Shadow of Death

TORONTO

“You don’t want to see your bishop go to jail, do you?”

“N—no, Eminence,” Father Maurice Ouellet, the master of ceremonies, stammered. As usual, he had no notion of what his Cardinal-Archibishop had in mind.

“Then, Maury, go find a dime and put it in the parking meter, or my car will be towed away and I’ll be hauled off to jail.”

Father Ouellet’s left hand found the pocket in his trousers through the slit in his cassock. He rummaged through a handful of coins in search of a dime. “Where is your car parked, Eminence?” Ouellet asked, stifling a smile. After all, this was Holy Thursday’s Chrism Mass. It would not do for the Archbishop’s secretary and master of ceremonies to break up in the sanctuary of crowded St. Michael’s Cathedral.

“It’s just out the door there on Church Street. Under the spreading chestnut tree, as luck would have it.”

Ouellet briefly pondered the immediate future. The Mass had just begun. The choir was singing a vernacular version of the Kyrie, which would be followed by a choral rendition of the Gloria. He had plenty of time to safeguard his Archbishop’s car. With that special grace shared by adroit emcees and maître d’s, Ouellet made his departure from the sanctuary appear to be part of the ritual.

Adrian Cardinal Claret spoke softly out of the right corner of his mouth. It was a signal for Father Ed MacNeil, deacon of the Mass, seated to the right of the large upholstered red throne, to lean toward His Eminence.

“For some reason,” said Claret, “the choir puts me in mind of the classical definition of clerical tact.”

“What’s that, Eminence?” MacNeil asked out of the left corner of his mouth.

“It happens at an old solemn high Mass,” out of the right corner of his mouth. “The old pastor is the celebrant. The oldest assistant is the deacon, and a young priest, just ordained, is master of ceremonies.

“Well, they’re all seated during the Creed. The pastor’s arms are folded across his chest.

“The master of ceremonies leans over to the deacon and whispers, ‘Tell Monsignor to put his hands on his knees.’ After a moment, the deacon leans over to the pastor and says, ‘The choir sounds pretty good today, doesn’t it?’ The old pastor nods. Then the deacon leans back to the master of ceremonies and says, The Monsignor says, go to hell!’”

MacNeil chuckled quietly. “The choir does sound good today, doesn’t it?”

Claret smiled and nodded.

Holy Thursday is a special feast in the Catholic Church for many reasons. Catholics, in common with all other Christian denominations, commemorate the Last Supper that Jesus shared with His Apostles. But for priests, the feast holds a unique significance. It marks the event during which Jesus instituted the Eucharist and invited the Apostles to “do what I have done”—in effect, creating the cultic priesthood. Many priests considered Holy Thursday to be a sort of birthday of their priesthood. In recent years, a ceremony of “Renewal of Commitment to Priestly Service” had been added to the Holy Thursday liturgy.

In addition, during the Chrism Mass in Catholic dioceses throughout the world, bishops gathered with their priests and as many of the faithful as they could entice to the ceremony, to solemnly bless the oil that would be used to consecrate candidates for baptism and confirmation and to anoint the sick. Each year on Holy Thursday, the past year’s unused blessed oil was disposed of and each parish was offered a new supply of freshly blessed oil at the Cathedral. There was, then, a practical reason why each parish was represented by at least one of its priests: Someone had to go to the Cathedral to pick up the new oil.

The choir was midway through the Gloria when Father Ouellet returned to the sanctuary. He and the Cardinal exchanged a knowing glance. The deed had been done; His Eminence’s car was protected for another hour.

The Gloria concluded, the Archbishop rose to lead the congregation in prayer.

“Father, by the power of the Holy Spirit you anointed your only son Messiah and Lord of Creation; you have given us a share in His consecration to priestly service in your Church. Help us to be faithful witnesses in the world to the salvation Christ won for all mankind. We ask this through our Lord Jesus Christ, your Son, Who lives and reigns with you in the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.”

“Amen,” the congregation affirmed loudly.

This was followed by two readings, one from the Old Testament, the other from one of Paul’s Epistles.

During the readings, Cardinal Claret absently toyed with his pectoral cross. Father Ouellet, aware that many in the congregation were watching the Cardinal rather than the lectors, noticed the Cardinal fingering the gold cross suspended on a cord around his neck.

Ouellet leaned near the ear of Father MacNeil and whispered, “The Cardinal’s hands should be resting on his knees.”

MacNeil looked surprised. He then smiled, leaned toward the Archbishop, and whispered, “The choir sounds good today, doesn’t it?”

Claret glanced at Ouellet, then, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, whispered to MacNeil, “Tell him to go to hell.”

An eager young priest proclaimed the Gospel reading rather forcefully. Then he began preaching a homily playing on the functions of oil in everyday life.

Claret had heard it all before; many, many times. It was not long before he tuned out the young priest and pursued his own stream of consciousness.

Holy Thursday held a special significance for Claret because his priesthood was so precious to him.

Last year he had celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination. Just as Saint John, writing his gospel memoirs from exile on the island of Patmos, could remember not only the day but the hour he first met Christ, Claret could clearly remember his ordination as well as all the related minor and major events of the past fifty years.

He had been born, raised, and ordained for service in the diocese of Saskatoon. During his postgraduate studies in Rome, he used to kid his classmates that he owed his rugged constitution to his Saskatchewan heritage. He especially enjoyed telling priest-students from tropical countries about the frigid winters in his hometown, where, he would boast, only the hearty survived.

It got to be a game. The other doctoral students would periodically ask him how cold it was in his hometown. Claret would invariably reply that it was so cold that the Saskatoon flasher walked the streets describing his anatomy to innocent passersby. At least the first time around, he had to explain the special North American connotation of the term “flasher” to the many non-North Americans in Rome.

If Adrian Cardinal Claret had a single regret in all his clerical years it was that so few of those years had been spent as a parish priest. After obtaining his doctoral degree in theology, he had been assigned as a seminary professor.

Then a few years in the chancery. After which, he was appointed auxiliary bishop of Edmonton, and finally, made Archbishop of Toronto. For the past twelve years, he had been a Cardinal, a hierarchical position second only to that of the Pope.

There had even been talk in recent years that Claret was in the running for the Papacy. At seventy-six, he was by no means too old for the office. Besides, he was in vigorous good health—undoubtedly, he assured others, the result of his rigorous years in rugged Saskatchewan. He had established an outstanding record in Toronto. He was a brilliant and gifted writer. And, perhaps paramountly, he was a proven conciliator. The world, in special ways the Catholic world, was in deep need of conciliation. The Papacy would be an extremely appropriate platform from which to exercise an effective conciliatory role.

The rumor amused him. He was not convinced he was cut of papal cloth. He imagined himself standing on a balcony above St. Peter’s Square, in white cassock and zucchetto, microphones bending toward him, the world eager to hear his first pontifical words, while he would be toying with the temptation to say something utterly ridiculous—just to get rid of the tension and to begin the demythologizing of the Papacy. No, it was not for him.

“The bishop rises.”

“What?”

“The bishop rises.” Father Ouellet seemed perturbed Claret had not heard the direction the first time.

The homily had concluded. It was time to proceed with the Chrism Mass. Claret had, indeed, been lost in thought.

Now for the Commitment Renewal. A small altar boy, bearing a large liturgical book opened to the appropriate page, approached the Cardinal. The boy seemed overwhelmed by the book. But, somehow, he managed.

The Cardinal adjusted his bifocals.

“My brothers, today we celebrate the memory of the first Eucharist, at which our Lord Jesus Christ shared with His Apostles and with us His call to the priestly service of His Church. Now, in the presence of your bishop and God’s holy people, are you ready to renew your own dedication to Christ as priests of His new covenant?”

“I am,” each responded simultaneously.

Claret led his priests through the ritual commitment. He then resumed the high-back throne, or cathedra, just as Father Ouellet was about to direct, “The bishop is seated.” Ouellet’s pursed lips betrayed frustration. Claret enjoyed these small games. Nothing hurtful. Merely playful.

Three deacons, each bearing a container of oil, approached the Cardinal. Each, respectively, loudly intoned his presentation.

“The oil for the holy chrism.”

“The oil of the sick.”

“The oil of the catechumens.”

The oils were then set aside for later attention. The Mass proceeded.

As one familiar ritual blended into another. Claret felt a rare sense of warmth for and unity with his priests—a good percentage of them gathered with him this day around the main altar of St. Michael’s Cathedral. It was their special day, the liturgical anniversary of their priesthood. They had assembled this morning to renew that unique supper first celebrated almost twenty centuries before. They might have their differences from time to time, he and his priests, but for this moment they were united spiritually and emotionally in their common priesthood.

A deacon brought a vessel of oil to the altar. Father Ouellet indicated the proper prayer in the Missal. Claret prayed.

“Lord God, loving Father, you bring healing to the sick through your son, Jesus Christ. Hear us as we pray to you in faith, and send the Holy Spirit, man’s Helper and Friend, upon this oil, which nature has provided to serve the needs of men. May your blessing come upon all who are anointed with this oil, that they may be freed from pain and illness and made well again in body, mind, and soul. Father, may this oil be blessed for our use in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

The Archdiocese of Toronto had just been provided with a year’s supply of oil for the sick.

The greeting of peace was given and received with more than ordinary enthusiasm, as priests and bishops milled about the sanctuary and nave of the cathedral shaking hands or embracing. The effusive spirit of camaraderie spread to the lay portion of the congregation; many left their places to mingle in the aisles, greeting and wishing each other “the peace of Christ.”

There would be no extraordinary ministers of the Eucharist to help distribute communion. The cathedral staff well knew the mind of Cardinal Claret on this point. Extraordinary ministers, a post-Vatican II creation, were lay people appointed to assist in the distribution of communion—when there was a shortage of priests. But they were just that: extraordinary. The priest was the ordinary minister of communion. And there certainly was no shortage of priests here.

Claret was appalled at the practice in so many churches of using extraordinary ministers while one or another of the parish priests lounged in the rectory. Some priests considered distribution of communion to be a proper function of the laity. But this clearly had not been the mind of the Church. Nor was it the thinking of Cardinal Claret.

Besides, Claret enjoyed distributing communion. He could not understand why some priests apparently did not enjoy it. Priests seldom got closer sacramentally to their flock than when presenting their people with spiritual food at communion. After all, hadn’t that been the enjoinder of Jesus to Peter—if you love me, feed my sheep. As often as he had the opportunity, Claret distributed holy communion and always with great reverence.

And so, Cardinal Claret, ciborium in hand, stood front and center in the sanctuary, presenting a consecrated wafer to each approaching communicant. Next to the Cardinal stood Father Ouellet, extending a gold-plated paten beneath the chin of each communicant who chose to receive the host in the mouth rather than the hand.

The other priests present processed to the altar to communicate themselves. Some few took ciboria filled with wafers or chalices of consecrated wine, and assisted in the distribution.

“The body of Christ,” Claret announced, proffering a wafer.

“Amen,” a well-dressed young woman affirmed.

Undoubtedly, she was not a parishoner of the cathedral—at least not one who resided within its technical boundaries. The cathedral was situated near the center city, an area populated mostly by transients, the elderly, and the poor. Claret thought it gracious of such outsiders, as this woman obviously was, to attend the Chrism Mass. Thursday morning was a difficult time to clear one’s calendar for a religious service.

“Body a’Christ.”

Claret heard the formula elided by the priest standing nearby. It was one of the cathedral’s assistants. The Cardinal glared at him. After Mass, Claret would lecture the elderly cleric on the reverence due this Sacrament as well as on the disedification of the laity.

“The body of Christ,” said Claret.

“Amen,” a youth responded, extending his cupped hands.

Claret smiled. A young lad, his life before him. A possible vocation to the priesthood. It was the Cardinal’s invariable presumption. Though it was unlikely. Not that many years before, almost every Catholic boy, especially those attending parochial schools, at least considered entering the priesthood. Now, there were so few seminarians. Where was it all to end? Who would follow the present clergy?

“The body of Christ,” said Claret.

“Amen.” The black man extended his tongue. Ouellet positioned the paten beneath the chin as Claret placed the wafer on the tongue.

Something was wrong. Claret knew something was wrong, but he was so startled by the sudden feeling, he did not know what it was. He looked down. A crimson stain was spreading at an alarming rate over his white cotton outer vestment.

“Oh . . . oh, I’ve been hurt,” a bewildered Claret stated loudly.

He staggered backward and collapsed.

“Call St. Michael’s Hospital!”

“Call the police!”

“My God, the Cardinal’s been assassinated!”

Pandemonium!

2.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! This is terrible!” Father Ouellet buried his head in his hands.

“Get hold of yourself. Father,” said Father MacNeil. “It’s just a lucky thing that St. Michael’s is only a few blocks from the cathedral. I do believe that was the shortest ambulance ride I’ve ever had.”

The two priests sat side by side in the waiting room of the hospital’s emergency department. It was not unlike corresponding rooms in almost all hospitals. An occasional statue or religious print established its Catholic character.

Small groups of people sat or stood in clusters throughout the room. Beyond the swinging doors were several trauma rooms outfitted to handle, at least initially, almost any medical emergency imaginable. But the waiting room held its own peculiar trauma. Friends or relatives of emergency patients generally were confused, bewildered, isolated, and helpless. They had delivered a loved one to this emergency facility or had arrived after the delivery and had joined the vigil. Something or nothing was being done for the patient, but the friends and relatives had no idea what, if anything, was happening. Periodic intercessions with the desk attendants more often than not proved fruitless. The patient was doing as well as could be expected. Or, doctor so-and-so was in attendance. Or, we’re still trying to find out what’s wrong.

Just questioning the attendants was made to seem such an imposition that the more meek simply sat, entwining their fingers and wondering. The more dauntless went right on asking for—even demanding—updated information, on the theory that their squeaking might win a little medical oil for the subject of their concern.

Slightly more than half an hour before, the relative tranquility of the emergency department had been shattered when a gurney bearing Adrian Cardinal Claret had been wheeled through in the company of several Toronto police officers and a couple of clergymen in liturgical vestments.

The Cardinal had been whisked through the waiting room so quickly that none of the visitors had recognized him, even though his picture had appeared often enough in newspapers and on television. All the visitors could surmise was that the new patient must be a very important person.

They were correct. St. Michael’s top trauma team had been summoned. No sooner was the Cardinal wheeled in than they began working on him.

“I can’t believe this actually has happened,” said Father Ouellet. “I mean, who would want to harm the Cardinal?”

“It’s the times,” Father MacNeil reflected. “We live in violent times, Maurice. But the Cardinal . . .” He shook his head. “Why would anyone want to attack him? Such a good man!”

Two men with the same and similar questions on their minds approached the clergymen.

“Inspector Hughes, RCMP.” One of the men proffered his identification in a manner which seemed to demand that each priest examine it carefully.

“You would be,” Hughes consulted his notepad, “Fathers Ouellet” —Ouellet nodded— “and MacNeil.”

“How did you know?”

“We were at the church.”

“The cathedral.”

“Yes.” The Inspector accepted the correction impassively. “Which of you was standing near the Cardinal when he was attacked?”

“I was,” said Ouellet.

“I see.” Both the Inspector and his associate were taking notes. “Can you describe the assailant?”

“Let’s see. I think it was the third or fourth person to receive communion from the Cardinal . . .”

“Talk about a Judas,” MacNeil interjected.

“Yes, it was the third.” Ouellet was positive.

“Male or female?” This was one of those times, Hughes determined, when information would have to be pulled out piecemeal.

“Male.” Ouellet was surprised by the question. It would never have occurred to him that a woman would be capable of such a wanton attack.

“Height?”

“Let’s see. I was standing one step up and the man’s head was about the same height as my shoulder. I would guess about six feet, give or take an inch.”

“Weight?”

“I have no idea. Not fat. Not thin. Perhaps 190 pounds.”

“Race?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“White, black, Oriental, Hispanic, dark, light?”

“Oh . . . black, very dark.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

“Marks? Uh . . . oh, yes; his hair, It was, uh, what do you call it, uh—”

“Natural?”

“Yes, I guess that’s it.” Ouellet could see the outside doors to the waiting room. A group of newcomers was entering hurriedly. They looked about as if searching for something or someone. “Are those the Metropolitan Toronto Police?”

Hughes glanced over his shoulder. “No, those are newspaper reporters. They will be followed shortly by the TV people.”

He returned to his task. “How did the assailant strike?”

“I didn’t see it.”

“But you were standing right next to the Cardinal?”

“Yes, but . . . well, you see, I was holding the paten under the man’s chin, so I couldn’t see what he was doing with his hands.”

“Neither could the Cardinal, then, eh?”

“That’s right.”

A doctor emerged from the inner sanctum. Everyone looked at him expectantly, each hoping for information about his or her loved one.

The doctor looked around. Noticing the two clergymen, he started toward them. He reached them at about the same moment as the reporters.

“I’m sorry.” The doctor shook his head. “We did all that was possible. At first it didn’t seem to be a major wound. It was an abdominal cut approximately an inch and a half long. There was minimal tenderness.”

The doctor was elaborating more than was necessary for the two priests. But the media people, as well as the RCMP representatives, were taking notes.

“We probed the wound. There was an upper angle toward the left shoulder. At that point, I ordered an X-ray. We were looking specifically for air and shadows. Of course an IV was started as soon as the Cardinal was admitted.”

“Did the Cardinal regain consciousness at any time?” a reporter asked.

“No, not really. At one point, he tried to sit up. We were struck by his grayish coloring and intense perspiration. But he said nothing.

“At about the time we discovered that the Cardinal’s spleen had been ruptured, he slipped into deep shock. We immediately started closed chest massage, gave him blood, and attempted to restore his blood pressure. But we couldn’t control his internal bleeding. Irreversible shock set in and at that point, he expired. I believe it was a combination of his age and the shock. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t believe it.” A most rare tear wound its way through the furrows of MacNeil’s face. “Adrian is gone. I was talking to him—joking with him—just minutes ago.” He paused. “He was a good man.”

“Who could have done this to a man like Cardinal Claret?” asked Ouellet of no one in particular. “Why would anyone do it?”

“If we can discover the ‘why’ Father,” Inspector Hughes said, “we may very well find the ‘who.’”

3.

“Death to da Pope! Death to da Pope! Death to da Pope!” He accompanied his chant by banging on a steel drum.

The noise was absorbed easily in the cacophony of Yonge Street outside.

The room in which the men had gathered was large and relatively bare. A table, a few chairs. Most of the men lounged on the floor or squatted against the wall. Several shuffled to the drum’s rhythm. The room was not unlike a hall hired and furnished by neo-Nazis, except that where one might expect to find a picture of Adolf Hitler, there hung a portrait of Haile Selassie, the late Emperor of Ethiopia.

If one did not already know, it would have been almost impossible to make out whose likeness it was, due to the nearly impenetrable smoke that almost literally filled the room. Those who were not puffing their own massive spliff of marijuana—ganja—were passing a chillum pipe filled with the drug.

Most of the men—all of them black—wore their hair in long, tight ringlets.

Resting on a small stand, with several powerful lights focused on it, was a large menacing knife. The bloodstains had not been wiped from it.

“Death to da Pope! Death to da Pope!”

“Bredren!” An imposing figure of a man raised his arm.

The group fell silent. They continued to draw on their ganja as they looked at the standing man through half-closed eyes and thick smoke.

“Bredren!” he repeated. “Dis day, I and I go up to da church and do da job. I and I strike for Jah. Jah happy now. Da prince of Babylon been striked down. Dis day we do our job.”

“Good Rasta man!” they responded.

“Everyting Irie. It be perfect. I and I strike down de son of Satan. We done done our job. Jah be pleased.”

“Good Rasta man!”

The speaker took a long draw on his enormous, self-rolled spliff. Heavy smoke billowed from his nostrils. He held the spliff high in the air. “Ganja!” he announced.

“Jah be praised! Haile Selassie I be praised! Bless de Lion of Juda!”

The speaker leaned back against the wall and was silent for some moments. A smile played at his lips. Whatever his vision, he was enjoying it in the privacy of his imagination.

“Now, bredren,” the speaker resumed, “it be up to Rastas in de udder parts of de world to take up de knife and strike down de bad satans of Babylon.”

“Good dreads! Good Rastas!”

“Bredren, we be in dis togedder?” The question was rhetorical.

“We be in dis togedder!” They responded with fervor.

“Den pay mind to what I and I gonna do!”

The speaker unsheathed a knife only slightly less formidable than the one on the stand. He approached the stand and stood so near it his head and shoulders caught the full glare of the spotlights. The rest of his body was in shadow. Deliberately, he made a small incision in his wrist and mingled the ensuing blood with that already caked on the larger knife. One by one, each man in the room approached and silently followed suit.

When the ritual was complete, the speaker again raised his hand, although there was no sound to silence.

“Bredren,” he said, “now it be time for de Rastas of de world to strike down Babylon one by one. And den we go home. And den we go wit de Lion of Juda!”

With that, the speaker approached the now blood-saturated stand and slowly turned the knife until it pointed in a southeasterly direction.

The drummer resumed his rhythmic chant. Some joined in the ensuing symbolic dance. All contributed to the dense ganja smoke.

The macabre ritual, at least in its Toronto phase, had been concluded. But, somewhere else, it would begin again.

4.

“Some suite!”

“It’s Canada!”

Don Louis Licata merely smiled. They had been waiting a long time. Too long for the limited patience of his two soldiers. “Now, now, boys,” he said, “this is the Windsor Arms. One of the most prestigious hotels in Toronto. Why, Pierre Elliot Trudeau dines here when he is in town.”

“Maybe we should try the food.” One of the soldiers winked.

“And,” Licata continued, “they say Marlene Dietrich stays here when she comes to Toronto.”

“Now that would change things.”

“What?”

“If a dame like Marlene Dietrich was in this suite.”

“Ha!” The second soldier chortled. “That’s what you need, a villuta!”

“Marlene Dietrich is no prostitute!”

“You don’t need a certain woman. Any one will do.” He laughed again.

“Boys, boys!” Licata raised a hand. “Hold it down. I want to think before the others get here.”

The sitting room held six chairs. Just enough. Three with their backs to the window were occupied by the visitors from Detroit. The three near the door would be occupied by the Torontonians whose arrival was not scheduled for another half hour.

The silence was broken by a noise from the adjoining bedroom.

Each soldier drew a snubnosed revolver from his shoulder holster. Licata cautiously eased the bedroom door open, then stood back as the two men preceded him into the other room.

No one made a sound as the two began checking behind wall pictures, under the bed, through the dresser drawers, in the closet. The sound occurred again. It seemed to come from the wastebasket, across the top of which was lying a telephone directory. One of the men nudged the basket with his foot. The sound was repeated. Warily, he eased the directory off the basket. Weapons at the ready, both men leaned forward to peer into the receptacle.

“A mouse!”

Relieved laughter rang through the room.

“In the Windsor Arms!”

“So much for the prime minister and Dietrich!”

“Now, boys, this is an old hotel. And old hotels are entitled to their mice.”

“What do you want us to do with it, boss?”

Licata shrugged. “It’s not our problem. It’s the hotel’s problem. Call the desk.”

There couldn’t have been that many mice in the Windsor Arms’ recent history. No one seemed proficient in the animal’s removal. First came a maid, who took one look at the small creature, shrieked, and ran from the room to the laughter of the three men. Next came a porter, an Asian who spoke English haltingly. He tried several methods of entrapment before chancing upon a plastic laundry bag, which he pulled over the basket. He then inverted the basket and, with the triumphant visage of a successful lion tamer, exited the room with a large plastic bag containing a very small, frightened mouse.

“Think he’ll kill it?”

“Naw. If he doesn’t eat it, he’ll probably let it out in the alley.”

“Then if the mouse remembers how it got up here in the first place, it’ll probably be back.”

“Whaddya think, boss ... if it comes back, we shoot it?”

“Let’s hope we’ll be gone by then.”

There was a knock at the door.

One of the soldiers opened the door just enough to see who was in the hall. Instantly, he flung the door open. Three men, one in advance of the other two, entered.

“Don Vittorio!” Licata embraced the lead man.

“Don Louis!” The other returned the embrace.

The two pairs of soldiers appraised each other at a glance. Then all six seated themselves. The two dons sat close together facing each other. Their guards positioned themselves on either side and slightly to the rear of their respective dons.

“Our condolences on the recent loss to the Catholic community of Toronto,” said Licata.

“It was a great loss. Cardinal Claret, while not compatriota, might have been Papa. There was talk . . .” Vittorio Gigante’s voice trailed off, as though the others would understand what was left unspoken. “The astutatu was an eminent man in many ways.”

“Is there any progress on the identity of the astutaturi?”

Gigante shook his head sadly. “Nothing more than was in the paper. Black. Probably from off the street. No motive. Possibly high on dope. We’ve been on the streets, but . . . nothing.”

“What will happen now?”

“We’re considering putting out a contract.”

“Ah, as in New York.”

“Yes, with the poor nun. Raped, tortured, twenty-seven crosses carved into her flesh. Only thirty-one years old. The police could do nothing. But when our brothers put out the word, those bastards knew they were dead men. It didn’t take them long to turn themselves in. They were safer in jail than they were on the streets.”

Don Vittorio chuckled at the thought of all that power. He was echoed by the others.

“How much?” Licata inquired.

“Twenty-five Gs.”

“Same as New York.”

“Yes. Five times the usual.”

“That is why we have come, Don Vittorio. And, it seems, just in time.”

“You have news of the astutaturi?” For the first time, animation entered Don Vittorio’s voice.

“We, too, have been on the streets. As you know, Don Vittorio, not much separates Toronto from Detroit.”

“Sister cities.”

“Yes. And we have been able to get some information. Not all. But some.” Licata shifted in his chair and drew himself closer to Gigante. “We are certain it is not the work of one. It is a conspiracy.”

“A conspiracy!” Now there was a concept Gigante found familiar.

“Yes. A conspiracy. And one that we in Detroit are most interested in. So, before you put out your contract, we would like you to consider what we have to propose.”

Gigante spread his hands. “But of course. We are brothers. Your cause is our cause.”

5.

Peculiar to the Catholic priesthood of the Latin rite, as compared with any other vocation in Western civilization, is that upon death there are no direct descendants. Often there are not even immediate survivors. The priest leaves neither wife nor child. At most, a few parishioners or consanguines make up the mourners. Seldom does a mourner at a priest’s funeral need to be assisted from the scene overcome by grief.

This is even more true in the case of a deceased bishop. Not only does the bishop rarely leave any close kin, but he has been buffered from the laity by layers of clerical bureaucracy.

The funeral of a bishop, then, as far as the laity is concerned, is usually marked by one-tenth sorrow and nine-tenths curiosity. On the part of the visiting, concelebrating clergy, it is largely a social function wherein old but seldom-visited confreres bring each other up to date.

Then, too, as far as the clergy are concerned, theirs is a strong and active faith in an eternal life after death. So it is quite natural, even supernatural, that a priest’s funeral can truly be said to be celebrated.

In any case, there were no moist eyes as the faithful gathered for the Mass of Resurrection for His Eminence Adrian Cardinal Claret.

The laity—by invitation only—were already in their places in the cathedral. The congregation included most of the movers and shakers of Toronto, Catholic and non. But the clergy would occupy the majority of places in the cathedral. It was a notable cast of clerics.

The Apostolic Pro-Nuncio, Archbishop Tito Fulmo, would represent the Vatican. Canada’s only other Cardinal, Andrew Audette of Quebec, would be principal concelebrant of the Mass. Ten of the thirteen American Cardinals were present to concelebrate, as well as hundreds of Canadian bishops and priests, along with a few from the United States. Of the latter, most would be from Buffalo and Detroit.

Bishops were vesting in the cathedral rectory, while the priests vested in the school across the street.

Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle found himself in a peculiar hierarchical position. His elevation to the Cardinalate had recently been announced. But he had not yet been to Rome for the ceremonies that would make him a Cardinal. So, while he vested with the other archbishops, several Cardinals stopped by to say a few words to their new brother in this extremely limited, exclusive, and august club.

“I believe,” Boyle was saying to Archbishop Leo Bernard of Cincinnati, “that the vocation crisis in the Archdiocese of Detroit could correctly be described as catastrophic.”

“Congratulations, Eminence,” said a passing Cardinal.

“Thank you, Eminence.”

“It’s not much better in Cincinnati,” Bernard replied. “I don’t know what we’re going to do for priests in the near future. I read an article the other day by some priest who claims the problem is rectory life. That you can’t expect men of different ages, experiences, and tastes to live together without tension, friction, and eventually, a great deal of stress.”

“I read that article too. It ran in our paper, the Detroit Catholic. If you ask me, it is nonsense. Priests need priests. Once you have priests living in apartments, alone, you have created a fraught situation—”

“Ad multos annos, Eminence,” said a passing Cardinal.

“Thank you, Eminence.

“As far back as any of us can remember, and more,” Boyle continued, as he tied his cincture and adjusted the alb at his ankles, “rectory life has proven not only practical but desirable. Without rectory life, where would the priest be when the faithful need him in an emergency?”

“I fully agree, Mark. And in addition to what you noted, what could we possibly do with all those rectories? There are few families who would consider buying a building that had been built as a combination home and office. And, speaking of buildings, what are you doing with that huge minor seminary of yours? What is it . . . Sacred Heart?”

“Yes. Well, we have moved just about every small diocesan department we can think of into that building. Let’s see, we have the Department of Formation, the Office of Pastoral Ministry, the Hispanic Office, the Black Secretariat, Senior Citizens—”

“When’s the consistory, Mark?” a passing Cardinal inquired.

“The last week of April, Eminence.”

“Good! We’ll be there. Congratulations, Eminence.”

“Thank you, Eminence.

“In any case,” Boyle continued, as he adjusted his pectoral cross, which now hung outside the alb, “you can see what it is we are attempting. Keeping the building filled—at least as much as humanly possible—and useful. If it is difficult to put a rectory on the market, trying to sell a seminary complex simply is an almost impossible concept. And to think that not twenty years ago, we were considering building additions to the seminary.”

“Pope John, when he called the Second Vatican Council, couldn’t have known how much ‘fresh air’ those open windows of his were going to let in.”

Archbishop Boyle shook his head. It was impossible to understand the workings of the Holy Spirit.

“Eminentissimi ac Reυerendissimi,” one of the masters of ceremony loudly enounced, “procedamus in pace.”

“In nomine Christi, Amen,” the bishops responded.

In the school hallway, one of the masters of ceremony called out, “Reυerendi, procedamus in pace.’’

“In nomine Christi, Amen,” the priests—at least those older priests who understood Latin—responded.

The procession into the cathedral had begun.

“Bob Koesler.” The tall, trim, blond priest extended his right hand to the younger priest who had become his procession partner.

“Ouellet, Maurice Ouellet.” The two shook hands. “Where’re you from, Father?”

“Detroit.” Koesler pondered momentarily. “Ouellet . . . weren’t you Cardinal Claret’s secretary . . . the one who was with him when he was attacked?”

The younger man looked pained. “So I was mentioned in the Detroit papers too. Yes, I’m the one. But I’m trying to forget it.”

“Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s all right. It’s just that I’ve told the story to the police so many times I’ve grown tired of it. Besides, I’ve had nightmares practically every night since.”

“Sorry again.” Intent on changing the subject, Koesler inclined his head toward a series of spires in the area. “I guess there’s no mystery about why they call this Church Street.”

Ouellet’s gaze followed in the direction of Koesler’s nod. He smiled. “They also call it ‘Redemption Street.’”

“Oh? Because of all the churches?”

“No.” Ouellet directed his companion’s attention across the street. Koesler laughed. Almost every other establishment was a pawnshop.

The clerical procession wound its serpentine way from Church Street, down Shuter to Bond along a tall, black, wrought-iron fence. The first segment of the procession was mainly in a black and white motif as the priests marched in their black cassocks, white surplices, and a white or golden stole over their shoulders. They were followed by the red uniforms of the monsignors. Then came the impressive purple of the bishops. Finally, there was the breathtaking crimson of the Cardinals.

Bystanders who had gathered outside the cathedral earlier and were now standing two and three deep on the sidewalks had anticipated a memorable pageant. They were not disappointed.

“By the way,” Ouellet turned to Koesler after a pause in their conversation, “I suppose congratulations are in order on your archbishop’s getting the red.”

Koesler smiled. “Yes. We’re very pleased and proud of him.”

“It’s about time!”

“What?” Koesler seemed nonplussed. “Why do you say that?”

“Anybody who can run the Archdiocese of Detroit can run anything—and ought to be a Cardinal.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. Rumors of Detroit’s ungovernability have been greatly exaggerated. Of course,” Koesler reflected, “it’s not Philadelphia or Los Angeles.”

“Philadelphia . . . is that bad?”

“I’ve heard they’ve just begun saying the rosary facing the people.”

Ouellet laughed. “All kidding aside, there is some talk of the new Cardinal Boyle’s being papaile.”

“Yeah, I know. We’ve heard it too. I suppose there’s some truth to it. But it’s hard to get used to. I just can’t get comfortable with the idea of actually knowing a Pope personally. I’ve never even met a Pope, let alone knowing one as well as I know Archbishop Boyle.”

“All I can tell you,” Ouellet sighed, “is that, given half a chance, the idea can grow on you. I used to feel the same way. Who, besides a few Vatican monsignors, gets to know a Pope personally? But then the rumors started about our Cardinal Claret. And after a while, you get used to it. To paraphrase that Yank football coach, just remember: The Pope puts his pants on one leg at a time just like everybody else.”

“Yes, except the Pope usually changes his clothes in a phone booth.”

They both laughed, as they turned the corner of Shuter onto Bond Street.

Koesler noticed a historical marker set back from the iron fence, near the cathedral. He squinted, trying to read it. “Principal Church for Largest English Speaking Diocese in Canada.” His lips silently formed the words. But something seemed out of place.

“I see you have vandalism problems even in Toronto . . . or is that supposed to be part of the marker?” Koesler gestured at the clenched black hand painted at the base of the marker.

“Isn’t that odd; I don’t believe I’ve ever noticed that before. And I’ve seen that marker hundreds of times.” Ouellet shook his head. “Just goes to show how familiar things can get.”

With that, they entered the cathedral and joined in the hymn the choir had already begun.

“Keep in mind that Jesus Christ has died for us and is risen from the dead. He is our Saving Lord. He is joy for all ages.”

“There he is. That’s the one.”

“No, it isn’t; he’s too tall.”

“No, that’s how tall he is. I’ve seen his picture that many times. He’s the one.”

Archbishop Boyle knew the bystanders were referring to him. He was aware that his photo had been in the papers a great deal lately, especially in the Detroit Free Press and the News, not to mention the Detroit Catholic. He had not been aware that he had been featured in the Toronto papers as well. But, then, one does not become a Cardinal every day.

Being elevated to the Sacred College would be the culmination of his ecclesiastical career, Boyle mused. It was not entirely an unexpected honor. He would not be Detroit’s first Cardinal. The late Edward Mooney’s red hat hung from the ceiling of Blessed Sacrament Cathedral. At least part of the naming of a Cardinal was precedent. And, several years ago, Boyle had been elected by his peers to a term as president of the United States Conference of Bishops.

But he had enemies, and he knew it. His reputation with Rome was that of a crashing liberal. Whereas nothing could be further from the truth. Mark Boyle was a churchman to his very marrow. And above all else, he was loyal to Rome and the Pope. But the Curia, viewing what it considered the uncontrolled liberal experimentation of Detroit, had fought against his elevation. It was a wonder that the Pope had been able to fight off his advisors and name Boyle a Cardinal.

He, of course, had heard the rumors concerning his possible accession to the Papacy. Those who believed or spread those rumors, Boyle was certain, must be unaware of the invisible but effective opposition he faced in the highest echelons of the Vatican.

But, in the end, it did not matter. All he had ever wanted to do was to serve his Church. He would be more than content to finish out his days serving as a Cardinal.

He turned the corner from Shuter to Bond. He did not notice the historical marker. As he entered the cathedral, the Twenty-third Psalm was being sung. It was Boyle’s favorite. He joined in.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

The procession ended when the last of the Cardinals took his place in the sanctuary.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen.”

As the familiar liturgy began in this unfamiliar setting, Father Koesler’s mind cruised off on a flight of distracted musing.

It truly was an impressive sight. Bright sunshine illumined the huge stained glass Gothic window above the substantial off-white marble altar. The green of the carpet, laid throughout the cathedral, contrasted nicely with the gold, red, purple, scarlet, and white vestments of the varying ranks present.

Koesler glanced over his shoulder. There were two confessional boxes tucked against either rear wall. How typical. The priest had a theory that nobody ever planned for confessionals. Each pastor, he surmised, had a church built, then as an afterthought, stuck confessionals in some out-of-the-way corner. The result was that the average confessional could qualify as a torture box. Cramped, dark, and cold in the winter; hot and airless in the summer. Even recent renovations of the compartments involving dismantling the barrier between priest and penitent, enabling them to confer face to face, hadn’t done much to improve the situation.

“The Lord be with you,” Cardinal Audette intoned.

“And also with you,” everyone responded.

Ten Cardinals attended Cardinal Audette, five on each side. Koesler could not recall seeing so many Cardinals together at one time. At least not live and in color. And yet, when there would be need to elect a new Pope, no pundit ever mentioned any of these eleven as a possible candidate. Though one of the College of Cardinals undoubtedly would be elected. But one who soon would become a Cardinal had been mentioned with some frequency: Detroit’s Archbishop Mark Boyle, now seated among the bishops and archbishops in attendance.

An American Pope! Koesler tried to recall the whimsical tale he had heard when in high school about the first American Pope. The story had been part of a fictional French Cardinal’s nightmare. In this prelate’s dream, the American who was elected Pope took the name Buster I. His first infallible pronouncement had concerned extramarital sex. Pope Buster had declared it to be good, not evil. In response, the entire French navy had sailed across the Mediterranean, firing salvos in honor of the new doctrine.

Koesler chuckled. Several of his neighbors glanced at him.

“The Church in Toronto has lost a universally respected leader and I have lost a very dear and beloved friend,” Archbishop Tito Fulmo began his eulogy.

Archbishop Fulmo was renowned throughout Canada for speaking publicly at the drop of a hat or at any occasion whatsoever.

Which brought to mind Detroit’s late Edward Cardinal Mooney, now gone more than a quarter of a century. He, too, had let no public occasion pass without a few words. Even when someone else had already delivered the principal address, Mooney would speak. Invariably, he would invoke the formula, “I don’t wish to add anything to what Father has already said, but . . .”

The specific occasion Koesler now recalled was the funeral Mass of an Orchard Lake Seminary professor. Orchard Lake was the only national Polish Seminary in the U.S. Not unexpectedly, the sermon was delivered entirely in Polish. At the conclusion of the Mass, to everyone’s consternation, and without the slightest notion of what the preacher had said, Mooney stood and declared, “I don’t wish to add anything to what Father has already said, but . . .”

Koesler smiled. Covertly, he tried to detect whether anyone had noticed his silent levity in the midst of a serious homily. Apparently, none had. He’d have to be careful about this sort of thing.

“Pray, brethren,” Cardinal Audette proposed, “that our sacrifice may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father.”

“May the Lord accept the sacrifice at your hands for the praise and glory of His name, for our good, and the good of all His Church,” the congregation responded.

Here we are at the Canon of the Mass, thought Koesler, and nothing’s happened yet.

He caught himself: What did he expect to happen?

Maybe it was a foreboding. Perhaps it was the incongruity of the setting. In this cathedral, less than a week ago, a man—a priest, a Cardinal—had been murdered. Now, in that same cathedral, a lot of nice, very civilized people had gathered to eulogize the old gentleman. Not an angry, protesting word had been uttered.

The police were investigating the crime, but, according to all accounts, had made precious little progress. The consensus seemed to be that one of the street crazies, with nothing better to do, had dropped into the cathedral, seen a defenseless victim, stabbed him, and fled. It could have been anyone. With that kind of distinct possibility, there was every chance that Cardinal Claret’s murder would end in the unsolved crimes file.

This liturgy was moving along so smoothly, indeed, that Koesler’s mind was free to wander to more cluttered liturgical experiences.

There was the master of ceremonies at a solemn pontifical Mass years ago, who, after the bishop was seated facing the congregation, had stepped forward and placed the miter on the bishop’s head. Except that the miter was backward. As the priest released the miter and stepped back, the lappets, the two tails that ordinarily fall from the miter along the bishop’s nape, fell in front of the bishop’s face, covering his eyes. The priest gulped and moved to immediately set things right, but was halted by the bishop’s upraised hand. “Leave it the way it is,” the bishop snapped, “and let everyone see what a fool you are!”

That had been one interesting liturgy.

Another, although Koesler had not been an eyewitness, had occurred regularly at each pontifical Mass presided over by one particularly cantankerous bishop. As the ceremonies proceeded, the bishop would suspend, or dismiss, one priest after another. A priest would sing the epistle, come before the bishop for a blessing, the bishop would tell the unfortunate priest he had done a rotten job, and would dismiss him. Each discharged priest would repair to the sacristy and smoke a cigarette, not bothering to divest. When a sufficient number of suspended priests were absent from the altar so that it became impossible to continue the pontifical ceremonies, the bishop would be forced to reinstate them all. This maneuver took place so often that pontifical liturgies in that diocese became known as liturgia reserυata.

Communion time. Koesler chided himself for not having paid better attention to the Mass. Routine had a way of dulling concentration.

When his turn came, Koesler shuffled down the aisle toward the center communion station.

“The body of Christ,” proclaimed Cardinal Audette, holding the communion wafer aloft.

“Amen,” Koesler responded.

Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was standing at the very spot that had been occupied by the assailant. And that Audette was standing where Cardinal Claret had stood when he was murdered. A shudder passed through the priest.

As he turned to return to his place, Koesler roughly computed the distance between where he now stood and the door through which the assailant had escaped. It was a considerable distance. If the killing had been deliberately planned, it would have to have been a suicide mission. No one could have relied on the utter confusion that had actually followed the stabbing as a cover for a getaway. Koesler was growing more and more convinced that it had been a spur-of-the-moment attack.

“The Mass is ended,” Cardinal Audette intoned, “let us go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God,” all responded.

The final recessional in the pamphlet that had been specially prepared for this Mass of Resurrection was “Let Hymns of Joy.” Koesler joined in the singing:

Let hymns of joy to grief succeed,

We know that Christ is ris’n indeed:

Alleluia, alleluia!

We hear his white-robed angel’s voice.

And in our risen Lord rejoice.

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia!

Then Koesler noticed it. At the very bottom of the final page of the pamphlet was the imprint of a black fist. It appeared as if it had been, perhaps, stamped on the paper. Hastily, he looked at the pamphlets being held by the priests on either side of him. The identical mark at the identical place. Suddenly, he recalled the black fist on the historical marker outside the cathedral. As far as he could tell, it was the same symbol.

Strange. Very, very odd. All the way out to St. Augustine Seminary, where the mortal remains of Cardinal Claret would be consigned to the earth, Father Koesler kept thinking about the black fist.