Monsignor Aidan Kempe, shaken by the disastrous turn of events and furious with the unthinkable, unforgivable behavior of his own secretary, was surrounded by his base—conservative, wealthy Catholics convinced their church was under attack by a liberal secular media exploiting isolated cases of sex abuse to attack and diminish the moral influence of the Roman Catholic Church. Standing to the side of one of the three open bars serving the banquet guests, Aidan Kempe, master of damage control, spoke in measured tones to a growing circle of benefactors.
“Margaret Comiskey has worked for the archdiocese for more than thirty years. It’s the reason she was invited to do the Prayer of the Faithful. But I noticed a change come over her in the last week or so. For a while I thought she wasn’t feeling well, but she denied there was anything wrong.”
The expressions on the faces around him, sober and thoughtful, stoked his confidence. “I suspect there are personal and family issues behind her inexplicable behavior at the Mass.” Kempe noticed a few nods that seemed to say: Yes, that must be it.
“We need to keep her in our prayers,” the monsignor added, striking an appropriate pastoral note. Standing on either side of the reception room, Moore and Havel noticed the same phenomenon—individuals breaking away from the milling guests to make cell phone calls or standing alone with heads bowed, texting. What they had witnessed or just now heard from guests who attended the Mass was too good not to be shared with family and friends.
Bryn Martin finally worked his way through the subdued guests to Ella, Nora, and Ian. Nora gave him a brief hug. “I’m so sorry, Bryn. I know Margaret is a friend.”
Bryn turned to Ella who said quietly, “It was as bad as I feared. And I can’t reach her. She’s not answering her cell or her home line.”
“If you hear from her, let me know,” Bryn said. “She’s going to need friends around her.”
“How are the guests dealing with this?” Ian asked.
“I’ve probably talked to a few dozen so far. They’ve all been unfailingly polite. A few asked rather carefully how Archbishop Gunnison was doing. He’s resting in the presidential suite. One or two wondered what Margaret did at the Catholic Center. No one has asked the one question everyone wanted to ask. Was there any substance to Comiskey’s final petition? But it’s got to be on the minds of a lot of people in this room.”
Bryn exchanged a quick glance with Ella.
“How in God’s name,” Ian asked without expecting a response, “will Gunnison handle the closing remarks?”
“I have no idea, Ian. Aidan Kempe will likely have a talking point or two for him. Listen, I’ll stop by your table as soon as the dinner is over.” Then as an afterthought. “We were so focused on a man with a laser.”
Giorgio Grotti removed his scarf, revealing a black clerical shirt and white plastic tab collar. He folded the scarf and placed it in the left-hand pocket of his overcoat before walking confidently to the Sheraton’s registration desk.
“Good evening, Father. May I help you?” asked a smiling clerk wearing a Sheraton Hotel name badge that read “Ashley.”
“Good evening. I’m Father Peters. I think Monsignor Kempe left an envelope for me.”
“Oh yeah,” she answered brightly. “He dropped it off just a few minutes ago.”
At seven forty-five, thirty minutes after Grotti picked up the key-card to Archbishop Gunnison’s suite, the banquet manager emerged from the kitchen and approached Bishop Martin.
“We’re ready to serve the salads, Bishop. If you like, we can flick the lights to start the guests moving into the ballroom?”
“Yes, go ahead,” Martin responded dreading the next two hours. He turned to look for Moore and Havel and found them standing nearby.
“It’s time to get the archbishop,” Martin said, holding out a key-card to the presidential suite. “I’ll call his room and let him know you’re on the way up.”
As Moore and Havel walked to the elevators, Martin tapped in the telephone number of the presidential suite. Archbishop Cullen, his face wet with perspiration, approached him.
“This is strange,” said Martin. “I’m calling Wilfred’s room to let him know that Moore and Havel are on their way up. No answer.”
Cullen frowned. “I wish he would have listened to us, Bryn. He’s making a big mistake in coming to the dinner. If Margaret knows Gunnison has abused minors, then it’s really over for him. He’ll be lucky to relocate in Florida and avoid a media exposé.”
“He can’t stay in Baltimore, that’s for sure,” Bryn said, looking over Cullen’s shoulder at the guests meandering into the banquet hall.
Cullen put his hand on Martin’s forearm, holding him in place. “You know, Bryn, we’re going to have to let her go.”
“That won’t be necessary. Margaret knows she can’t work at the Catholic Center. She tendered her resignation with that prayer.”
On the way to the dais, Martin stopped at the circular, candlelit table where Ella, Ian, and Nora were taking their seats. The very sight of his sister calmed him, despite the adrenaline that had fueled the last few hours. Bryn nodded at Ian, who understood as well as anyone might that this high-church drama was unfolding like a medieval morality play. Ella’s face was drained of color with worry for Margaret, but her eyes, intelligent and deep, were difficult to read. What he thought he saw, mixed with her concern for Margaret, was a penitent’s remorse. “I’ll come to your table as soon as the after-dinner remarks are over,” he said, recovering his focus. “They’ll be short.”
Before Bryn reached his place next to Archbishop Tardisconi, his cell phone vibrated. “Bishop, its George Havel. You need to get up here to the archbishop’s suite immediately. Bring Archbishop Cullen with you. It’s not good, Bishop, it’s not good.”
Archbishop Cullen was already on the dais, but hadn’t taken his seat. Martin walked to his side, leaned in, and whispered in his ear. Both men moved as quickly as Cullen’s legs would permit to the steps at the side of the dais and toward the closest door. As the elevator rose to the twenty-fifth floor Bryn’s stomach dropped. What more could go wrong?
“I don’t feel good about this, Charles.”
Cullen didn’t respond. He leaned against the back of the elevator, staring at the floor. Stepping out of the elevator they faced an elegant sign in Edwardian script that read “Presidential Suite,” an arrow underneath pointing to the left hallway. Moore and Havel were standing outside Gunnison’s room, the door slightly ajar.
“Archbishop Cullen, Bishop Martin…you need to prepare yourselves for what you are about to see,” George Havel said softly.
Duane Moore pushed the door open, “We’re so very, very sorry,” he added. He closed the door as Cullen and Martin, nerves now on edge, glanced around the two-story suite overlooking the Inner Harbor. A striking spiral staircase leading up to the second tier stood between them and the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“He’s on the other side of the staircase,” Havel said as he and Duane led the two bishops in silent procession.
Wilfred Gunnison’s face was a purplish blue, his eyes open and bulging, though eerily unfocused. His head was bowed, listing slightly to the right. A thick hotel bathrobe belt suspended the archbishop by his neck. It was tied to the banister pole halfway up the staircase. One of the chairs from the dining room set lay on its side just inches from Gunnison’s dangling feet. Cullen and Martin could not help noticing he had stained himself.
“Dear Jesus, dear Jesus,” Cullen mumbled, tears running down his pink cheeks. Then “Holy Mother of God,” he wailed. Bryn, speechless, took him by the elbow and directed him to the closest chair.
“Bishop,” Havel said to Martin, “We need to make some calls.”
Martin nodded as Moore called the Baltimore Police and the county’s medical examiner’s office while Havel used his cell phone to contact the hotel’s security officer. Martin realized he had his own call to make and touched in Kempe’s speed dial number on his cell.
“Ai
dan, this is Bryn. If I’m not mistaken, Wilfred’s physician is one of the guests. You know him. Ned Gannon. Get him and get him up to Wilfred’s suite as soon as you can. I can’t say anything more right now.” Then turning to the two laymen, Martin asked, “Did you find a note or any kind of message?”
Both Moore and Havel shook their heads. “We should have advised you not to leave the archbishop alone,” Havel said speaking for Moore and himself.
“He insisted on it,” Cullen reminded the two men.
Martin nodded in agreement, trying to shake off his own feelings of guilt for leaving Wilfred by himself.
Then Archbishop Charles Cullen did what he should have done immediately on finding his predecessor hanging from the banister pole—he prayed the prayer of absolution and commended the soul of Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison to a loving and merciful God. Martin, Moore, and Havel, heads bowed, prayed in silence.
Then Cullen added, “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord.”
“And let perpetual light shine upon him,” the three shaken men said in unison.
The four stood in silence—Cullen and Martin looking in disbelief at the grotesque scene before their eyes as the implications of the tragedy sank in.
“Let’s move to the dining area,” Martin said softly to Cullen. “We have to say something to the guests. They’ve been seated over thirty minutes, maybe more.” Before Cullen could respond, they heard two sharp knocks on the door. Kempe and Ned Gannon entered with two uniformed police officers and the hotel’s security chief. Moore and Havel led them around the spiral staircase. Aidan Kempe’s knees almost buckled at the sight of Wilfred Gunnison hanging from the railing. He turned away as soon as he saw Gunnison’s distorted face, reaching for a handkerchief which he immediately pressed to his mouth.
“Aidan,” Cullen said softly as he and Martin led him to the sofa. “This is unspeakably hard for all of us, but I know you were close to Wilfred.”
“Oh God, Oh God,” Kempe moaned as he sank into the sofa.
Cullen and Martin understood the disbelieving shock in Aidan Kempe’s eyes—what they didn’t understand was the shear, raw terror welling up in Kempe’s breast.
Forty-five minutes after the guests had been seated, Archbishop Charles Cullen, Bishop Bryn Martin, and Monsignor Aidan Kempe climbed the two steps to the dais. The guests had finished their salads and were now keenly aware of Archbishop Gunnison’s absence. Cullen moved to Archbishop Tardisconi’s side and informed the already-stunned diplomat of what he was about to announce to the restless guests. It was a courtesy Tardisconi’s rank demanded. He took the news without any visible sign of emotion. More than anything else, the Holy See’s ambassador to the United States hoped he would soon awaken from a very bad dream.
Archbishop Cullen moved to the microphone at the table-top lectern at the center of the speaker’s table. Bishop Martin stood to one side, the ashen chancellor of the archdiocese to his other. For almost half a minute, Cullen stood at the lectern in silence, striving for some semblance of composure.
Twenty-seven floors above, a team from the medical examiner’s office hefted the lifeless body of Wilfred Gunnison onto a gurney.
“Dear friends. There is something quite terrible and tragic I need to tell you. What I am about to say, I say with profound sadness and a broken heart. Bishop Martin, Monsignor Kempe, and I have just come from Archbishop Gunnison’s suite.” Cullen paused and reached for a water glass and sipped. Then he sipped again. “It appears,” his voice hinted at cracking, “that Archbishop Gunnison has taken his own life.”
Cullen heard gasps across the room. The ballroom fell silent. Even the servers didn’t stir.
“I can’t say anything more at this time,” Cullen continued. “I ask you to join me in prayer for our brother and friend.” The assembled benefactors of the archdiocese, the prelates at the head table, and the hotel’s serving staff all bowed their heads.
“O God, we have gathered this evening to give thanks to you for the life and ministry of Archbishop Wilfred Gunnison and to honor him for his fifty years of priestly service. Now, in disbelief and profound sorrow, we pray for his soul. We ask you to embrace him with your love and mercy. And we ask you to bless us, we who don’t understand, we who sit in stunned confusion and unspeakable sadness, with the consoling presence of your Holy Spirit. Grant Wilfred, our brother and bishop, peace and a holy rest. We ask this, O God, in the name of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
A weak “Amen” could be heard at some of the tables. The guests sat stunned, many blinking back tears, a few crying openly.
Cullen turned to Martin, who stepped to the microphone.
“Archbishop Cullen and the others at this head table know of your respect and affection for Archbishop Gunnison and for Catholic Charities of Baltimore. We came to honor him this evening. Let’s still do that. We beg for your understanding as we call this evening’s gathering to a conclusion. Your entrees are now being boxed in the hotel’s kitchen and we have arranged for students from Loyola College to distribute them to the homeless of our city. At this time a van load of students is on its way to the hotel.”
Martin looked up to see a hand waving to him from the kitchen door. “It appears the students are already here. Believe me, these young men and women know how to find the poor and homeless of our city. They will do their best to make sure the dinners prepared for you will not go to waste.” Most of the guests looked relieved to bring the tragic evening to an end. “Archbishop Cullen asks that you return to your homes now. Thank you for your understanding and your prayers for Archbishop Gunnison. God bless you.”
The guests rose from their tables and moved, hardly speaking, to claim their coats and find their way to the garage.
Bryn Martin worked his way through the stunned benefactors to find Nora, Ella, and Ian. “I have to meet up with the students in the kitchen and then with Archbishop Cullen. I’ll call you as soon as I’m free. Can we meet at your place, Nora?”
“Of course. We’ll be up for some time. Come over when you can.”
Nora hugged her brother and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Bryn.”
Shaking her head, Ella said to no one in particular, “Can it get any worse?” as she tried to calculate the impact of Gunnison’s death on her friend Margaret.
Martin, with his eyes tearing and mind racing, turned and headed toward the hotel’s kitchen. He pushed through the swinging doors and felt a wave of emotion rising in his throat. A dozen or more Loyola students stood shoulder to shoulder with kitchen staff and servers boxing dinners of sea bass and tenderloin fillets. In their midst, as if the major domo of the hotel’s kitchen, Archbishop Cullen moved from student to student and to the hotel’s employees, offering a personal word of thanks to each of them. Bryn heard one student respond, “No problem, Archie.”
Loyola senior Mary Ellen Brennan hugged the archbishop. “We’re so sorry about Archbishop Gunnison. We can’t believe it.”
Cullen wanted to say thank you, but the words wouldn’t come.
“Charles,” Bryn whispered into Cullen’s ear, “we need to get back to the suite.”
34
Giorgio Grotti, aka Monsignor Giancarlo Foscari, hoped the calming play of lights on the Inner Harbor might calm his racing heart. He walked close enough to small groups of bar crawlers to hear their chatter and laughter. Their pseudo-innocence appalled him—naive, superficial Americans out for a good time on a Saturday night. They were blind to the evil that was rotting their souls. But Giorgio Grotti wasn’t blind to evil. By the grace of God, he was now a holy warrior fighting evil. In his own humble way, he too was a protector of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple. He broke away from the pedestrians and found a secluded doorway among the buildings facing the harbor. He glanced to his left and right, pulled his scarf up around his neck, and then punched in M’s number on his mobile.
“I have completed the assignment.”
“For the good of the church,” M said with the fatherly c
oncern of a spiritual counselor. Then abruptly, “Call tomorrow afternoon, Rome time. Good night, my son.”
Archbishop Cullen caught up with the papal nuncio at the door of the ballroom as he scanned the hallway for his driver.
“Archbishop,” Cullen said breathing hard from the unbearable strain, “we will do our best to make you as invisible as possible to the media.”
Lorenzo Tardisconi nodded weakly. No one knew better than the nuncio that it was not good for a Vatican diplomat to be present at the breaking of a clerical scandal, especially the suicide of an archbishop of the Roman Catholic Church.
“I would appreciate that very much, Archbishop Cullen.” Cullen understood that by using his title rather than his first name, the nuncio was expressing his profound displeasure at the unthinkable ecclesiastical debacle that had just fallen upon him. “And,” he added sharply, “make sure my office is informed of the funeral arrangements.”
“Of course,” Cullen said, ignoring Tardisconi’s tone.
Looking over Cullen’s shoulder for his driver, the nuncio said coldly, “I’m not sure if my schedule will permit me to attend the archbishop’s funeral. Right now I must contact the Secretary of State, who will inform his Holiness of Archbishop Gunnison’s sudden death. But you, Archbishop Cullen, must stay in regular contact with the English-speaking desk at the Secretariat of State and the Congregation of Bishops.” Tardisconi paused, realizing he was lecturing the archbishop of Baltimore. No matter. The evening’s bizarre events demanded directness. Then, trying to find a more conciliatory tone, he offered, “It would be a courtesy to the Holy Father and to the Holy See to avoid the indignity of an autopsy.”
Cullen looked into the nuncio’s eyes. What he was proposing was nothing less than an order. “I will expect your call the first thing in the morning.”
Without another word, Archbishop Lorenzo Tardisconi turned from Cullen. Catching the eye of his driver, he stormed out of the hotel.
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