very early hours of the following morning.

“And you’re sure,” said Koesler, pursuing the conversation they had begun earlier, “that the young man who attacked Archbishop Boyle was acting alone?”

“As sure as we could be in an initial investigation. If it proves otherwise as the investigation continues, my people will notify me.”

“And he wasn’t attacking Mayor Cobb? The Mayor and the Archbishop were standing very close to one another.”

“Oh, no, Father. I, too, was standing close by, as you will remember. I saw him inching through the crowd and I followed his progress until he was standing directly in front of the Archbishop. When he arrived at that point, I was fortunate enough to prevent him from causing any harm.”

“I’ll say you prevented him. I don’t think the kid knew what hit him!”

Koznicki smiled. “No, he did not attack the Mayor, but he certainly got his attention.”

Wanda was served a chablis, Koznicki a Stroh’s, and Koesler a bourbon manhattan. He was slightly surprised—and pleased—that the mobile bar stocked bourbon.

“Were you able to come up with any motive? I mean, if the guy was acting alone, if he wasn’t part of a conspiracy, what possible motive could he have for attacking the Archbishop? He’d have to be insane!”

“No, I think not, Father. It is a phenomenon we are seeing more and more in America: Somebody who is nobody trying to become somebody by attacking somebody who is important. The people who made attempts on the lives of Presidents Ford and Reagan, the one who shot and killed John Lennon, were all people who wanted to be recognized. An act of violence gave them their moment of recognition. They are not in the same category with the assassins of President Kennedy or Martin Luther King, Jr.—people who killed with a purpose and after their attack tried desperately to escape.

“No, Father; I am quite sure that that young man saw Archbishop Boyle on the TV news. The TV exposure made it obvious that this man was important, that he was leaving for Rome, and that there would be a press conference at the airport. At that point, the young man decided it was time for the world to know his name.”

Koznicki paused. “You know, it is funny, but I cannot recall his name.” He shook his head. “No matter; with the publicity that will be given him, the world will shortly know who he is. Except that he will have to forfeit a great many years of freedom for his moment of recognition.”

“Probably. But only after batteries of lawyers and psychiatrists get done arguing over his sanity,” said Koesler, his tone betraying a tinge of cynicism. “Personally, I think the time has come to enact new standards. If the law can differentiate between first-, second-, and third-degree murder, why can’t they establish similarly relative degrees of insanity?

“First-degree insanity would mean that the defendant was insane at the time of the crime, did not know right from wrong, and was incapable of standing trial for the crime charged.

“Second-degree insanity would mean that the defendant was insane, but capable of distinguishing right from wrong, and was capable of standing trial.

“Third-degree insanity would mean the defendant was temporarily insane at the time of the crime.”

“An interesting suggestion,” commented the Inspector. “I wonder what our forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Fritz Heinsohn, would have to say about that.”

“Probably a lot, and probably all of it gobbledygook,” replied Koesler with a grin.

Dinner was served.

Delmonico steaks, each done medium, sculptured baked potatoes, french beans, spinach and mushroom salad, a lemon tart. Each tray held a small bottle of California cabernet sauvignon. Not bad, for an airline; but then, a party had been predicted.

After a perfunctory but nonetheless heartfelt, unspoken grace, Koesler fell to with gusto; the afternoon’s events had given him more of an appetite than he had been aware of. He was left with his thoughts of those events, as the Koznickis conversed in low tones throughout the meal. Later, after the steward had replenished their wine supply, Koznicki turned to Father Koesler. “By the way. Father, what was it that made you raise the possibility of a conspiracy?”

“Oh,” Koesler sipped his wine reflectively, “it was mostly that incident in Toronto. You know, the murder of Cardinal Claret.”

“Yes?”

“I suppose it was just the coincidence. Cardinal Claret was attacked suddenly and unexpectedly, at a time when the public could approach him freely and unrestrainedly. And he was killed by a young black wielding a knife.

“Plus, if I remember the newspaper account correctly, Father Ouellet, who was standing alongside Cardinal Claret at the time, described the young man as wearing his hair in a natural or Afro. And . . . well, those same conditions were present this afternoon when Archbishop Boyle was attacked. So, naturally. . .” Koesler allowed the sentence to remain uncompleted.

“Even if your hypothesis does not prove true in this case, it is a good analysis, Father. It never ceases to amaze me that you react to such situations in much the same manner as a police officer. Are you sure you did not miss your vocation?” It was not the first time the Inspector had kidded his friend with such a question.

“Oh, no.” Koesler laughed. “I’m where I ought to be. If, by some stretch of the imagination, I ceased being a priest, and someone asked me what else I was qualified for, I fear I would be forced to answer, ‘Nothing.’”

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Kamego. We are presently flying at an altitude of 42,000 feet, and are right on schedule. We should land at Leonardo da Vinci airport at 9:00 a.m. Rome time, which would be 3:00 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time.

“Now, for your entertainment, we will be showing a movie in just a few minutes. The name of it is . . .”

A slight pause.

“The name of it is, Assault with Intent. Have a good flight, and if there is anything we can do to make your trip more comfortable, please let us know.”

“Assault with Intent! Isn’t that . . . yes, it is! Good grief, that’s the movie they filmed in Detroit last year!” Koesler was caught between excitement and incredulity. “That’s that film about those attacks on our seminary professors. I was in that movie! Or, rather, someone portrayed me in that movie . . .”

Both Koznickis were smiling at their animated friend.

“The last I heard of that film, all the major TV networks and distributors had turned it down. It was a throwaway—dead on the shelf. I wonder whose idea it was to resurrect it for this flight?”

“Would you like another manhattan, Father?” an attendant interrupted.

“No, thank you. I want to be cold sober to see this movie!”

It was undoubtedly a testimonial to the wretchedness of the film that by halfway through its showing, all in the cabin were either gathered around the mobile bar or asleep.

Father Koesler was snoring.