Master of Ceremonies

by Donald B. Cozzens

  She could do this, Comiskey told herself. The Prayer of the Faithful, a series of prayer petitions, approved by Wilfred Gunnison himself, were in place on the shelf of the ambo from where she would offer them. After Kempe’s homily and the assembly’s recitation of the Nicene Creed, she would move from her chair, bow to the altar, and walk slowly, like a nun in a monastery, to the ambo. The officious master of ceremonies would be pleased. Margaret glanced down at the Mass booklet in her lap below her folded hands.

  “Archbishops, Bishops, Fathers, may I have your attention please?” Eric St. John intoned a bit too formally. “Please take your places for the processional.”

  Joseph Constanza, one of four seminarians recruited for the Mass, would lead the procession, carrying the smoking censer with burning charcoal already layered with incense, followed by the cross-bearer, two lay servers—including a self-conscious George Havel—and the priests assigned to the Catholic Center staff. The only archdiocesan parish priests in the procession were Fathers Paul Carafa, Herm Volker, and Tom Fenton. Monsignor Aidan Kempe, as homilist, took his place immediately in front of Bishop Martin and the few visiting bishops. Last in line came Archbishop Cullen followed by Archbishop Gunnison, wearing a jeweled miter and carrying a brushed silver crozier. Archbishop Tardisconi, as the presiding prelate, had already taken his place in the sanctuary, flanked by two seminarians serving as his chaplains.

  Father St. John, with a nod to Archbishop Gunnison, picked up the intercom and told the choir director they were ready. It was two minutes after five o’clock.

  The assembly rose as the first strains of the contemplative and soothing “Confitemini Domino” filled the Basilica. “Let us praise the Lord, for he is good and merciful.” Some of the older benefactors looked puzzled. They had expected trumpets and “Ecce Sacerdos Magnus.” Behold the High Priest.

  Martin scanned the backs of the assembly as the procession turned and made its way up the center aisle. He found the man in black standing stiffly in the last pew. His scarf had opened, revealing a Roman collar. Bryn was puzzled. He wasn’t a priest of the archdiocese. Martin knew them all. And if he were a priest friend of Wilfred’s he certainly would have been vested and in the procession.

  Bryn caught Moore’s eye. Standing next to one of the real ushers, Moore shook his head, signaling the second photographer was not a problem. So far, so good.

  Dan Barrett looked across the nave at Paul Kline. Both men shrugged. There was no sign of Mark Anderlee.

  Margaret Comiskey sat stiffly in her chair, her stomach tight, breathing through her nose, pretending to listen to Florence Merriman read the scripture passage from Isaiah. She had forced herself not to look out at the assembly. She couldn’t risk meeting Ella’s glance. She rehearsed again what was only now minutes away. She saw herself moving without wavering, steady and sure, to the ambo for the Prayer of the Faithful. She would walk deliberately—most eyes would be on her—make the head and shoulder bow to the altar, and then move with eyes down, to the ambo. The master of ceremonies would have placed the prepared prayer intentions on the ambo for her.

  The cantor and choir began the responsorial psalm, “Here I am Lord; I come to do your will.” Margaret thought it would never end. There would follow a second reading from the New Testament and finally a passage from the sixteenth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel, “I for my part declare to you, you are ‘Rock,’ and on this rock I will build my church…. I will entrust to you the keys of the kingdom of heaven. Whatever you declare bound on earth shall be bound in heaven; whatever you declare loosed on earth shall be loosed in heaven.”

  Margaret would have to suffer through Kempe’s homily. After the homily and profession of faith, it would be time.

  Kempe’s homily didn’t surprise her. Phony praise for a pervert bishop and a mini-lecture on the Basilica’s historic past. Margaret had expected nothing more. But the applause for Gunnison unsettled her. When Kempe finally finished, Gunnison let the assembly sit in silence for a short while before rising to begin the Creed. Comiskey stood with everyone else. You can do this, she told herself, you can do this. It was time. She had rehearsed this act of retribution over and over. She would do this for Mark…and for the others.

  As if from nowhere, the master of ceremonies was standing before her. He gave her the slightest of nods, her signal to walk to the altar, bow, and move to the ambo. Ten seconds later Margaret was at the ambo. She had done it. She had walked steadily enough, made the ritual bow, and stepped up on the ambo’s platform. Then, discreetly, she placed her Mass booklet over the typed prayer petitions so carefully prepared for her. She waited for Gunnison to give the customary invitation to the Prayer of the Faithful.

  “Grateful for God’s many blessings and confident in his abiding goodness,” Gunnison proclaimed with exaggerated diction, “we now lift up our hearts in prayer.”

  Martin and Kempe both sensed something wrong. Comiskey had carried her Mass booklet to the ambo and taken a folded piece of paper from it. Kempe took a half step toward Margaret, intending to tell her to sit down. He would do the prayers himself. But it was too late. She had already started.

  Comiskey spoke softly but the Basilica’s sound system carried her steady voice throughout the nave.

  “For our Holy Father, the bishop of Rome, that he might lead the church with wisdom and govern God’s holy people with prudence, we pray to the Lord.”

  The assembly responded, “Lord, hear our prayer.”

  “For our Holy Catholic Church,” Margaret continued, “that we might be light to the world and hope for the hopeless and lost, we pray to the Lord.”

  “Lord, hear our prayer,” the people responded.

  “For the shepherds of our church, especially for Archbishop Gunnison and for all who preach the gospel of Christ, that they may be faithful to the Word of God, we pray to the Lord.”

  “Lord, hear our prayer.”

  Martin thought Kempe’s tightened jaw seemed to relax a bit. Margaret was reading the prepared and approved prayers. But Bryn’s stomach remained knotted. He searched for Ella Landers. When he found her she looked pale. Bryn was certain she was thinking what he was thinking. Don’t do this, Margaret.

  “For the victims of violence and all forms of injustice,” Comiskey continued, “we pray to the Lord.”

  “Lord, hear our prayer.”

  Margaret grasped the side edges of the ambo shelf trying to steady her hands.

  “For Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison, celebrating his fiftieth ordination anniversary, that he may know God’s mercy, we pray to the Lord.”

  “Lord, hear our prayer.”

  Kempe stood rigid with anger. Margaret had altered the last petition.

  “For the victim-survivors of clergy sexual abuse, that they may find healing and peace, we pray to the Lord.”

  “Lord, hear our prayer.”

  Kempe shot a glance at Gunnison, who looked confused.

  Margaret paused, now squeezing the sides of the ambo shelf. She took two shallow breaths and searched for Ella in the assembly. But Ella’s eyes were shut tight.

  Then in a voice slightly louder, “For the young people sexually abused by Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison—for Mark…for David…for Larry…for Sean…for Matthew. And for all the victims of abuse who have suffered at the hands of clergy and religious, we pray to the Lord.”

  The assembly, held in a communion of confusion, seemed to hold its breath. Many thought they had misheard. Some whispered, “What did she just say?” Others simply hadn’t been paying attention and were startled into awareness by the sudden electric silence. In the sanctuary, Gunnison turned instinctively to Kempe. Both men were white with anger and shock. The nuncio stared at Cullen, his eyes demanding an explanation.

  Then, in the steely silence that lasted no more than seconds, the Catholic instinct, forged in ritual prayer, kicked in. A weak but audible, “Lord hear our prayer,” broke above the whispers of the benefactors and regular worshipers.

  Margare
t Comiskey, as if in slow motion, folded the paper that had just shredded the reputation of Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison forever, and placed it inside the Mass booklet. She walked deliberately down the steps of the sanctuary, turned to her left and moved with perfect poise to the Basilica’s side exit onto Mulberry Street. The early evening cold gusted and caught her by surprise, blurring her vision. Her left hand grasped the railing as she moved down the steps to the sidewalk and onto the curb, where Mark Anderlee stood next to his Ford Explorer holding the passenger door open. Exhausted and shaken, Margaret Comiskey closed her eyes and said simply, “It’s done. Let’s go.”

  As Comiskey escaped through the side door, two men bolted from their pews and ran to the Basilica’s front portico in time to memorize the license plate of the dark suburban as it turned onto Cathedral Street. Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari and former agent Duane Moore watched for a moment as the Explorer’s taillights blended into the wavering red ribbon of traffic heading out of the city.

  Inside the Basilica, Kempe almost ran to the ambo.

  “Please be seated,” he began. “Margaret Comiskey has worked at the Catholic Center for a very long time, most recently as my secretary. Lately she has been under considerable stress due to personal and family problems. She is clearly disoriented and confused. I ask that we all keep her in our prayers.”

  Kempe’s ploy seemed to work for most of the assembly. His deflection restored some calm and order, but the whispering continued. Yes, the reader of the Prayer of the Faithful was distraught, and her bizarre final petition should be understood—and dismissed—in that light.

  Gunnison, in shock and disbelief, sat slumped in his episcopal chair while the altar was prepared for the offertory of the Mass. Beads of perspiration dotted the lower part of his ashen forehead and upper lip. His dry tongue pushed through his lips in a futile effort to moisten them. He felt the nuncio’s eyes on him—he felt everyone’s eyes on him. He had been afraid of another laser hit. But not this. Not this! Worse, far worse than the ruined jubilee was the shattered reputation of the eighteenth archbishop of Baltimore. This was not right. He was no pedophile. Why would this woman do something like this? His horrible confrontation with Mark Anderlee flashed before him. Is there a link between Anderlee and Comiskey? The thought made him dizzy and nauseous. And how could she possibly know about the others?

  The presider, Eric St. John, approached the archbishop and bowed his head, as if all were well, indicating to Gunnison it was time to move to the foot of the sanctuary to receive the large plate of hosts and carafes of altar wine. Kempe walked at his elbow, steadying him. Somehow, Gunnison knew he had to get through the rest of the Mass. It would be an agony. But he did it—and it was.

  Finally, back in the security of the Basilica’s sacristy, Wilfred Gunnison leaned against one of the vestment cases, too shaken to unvest. Around him, bishops and priests disrobed without looking at one another. The few that spoke did so in whispers. No one knew what to say or where to look. Eric St. John was suddenly at Gunnison’s side with a glass of water. As soon as he had taken a sip, Kempe took his arm and led him to the chairs that Comiskey and Florence Merriman had occupied earlier. Charles Cullen sat down next to him and put his hand on Gunnison’s arm. Bryn Martin and Aidan Kempe stood in front of the two archbishops, both men waiting for Cullen to speak. The nuncio remained on the other side of the sacristy, trying to avoid being contaminated by the scandalous melodrama he had just witnessed.

  “Wilfred,” Cullen said gently, “You have a decision to make. Do you want to cancel the dinner? Your guests will understand.”

  “That would only make matters worse, Wilfred,” Kempe said too quickly. “You’d be giving credence to Comiskey’s accusation.”

  “You don’t have to go,” Martin said supporting Cullen’s position. “Charles is right, your guests will understand.”

  Gunnison sat still for a minute, then looked up at Kempe, the leader of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple, the fixer. Kempe knew what the archbishop couldn’t say: Tell me what to do, Aidan.

  “Wilfred, listen to me,” Kempe said sternly. “If you attend the dinner you will help erase the doubt that is now planted in people’s minds. Your guests will give you the benefit of the doubt. Right now most of your guests believe Comiskey is a confused and emotionally unstable woman. And you, Wilfred, are the retired Archbishop of Baltimore!”

  33

  Giorgio Grotti sat stiffly in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel as far from the main entrance as possible. M had to be informed of the debacle in the Basilica, but it was nearly two o’clock in the morning in Rome. He pulled his scarf over his collar and tried to stay out of the line of vision of the dinner guests moving through the lobby to the second floor reception area and ballroom. For a moment he considered calling Kempe. No, better to call M first. He stood slowly and made his way out of the hotel onto South Charles Street and walked in the direction of the Inner Harbor, hoping for a good connection as he pulled out his mobile phone.

  “Excuse me, Excellency, for calling at this hour, but I need to inform you of something most strange that occurred at the Jubilee Mass for our friend.”

  “What is it?” M demanded curtly.

  A few minutes later, M had an accurate, if abbreviated, account of what transpired at the Basilica. He paused briefly, calculating the risk Gunnison now presented to the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple.

  “Excellency?” Grotti said wondering if he had lost the connection.

  “Let me think,” M snapped as he recalled Kempe’s recent visit and his assessment of Gunnison’s fragile emotional state.

  Grotti pressed his lips tight.

  Then in a soft but decisive voice, M described precisely to Giorgio Grotti, aka Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari, what he must do—and do as quickly as possible.

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Excellency, I understand.”

  “For the good of the church,” M added piously just before ending the call.

  Grotti’s next call was to Kempe. “I realize I am to meet with our friend Monday morning, but in light of what has happened at the Mass, I need to see him immediately.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “Pronto!” Foscari barked.

  “Archbishop Gunnison is resting in the presidential suite until the start of the dinner. He insisted on some time alone. He’s feeling very hurt, of course, very embarrassed. Can’t this wait?”

  Grotti ignored the question. “Put a key card to his room in an envelope and leave it at the registration desk. Address the envelope to ‘Father Peters.’ Am I clear?”

  “Yes,” Kempe replied curtly, irritated at the question. But the chancellor of the Archdiocese of Baltimore and the leader of the Baltimore cell of the Brotherhood had no choice but to follow the orders of this chauffer, this bogus priest, this Monsignor Foscari.

  “Do it immediately. I will pick the envelope up in five minutes.”

  Bryn Martin huddled once again with Duane Moore and George Havel—this time in the hotel’s hallway outside the reception room reserved for Wilfred Gunnison’s guests.

  “Archbishop Gunnison wants some time alone,” Martin informed them. “To be honest, the man’s a wreck. He was sipping a stiff scotch when I left him.”

  Both Moore and Havel repressed the questions uppermost in their minds—who is this Margaret Comiskey? Has Wilfred Gunnison really abused minors?

  “I’ve told Archbishop Cullen and Monsignor Kempe,” Martin continued, “that you two would go up to get the archbishop when the guests move into the ballroom for the dinner. I’ll let you know when I hear from the kitchen that they’re ready to serve.”

  Moore and Havel nodded in agreement.

  “What a turn,” Havel said more to himself than to either Bryn or Duane.

  Without saying it, all three felt the threat of a targeting beam had greatly diminished. Comiskey’s words had wounded Wilfred Gunnison far more seriously than any laser might, save a laser mounted on a
gun. Still, they couldn’t relax their guard. Before Martin left to mingle with the guests, all three scanned the room. It was easy to spot the donors who hadn’t attended the Mass. They sipped their drinks and flashed their cocktail party smiles as they greeted acquaintances. In a matter of minutes, however, the hum of conversation softened as the guests coming from the Basilica told the others of the startling petitions offered by the woman who did the Prayer of the Faithful, adding that she was a secretary who worked at the Catholic Center.

  Florence Merriman, now with her husband Marcus at her side, was surrounded by almost a dozen of the guests. “Margaret was very quiet in the sacristy before the Mass,” she said. “We hardly spoke after we said hello. I thought she was a little nervous…but so was I.”

  Her listeners inched closer, expecting Merriman would go on.

  “I thought Archbishop Gunnison might faint. I don’t know how he made it through the rest of the Mass.”

  “Florence,” Archbishop Cullen said moving into the group surrounding the Merrimans. “Florence,” he repeated, “thank you for slipping out of the sacristy so quickly and quietly after the Mass. The archbishop was mortified.”

  “How is he?” Merriman asked.

  “He’s upstairs in a suite the hotel provided,” Cullen said, thinking it best not to answer her question. “He’ll come down when the meal is served.” Then, making careful eye contact with each benefactor in turn, added, “Thank you for coming this evening. And thank you for all you do for Catholic Charities.” Cullen forced a smile, gave Florence Merriman a brief hug, shook hands with Marcus Merriman, and started to move on.

  “I’ve known Archbishop Gunnison for twenty years, Archbishop,” Merriman said holding on to Cullen’s hand. “I don’t believe for a minute he abused anyone. Not for a minute.”

  Florence took her husband’s elbow and led him and the archbishop a few steps away from the others. “Is there anything to this, Charles?” she asked in a whisper.

  “This isn’t the place,” Cullen answered, coloring, “We’ll talk soon,” he promised.