by Henry Hack
Mordechai Stern told us of his life in Germany, and how good it was, and how accepted into society he and his fellow Jews were. But that changed after Germany lost the first world war and the Nazis rose to power. A scapegoat was needed to blame all their woes on – hyperinflation, lack of jobs, lack of money – you name it. And the German Jews, who thought themselves a class above the other European Jews, realized too late they, too, were a target of the new regime. Too late to escape. Too late to avoid being rounded up and sent to the concentration camps. He thrust his forearm out and pointed at the numbers tattooed on it – a sight I had noticed, but had been afraid to ask about. He said, “Number 192708 was put on my arm in 1944 at Auschwitz, which was the only camp that did it. And, let me tell you something, I was thrilled to have it. Those who didn’t get the tattoo vent straight to the gas chambers. I vuz thirty-six and strong. The bastards needed me to work for them.”
I sat in open-mouthed disbelief as he related the terror of Auschwitz. None of us said a word, and I figured Berman and Manzo already knew of this, but they didn’t interrupt. Mort finished by saying, “What kind of God allows men to be tattooed like animals? What kind of God allows six million of his supposed chosen ones to be gassed and burned? If God made the Pharaoh to let my people go, why did he not make Hitler do the same? I’ll tell you why. There is no God. The scriptures are a collection of fairy tales. And I’m afraid, Father Francis, your New Testament is a second collection of fairy tales.”
Mort Stern made a powerful argument for the non-existence of God, and I wondered how the two clergymen were going to dispute him. Rabbi Berman said, “You once believed, but events caused you to lose your faith. Francis and I have strong faith and belief in God’s existence despite our knowledge of the evils that exist in the world.”
“Goot for you,” he said, “though how any Jew can believe after vat happened to us is beyond belief. I vunder vat you two holy-rollers would think after a year in Auschwitz. I said my piece, now let’s go home.”
I had never forgotten that conversation, but I do remember one thing. Shortly after that, Mort never called me a Jew again, and I knew why when revelation day happened a few years later. Father Manzo and Rabbi Berman knew who I was at that time and didn’t want Mort to press the issue and cause me to become too inquisitive.
Father Manzo’s friendship continued and later, after two years at Queensborough Community College, he backed my decision to become a police officer. I have to assume, knowing what I had learned, he was constantly atoning for his guilt for my parents’ death. It was now time to confront him and discover the extent of his involvement in the murders. If he was seeking forgiveness, I was seeking closure.
I dialed his private number and after we said hello he said, “Mike, I was about to call you. You promised to call me last week, remember?”
“I do, Frank, but things got hectic around here.”
“Have they quieted down enough for us to get together?”
“Yes, but after lunch I need to speak with you privately in your office about something.”
“That’s interesting, Mike, because I was going to request the same of you. I have a situation that has me worried, and I wish to discuss with you at length.”
We decided to meet for a short lunch then adjourn to his office in the cathedral for our discussions. Two days from now, on Wednesday, June 28. I began to mentally prepare for this confrontation while wondering what his situation was that he was so worried about. I’d find out soon enough. Perhaps he was ready to finally give it up.
TWENTY-THREE
We met at a local Asian restaurant, The Lotus Blossom, which was a two-block walk from the Bishop’s office at St. James Cathedral. The smiling owner bowed and showed us to a corner booth in the rear. After we sat, and the waiter handed us menus, bowing to Francis again and saying, “Good afternoon, Your Excellency. It’s wonderful to see you again.”
“Come here often?” I asked as I looked around the beautifully decorated restaurant which emphasized a variety of pink and red lotus blossoms on ivory-colored and gold backgrounds.
“Yes, it’s one of my favorite places. There’s also a great Italian place and a Jewish deli with the best pastrami sandwich in all of Brooklyn.”
I looked over the menu and said, “Frank, I’m not that hungry, and you look troubled about something. What do you suggest?”
“How about a cup of their excellent hot-and-sour soup and splitting an order of sesame chicken?”
“Sounds good,” I said as the waiter set down a bowl of crispy noodles, a cup of duck sauce, and a pot of tea. The topic of discussion was the recent untimely death of our mutual friend, Mort Stern. We reminisced about our conversations and arguments with him. I told him of my sprinkling of his ashes on my parent’s graves and of his son’s decision to sell the store. He said, “God, I miss the old curmudgeon, and I miss his egg-creams, too.”
“So do I, Frank. Best in New York, as we used to say.”
We were finished eating in thirty minutes and I chose to walk with him back to the church, opting to leave my car parked near the restaurant. The weather had cooled down and it was a pleasant early summer day with bright blue skies and a gentle breeze. Even now, at mid-day, the temperature hovered in the mid-seventies. Beautiful. I should get out more. Yeah, sure.
We settled into leather chairs and Frank had his secretary bring coffee in and told him, “Please don’t disturb us for anyone, Brian.”
With a twinkle in his eyes Brian said, “And if Pope John Paul calls to offer you a red hat what should I tell him?”
“Tell him I don’t want to be a Cardinal. I am happy being the Bishop of Brooklyn.”
Then his smile faded and he added, “For as long as it lasts.”
What did he mean by that?
Brian shut the door and Bishop Manzo smiled at me and said, “I believe I know why you are here, Michael.”
“Oh?”
“You want to return to the church you abandoned so many years ago. You have found Jesus again and wish to make a full confession to me, and Him, and seal the deal.”
“No, Frank,” I said, drawing in a breath and steeling my nerves, “that’s not why I’m here. Not for you to hear my confession, but for me to hear yours – Giuseppe.”
If I had thought he would grasp his chest in shock, I was mistaken. He merely nodded, smiled, and said, “Ah, Michael, it’s about time you solved the case. I was wondering when you would, and now that moment has finally arrived.”
“You were expecting this weren’t you? It was why you pushed for me to get Queens Homicide, right?”
“Correct.”
“Why didn’t you tell me yourself, and tell me a long time ago?”
“Cowardice, Mike. I was afraid of being arrested, embarrassed, and thrown in jail, despite my innocence.”
“Innocence? You took part in a murder. Two murders. My parents, remember?”
“I have remembered every day of my life, Mike. Will you hear me out?”
“That’s what I came for Bishop. Closure. I need to know what happened. I’m listening.”
“Thank you, and when I finish if you want to slap the cuffs on me, I won’t object. I will also give you DNA and fingerprint samples and a recorded confession to you and the district attorney. But before I begin, can you tell me how you finally tracked me down?”
“Basically your blood type, A-negative, from the drops you left at the scene. A partial fingerprint you left there also. And when we discovered your name change, it all fell into place.”
“Where did you find my fingerprint?”
“On the light switch plate in the bedroom. It was just a partial and not enough points of comp
arison for a conviction in court.”
“Did you find any of my prints in Selewski’s car? I was worried about the door handle on my side.”
“No, only his prints were found, and some unidentifiable smears on the passenger’s door handle.”
“I figured you might have located my last living relative – my remaining brother.”
“No, we failed in our search for relatives. Your parents were listed on your Marine Corps history, but we discovered they were now both deceased.”
“As is my one brother, and the living brother changed his name to Mastro a long time ago.”
“I can see why,” I said.
“So did the civil court judge who approved my name change.”
“Before you begin, I am curious as to how you became a Priest. I assume you didn’t tell them everything?”
“On the contrary, Mike. I wouldn’t enter the priesthood on a bed of lies and deception. I told them everything and they concluded I was innocent of sin.”
“And innocent of a crime as well?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how you, and they, arrived at that decision, please. See if you can convince me also, Giuseppe.”
. . .
The Most Reverend Bishop of Brooklyn spoke clearly and softly as he related the events of that dreadful night in Cambria Heights so long ago. I kept my silence until he finished with the part where it was all over and he ran away. I said, “Who fired the first shot?”
“I believe your dad and Pete fired at each other simultaneously. One shot each.”
“And then?”
“Everything went super fast. Pete swung the gun and shot your mother as she was rising up, I think at the instant when your father’s second bullet hit him. Pete started to stagger and shot at your father again, then one more at your mother. That’s when your father’s third or fourth shot caught me in my upper left arm. Damn! I should have grabbed for Pete’s gun –”
“How badly were you hurt?”
“It was basically a burn, maybe an eighth of an inch deep at its center. I was afraid to seek medical attention.”
“What did the Marine Corps doctor ask about it when you went in, when was it? Three weeks later?”
“He didn’t notice it, because I had a tattoo put on over the entire wound before I signed in.”
“I imagine that hurt?”
“Like hell, Mike.”
“What kind of tattoo?”
“What else? The Marine Corps Globe and Anchor.”
“With the words Death before Dishonor and Semper Fidelis surrounding it?”
“Yes.”
“The shooting was all over in a matter of seconds and you panicked and ran out the front door?”
“Yes, like a yellow, cowardly chicken.”
“Did you first check the three bodies for signs of life before you ran?” “No, my ears were ringing, and as I thought about it, I heard a baby crying.”
“Me.”
“Yes, which drove my panic level sky high, and I ran for the hills.”
“All the way back to Richmond Hill?”
“All the way, jogging, walking, and scared to death.”
“Tell me why you didn’t turn yourself in if you thought you were innocent?”
Frank went through his whole line of reasoning explaining the circumstances of duress and how, even if true, it would never have been believed by a jury. I mulled over the circumstances of the crime and had to conclude he was correct in his reasoning. I would never have believed this seventeen year-old punk who was obviously concocting an alibi to save his no good ass from the electric chair. I said, “I understand, and I agree with your conclusion. But technically, you can still be arrested for felony murder.”
“Yes, and I will raise the duress defense at trial and hope the jury would believe a former Marine and a man who dedicated his life to the service of the Lord.”
“You were afraid to come forward to me, yet you knew I would pursue the case as it was now directly under my jurisdiction. I’m a bit confused.”
“As I said, I and Father Johansson were convinced I had committed no crime, nor any sin. But I have carried that night around with me every day, and whenever I hear a baby cry…”
“There’s something you want to clear your conscience once and for all, and you can’t get it in the confessional, and you can’t get it from yourself, correct?”
“Yes.”
“The only person who could give me the closure I needed all my life was you, the guy who got away, and you now gave it to me. And the only person who can give you absolution for your burden of guilt is me, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Michael. Only you.”
I looked at this dedicated man, tears beginning to drip from his eyes, and I knew exactly what I had to do. I rose up in front of him, and drawing upon my high school Latin, I raised my hand and said, “Ego te absolvo, Francis.” Using my hand to make the sign of the cross, I added, “In Nomine Patris, et Fillii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. I absolve you, Francis. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
The Bishop of Brooklyn convulsed in sobs and buried his head in his hands. I walked closer and patted him on the shoulder. I said, “Giuseppe, it’s all over. For both of us. Closure and absolution. Finally.”
After several minutes he regained his composure clasped his hands around mine and said, “Thank you, Michael. Thank you.”
I smiled and said, “And thank you, Frank. You’re too good a person to go to jail.”
“I’m impressed by your Latin, but you forgot to add something to the absolution litany.”
“It’s been a long time. What did I forget?”
“Vade et amplius iam noli peccare.”
“Go and sin no more?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t called for here. I mean how can you sin no more, when you didn’t sin in the first place?”
“Thank you, again, Michael. Would you agree we might need something a bit stronger than coffee right about now?”
“I would definitely agree.”
“I have some excellent brandy,” he said, buzzing for Brian.
When the secretary came in he said, “The Pope did not call Your Excellency, but the Cardinal Archbishop did. He would like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
“Thank you, Brian. Would you set us up with the good brandy and glasses?”
“Certainly,” he said, walking over to the sideboard. He returned and poured us a small amount and began to walk back to the sideboard.
“Brian, please leave the bottle here.”
Brian raised his eyebrows and placed the bottle on the Bishop’s desk and left the room without saying a word.
“Good man,” I said. “Very discrete, I presume.”
“Yes, and most trustworthy. He knows how to keep a confidence.”
He raised his glass to me and said, “To closure and absolution.”
We drained our glasses and I said, “You mentioned you were worried about something, Frank. What seems to be troubling you? Something besides the matter we finally resolved?”
“Yes, and it is as serious as, and much more complicated than, our troubles. And I believe that call Brian received from the Archbishop is an ominous one. I believe a decision may have been reached about me from Rome, and he is the messenger.”
“Frank, what in God’s name are you talking about?”
“I believe the clan of the highest-ranking Cardinals in Rome, the Princes of th
e Church closest to the Pope, has decided to eliminate me.”
“Eliminate you? As in fire you, or whatever the church does to remove you from office?”
“No, Michael, I mean murder me.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I stared at the Bishop, shocked by his words. I filled our glasses and took a large sip from mine. I said, “Murder you? Are you sure you’re not overreacting to some perceived comment or threat?”
“Maybe I am, but you can decide that after you hear my story, and it’s a long one.”
I glanced at my watch and said, “I have a suggestion. I’ll call my squad and tell them I’m not returning today, and you’d better return that call to your boss. Then we’ll hash it all out.”
“Good idea. You may want to take notes.”
“I will, but it may be a better idea if we record the whole story.”
“That is a good idea, Mike. We should get it down on the record. I’ll get Brian to set it up.”
I went outside his office to make my call leaving him the privacy he needed to call the Cardinal. Brian showed me to his desk and said, “Please use my phone, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks, Brian. The Bishop is calling the Cardinal and then we’re going to resume our conversation, and he is going to ask you to set up a tape recorder for us.”
“I’ll get on that right away. Thanks for the heads up.”
I got my deputy on the phone and asked, “How are things going, Harry?”
“Fine Mike, things are quiet. Oh, and thanks for giving me Richie and John back. Summer vacations are coming up, and I’m glad they’re back in the duty chart.”
“Yeah, there may be a problem with that. I’ll know more soon. I’m not returning to the office today. The Bishop may have a problem of his own brewing. He’s going to tell me about it soon.”
“That shouldn’t affect us, right? I mean he’s in Brooklyn North.”