by Henry Hack
“Yes,” Flanagan answered, “and I assume he retrieved the lists from the safe himself, or had someone retrieve them for him.”
“Did he give you a timetable for his proposed actions against these priests and what disciplinary actions he would take?” a second reporter asked.
“No, he did not.”
“Did you ever call the Cardinal to push the issue?” the reporter persisted.
“No, but I was going to do so in a week, or so.”
Everyone listening knew that was total baloney, and Flanagan began to fidget. He bent his head and someone whispered something in his ear. He said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have answered all your questions. I suggest you take your follow-up questions to Cardinal Callahan. If he decides the alleged violations are to be criminally investigated, the NYPD will take immediate action.”
One last question was shouted out as the brass turned to leave, “If the Cardinal took the list from Bishop Manzo’s safe, how did it end up in the hands of Schroeder Harwood?”
The PC turned back and said, “I have no idea. You will have to ask them yourself.”
. . .
The media hordes now descended on the headquarters of the Archdiocese of New York and demanded the appearance of Cardinal Callahan to answer their questions. Callahan’s press secretary, Monsignor Peter Kelly, said the aging Cardinal was feeling ill lately, but should be available in a few days to address the matter at hand. Charlie Seich said, “After he confers with Rome, he means. What do you think they’ll do, Mike?”
“The cat’s out of the bag. They can’t cover this up any longer, but I don’t know how they’ll handle it.”
“Maybe they’ll send a couple of zips from Rome to take him out like they did with Manzo.”
“You never know, Harry, but I doubt it. Especially when it’s out there that Manzo was probably murdered.”
So we waited and continued our hiring process. The lawyers wanted to file a hundred lawsuits in the next batch. Each suit named the individual priest, his parish and parish Pastor, the Diocese and the Bishop in charge, the head of the Archdiocese of New York, Cardinal Callahan, the Church of Rome, and the Pope himself. Talk about going after deep pockets, you couldn’t go any deeper.
My goal was to bring my staff up to its full allocation of four teams. The next two would be headed by Richie Paul and John Micena. With Harry and Charlie it was like we were back in the squad again. I was supremely confident our job would get done professionally and expeditiously, but I wondered what the ultimate fallout would be as we proceeded with the lawsuits. Three days later I got my answer. Not to the ultimate fallout, but to the immediate fallout which was in the form of a tragedy, the Archbishop of the Archdiocese of New York, his Eminence John Cardinal Callahan was dead.
. . .
The announcement came as a press release from Monsignor Kelly simply stating John Cardinal Callahan passed away sometime during the previous night and was now with the Lord in heaven. You can imagine the uproar and questions this news caused in the New York metropolitan area. At our morning coffee John Micena said, “Rome sent the zips back to whack him, I bet.”
“No way,” Richie said. “He offed himself. He couldn’t face the heat.”
“Maybe it was a natural death,” I said. “Frank told me he was sickly and couldn’t wait to retire when he hit 75 years old.”
“Is that my former homicide squad boss talking?” Charlie Seich said. “Have you forgotten all your police training and instincts already?”
“All right, all right,” I said. “But it could be a natural.”
The police department remained mum on the investigation into Callahan’s death and referred all questions to the medical examiner’s office. The ME stated there was no obvious cause of death, and the results of all the toxicology tests should be available in two to three weeks. “He wasn’t obviously shot, or stabbed, or strangled, by some zip dispatched by Rome,” I said.
“Like I said,” Richie said. “He took the pipe.”
. . .
It turned out we didn’t have to wait two or three weeks to find out what happened to John Cardinal Callahan. He told us, told everyone, in writing, in his own hand, by means of a letter he sent prior to his death. The letter was addressed to his Holiness the Pope and began by apologizing, and asking the Pope’s forgiveness, for committing the mortal sin of suicide. However, he added, “Your previous gift of twenty-year old single-malt scotch was generously used to wash down the sleeping pills.”
He went on to take the responsibility for failing to act on the allegations in his Archdiocese because he was prevented from doing so by his superiors in Rome. And he named the names of the clan of five corrupt Cardinals based in Rome, and he also accused them of arranging the murder of his good friend, the Bishop of Brooklyn, Francis Andrew Manzo.
Copies of the letter were sent to a list of people named at the bottom to include the police commissioner, all the major media outlets, Nicholas Marino of Schroeder, Harwood, and one Michael Simon, also of Schroeder, Harwood. A box containing the lists of deviant priests he had obtained from Bishop Manzo’s safe was sent along with the PC’s letter. In his closing paragraph he directed his letter be read at all Sunday masses in all parishes of the Archdiocese for two successive weeks. Talk about a bombshell, this was a mighty explosion felt in all the Catholic churches in the metropolitan area and in all their parishioners.
And everyone was asking, who the hell is this Michael Simon anyway? I knew it wouldn’t take the media long to find out, but my fears of being stalked by killers from Rome had probably been put to bed by Cardinal Callahan’s revelations.
Unless they had already been dispatched before the letter, and the shit, hit the fan.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Vivian and I relaxed after dinner that evening and discussed the day’s events. “What was your take on the Cardinal’s letter?” she asked.
“He finally saw the light and got the old-time religion back in his soul. But I wonder if he would have fessed up if he hadn’t been sick.”
“I think he was sick and tired of the whole rotten mess, and wanted to do the right thing.”
“Maybe, but we’ll never know for sure.”
“What do you think will happen now?”
“In what way?”
“The letter was addressed to the Pope. If those five Cardinals kept all these allegations from his eyes and ears, they can’t any longer. He can’t claim lack of knowledge anymore. He now knows. The whole world knows.”
“From my several discussions of the church hierarchy with Frank, I think this Pope will do the right thing, and do it soon and decisively.”
Two days later the funeral details for Cardinal Callahan were announced by the church, and reported on by both the print and electronic media. The mass would be on Tuesday at St. Patrick’s Cathedral with burial immediately following at a cemetery in Westchester County. Unlike Bishop Manzo, the body would not lie in state prior to the mass. I picked up the phone and called Brian at the Bishop’s Cathedral. When he answered, “Bishop’s residence, Brian Starkey speaking,” I realized it was the first time I had heard his last name. I said, “Hello, Brian, Mike Simon here.”
“Lieutenant!” he cried. “So good to hear from you. I think of you often.”
“I hope in a good way.”
“Oh, yes. You have been instrumental in the beginning of forcing change upon my beloved church.”
“That’s what Bishop Manzo wanted, but has there been any real change yet?”
“Oh, yes, Lieu –”
I stopped him and said, “Call me Mike, Brian. I’m no longer on the force.”
“For starters, Mike, his Holiness is going to appoint Auxiliary Bishop Stachurski as the permanent replacement for Bishop Manzo.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Most certainly. Bishop Stachurski was an acolyte, dear friend, and supporter of Bishop Manzo’s crusade.”
“That is a good sign. I’d like to meet with him someday.”
“No problem, I can arrange that before he’s officially installed. Oh, and his Holiness will shortly appoint a new Archbishop for the Archdiocese. He’s one of the bishops from the Midwest who was one of Bishop Manzo’s allies. I’d better not mention his name though, until it’s official.”
“I understand. I need a favor, Brian.”
“If I can, sir.”
“Can you get me and my wife a seat at Cardinal Callahan’s funeral mass?”
“I certainly can. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I hope you’re not feeling guilty over his unfortunate death.”
I thought that over a bit and said, “Maybe I am. Maybe he’d still be alive if I didn’t utilize those records to try to obtain justice.”
“Nonsense. Bishop Manzo pursued this with the Cardinal relentlessly, until he was ordered to back down. And they killed him anyway. I hold Cardinal Callahan partly, maybe mostly, responsible for his death. But his hands were tied, too. And, Mike, I forgive him for his weakness and his sins.”
“You do?”
“Not officially, I have no priestly powers.” He dropped his voice to a whisper and said, “Two days before his death, the Cardinal secretly came here to Brooklyn for Bishop Stachurski to hear his last confession.”
“Do you think he told the Bishop what he planned to do?”
“I have no idea, and I’m not ever going to ask him.”
“Yeah, the secrecy of the confessional. I guess that’s still a good thing.”
“The same as when you used to go in your younger years.”
“Did Bishop Manzo confide in you about our real relationship? You must have been curious about my visits.”
“I was, and he did. Remarkable story. And I’m glad you were able to resolve it before his untimely death. At least he died in peace after your forgiveness – your absolution.”
“He told you that, too?”
“Yes he did. Mike, I may be out of line here, but someone who did what you did cannot be an atheist. Only someone who has a soul, and a living God within that soul, can do something like that. You think about that.”
I was taken aback at the directness and forcefulness of Brian’s words, and was at a loss trying to find words of response.
“Mike, are you there?”
“Uh, yes.”
“I’m sorry for the lecture, Mike, but I wouldn’t waste my words on someone not worth saving.”
“I’m happy you believe this old, cynical, ex-cop is worth saving. But what are you saving me from?”
“Yourself, Michael. Yourself.”
With that Brian disconnected, and those words, plus his words, you think about that, stayed with me for a while – a long while.
. . .
The funeral mass for Cardinal Callahan was a subdued affair, no doubt due to the manner of his death, with none of the pomp and circumstance we recently witnessed at Bishop Manzo’s funeral. The police presence was the minimum required to maintain traffic and crowd control, if you could call a few hundred people on the sidewalks a crowd.
The Mass was co-officiated by Bishop Stachurski and the Bishop of the Rockville Center Diocese, and seeing those Bishops reminded me of Bishop Manzo telling me John Cardinal Callahan was a “good” man. What was good? What was evil? Can you be both? Can you do both? My deep philosophical musings were interrupted by a nudge in my ribs from my wife who whispered, “Stand up. It’s over.”
Our seats were near the rear of the cathedral, certainly nowhere near as prominent as those we had for Bishop Manzo, and I was able to observe those guests who now paraded by from all those pews in front of us. The highest ranking cops I saw were the two-star Manhattan patrol commanders and the one-star Manhattan detective commanders. No police commissioner. No deputy police commissioners. No chief of department. No three-star chiefs. They obviously wanted no part of this public ceremony whatsoever.
His Holiness did not wait long, naming the new Archbishop of the New York Archdiocese, and designating Bishop Stachurski the permanent Bishop of Brooklyn, three days after John Cardinal Callahan was laid to rest. And it didn’t take long after that for Brian to call me and say, “Mike, the new Bishop of Brooklyn, his Excellency Kenneth Stachurski, would like to have a few words with you in his office here at the cathedral at your earliest convenience.”
“Brian, you sound so formal, but I have to ask, is the new Bishop springing for lunch?”
If I thought I rattled him I was mistaken. He said, “Yes, Michael. Would take out from Maury’s Kosher Deli be satisfactory?”
“Most satisfactory. Set the date and I will be there.”
It seemed I couldn’t shake attendance at the Catholic Church. Two funeral masses, now two promotion/installation masses, with all their attendant pomp and circumstance, loomed in the near future. Vivian remarked I hadn’t lost a beat in following the mass as she struggled to mimic me in the proper sitting/standing/kneeling/beating the chest protocols. I said, “Twelve years of Catholic school takes their toll. I’m probably brainwashed forever. A zombie-like automaton mechanically performing the required rituals.”
“Brainwashed? That’s kind of harsh, isn’t it, Mike?”
I smiled and said, “Ask another Catholic school boy or girl that question and see what they say.”
“Are you attending both installation masses?”
“Yes, Brian is getting us both tickets, but I wonder why you want to sit through two more two plus hour ceremonies.”
“I kind of like them, especially at St. Patrick’s.”
“Hey, are you getting sucked in here? Are they brainwashing you, too? Your Lutheran services are so much simpler, you know.”
“Yes, but a change is rejuvenating once-in-a-while. Besides, Mike, I believe any house of worship is fine if you believe in the one true God.”
“You are amazing, Vivian. I love you, and sometimes I wish I had your faith and never lost mine.”
“Tell me why you are attending all these masses?”
“For one reason only. In memory of, and respect for, the late Bishop of Brooklyn, Frank Manzo. And when the next two are over, I hope to never attend another one.”
“On another note, I’m wondering if you think you may be in any danger of retribution because your firm is pursuing all these lawsuits against the church and its hierarchy.”
“Danger? From who? I don’t think so. It’s all out in the open now.”
“Those five Cardinals named in Cardinal Callahan’s letter, that’s who. They no doubt hired those guys who tried to kill you as well as the Bishop. You could still be on their hit list, if only for revenge.”
“Nonsense, Vivian, you’re watching too many cop shows on TV.”
“You be careful out there. Keep your eyes open, and check for tails while driving and walking.”
I burst out laughing and said, “You sound like a sergeant giving a brand-new rookie instructions. Give me a break.”
She laughed also, and said, “As Mort would say, ‘It voodn’t hoit.’”
“I promise, Vivian, I will be careful and observant.”
“Good. Now you can go to the office.”
Maybe Vivian had a point, and I knew John Micena and Richie Paul believed I could be a target, so I did become mo
re observant of the people on the street and in the restaurants I ate in. I even went into my personal files on the Bishop’s death investigation and dug out the composite photo the Brooklyn dicks had put out based on Richie and John’s descriptions. I studied it carefully and slipped it into my inside jacket pocket.
. . .
The next day I was back in the office and things were humming along. Right before I was to leave for my lunch meeting with the new Bishop of Brooklyn, Brian called and said he had to postpone the lunch for a couple days and would Friday work for me. I asked if there was a problem and he said, “A lot of last minute preparations for the upcoming installation popped up.”
I told him Friday would be fine and I hung up the phone just as John and Richie walked into my office. Richie said, “We need a favor, Boss.”
“What is it?”
“You had a chance to get away with Vivian, and John and I would like to do likewise with our loving wives.”
“Yeah, Mike,” John said. “We, and they, need a break.”
“You got it. I know things are going smoothly. I’ll split up your work to Harry and Charlie. They won’t mind.”
“I bet,” John said with a laugh. “See you next Monday?”
“Three days off and the weekend it is. Have a good relaxing time.”
“Oh, we will,” Richie said.
The work day ended and I had reviewed dozens more cases prepared by my investigative staff and passed them on to our two lawyers. At this rate of production we would have the hundred cases ready to file by early next week. Satisfied, I was walking along the avenue toward the parking garage when I spotted two young men coming toward me. One of them glanced at me then turned his face away toward his buddy and said something to him. They abruptly stepped off the curb into the street and dodged the cabs and cars as they ran over to the other side of the avenue. What the hell?