The First Man rose and solemnly walked toward the bathroom. He reached inside the medicine cabinet. In doing so, he knocked over a bottle whose childproof cap had not been firmly affixed. Dozens of aspirins spilled over the sink and the floor.
Seemingly oblivious, he picked up an unused razor blade, closed the cabinet door, and returned to the table. On his way out of the bathroom, his shoes crushed several aspirins, leaving a powdery wake.
He took his place at the table, which was illuminated by a single candle, one dim light having been turned off.
All eyes were on him. Solemnly, he took the razor blade in his left hand and, holding his right hand over the chalice, made a small incision in his right wrist.
“Damn!”
“Oh, God!” said the Second Man, “he’s cut a vein again!”
“Wait,” said the Third, “I’ll make a tourniquet with my tie.”
“Heaven preserve us!” prayed the Fourth Man.
This was no casual visit. Father Koesler had been called by Inspector Koznicki, and asked to come see him as soon as possible.
The bad news was that this was in the heart of one of the seamier areas of downtown Detroit. The good news was the imposing presence of Police Headquarters, as well as the Wayne County Sheriff’s office across the street. Koesler had confidently left his car between two blue-and-white police cars in the nearby parking ramp.
As he walked briskly down the fifth floor corridor, the priest noted that the door to Squad Six’s meeting room was open. Odd. Usually, the doors to all seven squadrooms were closed. Koesler assumed this open-door policy might have been because of the excessive heat. Like many older buildings, this one was either too hot or too cold during the winter.
Koesler’s curiosity triumphed as his custody of the eyes faltered. He stopped and looked in the doorway. Sergeants Patrick and Morris were seated on either side of a small desk. Patrick was holding up a series of small cards—they appeared to be photos—while Morris appeared to be identifying them.
“Edward Maley,” said Morris as she looked intently at the card Patrick held before her. “Not a seminarian. Student in the Morality of Christian Marriage class.”
Patrick nodded and held up another card.
“Keaty, William,” Morris identified, “custodian.”
Patrick smiled and held up the next card.
“Schaaf, Eileen. Student in the Ascetical Theology class.”
The two seemed oblivious to his presence, and Koesler had no wish to interrupt them. He continued down the hall, and was ushered into Koznicki’s office, where he exchanged greetings with his friend.
“How is Father Gennardo coming along?” Koznicki leaned back in his chair, entwining thick fingers across his ample front.
“Doing very, very well. Just yesterday he returned to the seminary from the hospital. Of course, he’ll be confined to bed rest for a while yet. But he is something of a hero.”
Koznicki smiled. “Yes, I can understand that. He is probably the closest thing the seminary has to a martyr.”
They laughed.
“And,” Koznicki continued, “how are you doing with the new class in communications at St. Joseph’s?”
“Pretty good.” Koesler began to fiddle with a paperweight on Koznicki’s desk. A former smoker, his hands had to keep occupied. “Of course it’s a small class starting in midterm. The academic dean is making allowances for the telescoped time span.” Koesler shook his head. “I find it difficult teaching young women in a seminary setting. There’s nothing wrong with their being in a seminary classroom, of course. They ought to be welcomed into the priesthood if they want in. It’s just that, with my background, it is strange once you get into the frame of mind of teaching young men to find yourself teaching young women. I suppose I’m a bridge over troubled waters—or over troubled centuries.”
The priest laughed self-consciously. He hadn’t intended to wax so philosophical. But he felt so at ease with his friend that it was natural to express what was on his mind.
“I’m sure you will adjust, Father. You always do.”
Koznicki opened a manila folder and extracted a sheet of paper. “The reason I asked you down, Father, was to seek your assistance in our continuing investigation into these attacks on the seminary professors.
“Irene Casey of the Detroit Catholic has been most helpful in going through back issues of her newspaper and gathering letters, published and unpublished, from readers who have expressed hostility toward the Church or the Catholic clergy.
“As you can see,” Koznicki opened a box at one corner of his desk; newspaper clippings popped up like a jumping jack, “there are a significant number of such letters.”
“I have had the names of these letter writers transcribed.” He offered Koesler the list. “Father, I wonder if you would mind looking through this list. See if you recognize any of these people and can tell us anything about them.”
As Koesler scanned the list, he began to smile. The smile grew into a chuckle.
“It’s like meeting old friends. With most of them, I can remember editing their letters when I was at the newspaper. I’ve been more or less aware that they’re still writing to the paper. But it’s very impressive when you see them amassed like this.”
“Do you know any of them personally?”
“Hmmm … most of them I couldn’t pick out of a group of two. I’m just familiar with their penmanship and their opinions. Ah, here’s one I know: Frank Crawford. He’s head of the local chapter of Catholics United for the Faith, or CUF. He’s also a former classmate.”
“A priest?”
“No. He resigned while we were still in seminary. It was quite a shock for the rest of us. He was one of the most brilliant students we had. A good athlete. A strong spiritual life. Everybody thought he would have made an excellent priest. But, for some reason, he left. I think he quit sometime after college … the first or second year of theology.”
“Did he leave to marry?”
“No. To the best of my knowledge, he never married.”
“Do you think he would be capable of violence, especially against a priest?”
“Oh, heavens, no. Frank is very cerebral. Given a couple of suppositions—as, for example, that the Pope, even when he is not being infallible, is always right—Frank’s school of thought makes a lot of sense. Of course, that is a considerable supposition. One I would be unwilling to grant. But Frank is just not the physical type. He’ll argue by the hour. But he would never be violent.”
“How about the others?”
Koesler continued to study the list.
“Here’s one. Conrad Nap. I’ve seen pictures of him … even met him a couple of times. I don’t know for a fact, but I’ve heard he carries a gun, at least occasionally. And he is far to the right of someone like Frank Crawford and the CUF people.
“And here’s another one. Roman Kirkus. If memory serves, he is just about as far out to the right as possible. He visited me several times after I began my assignment at the paper. Evidently, he concluded I was beyond the conservatives’ redemption. So, after a few very strong letters to the editor, he gave up completely on me and the Detroit Catholic.”
“You think him capable of violence, Father?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. He has been violent in the past. Came near to inciting a couple of riots, as I recall. Yes, I could easily imagine a point beyond which he could turn to violence.”
“Anyone else, Father?”
“Ah, yes, here’s another leading candidate: the Archdiocese’s most notorious conservative activist—Harold Langton. You remember him, Inspector; he was one of the early suspects in those Rosary Murders some years back. He’s anti-feminist, anti-liberal, anti-busing, sex education, Vatican II, abortion, unions, birth control, altar girls, peace marches, charismatics, and folk masses. He is against priests being anywhere but in Church, nuns being anywhere but in school, and bishops who don’t enforce papal decrees.
“As a matter of fact
, Harold is against so many things, I don’t suppose anyone knows what, if anything, he is for.”
Koesler cursorily went through the remainder of the names. “I don’t see anyone else here that I know of who might be a violent person.”
“Well, Father, we have several copies of this list. Why don’t you take that copy and give it a little more consideration. Perhaps you may think of someone else.
“Oh, and by the way, Father,” Koznicki said as Koesler rose preparatory to leaving, “there is a meeting tomorrow evening of the Tridentine Society. Kirkus is the head of that group.”
“I know. That was some publicity the Tridentines got in the papers a while back.”
“Yes. Well, I was wondering whether you would be interested in attending that meeting with me.”
“Tomorrow evening? Yes, I think I can make it.”
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at St. Anselm’s rectory at 7:30.”
They exchanged a warm handshake and Koesler departed.
On a whim, he stepped into the Squad Six office. As he entered, Morris was holding up a card for Patrick.
“Shelby, Gloria,” said Patrick, “kitchen crew and domestic help.”
Suddenly, Patrick became aware of Koesler’s presence. He looked up with a very winning Irish smile. “Oh, Father Koesler, Marge and I were just going over our flashcards.”
“I haven’t done anything like this since grade school.” Morris seemed embarrassed.
“What’s it all for?” the priest asked.
“It’s for St. Joseph’s Seminary,” Patrick explained. “You see, the problem we faced in the investigation at Sacred Heart was the neighborhood. It was such a mixed bag that anybody could be at home there. Black, white, criminal, average citizen, derelict, unemployed, blue-collar. An assailant could disappear into the woodwork in such a setting.
“But now, at St. Joseph’s we don’t face a problem with the neighborhood. In fact, there is almost no neighborhood to speak of. At St. Joseph’s, the mixed bag is the inhabitants of the place. Students, seminarians, nonseminarians, part-time and full-time students, men, women, faculty, staff. In such a situation, almost anybody could slip in and go about pretty inconspicuously.”
“So?”
“So,” Morris explained, “we are getting to know everyone who has a legitimate reason to be in the building. Thus, the flashcards.” She handed one to Koesler.
On one side was a head-and-shoulders photo. On the reverse were the individual’s identification data.
“In addition, to familiarizing ourselves with the personnel, we have also beefed up security,” Morris went on. “And the seminary is hiring additional guards. There are still a few holes to plug, but we’re getting there.”
“You certainly are.” Koesler was impressed with their thoroughness. “I’d hate to try to get past all these security measures. For all our sakes, I wish you great good fortune.”
Pat Lennon glanced about. The scene reminded her of the alleged makeup of the Ku Klux Klan in the sixties. During a nationwide investigation of the Klan, it was said that the group comprised more federal agents and infiltrators than authentic members.
She recalled the two previous meetings of the Tridentine Society she had attended. At each meeting, there couldn’t have been more than a hundred people. However, at this meeting there was easily double that number here at the Knights of Columbus Hall.
This obviously had caught the society by surprise. As latecomers entered, they were forced to set up more folding chairs. It was well after the announced 8:00 p.m. starting time, but nothing had begun. Chairman Roman Kirkus stood at one side of the stage waiting for things to settle down.
Lennon and Joe Cox had arrived about half an hour early and had seated themselves in what was then the last row. But now, what with the goodly number of latecomers, the two found themselves in the middle of the audience.
While waiting for the meeting to open, Lennon tried as surreptitiously as possible to see if she could identify any familiar faces.
Of course there was Walt Koznicki. In any size crowd, he stood out like an elephant with a nosebleed in a snowbank. With him was Father Koesler, sans roman collar, but dressed in black. In any ordinary gathering, the black suit would have been a sore thumb. But with the Tridentines black was almost de rigueur.
Then there were Sergeants Patrick and Morris of Homicide. Lennon had known they were on this case. And there were two pudgy young men she thought she recognized from somewhere, possibly one of the seminaries, Sacred Heart or St. Joseph’s, she wasn’t sure.
Lennon swiveled in her chair and faced front again. There was Roman Kirkus watching the gathering crowd rather contentedly. He was the only member of the society whose name she knew. There was Brother Alphonsus, and he was here tonight. But was that his real name? She did not know. And, seemingly, neither did any of the other members of the society. This was the most secretive bunch she had ever encountered.
There was no membership list. There were no dues, just free-will offerings at meetings. There were no mailings. No member knew any other member’s name unless the information was spontaneously given on an individual basis, or unless they knew one another from work or residence neighborhood.
No doubt about it, as Cox had observed on numerous occasions, this was a weird group.
Tonight’s audience included, in addition to the faithful, the police, and Koesler, several staff writers from metropolitan and suburban publications. But most of the newcomers, Pat surmised, were conservative Catholics whose curiosity had been aroused by publicity. She wondered how many of these would find the Tridentine viewpoints a bit too extreme.
As Kirkus moved toward the microphone, Lennon noticed several in the audience scowling at Sergeants Patrick and Morris. Suddenly she understood. The Tridentines did not know the couple were police officers. Society had pretty much come to accept racially mixed couples. But obviously not the Tridentines.
“This meeting will come to order,” Kirkus announced several times. The microphone was operating sporadically. Only every other word was amplified.
Lennon wondered abstractedly why so many things seemed to go wrong for the Tridentines.
Gradually, the low cacophony of the audience subsided.
“This meeting will come to order,” Kirkus repeated. There was no improvement in the microphone’s operation.
“Oh, turn the damn thing off, Roman,” someone shouted. “We can hear you O.K. without it.”
Kirkus shrugged and flipped a switch at the side of the microphone. A spark arced to his finger.
“Damn!” Kirkus blurted.
Father Koesler, who had independently shared Pat Lennon’s wonderment at the Tridentine penchant for being accident prone, wondered even more.
“We will begin this meeting,” Kirkus said loudly without benefit of mike, “with the recitation of the holy Rosary.”
This announcement was greeted by an audible groan from Cox immediately truncated by a Lennon elbow to the rib cage.
Ten minutes later, Rosary completed, Kirkus returned to the podium. He made a gesture toward the switch, then thought better of it.
“For the first point of business, does anyone have anything to report?”
Hands shot up.
Kirkus nodded at a woman in the first row. He appeared bored.
The woman stood. She was very tall, very thin, and her dress epitomized modesty. “A nun in our parish—”
“Louder,” someone said.
She turned modestly and faced the audience. “A nun in our parish,” she proceeded more loudly, “— she is the religious education coordinator—has announced her intention of running for city council.”
“She can’t do that!” someone shouted.
“The Pope said nuns can’t run for office!” someone else shouted.
“Wasn’t that priests who may not run?” Koznicki leaned over and asked Koesler. Smiling, Koesler nodded.
Shouted suggestions and sentiments came from various memb
ers of the audience.
“Remember Father Drinan? The Pope stopped him!”
“She should be in school teaching our children!”
“Go see your pastor!”
“What good will that do? He’s probably running for governor!”
Laughter.
This was the first indication to Cox and Lennon that the group could laugh. But apparently only at their own jokes.
“People like her, you got to get their attention,” said a short dark man, dourly.
“That is Conrad Nap,” Koesler leaned over and said to Koznicki, who nodded.
“Is Frank Crawford here?” Koznicki asked.
Koesler shook his head. “This is simply not Frank’s kind of crowd. And he would know enough about this organization not to bother coming to one of these meetings.”
“How about Langton?”
“I don’t see him, but I doubt that he’d be here. At one time, I believe he was a member, but then he branched off on his own and has been out beyond the fringes ever since. Besides, he’s got his own jackal pack.”
Kirkus’ vigorous pounding of the gavel gradually quieted the audience.
“What parish is this you’re talking about?” Kirkus asked.
“Our Lady Queen of Martyrs,” the tall woman answered.
“That would be Father McNulty’s parish.” Kirkus paused. “He probably doesn’t know what the nun is up to. I’d tell him if I were you. Likely enough he’ll put a stop to it.”
That problem having been given a Christian burial, Kirkus looked about for more upraised hands. They were there in abundance. He nodded at a nondescript, balding man in the fourth row. The man stood and positioned himself so he was facing the majority of the audience. His face was livid. He appeared on the verge of exploding.
“Did any of you see over the TV that our bishops approved of Michigan’s sexual education plan?”
Heads nodded vigorously.
“The state,” the man continued, “is going to bring sex right into the classroom, and with the blessings of our bishops, to top it all off! Well, I, for one, think this is a sin that cries to heaven for vengeance!”
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