Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

  "We grew up together. I haven't spoken to him in years, but for some reason he wanted to talk to me last night. I think it was about the pope. You don't think the message had anything to do with his murder, do you?"

  Doyle made a helpless this-is-too-much-for-me gesture. "Did you erase the message?"

  Hurley shook his head.

  "Well, let's listen to it again."

  Doyle stuck his head into the conference room to end the meeting, then they returned to Hurley's office. Hurley put on the speaker and they listened to the message together.

  "He sounds a little drunk, don't you think?" Doyle said. "And the background noise—do you think he was calling from a bar?"

  "Could be."

  "Maybe he just wanted to blow off some steam about the pope's visit and decided to call you."

  "I don't know. It sounded to me as if he was trying to warn me about something. I suppose I should call the police."

  "Yeah, I suppose. I just hope the archdiocese doesn't get any bad publicity out of this."

  "How could we?" Hurley asked. "We didn't do anything."

  "You poor naïve boy," Doyle replied. "Never underestimate the media's capacity to confuse things, or the public's capacity to be confused."

  Hurley groaned. Just like Edzo, he thought, to create problems even after his death. He picked up the receiver.

  * * *

  "This could be very bad," Cardinal Monroe said, staring at Hurley as if the whole thing were his fault.

  Well, Hurley assumed the cardinal was staring at him. With his thick glasses it was sometimes hard to tell, and Monroe was notorious for being unable to make eye contact. He was a short, pale man with thin gray hair brushed back under his red zucchetto. In the considered opinion of everyone Hurley knew, Monroe had the personality of a dead fish.

  "Oh, I think we'll be okay," Monsignor Doyle said. "Gerry O'Sullivan's on his way over. He'll be here for the meeting with the homicide detective. Sounds like it'll just be a formality."

  "I don't want a scandal. I don't want anything to endanger this visit."

  Not the visit from Homicide, Hurley knew. The papal visit. It hadn't taken Hurley long to understand how important this visit was for Monroe, and why he and Doyle had lobbied so hard to get the pope to come. Monroe had been a creature of the Curia, and Pope John's predecessor had rewarded his loyalty with the Boston archdiocese, bypassing a list of candidates with more pastoral experience. Now his patron in the Vatican was dead, and he had a local hierarchy that was deeply skeptical of his ability to get a major archdiocese after the scandals that had wracked it, and a laity that had no affection for him and no more trust in him than any other Church leader.

  But if Monroe could run a successful papal visit, things might turn around. Pope John might take a liking to him, the media might praise him, and his flock might warm up to him. And there was even the possibility that the visit could do significant good, if the first black pope could find a way to ease the racial tensions in the city.

  But there was plenty to be worried about, and Cardinal Monroe was nothing if not a worrier. And that's why Hurley found himself in the cardinal's office feeling like a criminal.

  Monsignor Doyle had plenty of practice in dealing with his boss, however, and he merely shrugged off the cardinal's concern. "Tom, this is unfortunate, but it's nothing more than an annoyance," he said. "Focus on the real news. The harshest critic of the pope's visit has just gone off the air permanently. Not the way we would have wanted it to happen, but this is the reality of it. The atmosphere around here is bound to improve, and that can only help us."

  Monroe nodded slowly, as if looking on the bright side was a painful chore for him. "I want a full report after the police have left," he said. "And if this gets into the media, I want to make sure it's handled properly."

  "Of course, Your Eminence," Doyle said cheerily. "We'll keep you posted."

  Monroe turned away, and Hurley let out a sigh of relief as he realized that he had been dismissed.

  * * *

  Gerry O'Sullivan was the archdiocese's top lawyer. By the time the homicide detective arrived he was in Hurley's office and had gone over every detail of his relationship with the deceased. O'Sullivan was a stout middle-aged man with a map of broken veins on his cheeks and nose. He looked as if he'd be more at home in a pub or on a golf course than in a courtroom. Hurley thought it might appear suspicious to have O'Sullivan present when the detective showed up. Couldn't having a lawyer there imply that he needed a lawyer for something? Well, he wasn't going to argue with the decision.

  O'Sullivan didn't seem worried. "This is obviously all just a coincidence, Father," he said affably. "They have to ask the questions for the record, but they'll know the phone call didn't have anything to do with the murder."

  Hurley wondered how he could be so sure. He probably got paid to sound upbeat and reassuring.

  The homicide detective's name was Tim Lafferty. He was a short, pudgy man with thin, sandy hair combed over a bald spot. He looked uncomfortable; this was an odd place for him to be during a murder investigation, Hurley figured. "Good of you to call, Father," he said. "We'll try not to take up too much of your time."

  He started with a few questions, then made a tape of the voicemail message, listening to it carefully several times and taking notes. "We've got witnesses to the other end of the conversation," he remarked as he put away his equipment. "He was in a restaurant called Malcolm's in the Back Bay. Apparently he's a regular at the bar there. Bartender said he left shortly after using his phone. He was dead no more than a couple of hours later. Pretty strange, huh?"

  "Do you think there's any connection?" Hurley asked. "The way he said 'Don't let him come'—it sounded like he was trying to tell me something, you know, about the pope's visit."

  O'Sullivan looked pained; this was clearly not a topic he wanted raised.

  Lafferty merely looked puzzled. "Why do you think he was referring to the pope? Had he talked about that with you before?"

  "No, as I said, I haven't heard from him in years. But I know he's been talking about the pope on the radio. So I assumed that was the reason he decided to call me up out of the blue."

  "Mmm, could be," Lafferty replied. "Don't know why there'd be a connection, though."

  "That would be our perspective as well," O'Sullivan said, beaming with encouragement at the detective. "Just a coincidence. The man had been drinking, and he decides to call up his old friend, who happens to be a priest, so he can complain about the pope. Then he walks home and gets very unlucky. It's a tough world."

  Hurley decided to drop it. He couldn't really disagree with O'Sullivan's "perspective," even if the whole thing still made him feel uncomfortable.

  Lafferty asked more questions about Hurley's relationship with McAllister, but didn't seem interested once it was established that they had been childhood friends, nothing more. O'Sullivan sat back contentedly, confident that no danger lurked. The detective was gone inside of an hour.

  "Well, Father, that wasn't so painful, was it?" O'Sullivan said.

  Hurley wasn't the one who had thought it would be. "I'd've thought the detective would have been more, well, intrigued," he remarked.

  "The police have a theory," O'Sullivan replied. "This looks and smells like a street crime to them, so they don't want to waste time thinking about anything that leads them anywhere else. One more thing," he went on, rising from his chair and closing his briefcase. "They're terrified of this case. They don't want it getting complicated; they don't want rumors; they don't want accusations. What they particularly don't want is for blacks to be involved. They're praying that they turn up some crazy white addict they can pin this one on, so no one can get too upset."

  "What happens if their theory starts to look wrong?" Hurley asked.

  O'Sullivan shrugged. "You know what? That doesn't happen very often. The police know what they're doing. But if they do make a mistake in a high-profile murder like this, you'll hear about it for
years. Have a great day, Father. Sorry for all the fuss."

  The lawyer left Father Hurley's office. Monsignor Doyle stopped by a few minutes later to get a debriefing. Hurley told him what had happened, and O'Sullivan's view of the case.

  "Makes sense," Doyle said. "The simplest explanation is usually the correct one. Occam's Razor and so forth."

  "I hope the archdiocese is relieved," Hurley replied.

  "The archdiocese is well content. We wish ill of no one, but Ed McAllister..." Doyle shrugged. "He wasn't helping the Lord's work."

  Edzo. "Say a prayer for him, Larry," Hurley said. "He had his virtues and his vices, just like the rest of us."

  "Of course I will, Joe. Of course I will. Now write up everything that happened so that His Eminence will be able to sleep tonight."

  * * *

  Hurley had moved into a small apartment in Brighton, in a neighborhood filled with college kids and young professionals. It still felt strange not to have Billy Flynn to share his meals with, but he was getting used to it. Getting used to a new life that had suddenly taken a strange turn.

  Back in the apartment that night, Hurley watched the news. There was plenty of coverage of the McAllister murder, but no mention of his phone call to an old friend. It did look like an ordinary street crime, apparently. He had been found in an alley off Commonwealth Avenue, stabbed repeatedly in the back. His empty wallet had been discovered in a dumpster further down the alley. No witnesses, no suspects.

  So why did Hurley feel so uneasy?

  On TV there were retrospectives on McAllister's short career and talking heads to pontificate about the meaning of it all. No one approved of him, but no one tried to downplay his influence, either. The question was: how long would the influence last, now that he was gone? Had he changed Boston fundamentally, or would the status quo reestablish itself? One commentator mentioned the papal visit as an example of an event that would be significantly affected by McAllister's death.

  Don't let him come.

  Before going to bed Hurley practiced what he preached and prayed for his old friend. And it occurred to him that he should go to McAllister's wake. Doyle might not approve, but Hurley wanted to. He wanted to talk to other people who had known and loved McAllister, to see if they could help him understand the mystery of what he had become, and why he had called his childhood friend on the last night of his life.

  He went to sleep still trying to puzzle it out.

  * * *

  The wake was held in Dedham, where McAllister's mother moved after his dad died. Hurley was glad it wasn't back in their hometown of Canton; this was going to be hard enough without having to deal with a drive through the old neighborhood. He didn't know what kind of crowd to expect—would there be a line around the block of supporters, fans, and friends? Or would McAllister be shunned in death, too nasty to instill the kind of affection required to honor him after he was gone?

  Somewhere in between, Hurley decided when he arrived at the funeral home and surveyed the full parking lot and the line that reached out the door but not quite to the sidewalk. He had been to enough wakes in his parish work to become an expert in judging the deceased's age and stature—and the size of his family—from the crowd at his wake. He joined the back of the line, searched in vain for a familiar face, and waited his turn to pay his respects.

  When he reached the parlor where Edzo was laid out, he found some acquaintances, and he began to feel better. There was Pudgy Glennon, and Edzo's cousin's husband Walter, who had once been in the seminary for a couple of years, and an old teacher whose name escaped him. And, of course, the family, standing next to the casket in front of the many floral arrangements. Mrs. McAllister looked aged and shrunken since the last time he had seen her; her expression was dazed and uncertain, and she was leaning heavily against Edzo's younger brother Matt, who had always been a surly kid. He now looked uncomfortable in his ill-fitting black suit, as if he couldn't wait for this to be over so he could rip his tie off and down a few Buds. Next to them was Edzo's older sister Ann and her drab husband—what was his name? Ann simply looked tired.

  All except Matt brightened when they caught sight of him. Mrs. McAllister looked as if she were about to burst into tears of joy as she clasped his hands. "Father, oh Father," she gasped. "So wonderful to see you. So wonderful of you to come."

  "C'mon, Mrs. M., call me Joey," he replied with a smile. "I've eaten too many of your chocolate chip cookies to be anything else."

  "Isn't it awful, though? Isn't it—?" She was unable to continue.

  Hurley pressed her hands. "It is awful, Mrs. M. And I'm here to give you any support I can."

  She shook her head in mute gratitude, still unable to speak. Matt and the nameless husband shook his hand perfunctorily after he had extracted it from hers, and then he faced Ann. "This sucks the big one, eh, Father?" she said.

  Well, that was refreshing. "Sure does, Ann. I have a lot of fond memories of Edzo."

  "Too bad he turned into such a shit, huh?"

  "He certainly, uh, took a different path."

  Ann rolled her eyes. And Hurley realized that she was the one he needed to talk to. "Listen, Ann, I know your obligations here, but could you spare a couple of minutes to talk in private?"

  "Are you kidding? That's the best offer I've gotten all night. You still smoke?"

  "No, but I'll gladly inhale some of yours."

  "Great. Say goodbye to Edzo and then let's go out in the parking lot where the grownups can't see us."

  "Sounds good." He knelt in front of the casket then and looked down at his old friend. Too young to die, he thought. No kidding—he was Hurley's own age. Edzo deserved more of a shot at making good on the promise of his youth. And who knows? Maybe he was trying to change—maybe that call from the bar was going to be the first step. You always think there's time to change, until suddenly time has run out.

  Hurley said a prayer for his friend, blessed himself, and then made way for the next mourner. He was cornered by Pudgy Glennon for a while, then by a couple of old ladies, the kind for whom speaking to a priest is the most exciting event of their day, until finally Ann rescued him. "I'm dying for a cigarette," she said as they made their way out through the undertaker's office to a small driveway next to the funeral home, where they leaned against the garage in the chilly night air.

  She was in her late thirties now, Hurley figured, a couple of years older than Edzo and he. With a pang he recalled that he'd had his share of sinful fantasies over her, back in the days when his hormones had just kicked in and she was an unattainable older woman. Now there was little of the high-school glamour left. Her lithe figure was gone, and tiny wrinkles were starting to crease the skin around her eyes and mouth. On the other hand, he liked her now, with her honesty and dry sense of humor. In the old days he had been too blinded by lust to care about such things.

  "So how's life been treating you, Ann?" he asked as she lit up a Kool.

  "Oh, not bad. I'm working part-time as a nurse, the kids are fine, and Jeff doesn't beat me as much as he used to."

  Hurley stared at her a second too long, and Ann said, "Just kidding, Father. Geez."

  Hurley grinned sheepishly. At least he'd found out her husband's name.

  She appraised him as she took a long first puff. What he wouldn't have given for a look like that back when he was fourteen. "Never figured you for a priest, Joe," she said.

  "Oh, you never figured me for anything," he replied, still grinning. "I was just some invisible kid who hung out with your brother."

  "I wouldn't be so sure of that," Ann replied with a coy smile.

  Hurley decided he didn't want to go any further down that path. "Anyway, I never figured Edzo for a right-wing talk-show host," he said.

  "Life is full of surprises, I guess. I thought he'd end up in prison, myself. But then, we never did get along. Anyway, what did you want to talk to me about?"

  "Well," he said, trying to figure out how to start, "Edzo called me out of t
he blue the night he was murdered—left me voicemail. And the message seemed, uh, kind of strange." And he recounted what McAllister had said to him while sitting in the bar.

  "You're right, that's certainly weird," Ann said when he'd finished. "One part of the mystery I can solve—how he knew where to get hold of you. Mom still subscribes to that archdiocesan rag—what do you call it?"

  "The Pilot."

  "Right. God, could a paper get any more boring? Anyway she studies it every week when it comes out, and she saw something about your new assignment, so she got all excited and told me, and I told Ed when I was talking to him a couple of weeks ago. He laughed and said it was your first step on the way to becoming pope."

  It was strange to think of himself as being an object of conversation in the McAllister family, but why not? "What about the message, though?" he persisted. "People seem to think he was trying to threaten me or something to get me to keep the pope from coming to Boston, but that just doesn't—"

  "It's baloney," Ann said flatly. She flicked an ash onto the asphalt and looked up at the sky. "The thing you have to understand about Ed, in case you didn't already, is that it was all an act. He told me so when I'd yell at him about some outrageous position he'd taken on the air. 'How can you possibly imagine I'm serious?' he said. 'It's entertainment, that's all. I don't care about any of it.' So then I'd yell at him about how it didn't make any difference whether he believed what he was saying or not, he was influencing what other people believed, but he just wouldn't accept any responsibility. 'People are morons,' he said. 'If I weren't around, they'd just believe some other jerk.' So it really doesn't make any sense for him to actually try to stop the pope from coming. He couldn't have dreamed up anything that would help his ratings more, except maybe some other outrageous black-on-white crime."

  "Maybe he was drunk," Hurley suggested.

  Ann shook her head. "The police told us the results of the autopsy—his blood alcohol level was low. And the bartender said he'd only had a couple of drinks when he left. He usually drank a hell of a lot more than that, without getting any more obnoxious than he usually was."