The Hounds of Rome - Mystery of a Fugitive Priest

by Tom Clancy

  “But you would be removing him from a ministry only to assign him to a position where he would be expounding church doctrine and theology to students? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I recognize your objection. But we can see to it that he is assigned to teaching duties of a secular nature. I believe we should tackle this problem in easy stages. And before I take any further action, I would want to contact the Vatican for an opinion.”

  “Your Eminence, please consider for a moment a worst case scenario. The old woman talked. Eventually, Murphy will find this out, and it may be that he knows it already, but in his obstinacy he would refuse to resign. Defrocking him would raise questions and the entire situation would become known. We can’t let that happen. Thus, if it were my decision, I would transfer him faraway. Besides, there are other issues.”

  “Such as....”

  “There have been allegations of misconduct. The sexton of Holy Rosary Church for one.”

  “Phillip, in my many years in the church I have heard numerous allegations and complaints. Some have been substantiated and in those cases I have taken appropriate action, but in the Murphy case, the sexton you mentioned was dismissed for embezzlement.”

  The cardinal, pleased with himself for remembering the details of the case, went on. “And you must admit that some complaints are ridiculous. I remember the case of the father who complained because Murphy called three strikes against the man’s son while acting as umpire in a softball game. He said Murphy was biased against his son. However half-a-dozen other witnesses agreed that the calls were correct.”

  With his usual dogged persistence, the auxiliary said, “But you surely see that in this case, if Murphy was transferred to the isolated Passion Monastery, it would preclude any further action on our part? Problem solved. We’d simply hand him over to the Tucson diocese, with proper funding of course, and then be rid of him.”

  “My dear Bishop,” the cardinal said, with growing impatience, addressing his subordinate with an attempt at formality, “at this point we are not sending him to that godforsaken outpost.”

  “What if he requests a hearing when he is transferred from Holy Rosary to Catholic University? Do we grant him one? Being right here in Washington, he could become a pest.”

  “I think not. He will do as he is told without question. Need I remind you, Bishop Rhinehart,” the cardinal said formally, “that Murphy has taken a vow of obedience and hasn’t to my knowledge ever broken that vow?”

  “One never knows that the vow of obedience will be observed until it is tested.”

  “Then this transfer without explanation will serve as the test. I will assume any risk. Bishop Rhinehart, will you for once, just once, follow my instructions? You might think of it as observing your own vow of obedience.”

  “It will be carried out just as you wish, Your Eminence.”

  2

  Father Steve Murphy hurried down the long corridor of the rectory with a sidelong glance at the line of photographs of former pastors of Holy Rosary Church that lined the wall. He gazed momentarily at the empty space reserved for his picture. He had only been pastor for eight years, so it might be a long time before his black-framed face hung on the wall with the rest. The priest turned left into his office and slipped into the big comfortable leather chair behind his desk. He wheeled around to the PC at his workstation and signed in. He usually smiled when he put in his password—priest. Not very creative he thought, but after all, he wasn’t protecting state secrets. Twenty-two e-mails. He read the one from his brother, Jonathon, in Wayland a suburb of Boston. It was not a cheerful message. Jonathon had been having difficulty swallowing with a tentative diagnosis of early-stage Lou Gehrig’s disease.

  The priest sat back in his chair, softly felt his throat with his fingertips and tried swallowing nervously a few times. Still OK. Their father had died of the disease and Father Murphy was beginning to believe it was hereditary. He knew there was no cure. Jonathon was sixty-six, eighteen years older than him. It went without saying that he felt badly for his brother, but in his gut he had a more primordial fear for himself. Maybe prayers would help. But Father Steve Murphy didn’t think prayers worked that way. He was a fatalist and although he loved God deeply, he didn’t believe in modern-day miracles. He doubted that God interceded in cases like this.

  Ignoring the rest of the e-mails, he turned to face the stack of mail arranged neatly on his desk by the church secretary. He saw it on top of the pile—the letter from the archdiocese. He nervously sliced open the envelope.

  Hearing a slight rustling sound, he glanced up and saw Father Davis standing in the doorway. “That could be it, Steve,” Father Davis said as he glanced at the envelope with a congratulatory smile. “The archdiocese has finally recognized your talents. Looks like you’ll soon have the title of Right Reverend Monsignor.”

  Steve smiled back. “Maybe,” he said, “but with Bishop Rhinehart, as second in command, you never know.”

  He opened the letter. He glanced at the opening paragraph. At the bottom he saw that the letter was signed by Bishop Rhinehart. A sudden stabbing pain ran through his gut. He dropped the letter on the desk. Then he picked it up again and held it out. “Here, John, read it.” He reached into his lower desk drawer for a cigarette. “Forgive me for lighting up in a smokeless rectory. But since it looks like I’ll be leaving, let’s just say I’m having one for the road.”

  “Leaving? Incredible. But you’re right. The letter says you’re being transferred with only three days to pack up and go. You’re being transferred to a house of studies...the Dominican House? It doesn’t make sense. You’re not in an order, you’re a diocesan priest. On top of that, your record here has been excellent. I don’t want to seem nosy, but have there been any complaints?”

  “If there were, I’ve never heard them.”

  “Why would the cardinal let Rhinehart do this?”

  “Everyone knows the cardinal is aging and in poor health. He lets Rhinehart make almost all of the decisions.”

  “But Steve, the cardinal must know the parish is in the final phase of the building program. You raised the money, worked with the architects and builders. Who could jump in at this point?”

  Father Murphy looked over at the figure in the black cassock with the starched white Roman collar, who had just slumped into a chair near his desk. “You, John,” he said, nervously tapping cigarette ash into an empty styrofoam coffee cup. “I suppose you’ll have to take over. You’ve been assistant pastor, so who else?”

  “Maybe they’ll assign another priest here.”

  “Perhaps, but didn’t you see Bishop Rhinehart’s attempt at an explanation at the end of the letter about the archdiocese having to cut back? Frankly, what the devil does ‘cut back’ mean?”

  Father Davis used the letter to wave away some of the cigarette smoke that had drifted in his direction. “Could it be finances?” he asked. “Parish finances are in pretty good shape, and with the great influx of middle class Hispanics into the Washington area, the coffers of the archdiocese must be overflowing.”

  “I doubt that it’s money and I’ll bet it has nothing to do with the shortage of priests, because if it were, he’d be transferring one of us to a parish that was badly understaffed...not to a house of studies. There must be something else going on. The thought crosses my mind that he might be punishing the parish, and me, in particular, for building a modern church rather than a traditional Gothic monstrosity.”

  “But I still don’t get it, Steve. I just don’t get it. Out of the blue. No warning. No real explanation. I might believe it if the parish finances were in bad shape, but they aren’t. And look at the school—just about on budget; top marks on standardized tests! I knew Rhinehart was a pain in the butt. I never thought he was this callous. Can’t you appeal it?”

  “Oh come on John, that pompous ass sits down there at the right hand of the cardinal like Jesus at the right hand of God the Father. Only it’s terribly sacrilegious of me to
compare him to Jesus. More like the serpent under the Virgin’s foot. And if I did appeal directly to the cardinal, it would bounce right down to Rhinehart. I don’t think the cardinal gets involved at that level. On top of that, we both know that an appeal borders on breaking the vow of obedience.”

  “What do we tell the congregation? They’ve been making plans to celebrate your elevation for months.”

  “I know this sounds sour, but I didn’t see any mention of becoming Right Reverend in the letter. It’s a transfer, that’s all. And I don’t know how we’ll explain it to the parishioners. I can’t explain it to myself. As Rhinehart said in the letter, I’m being sent to the Dominican House of Studies—it’s right across the street from Catholic University. The letter says ‘temporarily’. One puzzling aspect,” Steve added with a smirk, “is how the archdiocese convinced the prior of the Dominican House to agree to take me in when I’m not a Dominican.”

  “What will you do there? It’s a retreat house isn’t it?”

  “It’s run by the Order of Saint Dominic. Ancient order. Mendicant friars, vows of poverty and God knows what else. Frankly, I don’t know what I’ll do there. But I do know I’m not spending the rest of my life wearing sackcloth and ashes. I did hear once that some of the orders located at the university provide teachers. Who knows, I may become a professor—pro-temp, that is.”

  “Steve, that’s an idea. Why don’t we tell the parishioners you’ve had a long-range goal to be on the faculty at C.U. and the opportunity finally came along? Of course, they’re still going to feel you’re abandoning them.”

  Father Murphy shrugged his shoulders at the suggestion. “Why not?” he said. “Not a bad idea. It avoids having to explain something that can’t be explained.” He nervously lit another cigarette from the lit end of the first one.

  As Father Davis left, Steve Murphy got up and went to the window. He could see the new church nearing completion. He felt sick as he realized he would never participate in the dedication. He might be invited back for the ceremony, but someone else would assist the cardinal in the dedication.

  It was growing late in the day. The new church loomed as a large round dark blue glass silhouette against the setting sun. Here and there a few weak rays of sunlight filtered through the glass. He glanced to the side. He could dimly see his reflection in the partially open side casement window. If the story of his happily going off to fulfill the dream of university teaching was to be believed, he would have to brighten up that glum look. He ran his hand under his chin. He needed a shave. As he studied his image in the side window, he bent his head and examined the tousled black hair on top. He turned his face to check out the slightly graying sideburns at the temples. Dark emerging stubble below. He always shaved twice a day. He had no choice. Maybe as a college professor he could grow a beard, if in fact, the transfer to the Dominican House turned out to be a teaching job. He wasn’t happy that the transfer letter made no mention of his new duties, but considering the way Bishop Rhinehart usually operated, it wasn’t a surprise.

  As he looked at his reflection in the window, the priest stroked an imaginary beard. He hadn’t been on a campus in years. Did today’s professors wear beards? He saw a twisted grin reflected in the glass. He uttered a mirthless laugh. With his tendency to heavy hair growth, with a full beard, he’d soon look more like an Orthodox Jew than a Catholic priest.

  A thought came to him—one born of years of absolute trust in God and the church. Maybe things would turn out OK. Maybe a new assignment could provide relief from the heavy stress he had been under for a long time. It could turn out to be a spiritual renewal after years spent running a parish church and school, and building a new church on top of that. His latest year had consisted of a continuous round of fund-raising, studying blueprints, arguing with architects and builders, and paying bills. There had been little time for reflection, meditation, prayer.

  But as Steve Murphy stood at the window, suddenly the shock came back. He winced at the sickening pain in the pit of his stomach. There was something he could only describe as sinister going on. Temporary transfer. What does that mean? After all the years of his service to the church, why should he settle for that? But he knew he had poor choices—he could follow orders and go or he could resign. It was that simple. He wondered for the first time in his life what place there really was for him in the church. Had God forgotten him?

  Nothing could compensate for the double blow of being passed over for Monsignor and losing his parish at the same time. He thought of all the unfinished work. Someone else would finish it. Someone else would get the credit. He resented that. He didn’t hunger for credit, but he didn’t like it stolen from him either.

  Another glance in the glass at the narrowed eyes and tight-drawn lips told him his initial shock at the transfer was slowly being supplanted by new emotions: rising anger and a feeling of hopelessness.

  *****

  Gym bag in hand, Father Murphy crossed the courtyard and entered the school. Saturday afternoon. Pickup basketball game going on as usual. “Hiya, Father.” “Hiya, Father.”

  “Keep on with your game, boys. I just came over to lift some weights.” In the locker room he changed into gym clothes in a small separate room reserved for the priests of the parish.

  Over in a corner of the gym, he slid weights onto a barbell. He was tall. Rugged build. Thought of himself as wiry. Strong, but certainly not a muscle man. Not a body builder. He knew cigarettes and exercise were a contradictory mix and he was usually able to keep it down to an occasional cigarette—unless he was under stress.

  He worked out because it made him feel good. He liked the heft of the weights. He liked pulling against something and having it resist. He found he could always work off some stress. Today he had a lot to work off. He locked the weights onto the barbell, but as he lifted it on his fifth rep he carelessly let the weighted bar down too hard. A loud clank echoed through the gym. Embarrassed, he waved at the boys who had stopped their game in surprise.

  “Just a slip, boys. Just a bit careless.”

  After his workout, the priest noticed that the basketball game was one-sided. “Need another player?” he asked.

  “Sure, Father. You can be on the side of Timmy and the other altar boys.”

  An hour later, the priest sat on one of the benches surrounded by the group of boys. “There’s something I have to tell you guys. I’m leaving Holy Rosary. I’m being transferred to Catholic U. to do some teaching.”

  This announcement was followed by groans. “Don’t you like it here?” Timmy asked.

  “Yes, of course I do. But being a priest is like being in the army. You get an order and you have to follow it.”

  “Will the new pastor take us to baseball and football games?”

  “When I find out who it is, I’ll speak to him about it. Until then, Father Davis will take over. As you know, he tagged along wherever we went, so I’m sure he’ll keep taking you.”

  “We’ll miss you Father,” the boys said almost in unison.

  “And I’ll miss you,” Father Murphy said with glistening eyes that he covered up by wiping a handkerchief over the sweat on his brow.

  *****

  As Father Murphy walked back to the rectory, he thought of a day several months before. He had been in the sacristy, ready to begin morning Mass. He had been following the usual preparation. He had slipped on and smoothed down the long white alb. Tightened the cincture around his waist. Kissed the stole, slipped it on. Kissed the chasuble, slipped it over his head. Then suddenly, Timmy, his regular altar boy, had rushed into the sacristy crying with a bloody nose. The boy had fallen on his face rushing to the church. In the sacristy, holding the boy’s head back, and pressing his nostril closed, he had managed to stem the flow of blood. Then to console the boy, he put his arm around him, pressed him close. He remembered it was at that precise moment that the sexton had walked into the sacristy. The sexton had a surprised look on his face.

  “Oh, did I come in
at the wrong time?” he had asked with a sly grin.

  Father Murphy had tried to explain but he knew it sounded lame. It was really nothing. Just a friendly gesture to comfort the boy. Why make anything of it? But he and the sexton had never gotten along. Several run-ins over church supplies had never been resolved. He thought the sexton might have been skimming off the top. He eventually had to remove the sexton and explain the situation to Bishop Rhinehart when an audit of parish finances concluded that the sexton was a thief. He wondered whether the abrupt transfer had anything to do with the earlier incident with the altar boy. To get even, had the sexton made a complaint to the archdiocese? The church was so beleaguered by reports of pedophile priests, Steve Murphy didn’t kid himself—even a spurious complaint could cause trouble.

  3

  Father Murphy pulled his car up in front of the Dominican House on Michigan Avenue, directly across from the Catholic University campus. The House had no reserved street parking and no parking lot. The Dominicans took a vow of poverty. No private autos, hence no parking lot. He finally parked on a side street two blocks away, and trudged with some of his belongings to the front entrance. Inside, it was dark, musty smelling. He blessed himself at the holy water font just inside the door. The only sound came from the floorboards that creaked as he walked through the hallway of the ancient building. Cracked oil paintings of what he assumed were dead former Dominican Priors in yellowed ivory robes stared down at him. They had oil paintings, he noticed, unlike Holy Rosary where they were content with simple photos in cheap black frames. The vow of poverty doesn’t extend to the paintings, he thought wryly. With a twinge, he recalled the empty space back at the parish that would soon hold his own photograph. “I may be gone,” he muttered with a set jaw, “but at least I’m not dead.”