Pawn of Satan

by Mark Zubro

  At one point while Gorman was in the washroom, Fenwick said, “Kappel had over a million in investments and a million more in CDs in banks.”

  “Gives a new meaning to the word poverty.”

  “And he loved this big, heavy-set guy?”

  “Madge loves you.”

  “Touché.”

  By six Molton brought the State’s Attorney to look at their chart. He offered advice and suggestions.

  Turner and Fenwick consulted with Molton before they let Gorman go. “He the killer?” Molton asked.

  Turner said, “We’ve got no evidence, nothing to hold him on. He’s been more cooperative than those religious men who were closest to Kappel. He said he was at the farm at the time of the murder.”

  Gorman was given a ride back to the farm by a uniformed cop.

  The detectives spent two hours on the new information. When they were done with reports, forms, and adding everything to their chart, they gazed at the beautiful, well-ordered spreadsheet and their mound of paperwork.

  Molton joined them in front of the large screen. “It’s nigh onto perfect.”

  Fenwick groused. “Yeah, well, we ain’t got a killer.”

  Turner said, “So Kappel had everything on all of them. All they’d done, all the financial chicanery, personal peccadilloes, and more. They were crooks on a large scale. Nothing says they were killers.”

  Fenwick said, “Too many suspects.”

  “We’ve got to talk to some of these people again.”

  In the next few hours, even with Molton’s help, they were unable to get in touch with any of the principals in the case. A visit to the high rise and to the Abbey and the chancery didn’t get them past any front doors.

  Back at Area Ten around ten, they were all gathered at the huge monitor: Turner, Fenwick, Fong, Molton, Wilson, Roosevelt, and Rodriguez.

  “This just looks so great,” Fong said.

  Fenwick repeated, “Yeah, but it hasn’t gotten us a killer.”

  “Can’t have everything,” Fong said.

  Wilson said, “But that nun Sister Eliade was right, on some of these Kappel was letting them go.”

  Roosevelt said, “Some maybe for kind, gentle reasons.” He used the wireless mouse to point to several squares in the chart. “Some because he wanted to use the information.”

  “Complicated man,” Molton said.

  “Aren’t we all?” Roosevelt asked.

  Wilson said, “Except those of us who are complicated women.”

  Fenwick flopped into his chair. “Gazing at that thing doesn’t get us closer to a killer. We already had enough motives for killing before we met Gorman. And we’ve got a lot more details on the lives of these people.”

  Everyone except Molton left their desk area. The Commander said, “I’ve been on the phone with the State’s Attorney and various politicians. They may not have friends in high enough places, but the Church still has expensive lawyers and enough clout to put up a huge wall. I’ll keep working on it.”

  Turner asked, “How long are they going to take for all these legal people to get these guys?”

  Molton said, “I don’t know. They probably don’t know. With the Feds involved, State of Illinois Attorney General’s office, Cook County State’s Attorney, half the damn planet. They may be arguing over who gets to do what for a long time before they get to who is going to arrest what powerful prelate for what insidious crime.”

  Turner asked, “I Googled cardinals in the US. I couldn’t find a case of any of them being arrested.”

  Fenwick said, “Screw this financial stuff. We don’t have a killer. Are they going to screw up our case?”

  Molton said, “I wasn’t aware we had a case against someone.”

  Fenwick swallowed a protest. This was the boss after all.

  Molton said, “I’ll let you know what the attorneys are up to. You’ve both got the day off tomorrow. Take it. You’ve been working twelve hour days. Do not come in tomorrow. The corpse won’t care, and if one of these guys is the killer, he’s not going to be able to leave town. Exhaustion on one case isn’t going to help do justice to all the other criminals in the city.”

  Turner and Fenwick left.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Wednesday 11:00 P.M.

  Mrs. Talucci stood on her porch. One arm rested on the porch rail, the other clutched the top of her cane. She leaned forward and glared into the night.

  As soon as Paul closed his car door, he heard her thump her cane onto the porch. She called, “Paul.”

  He walked over, climbed the porch, and looked down at her. She quivered with anger.

  “Rose, what’s wrong?”

  “Did you hear?”

  He offered his arm. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “I’m going to stand here until I have a stroke or until the world responds to the way I expect it to work, and that better be pretty damn fast.”

  “What’s happened?”

  She looked up at him. Paul heard the screen door on his home slam shut. He saw Ben glance in their direction and hurry over. Up close, he could tell his husband was upset.

  “What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “You better tell him.”

  “Word flew through the school and the neighborhood about the latest news about Shane.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Ben said, “Yeah. It’s his baseball coach. That’s why he tried to commit suicide. The coach found out he was gay and tried to get the university to drop the kid’s scholarship.”

  “What the hell difference does it make to him?” Paul demanded.

  Mrs. Talucci said, “I don’t know when I’ve been this angry. I’d best sit down.”

  They helped her to a porch chair. Paul assisted as she fussed with the summer shawl around her shoulders. Paul and Ben leaned their butts against the porch railing. Paul could feel Ben’s arm touching his.

  Ben said, “Brian confirmed the rumor to me earlier. He was really angry.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He wanted to go over to Shane’s but it was late. They texted, and Brian said Shane was okay.”

  “What’s Shane going to do?” Paul asked.

  Mrs. Talucci snorted. “Hah!” She thumped her cane against the floor. She said, “I’m on the parish school committee. This will be settled by noon tomorrow.”

  She eased back in her chair and took up her knitting. She was making a shawl for her oldest great-granddaughter. In the silence Ben and Paul observed the street and listened to night noises.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Wednesday 11:30 P.M.

  Paul tapped on Brian’s door. He heard the soft, “Yeah.” Paul entered. Brian had the lights off and his window open to the soft night. Moonlight streamed into the room.

  Paul asked, “You okay?”

  “I had a chance to talk with Shane a little bit. I wished he’d have told me about the coach.”

  “It can be tough when it looks like all your dreams are being shattered.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to be at the first game of the first gay pro baseball player who comes out.”

  “Me, too,” Paul said. “Mrs. Talucci promised to take care of the problem with Shane’s coach.”

  Brian smiled. “I’d never cross her.”

  In their room, after he talked with Ben about Brian and Shane, his husband said, “There’s other news. I think the course of true love has not run true for Jeff.”

  “What happened?”

  “Yesterday’s sort of, not really date?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he was moping around here before dinner. I asked what was wrong. He said he saw Ardis after school having ice-cream with Arvin.”

  “How does that mean they aren’t dating?”

  “Well, you know how it is in junior high. Jeff and Ardis weren’t officially, really, committed to each other, exclusively dating, and I guess for whatever reason exclusively sharing ice cream after school, in their world, has bec
ome the definition of true love. So it’s over.”

  “After one not really much of a date.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  In bed as he pulled Ben into his arms, he said, “I love you so much.”

  Ben said, “I love you too.”

  FORTY-NINE

  Thursday 7:02 A.M.

  Paul was helping Jeff make Eggs Florentine the next morning. He said, “Ben told me things didn’t go well with Ardis.”

  Jeff sliced an English muffin in half, placed both ends in the toaster slots, and shoved down the handle.

  “She’s not very good at chess,” was the boy’s only comment.

  That evening was the prom. There was no school and all Brian’s finals were over. The teen ran chores to pick up his tux and the corsage. He spent an inordinate amount of time texting. Paul didn’t ask about what. He hadn’t asked that question since the boy was in sixth grade. Paul managed to catch an hour’s nap while the boy was out.

  Molton called with the news around three that he’d made no progress getting through the Church walls. In the vernacular, they’d all lawyered up. Molton also reported, “A number of people have spent hours with that spreadsheet you’ve made. Especially the Cook County State’s Attorney.”

  Turner took a guess. “He doesn’t like Vern Drake.”

  “It seems that in the last election our Vern endorsed the current State’s Attorney’s opponent and was the biggest donor to that opponent’s campaign. The current State’s Attorney is not Vern Drake’s best friend. He’s had a team in here. The FBI’s had a team in here. Hell, we even have a new copier.”

  “How’d that happen?”

  “Everybody wants copies of everything, hard copies and electronic copies. They tried using our machine. Ha! Within half an hour they wheeled in a brand new one. I’m told we get to keep it.”

  “Maybe there are miracles. Are they going to arrest all these people?”

  “Layers of lawyers on both sides. Remember, our guys are just getting all this information. Any number of people may be indicted in any number of jurisdictions. It’s a mess, and the Church’s lawyers have been in making demands.”

  Turner sighed. “But still no killer.”

  FIFTY

  Thursday 6:00 P.M.

  Brian was in his tux. Jeff was taking pictures. Because the number of venues were finite and the number of proms in the Chicago area were legion, proms quite often were on nights other than Friday or Saturday, especially if one wanted a particularly popular venue.

  One of Jeff’s sets of expertise was taking digital pictures. The first one he took that night when Brian came down the stairs in his tux was one of the teenager between his two dads. They got one of Jeff on his crutches with Brian, and then Jeff set up the camera with a timer and got all four of them.

  Paul watched the limousine with Brian move off down the street. He and Ben held hands. Jeff took a picture of that as well. Paul felt his eyes get misty. Jeff swung around on his crutches. “I wonder who I’ll take to the prom.” He moved off to his room.

  Paul and Ben stood on the porch, and watched the limousine glide onto Taylor Street.

  After a few minutes of companionable silence, Ben asked about the case. They sat in the swing on the porch in the soft light of evening and Paul filled him in.

  When he finished, Ben said, “I think the situation is sad. Their world is crumbling, and it’s going to die, and there’s little they can do or are willing to do to stop it. That must be very frustrating. It may not be a relevant world, and it may be and is mean spirited and cruel in many ways, but it’s all they’ve known.”

  “Except when they molest little kids.”

  “I’m not talking about the criminal parts. Of course, that’s awful. I’m talking about those who genuinely believe in a gentle Jesus, and those who care for and try to help those that they serve. Their world is going to be gone too.”

  “Maybe some bits will be saved.”

  “It’ll all come crashing down, the good with the bad,” Ben said. “What I don’t get, is what do they get for all this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they run around like mad things, plotting and conniving, and evening the score, and investigating, but what do they get?”

  Paul said, “Kappel got a fancy condo.”

  “Which he had to share in secret with a man he sort of loved.”

  “Maybe there wasn’t enough ever for them to have. Maybe they just fed the acquisitive impulse. Maybe feeding it was what they needed. It was the feeding, not the fullness.”

  “That sounds more plausible than I’d care to believe.”

  Mrs. Talucci came out on her porch and waved them over.

  “Did you hear?” she asked. “Brian and Shane’s baseball coach quit.”

  “What happened?”

  Mrs. Talucci shrugged. “I asked to meet with him. Here, for a cup of tea.”

  “What happened at the meeting?”

  “Nothing. He never showed up. I got word a few minutes ago that he quit his coaching job and his teaching job.”

  Turner knew real power when he heard it. It was always best when a person complied without any threat. Next best was making the threat but never having to carry it out. But if you were afraid to go to a meeting at which a threat could possibly be made, the person calling the meeting had real power. That’s what Mrs. Talucci had.

  Paul said, “I wonder if a coach and a college team will be any less homophobic.”

  Mrs. Talucci shrugged. “Alas, over that I have no control. The scholarship is safe, after that, with luck, Shane’s success will depend on his ability and nothing else.”

  He filled her in on the case.

  All she said about it was, “They are sad people. As human as the rest of us. It’s such a shame so many of them don’t understand that.”

  Back in his house, Paul thought of turning on the television, but all that were on were crime shows or contestant shows that he either laughed at or found boring. He thought he might pick up a book when his cell phone rang. The ID said it was Ian.

  “They’re all here,” Ian said.

  “All who where?”

  “I’m upstairs at the Abbey. The newly disgraced Cardinal, the desperate Abbot, the vicious bishop Pelagius, the unbelievable prick Drake, and the pathetic Tresca.”

  “Why would I care?”

  “They’re fighting. They’re guilty.”

  “They invited you in?”

  “I’m with Demarco. We’re hidden.”

  “What good will it do me to be there?”

  “You don’t want to talk to them?”

  “Very much.”

  “Well, here they all are.”

  “I’ll call Fenwick. This is different from the coffee house the other day. This is going to be an official visit.” After calling Fenwick, he let Molton know what was going on. The Commander told him to keep him updated.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Thursday 7:35 P.M.

  Fenwick parked in a tow zone on North Avenue. Ian and Demarco met them at the far corner of the property at the small park at the corner of North and Milwaukee.

  “What are they doing?” Turner asked.

  “Arguing,” Demarco said.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything,” Ian responded.

  “They’ll still be there when we get in?”

  Ian shrugged. “We won’t find out until we get there.”

  Demarco said, “I can get you a seat where you can see and hear everything, but we’ll be hidden.”

  They followed Ian and Demarco through the grounds. Turner walked next to Ian. The detective said, “You know your way through here.”

  “When you’re diddling with a semi-closeted priest, you do all kinds of things you didn’t think you’d ever do again.”

  Turner said, “You’re in love.”

  Demarco whispered back at them, “Hush.”

  They walked around the rear of the buildings. Th
e path here was crushed stone. Few lights shone in the downstairs of the Abbey dormitory. They came to an entrance in the section that connected the dorm to the immense medieval-looking sections of the complex.

  Once inside in a small hall, Demarco said, “They’re in the nave.” He led them up several flights of stairs.

  Demarco brought them to the choir loft in the rear of the church. They crouched down and peered over the railing. Ian was on Turner’s right, Fenwick and Demarco to his left. The five men they were observing were grouped near the center aisle, halfway between the altar and their perch. Pelagius and Duggan sat next to each other on the left. Bruchard sat across from them. Tresca paced on the altar side of them and Drake leaned against the pillar on the side nearest to the choir loft.

  Ian put one hand over his mouth and whispered, “Well, well, well, a gaggle of horsemen with their own special apocalypse.” Demarco put a hand out and leaned down near the ground and turned his head slightly in their direction. “Be careful. The sound carries.”

  Turner found Demarco was right about the acoustics. They could hear every word. Turner saw Ian take out his smart phone. Ian always had the most up-to-date technological marvel with him. He set it between two pillars of the choir railing and pressed record. Turner heard him mutter, “Eat your heart out, Mitt Romney.”

  Cardinal Duggan was saying, “Those detectives are relentless. I don’t like them. We can’t get at them.”

  Bruchard sat forward. “I thought you had power in this town.”

  Duggan shot back. “You always claimed you were the big shot.”

  Bruchard spat back. “Now that you’re a drag queen, you’re nobody.”

  “As always,” Duggan said, “you bring up examples that have no logical connection to reason or the topic.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Bruchard. “You’re the one who bankrupted the Order. Kappel had proof.”