The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

Leon bothered to finger through the pamphlets, even though he foresaw their contents. The problem with all these bureaucrats is that they never lift themselves off their chairs and go out to see what’s going on and who’s doing it!

  All they had to do was to attend the Saturday afternoon mockeries and watch this distraction of a priest pass himself off as white. But no, all these uppity churchmen and churchwomen could do was write generic gobbledygook communications, and when they’d exhausted that, send form letters and mindless publications!

  It was so simple; Leon just wanted to do the will of God. God surely frowned on what was going on in that historic church.

  He was about to regretfully take himself out of the game when one evening while watching a rerun of the TV drama Law and Order he was inspired.

  The plot revolved around a stalker. The viewer was encouraged to view the stalker as the villain. Leon had to rejigger that plot. Sometimes—and this was one of those times—it became necessary to right wrongs. And if anyone were to rise to correct the wrongs in that parish, the authorities had made it clear none of them would do the job. The hero of this real-life situation would have to be Leon Harkins or no one.

  He watched that episode carefully in the best spirit of emulation.

  How did the protagonist—the villain in this telecast scenario—carry out his campaign?

  For one, he assembled a multitude of publications—magazines, newspapers, pamphlets, etc. Get one’s message in order, then play cutout, pasting letters on notepaper to spell out bold threats.

  Also the stalker needed pictures—mostly, it seemed, to allow him to stay fixed on his target.

  There were few pictures of Father Tully available. There were plenty of pictures of St. Joseph’s church. Some he photocopied at the library. Some he took from brochures.

  As for the quarry himself, Leon surreptitiously took photos. This was the most thrilling part of his adventure. Sneaking around, aiming the camera, and pushing the button was the next best thing to sneaking up, aiming a gun, and pulling the trigger.

  Then there were the phone calls. Leon found a spy store that sold a voice-altering device. It could speed up or slow down the sound of one’s voice, completely masking the identity of the speaker. Leon had seen devices like this used on TV shows. He hadn’t realized he could actually buy one. But, sure enough, for a little more than sixty bucks, he could play in the major leagues of spydom.

  So far the threats had proved empty. They fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. Most frustrating of all, Leon couldn’t tell for sure whether they were even reaching Father Tully.

  Of course, Leon had no knowledge of the possible effect of the threatening letters. He couldn’t be present when—or if—they were opened.

  Were they opened? Were they just thrown in the wastebasket? Were they thrown in the wastebasket unopened? Did Tully laugh at the threats? Had he gone through this before? Was he frightened by them?

  As for the phone calls, at first, Tully had merely seemed concerned, although impressed at the professional manner in which the caller masked his identity. Eventually it became obvious to Tully that the caller was not going to lighten up. It was then that Leon noted, to his satisfaction, an apprehensive tone creeping into the priest’s voice. And now, lately, after hearing only a few guttural words, Tully would hang up, slamming the phone down on its receiver.

  That encouraged Leon greatly. He knew then he was reaching Tully. Yet still nothing happened to that cursed Saturday Mass that so displeased Our Lord.

  Nonetheless, Leon vowed to continue. Nothing would stop him. He would keep it up until he wore down the priest and forced him to pull up stakes and Go!

  But in his inner heart, Leon knew this priest was not going to give up. No, he could and would wait Leon out.

  Leon tried not to think of this inconclusive future. This priest held all the important cards. He had no intention of straightening up, reforming, or mending his ways. He was leading the parish down a primrose path, and no one was going to stop him. Leon was self-condemned to frustrating failure.

  There was only one alternative: If the priest would not leave voluntarily, he would have to be forced to vacate. And how, Leon asked himself, do you do that?

  The day had long since passed when an undesirable was ridden out of town on a rail, tarred and feathered. There was a great deal to say for the Ku Klux Klan. But the organization had lost all or most of its clout. Too bad; this—a black man posturing as white—was right up the KKK’s alley.

  Father Tully seemed impervious to every removal plan Leon could imagine. The priest couldn’t be intimidated or scared off. Leon’s best efforts, his most zealous threats at terrorizing, did no more than make Tully angry. Taking the priest by the scruff of the neck and marching him back to Dallas—or anything in that vein—well, the very idea was impractical and silly.

  Of course Tully might die …

  When he was feeling especially frustrated, Harkins would consider murder. But he never entertained the thought for more than a few seconds at a time. One did not kill anyone, much less a priest.

  It will happen. If you wait long enough, Leon told himself, everything happens. But to have to wait that long—well, that was impractical to a practical man like Leon.

  Somebody was yelling. It was the TV announcer. Some golfer had come within an inch or so of a hole in one. Leon wiggled in his chair. The dog lifted his head from Leon’s slipper, looked around, and saw Puss’s paw emerging from the bottom layer of Mrs. Harkins’s knitting. All was well. He lowered his head again into the instep curve of Leon’s footwear.

  Barely roused by the momentary excitement, Leon opened his eyelids a crack to see the fans gathered around the green. They had witnessed what was almost history being made.

  Suddenly, the golf scene vanished from the screen. Gone was the peaceful setting, the vivid green of the manicured grass, the bright golfing attire. Instead there was the interior of some building. It looked as if there had been a fire. Plenty of dust and rubble.

  Grace Harkins emitted a startled squeal. “Is that what I think it is?” She pointed at the screen.

  “What?” Leon shook off his torpor. “What happened?”

  “Shhh,” Grace stage-whispered. “I want to find out what happened.”

  The camera panned over the area, pausing to focus on a poignant scene. The solemn tones of an unseen reporter were heard. “Floyd”—evidently directed at the anchorman back at the studio—”we’re here at historic old St. Joseph’s church on the northeast outskirts of downtown Detroit.

  “Just a short time ago, this was to have been the scene of a ceremony welcoming George Wheatley, the popular Episcopal priest and preacher, into the Roman Catholic priesthood. He was to be ordained here in this church. But as the ceremony was about to begin, a bomb exploded in the sanctuary …” The camera played about the broken, toppled statues, and the rent and blackened paintings.

  “The police,” the now visible reporter said, “tell us that there has been one fatality, a visiting priest …” He consulted his notes. “As far as we know, there were no other injuries. That alone may qualify as a miracle. And what better place for a miracle than in this ancient parish church. St. Joseph’s parish—in an earlier building—was one of the first churches established by Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac in Detroit.

  “I have with me, Floyd”—the picture widened to include an obviously shaken man—“an eyewitness who was seated near the area where the bomb exploded. He is Thomas McNerney, of Rochester.

  “Mr. McNerney, tell us, please, in your own words, what you experienced here today.”

  McNerney’s eyes were wide with shock. “It was awful! I was talking to a guy from my home parish in Rochester. Then I heard this horrible roar. I had a ringing in my ears for a long time. Matter of fact, I still hear the damn ring—oh, pardon my French.”

  The reporter shrugged the impropriety away. “And then …?”

  “And then I turned around so I could face the altar. Statues w
ere falling and smashing. It was awful! It made me think of hell.”

  “Did you see the priest who was felled by the explosion?”

  “There was so much smoke … I guess I was more interested in the statues and the paintings. But then I did see this figure in black … in the corner. I could tell it wasn’t no statue. But I didn’t realize it was a human being until this Father and another guy, I guess it was a cop—anyway they came running into the sanctuary here and went right to him—I mean to the body.” He shuddered as if with cold. “It was awful.”

  “I see. Well, before that, did you see anybody in the sanctuary? Somebody who maybe shouldn’t have been there?”

  “I didn’t see nobody. I was talkin’ to this guy from my parish. Then it went kerflooey! A big blast. Maybe, because the altar sort of held the blast inside the sanctuary, it saved a lot of lives. I can tell you, I wouldn’t be standin’ here talkin’ to you if whoever planted that bomb hadn’ta put it up against the altar.” He shuddered again. “I hate to think what woulda happened if anybody was on the other side of the explosion. I mean, besides the poor guy who got blown away.”

  “That’s St. Joseph’s!” Grace said needlessly. “We used to belong there.” She turned to her husband. “You still go there, don’t you, hon?”

  “Yeah. But on Saturdays. Not on Sundays.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t go today. You coulda got hurt.”

  “Or killed … like that priest!”

  “So”—the camera again focused on the reporter—“what really happened here? We have learned that the priest who lost his life in this sacred place was just visiting. He planned on attending the ordination ceremony of The Reverend George Wheatley. He appears to have been an innocent bystander. Apparently something in the altar area may have attracted his attention. Curiosity led him up the sanctuary steps—and to his death.

  “We have a police officer here who can fill in some of the gaps in this story.” Again the lens widened to reveal another figure standing next to the reporter. “This is Officer John Nader.” He turned to the policeman. “Officer Nader, can you tell us what happened here? As much as you know at this point?”

  “The investigation,” said the uniformed officer, “is just beginning. One thing we know: The procession was late in starting. We are not at liberty at this point in time to divulge why the procession was delayed. But if it hadn’t been late, all those clergym—uh, persons would have been in their places. They would have been in the direct line of the explosion. Whatever the reason, it was just plain lucky that the delay halted the procession before it entered the church.”

  “I see. What can you tell us about the priest who was killed?”

  “His name was Farmer—Father Joseph Farmer. Earlier, he was sitting in one of the front pews. For his own reasons, he didn’t want to be in the procession. Apparently something caught his attention. That something may have contained the bomb. Our first order of business is to find what attracted his attention … if such an object is still identifiable.”

  “Speaking of that procession again,” the reporter said, “you mentioned to me off-camera a likely scenario. Can you tell us about that?”

  “Well, yes. That altar is made of granite. It’s built something like a packing crate, like you’d use for packing and moving. There’s a slight indentation in the middle of the side that faced the rear of the sanctuary. So the greatest force of the blast would be channeled right in that indentation. Anybody standing near the center of the altar would receive the full force of the explosion.”

  “And what would that do?”

  “Anybody standing there … well … pardon the reference, seeing we’re in a church. But, anybody standing there would end up like that priest who got killed. And if that priest had been a little closer to the center … well, we’d have picked him up with a blotter.”

  “And,” the reporter said, “have you identified who would have been on that spot at that fatal moment?”

  “Yes. The Reverend George Wheatley would have been dead center. And Father Tully, the pastor, would have been right next to him.”

  The camera swung back to capture the reporter’s face staring into it. “So there you have it, Floyd. To recap: Just a little while ago, a powerful explosion occurred in St. Joseph’s church in downtown Detroit. It caused serious but confined damage. One person was killed by the blast. He was a priest, Father Joseph Farmer, a missionary priest who had spent much time conducting services in this city. As far as we know, no others were injured.

  “The police, particularly the Bomb Squad, are beginning their investigation to find the person or persons responsible for this horrible crime.

  “An accident of timing apparently saved the lives of numerous clergypersons. It caused the cancellation, or at very least postponement, of a ceremony inducting The Reverend George Wheatley into the Roman Catholic priesthood.

  “Father Wheatley is extremely well known and well liked in this community. He writes a weekly column in the Detroit News, and hosts a local radio talk show. He is much loved by many people he has helped.

  “Father Wheatley has been taken to the rectory, the priests’ home, for questioning and debriefing, along with several others who were to play principal roles in this afternoon’s rite.

  “We will keep you informed of details as they develop. And now, back to you in the studio, Floyd.”

  “And there you have it,” said Floyd, now on camera. “We return you now to the golf match still in progress.”

  There was a stunned silence in the Harkins living room.

  It was not infrequently that violence, often senseless, erupted in the big city. But that that violence occurred in a church was very much out of the ordinary. That, plus the fact that Leon and Grace were extremely close to the church and the parish of St. Joseph, invested this news announcement with special interest.

  A bomb in a Catholic church? Unimaginable.

  “Is nothing sacred?” Grace asked of no one.

  Leon did not reply. His eyes were once again following the golf match. But his mind was far distant from the greens.

  Just minutes ago, Leon had been thinking that it was inconceivable to kill a priest. The question was: If it is impossible to rid God’s chosen people of this stye in the eye of the Church by any other means, is it permissible to murder him? The answer was: Of course not. Don’t be a damn fool!

  Suddenly, it appeared to be open season on priests. Someone, for whatever reason, had killed one by accident—allegedly—and just missed killing two more deliberately.

  It was like the four-minute mile. It was a given that that record could never be broken—until Roger Bannister did it. Fifteen feet was the untoppable height limit for the pole vault. Six feet for the high jump. And on and on. Records, achievements, almost anything can be improved upon. Records were made to be broken. Impossible dreams become possible.

  The irony of today’s disaster was that someone almost did the trick—if you could believe that cop at the scene of the crime.

  Leon was going to get all the newspapers he could find. He would watch every TV news program starting tonight and running through at least tomorrow. He would have to gather all the data surrounding this event. He would have to plan with greater precision than he had ever invested in any previous enterprise.

  Concentrating intensely, he gave serious thought to precisely what had gone on at St. Joe’s today.

  What if the thing had worked exactly the way it seemed to be planned? The perpetrator likely would have involved not one but two priests. Which one—if only one death was intended—was the real target? Which one was a stalking horse? Which one was taken along for the ride?

  This special challenge faced the investigating police as well.

  The cops would have to find a bond that might link the two priests. Maybe the perpetrator really intended to kill both priests. Lacking that bond, which of the priests was the real target?

  What a marvelous mystery! That could
keep the cops busy till doomsday.

  Meanwhile, Leon’s challenge was to find another occasion when more than one priest might be the intended victim. That could be really tough. But he’d give it a try. Yet he couldn’t waste too much time building this straw horse. Within a relatively short period, he would have to go after Father Tully.

  Who said a priest can’t be murdered? Well, Leon had—earlier this very day.

  “What’s got into you, Leon?” She’d actually stopped knitting.

  “What? What!” He did not want to be distracted from plans that had to be carefully and discreetly laid.

  “You’re not watching the golf match. I can tell.”

  “Can you watch it? After what we’ve just seen?”

  “Well, no. I guess not.”

  Leon hoped that he could silence his wife. His imagination was trying to work overtime. To do this successfully, he wanted—needed—quiet. He didn’t care whether Grace got absorbed in thoughts of murder in St. Joe’s church, the golf match, or her knitting. Just as long as she left him in peace.

  “I don’t think it’s healthy for us to dwell on the trouble at St. Joseph’s,” Grace said. “After all, I know how you feel about Father Tully. You probably wish that he was the one who’s dead. That’s not nice.”

  She knew how he felt about Tully.

  It’s true, thought Leon. He didn’t share everything with his wife by a long shot. But obviously she was plugged in to his feelings toward the traitor-pastor.

  Would he have to kill Grace, too? To shut her up during the investigation that would inevitably follow the second killing?

  He was so fortunate that whoever had planted that bomb had set it up so that there were two possible victims. The cops would have a lot on their plate.

  Once he killed Father Tully, the police wouldn’t have time to concentrate on that death in any exclusionary way. The Wheatley bombing would still demand their attention. This was a lucky break for Leon. Particularly if he could get the two men together again and, hopefully, kill two birds with one stone.

  But what if Grace stuck her nose into this business?