Monsignor Kempe,
I hereby resign from my employment at the Catholic Center of the Archdiocese of Baltimore.
By the time you read this letter, my reasons for terminating my association with the archdiocese will be clear to you.
Instead of Daniel 5:7, you might read Luke 14:11.
Margaret Comiskey
If Kempe checked the reference to Luke 14:11, he would read, “For all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”
What Margaret Comiskey didn’t understand sitting at her kitchen table late that Friday evening was that her short letter of resignation was not short enough.
31
On the eve of Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison’s jubilee, the cathedral rectory was wrapped in a monastic silence as eerie as the empty and darkened Basilica of the Assumption. Lights remained on, however, in the suites of Bryn Martin and Aidan Kempe.
Martin thought of watching the late news before taking a Tylenol PM and turning in. Two concerns would likely keep him awake—a mysterious man with a laser and a badly shaken Margaret Comiskey, a good friend and long-time employee of the archdiocese whose nephew and godson, he had just discovered, had been sexually abused by the retired archbishop of Baltimore. She had to be devastated. What compounded his anxiety and concern was Margaret’s determination to keep this information from him.
Martin opened his briefcase and took out the Mass booklet that ushers would distribute at the doors of the Basilica. The irony of it all caught him—Margaret had been placed in charge of drafting the booklet and having it printed. In fact, she had done much of the planning and organizing that went into Gunnison’s golden jubilee. Martin thought the Mass booklet rather striking—premium cream vellum stock that worked nicely with the Century Gothic font. The cover, bordered in a rich maroon, consisted of a color photograph of the still-handsome Gunnison in his episcopal robes. The practiced smile, cordial but hardly warm, was aimed to project intelligence and pastoral solicitude. Martin never thought it worked. Maybe it was the vacuous gray eyes. The frontal page, again in color, featured Gunnison’s coat of arms and his motto: God is my rock and fortress. A short paragraph under the arms and motto listed the significant dates—ordination to the priesthood, ordination as bishop, his taking charge of the Archdiocese of Baltimore, and finally the month and year of his retirement.
The processional hymn, to Martin’s surprise, was Confitemini Domino, “Let us praise the Lord,” a popular hymn from an ecumenical community of Christians in Taizé, France. Bryn loved the piece—it was prayerful, contemplative, and inclusive. He had expected something triumphal, something with trumpets and drum rolls. The humble, contemplative tone of the Taizé piece disarmed him.
The back of the second page, under the heading Liturgy of the Word, listed the scriptural readings of the Mass and the names of the lectors. The first reading was the well-known Isaiah passage from Chapter 61, “The spirit of the Lord is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me; He has sent me to bring glad tidings to the lowly, to heal the brokenhearted…” Appropriately, the lector was Florence Merriman, chair of the Catholic Charities Board of Trustees. Gunnison had been a champion of Catholic Charities, and Catholic Charities in turn provided care and shelter for boys and girls in need of special help. Good for Gunnison. But Bryn thought of the boys abused by Gunnison. There would be a certain irony if some of them had received help from Catholic Charities agencies.
Lately, whenever Martin had a chance to speak to Baltimore’s priests, he liked to remind them of the maxim embraced by the medical profession: “First, do no harm.” He turned to the next page and saw The Reverend Monsignor Aidan Kempe, JCD, listed as the homilist. No surprise here. Kempe would pull it off, but it would be a challenge. He would have to be careful. He had to avoid damning Gunnison with faint praise or showering him with effusive plaudits. Martin returned his attention to the booklet and found that The Reverend Eric St. John was the master of ceremonies for the Mass. Again, no surprise. St. John was part of Gunnison’s priest support group and an expert liturgist.
Martin’s eyes rested on Margaret’s name next to the heading: Prayer of the Faithful. He wondered if she would even show up now that she believed Gunnison had abused her nephew, and he made a mental note to tell St. John to arrange a backup. Her name was listed again on the last page under Acknowledgements where Gunnison thanked by name the Catholic Center staff who did the real work on the planning committee.
Just down the hall from Bryn Martin’s cathedral rectory suite, Monsignor Aidan Kempe rested the four-page text of his homily on his lap. The chancellor sipped mineral water and stared into the flames of his gas fire. Better than no fire at all, but he wanted to hear the crackling snaps of dry wood and to inhale the smoky smell of a wood-burning fire. The room was dark, save for the patterned flames of his faux fire, the lit candles on the mantle, and the reading light next to his chair. Kempe took several deep breaths and closed his eyes. Could it not be that the breath filling his lungs and swelling his chest was the very breath of the Holy Spirit? His mission, the mission of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple, was, beyond question, critical to the very survival of the Roman Catholic Church. If poor Wilfred Gunnison could dodge one more bullet and then move far away, the Brotherhood would be safe. The odds, he felt, were in his favor.
Kempe paged through his homily. His theme was God’s grace, especially God’s grace in the life of Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison and God’s grace in the glorious history of the Archdiocese of Baltimore. A rather clever way, he thought, to dance around Wilfred’s secret past. Gunnison’s strong suit was his unwavering, uncritical loyalty to the Roman Catholic Church, his unfailing support of Catholic Charities and Catholic education, and, unknown to the Catholics of Baltimore, his loyalty to the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple. Kempe smiled. Of course Wilfred was loyal to the Brotherhood; he wouldn’t have reached his high station without the influence of M’s secret society. And it certainly hadn’t hurt his career that Wilfred Gunnison came from a Baltimore family with money. Even as a young priest, he had moved easily in the upper circles of the city’s civic and business elite.
Early on, Kempe would emphasize the archbishop’s long-standing commitment to Catholic Charities and Catholic education, mentioning a few examples, including the fundraising dinner that would follow the Jubilee Mass. “On so many levels,” he would say with ringing sincerity, “Archbishop Gunnison was a good and faithful priest and bishop to the people of Baltimore.” Here his homily would make a turn from praising Gunnison, God knows he’s not a candidate for sainthood, which should draw a laugh, to the glories of the archdiocese, especially its Basilica. This second part was little more than a brief history of the Basilica. But what else could he do? It was simply too risky to praise the man further.
Then Kempe would deftly turn to the archdiocese’s first bishop, John Carroll, a cousin, he would note in passing, of Charles Carroll, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. “It was John Carroll’s collaboration with Benjamin Latrobe, the foremost American architect of the period and the first architect of the U.S. Capitol, that led to the construction of this historic house of God.” Kempe reread the last sentence and penciled out “and the first architect of the U.S. Capitol.”
“Together,” he would say, “Bishop Carroll and Benjamin Latrobe fashioned our historic and majestic cathedral, now graced with the title, Basilica, in which his Holiness, Pope John Paul II prayed during his 1995 visit to Baltimore. In this Basilica of the Assumption, the Holy Father saw an expression of ‘the sanctuary of conscience, the very heart of all authentic freedom.’” Nice, Kempe thought. But the next two sentences might have to go. “Perhaps even long-time Baltimore Catholics might be unaware that when nearby Fort McHenry was being bombarded during the War of 1812, our cathedral was a part of the strategy of defense against the British. The Cathedral of the Assumption was constructed on the highest point in Baltimore, and had Fort McHenry fallen the walls of the cath
edral were to be manned as the last line of defense against the British.” Interesting enough, he told himself, but too disconnected from Gunnison’s anniversary. He penciled them out.
At this point he would return to Gunnison and the reading from Isaiah. “Today we give thanks to God for our brother Wilfred, for ‘The spirit of the Lord is upon him, for the Lord has anointed Archbishop Gunnison to bring glad tidings to the lowly, to heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives…to announce a year of favor from the Lord.’ On this occasion of the fiftieth anniversary of your ordination to the priesthood and in the name of all gathered here in this historic Basilica, may I say…Congratulations Archbishop Gunnison!” Here he would pause and turn respectfully towards Gunnison, seated on his throne-like chair. The pause, he had no doubt, would lead to a standing ovation, an ovation that might hold for a full minute or more. Wilfred would be in his glory, failing to recognize it as vainglory. Then as the applause died and the assembly sat down, he would close with, “May God bless you, Archbishop Gunnison, and give you many years of favor from the Lord.”
It would do quite nicely. In fact, a second standing ovation might follow.
Dan Barrett and Paul Kline sat high up in the seats of the Loyola Blakefield gym watching the boys varsity basketball team play Towson Catholic.
“He hasn’t returned one of my calls.” Barrett said. “Not one.”
“I’ve tried, too,” Kline added. “Haven’t heard from him either.”
Neither one of them paid much attention to the game.
“Do you think we should go to Gunnison’s big Mass tomorrow? If Mark’s going to do something stupid, the Mass might be…like…the perfect place to get even with him.”
Kline nodded. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. We should go. The Mass would be something he’d find tempting. If he’s there, we could just sit next to him or close enough to keep him from doing something he would regret.”
“I was thinking, Paul, if he’s at the Mass we might not see him.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about? Kline asked sharply.
“Mark was a sniper, for Christ’s sake. Think about it. If he doesn’t want to be seen, we won’t see him.”
“Maybe,” is all Kline could say.
“The Mass is at five,” Barrett said. “I’ll pick you up at four. We oughta get there early.” Then he added, “And wear a sport coat.”
With Blakefield up by twelve, they left at half time.
32
Thirty minutes before the start of Gunnison’s Jubilee Mass, Bishop Bryn Martin stood at the entrance to the sacristy of the Basilica, flanked by Duane Moore and George Havel. Each of the men scanned the half-empty pews trying to anticipate where a man with a rifle might station himself.
Martin broke the silence. “Archbishop Gunnison and Monsignor Kempe understand you will drive them to the Sheraton directly after the Mass. Meet them here in the sacristy and take them to your car.” Moore and Havel nodded.
Martin reached into his pocket, “I have an usher’s badge for you, Duane,” Martin said, handing him a blue plastic lapel tag that read “Usher” over “Basilica of the Assumption” printed in smaller type. Moore clipped it over the pocket edge of his suit coat.
“Good idea,” he said. “I can move up and down the aisles without drawing too much attention.”
“We’re expecting around three hundred guests at the dinner,” Martin reminded them. “Probably a third of them will come to the Mass. They should be easy to identify in their business-formal dress. The ushers will encourage them to move to the front pews. The rest of the worshipers will be parishioners. Around two hundred or so. It’s hard to say. It’s likely the Basilica will be two-thirds full.”
“The only thing I can tell you two,” Moore said, “is that the guy I got a glimpse of is about six foot, athletic build but trim, built more like a tennis player than a football player.”
Havel and Martin nodded.
“We can expect one or two of the local TV stations to send a camera crew to film a bit of the Mass. Once they get a little action footage of the archbishop,” Martin said with the hint of a smile, “they’ll be out of here. Probably WBAL will show up and maybe WJZ. And we’ve hired a photographer. He’ll be shooting discretely throughout the Mass and he’ll also be at the reception and dinner.”
“I think Duane and I should separate, move down the side aisles and check out the vestibule,” Havel suggested. “We’ll meet back here in ten minutes.”
“That should work,” Martin said. “I’ll have a cassock and surplice ready for you, George. Some of our seminarians will be serving the Mass, but I’ve asked another senior server, a man about your age, to serve so you won’t stand out.”
“Very kind of you, Bishop,” Havel said.
“The master of ceremonies is Father St. John, a friend of the archbishop’s. I’ve informed him that you would be seated in the sanctuary. He seemed a little puzzled,” Bryn added, “but didn’t ask any questions.”
At four forty-five, Bishop Martin made his way into the nave and slid into the pew next to his sister Nora, Ian, and Ian’s mother. “Hope this goes well,” Nora said to her brother. Ian simply put an encouraging hand on Bryn’s arm. But it was Ella’s tense shoulders and alert eyes that ratcheted up his own mounting anxiety.
“I’ll meet you at the reception,” Bryn said matter-of-factly. “I’d much rather be at your table for the dinner, but Archbishop Cullen has seated me next to the nuncio.”
“Of course, Bryn,” Nora said. “We never thought you’d be at our table.”
“I made sure Margaret would be at your table,” Bryn added quickly. “She’s really pulled this whole celebration together.”
“Yes, I know,” Ella said, holding Bryn’s gaze. And that’s why I’m so worried, she wanted to say.
Ian squeezed Nora’s hand as Bryn gave his sister a quick hug.
“Time for me to get vested,” Bryn said, trying to sound hopeful. “I’ll see you at the reception.”
At four-fifty, Moore and Havel stood at the outside door of the sacristy, trying to catch Bryn Martin’s eye. The large, high-ceilinged vesting area and the robed and mitered bishops made them both feel out of place. Martin waved them in and motioned them to a corner of the sacristy next to the vestment closets.
“Anything out of the ordinary?” Bryn asked.
Moore spoke first. “A few minutes ago two men entered the main door, stood in the vestibule for a while apparently looking for someone. But then they split and seated themselves on opposite sides of the Basilica. Both were close to the height of our man with the laser.”
“And they seemed to be in their late thirties, early forties,” Havel added. “Why didn’t they sit together?”
“I’ll be keeping an eye on them from the back, and George from the sanctuary, The only other person of interest is a man seated in the last pew. He’s dressed in black and at first I thought he was a priest. But he’s not the man I saw at Immaculate Conception…too heavy set,” Moore added.
“During the procession, point them out to me if you can.”
It was almost five o’clock.
“George,” Martin said, too sharply, “You need to put on the cassock and surplice that’s on the vestment case behind you.”
Havel slipped off his suit coat and self-consciously started dressing like a senior acolyte. “By the way,” he said offhandedly, “I spoke with both photographers and checked their IDs.”
“George,” Martin said with alarm, “We hired only one photographer.”
Duane Moore looked from Havel to Martin. “I’m on it,” he said and hurried out of the sacristy and down the side aisle of the nave.
The only women among the bishops, priests, and seminarians in the Basilica’s sacristy sat on folding chairs near the door leading out to the sanctuary.
“I’m Father St. John, the master of ceremonies,” the young priest said, bending slightly as if he were speaking to two deaf old ladies.
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br /> Margaret Comiskey and Florence Merriman looked up at the officious priest and waited for him to go on.
“When the procession leaves the sacristy, that will be your cue to take the two chairs in the sanctuary I pointed out to you earlier. They’re on the same side as the ambo.”
Comiskey said nothing. Merriman nodded and St. John noticed her forbearance.
“After you do the first scripture reading, Mrs. Merriman, you simply leave the ambo and return to your chair.” Then he turned to Comiskey. “Margaret, after you complete the Prayer of the Faithful, remain at the ambo while Archbishop Gunnison says the concluding prayer, and only then do you return to your chair. Are we clear, ladies?”
The president of the Board of Catholic Charities and the secretary to the chancellor held the gaze of the master of ceremonies.
Finally, Merriman said coolly, “Perfectly.” Then under her breath, You little…. She rose and went to the water cooler. It seemed strangely out of place in the Basilica’s clerical dressing room.
Martin, now vested, took the opportunity for a last word with Comiskey. Even a longtime chancery staffer could be a little nervous if given an active part in a major Mass in the Basilica, especially with a sanctuary full of bishops. He sensed that only a month ago Margaret would have been thrilled and honored to have a role in this kind of high-church liturgy. Now he could only guess at the emotions swirling inside her.
“Are you okay, Margaret?”
Comiskey remained seated, her eyes distant but clear. She nodded.
In spite of the flattering dark blue, ankle-length dress she was wearing, Margaret Comiskey looked anything but okay to Bishop Martin. Her abrupt response was close to rude. Bryn mustered a brief smile and walked back to the vestment case where Gunnison and Cullen made awkward attempts at small talk.
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