"We've interviewed him and whatever witnesses we could find. That's all I'm gonna say, Fontana. It was another mugging that went bad. In case you don't watch the news, we've got a murder rate ready to break five hundred and the year still has eleven weeks to go."
"Wouldn't clearing this case help?"
"We've got a few more than that to clear, Fontana. And we don't need your help."
"Makes sense, I mean, you wanting to end the year with a lot of open files so you'll have something to do come January. But this case is a little personal."
"How's that?" she said, turning back to her paperwork, obviously not really interested.
"Long story. Anyway Hollister is hurting. Some closure would help the old guy."
"Since when have you started doin' good deeds? You a Boy Scout again?"
"They don't want my kind. I just want to question the witnesses. Hollister can't really remember anything."
"Case is still open. I can't let you have any of that."
Which I knew wasn't entirely true but she was calling the shots.
"You and I both know you could let me take a look at the jacket."
"You and I both also know that I wouldn't let you look at anything remotely connected to what I do."
"Hey, Gina. It's Marco standing here, not Dario. My brother didn't handle things so well with you. But I'm not him. I'm trying to do something good here. How about I get a break from you?"
"Funny, I hadn't thought about that little piece of shit for a long time," she said and I knew she was lying. I always know.
"Then..."
"I don't want to think about him. Then you come in and it's like Dario standing there. You look too much alike. But that isn't why I don't like you."
"It isn't?"
"I just don't like you. I don't like P.I.s and you're a P.I. Even worse, you're you." Her deep brown eyes glittered with something way at the other end of the scale from happy.
"You have guys looking into this case? Could I at least tell Hollister..."
"We've got priorities, Fontana. Other things come first."
"It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that this happened to a gay guy in the gayborhood."
"Don't even pull that card on me, mister. You know as well as I do there's a priority list. My history with your brother hasn't affected my judgment."
"Glad to hear it, Gina. Since it's low priority, maybe I can give you guys a hand?" It was worth one more shot.
"Take a hike. And don't give your brother my regards."
"So, that's it?"
"That's it, Fontana. Now I gotta get back to this work you taxpayers expect me to do." With that she went straight back to making notes on papers and ignoring me. The silence in the room pressed in on my ears.
"Gotcha, chief. Be seein' you." I turned toward the door.
"Not if I can help it, Fontana," she murmured in a soft slurry way.
I gave Obie a salute on my way out.
Strike one. I'd have to try and find the witnesses on my own which wouldn't be a hell of a lot of fun.
I headed for the Archdiocesan offices. Boatload of fun.
***
The headquarters of the Archdiocese on Race Street is located in an awful, coral colored, granite-clad building behind the cathedral. The two buildings presented a contrast. The Italianate cathedral was tasteful. The boxy, ribbon-windowed headquarters showed all the marks of bad taste.
I approached the entrance and felt my heart thumping. Above the entryway, the coat-of-arms of the current cardinal was inelegantly placed inside the glass, which no one had bothered to clean for a while. For some reason, just passing through those plate-glass doors made my heart pump even faster.
The Church still had a shadowy hold over me, not enough to force me into services on Sundays or even Christmas. But it was as if an invisible power loomed over me in this building allowing old fears to bubble to the surface. Years of having been taught by nuns and priests and pious lay people left their mark. I felt their presence humming around me as I moved across the marble floor. Here I was, walking into their lair. At least, their bureaucratic lair.
An insipid little guy, dressed in an ill-fitting gray uniform and sitting at the information desk, told me Clifford was out that day and directed me to Wren's office. As for information on Opus Dei, he told me to try the Cardinal's Office for Public Information. Two out of three wasn't bad. But if I was going to see Clifford that meant I'd have to return to this den which didn't put a smile on my face.
I crammed into an elevator packed with priests. The fluorescent lighting made all of us look pale and not very pretty. I couldn't shake the sensation that someone was about to slap me for being me. The presence of the Church and its power was everywhere in this place.
Before long the elevator spit me out on an institutional-looking floor. Nothing special or elegant, nothing remarkable save for the odor of disinfectant. In fact, it all looked drably cheap, just like the exterior. A directional sign pointed me to Wren's office; I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked in.
The cool silence, plush crimson carpet, and expensive-looking dark wood furniture had me feeling I'd entered another world. The shabbiness of the corridor was replaced by a princely style I expected only in offices of the highest Church officials. A deathly stillness filled the place, like the feeling in a vast, empty cathedral. Nothing moved, nothing felt alive. Gave me the creeps. The fragrance of incense and candle wax in the air completed the illusion that this was a holy place where solemn things got done.
A secretary appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Short and wispy, her face conveyed innocence and suffering. The long-suffering type, biding her time here on earth, waiting for a better place. But she would never admit that. She played her part well as one of the smiling faithful, a good example of those filling low paying secretarial jobs at the Archdiocese.
"Good morning. May I help you?" She took her seat as she spoke and plunked some papers onto the desk.
"I'm here to see Mr. Wren." I smiled.
She looked at me with curiosity. My faded jeans, my clean but wrinkled designer shirt, and my hair which needed to be cut. She frowned her disapproval.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No. I'll be honest, this is a spur of the moment, mission of mercy kind of thing. I was hoping Mr. Wren might just give me a small bit of his time," I said as politely and piously as I could manage.
"Well," she mused and flipped through pages in an appointment book on her desk. "He doesn't have an appointment for another hour. Let me ask him...What did you say your name was?"
"Fontana, ma'm, I'm a private investigator trying to help someone find closure in a murder case."
"And Mr. Wren can help?" I don't know whether she sounded shocked, or proud, or both. "Wait here a moment."
She slipped out of her chair and went through a polished oak doorway recessed into the wall: The inner sanctum. If some flunky of a press guy got this kind of office, I couldn't wait to see the offices of the bigger hoo-hahs.
After a few seconds, she opened the door and looked in my direction.
"He'll see you." She held the door wide for me.
The inner office was as plush as the outer. This pious man enjoyed living well. Red carpeting, dark paneled walls, windows with elaborate treatments. His desk was massive and dark. Everything on that desk reeked of money spent. Sitting behind it all was a reedy man, with hair darkened with dye and skin that looked well hydrated but tight. He was probably as old as Chip but his cosmetic efforts made him seem a bit younger, if plastic.
He stood.
"Mr. Fontana... was it?" He extended a hand. There was a studied wariness about him. Undoubtedly used to dealing with all sorts of people and situations, caution was a good opening gambit.
"Yes, that's right. Thank you for seeing me." I waited for him to ask me to sit. He didn't. I knew then what kind of game player he was.
"How can I help you? My secretary wasn't very clear."
His tone was disdainful
"I'm looking into the murder of Helmut Brandt." I watched for a reaction. Other than a slight twitch at the corner of one eye, there was nothing. "He was a local author. I understand you knew the man."
"Whoever told you that was mistaken. I'd heard of him. Is that all, Mr. Fontana?" His expression of distaste stretched his already taut skin.
He was lying and I knew it.
"You'd only heard of him? Didn't his book shake things up in your circles?"
"The Vatican book? It was nonsense. All of it. I'm in a position to know. I work in public relations, I am privy to a lot of information."
"Were you happy his book gave you a chance to put all those conspiracy theories to rest?"
"Happ... I wasn't happy at all. It was a scurrilous book. Filled with lies and hate. He obviously had an axe to grind."
"Okay, you weren't happy. That why you two had a shouting match a while back?"
"We had a meeting." That little twitch pulled at the corner of his eye again. "To characterize it as a shouting match is..." He paused, gathered himself, and looked me in the eye. "What is it you want, Mr. Fontana? I have better ways to spend my time than to quibble."
"Like I said, I'm looking into Brandt's murder. I'm talking with anybody that had a beef with him."
"A beef? Listen carefully. Mr. Brandt was the sort of man who wanted to tear down the Church at any cost. I don't know his motivation." Wren pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, even though it was three degrees cooler than a morgue in his office. "Part of my job is to nurture the image of the Church in the media. Brandt was shredding it. He was undermining confidence in the hierarchy, casting aspersions on people whose lives are above reproach. Unlike his own."
"How was he not above reproach?" This I wanted to hear.
"He was a homosexual. A homosexual who was unrepentant, proud, and vicious. The men whose reputations he was intent on destroying were saintly. Men who helped people without regard to themselves."
"Okay," I said. And if I believed his load, I'd probably be working somewhere in this building myself. "Is it fair to say you wanted Brandt silenced?" Nice word, "silenced." It covered so many bases.
Wren squirmed. "If you're implying that I would soil my hands in any way... That I had anything to do with his unfortunate murder... and yes, it was unfortunate. Anyone's death is. Particularly a person like Brandt, unrepentant, filled with vitriol. I don't expect they look too kindly on that in the afterlife. I'm sure he's burning in Hell. It could have been avoided."
***
I told Wren I'd be back when I had more information to share. He told me to be sure and make an appointment the next time. Yeah, right. I'd let him know I was coming so he could duck out.
Now I wanted to know about Opus Dei. Not that I for one minute believed they had any involvement. But Hollister thought so and he was paying the bills. He'd need reassurance that Opus Dei wasn't a player. Then I could get on with the real investigation.
In the hall outside Wren's office, I waited for the elevator, feeling as if I'd been exiled to a shabbier corner of the universe. A soft tone signaled the elevator's arrival and the doors whooshed open. I stepped in, stood to the side, and noticed an extremely handsome young priest across from me. Over six feet tall, soft blond hair, blue eyes, and a face which could stop traffic. He glanced briefly in my direction, nodded politely, then stared at the doors as if trying not to engage me.
I almost forgot to hit the button for my floor but when I looked, it was already lit. Meaning he was going to the same floor.
That was confirmed when the doors opened and he allowed me to exit first. He headed off toward the right while I searched the directory for the office I wanted. As it turned out I was going the same way. He walked ahead of me with an odd, twisting gait. We moved down one hall then turned onto another. There was only one door at the end.
He glanced over his shoulder.
"I'm not following you. Honest," I joked.
He laughed and it was a rich throaty chuckle. I liked this man.
"Unless you're lost, we're going to the same office." His voice gave me a pleasant tingle. It was sexy but comforting and soothing. Almost hypnotic.
He opened the door and, once again, waved me ahead of him. Another plush office. This one even had stained glass windows giving the place an eerie, devout atmosphere. The odor of incense and candle wax floated through the air making it smell like a church. I sank up to my ankles in red carpeting as I approached an elegant reception desk of polished light-colored wood. Behind the desk sat a man -- late twenties, dark hair, deep dark eyes, and a smile so white it had to be bleached. The stained glass, the red carpets, the dark oak paneling, and the overall atmosphere gave the guy an otherworldly look. I wouldn't say angelic, though.
"Good morning Monsignor," he said to the priest who disappeared down a hall after giving us both a curt wave.
I stood waiting for the receptionist to turn his eyes on me.
"May I help you?" Finally. The deep voice fit his appearance. He stared at me and I felt naked.
"I was told I could speak to someone in this office about Opus Dei."
"They were mistaken, this isn't Opus Dei headquarters. We don't have any information."
"Why would they send me here?"
"Because they send everyone here when they don't know where else to send them." He was a bit officious which didn't blend well with the tough-guy exterior.
"No one here can give me any information?"
"Fr. Marlon is the Public Information Administrator. He might be able to point you in the right direction."
I waited. Obviously this guy needed prompting or was being a smart ass. I counted to thirty then took the plunge, "Well, any chance I can speak to Fr. Marlon?"
Just as I was asking, the tall, blond priest poked his head around the corner and smiled at us.
"Tony? We're gonna need some coffee," he said and that buttery voice filled the room. "And you can send the gentleman back, Fr. Marlon can answer his questions. I don't mind and it wouldn't be right to keep him waiting."
Hot, kind, considerate, and a priest! Was there no justice?
"Thanks," I said, catching his eye. I wondered just who he was and how he'd heard what I was asking.
"Sure thing, Monsignor," Tony answered with a studied submissiveness. When Tony turned to me, the tough guy was back. "You can go in. But keep it short, they've got work to do." A cute frown knit his thick dark eyebrows together and the twinkle in his eyes was unmistakable. He rose from behind the desk and I noticed that he was small and powerfully built. Kind of an odd choice for a receptionist.
"Thanks, Tony." I said. "Who's this other guy?"
"That other 'guy' is Monsignor Kusek, the Cardinal's personal adjutant. He's here making office inspections. He's got a lotta juice in the Archdiocese. Don't cross him or you'll never get your information."
Things were looking up. A hot priest with power. Never know when that would come in handy in an investigation.
Tony trotted off to get the coffee and I knocked on Marlon's solid oak door and waited. After a moment Kusek held the door open for me. I entered and was in another lavish office with a sleek modern desk at its center. A computer, a printer, and other technological devices sat on counters built into the walls around the office. One short shelf of books took up another side of the room.
At the desk sat a squat, African-American man. His shaved head shone in the light filtering through the stained glass windows.
"Good morning, good morning," Marlon said and stood to greet me. Except you'd never guess he was standing. The man was so short, he looked as if he were still seated. "What can I do for you, Mr.... uh?"
"Fontana. Marco Fontana, Fontana Investigations." We shook hands.
"And this is Monsignor Kusek." Marlon indicated the tall blond.
Kusek extended his hand. "Nice to meet you again," he said, then explained to Marlon how we'd met in the corridor.
&nbs
p; Marlon indicated I should sit, so I did.
"I'm here on behalf of a client. I'm looking into the murder of Helmut Brandt."
"I heard about that on the radio," Kusek said.
"Yes, yes. I did, too," Marlon chimed in. "Tragedy. A young man, quite young. A senseless tragedy. This city is drowning in crime."
"My client doesn't believe it was a random act," I said. "I'm investigating every possibility. I was hoping you could help."
"Help? Well, certainly, of course. But I don't know how I can be of help." Marlon stroked his chin and looked concerned.
"I think, Father, that Mr. Fontana is looking for information on Opus Dei. If I overheard correctly." Kusek smiled at me. "I couldn't help hearing. You were asking Tony as I came around the corner. I hope you don't mind."
"As long as it doesn't become a habit." I laughed. I caught his eye and noticed a certain something there. Oh, I'd be in trouble if I went any further down that path.
"Why Opus Dei?" Marlon lost some of his clownishness.
"The nature of Brandt's work brought him into contact with a lot of groups. Unfortunately his work also made quite a few people angry."
"What... oh, yes, now I remember what that young man was all about. You think Opus Dei had something to do with this? Opus Dei?"
"I need to track every lead."
"Brandt was a provocateur. A provocateur. It must have been in his nature to provoke people. Any number of people were angered by his ravings. Even I..." He stopped himself abruptly.
"You were saying...?" I prodded.
"I'm sure Fr. Marlon was about to say he found himself getting upset at what Mr. Brandt postulated in his book. He was, after all, an activist with an axe to grind. He wanted people to react. Am I right?" Kusek looked at me for an answer.
"I suppose so," I said. He'd used the same "axe to grind" phrase as Wren.
"He managed to get a rise out of lots of people. Even my friend here. Right, Father?" Kusek was smooth, transparent, but smooth.
"Yes. Of course. Of course I was angry. Certainly. I was upset. Many people were upset. Any number of people could have... I mean, anyone might have been... Well, it was upsetting. That's all. No one was happy." Marlon was hopelessly tangled in his thoughts.
Murder on Camac Page 6