His bed had been made while he was in the bathroom shaving and washing up. The nurse had checked his blood pressure, pulse and temperature as she did every morning, but the doctors making their morning rounds had skipped his room. And then, shortly after his half-eaten breakfast had been taken away, Father Thornton and Brother Hegstad entered his room. He was glad to see them, of course, but surprised that they’d arrived well before visiting hours.
Then came the head nurse, the intern, the Chief Surgical Resident, the head of the Department of Surgery, an Oncology specialist and the Novitiate’s General Practitioner. Father Beck, sitting upright in his raised hospital bed, folded his arms across his chest. As he nodded to each of his visitors, one by one, Father Beck saw that he was the only one in the room who was not unhappy.
He tried to change that. “What’s up, Docs?” he said. But none of his visitors laughed or even smiled.
“Well, it’s not my birthday,” he sighed, “so I guess you’re all here to tell me something.”
Father Beck leaned back against his pillows to let the doctors give him what they obviously considered to be “the bad news.”
∗ ∗ ∗
At about the same time that morning, in the Cleveland FBI office, Brother Krause had barely started telling what he had found out about Mrs. Vogel’s murder when Herb Coogan held up his hand to stop him.
“I’d better get Dan Webster in here,” he said. “He should hear all of this firsthand.”
Brother Krause sat back in his chair and waited. Agent Webster arrived, yellow pad in hand, to hear what the Jesuit ex-cop had learned in Bellefonte. Brother Krause started his report over again and continued speaking uninterrupted for almost half an hour.
“So I have to believe this was in no way a random event,” he concluded. “A lot of thought went into planning and executing Mrs. Vogel’s murder. Very professional. The killers got in and out of a house on a block of houses in a quiet small town without being noticed by anyone and without leaving anything behind that could identify them or give any indication of a motive.”
“A perfect crime with no obvious motive,” said Coogan. “Why kill Mrs. Vogel? There’s her connection to her brother, of course. But at the time of her murder, the Russians had him in custody. Would Mrs. Vogel have known that her brother had tried to get into the Soviet Union, Brother Al?”
“Maybe, but I really doubt it. The Russian Mission was a closely guarded secret. Well, not guarded closely enough, as it turned out. But the few people in Rome who were involved in it had no way of knowing that Father Samozvanyetz had actually made it into Russia. Everybody assumed he was killed in the war somewhere in Europe. Even Father Beck. He was amazed to learn that he was alive. And in Russia, to boot.”
“Could Mrs. Vogel’s murder have been a case of mistaken identity?” asked Webster. “Maybe a couple of contract killers got the address wrong and went to the wrong house.”
“Possibly.” said Brother Krause. “But that seems unlikely. They were so methodical about everything else.”
“So let’s assume that Mrs. Vogel was the intended victim and that Father Samozvanyetz had nothing to do with it,” said Webster. “Maybe the murder had something to do with the woman herself or her late husband. Was there some trouble in the neighborhood or at the university, maybe some criminal activity one or both of them got mixed up in?”
“That’s possible,” said Coogan. “Maybe they weren’t the proverbial nicest people on the block. Like the serial killer’s neighbors always tell us while we’re digging up all those bodies in the guy’s cellar. I guess you should start looking for what we can find out about the Vogels, Dan.”
“Right,” said Webster. “I’ll start digging and see what I can turn up.”
Brother Krause waited until Webster left the office. “Father Provincial wants me to ask you if we should tell Father Samozvanyetz about all this.”
“I would wait until we see what Webster learns,” said Coogan. “But it’s really the Provincial’s decision to make. You said Father Novak might have some news about Father Beck?”
Brother Krause checked his wristwatch.
“It’s a little too early. I doubt he’s heard anything from the hospital yet.”
“Well, then, I’d like to fill you in on some stuff that’s been bothering me. I have some pictures to show you.”
∗ ∗ ∗
Father Beck knew that he should be upset by what he was being told, but he wasn’t. Not at all. If anything, he felt oddly detached. Whatever they were giving him had taken his pain away and he was pleased to learn that he wouldn’t have to swallow any more of the stuff to get ready for that last diagnostic test. The gastro-intestinal whatever. The radioactive fluid he managed to get down without gagging had lit up his abdomen so that his innards could show up in an X-ray, which they did. Now the doctors were giving him the results of the test.
“The X-ray pictures showed us that you somehow contracted Brinton’s disease,” said the oncologist. “The Latin name for what we found is Linitis plastica, but in practice we call it ‘leather bottle stomach’.”
“Linitis plastica,” said Father Beck. “That’s medical Latin. I can’t recall what Caesar’s legionnaires would have called the bag they carried their water in, but I get the picture. Big and round at one end and narrow and pointed at the other end where the water comes out.”
“Exactly,” said the doctor. “That’s what your stomach looks like in the pictures. We don’t see it very often. We call it ‘leather bottle stomach’ so everybody realizes what we’re talking about. It’s a rare form of stomach cancer that grows rapidly and spreads to the muscles of the stomach wall and forms a thick, immovable layer that doesn’t stretch out as food digests and it prevents the stomach from pushing out what it does digest. As I said, it’s rare.”
“And, looking around, I gather there’s no cure,” said Father Beck.
“I’m sorry to say, it’s fatal.”
“So the whole process eventually just shuts down,” said Father Beck. “And then, that’s it?”
“I’m afraid so, Father. That’s it.”
Father Thornton stepped forward.
“Can’t something be done about it, Doctor?”
“Not much. Chemotherapy perhaps. But even with that the outlook for survival is poor.”
“Same with gastrectomy,” said the Chief Surgical Resident. “That would entail removal of the whole stomach or part of it.”
“And we don’t recommend any of that,” said the Surgical Department head. “We can’t cure the disease or impede its progress, but we can make a plan to treat its symptoms and keep Father Beck comfortable. We all agree palliative care would be best.”
“So does Father Beck,” said Father Beck. “Why waste time and money trying to delay the inevitable? Just tell me: how much time do I have?”
The oncologist shrugged. “Hard to say, Father. Depends on how quickly the cancer spreads. Could be as long as a year or maybe a matter of a few weeks.”
“That’s more notice than most people get,” said Father Beck. “I’d rather spend the time I have left at the Novitiate than in the hospital or a nursing home. There must be something I can do at Milford to earn my keep. Would that be possible, Father Thornton?”
“Of course, John. The doctors can tell Brother Hegstad what kind of care you’ll need and we’ll make sure that you’ll get it. You’ll be a lot more comfortable at home with us. And don’t worry. We’ll find plenty for you to do.”
∗ ∗ ∗
“I want you to take a look at these photos from our guys in Cincinnati, Brother Al,” said Herb Coogan. “They shot some from the office building across the street from your church, from vehicles parked on the street and a lot inside the church itself. Only on Saturdays when Father Samozvanyetz was hearing confessions there.”
Brother Krause moved closer to the conference room table. “I know the FBI does this kind of surveillance, but I’ve always wondered what it produced. That’
s a lot of pictures.”
Herb laughed. “These are just the ones we kept.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Anything out of the ordinary. Most people showed up only once during the coverage. We got rid of the one-time-only visitors. But people from the neighborhood, parishioners, people who regularly visit the church on Saturdays? They’re in that cardboard box. Also ones who visited the church some Saturdays, but not others. All easily identified regulars. So I want you to concentrate on the pictures on the table.”
“So you found something?”
“Oh, yeah, but we don’t know what it means. These three unidentified men showed up every Saturday. Subject A came in the afternoon when the priests started to hear confessions, spent an hour and fifteen minutes usually and then left. Subject B came to the church around the time Subject A was leaving and usually stayed until the priests left for their evening meal. Sometimes he left earlier, but not always.”
“Did they make contact with each other?”
“No, they did not. Subject A never went anywhere near where B went. They stayed in their own zones, so to speak, but the zones shifted from week to week. This other guy, Subject C, he came after the dinner hour when the church was more crowded. Subject C sat in various parts of the church, stayed for varying lengths of time, and then left. We couldn’t find any pattern.”
“So they weren’t using the church as a message drop. And the FBI hasn’t been able to identify them?”
“No, but they have that look, don’t they?”
“Yeah, almost out of place but not quite. Did any of them go into Father Samozvanyetz’s confessional booth?”
“No,” said Herb, “they didn’t. That’s what got our attention, finally. Most people who came to the church on Saturdays went to confession, sooner or later. But not these three guys. It took us a while to notice that and decide to have them followed. But they didn’t show up that Saturday and they haven’t shown up since. Maybe they’d been waiting to meet someone else in the church. Or maybe whatever they might have been working on fell through or got called off. Anyhow, they’re not there anymore.”
“You think they might have been watching Father Samozvanyetz?”
“Who knows?” said Herb. “They might have been. Yesterday I was pretty well convinced that they had nothing to do with Father Samozvanyetz. But what you tell me about the Vogel murder makes me wonder.”
“Me, too,” said Brother Krause. “Who’s this old woman?”
“Probably another nobody. I included her just because she’s the only other person who showed up every Saturday that we weren’t able to identify.”
“I’m not good at judging women’s ages, Herb. But there’s something odd about her.”
Brother Krause picked up a magnifying glass and studied the woman’s photo.
“Close up, she looks younger. Women usually try to look younger, right? But this one’s trying to look older. Take a look.”
“I see what you mean, Brother Al. But maybe she’s ill or in mourning. Or she’s just eccentric. For all we know, she thinks she’s Saint Agnes. You find a lot of odd people in churches.”
“Does she go to Father Samozvanyetz for confession every Saturday?”
Herb Coogan checked the surveillance team report. “Matter of fact, she doesn’t. Only a couple of times. Make that three.”
“You might want to put a tail on this one, Herb, if she shows up next week.”
“Yeah, why not?”
“By the way, are you keeping Milford under surveillance?”
“We don’t have the budget for anything more than spot-checking. Does that worry you?”
“Now it does, after all we’ve learned this week.”
“Me, too,” said Herb. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. Not without a really good reason. Maybe Father Novak will give us one.”
“Maybe. But right now, I’d settle for just getting some good news about Father Beck,” said Brother Krause.
∗ ∗ ∗
Father Beck looked up and saw the intern standing in the doorway. “My shift is over and I thought I’d stop by your room to see if there’s anything you need before I leave the hospital,” said the young doctor.
Father Beck smiled and waved the young man over to his bedside.
“All I need right now is a kind word from a good friend, Doctor.”
“I wish I could give you more than that, Father Beck. I’m really sorry about the way things turned out. I really wish it had been appendicitis.”
“I know you do. I can see it in your eyes.”
Father Beck took the young man’s hand and held it. “If it had just been my appendix, you wouldn’t have learned some important lessons.”
“Like not jumping to conclusions, Father?”
“No, no, no,” said Father Beck. “You were right to get me rushed to the operating room. You were smart enough to see that something was seriously wrong and brave enough to stick your neck out with a diagnosis. You had no way of knowing that something worse than my appendix was the problem. You did what the book said you should do and that led to the discovery of a condition you and I had never even heard about.”
“I see what you mean, Father. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“No, I guess it doesn’t. Heartache’s a price you’ll have to pay for helping others. That’s something we all have to learn, doctors and priests alike. We can’t save everybody, no matter how hard we try. Some things and some people can’t be cured or changed. But we can’t let that stop us from trying.”
Father Beck squeezed the intern’s hand. “Thank you for caring about me, Doctor. I think you should know something. Allowing me to know how sad you are makes me feel a heck of a lot better!”
Father Beck grinned. He had made the young man smile.
“Don’t worry about me,” he told the young doctor. “I’ll be fine. Just take my blessing and get on with your life. Remember that I’ll be keeping you in my prayers as long as I can say them.”
As a matter of fact, he thought as he watched the young intern leave his room, he hadn’t felt this good since the Russian agent had ensnared him with the Seal of Confession. He was going to die soon. How soon, he had no way of knowing. But it wouldn’t be long before death freed him from the Russian’s net of his lies and he could turn the problem of the impostor over to God.
He wasn’t free quite yet, but his prayers had been answered.
C H A P T E R • 6
The morning after his visit from Brother Krause, Herb Coogan shipped his son’s trunk to Milford. Later that month, he and his wife would stow their son into their automobile and drive him downstate to the Jesuit Novitiate. From now on, it would be just Herb and Kathleen in the house. No more Charley at the dinner table, no more birthday or holiday celebrations or family vacations. Forever. Did his Kathleen really understand that?
Ever since Charley announced his decision to become a Jesuit, Kathleen had been organizing his departure as diligently as a mother producing a daughter’s wedding. Herb never considered his wife to be a vain person, but she had certainly been dazzled by the possibility of having a priest for a son. And a Jesuit priest, to boot.
But Herb knew that if Charley stuck it out and became a full-fledged Jesuit with perpetual vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, the chances were good that he would never be coming home. What was it about the words “perpetual” and “never” that Kathleen couldn’t comprehend? What could she be thinking? She was not just losing a son. She would end up with: what?
Father Beck was dying. That was the bad news he got yesterday when Brother Krause called the Provincial. Also the news that Charley’s Master of Novices would be Father Samozvanyetz, not Father Beck. The Provincial had made his decision.
There was nothing Herb could do about that except to ask Brother Krause to see what Father Samozvanyetz had to say about the murder of his sister.
Was the priest now in danger himself? Probably not, Herb
thought. Did he have to worry about the old lady in the church? Again, probably not.
No, he was most distressed about the future of his son. Would Charley spend his life, like John Beck, teaching Latin to high school boys? Or, like Alex Samozvanyetz, would he be sent to perish in some other suicidal Russian Mission?
Herb Coogan watched his son’s trunk being rolled away from the shipping office counter until it was out of sight somewhere back near the loading dock. It would be waiting for Charley when he got to the Jesuit novitiate. But what else would be waiting for him there?
∗ ∗ ∗
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz sat in the Master of Novices office listening intently to what Brother Krause was telling him. For once, he had no need to lie or project emotions he did not truly feel.
“I had no idea,” he said. “I just assumed my sister Natasha’s death was a peaceful one. Certainly not violent. Dear God, it’s dreadful. And you believe it was burglars?”
“No, Father,” said Brother Krause. “The people who killed her tried to make it appear to be a burglary. But it wasn’t. They went to her home to kill her.”
The man who played Father Samozvanyetz buried his face in his hands. Why in God’s name had Oksana Volkova found it necessary to have an innocent woman murdered? He had to struggle to regain his composure.
“This is a hard blow, Brother Krause.”
“Yes, I know, Father. But what must concern us now is your safety. Father Provincial wants to make sure that you’re protected.”
“From what?”
“From whoever killed your sister,” said Brother Krause.
“But you don’t know who they were, do you?”
“Nobody knows, Father. The FBI is trying to find out. Agent Coogan doesn’t think you are in any immediate danger but he wants you to be careful. If you notice anything that strikes you as suspicious or out of the ordinary around here or downtown at the church, let me know immediately so I can alert the FBI. It might turn out to be nothing, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
“That is prudent, of course, Brother Krause. In the prison camps, I learned to be constantly aware of my surroundings. If anything threatening is going on here, I am sure I would have noticed. Has Agent Coogan found something specific I should be worried about?”
Red Army Spies and the Blackrobes Trilogy Page 21