I remained silent.
"Fr. Marlon is a complicated character. People are all complicated in their own ways. No one is simply that shell you see when you look at them." He sighed. "Marlon generally explodes into a furious blur when something comes up. And then it's all over. He's quick to react and even quicker to retreat from his first reaction."
"Was that how he acted when Brandt's book was released?"
"And again when Brandt made headlines claiming he'd uncovered new material. Marlon is like fireworks -- big splash and a quick finish into dark silence. He's harmless."
"Maybe." I stared at him.
"I suppose you have to be thorough. I like that."
"What about Wren? He seemed pretty upset when I spoke to him. Looked to me like Brandt's work really got under his skin."
"Wren is public relations. Those guys are only happy when everything goes their way. Nothing out of kilter, no bad spin, every bit of publicity a positive one."
"The pedophile scandals must've made him nuts."
"You can't imagine. He was crazed. Didn't know what to do. I swear, every time I saw him his hair was standing on end. His reaction to Brandt was mild in comparison."
"What about you?"
"And the sex scandals?" He laughed and it was a shy, boyish laugh, as if he were hiding from the realities of the secular world. "I wasn't..."
"No, no. I'm sorry. I meant what about you and Brandt's work? How did you take it? How did it complicate your life?"
"Personally, I take things like that with a large grain of salt. Everyone loves conspiracy theories. Who shot JFK? Who was really behind 9/11? How did Marilyn Monroe actually die? They never get tired of spinning theories."
"True. But the possible murder of a pope. That really wrinkled some shirts."
"Italians have been concocting theories about popes and murders for centuries. When a pope dies after only thirty-three days, you can bet your life savings that conspiracy theories will spin out of control within hours. That's just what happened."
"Looks like everyone wanted a piece of that particular conspiracy."
"Everybody's got a different spin. Believe me. I've read all the books. Even a few that were never published in English."
"But Brandt claimed to have new material."
"So he did. Except he never offered any. Besides, everyone involved is dead, so, who would he hurt anyway?" A sad smile crossed Kusek's lips. The soft sunlight in the room made his expressive face appear vulnerably beautiful.
"According to Wren, Brandt's work would hurt the Church in a more general way. Destroy people's faith in the institution's integrity," I said.
"After two thousand years, I think we can take the hit and survive."
"No doubt," I said. "So you didn't hold Brandt responsible? Didn't want him silenced?"
"I didn't give him much thought. I wanted it all to blow over."
"What about your boss?"
"Cardinal Galante? What about him?"
"How'd he react? The man's a powerhouse in the Church. I've heard him called the 'American Pope.' Right?"
"He's the one American cardinal with a good chance of getting elected. Others look up to him."
"Brandt's work must've angered him or at least worried him."
"To tell you the truth, the Cardinal dismissed the whole thing as hogwash. A manufactured series of publicity maneuvers to sell books. The Cardinal wanted Brandt to fade away. He felt the less publicity we gave him, the better. If we reacted, that would mean more ink for Brandt. Just like all those films people protest. The more they protest, the bigger the take at the box office. His Eminence understands that kind of thing. He chose to ignore Brandt and his attempts to goad a reaction out of us."
"Smart man," I said.
"Smart, wise, and kind." Kusek said, the look in his eyes softened. "He's been around a long time. And he's done a lot of good. I wouldn't be sitting here today if he hadn't come along and saved my life. If it happens that he becomes Pope, no one deserves it more. Of course, there's already someone sitting on the throne."
"I've heard rumors the Pope is not well, is that true?"
"He's not getting any younger, that's for sure. But I haven't heard there's any reason to believe he's not going to be around for a while," Kusek said. He drained his cup and looked at me. "Have I helped you any with your investigation? Do you need me to let people know you're welcome to interview them? Just say the word."
Before I could answer, the door to the office opened and in walked a short, stout, grandfatherly man. I recognized him immediately especially as he was dressed in a cassock trimmed in scarlet and wore a red zucchetto on his head. The scarlet sash around his waist emphasized his girth but, I had to admit to myself, he didn't look comical because of it. He had presence and an air of authority and at the same time gave off a feeling of benevolent gentility.
Cardinal Galante smiled as we both stood. He had a kindly face with just enough wrinkles to lend him the authority of age without making him look weak, a shock of white hair, brown eyes that held a happiness which spread to the rest of his expression. It was almost infectious but then I remembered his position on gays and I got over the warm and fuzzy feeling.
"Your Eminence. I thought you were getting ready for your trip to Rome."
"I've postponed for a few days. I still feel wobbly from the knee surgery. I apologize if I've interrupted your meeting. Gladys wasn't at her desk, so I took the liberty..."
"We were just finishing, Your Eminence," I said and the words nearly stuck in my throat. Calling someone Eminence was a little OTT as Anton might say. But over the top or not, I needed these guys to cooperate, so I'd call them 'honey buns' if it'd help. "The Monsignor was gracious enough to give me a few moments of his time."
"This is Marco Fontana, Eminence. He's investigating the murder of Helmut Brandt."
Galante hobbled forward with some difficulty, hand extended. I noticed the massive gold ring on his finger but was not about to kiss that ring. Some Catholics fall all over themselves to do that. I hadn't kissed a Cardinal's ring since I was an altar boy with stars in my eyes about becoming a priest. I stuck out my hand and we shook.
His soft pudgy hands packed a firm grip. He was a man of power and it was evident in his gracefully authoritative posture, the direct way his eyes met yours without wavering, and in the detached, confident way he spoke.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Fontana. A familiar name. I grew up here. Did you know that? One of my grade school friends was Aldo Fontana. Any relation?" He gripped my hand as he spoke. He was in charge and would let go when he was good and ready.
"Not that I know. But I've got lots of uncles and there are branches of the family I've never met."
"You're investigating the death of the writer?" he said, finally releasing my hand.
"Helmut Brandt, yes."
"I'd heard it was a mugging."
"We want to be sure," I said. He'd 'heard' it was a mugging. It was difficult to believe he was that removed from daily events. But, Kusek did say the Cardinal chose to ignore Brandt. "There are a few loose ends his partner would like to tie up. Closure will help with his loss."
"Yes, yes. I'm sure. Tragic thing to be gunned down as if your life isn't worth a nickel. Life is more precious than that." He seemed genuinely disturbed by the state of the world. His eyes lost their happy gloss, his smile disappeared.
"Unfortunately, not everyone agrees. Sometimes all you can do is hope for justice. You can never make things right, exactly," I said.
"Quite right. And wise. You've obviously seen a lot of this kind of thing." He regarded me with amused curiosity. "Well, if there's anything we can do to help..."
"I've assured Mr. Fontana that he'll have our cooperation. If he needs anything he can see me any time." Kusek looked at me with something more than just a cooperative glance and I returned the favor. He smiled, a shy small smile that came and went as quickly as a shadow. His boss was here after all.
"I'll be going.
I'm sure you two have business to discuss." I shook hands with Galante again. This time his grip was more gentle, less commanding.
"It was a pleasure. If Aldo is a relative, give him my warmest regards. Tell him I wouldn't mind reminiscing about Sr. Philomena and the other nuns who tortured us all through grade school!" He laughed and it was a sad hollow sound.
"Let me know if you need anything," Kusek said walking me to the door.
"I'll be sure to do that." We shook hands and he held on just long enough to let me know it was more than a good-bye handshake. "You've got my card, if you think of anything else."
***
Marlon's office was a few floors below. Tony was not at his station. But Marlon was filling a mug with coffee and snatching a few cookies from a tray in the outer office when I entered. He looked up, guilt plastered on his pudgy nut-brown face, one hand lingering over the cookie tray.
"Wel-l-l, hello there." An unctuous smile spread across his face. "What brings you back? I must say, I thought we'd finished with your case." He took his mug and a handful of cookies and moved into his office. He beckoned with his chin for me to follow.
"I wasn't quite through, Father Marlon." I sat without permission. I didn't need his say so to get comfortable. I wanted him unsettled. He saw I'd taken a seat and seemed annoyed but said nothing.
He placed the mug on his desk and the cookies on a sheet of paper, brushed crumbs from his hands, and sat down. Once again, it was difficult to tell whether he was sitting or standing.
"What more can I tell you?" He slurped some coffee and popped a cookie into his mouth.
"What exactly do you think about Brandt and his work?"
"I already..." Flustered at first, his face became impassive and calm.
"I know what you told me. But maybe you weren't exactly forthcoming? Maybe because someone else was in the office with us?" I remembered sitting in the exact same chair with Kusek next to me. Marlon had laughed off Brandt's work as just so much nonsense.
"Whatever my reaction to Brandt's work, surely you can't suspect me of having anything to do with this tragedy."
"What did you think of Brandt and his work?"
I watched him carefully. I didn't fully suspect him but I wondered about his influence on people who worked under him.
"I believe I've already told you. But, if you insist... I thought Brandt was... misguided," he said. I was close enough to see that his pupils dilated as he spoke. He had rather large, slightly bulging eyes to begin with and they revealed a lot. He fought with himself on this point.
"That's a pretty mild assessment of a man whose work could have destroyed a lot of people or so Mr. Wren says."
"Wren? He was quite angry... furious... " He stopped himself realizing he'd cracked the door a little too much. "He was outraged. Who can blame him? We spoke several times. He knew Brandt was a publicity hound. It's Wren's business and he knows the type. But Brandt's life was less than perfect. He should have been more careful."
"He was a less than perfect, misguided soul? That all you felt?"
"Yes. But Wren wanted to take legal action. He was intent on getting an injunction."
"You felt that was wrong?"
"No... uh... yes. I mean... Brandt was wrong-headed but I saw no point in a lawsuit. That would make more headlines."
"So you convinced Wren to drop the idea?"
"Wren would never listen to me. He's in too exalted a position to pay attention to me. He only listens to his own voice unless he gets orders from higher up. And that's just what happened."
"Who? Monsignor Kusek?"
"Higher. The Cardinal refused to hear anything about a lawsuit. He told Wren exactly what I'd already said. Legal action would create unwanted publicity."
"Brandt was trying to sell books. Can't blame the guy."
"His book was all lies and innuendo. He rehashed discredited information and invented more lies. There was nothing new in the trash he promoted. Nothing new. The only thing he accomplished was turning people away from the Church and causing others to lose faith or hope in an institution that was for some the only lifeline they had."
"And getting at the truth? That didn't matter to you?"
"Truth? A decades old death which devious minds try to spin into a murder mystery. Even if Brandt could prove Church officials murdered the Pope, what would be the point at this late date? What would be the point? Is anyone left to pay for the crime?"
"I don't think Brandt cared if anyone paid for the crime. He was after the truth."
"The only ones who'd pay for that alleged crime would be the followers of the Church. They would pay with their faith. They would pay by losing something to hope for and believe in. No one in a lofty position will pay for that crime, if there was a crime. They're all dead. All gone." He sat back, breathing rapidly with his effort.
I kept silent.
"So, truth? The Truth is far more complex. The truth in this case is compassion for those who will suffer the most from hearing Brandt's version of the truth. The real story, the truth no one wants to accept is that Luciani was a sick man whose heart gave out. Will another truth serve to help or to hurt? That's what should concern us."
I hardly knew what to say. The man was passionate. Wrong but passionate. And angrier than he'd wanted to reveal. But there it was. Except, it seemed to me it was the kind of anger that would drive a man to despair not to murder.
"You make a good case, Father, though I can't say you've convinced me."
He stared, deflated, empty of his former passion. He glanced at the coffee and cookies on his desk as if they were something dirty he didn't want near him. The good mood he was in before I'd arrived had evaporated.
"Was there anyone you came across in your duties here, anyone under your authority or that you deal with who was angry enough to..."
"To commit murder? You don't give up."
"Not until I'm satisfied I've turned over every rock."
"I don't have people 'under' my authority. I have colleagues. None of them is capable of even thinking about murder."
I'd heard that line before. It was hardly ever true. But Marlon believed it. I saw that in his eyes, and heard it in his voice. He was also tired. Tired is when they let down their guard. I figured I should hit him with more.
"Maybe you can help with some other names I've come across."
"Haven't you learned enough?" His voice betrayed his surrender.
"Not about these guys," I said. "Francis Clifford. He works in this building, right?"
"A strange little man. Not someone I care to get close to. But he's not violent. Clifford is pathetic. His life is a sham and he has a bloated sense of his own importance. But violent? Murderous? I don't think so."
"How did he react to Brandt?"
"Mr. Clifford's agenda places his self interest first. If he chimed in on Brandt, it was because he wanted to be part of the crowd, part of the angry core, hoping it would give him credit among the higher ups. He cared more about his position than he cared about Brandt."
That's what I'd figured about Clifford, a lot of self-aggrandizing bluster. A showy man with not much to offer. But he also paid close attention to those in power and to those who could get him close to the center. His real value lay in the gossip he possessed.
"I assume you've heard of Tom Quinn?"
"Heard of him? Of course. And I do everything I can to stay out of his way. The man is psychopathic."
"To the point of murder?"
His sipped his coffee thoughtfully, apparently mulling over an answer.
"I'm no expert but I'd have to give a qualified yes."
"Qualified?" I asked.
"Well, I have no direct evidence. I'm not the man's psychiatrist. If he has one, and he should. All I can give you is the qualified opinion of an observer of people."
"You've seen a lot, I'd imagine."
"I have. You can't begin to know. I've been a parish priest. I've worked in some of the best places and some of the wors
t. I've been a chaplain in the Army and at a hospital. It was years before I landed this position and my experience stands me in good stead, I can tell you."
"Did Quinn ever threaten anyone or cause a problem here?"
"He made a nuisance of himself. Always in here for something or other, pestering people for nonexistent documents and inside information. He was convinced we were holding out on him."
"Did he threaten anyone?"
"He issued a veiled threat to me. Said I'd regret not helping him. Told me about a priest in Rome who'd refused to help him."
"What happened?"
"Disappeared, according to Quinn. He'd say anything, make up anything, to get what he wanted." Marlon stopped, took another drink from his cup. "This is cold, mind if I warm it up? Want some?"
"Thanks, no."
He waddled out the door and I heard Tony greet him. He was telling the truth about things. He was a pious, if a bit material, man.
"This is better," he said returning to his desk. He sighed and breathed in the steaming aroma. "Quinn threatened Tony once."
"Why's that?"
"Tony is not one to suffer fools gladly. Quinn made a scene wanting information on the death of Cardinal Krol. Quinn was convinced there was foul play. Something about the liberal faction wanting Krol dead. I asked Quinn why the liberals had waited until Krol retired before they supposedly killed him."
"Good question." I chuckled. Krol had been as conservative as they get but so were his successors. The liberal faction that Quinn fantasized, would've had their hands full. Quinn was a loon.
"He refused to believe me. He badgered Tony for documents, autopsy notes. Anything to prove his point. When Tony finally told him to leave or he'd call security, Quinn threatened him."
"Did you report that?"
"Of course. Quinn never actually did anything so there wasn't much the authorities could do. Tony looked over his shoulder for weeks because Quinn kept calling the office."
"How'd it stop?"
"Tony has some rather large relatives and a few friends who are, what word can I use? Unsavory? Yes, that's a good way to describe them. Tony has some unsavory friends. They told Quinn to leave Tony alone. We never saw Quinn here again."
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