by Mark Zubro
“Have you talked to him?” Turner asked.
“I thought I’d check with you first.”
Turner said, “If you can get him to talk to us, that would be great.”
Ian added, “I also know, professionally, the reporter, Tyrone Bruno, who writes for the liberal national Catholic newspaper, American Church News. I was doing a series on gay Catholics for our paper last year, and he and I met a few times. I could get you an intro to him. He might know stuff.”
“Thanks,” Turner said. Ian promised to call the next day after he’d set up meetings.
TEN
Saturday 9:41 P.M.
The first thing they did when they got inside the station was find Steve Fong, the late night electronics expert at Area Ten. Fong inhabited an office in the deepest sub-basement of the decrepit old building. Naked pipes clanged and gurgled in the hall. The linoleum on the floor had long since faded to yellowish gray and begun to curl at the edges. His office had been part of the coal bin back when someone actually had to stoke coal into a furnace to heat the place. The LED displays from all the electronic equipment added to the dim light from a forest of small lamps. Fong had tried to install stronger lamps, but if he plugged in too many even slightly high-powered electronic devices, all the circuits in the building shorted out. He had the largest computer monitor Turner had ever seen, but it was seldom on as it used up too much of Fong’s limited power. More wattage in the basement had been promised. Like all promises at Area Ten, it never got fulfilled.
Fong was six-foot-three and rail thin. He had a wicked sense of humor. The detectives presented him with the bag with the remnants of the cell phone. Turner said, “We’re hoping you can recover data from that.”
Fong took out paperwork to fill out for the chain of custody. They were all used to doing this kind of bureaucratic necessity, and it took only moments. When finished, Fong lay the bag down on the top of his work station. It was a gray metal slab with several lap top computers and microscopes. “I shall work my magic although first look says this thing is pretty well kaput.”
“That a technical term?” Fenwick asked.
“It’s a new computer language.”
“Whatever you can get,” Turner said. “We’ve also got credit cards.” He handed them over. “Can you run his financials?”
“I’ll do what I can. I can at least get his cell phone records from the phone company, but there’s no computer stuff to go through? Everybody’s got a computer.”
Fenwick said, “We haven’t found it yet. It wasn’t at his apartment. The killer or killers took it, or it’s in his office, presumably on this planet, if it hasn’t been destroyed.”
Fong smiled. “I’m reasonably certain this planet hasn’t been destroyed. At least last I looked. Although I do interplanetary investigations but for an extra fee. If you’ve got a destroyed planet that can be a bummer, and there isn’t a whole lot I can do about that. However, if you get the computer for me, I can do the usual. I’ll get to work on the cell phone remnants and see what I can retrieve, and I’ll do some financials on these cards.”
“I wonder if he has a Facebook account.”
“For what?” Fenwick asked.
“Why does anyone?” Fong asked.
“To prove they can live as pointlessly as anyone else?” Fenwick asked.
Turner said, “That’s a little harsh.”
Fong began typing as the detectives reparteed.
“Maybe he tweets,” Turner suggested.
“A bishop tweeting?” Fenwick retorted.
Fong said, “The Pope tweets.”
“Who cares?” Fenwick asked.
“I presume the Pope,” Turner said.
Fong said, “He has neither a Facebook account nor does he tweet.”
“I don’t tweet therefore I am not?” Fenwick asked.
“A mantra in reverse for the modern world,” Turner finished.
Fong promised to get back to them as soon as he had any information.
Back at their desks, Turner went through Kappel’s wallet again. He found nothing he thought might be suspicious. He included it in the packet for forensics.
Turner used his laptop to connect to the Internet. His wireless service was pretty good from this location. Fenwick was stubbornly holding out. If the department wanted to get in touch with him electronically, he was determined to wait until they supplied him with an appropriate device invented less than twenty years ago.
While Fenwick began writing up reports, Turner got to work electronically.
He ran the license plate for the limousine parked in the drive at the Abbey. It came back clean, as owned by the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order.
Then he Googled Kappel and then Tresca. He clicked on several sites. He found this larger screen much easier to navigate. As he read, he reported highlights to Fenwick. “I got more stuff on Kappel than Tresca. Kappel was involved with investigating the diocese finances.”
“Current or former?”
“Former, although according to this, there were also rumors of irregularities in the current finances.” He read for a few moments then said, “This says there was a huge scandal under the previous cardinal.”
“I sort of remember it. Didn’t the Church try to cover it up?”
Turner said, “It all came out after the new cardinal was appointed. This says one of the problems in the diocese was financial mismanagement, supposed dirty dealings in collusion with one or more banks. A parish priest somehow got hold of a thread to the malfeasance, and his information prompted the investigation.”
“Lots of motive for murder.”
Turner wrote down the name of the priest in his notebook then clicked on the next article. This came from the paper that Ian told them about.
Turner peered at the screen, read for several minutes, and then reported. “This is from the American Church News, which claims on its masthead to be a liberal Catholic newspaper.”
“Such a thing exists?”
“Must be. It’s got the name Tyrone Bruno on a couple of the articles. That’s the guy Ian mentioned. This claims the old cardinal died before his monetary malfeasance got revealed.”
“It really says ‘monetary malfeasance’?”
“It does. You’re not the only poetry pretender on the planet.”
“I’d never do that kind of cheap alliteration.”
“Good for you.”
Fenwick said, “I still find it hard to believe a liberal Catholic paper exists.”
“Because of censorship from the church itself?”
“Well, not censorship really. Even the church can’t make the First Amendment disappear. No, I meant it would be hard for it to exist more because of such a small interest, such a small circulation. How can they afford to be in business?”
“I have no idea.” Turner returned to his perusal of the screen. “And supposedly years ago the cardinal was involved in shuffling priests around and might possibly have been indicted from when he was a monsignor in Amarillo, Texas.”
“Might possibly?”
Turner said, “The accuser was in a car accident and died. Says here it was an awfully convenient death for the future cardinal. Is death ever convenient?”
“Not on this job. I sort of remember that financial crap, but I didn’t pay much attention because I don’t give a shit about the Church.”
Turner went on to the next article and reported again. “This one has Kappel as one of those who was investigating those nuns.”
“Which nuns?”
“You heard about it. The ones who were taking care of the sick, the meek, the poor, and the downtrodden instead of playing abortion politics.”
“Oh, yeah. How’d he wind up doing both?”
“This is in an article in that same liberal Catholic newspaper. The writer accuses Kappel and Tresca of being the hit men and enforcers of the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order.”
Fenwick asked, “What kind of name is that for a reli
gious order?”
“What do you want them to name it?”
Fenwick thought a moment then said, “Steve.”
“You want to name a religious order Steve?”
“Or Frank. Why not Frank? Or Pat? Maybe Otto?”
“I’m not sure you’ve quite got the whole religious order notion.”
“Do I need to?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned, but if you really care about the names, you could complain to the Vatican.”
Fenwick snorted. “What other shit is on the Internet about them?”
Turner peered at a side bar on the page he was on. “This next one is written about a guy, Theodore Keerkins, who wrote a book on the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order.”
“What kind of book?”
“Doesn’t say.” Turner called up Amazon.com and checked for the book. In a few seconds it came up. He read the summary and then several of the reviews. “This is something.”
Fenwick leaned back in his chair.
“The reviews are all over the place. I’m guessing the reviewers are from different sides of the political spectrum. They go from raves about the book revealing the truth about a religious Order still stuck in the days of the Inquisition.”
Fenwick interrupted. “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
Turner couldn’t help himself. He laughed remembering one of his favorite bits from the old Monty Python television show. He also knew this was a moment of triumph for his partner. As much as any gay man caught in a Bette Davis time warp, Fenwick lived to quote lines from old movies or television shows that he thought were funny. Turner knew Fenwick lived for the moment he could use the line, “Don’t call me Shirley.” Turner suspected that saying that phrase was not as enjoyable as an orgasm for Fenwick, but it was in the same ballpark.
Turner read on and then summarized. “Some other reviews viciously attack the book for being part of attempts to crush religious freedom in this country.”
“The author from around here?”
Turner checked the author profile. “Says he’s from Chicago. We’ll have to talk to him.” He added the name to his growing list.
Turner returned to the Internet and began noting more references in the articles on Kappel and Tresca. He reported his findings to Fenwick. “Tresca I don’t get so much on. He wasn’t as newsworthy, or he heavily edited where he could on sites that mentioned him on the Internet. Kappel is another matter. Besides finances and nuns, he was investigating doctrinal purity at Pope Saint Agatho University on the south side.”
“They really do that in this day and age?”
“I guess so. We’ve got lots of places to try tomorrow.”
After he scanned each article, he printed it out. He’d brought an extra cable and multi-head connector from home months before so he could send print commands to a machine that with a week’s worth of repairs might rival Gutenberg’s in speed and efficiency.
Next Turner again looked up more articles on the Sacred Heart of Bleeding Jesus Order. In the history section, the first thing that appeared was a replica of the painting they’d seen in the great hall at the Abbey. He found that the person with the bulge in his pants adoring the flying, emanating woman was, as the Abbot had said, Charles of Avignon.
He skimmed the history to the most recent sections. The Order was very big in attempting to influence American politicians especially in terms of abortion and contraception.
After he reported to him, Fenwick said, “I could appreciate a woman being pissed off enough to get even.”
“You’re always pretty pro-revenge.”
“I’m not sure I’m pro-revenge, but I understand it.”
“Angry women, angry nuns, angry people who were molested. Although I get nothing on Kappel himself being accused of touching anybody.”
“Except Tresca and the midnight to eight doorman in that building.”
“And other anonymous escorts.”
ELEVEN
Saturday 10:00 P.M.
Commander Molton strode to their work stations. “We have a meeting.”
Fenwick grumbled.
Molton said, “This will be fun.”
Fenwick asked, “At ten at night on a Saturday? Are you sure we have the same definition of fun?”
“With whom?” Turner asked.
“Bishop Pelagius the Papal Nuncio from the Vatican and Vern Drake.”
Fenwick said, “The head of the Cook County Board, Vern Drake?”
“They came together.”
“What the fuck?” Fenwick asked.
Molton said, “That seems to be the correct medical question.”
“What do they want?” Turner asked.
“They want to give their input on your murder investigation.”
Turner raised an eyebrow. Usually Molton headed off direct contact between interfering politicians and the detectives. That they were meeting had to mean something.
Molton replied to the raised eyebrow. “I think their presence here makes them great suspects. You are welcome to treat them as such.”
This was pretty strong for Molton, a good boss and a great commander who they respected, but who was seldom likely to openly antagonize an official.
Fenwick grumbled all the way to Molton’s office. The deep rumbling was like being accompanied down the stairs by an unhappy circa 1890s steam engine that intermixed profanities with its huffing, puffing, gurgling, and whistling.
At the door to Molton’s office, Turner asked, “What the hell is someone from the Vatican doing here? The murder was only discovered a few hours ago.”
Molton said, “Precisely.”
The Papal Nuncio and the head of the Cook County Board remained seated as they entered. Molton did introductions. Nobody extended hands to shake. Turner and Fenwick sat in chairs flanking either side of the Commander’s desk. They faced the interlopers. The Papal Nuncio, Bishop Antonio Pelagius, was a short, stout man, with gray hair, and hands that tapered to well-manicured nails. He had the movements, demeanor, and charm of a foreman on a work crew on the side of the road, him being the guy who stood leaning against the nearest solid object while the others worked.
Vern Drake was notorious in Cook county government for tying his star to right wing Catholic causes. He was tall and thin with black hair. He ran in marathons and tended to lie about how well he had done in them.
Drake began the conversation. “We need to know what’s going on with the investigation on Bishop Kappel’s death.” He spoke in an oily voice in the alto range.
Fenwick burst out laughing. Molton kept a placid look on his face.
Drake said, “I demand respect from a public employee.”
Fenwick asked, “Where were you at midnight, twenty-three hours ago?”
“How dare you!”
Pelagius waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Thank you, Commissioner. You are most kind to take an interest. I’m here to help protect the good name of Holy Mother Church.” He spoke in a gravelly voice, too many cigarettes and perhaps too much whiskey. He had a slight accent.
Fenwick turned to Pelagius, met his eyes and didn’t look away. “Where were you at midnight, twenty-three hours ago?”
“Is this really necessary?” Pelagius asked.
Turner said, “It’s a murder investigation. Those who are too interested are immediately suspects. You qualify.” Turner referred to this as the Jessica Fletcher syndrome. In real life, an amateur sleuth such as Jessica would have immediately raised the suspicions of every competent cop with whom she came in contact.
Pelagius turned to Molton. “Really, Commander, couldn’t we be spending our time better here?”
Molton said, “They’re great questions, which neither of you have answered.”
Pelagius said, “We’re concerned that someone is trying to smear Holy Mother Church.”
Fenwick asked, “When is the last time you saw Bishop Kappel?”
Pelagius said, “In Rome last winter.”
/> Drake said, “I never met the man.”
“Bishop Pelagius, do you know anyone who would be really angry with him?”
“Why would anyone necessarily be angry?” Drake asked.
“Because murder is a violent crime,” Fenwick said, “and his death was extremely violent. Someone must have been very angry.”
Drake huffed. “I don’t know anything about angry.”
Turner said, “A number of articles on the Internet talked about him doing a lot of investigating for the Church.”
The Papal Nuncio pulled himself up. “No member of the Church would commit such a crime. His investigations were all connected with high Church matters and were conducted discreetly and with professionalism.”
“Tell us about them,” Fenwick said.
The Papal Nuncio sniffed. “I’m afraid that’s Church business.”
“When you say you know he handled them discreetly and professionally, that implies you knew something about the investigations. Knowing about them could help us catch his killer.”
“I know no details that could help you.”
Turner asked, “You guys familiar with Abbot Bruchard?”
Pelagius kept his mouth shut. Drake said, “No.”
“We were meeting with him a little while ago,” Fenwick said. “You guys talk to him, get your stories straight?”
Pelagius said, “This is getting more and more absurd.”
And yet you sit here, Turner thought, what is it you want or need or are trying to cover up?
Fenwick asked, “Since Bishop Kappel was involved in those investigations, did he have enemies, people who were angry at him, hated him because of them?”
Pelagius waved his hand. Turner suspected the man thought it was a suave, conciliatory gesture, with a bit of authority and command behind it. Turner thought of it as a kind of effeminate gesture from a man used to commanding minions and being obeyed. “As I said, those investigations are internal Church matters.”
“Seems like a lot of money might have been involved in at least some of them,” Fenwick said. “Money can be a great motive for murder.”
“The finances of the Diocese of Chicago are not the purview of the Chicago police department.”